Gospel Story Finder

“A daughter made this comment: “Dad is a practical joker. I recall a story he relates about the time he and three other boys arrived at school early one morning. (Those were the days when everyone sat around one big stove in the room to keep warm.)
“The teacher was quite superstitious so the boys decided to play a little joke. They climbed up into the attic before school started. When all the others were assembled around the stove, one of the boys in the attic called down through the stovepipe in a ghostly voice, ‘I am the ghost of thy father come to haunt this room indefinitely.’ Well, needless to say, everyone ran from the room and the scene was one of total chaos.
“Later when the boys came down from the attic covered with dust and dirt, they were taken to the principal. He asked them some questions but couldn’t help laughing at their prank and their appearance.”

Brothers and sisters, I bear my testimony that the Savior’s promise is true and that a humble prayer for peace in your heart will be honored. I felt it at the funeral of my wife of 61 years. I was surprised at the feeling of peace and almost joy. The people at the funeral must have wondered why I was smiling. It was because the Lord had answered my prayer for peace with an assurance from the Holy Ghost, which allowed me to envision the happy reunion ahead with her. The Lord gave me the peace and hope that He had promised His disciples.

Probably all of us have experienced when we really needed someone to help us. I remember once as a small boy I surely did. While playing on a mountainside near our home, I fell into the middle of a huge, prickly cactus plant. It really hurt! The prickly spines of the cactus went through my canvas shoes, through my stockings, through my trousers, through my shirt—they went through everything! I felt like a human dart board.
Immediately I let out a cry that was loud enough to shake the mountains. I couldn’t move up, down, in, or out. Every movement I made seemed to send those needles deeper and deeper into my skin. I just stayed there and howled.
I was five years old at the time and my older brother, who immediately rushed to my rescue, was eight. He was overwhelmed at the sight of me and the complexity of my plight. Nevertheless, he began to pull out some of the spines, but they seemed to hurt more coming out than going in and I howled even louder. Furthermore, the pin-sized wounds bled so much when the spines were removed that after a few minutes I looked like an advertisement for Red Cross blood donations.
Finally my brother saw that his feeble plucking was hopeless. There were dozens of spines yet to pull, and I was still screaming as loud as I could. He did the only thing an eight-year-old brother could do. He ran down the mountain, got his small red wagon, and labored painfully to get it up the side of the hill to where I was awaiting death—I thought. With some tugging and hauling and lifting—and plenty of noise from me—he got me out of the cactus and into the wagon. Then in some miraculous way, known only to children and Providence, he brought me down off that steep mountain in his wagon.
The rest of the story is blurred in my memory. As I recall, my mother got me out of my clothes and the rest of the prickly spines out of me. What I do remember clearly and will never forget is the sight of my brother tugging that wagon and determinedly making his way toward me. He was so concerned that he worked wonderfully hard to get to me. If I live to be one hundred, I suppose no memory of my brother will be more vivid than the view I had of him that day. I needed him desperately. And there he was, coming to help!

Subject: Elizabeth
Age: 20 years
Event: Meeting Kara at the airport
Elizabeth had taken the flight from Minneapolis to Salt Lake City on her return to college. She had walked slowly past the car rental agency three times, carefully studying the features of the attractive girl at the counter. Finally she approached the girl.
“Excuse me, are you Kara?”
“Lisa?” the girl cried. “Is that you?”
They threw their arms around each other, both chattering excitedly.
“What are you doing here?” Elizabeth asked.
“I was transferred from our L.A. office six months ago. Look, I’ve got a break coming. Let’s go get something to eat so we can talk.”
They sat at a small table and talked, filling each other in on their lives since they had last been together.
“I lost track of you after you left town,” Elizabeth said. “My bishop said you never talked with him.”
“Oh, I changed my mind and just had the problem fixed,” Kara said lightly.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, trying not to betray her disappointment.
“I guess you’re shocked, but it’s quite common these days.”
“But why did you suddenly leave town after that?” Elizabeth asked.
“I had to get away,” Kara said, pursing her lips nervously, “and so I ran away.”
“But where did you live? What did you do?”
Kara shook her head slowly. “You don’t want to hear about that.” She took a final drag on her cigarette and exhaled slowly. “But look, I’m all squared away now. I’m into group therapy, and it’s really helped me get rid of all my guilt feelings about everything. What a relief not to feel guilty about anything! But I guess you know about that, because you’ve never done anything to feel guilty about.”
A few minutes later, Elizabeth asked, “What happened to Larry Hill?”
“Last I heard he was working as a DJ in a disco in California.”
“I guess that makes him one of the real men, doesn’t it?” Elizabeth said. “He always needed that assurance.”
“I’ve heard he’s still running around just like he did in high school,” Kara added. “I guess I am, too, for that matter. I’m just not ready to settle down.”

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
Spencer grew up in a tight-knit Arizona community. When he was seven years old, he went to a picnic at a nearby ranch.
Boy: Hey, why don’t we hop in the pond for a swim?
Wearing their regular clothes, they all went swimming. But Spencer had not yet learned to swim well.
Spencer: I wish I could swim like you, Pa!
Father: Don’t cling so tight, Son.
Spencer: Not the deep part! Pa, I’m scared! Take me back to the shallow water.
Father: All right, Spencer. There, now. Can you feel the ground?
Spencer climbed off his father’s back, and his father swam away.
But as Spencer stepped toward shore, he fell into a deep hole!
He struggled and thrashed but did not think anyone had seen him go under.
Spencer: Help! Oh, why can’t someone hear me scream for help?
Just when Spencer thought he would drown, his father snatched him and dragged him to shore.
Spencer later learned to swim but never felt comfortable in deep water. He was grateful the Lord had preserved his life so he could grow and fulfill his mission on earth.

In middle school, my friends told me many times that I was weird for not saying bad words. They made fun of me for it. I was starting to think that maybe they were right and that I was supposed to use those words because everyone else used them.
I wanted to be different from my friends, but I was scared that I would be alone. On Sunday, one of the speakers in sacrament meeting spoke about choosing the right no matter what. A phrase of his talk caught my attention: “Sometimes we may feel alone when we do the right things. But you’re never alone, because God is always with you.” That answered my question, and I decided that I wasn’t going to use bad language.
The next day one of my friends was using bad language. I told him that he could talk that way if he wanted to, but not in front of me. After that, he stopped using bad words when I was around. Some other kids told me that what I did was brave, and I realized that I wasn’t the only one who was uncomfortable with his language. What the speaker said was true—I wasn’t alone!
I’ve decided that if I don’t like the language someone is using, I will say something. I know that it can be hard to do what is right, but the blessings we receive from making good choices are powerful.
Tony F., Chihuahua, Mexico

Daniel was excited. He was flying on an airplane to visit his grandparents in Peru. They weren’t members of the Church, but he loved them and they loved him.
When Daniel got to Peru, he was happy to see his grandparents. He also was a little homesick. Things were different in Peru than at home in Spain. But he knew one thing could be the same.
Can we have prayer before bedtime?
Why do you want to pray?
Because Jesus told us to.
OK. How do you pray?
We need to kneel down, bow our heads, and close our eyes.
We can thank Heavenly Father for our blessings and ask Him to help us.
Daniel’s grandparents were so impressed that they prayed every morning and night during Daniel’s visit.
Daniel felt happy when he prayed with his grandparents. He knew Heavenly Father was happy too.

I met Paulo on a hot day in southern Brazil. Church meetings had ended, and the meetinghouse was almost empty except for a few members sitting in the hallway. My husband, then serving as president of the Brazil Curitiba Mission, was meeting with Edson Lustoza Araújo, the district president from Guarapuava, in Paraná.
“Sister Paulsen,” said Brother Jason Sousa, who was serving as a counselor to my husband, “did you notice the brother sitting in the hallway with mud on his boots?”
Many roads in southern Brazil are made of red dirt, so mud on shoes is common.
“You mean the thin, dark-haired man in his late 20s?” I asked.
“Yes, his name is Paulo Tvuarde. He walks to church almost every Sunday, except when the mud is so thick that he can’t make it. He’s been doing that for 14 years—since he was 15.”
“How far does he walk?” I asked, unprepared for Brother Sousa’s response.
“Oh, 40 kilometers,” he said matter-of-factly. “He leaves at 3:00 a.m. to make it to church on time. It takes him eight hours.”
Quickly converting kilometers to miles, I realized that Brother Tvuarde walked 25 miles to attend church in Guarapuava!
“Why would he do that?” I asked incredulously.
“Because he believes that the Church is true.”
“Well, of course,” I said, a little embarrassed at the obvious answer. “What I meant was, why does he have to walk that far?”
Brother Sousa explained that Paulo lived in the country, taking care of the family farm so that his 74-year-old mother, who had a heart condition, could live in Guarapuava, where she received medical attention. President Lustoza was her cardiologist.
“Paulo lives by himself, plows the fields, and feeds the few animals that they have,” Brother Sousa said. “There is no electricity or running water. The farm is eight kilometers from the nearest bus stop. Worse than that, the bus doesn’t run on Saturdays or Sundays. So he walks to church.”
President Lustoza, who had entered the room with my husband, said Paulo usually attended three out of every four weeks. “He doesn’t miss unless the roads are impassible,” he said. “He stays overnight on Sundays so he can take the bus back on Monday.”
If Paulo attended church three out of every four Sundays, then he spent more than 300 hours walking nearly 1,600 kilometers (1,000 mi) each year just to attend church!

One day it finally happened. Two young men stood in front of the door of our little apartment.
“What is it?” I asked. After taking a short glimpse at them, I was ready to defend myself. No matter what it was, I wanted them to understand that I did not need anything and that I wanted to be left alone.
Then I took another look at the two young men front of me and found reason to second-guess my first judgment. They were dressed with care. The were clean but not shiny or wealthy. Their eyes radiated dignity and peace. Their gestures were humble but not cheap. Their appearance represented politeness and readiness to listen, self-esteem, and willingness to respect my own right of privacy.
“We have an important message for you,” one them said.
When I have tried, since becoming a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, to describe the appearance of the first missionaries at my door, I cannot help but say they didn’t look like salesmen. They radiated something very different. They radiated the Spirit of the Lord. There is something powerfully strong and very special that radiates from someone who has the Spirit. There was something so strong radiating from these two young men that it became impossible for me to send them away.
Little did I know that from then on my life would never be the same—that I had already set my foot on a path that would eventually lead myself, my wife, and my future children on a road toward faith as a sure knowledge of the Lord, toward repentance and finally baptism—becoming a member of the Lord’s Church.
I felt the power and authority radiating from the missionaries during their visits to our home some 30 years ago. As I watch young members of the Church today, I think we have much reason to rejoice as we see more and more of them embracing this gift from Heavenly Father and learning to stand firm in these days of challenges. I pray that we may all place our lives on the foundation of Christ through living close to the Spirit and following it always.

Ten-year-old John Taylor took a basket of food to Mr. Allee West, an old family friend, who lived three miles from the Taylor home in Milnthorpe, England.
Mr. West: Johnny, it’s good to see you again.
John: Here. My mother sent you these.
John enjoyed visiting with Mr. West, but when dark clouds started to come, he realized he needed to leave.
John: Mr. West, it’s getting dark. I need to be getting home.
Mr. West: Johnny, let me walk you home.
John: This is my first trip here by myself, and my mother won’t let me come alone again if you do.
John started down the hill toward home. Soon thick fog started rolling in.
John: This lamp won’t light.
The fog thickened and closed in around him. Soon he came to a big iron fence, and he heard a dog growling. He was lost.
John: The path ends here! What’s that noise?
He was very scared. He remembered something his mother had taught him.
John: Mother said that I can pray anywhere at any time.
As he prayed, his fear left him.
Mr. West: Johnny! Johnny!
Mr. West had decided to follow young John to make sure he arrived home safely.
Mr. West: Johnny, I’ve come to take you home.
John: God did answer my prayer!
John Taylor later became the third President of the Church. He never forgot the answer to prayer he received as a young boy, and he prayed diligently all his life.

When Nuria and I were being taught by full-time missionaries in 1982, we were invited to visit the local ward meetinghouse and to attend the Church meetings there. As we arrived on a beautiful Sunday morning, the first two members that we met at Church were two sisters from our Caribbean island of Puerto Rico. That was a pleasant surprise! We then entered the sacrament hall and beheld families talking reverently to each other, as the sacrament meeting was about to begin. There was great love and friendship in evidence among them.
The missionaries then pointed out the bishop in the stand talking with one of his counselors. I knew the bishop, though not as the local leader of the Church, but as a faculty professor of mine, whom I respected as a great physician and individual. Nuria and I loved the service. From that very first day, except for illness, we have always attended Sunday meetings. I had received a spiritual confirmation in my heart that this Church was true and that the will of our Lord Jesus Christ was for us to remain. Shortly thereafter, we were baptized together and began attending sacrament meetings as members of the Lord’s restored Church.

One of the most unusual and exciting experiences of our tour was our visit with the president of Achzivland. Achzivland was a Phoenecian seaport 3,000 years ago, and many expeditions throughout the Mediterranean Sea area were made from here. Eli Avivi, the president, came to Achzivland 27 years ago when it was but a mound of ruins. He built a museum of all the many artifacts he discovered, and in 1972, he pulled away from Israel and formed his own country.

Achzivland isn’t much bigger than a football field, and President Avivi’s citizens include only himself, his wife, and a few others, but he stamped our passports and made it clear that he was autonomous and that as president he could do anything he chose to. He told us he could even marry us all together if we wanted. He was a fascinating character, and we sang a song for him. He liked it so much, he went and got his wife. We sang for her, after which President Avivi said, “You know, when before I said I would marry you all together, I see now I don’t have to. When you sing, you are one.” That was one of the greatest compliments the choir has ever received.

Let me just share a little personal experience that happened some years ago at the university.
I’d been in a very special meeting with some young people. We had been talking about temple marriage. As we departed the session, I was walking with three young ladies, one of whom I knew quite well. I had become aware that she had been dating a boy out of the faith, and I just cautiously suggested to her that you tend to marry those you date. I said, “I am planning on the day when I can perform your sealing in the temple.”
She looked at me and she said, “Well, I may not get married in the temple.”
And I said, “Why not?”
And she looked at me as only young people can, and said, “Why should I?”
All right, mom and dad, teacher. What do you tell them?
Like most teachers, I paused to stall and think. Then, hoping for inspiration, I said, “Well, why shouldn’t you?”
She looked at me and she said, “Do you really want to know?”
And I said, “Please.”
She said, “How well do you know my father?”
I said, “Reasonably well.”
She said, “My dad puts on a pretty good front. Oh, he’s a fine man, but he’s a little hypocritical.” She said, “You ought to see the way he treats my mom and us at home. And you know, my mom and dad were married in the temple. And I don’t want a marriage like that.” She said, “How well do you know Brother and Sister So-and-so?”—another acquaintance.
I said, “I know them.”
She said, “Did you know I babysit for them. They too are married in the temple, and I wouldn’t care for a marriage like that.” She said, “How well do you know Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so?” This is a wonderful member of our community, not of our faith. Ten children. She said, “I babysit that family too, and I’d like a marriage like theirs.”
Now what do you say, mom and dad? Teacher? The scriptures say so? Well, that’s what the leaders teach. Young people are after whys and wherefores.
I was still a little puzzled. Standing nearby was another young lady. I turned to her and I said, “How do you answer that?”
She was alert. She turned to her friend and she said, “Jan, you’re not fair.”
Jan said, “Why not?”
She said, “Because you’re judging the whole church by two or three examples that don’t represent, necessarily, what we believe and teach or how we should live.” She said, “Let me ask you a question. When was the last time you had a little personal crisis, maybe a frustrating date, a test, a social situation that worried you a little bit, where your dad sensed it and came into your bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed and stroked your head and said, ‘Wouldn’t you like a blessing tonight?’”
Jan looked at her and said, “Well, my dad doesn’t do that.”
The little girl said, “My dad does.”
And then together they talked about how her dad regularly taught the family. An experience was shared regarding family prayer. She listed some eight or nine such moments without even pausing. I could see a little change in Jan’s heart. You could see in Jan’s eyes the expression, “Oh! I would like a husband like that.”
I had the thrill some months later of performing that marriage, in the temple. I’d like to think that night, a change occurred.

Christmas was Stacy’s favorite time of year. She loved the music, the colors, and the smells. She also loved helping her mother trim the family Christmas tree and looking at the many decorations they had collected over the years. After unwrapping each ornament, she placed it carefully on the tree. The little angel she had made in the second grade was there, and an old glass Santa Claus that had been her grandmother’s.
When the family tree was “perfect,” Stacy found a small artificial Christmas tree in the bottom box of decorations. “Mother,” she asked, “are you going to use this little tree?”
“Not this year, honey.”
“May I use it?”
“Yes, but you will need to make your own decorations for it. We can’t afford to buy any more this year.”
“Thank you, Mother. It’ll be fun to make decorations for it.”
Stacy blew at the gray layer of dust that covered the small tree. Taking it into her room, she cleaned it, cleared a space for it in the center of her dresser, and put on a set of miniature lights. Then she got scissors, glue, glitter, and colored paper, and cut stars, angels, and spirals for the tree. Best of all, the picture of the Savior that her Primary teacher had given her was just the right size to fit beneath the little tree.
Standing back to look at it, she felt a warm glow. But something was still missing. … Gifts! Checking her bank, she saw that she had only nine cents. What could she do for gifts? That night after thanking Heavenly Father for her blessings, she asked if He would help her think of some gifts to put under her tree.
The next day, while Mother was trying to make Christmas cookies, three-year-old Derick kept getting in her way. She asked Stacy to watch him.
Stacy started to complain, then had a wonderful idea! “Sure, Mother,” she said. “I’d love to watch him.” She took him into her bedroom, and got out her favorite coloring book, sat him at her desk, and gave him her crayons. Then she took one of the decorations from her tree and wrote “Watch Derick for Mother” on it. Satisfied, she replaced the ornament on the little tree.
Removing all the rest of the decorations, Stacy thought of other things she could do for her family and friends before Christmas. She wrote things like “Be quiet when Father is napping,” “Share my toys with Derick,” “Don’t talk about Susan,” and “Help Mother with the dishes” on them. Then she put them into a little box next to the tree. Each day when she woke up, she chose a decoration from the box, read what was written on it, and placed it on the tree. Sometime during the day, she gave her “gift.” Before Christmas was over, the little tree was covered with her pretty gift-ornaments.
When it was time to put the Christmas things away, she helped Mother take the ornaments off the big tree. Carefully wrapping them, she placed them back in the box.
When she went to take down the tree in her room, she thought about how much fun it had been doing things for her family and friends. After taking all the ornaments off, she plugged in the lights one last time. Looking at the little picture of Jesus Christ, which was still under the tree, she had an idea. Why take the tree down? Why not decorate it each month of the new year?
Stacy got out her art supplies again and made ribbons, streamers, and banners for the tree. On each one she wrote what she was going to do for someone in January. What fun! She made new decorations for each month—hearts for February, clouds and kites for March, flowers for May, pioneer wagons for July, autumn leaves for October, etc. It was her year-round giving tree, and giving service to her friends and family all year would make it seem like Christmas all year!

In 1990 we were living in the small town of Sale, in Victoria, Australia. We were happily busy with family, Church, and work commitments. On a beautiful summer Saturday just before Christmas, we decided to visit some parks and a favorite beach. After enjoying a wonderful day playing as a family, we packed everyone into the car and headed home. While driving, I momentarily fell asleep and caused a head-on car accident. After some moments of recovery, I looked around the vehicle. My wife, Maxine, had a badly broken leg and was struggling to breathe. She had a broken sternum. Our three daughters were in shock but thankfully appeared to be OK. I had some minor injuries. But our five-month-old son was unresponsive.

Amid the stress and confusion of that accident scene, our eldest daughter, 11-year-old Kate, said with urgency, “Dad, you need to give Jarom a blessing.” After some struggle, my daughters and I managed to get out of the car. Maxine couldn’t be moved. Carefully I picked Jarom up; then, while lying on the ground on my back, I gently placed him on my chest and gave him a priesthood blessing. By the time the ambulance arrived about 40 minutes later, Jarom was conscious.

That night I left three family members in the hospital and took a hushed taxi ride home with two of my daughters. Through the long night, I pled with Heavenly Father that my family and those injured in the other vehicle would recover. Mercifully, my prayers and fervently offered prayers by many others were answered. All were healed over time, a great blessing and tender mercy.

Yet I continued to have deep feelings of guilt and remorse for causing such a terrible accident. I would wake during the night and relive the horrific events. I struggled for years to forgive myself and to find peace. Then, as a priesthood leader, while assisting others to repent and helping them to feel the compassion, mercy, and love of the Savior, I realized that He could heal me.

The Savior’s healing and redeeming power applies to accidental mistakes, poor decisions, challenges, and trials of every kind—as well as to our sins. As I turned to Him, my feelings of guilt and remorse were gradually replaced with peace and rest.

Therefore, brothers and sisters, we must press on and eventually become more like the Lord in the process. We all know those who have faced great trials in life and have endured faithfully. One inspiring example is from an early Saint of the 19th century, Warren M. Johnson. He was assigned by Church leaders to operate Lee’s Ferry, an important crossing over the Colorado River in the desert of northern Arizona. Brother Johnson endured great challenges yet remained faithful his entire life. Listen to Brother Johnson explain his family tragedy in a letter to President Wilford Woodruff:
“In May 1891 a family … came here [to Lee’s Ferry] from Richfield Utah, where they … spent the winter visiting friends. At Panguitch they buried a child, … without [cleaning] the wagon or themselves. … They came to our house, and remained overnight, mingling with my little children. …
“We knew nothing of the nature of the disease [diphtheria], but had faith in God, as we were here on a very hard mission, and had tried as hard as we knew how to obey the [commandments] … that our children would be spared. But alas, in four and a half days [the oldest boy died] in my arms. Two more were taken down with the disease and we fasted and prayed as much as we thought it wisdom as we had many duties to perform here. We fasted [for] twenty-four hours and once I fasted [for] forty hours, but to no avail, for both my little girls died also. About a week after their death my fifteen year old daughter Melinda was [also] stricken down and we did all we could for her but she [soon] followed the others. … Three of my dear girls and one boy [have] been taken from us, and the end is not yet. My oldest girl nineteen years old is now prostrate [from] the disease, and we are fasting and praying in her behalf today. … I would ask for your faith and prayers in our behalf however. What have we done that the Lord has left us, and what can we do to gain his favor again[?]”
A short time later, Brother Johnson wrote a local leader and friend, expressing his faith to press on:
“It is the hardest trial of my life, but I set out for salvation and am determined that … through the help of Heavenly Father that I [would] hold fast to the iron rod no matter what troubles [came] upon me. I have not slackened in the performance of my duties, and hope and trust that I shall have the faith and prayers of my brethren, that I can live so as to receive the blessings.”

I recall attending the funeral of an older man who had taken his life. His wife had died years earlier, and as his health declined, he felt he had less and less of a reason to live. Gradually he found himself confined to the four walls of his home. A semi-invalid, he was unable to visit friends or go grocery shopping. His food was delivered to his door. He missed going to church, missed regular fellowship with other members of his priesthood quorum.
Although he wasn’t able to get about, the doctor assured him he could live many more years. “You neither smoke nor drink,” the doctor said. “You’ve taken good care of yourself. Other than the fact that you’re confined to your house and wheelchair, I give you a clean bill of health.”
While the doctor was trying to be encouraging, the man felt discouraged. This good brother felt his earthly life no longer had any value, and he wanted to join his beloved wife in the spirit world. The more he thought about death, the more appealing it became to him. He had been a faithful member of the Church all his life; he had served two missions and had been diligent in several leadership positions at different times in his life. But as he thought about the release he would find through death, his mind became confused. He obviously concluded that taking his own life would solve his problems.
I visited with the family after the funeral. As you might expect, they were greatly disturbed by what their father and grandfather had done. Their feelings ranged from grief to anger to guilt. “I should have noticed how depressed he was,” one daughter said. “Then I could have helped him and prevented this.”
One son spoke rather harshly. “I never thought my father was a stupid man. But what can you say about this? If he loved us, he would never have done such a thing!”
A comment by the youngest son captured the despair they all felt: “There is no hope for dad now, is there,” he said. It was more a statement than a question. “All the good things he did throughout his life don’t matter anymore. Now that he’s taken his life, he will be in the telestial kingdom throughout eternity.” Then he wept.

After a Young Women lesson about patriarchal blessings, I had this feeling that I needed to receive mine to know the guidance that Heavenly Father has in store for me. I prayed a lot and studied for months.

Then, one day in Sunday School, my teacher told me, “If you’re thinking about your patriarchal blessing, it’s probably time for you to get it.” That inspired me to go for it, and I’m so grateful I did. Because of my patriarchal blessing, I know that Heavenly Father knows who I am.

Acadia L., age 16, Baden-Württemberg, Germany

Beginning a few years ago, I noticed I was becoming increasingly lethargic, lacking an appetite, and losing passion for things I used to love. To oversimplify, I was sad. All the time. Worst of all, I felt separated from Heavenly Father.
I mistakenly thought that my own unworthiness was the cause and that if I could just be more righteous, I’d be happy again. But after a year of trying to fix everything on my own, I felt forsaken. Where was the promised peace I sought? There were times when I didn’t want to live. Eventually, my parents realized something was wrong. I saw a professional and started taking medication, but nothing was changing.
In Alma 36:18–20, Alma recounts that he reached out to the Savior in his sorrow. He says, “Oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold; yea, my soul was filled with joy as exceeding as was my pain!” As I read these words one night, I couldn’t help but feel envious. I had pleaded for relief in prayer countless times. I tearfully asked myself, “Why am I not receiving the joy Alma the Younger did?”
My answer came in increments, one thought at a time. One was an image: a painting of the Savior in Gethsemane, lying on the ground in utter despair and almost completely overwhelmed by darkness. I realized with fuller clarity that He knew exactly the burden I was bearing, and He would not suffer me to bear it alone.
There wasn’t a moment when everything fixed itself, but with professional help and grace from the Lord, I have come a long way. Depression doesn’t always go away. However, I understand now that my sorrow will be exchanged with joy, in this life and the next.
Anna B., California, USA

My grandmother, a spiritual giant to me, taught me how to pray. She spent her winters with a daughter who lived a hundred miles away, so I saw her only in the summers. Sometimes I got to stay with her. I loved to climb between her sparkling white sheets and lay my head on her freshly ironed pillowcases. Her home was a house of order and love. And her homemade bread and Potawatomi plum jam was like a king’s dinner to me. She always kept a tin box of lemon drops and mints.

After biking to her house one day, I couldn’t find her in the kitchen, so I went into her bedroom. Through the window I noticed her out in her garden. Passing her dresser, I saw a new box of chocolates that someone had given her for Mother’s Day. The temptation was too great. I opened the box, picked out several pieces, and shoved them into my pocket before running outside to see Grandma.
The next day Grandma called and asked me to come over to her house. When I arrived, we visited for a while, then she offered me a chocolate. I cried and she cried, then we talked about what it means to be honest and about how disappointed Heavenly Father is when we steal. Grandma taught me other lessons that afternoon that helped strengthen my spirituality. She was the first one I called when I received my mission call. She died while I was in the mission home, and she was buried the day I arrived in New Zealand. I will always cherish the comfort and strength that she was to me.