Gospel Story Finder

Salt Lake City, Utah—When the Social Hall was completed, in 1852, Christmas was celebrated there with dancing parties, both for the adults and the children. Our girls and boys will never forget the first Christmas tree there where there was a present for every child of several large families, and all numbered and arranged in perfect order of name and age. President Young—Brother Brigham—was foremost in making the affair a grand success. Hon. John W. Young, then only a boy, handed the presents down from the tree, and I recollect Brother Brigham standing and pointing with his cane, and telling John just which to take down, and so on; the children were wild with delight and some of the mothers quite as much elated, though not as demonstrative. After the Santa Claus tree was stripped of its gifts, the floor was cleared and the dancing commenced, and there was good music too, and President Young led the dance, and “cut a pigeon wing,” to the great delight of the little folks. In fact, I think the evening was almost entirely given up to the children’s festivities, and the older ones, the fathers and mothers and more especially President Young, made them supremely happy for that one Christmas eve.
Adapted from Emmeline B. Wells, Young Women’s Journal, 12 (1901): 539–42

We have a grandson serving a mission in the Philippines. In one of his letters he explained how he and his companion were teaching a man who had a drinking problem. They had invited him to quit drinking, but to no avail.

On the subsequent visit, my grandson described how he became quite bold and told the man that if he did not stop drinking, they would not be able to teach him anymore, because he was always drunk when they came to his home and he could not benefit from their message when he was drunk. The man agreed to stop drinking. And the next time the missionaries visited him, he was sober for the first time in years.

All of my five children read my grandson's letter. And then the fun began. We all started talking about how to help someone who is not like us. My grandson had never known an alcoholic before. So he had to reach down deep to know how to help him. He had to call upon the Lord. We have created a group email for our family so that my children who live in four different states can communicate easily with us and their siblings. Some began sharing scriptures, others shared experiences--all focusing on how we can relate more effectively to those with whom we don't have too much in common. It was a rich learning and teaching experience. My wife and I were learning from our children. They were learning from us. We were all learning from each other.

These were times when I would see the best and worst sides of my grandpa. Grandpa always had a smile on his face but he never let a teaching moment pass. I'll never forget my very first day of bussing tables when I was 12. I was to be at work at 5 p.m. but I didn't get done with soccer practice until 5:00. So, I figured it wouldn't matter if I was a few minutes late. I smartly calculated the time it would take to ride my bike from the school to the restaurant. Five minutes wouldn't hurt anyone. So, I arrived a few minutes late and punched my time card and put on an apron and began clearing tables. I hadn't finished my first table when I looked back and saw my grandpa walking toward me. At first, I couldn't tell if he was happy for my first day of work or if he was going to give me a tongue-lashing. He simply put his hand on my shoulder and said: "Son, you were late for work on your first day." For which I quickly apologized and reassured him that it wouldn't happen again. Then he said: "And you don't come to work in soccer shorts and cleats. Go home, take a shower and come back when you're ready to work."

When I got back to the café in my white shirt, black pants and black church shoes, I found my grandpa cleaning the tables that I had neglected for the last 30 minutes. I quickly put on a clean white apron and rushed over to relieve my grandpa from cleaning tables. I half expected another tongue-lashing but the lesson he taught was so much better. When I approached the table, he just smiled and said: "Now, that's more like it." And then, instead of going home after a long day of work, having opened the restaurant at 3 a.m., he spent the next half hour showing me how to be the best bus boy at Prices Café.

Enzio Busche’s original commitment to go to the ends of the earth in pursuit of truth met its test in 1977, while President Spencer W. Kimball was touring Poland and East Germany. Then a regional representative to the Quorum of the Twelve, Brother Busche served as translator for President Kimball at a meeting in Berlin, then met afterwards with Church leaders for refreshments in the Relief Society room. D. Arthur Haycock, the president’s personal secretary, asked Brother Busche to take an empty chair next to President Kimball. Because an educated German would never seek the company of a dignitary unless invited by that dignitary, Brother Busche ignored the suggestion. When Brother Busche declined a second time, Brother Haycock asked him more pointedly if he would please be so kind as to take the vacant seat. After exchanging greetings, President Kimball invited Brother Busche to join him in another room, where he extended the call to serve as a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy.

As I elaborate a bit on my testimony, perhaps an experience might help. While serving as a mission president, I had occasion to discuss the gospel and to discuss missionary work with a Protestant minister. He was troubled because he had received a call to preside over a mission for his church, and because he had had a prior poor experience, he was seeking help. He came to my office in Dallas and said that he really didn’t want to accept the mission call, but he felt he had to. He said he knew that we had the best missionary program in the world, and he wanted to know why it was that we were so successful. I think he was looking for some organizational hints or something of that sort, but I knew that wasn’t the answer.

After I had collected my thoughts, I told the man that there were four basic reasons why the Lord’s program succeeds. I said, first of all, we succeed because we are led by a living prophet, a man who is the mouthpiece for God on the earth, a man who receives inspiration—revelation—on behalf of the Church.
Second, we succeed because we work under the power and authority of the holy priesthood. We don’t assume that authority, we don’t take it upon ourselves, but it is given to us by the laying on of hands, and we are duly delegated to go out and preach the gospel. We have the priesthood.
Third, I said, we succeed because we are teaching the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ as restored in this day. We don’t play, as Elder Packer has taught, on one key; we play the entire keyboard. We know why we’re here, we know what we’re supposed to prepare for, and we know where we’ve been.
And fourth, we succeed because we do what we do on the strength and power of personal testimony. Our young people go out and teach, not because of some promise of remuneration, but because they have a testimony; they forego college or delay it and put other personal plans aside so that they can go out and share their testimonies with the world. I said, when your church can conduct a program with a prophet directing under the power of the priesthood, teaching the fulness of the gospel, and on the strength of personal testimonies, you can do exactly what we are doing. I said, there is no need for you to go to that trouble, though. We already have it going; why don’t you join us? He didn’t accept my invitation.

Julia Awashish, a 17-year-old Native American from Quebec City, agrees with Marc. “We need to always remember the covenants we made at baptism,” she says. “The promises we have made to our Heavenly Father are the things that make us strong as members of the Church. It’s been six years since I joined the Church. I’m glad my mother and I joined, because it helps me so much when I have a problem to deal with, and it helps me remember to be happy, because the gospel is a message of joy.”

Julia says that when she and her mother returned to visit relatives in their village of Obedjiwan, which is far to the north of Quebec, at first “there was a lot of gossip about us being Latter-day Saints. But now everyone has seen by our example that we are friendly, normal people, so they accept us just fine.”

Maybe I have lived a pampered life, but I am just not used to being told that I am headed for Hades. Actually, it only happened once, but that was enough to shake me up a bit and spur some thought that has not left my mind even now.
It happened when I left school at BYU for a summer and went to Washington, D.C., to work in a government office. Another office employee was an exceptionally bright and articulate young man who not only worked full-time, but was also completing his studies in law school. He was not a member of the Church, but he had been surrounded by members for several years. He probably knew the technical points of the doctrine even better than I, and his knowledge of the Bible was superb. Had our conversations ever degenerated to the level of argument, his nimble lawyer’s mind and tongue would have left my inexperienced self stunned and breathless. To accomplish this, I think, was actually his desire, for he took great delight in asking questions designed to confuse and baffle me, and his attacks on the Church were well planned and skillfully executed. His intentions became clear when, after one long discussion, he commented, “I didn’t even succeed in making you cry, did I?”
To be honest, he did make me cry once, or at least I cried in his presence. But that was not at all because I was frustrated or beaten. That never seemed to be a problem, for the harder he attacked, the more I felt the Spirit behind me, reassuring me of the validity of my testimony and filling me with a calmness that erased any desire to fight back.
The tears came after one session in which he explained his primary objection to the Church. He felt that men are saved by grace. The Savior atoned for our sins, he believed, and all that is required of us is to believe in the Lord and accept him as our Savior. My friend said that he had a personal relationship with Christ; thus, nothing else was required of him to be saved. Latter-day Saints, on the other hand, he claimed bitterly, have no appreciation for Christ and what he did. Their belief in requirements other than faith, such as baptism and keeping the commandments, demeans the Savior’s atonement by implying that it is insufficient to save men. Mormons’ beliefs, he maintained, are nearly blasphemous. He could think of many adjectives to describe them, but Christian was definitely not on the list. And that, he told me, was why I was going to hell.
As I listened to this tirade, many possible responses ran through my mind. I could say that it was Christ who instituted the ordinance of baptism and was baptized himself. I could say that he himself was one who most consistently taught the keeping of the commandments. I could say that it was one of his own disciples who said that “faith without works is dead.” But I said none of these things. Instead, when my friend paused long enough to catch a breath, I simply looked at him and said, “The Savior is more important than anything else in my life.” And then I bore my testimony of Jesus Christ. I told him of my love for the Savior and of my knowledge of his love for me. I told him how the Savior’s atonement was the only thing that gave purpose to my life. I told him that Christ’s gospel was the one anchor I had to cling to when everything else seemed determined to beat me down. I told him that my whole life was centered around trying to live the Lord’s gospel and that I did have a personal testimony of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. I am sure that I did not speak eloquently or impressively, but that is when the tears came.
When I had finished speaking, a surprising thing happened—my skillfully verbal friend was actually silent for several moments. When he spoke, his voice decreased in volume from its typical forte nearly to mezzo piano. “You are the first Mormon,” he said, “who has actually borne witness to me of Jesus Christ.”
We are members of the Church of Jesus Christ. It is his church. At our baptisms we covenanted “to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places, … even until death” (Mosiah 18:9). Then why is it that I could have a friend who had lived and worked and socialized among Latter-day Saints for several years and yet had never heard borne a testimony of Jesus Christ? My friend’s case may be unique, and I certainly hope that it is. But my experience with him has made me more aware of our sacred obligation to stand boldly and unashamedly as witnesses for our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.

“We could not have hoped for a better assignment,” said former President McReynolds. “It was great to be going back to the British Isles.” President Stuart and Sister Sheryl McReynolds led the England Manchester Mission from July 2017 to July 2020.
President McReynolds grew up in Leicestershire and Sister McReynolds was born in North Wales. Later, Sister McReynolds lived on the Isle of Man for a short time but spent most of her growing up years in London. At the time of their call, it had been 20 years since they lived permanently in the United Kingdom.
Sister McReynolds hadn’t served a full-time mission when she was young, so the prospect of serving as a mission president’s wife was a bit daunting, and she felt inadequate in many ways. “Yet, I knew I wouldn’t be transferred, or get a new companion, so I hoped we would get on all right,” she said light-heartedly. “But the opportunity to be together, that was a real privilege – just wonderful.”
“When I didn’t know what to do, or I thought I couldn’t do something that needed to be done, I realised that the Lord carries you when you do His work,” she said. “I think intellectually I knew this, but I’ve seen it so much more on a day-to-day basis than I ever had in the past.”
One highlight for the McReynolds was seeing the strength and personal growth of more than 550 missionaries from all over the world, giving their best to share a message about hope in Jesus Christ. They were from over 60 countries including: Madagascar, Eswatini, Lithuania, Curaçao, Japan and others.
When compared with the mission he served as a young man, President McReynolds was pleased to see a substantial increase in the number of sister missionaries serving. Nearly half of the missionaries in the Manchester mission were women. He said this created a balance of perspective and leadership in the mission, including new positions for sister-trainer leaders. Both were also amazed at how quickly they would come to love each elder and sister.
“We had been told that we would have instant and deep love for them,” she said. “But it was when we had been there just nine days, and about 24 missionaries were leaving for home, I realised how strong this love would be. It nearly broke my heart to say goodbye. Perhaps this is a blessing of the calling and comes when you are set apart – your capacity to love is expanded.”
“We have found that this love doesn’t really leave you,” President McReynolds said. “While we have only been back at home a short time, we still think about them, talk about them, worry about them and wonder how we can help them.”
The McReynolds saw quiet miracles take place in the mission. During one transfer, a missionary from South Africa who spoke Zulu, was sent to an area in the mission where a family of five from Africa would be taught the gospel. “It wasn’t that the family couldn’t speak English, but they saw it as a miracle—getting their very own Zulu-speaking missionary,” President McReynolds said.
They also witnessed tender mercies in the lives of the missionaries themselves. “It was lovely to see a missionary, who had the gospel all of their life; allow the gospel into their life,” Sister McReynolds said. “Suddenly it starts to click and come together on their mission and then you see them change and progress as they learn to rely more on the Saviour and on Heavenly Father more than on themselves or their parents.”
At a production of “Our Story Goes On,” they were also able to see awareness of the Church grow with civic leaders. She recalled meeting a local mayor and his wife at the event. “Afterward, when the musical had finished, he and his wife, especially him, were in floods of tears. He said, ‘I’ve never felt anything like this.’ It was as if he had a better understanding of gospel principles and indirectly, the plan of salvation. Perhaps in the future, this could lead to an increase in positive support.”
The restrictions surrounding COVID-19 changed the way missionary work could be done. “The pandemic was a considerable challenge for us as mission leaders, and as missionaries. Staying at home, staying in place, and adjusting everything that we did,” President McReynolds said. “It created a need to rethink how missionary work could continue virtually. We had always done everything face to face, yet we all know how powerful technology and social media tools can be. Online missionary work became a massive pivot for the mission. I think we made good progress, as we were able to find people, continue to teach and later baptise.”
In March, everything was being cancelled including the mission’s upcoming ‘Why I Believe’ devotional, featuring the conversion stories of new members of the Church. It was decided to take a leap of faith and hold it online. This was a big undertaking to make sure that the programme would be uplifting and inspirational, without the distractions online meetings sometimes have when technology fails.
“We saw the Lord’s hand in that first one,” said Sister McReynolds. “Because of COVID-19, we were all in separate locations, and it honestly shouldn’t have come together as nicely as it did.”
Typically, the in-person monthly devotional saw an attendance of anywhere from 250 to 550 people, depending on the location. With the move to online, an estimated 4,000 people have tuned in each month.
“While we did the devotional together as a mission, the missionaries were likewise adapting their own sphere of responsibility,” said President McReynolds. Asking questions like, “How do I adapt finding? How do I adapt my teaching? How do I adapt working with members, by using all these online tools?”
The mission also began using Zoom-conference calls, to reach out to individual missionaries for interviews, and for training and mission-wide calls which typically took place three times a week. “I really think it united the mission in a way that we hadn’t had before,” said Sister McReynolds. “They were interacting with others in breakout rooms, meeting fellow missionaries that they had never met before. It was a huge blessing and created a feeling that we were all in this together.”
The McReynolds’ aim was that all the missionaries would: first, be leaders and govern themselves; second, immerse themselves in Preach My Gospel, the guide to missionary service; and third, become Christlike missionaries. “We felt that becoming a Preach My Gospel Missionary or a Christlike missionary would not come until they really understood that they were agents to act, and truly govern themselves,” President McReynolds said. “Our dearest hope was that their conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ, and [to] Jesus Christ Himself would become deeper and deeper.”
President McReynolds shared a scripture in the Book of Mormon that summarised his and Sister McReynolds’ experience in the mission field as it relates to each other and the missionaries of the England Manchester Mission: “Nevertheless they did fast and pray oft, and did wax stronger and stronger in their humility, and firmer and firmer in the faith of Christ, unto the filling their souls with joy and consolation, yea, even to the purifying and the sanctification of their hearts, which sanctification cometh because of their yielding their hearts unto God. (Helaman 3:35)
“Humility is not something the world ever puts in the same sentence as strength, and in these assignments, you learn that, number one, they’re just humbling and in that humility, there is strength,” he said. President McReynolds attested that he and his wife had themselves become “firmer and firmer in the faith” as they served in this assignment. For them, it was indeed a case of, “Filling their souls and our souls with joy—lots of joy.”
“Yeah, been an amazing three years,” Sister McReynolds said. “I don’t think we’ll ever be the same again.”

May I share a letter from a grateful recipient of their loving service. He writes:
“The young women [of my ward] very literally saved my life. I was a young bishop, just 29, the father of four beautiful little girls, including a small baby, when Heavenly Father called my wife home to Him. As I met with each of our little girls and asked them what impact this change would mean to them, the concerns of six-year-old Emily, the oldest of the four, were many, including, ‘Who is going to comb and curl my hair for church and put ribbons and clips in it?’ That was a good question to me as well. Who? I was consumed with the idea that life would be as ‘normal’ as possible for all of us—which meant that I would have to learn a whole new way of life. I was their father, and I was going to be the only parent. I realized that I was not equipped with the motherly skills that I needed. I called upon the young women of the ward to train me to be able to satisfy at least the needs of hair care. They came to my home, numerous times, to begin my training. They even showed me how to care for my six-month-old Natalie as far as washing her hair without so much trauma. By the time I ‘graduated,’ I could whip up a mean (but simple) hairdo. Much more than the skill, those young women gave me confidence as a father of daughters—that I could love them, care for them, be there for them, no matter how the rest of my life continued.” Thank you, Brother Michael Marston, for your tender letter.

Another great Elias is Moses Mahlangu, a preacher from Soweto, South Africa who found a copy of the Book of Mormon. Because the bottom of the title page was torn off he did not know what church had published it.

As he read the book, he was filled with light and understanding. He said: "I had desires to find God and to receive revelation, but I was never satisfied until I got the Book of Mormon." Fluent in nine languages, Moses taught from the Book of Mormon and had gathered many followers before he learned the name of the Church and made contact with the mission headquarters in Johannesburg. For over fourteen years he waited, preparing himself and others for baptism. During this time he frequently visited the mission president and obtained copies of the Book of Mormon and other literature, and I was therefore privileged to know him. Soon after the revelation was announced, I sought out Moses. As we embraced I asked him if he had heard about the revelation. He said, "Yes. Does this mean that I can now be baptized?" I asked, "Moses, would you like to be baptized?" His eyes welled with tears as he said softly, "I have waited for fourteen years."

I conducted a baptismal interview that I shall never forget. To every question, I received the same answer: "I have been keeping that commandment for fourteen years."

I was deeply humbled in the presence of this great pioneer. His son, who as a boy accompanied Moses in his ministry, later served as Moses' Bishop in the Soweto ward, near Johannesburg.

After graduating from BYU in accounting, I applied to work for the Church. I didn’t get selected and began working for another firm in Utah. After a few months working for this new firm, they began laying off workers as the economy had softened a bit. My wife and I were thinking about purchasing a home, so before we took that step, I talked to my boss. I asked if he thought we should be prudent and wait a while to purchase a home since the company had been laying off workers. He said I didn’t need to worry since they weren’t expecting to have any more layoffs. We proceeded and purchased the home. The week the first payment was due, my boss called me into his office and indicated that he was sorry, but they had to lay me off of work. It was a Monday morning; I called my wife Sharon and told her I had good news and bad news. The good news, I would be home early. The bad news, I just lost my job. That same day, Sharon and I updated my resume and printed up some copies (no email at that time) and started to drop some off at nearby businesses. We were out most of the day, and when we got back to our home that evening, Sharon’s mother called. We had discussed that we wouldn’t tell her parents of our circumstance until we had a new job. Her mom had an ulcer at the time, and we didn’t want them to worry. Her mom asked where we had been that day; she had tried calling several times throughout the day and hadn’t been able to reach us (no cell phones at that time). Sharon replied, “Uh, uh, oh just out and about.” Her mom said that the Church had called to see if we were still interested in that job we had applied for earlier that year. Sharon, in tears, asked her mom, “Mom, do you know?” Her mom’s response: “Know what?” Sharon told her I had lost my job. Her mom’s classic response: “Oh, I guess you will want this phone number.” What a blessing! What makes this blessing even more of a tender mercy is this: I liked the job I had, and I think I was so full of pride that had the call come while I still had the job, I might not have been willing to change our script. What an incredible blessing it was for us to work for the Church for over 30 years in four countries. He writes a better script than we do.

Mike was the youngest and the littlest in his family.
He was too young to go to school with his brother and sister. He was too little to play basketball with them.
Mike couldn’t eat as fast as the rest of his family, so sometimes the dessert would be all gone by the time he was ready for seconds.
He still couldn’t tie his shoelaces so that they stayed tied.
Sometimes he couldn’t reach the toy he wanted in the toy cabinet. And the cookie jar was completely out of his reach.
Mike couldn’t ride a bike yet—he was still riding his tricycle. And he wasn’t allowed to cross the street alone.
He was too small to climb the tree that grew behind the house—he couldn’t reach even the lowest branch.
Mike couldn’t stay up as late as his brother or his sister, either—they were allowed to stay up a whole hour longer!
Sometimes it was very hard to be the youngest and the littlest.
But there were times when being the youngest and the littlest could be nice.
When Grandma came to visit, Mike was the only one little enough to sit on her lap.
Sometimes when his brother and sister were in school, Mike and his mother went shopping together. The lady in the bakery would often give him a big cookie. And after lunch his mother would have time to read a story to him. They would laugh together at the pictures in the storybook. That was fun!
Some days his sister would give Mike a ride in his red wagon. He was the only one little enough to fit into it.
Mike was small enough that he could turn cartwheels right in the family room. His brother and sister were not allowed to do that.
When Mike and Daddy went for walks, Daddy would give him a piggyback ride home. Pretty soon he would be too big for that, Daddy said, but now he was just the right size.
One day something happened that made Mike very happy that he was little.
The whole family had been shopping together. When they got home, no one had a house key.
“How can we get in?” they asked each other.
“I know,” said Mother. “That small window is open. If we boost Mike up to the window, he can climb through it and open the door from the inside.”
Daddy boosted Mike up to the small window. He wriggled through it, then ran to open the front door. His mother, father, brother, and sister came in.
“You’re our hero, Mike,” they all said. “You rescued us!”
Mike grinned. Sometimes being the youngest and the littlest was a very good thing.

Tears of frustration filled my eyes, so I couldn’t make sense of the words I had been reading.
“And it came to pass that I beheld others pressing forward,” read the verses I was studying for seminary. “And they came forth and caught hold of the end of the rod of iron; and they did press forward through the mist of darkness, clinging to the rod of iron, even until they did come forth and partake of the fruit of the tree” (1 Ne. 8:24).
I was 14 and struggling. I didn’t have many friends. Those I had were beginning to experiment with alcohol, tobacco, pornography, and immoral behavior. The pressure to participate was growing daily. I was struggling to stand up for my beliefs. I was struggling to find friends. I could understand why temptation was called “mists of darkness” (1 Ne. 12:17). I felt blind to the light of the Spirit.
I was trying to do what was right, doing my best to follow “the path which led to the tree” (1 Ne. 8:22). But I could relate to those people “who had commenced in the path” but were lost because of the “mist of darkness.” I felt like I had “wandered off and [was] lost” too (1 Ne. 8:23).
I rarely cried. But that night in my room, as I read those verses, I couldn’t keep the tears from spilling out. I really felt lost, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I wanted a solid metal handrail right there by my bed that I could grab on to and follow back to heaven.
My seminary teacher had said the rod of iron symbolizes the word of God in the scriptures and given through the prophets today. But I couldn’t hold on to a symbol. I shut my scriptures and poured my heart into prayer: “Father, where is my iron rod?”
The question stuck in my head for days. Then one night, like Lehi, I “dreamed a dream” (1 Ne. 8:2).
In my dream I was on my stomach on the seminary classroom floor. Something behind me held my legs so tightly that I couldn’t get free, and it was slowly pulling me backwards. Terror smashed me so I could hardly breathe. I was too scared to look back, but I knew I was being dragged into a darkness that would mean more than death. It meant spiritual destruction.
I looked around desperately for anything I could grab on to. It was then that I saw in front of me the Book of Mormon resting on a chair. Somehow I knew that if I could just make it to the book, I would be safe.
I woke up halfway between safety and destruction. I knew I had to go one way or the other.
Suddenly, I was more interested in the Book of Mormon. But while the dream was my wake-up call to read the Book of Mormon, it was the actual reading that changed my life. The Lord blessed me for being obedient. I found spiritual strength in the face of temptations. I found confidence to break ties with my old friends and reassurance that I was better off by myself until my prayers to find better friends were answered.
Most important, I could feel the Spirit when I read the Book of Mormon. I could feel the love of God. It felt so good I never wanted to put the book down. I had found my iron rod.
Soon after, tears again blurred the words I was reading. But this time they were tears of joy as I read Nephi’s promise to his brothers.
“And they said unto me: What meaneth the rod of iron which our father saw, that led to the tree?
“And I said unto them that it was the word of God; and whoso would hearken unto the word of God, and would hold fast unto it, they would never perish; neither could the temptations and the fiery darts of the adversary overpower them unto blindness, to lead them away to destruction” (1 Ne. 15:23–34).

The rickety bus slowed just enough to let us swing out the open back door. Lurching forward once again, it careened around the corner and was gone in an instant. We stood alone on the highway, Ciudad de Dios on one side and Urbanización San Juan on the other. It seemed a forsaken place to me that December day in Lima, Peru, three days before Christmas. A humid wind blew the sand into grainy little whirlwinds, and the ever-present Lima overcast was still with us although it was nearly summer. It was my first Christmas away from home, and I felt empty and alone. I had been singing carols to myself for days trying to catch the mood but to no avail. I missed the snow and the crisp Utah winter air. Lima’s mugginess didn’t help at all.
We trudged along past row after row of cement tract houses, all in various stages of construction but occupied nonetheless. Dogs barked at us from their rooftop guard stations, and children tagged along at our sides. Arriving at the Manco home, we knocked on the door and Sister Manco answered.
A three-foot bramble bush stood ridiculously in the middle of the bare cement floor in the living room. We oohed and aahed appropriately. I smiled slightly, remembering the beautiful firs and pinion pines at home, but had to appreciate Sister Manco’s good intentions. Her home would be happy this Christmas Eve. But just down the street where the Nostadez family lived, it would be a different matter.
Brother Nostadez was a trolley conductor who had been out of work since July when his union struck. The government had settled the issue by tearing up the tracks, and Brother Nostadez had been without a job ever since. We had baptized the entire family, except two underage daughters, only the night before. Although I knew they were glad to be in the Church, I also realized that it would be a meager Christmas for them this year.
All at once I knew what had to be done. If I couldn’t celebrate the kind of Christmas I so longed for, at least the Nostadez family would have a good one. My companion Elder Slack agreed, and we enlisted the aid of a member friend, Estrella Costa, to buy things she thought the family might enjoy. We involved the Manco family by asking them to deliver the gifts at just the right moment on Christmas Eve, hoping to teach them something about caring for others at the same time. Estrella had brought the gifts she chose to our apartment.
Still, as I surveyed the fare, I wasn’t completely satisfied. The silly little useless toys, the oranges, apples, and fun surprises that are so much a part of holiday giving were missing.
Hurriedly I set out with Elder Slack in tow to explore the open market across the highway in Ciudad de Dios. Although appallingly filthy, Ciudad de Dios was vibrantly alive. The rhythm of humanity literally pulsated through its streets. A thousand vendors sought to sell their wares. Here was fruit fresh from the jungle: papayas the size of cantaloupes, watermelons, pineapples, figs, several kinds of bananas, mangos, and oranges of every size and variety. We bartered for a dozen of the latter. Huge sides of beef, lamb, and pork were scattered among hogs’ heads and cows’ stomachs, all hanging from enormous hooks for better view. Fresh fish from the famous Peruvian fisheries gaped at us with mouths opened wide. Live animals were sold to be taken home and raised for later butchering. Turkeys, chicks, ducklings, and baby guinea pigs scampered nervously in their pens. Next came sundries. Black market shampoo, soaps, and razor blades were spread on blankets on the ground or in the now-familiar make-shift stalls. There was a section with shoes and clothes of every description. At last came the toys.
I don’t remember what we bought, and it’s really not very important. I do know that we had a marvelous time trying everything before deciding. The vendor waited patiently, enjoying our enthusiasm. I vaguely recall marbles and combs. Yes, we bought combs for all, and a large basket to put everything in.
The shoppers in the marketplace that day carried off their business in a more lighthearted manner than usual. The bartering that is so much a part of Latin life was good-natured and friendly. One usually sees a number of heated arguments among those driving hard bargains, but not today. Shoppers and vendors alike seemed genuinely pleased to do business together. Negotiations were concluded with large smiles and holiday greetings. Everyone in “City of God” was happy that day. They had little and yet they were happy, anticipating the celebration of the birth of Him who was their Savior also. That strange, bustling marketplace made me feel the spirit of Christmas for the first time that holiday season. At last I understood why this tenement was called “City of God,” and no other name could have been more appropriate.
The Latin people celebrate this holiday like none other. Nearly everyone attends midnight mass. After that the fun begins. Fireworks burst everywhere, not just overhead. Rockets zip up and down streets, sidewalks, between one’s legs, and out of windows. Firecrackers of every caliber roar a mass salute that would rival a squadron of 747’s taking off in formation. The next morning a pungent haze overcasts the city, a smokey memorial to the Yuletide celebration, a mushroom cloud Latin style.
Time was short. We quickly bought wrapping paper and dashed back to the Mancos where mother and children helped ready the presents for delivery. I carefully instructed young Paco in the finer points of subbing for “Papa Noël.” “Leave the basket on the front porch, knock loudly, and run. Hide nearby to make sure the basket is taken in before returning home.” They mustn’t discover any connection between the gifts and their new-found faith. We wished the Mancos a “Feliz Navidad” and rushed home to prepare for our own festivities.
We made four or five calls on wonderful families that night, all of whom implored us to share their midnight feast. A carefully planned schedule brought us to the home of a convert employed by a U.S. airline where we observed a sort of Anglo-Latin Christmas culminating in an enormous banquet. After exchanging gifts, we finally dragged back to our apartment.
During the course of the evening I often mused on the events transpiring out in San Juan. I imagined Paco stealing up to the door, leaving the basket with great commotion, and escaping to the safety of nearby shadows. Brother Nostadez answers the door and, finding nothing, shakes his head in disgust at such an annoying prank on Christmas Eve. It is little Teresa who spies the basket on the porch and dashes through her father’s legs, hoping for a glimpse of Papa Noël. Hearing the disturbance, the rest of the family rushes to the door. Sister Nostadez whisks the basket into the house with her excited children in hot pursuit.
Across the street, Paco flattens himself in the sand, stifling uncontrollable laughter at Brother Nostadez who is suspiciously scanning the neighborhood for the perpetrator of the deed. He makes one more careful sweep and then backs through the door, slamming it behind him. As if loosed by a starter’s pistol, Paco is up and sprinting for home to report the success of his adventure.
Inside the house, little girls squeal with delight when dolls emerge from the basket. Ten-year-old Hilario is quietly enraptured with his first pocket knife. And Brother and Sister Nostadez contemplate the happy scenario, amazed at this unexpected answer to Christmas prayers uttered for the first time.
Each Christmas Eve for 12 Christmases my thoughts have returned to that singular event in my life. I know that it’s possible that the outcome was not at all as I envisioned it. And it is that uncertainty that keeps the experience so alive and vibrant in my memory. For the imaginings of that night’s events by far transcend any actuality I might have experienced in person. And so on each Christmas Eve I think, and ponder, and dream of miracles that I never witnessed but that I know to have transpired.
It was my first Christmas away from home and family—a young missionary in a strange land among strange people with strange customs. It was a time of learning and teaching and giving in secret. It was the time I first learned of, felt, and understood the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.

A young man stood in the dim morning light, snow dusting his shoulders. He held a formidable snowball in his hand and shrank against the wall like a TV detective.
“You’ve got five minutes,” he bawled, “and then I’m coming in after you!”
Before the deadline, girls started spilling into the cold, breathing white columns as they crunched to breakfast with the young men waiting outside for them.
The Laurels and priests from Pocatello, Idaho, had arrived in West Yellowstone, Montana, to find themselves in a Christmas-card city that lay under seven feet of snow. Snowmobiles outnumbered cars on the city streets, and even tall people had to look up to see the tops of drifts. The young people were in town to make a 50-mile, round-trip snowmobile journey to Old Faithful.
They gathered around a line of snow-covered snowmobiles and, like medieval warriors, started helping each other suit up in their thermal armor—goggles, helmets, fur caps, stocking caps, and ear muffs; fur coats, leather coats, and ski-tagged parkas; ski masks, scarves, and knitted mufflers; quilted jump suits, ski pants, levis, and bib overalls; mittens, ski gloves, dress gloves, and snowmobiling gauntlets; hiking boots, snowmobiling boots, moon boots, and waffle stompers; and a flurry of other odds and ends in a rainbow of colors. When they were finally ready to face the potentially sub-zero weather, they looked like the first wave of a Martian invasion. And in a brief moment of silence as they admired the science fiction effect, a female voice wailed, “My earring’s stuck in my muffler!”
It was not the kind of morning they had dreamed about. Instead of a burning blue sky and sparkling drifts there was the gray pall of a snowstorm; and the shiver down their backs wasn’t excitement, it was wet snow. But the group brought its own sunshine, and their happy laughter made it clear that weather could not spoil the trip. When they gathered in the snow for prayer and thanked the Lord for the beautiful day, it was obvious that they really meant it.
Their guide explained safety rules and gave a few instructions on the operation of the machines. Then with the twanging of taut pull-cords, the engines roared to life, and the adventure began.
They skimmed along the road that carries caravans of tourist cars in the summer, but now it was under many feet of packed snow. Flying through the thick of the storm, they all soon became white statues, and from a distance their headlights looked like a string of pale torches winding through the mountains of some other century.
The veil of snow gave the world an aspect not only of timelessness but of placelessness; all sharp edges were blurred, and the landscape had the unreal quality of a Monet painting. Forests of dark trees became horizontal sweeps of vertical shadows, and mountain peaks dim vacancies of an uncertain distance.
The road ran along the Firehole River where swans floated and complacent elk fed along the shore as if all alone in the world. Upstream the river narrowed into a deep gorge, and snowmobilers wound along the side of it, slicing through a universe of clean white powder and feeling like explorers on some other world.
They stopped by a waterfall that plummeted from precipice to precipice and sent white spray up into the white snow. It was more like a vision than a view, and the young men and women were one moment boisterous with the exuberance of it and the next moment silent with an overwhelming sense of awe.
Miles of snow and scenery later, there were buffalo. They materialized out of the great, shaggy-gray shadows, too beautiful to be true. Later there were more of them in a broad, open meadow, and beyond the immense white of the meadow, the dark line of another forest, like a landscape from Dr. Zhivago.
They left the river and turned their runners down narrow, powdery lanes between tall evergreens, past boiling mud pots and geysers steaming in the snow—on to Old Faithful.
There was time then for lunch and some much-needed rest in the visitors’ center at Old Faithful. “Why are we so tired if we’ve been sitting down?” asked one young man as he sprawled on a bench, his snow gear scattered around him on the floor.
The deep snow outside and a little free time were too great a temptation, and soon a mammoth snow battle was in progress. Peace wasn’t fully restored until it was time for Old Faithful to blow. It turned out to be a subdued spectacle, a next-to-invisible shaft of blue-gray steam against the blue-gray sky. But the contrast to a summer eruption only made the wonder of the situation more intense. It was strange to stand in winter where so many thousands of people had stood in the summer, strange because they now stood high above the ground on a platform of snow in the heart of a kingdom that until a few years ago was inaccessible in the wintertime. It was like being able to visit the far side of the moon.
Going home there was time for a stop at some mud pots, some more close-up wildlife study, and a lot more snow. Almost everybody ran out of gas, and some snowmobiles broke down, but there was a mechanic bringing up the rear with fuel and spare parts, so no one had to winter it out.
In a sort of farewell gesture the sun broke through for a while down the home stretch and displayed a silver river, with silver rushes, silver swans, and a snow-silver forest beyond.
By the time the machines were parked, everyone was cold, wet, tired, sore, and limp. Mascara had run down over cheek bones, noses were red, and hair was plastered to foreheads. These young Mormons were beautiful.
What had they learned from the experience? Only what they already knew—that they were friends, in spite of the fact that they came from two arch-rival Pocatello high schools, that God’s works are beautiful, that doing wholesome things with good people is fun—but it was good to learn it all again.

When my children were small, they liked to play games after family home evening. One of their favorites, “Trunky the Elephant,” was named after a song our daughter, Jocelyn, learned in school. After we all sang the song, I would be Trunky and give the children rides on my back. First, my two-year-old son, Jorge; then, my four-year-old daughter, Jocelyn; and finally my wife, Elizabeth, would climb on. With all three on my back, I would take them on a ride around the living room. We had a lot of fun.
Years later, my grown children were both waiting for their mission calls. During one family home evening, they remembered “Trunky the Elephant.” We sang the song together; then, after a hiatus of many years, I again became the elephant. First my son, then my daughter, and finally their mother climbed on my back. I ended up flat on the floor, and we all ended up laughing.
The memory of that moment makes us grateful that the prophets have taught us about family home evening. We learned that no matter how simple our family home evenings may be, the most important thing is that we have happy times with our families, times that strengthen our eternal ties.
Víctor G. Chauca Rivera

I was born in Spain and lived there for eight years. We didn’t go to church a lot, so I wasn’t baptized when I turned eight, but I really wanted to be. One day I asked my parents why we weren’t going to church anymore and why I wasn’t baptized.

As I explained to them my desire to be baptized, it touched their hearts, and we started going to church again. It felt good. My mom was such a good example and an inspiration to me. She had a strong testimony and often read the scriptures.

Later on, we moved to Venezuela, where my dad is from. We lived there for two years, and because of the difficulties in the economy, we faced a lot of challenges. But there were good things too. I loved the food, and I had family there who were anxious to meet me. They were such humble people, and we all went to church together and felt the Spirit.

Even though we were going to church and I could feel the Spirit, I knew my family and I were missing something. I really felt that we needed to be sealed as an eternal family. One Sunday morning, the bishop invited everyone in the congregation to read the Book of Mormon before the end of the year. I knew this would help my parents and me more fully live the gospel of the Lord. Little by little, as we read the Book of Mormon, the Savior started giving us more knowledge and blessings, and we continued to read the scriptures regularly.

Soon I got baptized. I could really feel the Spirit in my life, and my parents did too. My testimony started growing more. We moved to Florida, USA, and we had to make a lot of changes and sacrifices again, just like when we left Spain. But our testimonies were growing stronger. We went to church every week and kept reading the scriptures.

After a lot of effort and a lot of reading the scriptures, praying, and choosing the right, we wanted to get sealed as an eternal family. We talked to our bishop, and even though it took some time, the day finally arrived. We were so excited to go inside the temple.

I got to do baptisms while I waited for my parents to complete the temple work for themselves. I felt like I was getting baptized again. I was really happy I could help people beyond the veil. Now my family and I go to the temple every week. I regularly do baptisms because I love helping there. I am so glad I got to be sealed in the temple to my parents for eternity and have the opportunity to live forever with them.

Hannah Dalton had this tender memory of her 1862 Christmas in Parowan, Utah:
All of us children hung up our stockings [on Christmas Eve]. We jumped up early in the morning to see what Santa had brought but there was not a thing in them. Mother wept bitterly. She went to her box and got a little apple and cut it in little tiny pieces and that was our Christmas, but I have never forgotten . . . how I loved her dear little hands as she was cutting that apple.
Let us be especially thankful for family and friends and for the necessities and comforts of life.

Even the youngest children weren’t bored. The little Batemans of Trumansburg, New York, all bore their testimonies. The fourteen Batemans were special to everyone because one or another of them was always there. Coming down in two Volkswagens loaded with fifteen people, fourteen suitcases, and a hundred dresses, they were the epitome of the always-laugh-at hardships genre. It was one of their littlest ones that brushed by me in testimony meeting as I was looking a bit dejected from only three hours sleep the night before. With a sweet smile on her face she said, “Smile—Heavenly Father loves you!” and the day was once again mine.

Before giving a personal example, let me share a caution from Elder Neal A. Maxwell. He said:
Whenever Church members speak of consecration, it should be done reverently while acknowledging that each of us “come[s] short of the glory of God,” some of us far short. Even the conscientious have not arrived, but they sense the shortfall and are genuinely striving.11
I count myself among the genuinely striving and genuinely falling short. But let me recount a way in which our family has exercised our consecration that has become deeply integrated into who we are.
Fifteen years ago, my dear wife, Christine, felt inspired to look into foster care after bearing three sons. Health concerns made it imprudent to have more pregnancies, but we felt that we had surplus love, energy, and resources that we could share with more children. And who better to help than the most vulnerable—whose birth homes are currently insufficient—for whatever amount of time they would need it?
With much prayer, we started getting licensed. Since our cautious beginning, we have welcomed twenty-one children into our home. With my wife’s medical expertise, we were almost always caring for medically fragile infants—so we’ve had pretty intense sleep deprivation! Many of these children were with us for short durations while their health stabilized, a few of them stayed with us for months, and three of them are now staying with us for eternity.
In terms of exercising agency, though, I emphasize that foster care was not a one-time choice but has required continual evaluation of our consecration. The state has called us regarding potential placements many times; each time we have prayerfully considered the request, and, frankly, we have said no at least as often as yes.
One of the most consequential decisions happened in June 2014. I was traveling for an economics conference and got a call from my wife about a placement of three children. We discussed it but readily felt that it was not right for our family at that time. The very next day my wife called again with another placement of infant twins, and we both felt a different gravity of the decision. After some discussion we hung up, and each prayed independently—1,200 miles apart—I in a deserted university hallway.
When we called each other back, I first asked my wife to list all the reasons this placement could be a bad idea for our family at that time. She did, after which I confirmed that she had included all the same points I had considered. I then added, “That being said, we need to call them back and say yes. Those girls need to be in our home.” My wife confirmed that this was the answer she had also received.
Well, we did call back, and they did come to our home. And they have never left. On their first birthday they were sealed to us in the Salt Lake Temple. Of course it’s not always easy (whether raising these girls or, frankly, in any foster care case). This photo in particular foreshadows many future squabbles between the girls! [A photo of twin girls, one grabbing her sister’s hair, was shown.] But in the hard times, I frequently remember my prayer in that lonely university hallway. We chose this! We exercised our agency and trusted our prompting. We knew it was right.