Gospel Story Finder

Thirteen-year-old Florence Onyejekwe reached her usual spot in the crowded outdoor market in Onitsha, Nigeria. The street was packed with sellers calling out to busy shoppers. Women balanced bundles on their heads as they walked. School had just ended for the holidays, and Florence knew her friends were enjoying the break from class. But Florence spent her holidays selling bitter leaf here at the market. It was her only chance to earn money for her school fees.
Florence did not complain, though. After all, her mother spent long hours at the market every day selling yams to buy food for the family. Mama worked so hard. Her parents both did. But without an education, there was only so much they could do. Florence was almost finished with primary school. Perhaps if she could continue her schooling, she could get a good-paying job and help her family.
When she returned home, Florence asked her parents, “Do you think I could go to secondary school? And maybe university?”
Mama looked at Nnam (Dad) and shook her head. “University costs so much more than we have,” said Nnam. Florence looked down at her shoes. She didn’t want Mama and Nnam to see how disappointed she was.
A few days later, Florence stopped at the hospital to pick up some medicine. The hospital was almost as busy as the market, though not as loud. Florence stared at the nurses in their crisp, white caps. She pictured herself in a uniform like that, helping the sick and taking care of babies in a big hospital. Perhaps she could become a nurse.
Florence knew her parents were right—getting an education would be hard. But Florence knew how to work hard. She decided to try.
No matter how many chores filled her day, Florence made time to study. She passed the tests for secondary school, and Nnam borrowed enough money for her to go. Later she found out the government would help pay for her nursing school! Her dream was within reach.
But when it came time to begin nursing school, Florence felt a little doubt. What if nursing was too hard? What if she was lonely? Florence bowed her head and prayed, Dear God, please give me the strength to go to nursing school and work hard.
At nursing school, Florence learned to give medicine and keep tools clean from germs. Sometimes her patients got better, but sometimes they didn’t. Florence prayed often for courage. After three long years, Florence graduated with the award for best student. Her dream had come true! She got to wear the white nurse’s cap, and she was able to earn money to help her family.

“President,” said another member of the branch who was a recent convert, “I guess I should move away from home. There is growing tension between Mom and me. It seems to be getting worse all the time.” A tear paused at the corner of her eye. “I’ve tried to get her to listen to the missionaries, but she just becomes angry.”
“Cyndi,” I said, “have you ever told your mother how much you love her, recently, that is? Have you put your arms around her to give her a good squeeze as you have told her how much you appreciate her and all she has done for you?”
“But I want her to come into the Church so badly, I just keep talking about it.”
I interrupted. “Did it ever occur to you that you could never have become a member of this church if it hadn’t been for your mother?”
“But she didn’t want me to join.”
“You wouldn’t even have come into this world if it hadn’t been for your mother. She and your dad gave you the body you have. Your parents brought you up to appreciate the gospel truth when you heard it. They taught you righteous principles so that when you heard the message of the restoration you accepted it. Did you ever consider how many nights your mother may have been awake when you were ill, or how many hours she may have devoted to your care? Have you ever really thanked her for all of these things? Have you ever let her know how proud you are to have her as your mother?”
“But,” she said, “why would Mom be so opposed to the Church?”
“Would you love someone,” I asked, “if you thought that person was going to take your child, or your child’s love, away from you? Your mother might be worried that the Church is doing this.”
“I guess I’ve never thought of it that way,” she said.
“Tell me, what does the Church teach us about our parents?”
“Honor thy father and thy mother.”
“That’s right. Let’s forget about getting your mother to join the Church for now. Think of all the ways you can express your love for her. Throw your arms around her and tell her how grateful you are for all she has done for you.
“Next, show her how much you honor her by helping her in every way. Extend little courtesies to her. As you recall the little kindnesses, the tenderness, and understanding that she has given you over the years, remind her of these and thank her for them.
“Assure her that the Church does not intend to take you away from her. Show her by your conduct that the gospel of Jesus Christ has given you a greater appreciation and love for your parents. It should draw you closer together than ever before.”
The next time I saw Cyndi she was exuberant. “Things have never been better at home. Mom and I are closer than we have ever been in our lives. I love her so much, and she feels better about the Church now.”

When I was a young boy, our garage and the neighbor’s garage were about five feet apart. The neighbor’s garage was very old and dilapidated, and some of the boards were breaking. I, on occasion, would climb onto our garage and jump from one garage to the other and play on top of them. My father had told me, “Stay off the garages,” but I didn’t. One time when I was playing on them, I jumped from our garage and fell through the roof of the neighbor’s garage, scraping my back and legs badly. Because I had been disobedient, I foolishly decided not to tell anyone that I had hurt myself. I went in the house and washed the scrapes and scratches as well as I could, but I couldn’t reach the ones on my back to put antiseptic on them or even wash them clean. I bore the burden of pain, worry over infection setting in, and guilt for several days while the healing process took place. I learned that when you are disobedient and don’t repent, you often have to carry your burdens all by yourself!

My first step to finding meaning in my life was to stay connected with the Saints and missionaries in Hungary. For some time, I lived for preparation days when I would receive emails from Sister Nestor and my MTC companions. I have to admit; sometimes it wasn’t easy to read about my companions’ missions or to speak with the Hungarians that I missed so badly. But as I look back now, I realize that it was critical to my healing to hear about the miracles happening there.

My little brother, gently prompted by my intuitive mother, convinced me to start indexing. Initially I did batches of names to appease him, but one day a registry of Hungarian names popped up on my screen. The Spirit swept over me and taught me that I was still able to help bring Hungarian souls to Christ—just on the other side of the veil!

After the mission, all of my pre-mission life goals seemed unattainable with my new health condition. But with time I realized that there were goals I could accomplish while lying down. I called goals such as reading Jesus the Christ “horizontal goals” and worked on them daily.

One of my pre-mission life goals was to graduate from college. While attending classes would have been difficult with my illness and the constant doctor appointments, my dad encouraged me to take online classes from Brigham Young University Independent Study. Not only was this an achievable horizontal goal, but I also realized that maybe I was capable of doing more pre-mission goals than I had previously thought possible.

One day at church, a sister walked up to my mom and said, “Do you know that Destiny can serve an online indexing mission?” This unexpected question was an answer to my prayers. I was able to serve the Lord for nine months as an indexing support Church-service missionary. This was a mission I could do!*

As I became better at managing my health condition, I began studying at a community college while doing my online mission. I was asked to teach mission preparation at the nearby institute. Teaching helped me realize that my enthusiasm for missionary work had not waned and that even my short mission had provided me with many experiences that could be valuable for my students.

After successfully attending a semester of college near my home, I moved to Utah, USA, to attend BYU. At first, I could hardly walk by the Provo MTC without feeling a rush of conflicting emotions. But I started volunteering weekly at the MTC and found that it was healing to meet the wonderful missionaries being sent to my beloved Hungary.

A Hungarian sister, Edit, who has prepared nearly 150,000 names for the temple asked me to take some of her names to the temple. It was a joy to do the saving ordinances for these Hungarians!

Serving a mission was my most important life dream and, understandably, I felt a loss when I came home earlier than anticipated. For a time, I struggled to talk about my mission. I had to work through feelings of failure. I had to learn how to judge the value of my mission by my desire to serve rather than the length. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, each of these steps toward meaning in my life also brought healing.

For years I was nervous that returning to Hungary would be difficult for me emotionally. When I eventually traveled there, it wasn’t until the second day that I realized that not only was I not feeling any pain, I was also feeling overwhelming joy to be back. I knew then that Heavenly Father had given me the opportunity to experience the healing power of the Savior’s Atonement. I now know that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, all things will be made right in the end.

*Many early returned missionaries continue to serve as young Church-service missionaries. Meet with your bishop or branch president for more information.

Let me share with you, brethren, a touching experience that illustrates this assurance.

Brother Edwin Q. Cannon, Jr., was a missionary to Germany in 1938, where he loved the people and served faithfully. At the conclusion of his mission, he returned home to Salt Lake City. He married and commenced his own business.

Forty years passed by. One day Brother Cannon came to my office and said he had been pruning his missionary slides. Among those slides he had kept since his mission were several which he could not specifically identify. Every time he had planned to discard those few slides, he had been impressed to keep them, although he was at a loss as to why. They were photographs taken by Brother Cannon during his mission when he served in Stettin, Germany, and were of a family—a mother, a father, a small girl, a small boy. Brother Cannon knew their surname was Berndt but could remember nothing more about them. He indicated that he understood there was a Berndt who was a Regional Representative in Germany, and he thought, although the possibility was remote, that this Berndt might have some connection with the Berndts who had lived in Stettin and who were depicted in the photographs. Before disposing of the slides, he thought he would check with me.

I told Brother Cannon I was leaving shortly for Berlin, where I anticipated that I would see Dieter Berndt, the Regional Representative, and that I would show the slides to him to see if there were any relationship and if he wanted them. There was a possibility I would also see Brother Berndt’s sister, who was married to Dietmar Matern, a stake president in Hamburg.

The Lord didn’t even let me get to Berlin before His purposes were accomplished. I was in Zurich, Switzerland, boarding the flight to Berlin, when who should also board the plane but Dieter Berndt. He sat next to me, and I told him I had some old slides of people named Berndt from Stettin. I handed them to him and asked if he could identify those shown in the photographs. As he looked at them carefully he began to weep. He said, “Our family lived in Stettin during the war. My father was killed when an Allied bomb struck the plant where he worked. Not long afterward, the Russians invaded Poland and the area of Stettin. My mother took my sister and me and fled from the advancing enemy. Everything had to be left behind, including any photographs we had. Brother Monson, I am the little boy pictured in these slides, and my sister is the little girl. The man and the woman are our dear parents. Until today, I have had no photographs of our childhood in Stettin or of my father.”

Wiping away my own tears, I told Brother Berndt the slides were his. He placed them carefully and lovingly in his briefcase.

At the next general conference, when Dieter Berndt, Regional Representative, visited Salt Lake City, he paid a visit to Brother and Sister Edwin Cannon, Jr., that he might express in person his own gratitude for the inspiration that came to Brother Cannon to retain these precious slides and that he followed that inspiration in keeping them for forty years.

A Johannesburg family shared their thoughts:
Dad: “The prophet’s words have made me more aware of the responsibility I have to teach my family. The onus is on us—not on the Church—to take our families back to Heaven Father. It is the same as with ministering, we need to look for opportunities, it is not about statistics. With this new awareness, I’m finding more ‘Sabbath’ to teach my children than the extra one hour could ever make.”
Mom: “Maybe it’s psychological—but spending less time at church in the morning makes it easier to have a purposeful family home evening on a Sunday. With all the children’s sporting commitments just having supper together on a Monday was a nightmare! At first, I missed the extra classes and the opportunity to chat with people in between. But now I am aware of the need to fellowship more and to connect better with other members.”
Teenage daughter: “I love that we now have ‘church’ every day at home instead of just once a week! It is also quite nice to have Young Women every two weeks—makes it more special to be together. I am definitely studying the scriptures a lot more than I did last year.”

What took a short six months to destroy took years to rebuild. For the next full year I worked very hard to prove to the good kids that I was one of them. Every time I thought I had succeeded my past would come back to haunt me.
The summer after I was in tenth grade our girls’ church basketball team won the regional play-offs. We would be going to the area play-offs 1,000 miles away. We would be traveling with the boys’ team that won the regionals. I couldn’t believe what my coach said about me after that trip. She said that when we left home she had been sure she’d be sending me home early. After all she’d heard about me, she was just sure that I would get into some kind of trouble. She said she was surprised and pleased to discover that I was the best-behaved girl on the trip. I couldn’t believe it! I realized people were still judging me by the friends I’d had over a year ago. I’d never done any of the things people were saying I’d done in the past, but because of the people I’d associated with, the places I’d been seen, and the way I had dressed, everyone assumed I’d done the same awful things my friends had! I was guilty by association. Everywhere I went people were watching, testing me, judging me—all because of some choices I’d made in the past. It was so unfair, yet something I had to live with. You can’t fix a ruined reputation overnight.

Most doctors would be stunned to see Maria Turman at the encampment. As a matter of fact, they would be surprised to see her alive and smiling at all. Just a few short weeks ago, they were sure she was dying of brain cancer.
“I could barely stand the thought of what she would have to endure through whatever time she had left,” said her mother. “So we went home and called everyone we knew and asked them to pray for her. People of every faith joined us in prayer, and her name was in many of the temples.”
People fasted for her. People prayed for her. And they supported her in other ways too—like those who stood by her in the hospital, and the friend who told her that if she had to shave off her beautiful hair, he would shave his head too and, who knows, maybe they’d start a fad.
After a grueling two weeks of treatment and testing, her doctor came to her in total shock. “There’s been a miracle,” he said. “This girl does not have brain cancer. She does have another disease, but it is not fatal.”
Through all this Maria and everyone involved developed an incredible amount of faith—faith in the power of prayer, faith in the power of the priesthood from which blessings came that said she would be restored, and faith in the power and love of Heavenly Father.
Maria adds a sparkling, pure white to the rainbow.

Kim could feel her face turning red and the tears pushing. Biting her lip hard, she forbade the tears to come.
“Practices,” Sister Tibler was saying to Corrie, “will begin next Saturday at nine o’clock. See you there!”
“Wow!” Corrie exclaimed as the Laurel adviser left. “This sounds so fun. Imagine me the lead in the stake play.”
“That’s neat!” Kim managed to say, but felt as if she would choke on the words.
“I’ve never been in a …” Corrie chattered on and on as they walked home, completely oblivious to Kim’s feelings. Kim nodded, agreed, smiled, but inside the hurt surged and grew until she could barely hold it in. It was the best performance she’d ever given—and the most painful. Finally they reached Corrie’s house.
“Want to come in?” Corrie asked.
“No, I’d better get home and help Mom with dinner.”
“Hurry home to help? You’re nuts. Stay here till it’s ready and then go. I’ve got a great new record we can listen to.”
“No. I’d better go,” Kim answered.
“See you tomorrow then,” Corrie called as she disappeared inside. “But don’t forget, I offered you a way out of work!”
Kim hurried up the street. The rest of the family would already be home, but maybe she could slip in with no one noticing. Quietly she opened the door, tiptoed into the family room, and headed for the stairs.
“Hey, Kim,” her sister, Janice, called. “Did Sister Tibler give you that part you wanted in the stake play?”
“No,” Kim answered, the word swelling in her throat. “She gave it to Corrie.”
“Figures.” Janice said. “Maybe if you went inactive for a while they’d let you do something fun.” Janice laughed, but the words broke Kim’s hold on the tears. Running down the stairs, she felt her way to her room, threw herself on the bed, and let the tears fall.
“I needed that part!” Kim whispered. “And I could do a better job.” Her sobs exploded in her throat. “Corrie doesn’t need it! It couldn’t mean as much to her. Why? Why? Why? It isn’t fair.”
“Kim?” her mother called softly through the door. “Can I come in?”
Kim sat up, grabbed a tissue, and tried to wipe away the evidence, but she knew even without looking that her eyes were too red to fool anyone.
“I guess so,” Kim answered.
The door opened and Mrs. Harper, a small lively woman, entered. “Janice said something was wrong.”
Kim kept her head turned away from her mother. “Just thinking.”
“Janice also told me what happened.”
“Janice talks too much.”
“Can I help?”
Suddenly the pain and bafflement came, pouring out in words. “Oh, Mom. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but sometimes I just don’t understand. I’ve gone to church all my life. I try to be good. I do everything I’m asked to do, which is always the yuck and the work; call all the Laurels, wash a thousand stacks of slimy dishes at the high priests banquet, tend Mrs. Smith’s bratty, messy kids because she’s sick. But no one ever notices me. Every week I’m in my meetings. No one says a word. Corrie comes once a year and there’re trumpets and red carpet and hugs and kisses and,” Kim raised her voice in mock imitation, “Oh, we’re so very, very, very, very, very glad and happy and overjoyed and delighted to have you here, Corrie!”
Kim wiped once more at her eyes. The pressure had eased and the tears had slowed. “I know I shouldn’t feel like this. I know they’re just trying to help Corrie become active, but Mom, no one ever tells me they’re glad to see me. There’s never red carpet or trumpets for me. And now …” The tears started again despite all her efforts to hold them in. “Now they’ve given her the lead in the stake play. I needed that part. You know how Mr. Thornley told us that if I could just be in a couple more plays he thought I’d be able to get that drama scholarship.”
Mrs. Harper sat next to Kim and hugged her close. “I don’t know what to say. I know how you feel.”
“Oh, Mom, I even feel bad that I feel bad!” Kim tried to laugh. “I feel guilty. I should be happy that Corrie is beginning to come out to church.”
“And maybe that’s your answer,” Mrs. Harper said.
“Answer?”
“Not every girl your age would even feel guilty. That shows a great deal of maturity. Maybe the blessings of doing what’s right—washing dishes and tending kids and being active—aren’t material blessings, aren’t parts in plays. Think about it awhile.” She hugged her daughter again. “I don’t mean to diminish your pain. It’s there. I know it, but you’ve kept it private and you didn’t hurt Corrie. I’m proud of you.”
Kim smiled—barely.
“Come on now, let’s get dinner and then if you want, we can talk about it more later.”
Kim wiped at her eyes one more time and put on a smile. It was one of the best stage faces she’d ever created.
“That’s better,” Mrs. Harper said. “Now let’s get dinner.”
The pressurized feeling was gone, but all afternoon the thoughts and emotions jostled inside her. It really wasn’t fair. No amount of reasoning or logic could bring her to any other conclusion. But what had her mother meant? What other blessings were there?
Dinner was eaten, cleaned away, the home evening lesson was over, and Kim was writing in her journal when the telephone rang.
“Kim,” Mrs. Harper called, “Sister Tibler’s on the phone for you.”
Kim wished she could ask her Mom to say she wasn’t there, but it would be easier to get her to sprout wings and fly.
“I’m coming,” she called back.
Kim took the phone but her mother didn’t leave.
“What is it?” she asked as Kim hung up. “She sounded upset.”
“She was. Lara’s father had a heart attack this afternoon. He died about an hour ago.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Harper whispered.
“They don’t have any relatives around, and Lara’s mom is taking it pretty hard.”
“And Lara’s an only child, isn’t she?”
“Yes. That’s why Sister Tibler thought we ought to go over and keep her company. See if we can help.”
“I’ve got some chocolate chip cookies in the freezer. Take those over and see if there’s anything I can do to …”
Kim smiled, then chuckled.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Harper asked.
Kim hugged her mom. “Nothing. It’s just you.”
“I only wanted to …”
“I know,” Kim interrupted. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. As a matter of fact you’re pretty special. Will you get the cookies while I put on my shoes? Sister Tibler said she’d be right over.”
Kim barely had her shoes on when Sister Tibler honked. She opened the door to find it was dusk and raining. “Give Lara these,” Mrs. Harper said, handing Kim the cookies. “But most of all give her yourself.”
Kim pulled her coat up over her head and ran to the car. As she settled into the seat she became acutely aware of the ping ping of rain on the roof and the apprehension rolling and swelling in her stomach. Everything had happened so fast she hadn’t had time to think before now. What should she say? What should she do? Self-consciousness and helplessness settled heavily on her thoughts.
“Before we go,” Sister Tibler suggested, “I think maybe we ought to say a word of prayer. If you don’t mind, I’ll say it.”
They bowed their heads and Kim tried hard to listen, but the dripping rain and the barrage of feelings kept distracting her.
“Help us know how to convey our love and how to comfort … ,” Sister Tibler was saying.
Ping. Splash. Ping. The rhythm accelerated and with it Kim’s heartbeat.
“Amen.”
“Amen,” Kim whispered.
Exchanging only a few comments, they drove, parked, got out of the car, and ran through the rain to the house. Lara answered the door.
“Hi, Lara,” Sister Tibler said, her voice such a contrast to the cold rainy night. “We heard what happened.”
Quietly, without words, Lara stepped back to let them in, her eyes red and swollen. Self-consciously Kim handed her the cookies and opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. If I only had a script, she thought, as her own eyes began to swim. Then she did the only thing she could do. She hugged Lara tight. After that the words came.
Lara’s mom was still at the hospital and the bishop was with her, but Lara was alone. She needed them. She talked about her feelings and fears and reminisced while Kim and Sister Tibler listened. They talked about the gospel and the comfort it was. They even laughed a little and talked some more until Lara’s mother finally came home.
“We’ll be going now,” Sister Tibler said.
“Thanks for coming.” Lara squeezed Kim’s hand. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.”
Outside the dusk had turned to darkness and the rain had stopped falling, leaving the earth soggy and the air misty. Kim felt a strange sensation of cold trying to penetrate her skin while warmth pushed and pulsed from her heart. Silently Kim and Sister Tibler drove through the wet streets, neither one wishing to interrupt the special feeling with words.
“Thanks for going with me,” Sister Tibler finally said, as they drove in Kim’s driveway. “I called all of the other girls to see if any of them wanted to go, but they all had some excuse. Maybe it was for the best. They wouldn’t have been able to comfort Lara like you did.”
“It was a good experience. Thanks.” Kim jumped from the car before Sister Tibler could say more. Dodging the puddles she ran to the house. Mrs. Harper was waiting in the family room.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Really good. I was surprised. At first—riding over—I was so scared. But when we got there, we just started to talk about what Lara was feeling and about the promises of the gospel. It was so special. I didn’t do anything. Lara just needed a listening ear.”
Mrs. Harper hugged her daughter. “You gave her yourself.”
“I just listened.”
“That’s what I mean. You gave her your love.” Mrs. Harper hesitated.
“Come on, Mom,” Kim laughed. “After 17 years I know when a sermon is coming. Lay it on me!”
“I don’t mean to sermonize. I wanted to give it time so you could discover it on your own. It’s what I was talking about this afternoon.”
“Don’t keep me waiting,” Kim responded, putting her hand to her head melodramatically and swooning. “The suspense will kill me.”
“All right, Ophelia, you asked for it.” Mrs. Harper suddenly grew serious. “Remember this afternoon when I told you that plays and such aren’t the blessings of doing what’s right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the blessings are things we often don’t even recognize—things like faith, maturity, love, compassion, wisdom, and understanding. They may not get you a scholarship, but they last a lot longer.”
A warm feeling of affirmation and assurance spread through Kim. Then the glimmer returned to her eyes. “Hey, Mom, you ought to write to the Prodigal Son’s brother. He needs tonight’s sermon.”
“You nut!” Mrs. Harper pinched playfully at Kim’s cheek. “If you’re going to make fun of me you’d better get to bed.”
“Oh, I’m not making fun. In heaven I asked for a mother who was also a preacher,” Kim laughed. Inside she felt the joy of a new understanding. There would be other plays and other parts, maybe a drama scholarship and maybe not. But there was only one life and a person had to gain from it as much as possible, even if that meant tending Sister Smith’s kids.

A few years ago a faithful family exemplified for members of our ward that same trust in the Lord. Arn and Venita Gatrell were living a happy life when Arn was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. The prognosis was devastating—he had just a few weeks to live. The family wanted to be together one last time. So all the children gathered, some from distant locations. They had only 48 precious hours to spend together. The Gatrells carefully chose what mattered most to them—a family picture, a family dinner, and a session in the Salt Lake Temple. Venita said, “When we walked out of the temple doors, it was the last time we would ever be together in this life.”
But they left with the assurance that there is so much more for them than just this life. Because of sacred temple covenants, they have hope in God’s promises. They can be together forever.
The next two months were filled with blessings too numerous to recount. Arn and Venita’s faith and trust in the Lord were growing, as evidenced in Venita’s words: “I was carried. I learned that you can feel peace in the midst of turmoil. I knew the Lord was watching over us. If you trust in the Lord, truly you can overcome any of life’s challenges.”
One of their daughters added: “We watched our parents and saw their example. We saw their faith and how they handled it. I would never have asked for this trial, but I would never give it away. We were surrounded with God’s love.”
Of course, Arn’s passing was not the outcome the Gatrells had hoped for. But their crisis was not a crisis of faith. The gospel of Jesus Christ is not a checklist of things to do; rather, it lives in our hearts. The gospel “is not weight; it is wings.”4 It carries us. It carried the Gatrells. They felt peace in the midst of the storm. They held fast to each other and to temple covenants they had made and kept. They grew in their ability to trust in the Lord and were strengthened by their faith in Jesus Christ and in His atoning power.

I wonder whether seven-year-old Matthew really understood the significance of his actions the Saturday he chose to spend his hard-earned allowance on a Relief Society manual for his mother.
The money was a special reward for the way he had taken over and become “the man of the house” while his daddy had been sick in the hospital. We expected him to buy the usual assortment of toys that appeal to a seven-year old, but instead he had chosen to buy me a new book.
I was uncomfortable about accepting his sacrifice and subsequently shared my feelings with a friend a few days later. After all, I knew that after paying his tithing and buying the book there was very little left over for Matthew!
“I didn’t feel good about taking his money that way, Nancy,” I explained, “but I knew he’d feel good if I did. I love him for it, and I’ll give it back another way.”
Then the miracle happened!
At that precise moment, my whole concept of tithing changed. It was as though suddenly a light had switched on and, just as suddenly, I could see.
I had always paid my tithing faithfully and regularly. But, in retrospect, I had paid it in fear and trembling to an awe-inspiring God who demanded his tenth. (See D&C 64:23.) Somehow, in my confused thinking, the God to whom I timidly offered my tithes differed tremendously from the compassionate, loving Father who listened to me pour out my heart each morning and night, the Father who cared about me and wanted me to return home to him.
In that moment I knew that my Father in Heaven loved me. And, even though it was my obligation and responsibility to return to him a tenth of my increase, he still appreciated my offerings and was glad that I did it. As I stood there in my kitchen, with tears streaming down my cheeks, my words reverberated in my mind and called up the Lord’s promise: “Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.” (Mal. 3:10.)
How grateful I am for the lessons taught by a loving Heavenly Father. And how grateful I am for the thoughtful and unselfish actions of my small son.

Francine walked slowly through the deep green alfalfa field, the soft, cool plants brushing her bare legs pleasantly. The summer sun felt warm on her head and shoulders, and bees darted here and there among the blossoms. It had been only a month since Francine’s family loaded all their belongings onto the wagon behind her father’s workhorse and had moved up from town to this beautiful valley. She still liked to walk through the fields and just look at everything. But she would like it even better if she had a horse.
Looking out across the field, she saw a man riding a horse up the lane that separated her family’s fields from the neighbor’s fields. The man turned the horse into his alfalfa field and rode to the top of it where the irrigation ditch ran. Francine was startled to see him suddenly tumble off the horse into the alfalfa. Maybe he’s sick, she thought. She ran quickly to the fence, ducked under it, and raced across the field. She could see water splashing where the man had fallen and great drops flying into the air, catching the sunlight. He must have fallen into the ditch, Francine surmised. She ran as fast as she could over the rough ground.
“I’m coming!” she shouted, hoping he wouldn’t give up till she got there. At that moment the man raised his head and looked at her calmly. Francine stopped abruptly, her face hot from running and her breath coming in gasps. She could see that he was not in the ditch at all but beside it. He held the board for damming the ditch in his hands.
“What are you shouting about?” he asked gruffly. His streaked gray hair stood up wildly, and his blue eyes were piercing under his shaggy eyebrows.
“I thought you needed help,” she replied, “and that you had fallen into the ditch.” She suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed and looked at the ground. Only then did she see that the man had no legs. His pants were cut off at the middle of his thighs and pinned securely. Both his pants and flannel shirt were quite wet.
“I definitely don’t need help from a little girl,” he rasped. He turned away from her and began pushing the stopper board into the cement headgate, but it jammed in the slots. Then he pulled himself closer, oblivious of the water spilling around him.
“Could I help you get the board in?” Francine asked, moving closer.
He turned to her, his face red with exertion and anger. “Can’t a man do his irrigating without pesky little girls coming around?” he stormed. “Now go play!”
Francine turned away quickly and found herself face-to-face with the man’s horse. It was a rather short, strongly built horse with a gleaming reddish brown coat and a shiny black mane. Francine looked into the animal’s face and thought it had the kindest, most intelligent eyes she had ever seen. The horse lowered its head to her, sniffed briefly, and then stepped back as though to let her pass. How Francine would love a horse like that for her own.
“You have a beautiful horse,” she said, looking back again at the man. He was just pushing the board securely into its place when he glanced at Francine. She thought she saw the barest flicker of gentleness in his eyes before he said gruffly again, “Go and play, little girl.”
Francine walked past the horse and back across the field to the canal, where large shady cottonwoods grew along the bank. Sitting down in the cool, prickly grass, she watched the man from a distance. She wondered why she wasn’t more afraid of him. He’s been mean to me, she thought. Maybe its because of the odd way he had to get off the horse. She watched as he worked himself away from the ditch. The horse took a few steps toward him, then stood still and stiff, its head lowered while the man grasped the horse’s leg and pulled himself upright. Then he reached up and knotted his hand into its mane. In a quick motion he was on the horse’s back. He rode back through the field and down the lane as Francine watched, fascinated.
That night at dinner she told her family about the experience.
“I’ve heard about our neighbor, Mr. Lewis,” her father said. “He runs his whole farm without any help except from his wife.”
“He certainly didn’t want any help from me,” Francine said.
“They say he’s very proud,” her mother added as she passed the food around. “He won’t let anyone help him.”
“I’ve heard he’s very mean and grouchy,” her little brother, Stephen, put in, looking up from his potatoes.
“I don’t think he’s really mean, just grouchy,” Francine said, remembering how his eyes had softened a little when she mentioned the horse.
“Doesn’t he have a wheelchair or something?” Stephen asked.
“I don’t know, but I think he finds his horse the most help for getting around his farm,” his father said.
Francine’s eyes lit up. “His horse is wonderful, Daddy. You should have seen the way it stood so still while he climbed onto it. And it was beautiful, all shiny in the sun.”
Her father looked at her kindly. “You’d really like a horse, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, Yes!” Francine said. “And I have five dollars saved for one. How much is it going to take?”
“I don’t know,” her father replied. “It depends on what you’re willing to settle for. You might find an old retired workhorse for ten dollars or so. It would give you something to ride around on.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I want a good horse … like Mr. Lewis’s.”
“Then you’ll have to wait quite a while, because we don’t have the money for it,” her father said.
“I know that, and I’ll wait.” Francine ate her potatoes resolutely, seeing in her mind Mr. Lewis’s shining red horse standing still and strong in the sunlight.
The next afternoon Francine wandered through the fields again. She came to the top of the small hill that looked down on the Lewis farm. Their house was white and neat, with roses in front and various sheds and coops sprawled out behind it. Francine hesitated and then walked down the hill, skirted around the house, and slipped quietly into the barnyard. She walked past the chicken coops where white hens cackled and pecked behind the wire, and then she saw the horse standing outside a cinder-block milking barn. He was not tied but stood quietly waiting, the reins over his mane. Francine approached very slowly and silently. The horse turned its head and regarded her calmly, so she put out her hand and stroked its neck. The warm coat twitched deliciously under her hand.
She could hear the clanging of milk pails in the barn. The double doors stood open, and she could see the backsides of the large holstein cows, their tails switching and flicking at the files. After petting the horse and talking to it for a few minutes, she stepped quietly through the door so as not to startle the cows.
Mr. Lewis sat on a small wooden platform mounted on what looked to Francine like roller skate wheels. He leaned his head against the cow’s flank as the milk squirted rhythmically into the bucket. When the bucket was full, he put it beside him on the cart and took two thick rubber rings from his pockets with which he pushed himself so that his hands did not touch the floor. As he approached the milk can, he saw Francine standing in the doorway.
“You again,” he said. He raised the bucket of milk above his head and poured it into the can.
“I came to see your horse,” she said.
He peered at her from under his shaggy eyebrows as he placed the empty bucket beside him. “Her name is Pilar,” he said.
“I’m saving my money to buy a horse,” she said. “I have five dollars.”
“That won’t buy much of a horse,” Mr. Lewis snorted.
“I know,” Francine said, a little hurt that he would think her so stupid about what a horse cost. “I’ll have to save a lot more before I can get one.”
“Well, Missy …”
“My name is Francine.”
“Well, Francine, as you can see, I have work to do, so you’d better run along.”
“I could help you,” Francine said. “I could curry Pilar for you.”
Mr. Lewis sighed. “All right,” he said. “The currycomb is there on the wall.” He turned back toward his cows.
Francine got the currycomb quickly. She curried the horse until her coat glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. At first Pilar looked suspiciously at the girl, but then she appeared to relax and enjoy the brushing. Through the open door Francine saw Mr. Lewis return several times to the milk can and lift the bucket to pour the warm milk in.
When she had finished with Pilar, she went back into the dim barn and watched him. “I could do that for you,” she said as he returned again to the milk can. “It would save you a lot of time.”
“Look,” he said impatiently, “I have managed quite well here for five years without your help.” He turned away from her and said gruffly over his shoulder. “You’re a busybody.”
Francine felt crushed. She knew she should go home, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She liked Mr. Lewis somehow, and she liked Pilar even more.
When he came back again, she said, “How about if you paid me so I could save for my horse—say five cents a night? I’d empty all the milk buckets, too, and help you clean up the barn.”
Mr. Lewis looked up at her, and the warmth she had seen before crept into his eyes.
“Francine,” he said, “we have very little cash. We just barely make it on this farm. I don’t think I could afford to pay you even that small amount.”
“I’d really be glad to do it without pay if I could see Pilar … maybe even ride her sometime.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said.
Francine turned and went outside. She stopped by Pilar and stroked the horse’s neck again and then started through the barnyard.
“Francine!”
She turned and saw Mr. Lewis framed in the doorway of the barn.
“Come back here a second.” When she reached him he looked at her a minute. “I do get pretty tired emptying those buckets.” He smiled slightly. “Pilar is going to foal in a couple of months. If you turned out to be worth anything as a worker, I might consider her colt as payment.”
Francine’s heart leaped at the thought! “I’d come for morning milking too,” she said.
“You’ll have to ask your folks,” Mr. Lewis said. “And I’ll expect you to go on working after the colt is born.”
“Oh, I will!” Francine promised.
“Well, don’t just stand around, girl,” he directed. “Get the bucket emptied.” Then his face creased into a big smile as Francine rushed past him into the barn.

“I was not a member of the Church until I was past Primary age,” remembers Elder Howard W. Hunter of the Quorum of the Twelve. “My father was not a member either (although he joined the Church later), but my mother was Primary president, and later Mutual president, in our little branch in Boise, Idaho, which was then in the Northwestern States Mission. Our meetinghouse was a single room. Curtains were hung from cross wires to divide the room into sections. Besides passing the sacrament, it was the deacon’s job to pull the curtains when we separated for classes. Since I wasn’t a member of the Church, I wasn’t able to perform these duties. I did attend meetings, however, and I joined the Scout troop. I became the first Eagle Scout of that troop and the second Eagle Scout in Boise, Idaho.
“When I was thirteen, I decided I didn’t want to be different from the rest of the boys, so I asked my father if I could be baptized. My sister and I were baptized the same day.”
By the time Elder Hunter was twelve years old, a stake had been organized and the Boise Ward wanted to build a new chapel. The members were asked to pledge what they could afford toward construction of the new building. The first person to pledge was Howard Hunter! He pledged twenty-five dollars. “That was a lot of money to a boy in 1919,” reflected Elder Hunter.
Elder Hunter related many experiences about growing up in the rural area of Boise. His father was a railroad worker and was often away from home on weekends. But the family did many things together. Elder Hunter remembers especially having good times with his sister, Dorothy, to whom he is still very close.
“We didn’t have many modern conveniences. We had kerosene lamps, and rest room facilities were about fifty paces from the back door. In back of the house was a cellar where Mother stored all her canned fruits and vegetables. We had a vegetable garden, a berry patch, and fruit trees.
“I remember that my father once said to me, ‘You know, it would help if you weeded the garden.’ I thought I would surprise him and do it, but I hoed down all of the potatoes he had planted, thinking they were weeds! That was about the extent of that.”
As a child, Elder Hunter loved pets. “We had chickens that I took care of. And my dad built me some pens for my rabbits. I also had a little fox terrier by the name of Daisy. Daisy was my pal and followed me everywhere I went.
“I was a great collector of almost everything. I had a stamp collection, a coin collection, and a collection of birds’ eggs. Not far from where we lived, there were swamps, cattails, and a variety of trees. Every bird you could imagine lived there. I knew where all the birds and their nests were, so my egg collection was large.”
Elder Hunter became interested in music. He learned to play the piano, saxophone, clarinet, trumpet, drums, and marimba. He organized a dance band, and when he graduated from high school, the band toured the Orient aboard the SS President Jackson. The band played in China, Japan, and the Philippines.
Elder Hunter has served as president of the Polynesian Cultural Center in Hawaii, as president of the Church Genealogical Society, as a bishop, and as a stake president. He is now a General Authority. Recalling his service in the Church, he said, “One of my prized assignments was adviser to the Primary, where I served for about ten years. I visited Primaries all over the world and never missed an opportunity to visit a Primary group.”
Elder Hunter related an experience he had during the time he served as president of the Genealogical Society: “I went to see President McKay one day after a computer representative told me that his company had developed a cylinder that would hold a billion bits of information. I was excited! This was a break-through for genealogical record keeping. As I told President McKay about it, I said, ‘Isn’t that marvelous?’ He replied, ‘What’s marvelous about that? You haven’t had use for it before, have you?’ I replied, ‘No, we are just at that point now.’ And he said, ‘Well, that’s the reason the Lord has provided it now.’”
Because Elder Hunter kept diaries as a boy and has continued to do so throughout his life, he urges all the children of the world to do the same. “Even if you don’t think you do anything important, write down what you do every day. Nothing is too unimportant to go into your daily journal. Encourage your family to keep a journal also. They are treasured records.”

Betsy walked into her mom’s room, holding a pair of scissors, a book, and a box of jumbo crayons. “Will you help me cut out and color my paper dolls?” she asked.
“Maybe later honey,” answered Mom. “I still have housework to do before our company comes.”
Betsy walked back to her room and flopped down on her bed. If only Mom weren’t so busy, she thought, we could spend some time together. Looking up, she noticed something on the cluttered bulletin board nailed to her wall. A pink paper hand dangled from a thumbtack. Betsy read the words printed across the hand: “I’ll be a helping hand.” Sister Summers had helped Betsy and her classmates each make one in Primary.
Betsy had a great idea! She quickly straightened her room, then tiptoed to the bathroom and cleaned off the countertop. Next she crept into her brother’s room, made his bed, and put away his toys. Then she slipped into the laundry room, pulled the towels from the dryer, folded them neatly, and placed them on top of the washer. She heard Mom’s footsteps as she sneaked back to her room to wait.
Betsy grinned when her mom’s happy face appeared in the doorway. “You’ve been quietly busy, haven’t you?” asked Mom as she hugged Betsy.
“I thought if I helped you with your work, you would have more time to spend with me,” said Betsy.
“You were right,” said Mom. “My fingers are ready for cutting and coloring.”
As Betsy snuggled close to her mom, she was glad she had helped her—not just so Mom could spend more time with her, but because she had a wonderfully warm feeling inside!

When Elder Hales finished serving as mission president in 1979, the family moved directly to Europe. There, as area supervisor, he worked with Elder Thomas S. Monson, then of the Quorum of the Twelve, and Hans B. Ringger, then a regional representative. They worked closely with the leaders of countries where the gospel had not yet been established. In East Germany, they talked with leaders about the possibility of building a temple. Each time the Church leaders made the request to build, it was denied because “no building materials were available.” Finally, they asked where building materials might be available. Eventually the answer came: Freiberg. Soon permission was granted to build a temple there.

For the last few years, I knew that God was prompting me to step away from social media. I knew that breaks from social media were great for me, but I also knew that I enjoyed the community that I found there. I didn’t know how to reconcile these two things; I just knew that something had to change.
I read a book that caused me to ponder the question, “How much time on social media is the right amount to provide the benefit of the community, without all the negative influences?” For me, the answer to this question was about 20 minutes … a month. I set a goal to make this happen, and with the help of the Lord, it was easier than I thought. The thing I didn’t expect was how much this change would strengthen my relationship with my Savior. I came to better feel the love that the Savior has for me; I have come to understand more clearly the plan He has for me; and I have come to see the needs of the people around me more clearly.
I have always known that I am a child of God and that He loves me. I have felt the love of my Savior during difficult times in my life. But too often I was letting social media dictate how I saw and thought of myself. As much as I tried to convince myself that the idealistic images on social media didn’t affect me, it turns out they did. Decreasing my time on social media allowed me the mental peace and quiet that I needed to hear the Savior telling me how He felt about me. I didn’t realize how much I had missed hearing His voice until I created more space for Him to be there.
I have always believed in the plan of salvation. I know that Jesus Christ is central to that plan. But I also believe that Heavenly Father has a plan for each of us individually. Larry M. Gibson, former First Counselor in the Young Men General Presidency, taught, “I know that Heavenly Father is concerned about each of us individually and has a personal plan for us to achieve our eternal destiny.”1
I spent a lot of time scrolling to try and figure out what my purpose was. Being on social media gave me a front row seat to all the creative, wonderful things people were doing. I learned a lot from these people, but I spent a lot more time seeking than doing. Since stepping away from social media, I have felt guided to know specifically what Heavenly Father would have me do. Many of these things have been surprising and different from what I thought they would be, but they have made my life richer and more abundant.
The Savior came so that we might have life and that we might have it more abundantly (see John 10:10). I’m grateful for the nudges that the Holy Ghost gives to us to help us have a more abundant life.
The Savior saw those who escaped others’ notice. I love reading stories about Him ministering to such people and teaching them their worth. Spending too much time on social media hindered me from really seeing people in my own life, including my family. I realized that if my children weren’t feeling seen by me, then they would soon be looking to outside sources to validate their worth.
I have been amazed at the love that I have for my children as I have been more present with them. I have loved my role as a mother more this last year than ever before. I have gotten to know neighbors and have been more active in my community. My opportunities for service have increased. I thought that social media was helping me to be more aware, but in reality I wasn’t living in the moment enough to really see the needs of those around me.
Decreasing my social media use seemed like a small and simple thing, but it has allowed me to greatly increase my faith and improve my relationship with my Savior. I know that Heavenly Father loves us, has a plan for us, and has children who need to feel seen by us too.
The author lives in New York, USA.

When my wife and I were young parents with little children at home, we challenged our children to memorize the Articles of Faith. The prize, or reward, for completing them was a night out with Dad. We were pleased that our three oldest completed the challenge. When our seven-year-old son first memorized all 13 Articles of Faith, we sat down to pick out a night and activity that we could do together. I was so busy with work, social activities, and Church responsibilities that I couldn’t give my son a night out for about two weeks. He was sorely disappointed. However, I found that in the city where we lived there was an all-night bowling alley. We immediately picked a date and chose to start our activity at 5:00 in the morning. Our plan was to get up at 4:00, have breakfast, and then go downtown.
When that day arrived, I felt someone shaking my shoulder very early in the morning. As I tried to open my eyes I heard my son say, “Is it time, Dad?” I looked at my alarm clock; it was only 2:00 a.m.!
“Go to sleep, Son,” I said. “It’s not time yet.”
An hour later the same thing happened. “Dad, Dad, is it time to go?” After sending him to bed for a second time, I couldn’t help but feel his excitement.
Then at 4:00 a.m. we got up, had something to eat, and left for the bowling alley. We had a wonderful time.

Here is an example of the kind of Christlike ministering that happens among members of the Lord’s Church. A student at Brigham Young University recently wrote:
“I was going through a really rough time. One day I was really struggling and on the verge of tears. I pleaded and prayed silently for strength to continue. In that exact moment, my roommate sent me a text expressing her love for me. She shared a scripture and bore a testimony. It brought me so much strength and comfort and hope in that moment of despair.”

Everyone in the third grade would agree, including me, that Christy was queen of the monkey bars and swings. No one could climb as fast or swing as high as Christy could. And she was equally as good at playing games. But the most important thing to me about Christy was that she and I were good friends. One day at school during recess, Christy asked, “Do you want to go to Primary with me?”
I’d never heard of Primary before. “What’s that?” I asked.
Christy explained, “Primary is something special at my church, just for children. If you go, you’ll sing songs, make new friends, learn new things, and you can meet my Primary teacher, who is really, really nice.”
“As nice as Mrs. Palmer?” I asked, certain that no teacher could be as nice as our third-grade teacher.
Christy laughed. “Yes, she’s as nice as Mrs. Palmer.”
After school I ran all the way home to ask my mom if I could go to Primary. But Mom wasn’t as thrilled about the idea as I was. “I need a little bit more information,” she said. “What’s the name of Christy’s church?”
Well, that was a tough question to start out with because, as I told Mom, “I can’t remember the name. It’s a long name I’ve never heard before.” I could tell by Mom’s worried expression that was the wrong thing to say.
“Hold on. I’m going to call Christy right now!” I ran to the phone and dialed Christy’s number before Mom could say another word.
The phone rang twice before Christy picked it up. “Hello?”
“Christy!” I exclaimed. “What’s the name of your church again?” I listened carefully and then said, “Mom, the name of Christy’s church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” When the frown on Mom’s face didn’t disappear, I knew I needed help. I said into the phone, “Christy, do you think your mom could talk to my mom about Primary?”
I think Christy heard the desperation in my voice because she got her mom on the phone in five seconds flat. Our moms were soon talking and laughing like old friends. Then my mom told Christy’s mom that, yes, I could go to Primary!
When I went to Primary for the first time, it was everything Christy said it would be and more. Christy was right—our Primary teacher was really, really nice. Every bit as nice as Mrs. Palmer. She even gave me my very own booklet about faith in God.
I went home that day and showed Mom my booklet and told her all about Primary. I even sang the “Hello Song” (Children’s Songbook, 260) to her and my two brothers, which all the kids had sung to me. As Mom studied the picture of Jesus Christ on the front of my booklet and read some of the pages inside, she got a quiet, thoughtful look on her face. Then she said I could go with Christy to Primary every week if I wanted to.
I definitely wanted to, but I actually went only a few more times after that because school let out and our family went on a summer vacation. We loaded up our car and drove from California all the way to my grandmother’s farm in Illinois.
On the second day of our trip, as we drove into Utah, we saw billboards on the highway with the name of Christy’s church on them. They invited people to see something called the visitors’ center in Salt Lake City. Mom said she’d like to stop there so she could find out more about the Church.
When we walked through the door of the visitors’ center, we were greeted by a friendly man wearing a name tag. As he showed us around, Mom had a lot of questions, and the man seemed excited to answer every one of them. When the tour was over, Mom wrote her name and address in the guest book and then checked a box with the word “YES” next to it, saying she’d like to receive more information about the Church.
When we got home from our vacation, two young men who called themselves elders came to our apartment. They told us they were missionaries who got a message all the way from the visitors’ center in Salt Lake City that Mom would like more information about the Church. They said they would love to teach our family about Heavenly Father’s plan and the gospel of Jesus Christ. That’s when the missionaries started teaching our family.
The first time we went to church together, I told my family to be sure to fold their arms when we walked into the chapel. I’d learned at Primary that this was a way to show reverence. We all tried that day to keep our arms folded, but so many people came up to us to shake our hands and welcome us to church that our arms didn’t stay folded for very long.
At the end of our lessons with the missionaries, they asked Mom if she would like to be baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She said she needed to pray about it. The next morning at 6:00 a.m., Mom called the missionaries and said she had prayed all night about being baptized and the answer was yes! My brothers and I also told them we wanted to be baptized.
I still remember stepping into the water in the baptismal font. I was wearing white and feeling so happy inside that I wanted to laugh and shout at the same time. I looked up and saw Mom crying happy tears. Then I looked at Christy, who was just about as excited as I was because it really all started with her when she asked, “Do you want to go to Primary with me?”

I was 17 years old at the time and was curious about my brother’s conversion and his enthusiasm about his newfound beliefs. He introduced a couple of missionaries to me and my sister. One of their lessons, about eternal families, grabbed my attention. This doctrine convinced me that this was the church for me—and the two young missionaries were so handsome, who could deny them? In due course, I and my sister were baptised, even though our father did not approve. As a Baptist, called to teach Japanese members in Japanese about the Holy Bible, my father had strong but narrow views about the teachings of Christ. But our mother attended our baptisms.