Gospel Story Finder

I like the story of the old man in nineteenth-century New Hampshire who treasured his independence and self-reliance above all else in his life. He accounted it true Christianity that he cared for his own and helped others, and fiercely resisted the notion that he ought to accept help from any other mortal. When his aged wife died, he buried her himself, then dug his own grave and laid in it his open, homemade coffin. “When my time is coming,” he said, “I’ll climb in the box and fold my arms over my chest. Won’t be no bother to no one. They can just nail down the lid and push in the dirt.”

Tony landed the balloon near a busy expressway one afternoon and got out so that a friend who was learning to fly could solo. The pilot was no sooner aloft than he decided it was time to land. Being inexperienced, he pulled the rip panel too soon and came streaming down into the corner of someone’s backyard, draping the canopy over telephone wires. The “someone” turned out to be the local stake president whose neighbors all came over to take pictures and admire the pilot and the just-arrived young men of the chase crew. The president’s wife made lemonade for the pilot, crew, neighbors, Tony—who had enlisted the help of a stranger on the expressway—and the power company linemen who had turned up in a basket truck to get the envelope off the wires. One of the guests came up to the balloonists and said, “Thanks. This is the first time the neighborhood has been together in weeks.”

At noon today four young men, all grandsons, came to visit us. Three of them had young ladies on their arms—one to talk about his coming wedding, two of them to announce their engagements, and the stray to talk about his mission call to Japan. We talked to them about the fact that one day each of you will take a pure and precious daughter of our Heavenly Father to the temple to be sealed for time and for all eternity. These young grandsons must know what Alma taught: that the gospel plan is “the great plan of happiness” and that happiness is the end of our existence. Of this I bear testimony in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

For one Latter-day Saint family, “wholesome recreational activities”… mean parents bonding with their children by finding out what they love.
In the Proclamation on the Family, latter-day prophets have taught that “successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities.”
For one Latter-day Saint family, “wholesome recreational activities” can be more than just going out together, having a special meal, or playing games. It can also mean parents bonding with their children by finding out what they love—with a whole lot of singing, swaying, and even TikToking!
On a particular night at the home of the Escritor family of Kapitolyo Ward, Pasig Stake, you’ll hear some lively strumming and drumming. First, Darwin, the family head, croons a hit from the 70s rock band America. Then, the beat changes and this time 15-year-old Cyrus leads with a song from Pinoy pop sensation Callalily. Then everybody, including younger sister Arianne, 13, and mother Anna all sing a familiar 90s chartbuster. It’s jammin’ time again!
“Even if we didn’t have gadgets before or instruments, we trained our children to sing together as a family,” Darwin says. “Before we would pray with them and go to sleep,” he adds, “we would sing Primary songs to them.” Darwin and Anna also strove to be close with each child, by trying to like what they liked. “We really wanted to be real friends with them,” Anna shares.
The Escritors actively share their jamming sessions on Facebook, with family members adjusting to each one’s likes and preferences. Now that many pandemic-related restrictions are being lifted and face-to-face meetings are gradually resuming, Simon and Cyrus look forward to actively associating with their age groups as they follow the Children and Youth Program, which focuses on gospel learning, service and activities, and personal development.
Just recently, younger son Simon needed to do a Tiktok video as a school project. “I was too shy to dance alone, so I was really very happy when Daddy helped by dancing along with me,” he reveals. In the video, viewers can see both father and son grooving, doing some hilarious but delightful moves.
“We want our children to be strong socially, physically, emotionally, and spiritually,” Anna sums up. “Heavenly Father entrusted them to us, so we do everything to raise them up in a way that the Lord wants them to, and then have fun doing it!”

“A young mother on an overnight flight with a two-year-old daughter was stranded by bad weather in Chicago airport without food or clean clothing for the child and without money. She was . . . pregnant and threatened with miscarriage, so she was under doctor’s instructions not to carry the child unless it was essential. Hour after hour she stood in one line after another, trying to get a flight to Michigan. The terminal was noisy, full of tired, frustrated, grumpy passengers, and she heard critical references to her crying child and to her sliding her child along the floor with her foot as the line moved forward. No one offered to help with the soaked, hungry, exhausted child.

“Then, the woman later reported, ‘someone came towards us and with a kindly smile said, “Is there something I could do to help you?” With a grateful sigh I accepted his offer. He lifted my sobbing little daughter from the cold floor and lovingly held her to him while he patted her gently on the back. He asked if she could chew a piece of gum. When she was settled down, he carried her with him and said something kindly to the others in the line ahead of me, about how I needed their help. They seemed to agree and then he went up to the ticket counter [at the front of the line] and made arrangements with the clerk for me to be put on a flight leaving shortly. He walked with us to a bench, where we chatted a moment, until he was assured that I would be fine. He went on his way. About a week later I saw a picture of Apostle Spencer W. Kimball and recognized him as the stranger in the airport.

“Several years later, President Kimball received a letter that read, in part:
“‘Dear President Kimball:
“‘I am a student at Brigham Young University. I have just returned from my mission in Munich, West Germany. I had a lovely mission and learned much. . . .
“‘I was sitting in priesthood meeting last week when a story was told of a loving service which you performed some twenty-one years ago in the Chicago airport. The story told of how you met a young pregnant mother with a . . . screaming child, in . . . distress, waiting in a long line for her tickets. She was threatening miscarriage and therefore couldn’t lift her child to comfort her. She had experienced four previous miscarriages, which gave added reason for the doctor’s orders not to bend or lift.
“‘You comforted the crying child and explained the dilemma to the other passengers in line. This act of love took the strain and tension off my mother. I was born a few months later in Flint, Michigan.
“‘I just want to thank you for your love. Thank you for your example.’”2

My daughter Norma says the following about the way Relief Society has been a blessing in her life: “When Darren and I were newly married and expecting our first baby, we were living in a small college town. We were both full-time students with very little income. Our nearest ward was in a town about 30 miles [48 km] away, and our only means of transportation was an old car that didn’t work most of the time. When the sisters in the ward discovered our circumstances, they immediately joined together to arrange for one of them to always give us a ride to and from church on Sundays and for other Church activities. Some of the sisters lived in other towns and drove 20 or 30 miles [32 to 48 km] out of their way just to pick us up. Additionally, many of the sisters would invite us to their homes for nice family dinners after church. No one ever made us feel like a burden to them. I will never forget the true love and charity that the Relief Society sisters extended to us during that short but challenging time in our lives.”4

About four years later, he set out to enroll at Oberlin College, Ohio, in hopes of furthering his military ambitions. On the way, he met and traveled with David W. Patten, a Mormon apostle.
Subsequently, Lorenzo went to Kirtland, Ohio, where his sister Eliza, who had joined the Church, had gone to live. He became closely associated with the Prophet and, after a time of investigation and study, was baptized in June 1836.

Sister Kapp also feels that by spending a lot of time with her father, she “learned a lot about patience and about living in anticipation. When you live on a farm, you have to wait for the season, and you have to wait for the crops, and you have to wait for the ripening of things. When my family made ice cream, we’d get the ice from the river in the winter, or from an icehouse in the summer. Then we’d cut and chip the ice. Mom would mix the ingredients for the ice cream, and then we would crank the handle on the freezer, each taking a turn. After all that effort, the ice cream tasted especially good because we had anticipated it all the time that we were making it.

Another wonderful thing happened during this crisis. We checked the MTC storage tank, and it was only half full. We didn’t want to advertise that we had this water because we thought we could save it for real emergencies if the crisis went on for days. But then a pickup truck with several large barrels in the back pulled into the compound. It was from the Tema General Hospital. They also had a large storage tank for emergencies, but it was already empty, and they had thirsty patients. So we let them back their truck up to the MTC tank and fill their barrels from our emergency supply. We told them to come back for more if needed. We would share until our cache was gone. They were grateful.

The bell rang out across the playground. Recess was over. Alvin put away his basketball and walked to the classroom.
“Please sit down and take out your math books,” his teacher, Mrs. Hall, said.
Alvin slid into his seat and reached into his school bag. Then he heard a knock on the classroom door. Mrs. Hall answered it and started talking with another teacher.
Just a few desks over, Blake and Jared started whispering.
“Pssst! Look what I found!”
“Whoa!”
“Wanna try it after school?”
What’s going on? Alvin wondered.
He could just barely see Blake and Jared out of the corner of his eye. It looked like one of them was pulling a little plastic bag out of his pocket.
Wait, were those drugs?!
Alvin’s heart beat faster. His parents had talked with him and his siblings about drugs before. He knew that drugs were against the Word of Wisdom and that they could hurt your body and brain. He also knew it was dangerous to take medicine that wasn’t yours.
What should I do? Alvin thought. He glanced around. Those drugs could hurt someone! None of the other kids seemed to be paying attention. Should I tell someone? Or just pretend I didn’t see it?
Alvin had trouble concentrating during math. He couldn’t focus during reading time. By lunchtime, he felt like a rock was sitting in his stomach.
“Are you OK?” his friend Mitch asked.
Alvin shrugged.
“What’s going on? Tell us,” his friend Hazel said.
So Alvin told them about what he had seen. “I think I need to tell Mrs. Hall.”
“But what if they find out it was you?” Mitch said. “They might be really mad at you.”
Alvin agreed. But the yucky feeling in his stomach wouldn’t go away. Finally he made a decision. He was going to tell their teacher.
“I’ll go with you,” Hazel said.
Alvin and Hazel found Mrs. Hall in her classroom.
“Mrs. Hall?” Alvin asked. “Can we talk with you in private?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hall said. “How can I help you?”
“Um … ,” Alvin said. Mrs. Hall smiled kindly. That made him feel brave. “I saw Blake and Jared with drugs in class today. I felt like I needed to tell you.”
“You did the right thing,” Mrs. Hall said. “You can always come talk to me when you see a problem. I’ll take care of it.”
Alvin let out a big sigh. The heavy feeling had disappeared.
That afternoon, the principal’s assistant came to their room and called Blake and Jared to come out in the hall.
The boys didn’t come back to class for three days.
When they finally came back, Alvin was nervous to see them again.
What if they figured out I was the one who told the teacher? he thought. What if they’re really mad at me?
But they just sat and joked with each other, like usual.
“Where have you been?” another classmate asked them.
“Oh … uh … we got caught with something bad at school,” Blake said. “So we got sent home.”
Everyone kept talking, and eventually Alvin relaxed. He was glad he’d spoken up about the drugs to help keep others safe. He wanted to make good choices to keep his body safe and healthy.

Just outside Omaha, Nebraska, in the Mormon Pioneer Cemetery stands a monument commemorating the suffering of the Saints at Winter Quarters and honoring the faith and dedication of these Mormon pioneers. These statues portray a grieving father and mother holding each other in their arms looking down at the tiny grave of their child. There were many such graves along the trail—graves of babies, little children, young adults, even mothers and fathers who were laid to rest in often hurriedly dug shallow graves or just beneath the snow when the ground was too frozen to break.

Caroline and Jedediah Grant buried their four-month-old daughter, Margaret, near the Sweetwater River in Wyoming. With the grief over the loss of her baby weighing heavily on her soul, Caroline’s health soon began to decline. Suffering from the effects of cholera, her condition rapidly became critical. The camp fasted and prayed in her behalf, but it was apparent that Sister Grant would not recover. About midnight she rallied a little and called for her husband and daughter. Susan Noble remembered that Caroline looked at her husband, Jedediah, and whispered

“All is well! All is well! Please take me to the valley—Jeddy. Get Margaret—bring her—to me!” Brother Grant answered tenderly and meaningly as he sobbed with sorrow, “Yes, yes, Caroline. I’ll do my best. I’ll do my best.”

Jedediah built a coffin, placed the body of his wife in it, and then drove day and night the last 75 miles to the Salt Lake Valley. On September 30, 1847, he buried her a short distance from the pioneer fort then under construction. The next day Jedediah Grant took with him his friend Bates Noble and headed east on his promised mission to retrieve the body of his baby daughter, Margaret, and return her for burial next to her mother. After several days on the trail they arrived in the Sweetwater region where Margaret had been buried. Bates Noble recorded:

Another day or so and we were at the end of our eastward journey. As we intended making it back to Sweet Water for the night, we stopped our rig [near the campsite] where just a month previous a terrible night had been spent [digging a grave] in a driving thunder storm. We now stepped forward, carrying the box and shovels. A few paces from the little grave we stopped hesitatingly, set down our things and stood with eyes fixed before us. Neither tried to speak. An ugly hole replaced the small mound; and so recently had the wolves departed that every sign was fresh before us. I dared not raise my eyes to look at Jedediah. From the way I felt, I could but guess his feelings. Like statues of the wilderness we stood, grown to the spot, each fully realizing that nothing more could be done. After several minutes of silent tears, we quietly withdrew, carrying away again only that which we had brought.

Jedediah Grant could do no more. He had done his best, as he had promised. But now all he had left was his faith and hope in Christ.

In contrast to Heber C. Kimball are those who were faithful for a time. But for various reasons, they chose to spend part of their lives outside of Church fellowship. Fortunately, along their life path, they found their way back to full fellowship. One such man was Martin Harris, a witness to the Book of Mormon. He claimed for years that “I never did leave the Church; the Church left me.”[8] The Church did move on. It would take Martin decades to return. It was not until he was in his late eighties that he found his way back. In surprise, after gazing at the Salt Lake Temple and Tabernacle and the beautiful Salt Lake City, he exclaimed, “who would have thought that the Book of Mormon would have done all this?”[9]

One of young Sister Amussen’s mission duties was working part-time in the Hawaiian Temple. One night, as she was getting ready to leave, she discovered everyone else was gone. Her walk to the mission home was through a dense forest and by a camp where some dangerous incidents had occurred. She feared for her safety.
Before leaving the temple, Flora prayed for the Lord’s protection. As she stepped outside, a circle of light appeared and surrounded her. That radiance shone around and ahead of her as she walked through the forest, past the camp, and to the steps of the mission home, disappearing as she slipped safely inside. She has since felt encircled with security and guidance many times as she has trusted in the Lord, though never as literally as that night in a land far from home.

On July 27, 2013, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease, my life partner of 25 years passed away. Jay Eldredge was a world-renowned cardiologist. We had both served missions for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when we were younger but then distanced ourselves from the Church because of same-sex attraction.
Jay’s death, although not unexpected, was devastating. I felt heartbroken and lost and alone.
While driving home after making the funeral arrangements, I felt the influence of the Spirit overwhelm me so strongly that I had to pull over to the side of the road. I knew that God was speaking to me, calling me back to Him, but I was resistant. “Can’t you see that I’m suffering?” I said aloud. “I can’t face going back to church right now.”
But the more I protested, the more the Spirit pulled at me, inviting me back to church.
I was deeply worried about returning to church. I hadn’t been to a sacrament meeting in 25 years. Would they even accept me? Would I accept them? What would the bishop say? I felt anxious and unsettled and still heavy with grief.
But my testimony of the gospel had never wavered in all those years. Jay and I loved the Church and its guiding principles—namely, charity, mercy, and forgiveness. I knew that Christ was my Savior and that His Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had known that since my conversion and baptism at the age of 14. I wasn’t about to deny that now.
Finally, after mustering the necessary courage, I called the Linwood Ward in New Jersey, USA, to find out what time sacrament meeting started.
As Sunday approached, the adversary put many obstacles in my path that could have easily prevented me from attending. How grateful I am that the Holy Ghost persisted.
I felt nervous as I entered the building, but the opening hymn in sacrament meeting reassured me that I was home again. The hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30) invited the Spirit so powerfully that tears flowed down my face. I knew in that instant that Heavenly Father was aware of me and the deep sadness I was feeling.
That hymn has become an unofficial anthem of sorts for the Church, but it has become my personal anthem as well.
“Come,” the hymn invites me. “Though hard to you this journey may appear, grace shall be as your day.”
My journey was hard. But grace did attend me as promised.
Bishop Darren Bird and the rest of the congregation were wonderful and welcoming. They accepted me as their brother in Christ.
The words of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” took on greater meaning to me, however, as I felt Heavenly Father directing me on how I should proceed.
We’ll find the place which God for us prepared,
Far away in the West,
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid;
There the Saints will be blessed.
I went west and bought a home in Fountain Hills, Arizona, USA, where I met Bishop Jerry Olson. When I requested to meet with him and shook his hand, the Spirit impressed upon me that this man would help bring me back into full activity in the Church.
As I began visiting with the bishop and embarking on this reconciliation with Heavenly Father, I witnessed many spiritual miracles. I was open with the bishop, for which he was grateful. He said that helped him better understand where I had been and where I was now in my relationship with God. He also lovingly informed me that this was the first time that he had had an opportunity to minister to someone with same-sex attraction, and he asked for my patience and forgiveness if he said or did anything to offend me throughout the process.
I thanked him for his honesty and said, “Well, this is my first time as well. We’ll learn together.”
Thus began a wonderful journey and friendship!
Soon I had an action plan on how to become a member again. I accepted the loving and prayerful counsel with a grateful heart and began the process.
Illustration by Jenna Palacios
Later, as I followed that counsel and worked hard to draw closer to Christ, I received the restoration of my priesthood and temple blessings and accepted a call to serve in the elders quorum. In the holy temple, as I communed with Heavenly Father, He showed me how much He loves all His children. I felt solace and a deep desire to please Him.
Months later, a new bishop was called, with whom I have also developed a loving friendship. Bishop Larry Radford knew of my circumstance and appreciated my service in the elders quorum, where he said I had served with love and devotion not only for the quorum but also—and more importantly—for God. His kind words and encouragement helped me feel that the Lord and my fellow Saints were pleased with my service.
I now faithfully serve as the ward clerk.
Having same-sex attraction and being an active member of the Church is not always easy. But as I put all my faith and trust in God, I can feel Him strengthening me. Critics will no doubt say that I’m not being true to who I am or that I’m disappointing the LGBT+ community.
I understand their frustration, and I obviously don’t have all the answers. I can only speak of my own experience. And that experience has taught me this: I am Heavenly Father’s son, a child of God. That’s the one and only label that matters to me. As a result, I try not to allow the world’s labels to define me. I fear that will limit my potential and eternal progression.
Satan is very clever. He knows that by using labels, he can divide us as a community and as a church.
With that perspective in mind, the choices I make are not based on my same-sex attraction but on how to be a true disciple of Christ with same-sex attraction. As Nephi said:
“O Lord, I have trusted in thee, and I will trust in thee forever. I will not put my trust in the arm of flesh. …
“… I know that God will give liberally to him that asketh. Yea, my God will give me, if I ask not amiss; therefore I will lift up my voice unto thee; yea, I will cry unto thee, my God, the rock of my righteousness. Behold, my voice shall forever ascend up unto thee, my rock and mine everlasting God” (2 Nephi 4:34–35).
Throughout my return, I felt the loving companionship of my leaders and fellow Saints, including active and less-active LGBT+ members. I found a place where I could thrive. I found among them the attributes of Christ that I had always associated with my faith: mercy, compassion, understanding, and, above all, love.
As I struggled along the path with my Savior, I felt comfort and peace as I turned to Him, knowing that I wasn’t walking that path alone. Several bishops were there beside me. Members of my quorum. Sisters in the ward. I even had a young man in the ward ask me if I would ordain him a priest. His kind invitation deeply moved me. He saw me as a man who holds the priesthood of God and who can exercise that priesthood in service to others.
These opportunities to serve and worship with my fellow Saints have lifted me and—along with the many blessings I’ve received from the Lord—helped me experience the love, understanding, and acceptance that I needed.
The Savior said, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you” (John 14:18). Those words are true. I needed comforting, and He came to me, more abundantly than I could have imagined.

One Saturday morning in late April the Young Men and Young Women planned a clean-up day in Sister Seymour’s yard. Brad Hunt and Chris Frei came to my house so we could walk over together. On the way I noticed Willard Watts in his backyard putting up a fence.
“Sister Seymour’s going to have more people than she needs,” I remarked, stopping.
“If you stay away from another service project,” Chris grinned, “Brother Loder will have you in to see the bishop.”
“Nobody’s staying away. We’re just changing projects. We can telephone Sister Seymour’s home to let them know we can’t come. Brother Watts needs help.”
“Do you mean old Brother Watts?” Brad groaned. “He wouldn’t let you help him even if you wanted to.”
I started walking into Willard’s yard.
“You’re not serious, are you?” Brad called after me.
I just kept walking.
Brad and Chris hesitated a moment, but their curiosity got the better of them and they soon followed.
“Well, what do you want us to do?” I asked Willard cheerfully.
Willard looked up from the posthole he was digging. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing first at me and then at Chris and Brad. “I can’t pay you anything,” he muttered.
I grabbed a shovel. “What do you want us to do?”
Things were awkward for a moment, but then Willard saw that we weren’t going to leave, so he grumbled some instructions to us and we began to work. Brad and Chris thought I was crazy at first, but they worked hard. It was a bigger project than any of us had anticipated, but we continued to work.
Willard smoked one cigarette after another most of the day and occasionally grunted instructions. Several times he told us we should go, that we’d done all that a person could expect us to do. But we stayed till the work was completed, which was about three o’clock in the afternoon.
As we were helping Willard put the tools away, Brad announced, “Well, I have to get home. I need to do some work on my car.”
“When did that ancient car of yours start working?” Chris asked.
“I didn’t say that it was working. I said that I had to work on it.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Willard asked.
“Oh, it’s an old 1972 model,” Brad said.
“Maybe I could look at it sometime,” offered Willard.
“It’s not a bad car,” Brad said.
“That’s right,” I said, “everything works but the engine.”
That evening Willard stopped at Brad’s house and towed the old car back to his garage.
The following day in quorum meeting, Brother Loder mentioned that he was sorry the three of us hadn’t been able to get to Sister Seymour’s for the service project.
“We found another project that was more urgent,” I explained.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. We were helping Brother Watts.”
The rest of the quorum began to laugh—except for Brad and Chris. I looked around without smiling. Back in January when I had first mentioned Willard’s name, I would have appreciated the laughs because Willard was just a joke then, but the last three months had made him a person, and finally a friend. I knew then that I hadn’t missed Sister Seymour’s service project just to do something for myself. I had been at Willard’s place because I really wanted to be there.
A week later Willard telephoned me and asked if I’d bring Chris and Brad over to his house. I was amazed. The last person I had expected to call me on the telephone was Willard.
When the three of us arrived, Willard was in the garage. Brad’s old car was parked in the middle of the garage. Willard reached into his pocket, pulled out Brad’s car keys and tossed them to him. “See what you think.”
Brad caught the keys. “Does it work?” he asked.
Willard shrugged and turned away, going to his workbench and pushing a set of wrenches around. “Try it,” was all he said.
Slowly, Brad put the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine gave out a nice, smooth sound almost like a cat purring.
“I don’t believe it,” Chris gasped.
“What did you do to it?” Brad called out.
Willard turned around, his face expressionless, but his eyes beamed with pleasure. “Don’t ever give up on a good car like that.”
“What do I owe you? I mean—how much did all this cost?”
“It didn’t cost me a thing. Some of the automobile wrecking yards around here owe me some favors. They found me the parts.”

When I was a child growing up and learning about life, I did not have the security of my father and mother telling me who I was, how I could find lasting happiness, and what would happen to me if I were to die. My parents did not have the gospel of Jesus Christ, so my childhood was very uncertain in many ways and often full of fear.
But in all the memories of my childhood, there is at least one of peace and joy. This is the memory of Christmas.
Christmastime was celebrated in the traditions and customs of my home country of Germany, and it was specifically for the children.
Four Sundays before Christmas Day, preparations for something holy and beautiful could be felt in our home. A little wreath with four candles on it was placed on the family table.
On the first Sunday, the first candle was lit. As a family we sat around the table, singing Christmas songs and preparing little gifts that each of us would give to each member of the family.
On the fourth Sunday, the last candle was lit, and expectations for the coming joyous events were growing extreme.
A Christmas tree did not appear in our home until December 24. On that day, we children had to stay outside, go on errands, and play by ourselves. I still remember how time seemed to not pass at all.
We children were taught that the Christmas tree and all of its glory and beauty, along with presents and food and cookies, came from the little Christ Child.
This lack of logic did not bother us children. We believed that there was a Christ-child person of a supernatural existence who cared for us in such a way that once a year He would come in person to fulfill all of our hopes and dreams.
In preparation, we cleaned the rooms where we slept. We put on our best clothes. We had our gifts ready to give. When the sun started to set on that special day, we were invited to get ready to enter the living room.
As was the custom, the doors to the living room had been locked because we children were not to go into that room. It became a place of great mystery. Once in a while we heard some rustling of papers, and once in a while the more courageous of us tried to peek in the keyhole—only to learn that the key was in it from the inside and the door was locked.
When Mother finally decided that we were clean, orderly, dressed, our hair groomed, and had our rooms in order, we were asked to listen carefully. Suddenly we heard a little bell ringing, and our hearts beat close to explosion. This was it! This was the moment when the doors were unlocked and we were allowed to go into the living room. And there it was—a Christmas tree standing from the floor to the ceiling! We became aware of its beautiful, fresh-cut smell and that it was glowing with candles. Our father, who happened to be already inside the room when we walked in, was watching it carefully so that nothing caught on fire.
The Christmas tree had many decorations that we as children would see only at Christmastime. In the center of the tree was a wax sculpture of a little Christ Child surrounded by glowing angels of gold paper and silk.
Our family gathered around the tree and sang four or five Christmas songs. Then we children were invited to find our own corner of presents, which had been covered by a blanket.
This Christmas Eve tradition developed in us powerful feelings of holiness, joy, love, gratitude, and security. These feelings, radiating from the symbols of the little wax figure of the Christ Child, which we saw only at Christmastime, had a great influence on all of us.

Cinzia came home from Relief Society tearful and distraught. She had prepared diligently for her lesson and thought the class went well. Afterward, she overheard two women in the hall criticize her. That hurt.
She explained to her husband, Massimo, what had happened. If that was how the sisters felt, she told him, then it was time to ask the bishop for a release. Massimo suggested that she not be hasty. “Why not wait to see what the Spirit directs?” he asked.
Cinzia felt frustrated. “You’re just like the others,” she cried. “You can’t even understand what I’ve been through, but you tell me what to do!”
Massimo could have quarreled with her, but he didn’t. He did not even point out to Cinzia that she was treating him in the same way that she claimed the sisters had treated her. Instead, he simply said, “I do not wish to be your enemy.”
Cinzia hesitated. She wasn’t sure if he was being genuine or acting morally superior. Massimo continued, “I want to think,” and left the room.
He felt sorry both for the way his wife had been treated and for her current suffering. Her accusations hurt, but he put them aside. Massimo sensed how wrong it would be to do what she was doing—giving it back. He thought about the problem, then prayed. He realized he could not force Cinzia to soften her heart. Only the Spirit could effectively prompt her to change.
What Massimo did is only one example of what a person who is guided by the Spirit may do. The Lord gives specific, individual responses for each situation. “I think you’re afraid,” Massimo finally said to Cinzia. His heart was full of love and concern for her. “I don’t know what you’re afraid of, but I believe that perfect love casts out fear. Perhaps the solution to your hurt is to love the sisters who criticized you.”
The words “fear” and “love” began to repeat themselves in Cinzia’s mind. Her heart began to soften and she began to repent of her harsh words, recognizing her husband’s love for her. The next day, she told him, “I’m sorry for what I said to you. And I’m sorry I reacted as I did to what those sisters said. When I was set apart as a Relief Society teacher, the Lord promised me that I could ease the burdens of others. Because of my pride, I became a burden instead.” With that insight, borne to her heart by the Spirit, Cinzia began to regain her self-confidence and to exercise a more Christ-like love for the sisters she taught.

Whenever we seek for true testimony we come, finally, to ordinary men and women and children.
Let me quote from the diary of Joseph Millett, a little-known missionary of an earlier time. Called on a mission to Canada, he went alone and on foot. In Canada, during the wintertime, he said:
“I felt my weakness. A poor, ill-clothed, ignorant boy in my teens, thousands of miles from home among strangers.
“The promise in my blessing and the encouraging words of President Young to me, with the faith I had in the gospel, kept me up.
“Many times I would turn into the woods … in some desolate place with a heart full, wet eyes, to call on my master for strength or aid.
“I believed the Gospel of Christ. I had never preached it. I knew not where to find it in the scriptures.”
That didn’t matter so much, for, “I had to give my Bible to the boatman at Digby for passage across the sound.”
Years later, Joseph Millett, with his large family, was suffering through very, very difficult times. He wrote in his journal:
“One of my children came in and said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks was out of bread, had none that day.
“I divided our flour in a sack to send up to Brother Hall. Just then Brother Hall came.
“Says I, ‘Brother Hall, are you out of flour?’
“‘Brother Millett, we have none.’
“‘Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you was out.’
“Brother Hall began to cry. He said he had tried others, but could not get any. He went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett.
“‘Well Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back. If the Lord sent you for it you don’t owe me for it.’”
That night Joseph Millett recorded a remarkable sentence in his journal:
“You can’t tell me how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew there was such a person as Joseph Millett” (Diary of Joseph Millett, holograph, Archives of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City).

“And now I’d like to end my talk with my testimony,” the speaker in sacrament meeting was saying. Sarah and her younger sister, Beth, were sitting with their family near the back of the chapel. Dad leaned forward on the bench and eyed a clear warning to both of them. They weren’t being bad or noisy, but Dad knew what was coming—the family was sitting right in front of Brother Smith.
The speaker finished, “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Sarah bit her lip and closed her eyes in anticipation. Then she heard it—everyone in the whole county must have heard it—Brother Smith added his “AMEN!”
Sarah tried not to giggle, but when Beth started to, she couldn’t help it. Dad rolled his eyes, and Sarah felt bad. She knew that they shouldn’t giggle in church. “It’s Brother Smith’s fault,” she mouthed to her father while she tried to calm Beth down.
Everyone in the ward said “Amen” after a prayer or talk, but everyone else said it quietly, almost to themselves. Brother Smith belted it out as if he were at a football game.
“He is older,” Dad had explained before. “He doesn’t hear very well.” Sarah knew that people who are hard of hearing often shout. But still, when Brother Smith said “amen,” she was sure even people driving by could hear it.
After church, when the family was riding home, Sarah expected another lecture from her father about reverence. But he didn’t say anything.
Beth broke her silence, “Sorry I laughed again, Daddy.”
Sarah poked her leg and frowned at her for bringing it up, but Dad just said, “After lunch I have something I want to show you girls.”
When the family had eaten, Dad took the two girls into his study. “This is something that belonged to your great-grandfather,” he said, pulling a fist-size metal object out of a box.
“What is it?” Sarah asked. “It looks like a clamp.”
“It’s a seal.” Dad pulled out a sheet of typing paper from his desk and placed the paper between the seal’s two round plates. Using both hands, he squeezed the handles together, then released them and pulled the paper out. “See the imprint it leaves on the paper?”
The girls looked at the intricate design and fancy writing embossed on the paper. “Cool!” Sarah exclaimed. “May I try it?”
“Sure.” Dad smiled and got out another sheet of paper. “Great-grandfather was a very important man in the town where he lived. He was a leader, and people trusted him. This seal was his very own; there were no others like it.”
Sarah pushed the handles together this time, then both girls rubbed the texture now on the paper with their fingertips.
“That’s the way Great-Grandpa sent important messages to others,” Dad told them. “He put his seal on the messages, and the people getting them knew without a doubt that the messages were really from him. You see, if people got married or did things that needed a witness, Great-Grandpa used his seal. People everywhere knew that if his seal was on something, it was true.”
“Wow!” Beth said.
“That’s awesome!” Sarah added.
Dad looked at them. “You mean you wouldn’t laugh at Great-Grandpa’s seal?”
“No way,” Sarah said. “It’s an important thing.”
“Yeah, no way,” Beth agreed.
Dad smiled. “Now, did you know that the word amen is also a seal?”
Sarah had known that something like this was coming. Dad made a lesson out of everything. She waited for him to continue.
“Well, that’s what it is—our own personal seal that we put on ordinances, testimonies, prayers, and talks. It means that we know we have done or said or heard something true. Saying ‘amen’ is our seal that tells everyone that we agree and approve.
“Now,” he said, easing the tension, “who wants to use Great-Grandpa’s seal on some of her things?”
“I do! I do!” both girls squealed happily.
All that week Sarah put Great-Grandpa’s seal on the first pages of all her books and everything else she could find. She made special note cards for her friends and even put a seal in her journal.
The following Sunday, Sarah’s family got to church a little late. Dad found a half-empty bench near the back of the chapel, and they sat down just as everyone was bowing his head for the prayer.
In the prayer, Sister Carter said, “We thank Thee for this beautiful day …” As Sarah listened carefully, she thought of Great-Grandpa’s seal. Would she put her seal on these words? “We are grateful for this chapel to meet in,” Sister Carter was saying now. Could Sarah witness that these words were true? “And please bless the prophet and the missionaries.” Did Sarah approve? Did she agree? Sister Carter ended her prayer, “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Picturing herself stamping Great-Grandpa’s seal on Sister Carter’s prayer, Sarah said right out loud, “Amen,” just as she heard Brother Smith’s bellowed “AMEN!”
Sarah didn’t laugh. Beth didn’t laugh, either. Dad patted them approvingly. Sarah moved closer to him and whispered, “It’s just his seal, Dad—his BIG seal.”

Christmas was coming, and Elizabeth could hardly wait. Her excitement wasn’t for the gifts that Father Christmas would bring, nor for her eighth birthday on the day after Christmas. She was excited because on the day after her birthday she would be baptized into God’s true Church.
Grandmother Beardall smiled as the family sat down to dinner. “Look at Elizabeth,” she said. “She’s glowing like a crystal! Is it Christmas or birthday wishes that dance in your head, my dear?”
“Neither,” Elizabeth answered without thinking. She remembered too late that Grandmother wasn’t supposed to know about the baptism.
“Neither?” Grandmother sounded puzzled. “How can it be neither? Tell us, child. What excites you so?”
Elizabeth studied the pattern on her china plate and didn’t answer.
Grandmother frowned and turned to look at Father. “Someone told me they saw you associating with those wicked Mormons, Francis. I assured them it was not true. Can you give me the same assurance?”
Elizabeth thought of Elder Chase and Elder Canon and all the other good people in the Church. “They are not wicked, Grandmother!” she blurted out.
Grandmother turned pale. “So it is true,” she said softly.
“Mother, we have found God’s true Church,” Elizabeth’s father said gently. “We are being baptized at the end of the month.”
Grandmother sat stiff and straight. “The children too?”
“Ellen and Frank are too young,” Mother replied. “But Elizabeth is old enough to decide for herself, and as you have seen, she can hardly wait.”
Grandmother took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “You have broken my heart, Francis, and brought disgrace on your family. I would rather have followed you to your grave than see you join that despised church. If you join with those people, you are no longer my son, but I would not lose my beloved granddaughter.” She turned to Elizabeth. “If you really have a choice in this matter, I beg you not to be baptized but come and live with me. I promise that you will never want for anything as long as you live.”
Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. She loved her grandmother very much, but she also wanted to be baptized. Later, as Mother tucked her into bed, Elizabeth asked, “Why doesn’t Grandmother want us to join God’s true Church?”
“She doesn’t believe that it is the true church,” Mother said, “and she has the right to choose.”
“But what should I do? If I do what Grandma wants will Heavenly Father understand? Will He know that I still believe the Church is true?”
“He knows your heart, Elizabeth, but sometimes faith is more than just believing. It is trusting God and doing the right thing even when it’s hard. But you also have the right to choose. It’s your decision if or when you are baptized.”
In the busy days that followed, Elizabeth put aside the decision as she worked on Christmas presents for her family. But as she pushed cloves into a pomander ball for Grandmother, Elizabeth knew she could give a gift that would make Grandmother much happier. She could agree to live with her.
On Christmas Eve Elizabeth’s family was enjoying their plum pudding when the doctor came to call. “I have just come from tending Mrs. Beardall,” he told Father. “She is not serious, but asks that you come see her.”
Father reached for his coat. “I’ll take Elizabeth,” he said. “That will cheer her.”
Grandmother was in bed propped on her pillows. “How are you?” Father asked, taking her hand.
“My old body is wearing out,” Grandmother said. “I am in great need of a strong youth to assist me.” She looked at Elizabeth. “Well, dear? What is your decision? Will you come help me in my time of need?”
Elizabeth hesitated. Seeing her grandmother in bed reminded her of the night three years earlier when she herself lay dying.
“I love you, Grandmother,” Elizabeth said, “and I will do what I can to help you. But God has given me special promises and one of them was that I would join the true Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He cannot keep His promises unless I do my part. So I have decided to be baptized with my parents.”
As soon as Elizabeth spoke these words, joy filled her heart. She knew she had made the right decision.