Gospel Story Finder

Growing up in Thailand, I sometimes felt like the odd one out as a Christian. But even though I believed differently than most of the people around me, I never felt ashamed or wanted to give up the gospel of Jesus Christ. I always loved the truths it taught me, and I did my best to follow them.

But then tragedy struck my family. And for the first time in my life, I really had to choose, develop, and hold on to faith in one of the cornerstones of the gospel—God’s plan of salvation.

In 2014, my family and I were sealed in the Hong Kong Temple. I had waited for this day for so long and was so excited. But shortly after we were able to experience this beautiful ordinance, my father passed away unexpectedly.

I was struck with terrible, overwhelming grief. I didn’t know how my family and I would be able to cope with the loss of my dad. It felt like a whole piece of us was gone. How could we endure life without him?

In this dark time, as I turned to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ for comfort, I learned how to deepen my testimony of the plan of salvation and eternal families.

I had always been taught and believed that families could be together forever. But facing a difficult loss really shook this part of my testimony. I wanted and needed to know that I would see my dad again one day. I began to want to learn more about the doctrine of eternal families.

President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, recently taught:
“It is through the sealing covenants in the temple that we can receive the assurance of loving family connections that will continue after death and last for eternity. …
“Trials, challenges, and heartaches will surely come to all of us. … Yet, as we attend the temple and remember our covenants, we can prepare to receive personal direction from the Lord.”

And it’s true! When I was struggling so much to feel the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in my life after my dad died, studying this comforting covenant and blessing helped me see small inklings of Their love and light again.

Our temple sealing became even more meaningful to me after my dad passed away. And I realized that all covenants Heavenly Father invites us to make and keep are beautiful privileges for us.

Covenants aren’t just simple promises—they are the key to helping us invite the power of the Savior into our lives. They allow us to keep moving and hoping, despite the heartbreak and challenges of life. Because of the greater access I have to Jesus Christ’s healing power, I can endure to the end with joy, knowing that I’ll see my dad again.

As President Eyring promised, “‘No matter the outcome, all will be well because of temple covenants.’”

I’m so grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ and the continuous hope and peace it brings, especially when I need peace in times of uncertainty and loss. I still feel grief, but my covenants warm my heart and help me keep going with hope.

“This day,” one of the greatest missionaries of the Book of Mormon is President Russell M. Nelson. When he was a newly called Apostle, he gave a lecture in Accra, Ghana. In attendance were dignitaries, including an African tribal king, with whom he spoke through an interpreter. The king was a serious student of the Bible and loved the Lord. Following President Nelson’s remarks, he was approached by that king, who asked in perfect English, “Just who are you?” President Nelson explained that he was an ordained Apostle of Jesus Christ. The king’s next question was “What can you teach me about Jesus Christ?”
President Nelson reached for the Book of Mormon and opened it to 3 Nephi 11. Together President Nelson and the king read the Savior’s sermon to the Nephites: “Behold, I am Jesus Christ, whom the prophets testified shall come into the world. … I am the light and the life of the world.”
President Nelson presented the king with that copy of the Book of Mormon, and the king responded, “You could have given me diamonds or rubies, but nothing is more precious to me than this additional knowledge about the Lord Jesus Christ.”

I breathed hard as my math teacher talked about our upcoming activity.
“I know most of you young people listen to rap,” he said. “It’s not very good music, and it’s often hard to leave it alone.”
He wanted to show us how bad it was by having the class count the seconds to the first swear word of each song. He explained that after we collected the data we were going to put it into graphs.
“Now, I expect you all to be mature about this,” he lectured. “But if anyone’s uncomfortable or you know your parents wouldn’t approve, you can take your book and go into the hall.”
I gripped my chair. I knew I couldn’t stay here—but I was afraid to move. No one else seemed to be thinking the same thing I was. “I’ll be the only one if I leave,” I told myself.
I rationalized that maybe it would be okay if my teacher stopped the song after the first swear word. I was so petrified to stand up that I lost my chance to leave. The first song came on, and I felt my heart sink as the Spirit disappeared from the room.
The song ended, and its data was written on the board. Before I could think, another song blared curse words through the speakers. I couldn’t take it anymore. I knew that this kind of music drove away the Spirit, and that Heavenly Father didn’t want me listening to it. I picked up my book and asked the teacher if I could leave. As I walked out of the room, the Spirit returned, and I knew I had done the right thing.

I thought family history was ancient history that was completely irrelevant to me until I had an experience that helped me gain a new appreciation for it.
During a family home evening lesson on the life of one of my ancestors, I discovered that even though he lived more than 150 years ago, he learned lessons in his lifetime that can help me in my life today.
He kept a detailed journal, which included “11 Rules for Living.” In our family home evening lesson we discussed his rules and looked up scriptures that supported them. They are:
Say secret prayers (Matthew 6:6).
Keep your tongue in check (Proverbs 21:23).
Suppress anger (Proverbs 16:32).
Consider the effect of every action before doing it (Luke 14:28–29).
Cultivate humility and charity (1 Corinthians 16:14).
Let love be the mainstream of all your actions (John 3:16).
Think of Christ upon the cross (1 Corinthians 15:22).
Stop work when tired (Mosiah 4:27).
Do not eat, sleep, or drink more than needed (D&C 88:124).
Consider that others do not look on things as you do, and sometimes they are right (D&C 88:122).
Remember that you are never alone. Therefore, do nothing you wouldn’t do in the presence of angels (D&C 121:9).
My aunt embroidered these rules on a wall-hanging that we keep near our door to remind us to try to live by them. My Great-Grandfather Twede also taught me the importance of keeping a journal. I love writing in my journal and then reading back through what I’ve written. It’s interesting to see how I’ve changed and how much I’ve learned.
I have also learned that the rules my Great-Grandfather Twede lived by in the 1800s still work today. My favorite rule to live by is “Remember you are never alone. Therefore, do nothing you wouldn’t do in the presence of angels.” This has helped me realize that I should always strive to choose the right and live up to my standards. Studying Great-Grandfather Twede’s 11 rules for living has helped me appreciate his example and understand that family history is important to my life today.

Another time, Rachel worked with all of the young women as well as the adults in the ward to put together a cookbook. Everyone learned about cooking, shared recipes, and the adults noticed that the youth took an interest in them, too. That prompted her mother to work on a book of her own, what she calls an “heirloom” cookbook. “It includes recipes like my grandma’s recipe for rolls,” Sister Ross explains. “But it includes her photo next to the recipe so you get a feeling for her as a person.”

Long years ago a severe drought struck the Salt Lake Valley. The commodities at the storehouse on Welfare Square had not been of their usual quality, nor were they found in abundance. Many products were missing, especially fresh fruit. As I was a young bishop, worrying about the needs of the many widows in my ward, my prayer one evening is especially sacred to me. I pleaded for these widows, who were among the finest women I knew in mortality and whose needs were simple and conservative, because they had no resources on which they might rely.
The next morning I received a call from a ward member, a proprietor of a produce business situated in our ward. “Bishop,” he said, “I would like to send a semitrailer filled with oranges, grapefruit, and bananas to the bishops’ storehouse to be given to those in need. Could you make arrangements?” Could I make arrangements! The storehouse was alerted, and then each bishop was telephoned and the entire shipment distributed. Bishop Jesse M. Drury, that beloved welfare pioneer and storekeeper, said he had never witnessed a day like it before. He described the occasion with one word: “Wonderful!”
The wife of that generous businessman is today a widow. I know the decision her husband and she made has brought her sweet memories and comforting peace to her soul.
I express my sincere appreciation to one and all who are mindful of the widow. To the thoughtful neighbors who invite a widow to dinner and to that royal army of noble women, the visiting teachers of the Relief Society, I add, may God bless you for your kindness and your love unfeigned toward her who reaches out and touches vanished hands and listens to voices forever stilled. The words of the Prophet Joseph Smith describe their mission: “I attended by request, the Female Relief Society, whose object is the relief of the poor, the destitute, the widow and the orphan, and for the exercise of all benevolent purposes.”
Thank you to thoughtful and caring bishops who ensure that no widow’s cupboard is empty, no house unwarmed, no life unblessed. I admire the ward leaders who invite the widows to all social activities, often providing a young Aaronic Priesthood lad to be a special escort for the occasion.
Frequently the need of the widow is not one of food or shelter but of feeling a part of ongoing events. President Bryan Richards of Salt Lake City, now serving as a mission president, brought to my office a sweet widow whose husband had passed away during a full-time mission they were serving. President Richards explained that her financial resources were adequate and that she desired to contribute to the Church’s General Missionary Fund the proceeds of two insurance policies on the life of her departed husband. I could not restrain my tears when she meekly advised me, “This is what I wish to do. It is what my missionary-minded husband would like.”
The gift was received and entered as a most substantial donation to missionary service. I saw the receipt made in her name, but I believe in my heart it was also recorded in heaven. I invited her and President Richards to follow me to the unoccupied First Presidency Council room in the Church Administration Building. The room is beautiful and peaceful. I asked this sweet widow to sit in the chair usually occupied by our church President. I felt he would not mind, for I knew his heart. As she sat ever so humbly in the large leather chair, she gripped each armrest with a hand and declared, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” It was also such for President Richards and for me.
I never travel to work along busy Seventh East in Salt Lake City but what I see in my mind’s eye a thoughtful daughter, afflicted with arthritis and carrying in her hand a plate of warm food to her aged mother, who lived across the busy thoroughfare. She has now gone home to that mother who preceded her in passing. But her lesson was not lost on her daughters, who delight their widowed father by cleaning his house each week, inviting him to dinners in their homes, and sharing with him the laughter of good times together, leaving in that widower’s heart a prayer of gratitude for his daughters, the light of his life. Fathers experience loneliness as well as mothers.

Jason was sad. It had snowed, and all the children were outside playing in the snow. All except Jason.
“You can’t go outside today because you have the flu,” Mom said. “I’ll open the drapes in the living room window, and you can watch the other kids.”
“But that’s not the same as being outside,” Jason whined. “I’ve been waiting for months for it to snow so I could make a huge snowman. If I bundle up good, may I please go out for just a little while?”
Mom hugged Jason. “No, honey. I’m sorry.”
Jason ran into his room. “I’ll never get to make a snowman,” he sobbed.
His big sister, Heather, came in and sat on the bed. “Jason, Mom wants you to take a nap now, but I promise that when you wake up, you’ll be happy.”
Jason was tired and slept for more than an hour. When he woke up, Heather came in smiling. “Ready to have some fun?” she asked. “I have a game called ‘Surprise Hunt.’”
Jason felt grumpy. “I don’t want to play a game. I want a snowman.”
“This game will make you happy,” Heather said. “You’ll have six clues that will lead you to a surprise. Come on, Jason, give it a try.”
Jason felt even more curious than grumpy. “OK,” he said. Heather handed him a piece of paper with the first clue.
CLUE #1I’m in a room with a fireplace, and I turn dark into light.
“The fireplace is in the living room, so the next clue must be there,” Jason said. He went into the living room and looked around. “‘Turn dark into light,’” he said. “The lamps!” He checked all the lamps, and under Dad’s reading lamp, he found the second clue.
CLUE #2People live on my planet and can spin me to take a pretend trip.
“We live on the Earth,” Jason said. “But what can I spin to take a pretend trip?” He thought a moment. “My world globe!” he shrieked. He ran to his room and found the next clue taped to his globe.
CLUE #3I taste good and am good for your teeth.
Jason thought deeply. “Hmmmm. What could it be?” He smiled. “I bet it’s the toothpaste.” He went into the bathroom and looked at the toothpaste, but no clue was there.
“What else could it be, Heather?” Jason asked.
“Think, Jason. You’re doing fine so far.”
“Oh, I get it!” Jason exclaimed. “It’s the food!” He went to the kitchen and opened the pantry door but found no clue. Then he looked in the refrigerator. On the top shelf, taped to a bottle of milk, was the clue.
CLUE #4I have 12 months, 52 weeks, and 365 days.
“Mom’s calendar,” Jason laughed. He went into the hall and looked behind Mom’s calendar. There he found the next clue.
CLUE #5When you’re thirsty, you want me.
Jason smiled. “Back to the kitchen.”
“Keep up the good work,” Mom said. “You’re doing great.”
Jason looked in all the cups and glasses in the cupboard and in the water and juice bottles in the refrigerator. No clues. Then he spotted a small cup on the counter. Inside was the clue.
CLUE #6—YOUR LAST CLUESometimes I’m open;Sometimes I’m shut.My wood isThe same color as a nut.I’m always readyTo do as you wish.You and dad go through meWhen you go to fish.
“This is a tough one,” Jason said.
“Keep trying, Jason,” Dad encouraged.
“Let’s see. My closet door does as I wish. It’s sometimes open and sometimes shut, and it’s tan like a nut. But Dad and I don’t go through it. It can’t be a window or a cabinet door. What is it?” Jason frowned. He was about to give up when he turned and saw the back door. “That’s it!” he yelled.
Jason ran to the door, opened it, and looked out. In the backyard was his surprise—a giant snowman holding a sign:
Get better soon, Jason. We love you.From Mom, Dad, and Heather

Dear Mom, Jane wrote.
She paused and tapped her pen against the table. She looked at the fridge, where the newest picture of her and Mom hung. They both had the same chin, the same dark hair, and the same wide smile.
What could she say? Jane wanted to sound happy and strong for Mom, but nothing came to mind. Her heart hurt so much that it was hard to write anything at all.
Jane, Dad, and her siblings had come back from visiting Mom two weeks ago. Mom was in prison, and they had to drive for almost a whole day to see her. Because of the long drive, they didn’t get to see her very often. Mom had been in prison for over a year, and they had only seen her twice.
This time, when Jane had visited, Mom had suggested that they become pen pals. But Jane didn’t want to be pen pals. She just wanted Mom to come home.
Mom’s first letter to Jane had arrived yesterday, written in neat pencil. At the bottom, she had drawn a picture of the two of them having a party together when she got home.
Jane wrote a few lines, then scrunched up the paper. She put her head on the table and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back tears.
Dad came in with the groceries. “Jane, are you OK?”
Jane shrugged.
Dad sat down and put his arms around her. Jane leaned into his chest.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Until what?”
“How much longer until Mom can come home?”
Dad was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “It’ll probably be at least three more years, Jane.”
Jane thought her heart would explode. Three years! The last year had been so long and hard. How could she live for three more years without Mom?
“Every single day, I wish your mom was here,” Dad said. “It’s really hard with her gone, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded.
“It’s OK to feel sad,” Dad said. “Sometimes it helps me to remind myself of what I’m grateful for.”
Jane sniffed a little. “Like what?”
Dad smiled. “Like how we get to call Mom every week. And we’re able to send her supplies she needs—and letters.” Dad patted the paper pad on the table. “And … ?”
“And …” Jane thought about it. “I have lots of teachers and friends I can talk to. And Ashley’s mom took me to a Mother’s Day activity. And I’ve been learning to be a better friend and help others.”
“Yes, you have,” Dad said. “How about if we say a prayer, and then you can keep thinking about what you want to write?”
Jane folded her arms. She thanked Heavenly Father that she had been able to see Mom and that they had driven home safely. Then she asked Him to help her know what to write.
She sat at the table, thinking and thinking. Then she started writing something she didn’t expect: a list of things she was grateful for. She listed all the things she had talked about with Dad, plus a few more, like her siblings and her neighborhood.
When she finished, Jane drew a picture of herself and Mom playing board games together. Her heart still hurt a little, but she had one thing to look forward to—for the next three years, she would be the best pen pal ever!

I have a friend who prays every day to meet someone who is prepared to receive the gospel. He carries with him a copy of the Book of Mormon. The night before a short trip, he decided not to take a copy with him but instead to carry a pass-along card. But as he got ready to leave, a spiritual impression came to him: “Take a Book of Mormon with you.” He put one in his bag.
When a woman he knew sat next to him on the trip, he wondered, “Is this the one?” She rode with him again on the return trip. He thought, “How should I bring up the gospel?”
Instead, she said to him, “You pay tithing to your church, don’t you?” He said he did. She said she was supposed to pay tithing to her church but didn’t. Then she asked, “What can you tell me about the Book of Mormon?”
He explained that the book is scripture, another witness of Jesus Christ, translated by the Prophet Joseph Smith. She seemed interested, so he reached into his bag and said, “I was impressed to bring this book with me. I think it is for you.”
She began to read it. As they parted, she said, “You and I are going to have more conversations about this.”
What my friend could not know—but what God did know—was that she was looking for a church. God knew she had watched my friend and wondered why his church made him so happy. God knew she would ask about the Book of Mormon and that she would be willing to be taught by the missionaries. She was prepared. So was my friend. You and I can also be prepared.
The preparation we need is in our mind and our heart. The woman had heard and remembered words about the Book of Mormon, the Lord’s restored Church, and the commandment to pay tithes to God. And she had felt the beginning of the witness of truth in her heart.
The woman was prepared. So was my friend, the Latter-day Saint who had studied the Book of Mormon. He had felt a witness that it is true, and he recognized the direction from the Spirit to take a copy with him. He was prepared in his mind and his heart.

Now is the time to obey. In the premortal existence, ours was not a selective obedience. We did not pick and choose which parts of the eternal plan to follow. I learned that lesson on our first night flying solo in pilot training when all of us were given the instruction: “Don’t fly acrobatic patterns at night. You are beginning pilots without instrument flight training.” Some time later, an otherwise good pilot and a great friend chose to disobey that command. As he flew loops and barrel rolls through the night sky over Texas, he looked through the cockpit canopy and thought he saw stars above him, but he was really seeing the lights of oil rigs below. He was experiencing vertigo: the g-forces on his plane made it seem he was right side up, yet he was upside down. As he pulled up on the stick to climb higher into the night sky, he dove toward the earth and crashed into the twinkling lights of the oil field below.

After I got a concussion playing [American] football, I started having headaches daily. I had a hard time not focusing on the pain I was feeling. One day I felt an impression from the Holy Ghost that happiness doesn’t come from our circumstances but from our focus. I realized that my focus was always on my pain instead of the daily blessings I receive from God.
I started to wonder, what else was stopping me from growing spiritually? With a humble heart I asked Heavenly Father this question. I knew I could not come up with the right answer on my own, but our Heavenly Father has all of the answers.
The answer I received seemed very simple, but it was customized to what I needed: “Get out of bed and exercise again.” I started exercising despite the constant pain I felt. I found myself moving closer to God.
God has given me so much love. By exercising both physically and spiritually, I grow closer to Him. Being close to Heavenly Father is my biggest comfort and form of peace. When you take the sacrament, I invite you to focus on the spiritual growth you can make in the coming week. The Holy Ghost will give you the personal guidance you need.

I couldn’t concentrate. The city library buzzed like a beehive under attack. In my irritation, I momentarily forgot just why I was studying here rather than taking advantage of the mature silence and concentration of the university library. Then my reason walked by.
She was the assistant librarian and was easily the most beautiful girl ever to walk the earth. Her name tag told me she was Miss Burton, but that was all I knew about her. She was the motive that had driven me here for the last three nights just hoping for a chance to learn her first name. So far she hadn’t even said, “Sh-h-h, you’re in the library,” much less “hello.”
But I kept coming back, hoping that this night would be better than the last. With zero enthusiasm, I turned to my books, but it was impossible to study. I pushed American History to the side, folded my arms, and gazed at Miss Burton busily working at her desk. Occasionally she would cast a furtive glance in my direction. When she did, I would grin broadly and wink at her. She’d quickly duck her head to hide her blushing cheeks, but at least she knew I existed.
I admired her beauty and grace, but I was equally impressed by her modesty. Instead of wearing faded denim jeans and a sleazy blouse, so typical of my friends, Miss Burton was wearing a dress. One that actually came down to her knees! Her make-up was not heavy; in fact, unless you looked closely, you couldn’t even tell that she wore it. Her long hair adorned her head and shoulders like a veil. Her clothes, her actions, her very appearance declared that she was a lady!
It was weird that I should be so attracted to her. I could have passed for her exact opposite. My hair and beard were both shoulder length; I wore an old pair of faded jeans, an embroidered denim vest, and worn out sandals; I looked like the king of rebellion—she was the epitome of virtue and conformity.
I had chosen my way of life; she had chosen hers. Our differences stood as an impregnable barrier between us. To penetrate that barrier, I knew I would have to cut my hair and conform to society. No, I would not put on a suit and tie again, not even for her!
The pencil snapped in my hand. Why was I so upset over a prudish librarian? Because something in her eyes, in her smile, in her very essence affected me deeply; in spite of myself, I felt I was beginning to care about Miss Burton, and I still didn’t even know her first name!
I wondered if she could ever adopt my life-style. As she stood replacing books on a nearby shelf, I tried to imagine her with kinky, frizzed hair, but it was futile. The Mona Lisa would adjust to that more readily than Miss Burton!
She finished replacing the books and turned to walk toward the desk. Her eyes caught mine; slowly, a smile crept to her lips. As she walked by me, I pushed back my chair and unfolded all 193 centimeters of me. I stood at attention, tipped a make-believe hat and whispered loudly, “How do you do, Madam!” It was a whisper, but my voice rasped loudly enough to echo through the library, causing her face to turn a glowing crimson. A ripple of laughter flowed through the library and I sat down with a wide grin on my face.
Shortly after Miss Burton had returned to her desk and the color in her cheeks had returned to normal, a freckle-faced girl, probably about 13 years old, approached her. The girl obviously had not asked the usual “where do I find” question, because Miss Burton looked deep into her eyes and placed her slender hand over the girl’s chubby one. I caught the word rebellion as they spoke with each other.
Quietly, I moved to a table closer to the desk; I was interested in what Miss Burton had to say on the subject. Holding an open magazine as a guise, I leaned back in the plastic chair as far as I dared. I strained my ears to catch every word.
The girl spoke: “I need books on rebellion so I’ll know how to act when I go to 9th grade next year.”
I started to laugh, but Miss Burton’s serious tone told me that she did not think it was funny.
“And you think you’ll stand out in the crowd if you don’t rebel, is that right?”
“Sure! Everybody rebels! Like my sister: she’s at a demonstration tonight at the university because the president won’t make it legal to smoke marijuana on campus. And my brother, Mom and Dad are always yelling at him to cut his hair, and he won’t do it even though it’s almost as long as his.” I could feel her pointing at my direction.
She continued: “My dad is on a strike, and Mom’s always away fighting for women’s rights. That’s rebelling, too, isn’t it?”
Lines of concern wrinkled Miss Burton’s smooth forehead. She seemed deep in thought. At length she spoke:
“When we rebel, we’re being selfish. We want things done our way, and if others object, we rebel. It’s like throwing a temper tantrum. We refuse to listen to the other side of the argument because it might prove that we are wrong.
“It takes courage to do what’s right, especially when it’s easier to do what’s wrong. Remember this: cowards rebel; brave men and women obey the laws and do what they know is right. When something is wrong, though, they have the courage to speak out against the wrong doing.” I was incensed! I felt personally attacked by the girl I was beginning to care for. With effort, though. I managed to control my emotions. Maybe she hadn’t said what I thought. I’d keep listening, and maybe she would clarify or retract her statement that cowards rebel.
The little girl was puzzled. “But were George Washington and Thomas Jefferson cowards? They rebelled against England didn’t they?”
“No honey they weren’t cowards, and they didn’t rebel against England. You see, Great Britain was being unfair to the new colonists in America. She taxed them heavily, but then she wouldn’t give them a voice in government. Had she been fair to them, there never would have been a Revolutionary War.”
This is madness! I tried to stand up. I had forgotten I was leaning back and fell crashing to the floor—pulling my books down with me. Before I realized what had happened, Miss Burton and half of the library’s occupants were surrounding me.
“Are—are you hurt?” she stammered, quickly surveying the disaster area.
“No, just a little shocked,” I muttered.
As I untangled my legs from the wreckage, Miss Burton ushered the crowd away. Much to my surprise, she remained.
“Did I say something that surprised you?” she asked.
“You sure did!” I blurted, a little too brusquely. I quickly scanned her face to see if I’d offended her. More gently, I added, “Miss Burton, you’ve got some strange ideas about rebellion!”
She nodded. Her silence urged me on.
“I don’t understand how you can say that rebels are cowards! And then you say that the forefathers of the United States didn’t rebel against England! You—a librarian!” I consciously restrained myself from saying any more.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you …” Her voice trailed off. Walking toward us was a quaint-looking man who could have been a twin to the tall, thin character in a story by Washington Irving (an American author).
“It’s the head librarian!” she whispered. She mouthed the word later, squeezed my arm, and quickly returned to her duties at the main desk.
Sitting down again was a painful experience, but the thought of talking to Miss Burton after the library closed served as a local anesthetic to my bruises. I mulled her words over in my mind: “Cowards rebel; brave men and women obey laws …”
She’s wrong! I argued. Just like all the others. It takes courage to be different and to rebel against the traditions of society! A coward wouldn’t dare to have “long hair” and storm administration buildings! It takes fortitude to stand up for what you believe in!
An unbeckoned thought crept into my mind and whispered, “But, Dan, what do you believe in?”
“Freedom!” I retorted.
Again it whispered, “Freedom from rules, obligations, and ties that bind?”
I fell silent. I was unable to answer these queries from within. I knew that I had not displayed courage by rebelling; rather, I had taken the easy way out. Home and religion had been too restricting. I wanted to have fun, my way, with no obligations or responsibilities.
I remembered how upset Dad had been. Mom cried. I hated myself for hurting them, but still their disappointment was easier to bear than the scoffs from my friends. I grew further and further from my family. I acted like I didn’t care, but it really had hurt me, deep inside.
“Cowards rebel! Could she be right?” I asked aloud. I smiled and breathed deeply. I felt as though a heavy yoke were being lifted off my weary shoulders. For the first time in years I felt really free.
I sensed the presence of someone near and turned around. Miss Burton smiled radiantly.
“It sounds like you’ve been having an interesting conversation with yourself,” she said.
“I have, but I’d rather have one with you!”
“Could I give you a ride home?” I asked.
“I live just a few blocks from here, so I usually walk.” Pause. “But if you would like to walk me home … ”
I responsed instantly to her cue, and soon we were outside enjoying the crisp autumn twilight. We walked in silence for a minute or so.
“Miss Burton,” I said at length, “do you have a first name?”
She laughed, “Why yes, I believe I do. Before I started to work at the library, people used to call me Rebecca.”
“Becky Burton!” I said. “That’s cute!”
“Rebecca—not Becky.” We fell silent. Then, as if to pick up the strands of conversation again, she added, “Rebecca was the wife of Isaac in the Bible. Remember?”
I nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Dan,” I replied.
“Daniel was a biblical name, too.” she offered. “Have you ever read the Bible?”
“Parts of it a long time ago,” I had not really planned to discuss the Bible tonight.
“You know, Dan, if the library were to catch on fire, I think I’d rescue that book before all the others!” Her eyes were shining. Religion must be an important part of her life.
Sensing that I didn’t share her enthusiasm, she stammered, a little embarrassed, “I—I guess I really shouldn’t be talking about the Bible right now.” Then, almost childlike, she asked, “Are you a Christian?”
“Am I a Christian, Rebecca?” I asked, as I came back to the present. “Let’s say I used to be.” She sensed my need for silence.
We walked along the dark, tree-lined street; only the crunching sound of autumn leaves under our feet interrupted the silence. I felt so alone in the cold, dark world. More than anything else, I wanted Rebecca’s friendship. She seemed so sure of herself, so at peace with herself. I wanted to draw from her strength, to learn from her wisdom. I looked down at my feet, afraid of her warm eyes.
“Rebecca,” I whispered softly. “What is it that makes you so special?”
I could have guessed that she would say it was her belief in Diety; she impressed me as a deeply religious girl. I wondered, though, which religion was to receive the credit for making her so sensitive, tender, and caring.
I pressed further, “What is your religion, Rebecca? Are you Catholic, Protestant, or something else?”
Her lips held just a hint of a smile. “I guess I fall into the ‘something else’ category, Dan. I’m searching for truth wherever I can find it. I discover it in some unusual places. But I can’t help but wonder one thing. Is there one religion that contains all of the truth?”
Her question pricked me deeply. Her eyes were searching mine, imploring. I looked away—my past blazed before me. Silently, I bowed my head and prayed. I hadn’t done that in years! After a long moment, I returned her gaze.
“Rebecca,” I slowly began, “what do you know about the Mormon church?”

Down on the tip of England’s toe, 18-year-old Joanne Crocker of Helston Ward, tells of her teacher, Hugh Dunbar. “The day before one monthly meeting, his car wouldn’t go. He had the engine in pieces until 3:00 A.M. Then he snatched two hours of sleep and finished the job by 11:30 Saturday morning in time to begin picking up his class of seven by 12 noon. Then we drove 70 miles to the Plymouth stake centre. And this was only six months after open heart surgery.”

My friend Wendy is a fantastic cook. From the day she moved in down the street from our family, she has been sharing food with us. She always has an excuse: “This won’t fit in my fridge,” or “I made too much!” No matter what she says when she brings her offerings, what I always hear is, “I love you.”
I felt her love for our family particularly after one very difficult day. One of my children had recently been diagnosed with an eating disorder, and everything about food was getting complicated and stressful at our home.
One night my daughter and I were meeting with her therapy team. At this meeting she was given a meal plan, and I was tasked with making and planning three meals and three snacks for her every day. These meals and snacks had to meet certain dietary guidelines that would help restore her weight.
For me, this task was overwhelming. I’m not much of a cook, so receiving such specific guidelines and anticipating trying to get my reluctant child to eat so much food nearly brought me to tears. As we drove home, my mind fixated despondently on one thought: “I don’t have anything that’s right for her evening snack tonight.”
Arriving home, I trudged through the door and immediately smelled something delicious. There, sitting on the kitchen counter, was a loaf of banana bread Wendy had delivered while we were gone. It contained a grain, a fruit, and a fat—perfect for the evening snack we needed! Even better, my daughter ate it willingly.
When I called Wendy later to thank her for the bread, I didn’t share the backstory. She probably wondered why I was a bit emotional over her gift. Wendy didn’t know we were struggling. She had simply made “too much” banana bread and didn’t want it to go stale.
A few months later, as I listened to a podcast about being covenant keepers, I wondered what being a covenant keeper really means. Then Wendy’s gift of banana bread popped into my mind.
When Wendy followed her heart and brought us bread that day, she had mourned with those who mourned and comforted those who stood in need of comfort (see Mosiah 18:9), even without knowing the whole story. And it made such a difference.

Of my parents’ three daughters, I am the middle one. It wasn’t until the dawn of a January morning that a fourth child, a son, was born. David seemed just like any other newborn to me—tiny, chubby, and fun. By virtue of my being merely a first-grader when he was born, my parents found no reason for telling me then that my baby brother was “different.” Hindsight tells me that it would only have compounded their already-numbed feelings to explain to me what they could hardly believe themselves. Besides, I was too young, and the word mongoloid would not have meant a thing to me. All I knew, or cared about then, was that my little brother was beautiful!

We grew to love him. He was a kind, loving, and cheerful child. It was not until I was in the sixth grade that David’s difference caused any concern to me at all. It was at the end of that school year that my class was visited by the principal. She asked those of us who had brothers or sisters who were or would be five years old next fall to raise our hands. I raised mine, and just as she counted it, I was prompted to ask something. I hesitated a split second, thinking that I should not even bother her with such a question. But, as she counted my hand, I asked, “Does this school allow mongoloids?” When I heard the words, “No, I’m sorry,” I took my hand down, wondering numbly why they would not let my brother come to their school. My naiveté about David had been shattered.

As the years passed, David was continually shunned by the majority of the neighborhood children. They had been warned by fearful parents. More than once our front door was darkened by an irate mother who told my mother to keep David away from her young ones.

It often seemed that if I would look into his eyes, I could see him peering over his inner wall of quietness with the tender, smiling eyes of someone who really knows a great deal more than will ever be credited to him. I wished that I could step inside that wall and talk with him for just one hour.

These past years have seen my family pass through many sorrows because of David’s difference. But to say that his presence with us has been destructive would be false. Rather, his presence has been like a powerful steel cable strongly binding our family together. As a family we are close, and because David is a part of it, we have learned real love, sweet patience, a pure and undefiled faith, and a tender, guileless approach to life. Still a child, even though he has passed into the age of adulthood, he continues in his innocent state. He is my brother. He is my friend. Heaven itself was granted to my family in this one single gift.

I know that in the bright hereafter I will finally be allowed to pass through David’s wall. I hope he will take me by the hand and sit with me, and I will ask him to share his world with me—his bit of heaven.

Several months ago, when my wife and I were visiting another country for various Church assignments, I woke up early one morning and looked blearily outside our hotel window. Down below on the busy street, I saw that a roadblock had been set up with a policeman stationed nearby to turn cars around as they reached the barrier. At first, only a few cars traveled along the road and were turned back. But as time went by and traffic increased, queues of cars began to build up.

From the window above, I watched as the policeman seemed to take satisfaction in his power to block the flow of traffic and turn people away. In fact, he seemed to develop a spring in his step, as if he might start doing a little jig, as each car approached the barrier. If a driver got frustrated about the roadblock, the policeman did not appear helpful or sympathetic. He just shook his head repeatedly and pointed in the opposite direction.

My friends, my fellow disciples on the road of mortal life, our Father’s beautiful plan, even His “fabulous” plan, is designed to bring you home, not to keep you out. No one has built a roadblock and stationed someone there to turn you around and send you away. In fact, it is the exact opposite. God is in relentless pursuit of you. He “wants all of His children to choose to return to Him,” and He employs every possible measure to bring you back.

Our loving Father oversaw the Creation of this very earth for the express purpose of providing an opportunity for you and for me to have the stretching and refining experiences of mortality, the chance to use our God-given moral agency to choose Him, to learn and grow, to make mistakes, to repent, to love God and our neighbour, and to one day return home to Him.

He sent His precious Beloved Son to this fallen world to live the full range of the human experience, to provide an example for the rest of His children to follow, and to atone and redeem. Christ’s great atoning gift removes every roadblock of physical and spiritual death that would separate us from our eternal home.

Everything about the Father’s plan for His beloved children is designed to bring everyone home.

What do God’s messengers, His prophets, call this plan in Restoration scripture? They call it the plan of redemption, the plan of mercy, the great plan of happiness, and the plan of salvation, which is unto all, “through the blood of mine Only Begotten.”

The intent of the Father’s great plan of happiness is your happiness, right here, right now, and in the eternities. It is not to prevent your happiness and cause you instead worry and fear.

The intent of the Father’s plan of redemption is in fact your redemption, your being rescued through the sufferings and death of Jesus Christ, freed from the captivity of sin and death. It is not to leave you as you are.

The intent of the Father’s plan of mercy is to extend mercy as you turn back to Him and honour your covenant of fidelity to Him. It is not to deny mercy and inflict pain and sorrow.

The intent of the Father’s plan of salvation is in fact your salvation in the celestial kingdom of glory as you receive “the testimony of Jesus” and offer your whole soul to Him. It is not to keep you out.

Does this mean anything goes with regard to how we live our lives? That the way we choose to use our agency doesn’t matter? That we can take or leave God’s commandments? No, of course not. Surely one of Jesus’s most consistent invitations and pleas during His mortal ministry was that we change and repent and come unto Him. Fundamentally implicit in all of His teachings to live on a higher plane of moral conduct is a call to personal progression, to transformative faith in Christ, to a mighty change of heart.

God wants for us a radical reorientation of our selfish and prideful impulses, the eviction of the natural man, for us to “go, and sin no more.”

If we believe the intent of the Father’s all-reaching plan is to save us, redeem us, extend mercy to us, and thereby bring us happiness, what is the intent of the Son through whom this great plan is brought about?

The Son tells us Himself: “For I came down from heaven, not to do mine own will, but the will of him that sent me.”

Jesus’s will is the benevolent Father’s will! He wants to make it possible for every last one of His Father’s children to receive the end goal of the plan—eternal life with Them. None is excluded from this divine potential.

If you are prone to worry that you will never measure up, or that the loving reach of Christ’s infinite Atonement mercifully covers everyone else but not you, then you misunderstand. Infinite means infinite. Infinite covers you and those you love.

Nephi explains this beautiful truth: “He doeth not anything save it be for the benefit of the world; for he loveth the world, even that he layeth down his own life that he may draw all men unto him. Wherefore, he commandeth none that they shall not partake of his salvation.”

The Saviour, the Good Shepherd, goes in search of His lost sheep until He finds them. He is “not willing that any should perish.”

“Mine arm of mercy is extended towards you, and whosoever will come, him will I receive.”

“Have ye any that are sick among you? Bring them hither. Have ye any that are lame, or blind, or halt, or maimed, or leprous, or that are withered, or that are deaf, or that are afflicted in any manner? Bring them hither and I will heal them, for I have compassion upon you.”

He did not cast away the woman with the issue of blood; He did not recoil from the leper; He did not reject the woman taken in adultery; He did not refuse the penitent—no matter their sin. And He will not refuse you or those you love when you bring to Him your broken hearts and contrite spirits. That is not His intent or His design, nor His plan, purpose, wish, or hope.

No, He does not put up roadblocks and barriers; He removes them. He does not keep you out; He welcomes you in. His entire ministry was a living declaration of this intent.

Then of course there is His atoning sacrifice itself, which is harder for us to understand, beyond our mortal capacity to comprehend. But, and this is an important “but,” we do understand, can comprehend, the holy, saving intent of His atoning sacrifice.

The veil of the temple was rent in twain when Jesus died upon the cross, symbolising that access back to the presence of the Father had been ripped wide open—to all who will turn to Him, trust Him, cast their burdens on Him, and take His yoke upon them in a covenant bond.

In other words, the Father’s plan is not about roadblocks. It never was; it never will be. Are there things we need to do, commandments to keep, aspects of our natures to change? Yes. But with His grace, those are within our reach, not beyond our grasp.

This is the good news! I am unspeakably grateful for these simple truths. The Father’s design, His plan, His purpose, His intent, His wish, and His hope are all to heal you, all to give you peace, all to bring you, and those you love, home. Of this I am a witness in the name of Jesus Christ, His Son, amen.

In my late teens I joined the Church against the wishes of my family. When I was in my 20s, I began working on my family history after my father passed away. Soon after, I became a busy wife and mother raising young children, and the family history work stopped.
Because I didn’t have any family in the Church, I had a strong desire to research my family history. I loved doing it and always longed to have more time to work on it.
When I was 33, my life took an unexpected turn when my health began to decline. Where I once was able to hike with my family, taking a walk around the block became difficult. Cleaning house in two hours on a Saturday became impossible, and I was just happy if I could get through vacuuming. Where I once had a large circle of friends, now my circle of friends declined because I could no longer be there for them as I had in the past.
It was at this time that I began to take up my family history again. My daughter began doing research for her dad’s side and in one evening completed work that had taken me years to do. I completed several generations on my line and submitted the names to the temple for the work to be completed. I had always wanted to go through the temple for my family members myself, but my health and the distance from the temple made it impossible.
After submitting the names, I began to cry, feeling like I had let my family members down since I wouldn’t be there with them on the special day the ordinances were done for them. A week later as I logged on to FamilySearch.org to check the progress of their temple work, I saw something amazing. Not only was the work being completed, but members in the Accra Ghana Temple were doing the work! I was so surprised to see members halfway around the world completing temple work for my little family. I burst into tears again thinking of the sacrifices of the people in Ghana as they made their way to the temple for my family. I am so grateful for those members of the Accra Ghana Temple district who did what I could not: attend the temple and grant my family the blessing of temple ordinances.

A recent missionary-for-a-day activity conducted by the young people in the Renton Washington Stake resulted in five baptisms in two states as the result of one referral.
Heidi Vikari and Claudia Judd of the Renton Third Ward were assigned a tracting district in an older part of the town. The two took copies of the Book of Mormon and knocked on 15 doors that day, and at the last one, a woman responded to the message. She and a nine-year-old son were taught and baptized. She then referred the missionaries to a brother in Oregon, who also accepted the gospel. He, in turn, sent missionaries to another couple who also joined the Church.
Thus, within three months of knocking on doors in the stake’s semiannual missionary-for-a-day program, one contact resulted in five baptisms.

One such opportunity came unexpectedly. My companion and I were once “trapped” in a room surrounded by ministers from another church who were trying to discredit our teachings. We refused to contend with them and silently prayed for a way to escape. Then, a seminary lesson came to mind. I asked them, “How would you describe the taste of salt to someone who has never tasted it?” Some tried but could not do so, until one finally said, “It’s simple—just taste it!” I then held up my copy of the Book of Mormon and asked, “Has any of you read this book?” No one raised their hand or responded in the affirmative. Only silence ensued. That gave us the opportunity to bear our testimonies and invite them to read it for themselves. The encounter ended peacefully, and word of it spread in the community, opening doors that had previously been closed to us.

When I was 14, I was called to be a family history youth consultant. My family history class during Sunday School inspired me to find my great-grandfather’s parents on my mom’s side.
Every Sunday I did a little more work, going through records and searching for connections to my great-great-grandfather, William Aldred Thomas. But after a year with no results, I felt discouraged. I wanted to give up. But then one afternoon, I felt a distinct prompting to search for Francina Christina Meyer, his wife.
Several records came up that confirmed a connection to my great-great-grandparents. I was so happy—I had finally found my family! My home was full of indescribable joy. More names connected to the Thomas line were found, and my brother and I have been baptized and confirmed for five generations of that line—all because of perseverance and a single, special prompting!
This experience has been a tremendous blessing and testimony to me of the importance of family history work. I know that our family members on the other side will help us find them and that this work truly brings light into our lives.
Savannah B., Alberta, Canada