Gospel Story Finder

Growing up, living the gospel felt simple. I trusted my parents and leaders, and they guided me and helped me make good choices.
But as I’ve reached young adulthood, I’ve learned that we can often face difficulties and challenges in life that will test our faith.
When my grandmother passed away unexpectedly, my family and I faced one of these difficult times. It made me stop and question, “If God is good, why would He take someone good from our lives?”
My grandma was our pillar. She was kind, caring, and charitable—a mother to everyone. She welcomed everyone into our home. Neighborhood kids who played in the street in front of our house would eat dinner with us because she had a plate of food for everyone.
So when she died, I struggled with my faith.
Amid all my grief, even though I wasn’t looking to find answers in the gospel or in God, I still prayed every day. At first, my prayers were monotonous. I asked for the same things. I was grateful for the same things.
But as time passed, there was one question in my heart that I finally asked Heavenly Father:
“How can I find peace?”
A friend was the answer to that sincere prayer.
Thanks to him, I started attending church again. He invited me to come with him, and I agreed to go, just because he was my friend. I wasn’t interested in participating.
But little by little, just because I was there, the gospel messages began to enter my heart. I saw that Heavenly Father has a plan for us. President Russell M. Nelson taught:
“Eternal perspective provides peace ‘which passeth all understanding.’ (Philippians 4:7.) …
“Life does not begin with birth, nor does it end with death.”
Though I still mourn for my grandma, the gospel of Jesus Christ provides me with peace and the reassurance that we will one day be reunited.
I also learned that it takes constant and daily effort to remember my baptismal covenant and listen to the guiding voice of the Spirit. I began to treasure the gift of the Holy Ghost in my life. I know He is always with me, through every difficulty I face.
I’m so grateful for a friend who noticed I was pulling away from the gospel and reached out to support me. As I continued attending church, institute, and other young adult activities, I grew closer with more young adults in my area who were all seeking to love one another and live the gospel of Jesus Christ.
President Nelson also taught:
“Latter-day Saints, as with other followers of Jesus Christ, are always looking for ways to help, to lift, and to love others. They who are willing to be called the Lord’s people ‘are willing to bear one another’s burdens, … to mourn with those that mourn; … and [to] comfort those that stand in need of comfort’ [Mosiah 18:8–9].
“They truly seek to live the first and second great commandments. When we love God with all our hearts, He turns our hearts to the well-being of others in a beautiful, virtuous cycle.”
Helping me bear my burdens was exactly what my fellow disciples in my ward did for me and what they continue to do for one another. I sincerely love those in my ward! We get together often, we support each other, and we minister to one another. When someone needs a job, we help each other look for opportunities. When new people visit our Sunday meetings, we welcome them and try to make them feel included.
Good friends have helped me grow strong in the gospel, and together, we are strong against the trials and temptations of life.
And just as good friends supported me when I needed it most, I now have the opportunity to be that friend to others. At times when I’ve noticed people I love are struggling or have been distancing themselves from the Church, I do what I can to keep supporting and inviting them—to remind them that the Lord loves them and is waiting for them to return to the covenant path.
I know I wouldn’t be where I am today without my wonderful friends and ward members who helped me have the courage to stay faithful when I was feeling so much grief.

And their help doesn’t go unappreciated. “I’m a widow, and usually I’ve bought my wood,” says Nedra Baughman, who received some wood last year. She was surprised one day to find a truck and some of the youth from the ward in front of her home. “There they were, two unloading the wood, some splitting it and others stacking it,” she says. “I was overwhelmed. It makes you feel humble and very grateful.”

Some years ago I read an article entitled “Bind on Thy Sandals.” It told of a quarterback on the football team of a small, rural high school. This young man managed to make the team, but it was clear that he was not going to be all-state or all-American. In fact, he was the fourth of four quarterbacks.
By the last game of the season, he had never been called into a game, and he had given up all hope of playing. During the final game of the year he decided to relax and enjoy himself, so he pulled off his shoes, wrapped himself in a blanket, and settled down on the bench to watch his buddies play.
Midway through the game he heard the coach shout his name. He was startled and wondered if he had been mistaken. Then the coach called again, “Hey, you! Get in there and move the ball!”
What should he do? He wanted to say, “Wait, coach, while I put on my shoes.” But instead, he made straight for the huddle, his white-stockinged feet conspicuous to the players, the spectators, and the coach.
He was obviously confused as he called his first play, and by the time he took the snap from center, he had forgotten which play he had called. While his teammates moved to the right, he went left, where he was swallowed up in the snarl of onrushing linemen.
He said later, “No one expected me to make a touchdown. Even running the wrong way was understandable. But there was no excuse for a quarterback without shoes.” (See Improvement Era, September 1969, page 44.)

In 1920, then-Elder David O. McKay of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles began a yearlong tour of the missions of the Church. By May 1921, he was standing in a small cemetery in Fagali‘i, Samoa, before the well-tended graves of three small children, the daughter and two sons of Thomas and Sarah Hilton. These little ones—the oldest was two—died during the time Thomas and Sarah served as a young missionary couple in the late 1800s.

Before he left Utah, Elder McKay promised Sarah, now a widow, that he would visit her children’s graves in Samoa as she had never been able to return there. Elder McKay wrote back to her, “Your three little ones, Sister Hilton, in silence most eloquent … carry on your noble missionary work begun nearly thirty years ago.” Then he added a verse of his own composition:
By loving hands their dying eyes were closed,
By loving hands their little limbs composed,
By foreign hands their humble graves adorned,
By strangers honor’d, and by strangers mourned.

This story is but one of thousands, hundreds of thousands, that speak of the time, treasure, and lives sacrificed over the last 200 years to share the message of the Restoration.

Note from police officer Michael Terry: On an early fall morning, while I was on patrol, I received a call that would profoundly alter my life. It became a defining moment, molding my perspective on the kind of priesthood holder I aspired to be—always in a state of worthiness to uphold the priesthood and always prepared to serve the Lord. The following story is a testament to the blessings the Lord provides when we have faith in Him and trust His will.
After yet another marathon day at the office, I made my way home as the city’s lights dimmed. Pausing at a stop sign, lost in thought, I was jolted back to reality with a thunderous BOOM—the sharp impact of a car crashing into mine from behind.
Fortunately, both I and the man who hit me seemed unharmed. We called the local police to file a report, and some caring friends happened upon the scene to check on us. After exchanging our information, the other driver and I went on our way.
As I drove away from the accident site, I didn’t realize I wasn’t just leaving behind shattered glass and metal. The life I had known—my daily routines, household tasks, work projects, and the simple joy of moving without restraint—was about to shift dramatically. This would become my most profound trial of faith, challenging me like nothing had before. While the path ahead was unknown to me, my Heavenly Father had seen it all along, and I was about to discover what lay in store.
The next day, a quiet Saturday, found my husband at work, leaving just the children and me at home. They lost themselves in their play, while I grappled with a persistent headache. Yet the responsibilities of motherhood don’t pause for discomfort. That day, I seemed to be on a mission of some sort: every corner of the house was cleaned, every pile of laundry tackled. Looking back on that day, I realize it was the hand of the Lord guiding me, pushing me to prepare and fortify my family for the challenges ahead.
Sunday’s dawn brought with it a stillness. As my husband, Don, headed out to work at Temple Square for his Church security detail, he gently kissed me goodbye, perhaps not realizing that I was anchored to the bed. As the morning wore on and the time for church drew near, a growing alarm took hold of me. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t sit up, roll over, or even shift my position. I was paralyzed in place.
What I didn’t know was that the minor fender bender had caused a carotid dissection—a tear in the lining of my carotid artery, which led to the formation of a blood clot. A day or so later, that clot traveled to my brain, causing a stroke. My right side was paralyzed, and I couldn’t move at all. I didn’t realize at the time I had suffered a stroke; I thought I had simply slept on my arm the wrong way.
That Sunday morning, my children were getting ready for church, and they assumed I was just sleeping in. My two daughters, Ashlee and Alyssa, came to my bedroom, expecting to see me preparing for church. Instead, they found me lying on the floor, stuck between the bed and the night table, unable to move or speak. While I was trying to talk, nothing came out. In my mind, I was telling them I was OK, but no sound escaped my lips.
In that terrifying moment, they realized the severity of the situation. I heard the sharp, terrified cries of my daughters: “Call 911!” Their panic mirrored my own internal turmoil as I grasped the gravity of their concern.
The terror evident in their voices pierced through me, causing an ache deeper than any physical pain. To them, the sight was terrifying: their mother, usually strong and responsive, now rendered motionless and mute. Inside, I tried to reassure them, silently pleading, “I’m OK; it’s going to be all right. Please don’t cry. I’m here.” But my attempts at comfort remained silent.
Familiar faces soon filled the room: the paramedics, recognizable figures from our tight-knit community; my soon-to-be son-in-law, Trevor Brady, whose concern was palpable; and a young police officer, Mike Terry. Mike is a longtime family friend who, by divine intervention, had been dispatched to the scene. They were frantically trying to lift me from the floor, where I had collapsed in my attempt to rise from the bed.
Despite their help, the gravity of the situation made me feel isolated and overwhelmed. But suddenly the room settled into a hushed calm. These two devoted men, Trevor and Mike, stepped up to their sacred duty. In the exercise of their priesthood authority, they laid their hands upon my head and gave me a blessing. As they began, a profound sense of peace enveloped me, a tranquility I hadn’t felt until that point. I recognized this as the special role and spiritual power given to them from a loving Heavenly Father. Their actions reminded me of the words from Doctrine and Covenants 42:44, 48, reinforcing my belief in the potential for healing:
“The elders of the church, two or more, shall be called, and shall pray for and lay their hands upon them in my name. …
“… He that hath faith in me to be healed, and is not appointed unto death, shall be healed.”
While the words they uttered have since faded from my memory, one thing remains clear: the moment they began the blessing, the atmosphere in the room transformed. The weight of anxiety lifted, and it was as if a divine assurance whispered that everything would unfold as it should. I felt immensely grateful to these two selfless servants of our Heavenly Father, whose sincere and worthy actions bestowed upon me a blessing filled with profound love and hope.
I felt assurance that my Heavenly Father was in control. I sensed the love, concern, and compassion coming from these two Melchizedek Priesthood holders, empowered with the authority to bless. From that moment, I relinquished my worries and concerns, entrusting them to my Father in Heaven, confident in His divine guidance and protection. This blessing became a beacon, guiding me to surrender my worries to the Lord, secure in the belief that He would oversee everything.
“Masarvelous” was the first thing Amy said upon regaining the ability to speak and taking a sip of soda. The term has since become a symbol of faith and gratitude for the family.
After three months in the hospital, supplemented with rigorous therapy, I gradually regained my ability to speak and walk, albeit with the aid of a cane and a leg brace.
Today my right arm is still paralyzed, and I have limited functionality in my right leg. Yet in the grand scheme of things, these challenges seem minuscule compared to the overwhelming gratitude I feel for simply being alive. The car accident and resulting stroke have undeniably altered the course of my life, bringing about growth and deepened appreciation for each day.
I attribute the progress in my recovery to the divine intervention of my Heavenly Father and my Savior, Jesus Christ, and of course to the two devoted men who, in their worthiness, exercised priesthood authority to bless me. This blessing not only shifted the trajectory of my health but also enriched my life in ways I never could have imagined. My heart swells with gratitude, a sentiment that I hope to carry with me for a lifetime.
Officer Michael Terry greeting Amy Casey.
The author lives in Utah.

I just finished reading “A Conversation on Things of the Spirit, Pornography, and Certain Kinds of Movies, Books, and Magazines” [May]. I truly appreciate the honesty and perspective with which Dr. Victor Cline and the interviewing students discussed sex, pornography, violence, and our spiritual well-being. This is the most effective article I have read concerning these subjects. From my experience, I can say that pornography is frighteningly addictive. My personal campaign to control my thoughts and reactions sprang from the “instinctual desire to regain my sensitivity to the Lord.” I am thankful that the Holy Ghost and the words and spirit of this article have given me the courage to continue my struggle for dedication to the Lord and peace of mind. A grateful subscriber, I’m a single male, twenty-six years old.
Name Withheld

Earlier this year I attended the funeral of an extraordinary ordinary man—my husband’s uncle Don. One of Uncle Don’s sons shared an experience he had as a small child, shortly after his parents had purchased their first home. Because there were five small children to feed and clothe, there was not enough money to fence the yard. Taking seriously one of his divine roles as the protector of his family, Uncle Don drove a few small wooden stakes into the ground, took some string, and tied the string from stake to stake all around the yard. He then called his children to him. He showed them the stakes and string and explained to them that if they would stay on the inside of that makeshift fence, they would be safe.

One day the visiting teachers watched in disbelief as they approached the house and saw five little children standing obediently at the edge of the string, looking longingly at a ball that had bounced beyond their boundaries and out into the street. One little child ran to get their daddy, who, in response, ran and retrieved the ball.

Later in the funeral, the oldest son tearfully expressed that all he had ever hoped in this life was to be like his beloved father.

When President Smith was a boy, a doctor told him to drink _______________ to help him recover from a serious illness. He asked for a blessing, instead. He felt better by the next day and was glad that he had kept the Word of Wisdom.

Carter opened the back door and felt the wind blow him into the house. Brrr! He reached into his pocket. There it was—the money Sister Campbell had given him for shoveling snow.
“Hey, Madison,” Carter called to his sister. “Look what I have for the Christmas jar!”
“Cool,” Madison said. She reached on top of the fridge for the jar. Last year, when their jar was full of money, they’d left it on the front porch of a family whose father had lost his job.
Madison handed him the jar, and they both frowned at the coins inside.
“Where did all the money go?” Carter asked. “There’s barely anything in there.”
“There hasn’t been much all year,” Madison said.
Carter nodded. He knew money was tight for their family this year. “It’s almost Christmas,” he said. “What are we going to do?”
That night Mom got down the almost-empty jar. “Dad and I have been talking about Christmas and how we won’t have as many gifts this year,” she said.
“That’s OK,” Carter said.
“Yeah, we’ll still get presents from our aunts and uncles,” said Carter’s sister Kennedy.
“Well, actually,” Dad said, “we’ve been thinking about a new way to help others who have less than we do.”
“We thought we could ask Aunt Stephanie and Uncle J.J. to join us in giving this year,” Mom said. “We would use the money we would have spent on gifts for each other’s families and buy presents for a family in need instead.”
“You mean we won’t get anything for Christmas?” Kennedy asked.
“We’ll still have some presents,” Dad said. “But more important, we’ll have the gift of helping someone else.”
On Saturday the whole family—aunts, uncles, grandparents, and a few cousins—met to go shopping.
“Kennedy and Carter, we’ll shop for the little girl. She’s seven,” Mom said.
They walked past the sleds and scooters. Carter tried not to think about how much he would like to open those toys on Christmas morning. Instead, he picked out a pretty doll for the little girl.
Back at home, Carter couldn’t wait to show Grandma and Grandpa what they had found. “We got some boots and a doll and some pink gloves too!” he said.
“Very nice,” Grandma said.
“Never saw you get so excited about shopping before,” Grandpa laughed.
On Christmas Eve, Carter looked at the small pile of presents under the tree. Then he thought of all the gifts for the little girl, wrapped in shiny paper. He imagined her smile when she saw them under her own tree.
Just then Carter heard a knock on the front door. He jumped up to open it.
“Hi, Bishop Black,” Carter said. “Come in.”
The bishop stepped into the front room, smiling. He held a bag in his arms.
“This is from some people in the ward,” the bishop said, handing the sack to Dad. “We all love your family so much, and we want to wish you a merry Christmas.”
“Thank you,” Dad said. His eyes were filling with tears, and Mom was crying too.
Carter could hardly wait until the bishop was out the door to ask, “What’s in the bag? Can we peek?”
“We’ll see on Christmas,” Mom said. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”
“But what’s more wonderful,” Dad said, “is that other people care about us and want to help.”
“Like we helped that little girl,” Carter said.
“Right,” Mom said. “Because helping each other, and remembering how Jesus helps us, is what Christmas is all about.”

That night, as I was climbing the stairs to go to bed, I peeked over the wooden railing to find my mother sitting on the couch. Right then I wanted to tell her that I loved her. It was so hard to even think about saying it. After searching my mind for the words to express myself to her, I just blurted it out, “Mom, I love you!”
It was silent, as quiet as it would be after someone had screamed. I couldn’t tell what she was feeling by the expression on her face. Her big brown eyes filled with tears, the first time I had ever seen my mother’s emotions. With her arms outstretched, she said, “I love you, too.”
Seeing her cry made me want to cry. I ran to her, throwing my arms around her. I never wanted to let go. I couldn’t squeeze hard enough. My heart was full to overflowing as my eyes filled with tears of gratitude. As the tears quietly rolled down my cheeks, I thought of the privilege that was mine to have her as my mother.
I will never forget that. I still remember that night in detail. We talked for two solid hours. It felt so good to let all of my feelings out.

Read for Me, Mama Joseph loves to have stories read to him, especially by his librarian and his neighbor. Mama tells wonderful stories but always seems to be too busy to read to him. One day, Joseph learns why Mama never reads to him, and Mama needs his help.Vashanti Rahaman, illustrated by Lori McElrath-Eslick6–9 years

Kurt is my neighbor, and he farms. And Kurt said if it kept raining and the land did not drain, the gardens would be ruined. Each day I surveyed the garden and watched as the berry and fruit leaves darkened, and then blackened, and was reminded again that sun and rain, and their coming and going, are out of my control. Once again I was reminded that it takes faith to plant—and to be planted. All conditions and circumstances in life cannot be controlled—influenced at times, but controlled, no! So the faith to adapt and grow in the places where we are planted or have planted ourselves becomes critical.

BUMP! CRASH!
Splitfoot staggered back from the blow. His mother—twelve hundred pounds of angry moose—glared at him. She had just struck him with her broad chest.
Splitfoot, only a year old, waggled his big ears. The blow had not hurt him, but he was puzzled. What’s happening? he wondered. Why is she driving me away?
His mother rejoined her newborn calf a short distance away. The calf, a reddish colored male, had arrived in the world two days before and was still wobbly. He nuzzled his mother’s flanks, wanting to nurse.
It was mid-May, and the north country had lost its winter drabness. The foliage was green, and leaves were budding. Splitfoot nibbled at a tuff of fresh grass, but he wasn’t really hungry. He watched his mother and the calf furtively from a clump of spruce trees.
For a year now, his place had been by her side. She was his protector and his strength, so it was only natural for him to want to remain close to her. He started toward her again, trying not to be obvious. While he grazed, he kept angling closer to his parent. But Splitfoot couldn’t fool his mother. When he was about twenty feet away from her, she charged. This time she really smacked him, knocking him down. Then his mother ran off a little way, her hackles raised. She bawled and growled menacingly.
When Splitfoot arose, she charged him again, leaving him sprawled on the ground. This time he just lay still, rolling his brown eyes. His mother trotted back to her calf, where she stood guard. She was nearsighted, as are all moose, but she could see her unwanted son well enough.
Splitfoot lay quietly for a few minutes more, then he climbed painfully to his feet. The last blows had really jarred him. He moved back to the protective spruce trees and studied his mother. Although his eyesight, too, was less than perfect, his ears and nose were keen. He knew every move his mother and the newborn were making. Splitfoot was learning what all yearling moose must learn: they are not welcome when a new calf is born. His mother might have accepted his company for another year had it not been for the calf. But, by instinct, she was so protective of her helpless new offspring that she distrusted every other creature, even her oldest son.
For the rest of the day, Splitfoot sulked in the trees. Toward evening, he went to a nearby pond for a drink. After ducking his head under the surface for a mouthful of succulent lily roots, he went back to try to find his mother. But she and the calf were gone. He searched for hours but never found them.
Now Splitfoot would be on his own for the rest of his life. It wouldn’t be so bad, however, because he had been prepared by nature for what lay ahead. He had thirty-two good teeth, and he knew what to eat. His mother had long before weaned him. Though only a year old, he was strong. This strength would help him escape enemies he couldn’t fight. Later that summer several wolves chased him. He managed to keep ahead of them until he came to a lake. Though he hadn’t had much practice, he plunged in and swam all the way across to safety. Few animals of the north have more stamina.
Splitfoot learned during the next few years who his enemies were, especially wolves, bears, and men. Deep snow was also an enemy. It was difficult to escape wolf packs while plunging chest deep through snowdrifts. And in wintertime, storms covered willows and cottonwood branches with ice, making it hard for him to eat. The ice cut his gums, turning his mouth bloody and raw. During one long cold spell when everything remained frozen, Splitfoot nearly starved—some moose did.
In the summertime, the mosquitos were a great nuisance. Great swarms of them stung his nose and tender lips. They dove at his eyes and buzzed in his ears until he dashed through the forest crazily to escape them. But in spite of all these hazards, he survived.
In his third year, the young moose grew his first spread of antlers. He also felt that he should take a mate. But older and stronger bulls drove him away from the females.
When he was four, he did manage to mate. But first there was a terrific battle with another male who also wanted the female. They charged each other head on, their antlers cracking like thunder on impact. They shook the ground, and their eyes flashed red with anger. They tore up the ground and snapped young trees like twigs. The battle lasted for an hour, then the rival moose gave up. Splitfoot was victor. It was the first of many such battles he would have.
After he mated, Splitfoot remained with his bride for only a short time. He was not content with only one mate, like the wolf, and in a couple of years would have a large harem.
When Splitfoot was seven years old, he came into his full powers. He weighed eighteen hundred pounds, measured over six feet high at the shoulders, and was nearly nine feet long. His antlers weighed eighty pounds and had a spread of seventy-five inches. He was deep-chested, with muscles that rippled under his dark-colored hide. Splitfoot was a king among his kind.
In December he would shed his antlers. This left him without an important weapon for defense. But that didn’t stop him from fearlessly roaming his fifty-square-mile range.
Splitfoot would live for twenty years, a long time in the wilderness. But to do that, he had to outwit hunters, outrace wolves, and outlast ice storms. He didn’t worry about any of these difficulties, though, but took the days as they came.

I once met a young sailor who was a member of the crew of an atomic submarine based in Scotland. He was the only member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the crew. The submarine would go on long trips taking many weeks. As this young Church member was assigned to his station on his first cruise, he found that other crewmen had covered the walls in his area with improper pictures of women with very little clothing on. This offended him. He took all the pictures down and destroyed them. He was conscious of the probable reaction of the other men but, nevertheless, had the courage to do what he thought he should. Not one picture was put up again. As a matter of fact, on that first cruise, he began to teach a Sunday School class attended by two or three of the other men. He learned an important lesson—generally speaking, others will show respect for one who has the courage of his or her convictions and isn’t afraid to do what he feels is right.

Few are aware of the pure Christian service being administered at refugee camps in Thailand and in the Philippines by our missionary sisters. Basically, these sisters are restricted to teaching the English language and Western culture, but there is a deeper teaching that takes place through their pure love and sweet attitude toward these displaced people.
The story is told of a young camp refugee from Cambodia who was relocated in California. He found his way into one of our Church meetinghouses because the name of the Church on the sign out front corresponded with the one he used to look at each day on the name tag of the wonderful missionary sister who taught him at the camp. People don’t soon forget acts of simple kindness. Pure love can transcend all differences.

Just a few weeks ago, in Guatemala City, Guatemala, I witnessed a modern miracle—even the result of God’s guidance given to His servants and the blessing of His people.

At a regional conference, almost twelve thousand members filled the Estadio del Ejercito, the local soccer stadium. The sun bathed with its rays the large gathering, while the Spirit of the Lord filled every heart. This was a day of thanksgiving, marking the forty-second anniversary of the arrival of the first missionaries to that land. John Forres O’Donnal spoke to the vast throng. He it was who, in 1946, stood alone as the only member of the Church in that nation. Personally importuning then President George Albert Smith, Brother O’Donnal facilitated the entry of the first missionaries. His wife, Carmen Galvez de O’Donnal, became the first convert and was baptized on November 13, 1948. This day of conference, as throughout the years of their marriage, she sat by her husband’s side.

2 I can’t do it, Sister Simon. Jason Edwards makes fun of me every day. How can I love him? I hate him!
3 Joshua, every commandment is given to us for our own good. Hate is a heavy burden to carry, and Jesus is inviting you to lay it down. But you’re trying to do the hardest part of the commandment first. Do you think you could start out by just praying for Jason?
I’ll try.
4 Please bless Jason, Heavenly Father. Help him stop being so mean. I mean, if he’s hurting somehow, please help him feel better.
5 Hey, Miller! Is it painful being that ugly?
Actually, I feel great, Jason. Thanks for asking, though.
6 What’s gotten into him?

My companion handed me an envelope and said, “Sister Jones, I think this is for you.” I looked at the return address and was pleased to see my cousin’s name printed neatly in the corner. I had just been transferred to a new city from the other side of southern France and didn’t think anyone back home in the United States was aware of my new address. I opened the envelope and read a short note in which my cousin said that she had recently received an e-mail from her French pen pal after eight years of no contact.
My cousin explained that although she and Céline had received each other’s address in their high school French and English classes, respectively, they had never actually written to each other. My cousin was therefore very surprised to receive Céline’s e-mail. She didn’t know if Céline lived in southern France where I was serving, but she included her name and address, asking me to contact her if possible.
Because I was new to the area, I handed the note to my companion and asked her if my cousin’s pen pal lived in the mission. “Not only does she live within mission boundaries,” she responded, “she lives in our district!” Excitedly, we called Céline to introduce ourselves, and she agreed to meet with us. We took the short train ride to Montauban.
As we stepped off the train, we were greeted warmly by Céline and her parents. They invited us to their home and asked us to share our message. As we taught them about the Book of Mormon and the Prophet Joseph Smith, the Spirit bore witness of the truthfulness of the restored gospel. The family expressed their appreciation for the values taught by the Church, and after a lengthy discussion we left them with a copy of the Book of Mormon, a prayer, and a promise to return.
That was the first of several visits with Céline and her family. My mission ended while they were still in the process of learning about the Church, but before I said good-bye to Céline, I asked her why she had decided to contact my cousin after eight years. Her response surprised me: “When I was cleaning out a drawer, I came across her address on a small piece of paper I thought I’d lost. I felt strongly that I needed to write to her.”
On the way home to our apartment I gazed out the train window and marveled at how a loving Father allowed a lost address to be found and an old connection to be made at the very time I was unexpectedly transferred to a new city for the last six weeks of my mission. He is mindful of all and will make miracles happen, even with such a small and simple thing as a pen pal’s address.

Continuing his discourse, President Woodruff told of his missionary experiences. He said: “In the time of the apostasy in Kirtland … the Spirit of God said to me, ‘You choose a partner and go straight to Fox Islands.’ Well, I knew no more what was on Fox Islands than what was on Kolob. But the Lord told me to go, and I went. I chose Jonathan H. Hale, and he went with me. … Through the blessings of God I brought nearly a hundred from there up to Zion, at the time the Saints were driven out of Missouri into Illinois.

It was less than a century ago that most astronomers assumed that our Milky Way galaxy was the only galaxy in the universe.2 They supposed all that lay beyond our galaxy was an immense nothingness, an infinite void—empty, cold, and devoid of stars, light, and life.
As telescopes became more sophisticated—including telescopes that could be launched into space—astronomers began to grasp a spectacular, almost incomprehensible truth: the universe is mind-bogglingly bigger than anyone had previously believed, and the heavens are filled with numberless galaxies, unimaginably far away from us, each containing hundreds of billions of stars.3
In a very short period of time, our understanding of the universe changed forever.
Today we can see some of these distant galaxies.4
We know that they are there.
They have been there for a very long time.
But before mankind had instruments powerful enough to gather celestial light and bring these galaxies into visibility, we did not believe such a thing was possible.
The immensity of the universe didn’t suddenly change, but our ability to see and understand this truth changed dramatically. And with that greater light, mankind was introduced to glorious vistas we had never before imagined.