Gospel Story Finder

How in the world was I going to get out of this? I was 16 years old and had my first job in the food court of a local grocery store. Pretty safe job—or so I thought—until my boss asked me to dress up as a corn dog to promote a sale we were having. A corn dog!
Next thing I knew, I was in a costume walking around the store with a basketful of candy. I couldn’t hold the basket with two hands because the corn dog suit was so huge my arms couldn’t reach around to the front. Not only that, when kids would run up to the giant corn dog to get some candy, I couldn’t look down to see how many pieces of candy they were taking. I think they caught on quickly.
I was under strict orders not to talk while in this horrible costume. So when people asked if I was a banana, I couldn’t say anything to correct them. I came up with a solution. I put a nice big sign on my front stating, “I am a corn dog!” I was already beyond humiliation. At least no one could see my face.
Around the store I walked. I’m sure the kids thought I was pretty strange—a giant, silent, walking corn dog with an empty basket. But hey, I wasn’t a banana, so it could have been worse.
Then came the cruel laughter and the jabbing kicks from behind. I turned around and saw no one.
Kick! I turned around again. No one.
Kick! Kick! I whirled around as quickly as a corn dog could manage. No one again. Now the laughter was hysterical. Kick! Kick! Kick! Why was no one coming to rescue a poor, persecuted corn dog! Couldn’t they see the kids torturing me? I was miserable. I had to get out of there! So I waddled as quickly as I could back to the food court.
It was then that I saw him. A guy I liked was standing at the counter of the food court. I could hear him asking for me. No!
Then I saw my fellow employee, a girl who I thought was my friend, point in my direction. I turned around as quickly as I could and waddled back to where I had been so rudely kicked. Somehow that seemed so much better than being approached by the guy I liked and had tried so hard to impress. I moved as quickly as I could, cutting through the aisle and making my way back to the food court from the other direction. I had to get out of this thing. Just a few more waddles and I would be there.
I struggled to pull the giant corn dog off of my body. I was so completely miserable, so completely humiliated. I couldn’t go out there again.
How long had I been in the corn dog costume? An hour? Two hours? Three? I looked at the clock. Twenty minutes! How could so much misery, so much humiliation, so much horror fit into just 20 minutes?
I saw my boss approaching me. I pleaded with her to let me be finished. Couldn’t she see how tortured I was? She informed me that if I could find a replacement then I was off the hook. Who in their right mind would actually want to do this? But it was my only hope. I had to at least ask.
I approached the girl who had previously blown my cover. I tried to act like it hadn’t been that bad. I thought if she knew what she was getting into, she’d never agree. But she did. “It’ll be fun,” she told me.
“She won’t last long,” I thought.
Three hours later, she came back smiling. I couldn’t believe it. She actually enjoyed being a corn dog. I didn’t think it was possible.
I learned something valuable that day. I learned that we can choose to be happy, or we can choose to be unhappy. We were in the same situation, and she chose to enjoy it. I could have done that too. I could have laughed along with everyone else. I could have seen the humor in the situation and had an enjoyable time. Instead I chose to be miserable.
It’s the same thing with life. Our circumstances don’t choose for us. We choose. Even in the midst of challenging school assignments, lack of friends, chronic illness, or parents divorcing, we can choose to turn to Heavenly Father and discover that we can still find peace, even joy, in this life. I learned that day that choosing to be cheerful is much more enjoyable, even for a corn dog.

Andreia C., 17, Portugal
Right now, I’m a senior in high school, and this year I’m going to apply for college. When I’m old enough, I’m going to serve a mission. I can’t wait! I also love the color yellow, and I really like to sing, play the piano, draw, paint, and go on walks.
One of the most spiritual experiences I’ve ever had was quite simple, but it meant a lot to me. There was a time when I was going through some trials and each day I felt more and more incapable. I felt I should talk to Heavenly Father about it, so I did. I knelt down and spoke to Him as openly as possible. Once I finished praying, I opened the scriptures at random and I opened up to a scripture that really helped me with what I was going through at the time.
In my case, it usually takes me some time to find the answers to my prayers, but this experience was so important to me because it was the first time I received a direct answer. How the Spirit felt was really indescribable. After this experience, my testimony has definitely grown. It taught me that the Lord always answers our sincere prayers, even if it takes time.

The Lord Knew Where to Send Him
Prophets, seers, and revelators assign missionaries under the direction and influence of the Holy Ghost. Inspired mission presidents direct transfers every six weeks and quickly learn that the Lord knows exactly where He wants each missionary to serve.
A few years ago, Elder Javier Misiego, from Madrid, Spain, was serving a full-time mission in Arizona. At that time, his mission call to the United States appeared somewhat unusual, as most young men from Spain were being called to serve in their own country.
At the conclusion of a stake fireside, where he and his companion had been invited to participate, Elder Misiego was approached by a less-active member of the Church who had been brought by a friend. It was the first time this man had been inside a chapel in years. Elder Misiego was asked if he might know a José Misiego in Madrid. When Elder Misiego responded that his father’s name was José Misiego, the man excitedly asked a few more questions to confirm that this was the José Misiego. When it was determined that they were speaking about the same man, this less-active member began to weep. “Your father was the only person I baptized during my entire mission,” he explained and described how his mission had been, in his mind, a failure. He attributed his years of inactivity to some feelings of inadequacy and concern, believing that he had somehow let the Lord down.
Elder Misiego then described what this supposed failure of a missionary meant to his family. He told him that his father, baptized as a young single adult, had married in the temple, that Elder Misiego was the fourth of six children, that all three boys and a sister had served full-time missions, that all were active in the Church, and that all who were married had been sealed in the temple.
The less-active returned missionary began to sob. Through his efforts, he now learned, scores of lives had been blessed, and the Lord had sent an elder from Madrid, Spain, all the way to a fireside in Arizona to let him know that he had not been a failure. The Lord knows where He wants each missionary to serve. …
Elder W. Christopher Waddell of the Seventy

My father was like that. He was a scientist. He lectured to audiences in countries around the world. Once I read a talk he had given to a large scientific convention. In it he referred to creation and a Creator as he talked about his science. I knew that few, if any, in that audience would have shared his faith. So I said to him with wonder and admiration, “Dad, you bore your testimony.” He looked at me with surprise on his face and said, “Did I?”
He had not even known that he was being brave. He simply said what he knew was true. When he bore testimony, even those who rejected it knew it came not by design but because it was part of him. He was what he was, wherever he was.

Kieryn Murrin, a Laurel from the Sydney suburb of Oatley, loves to study history in school, especially ancient history.
“History is relevant to our lives,” she says. “It helps us know who we are.”
So it’s not surprising that Kieryn chose a history-related Laurel project. But the history she’s researching isn’t ancient. In fact, Kieryn doesn’t have to look much beyond the walls of her own home to learn more about her subject.
“When I was six and my sister Lyndal was eight, she became ill and died two weeks later. For my project I’m gathering and organizing things that have to do with her life,” she says.
As Kieryn has worked on her project, she has spent considerable time looking through the journals, photos, letters, cards, and school papers that the family kept when Lyndal died. It gives her a feeling of closeness to a sibling who has now been gone for nearly 10 years.
“We always talked about Lyndal,” Kieryn says, “but as I’m working on this project I think of more specific questions to ask. I feel like I really understand a lot more about her and what she was like when she was alive.”
Kieryn says she not only feels closer to Lyndal, but also to the rest of her family, especially her mom (who has helped a great deal with the project) and her younger brother, Cameron.
“Knowing about the plan of salvation, and talking about it, is very important to our family,” says Kieryn.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, we were blessed to have hospice care for my husband, Claude, in our home. There, our children and I lovingly assisted in his care until he quietly slipped away to our heavenly home.
Earlier, Claude and I had prayed about whether to convert our screened-in patio into a hospice room, where we could fit everything he would need to feel comfortable. We received confirmation that we should proceed.
To remodel the patio, several workers needed access to our home. Fortunately, the patio had a back door, so the workers could go in and out without having to enter our home’s main living quarters. That was a great blessing during COVID-19 restrictions.
After Claude’s room was completed, nurses came daily. They were kind, loving, and knowledgeable about what we needed to do to keep Claude comfortable.
When I joined the Church, I was taught that every member of the Church is a missionary.1 Because I love sharing the gospel, I ordered three cases of the Book of Mormon, 24 books in each case. I vowed to give a book to every person who entered our home.
I marked important sections of each book with a business card I designed that featured a photo I took of the Salt Lake Temple. I also pasted my testimony onto the blank page at the front of each book. Then, before giving a book to a worker or a nurse, I explained to them what the Book of Mormon is.
I was pleasantly surprised by their reactions. Only one person refused to accept a book. Everyone else was interested in hearing about it. Some thanked me profusely, saying that they knew about the Book of Mormon and wanted one. Several people were so happy that they even hugged me.
I am convinced that this happened because every time I opened my mouth to speak about the Book of Mormon, the Holy Ghost was with me. I am confident that the workers and nurses could feel the Spirit. I gave away all 72 books, and I recently placed an order for 24 more.

A few years ago our family decided to hold a special fast for the victims of a faraway natural disaster. I proposed that after our fast, we give the coins in our savings jars to the Church’s humanitarian fund. We have two jars that we put coins in. One is a courtesy jar, and each time someone helps or does a kind deed, I put a coin in the jar. At the end of the year we normally use the money in this jar for a fun family activity. The other jar is a rudeness jar, and each time someone is grouchy or quarrels, he or she puts a coin in the rudeness jar. The money in this jar is donated to children in need.
When we began our fast, we also began to count our coins. Leonardo, age 9, then went and got his own bank. He took all of his money and some of his toys and said that he wanted to donate them too. Mariana, age 12, also got her money to add to the donation. Although the children had only a few dollars to give, it was all that they had.
Fasting is a sacrifice for Leonardo and Mariana, and so was giving up the jar money. But when they donated their own savings, I knew that they truly cared about Heavenly Father’s children suffering on the other side of the world.

A dozen years ago, in one of the countries of Africa, we had faithful members of the Church who had been meeting in their homes for several years. I went to that country to see if we could receive permission from the government to bring in missionaries and establish the Church. I met with a high-ranking government minister. He gave me 20 minutes to explain our position.
When I finished he said, “I do not see where anything you have told me is any different from what is currently available in our country. I see no reason to approve your request to bring missionaries into our country.”
He stood up to usher me out of his office. I was panic-stricken. I had failed. In a moment our meeting would be over. What could I do? I offered a silent prayer.
Then I had an inspired thought. I said to the minister, “Sir, if you will give me five more minutes, I would like to share one other thought with you. Then I will leave.” He kindly consented.
I reached for my wallet and removed this small For the Strength of Youth booklet, which I have always carried.
I said, “This is a little booklet of standards we give all of the youth in our Church.”
I then read some of the standards I have mentioned tonight. When I finished he said, “You mean to tell me you expect the youth of your church to live these standards?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and they do.”
“That is amazing,” he said. “Could you send me some of these booklets so that I could distribute them to the youth of my church?”
I replied, “Yes,” and I did.
Several months later we received official approval from the government of that country to come and establish the Church.

Our family lived for many years in the state of Florida. Because Florida has a high concentration of sand, lawns there are planted with a large broadleaf grass we call Saint Augustine. A formidable enemy of a Florida lawn is a small, brown insect called a mole cricket.
One evening as my neighbor and I stood on the front steps, he noticed a little bug crossing my sidewalk. “You better spray your lawn,” he warned. “There goes a mole cricket.” I had sprayed the lawn with insecticide not too many weeks previously, and I hardly felt that I had the time or money to do it again so soon.
In the light of the next morning, I examined my lawn closely. It was lush and beautifully green. I looked down into the grass to see if I could see any of the little bugs. I could see none. I remember thinking, Well, maybe that little mole cricket was just passing through my yard on the way to my neighbor’s yard.
I watched my lawn for more than a week, looking for signs of invaders, but none was evident. I congratulated myself that I had not overreacted to my neighbor’s warning.
The story, however, has a sad ending. I came out the front door one morning, about 10 days after the conversation with my neighbor. Shockingly, as if it had happened overnight, brown spots covered my lawn. I ran to the garden store, bought the insecticide, and sprayed immediately, but it was too late. The lawn was ruined, and to return it to its former state required a new crop of sod, long hours of work, and large expense.
My neighbor’s warning was central to my lawn’s welfare. He saw things I could not see. He knew something I did not know. He knew that mole crickets live underground and are active only at night, making my daytime examinations ineffective. He knew that mole crickets did not eat the leaves of the grass but rather found nourishment in the roots. He knew that these little inch-long creatures could eat a lot of roots before I would ever see the effect above the ground. I paid a dear price for my smug independence.

My name is Avery, and I am 13 years old. Even though I am still too young to go to seminary, my friends and I have found a fun way to prepare for it.
Every weekday morning, I wake up and get ready for school. Then I walk across the street to my friend’s house, and I meet up with two of my friends. Next we walk a little up the street to my Young Women leader’s house. We meet up with a few other friends, and we begin our walk over to the bus stop.
“OK,” I say, “today is my turn.” I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket and read it out loud. On it is a scripture I copied down the night before. I read it and ask my friends what they think it means. We talk about it until we reach the bus stop. We each take a turn during the week looking up a scripture or a quote.
I enjoy doing this every morning because it helps me in many ways: (1) I learn more about the terms and meanings in the scriptures, (2) I learn to ponder about the things I have read, and (3) I am able to use the things I learn every day.
We also challenge each other to read the Book of Mormon and to learn about the lives of the prophets. Even if you don’t go to seminary yet, there are still many ways to start your day off with the Spirit.

Let me illustrate. I am very concerned about the tendency of members to disregard the counsel of the bishop or, at the other extreme, to become overdependent upon him.
I decided to speak in general conference about the bishop.
I prayerfully prepared, and there came to mind a conversation from 50 years past. It served my need as a teacher—served it perfectly. I quote now that conversation just as I did in general conference:
“Years ago I served on a stake high council with Emery Wight. For 10 years Emery had served as bishop of rural Harper Ward. His wife, Lucille, became our stake Relief Society president.
“Lucille told me that one spring morning a neighbor called at her door and asked for Emery. She told him that he was out plowing. The neighbor then spoke with great concern. Earlier that morning he had passed the field and noticed Emery’s team of horses standing in a half-finished furrow with the reins draped over the plow. Emery was nowhere in sight. The neighbor thought nothing of it until much later when he passed the field again, and the team had not moved. He climbed the fence and crossed the field to the horses. Emery was nowhere to be found. He hurried to the house to check with Lucille.
“Lucille calmly replied, ‘Oh, don’t be alarmed. No doubt someone is in trouble and came to get the bishop.’
“The image of that team of horses standing for hours in the field symbolizes the dedication of the bishops in the Church and of the counselors who stand by their side. Every bishop and every counselor, figuratively speaking, leaves his team standing in an unfinished furrow when someone needs help.”3

In 1998 my father was suffering from a serious illness. A year earlier his leg had been amputated just above the knee. This resulted in various circulatory problems and a great deal of pain and infection. Finally the doctors determined that a portion of his femur—the thighbone—would also have to be amputated. We spent many days in deep concern and sadness.
Since my hometown is small and did not have the resources to treat such a serious health problem, my father went to a hospital in Marília, Brazil, where my sister lives, to be tested and receive aggressive treatment. Nothing seemed to help, however, and many days passed. I went to Marília to be with my parents, and we all sought to strengthen and comfort each other.
My parents were members of the Church, but I wasn’t. At times I had even acted against the Church and had denied the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. But every time I went to visit my father in the hospital, he spoke to me about only one thing: “Luisinho, find the missionaries for me! I need a blessing.” I had searched for the missionaries, but I couldn’t find them. Now time was getting short.
The day before he was to have surgery, I went to visit him again. That day we were particularly apprehensive. We knew the treatment had not been effective, and the next morning my father would have an X-ray to determine how high the doctor would have to amputate.
That day my father asked something different. He was sitting on his bed, putting on his prosthesis so he could go for a walk with my mom through the corridors of the hospital, checking on his friends who had had surgery that morning. As he stood up, he said, “Luisinho, go buy me some water please.”
I immediately went down the stairs and outside to search for a bottle of water. While I walked I saw a group of missionaries down the street. I forgot about the water. I started running after them, and the only word I could get out was “Elder!” They stopped, and I managed to explain my father’s situation.
When my mother and I left the hospital later that day, we saw Elder Alves and his companion enter to visit my father. And that night we received a telephone call from my father. He told us that the mission president had also been there, and my dad had finally received the blessing he wanted so much.
We spent the night wondering what would be the result of the X-ray the following morning. Nonetheless, something comforted us.
The next morning we awoke to the sound of the telephone. It was my father. “Come and get me,” he said. “I am free to go.” Joy overcame us as he explained that the nurse and doctor who examined him couldn’t understand what had happened. “What did you do during the night that caused your X-ray to come out so clean and your bone so perfect?” they asked.
When I remember that day, I feel more and more that the priesthood is real and that it is on the earth once again. Within three months, I had received a testimony and was baptized. Later I served in the Brazil Rio de Janeiro North Mission, sharing my testimony and my love for the things that I know are true.

Spencer W. Kimball was baptized in Arizona on March 28, 1903, in the tub used to clean off the bristles and dirt from slaughtered hogs. The tub was also used as the family’s bathtub. It was large enough for only one person, so his father stood outside the tub, which some people felt was not a correct way to baptize. To be sure that Spencer was properly baptized, he was baptized again, when he was twelve years old, in the Union Canal.

Gavin looked out the window. Big white snowflakes were falling softly to the ground. He grinned as he thought about all the fun he could have skiing and building snowmen. Gavin loved winter in Canada.
“Gavin?” Mom said.
Gavin blinked and turned back to the living room. It was family home evening, and the lesson was on service. But it was hard to pay attention!
Mom smiled. “I know you’re excited about the snow, but what are ways our family could help someone?”
Gavin looked out the window again. Snow was piling up on the driveways on his street. “Hey! What if we shoveled the Ramseys’ driveway?” he asked.
“Yeah!” Gavin’s big brother, Jensen, said. “They’d really like that.”
“That’s a great idea,” Dad said. “The Ramseys are getting older, and shoveling snow is hard for them.”
The next morning, Gavin’s family shoveled the Ramseys’ driveway. Gavin was glad they were doing it together. Even Gavin’s little sisters, Chloé and Kenzie, helped. The path Kenzie shoveled looked like a giant snake had slithered through the snow.
After scraping together the last pile of snow, Gavin gave his brother a high five. “We make a great team!” Jensen said.
“Yeah!” said Gavin. “We’re the Snow-Shovel Squad!”
After the next two snowstorms, the Snow-Shovel Squad happily shoveled both their driveway and the Ramseys’. One time, Mrs. Ramsey tried to pay them, but they politely said no.
“The Snow-Shovel Squad is a not-for-profit team,” Gavin explained.
That made Mrs. Ramsey laugh.
The snow kept coming. Shoveling two driveways got harder and harder. After a while, Mom and Dad had to remind the Snow-Shovel Squad how much they were needed.
One morning Gavin woke up especially excited. They were going skiing today! He looked outside and grinned. The snow looked perfect. He ran to find his skis. Soon everyone was packing the van for their trip.
Just as they buckled their seatbelts, Mom turned to look at them. “What about the Ramseys’ driveway?”
Gavin looked at Jensen. They had forgotten all about it.
“Can we do it later?” Jensen said. “We want to get to the mountain before it gets too busy!”
“OK,” Mom said, and Dad started the van.
But then Gavin glanced out his window. He could see Mr. Ramsey trying to clear his driveway. It looked like he could hardly lift his shovel.
“Wait, Dad,” Gavin said. “Mr. Ramsey needs the Snow-Shovel Squad right away!”
Everyone got out and grabbed their shovels.
“Sorry we’re late!” Gavin called out.
Mr. Ramsey smiled. “Thank you so much,” he said. “It would’ve taken me hours to shovel this driveway alone.” With the help of the Snow-Shovel Squad, the Ramseys’ driveway was snow-free in just a few minutes. After that, nobody had to remind Gavin about the Ramseys’ driveway. If it snowed, the Snow-Shovel Squad was out shoveling, sometimes even before breakfast. Sometimes it snowed so much they had to shovel two times in one day!
As the weeks went by, shoveling the driveways didn’t seem so hard. In fact, Gavin thought that helping the Ramseys was one of the best parts of winter. Then one day, he woke up and saw that the sun was warm and bright. The snow was melting down the driveway. How could he help others now that it was spring?

The years 1998 and 1999 were a period of somber events in the Congo. I fled my village because of war and spent more than seven months traveling in the wilderness with a group from my village. We had no way to return home.
Every evening our group prayed and sang together, and each person took a turn suggesting a hymn. When it was my turn, I suggested “How Firm a Foundation” (Hymns, no. 85). Even though no one else knew this hymn, I felt that it answered our concerns exactly.
I sang “How Firm a Foundation” many times in those seven months. It comforted me in my moments of isolation and suffering when life was so difficult with sickness and famine in the wilderness. I sang it alone, but the words and music penetrated the ears and hearts of the others: “In ev’ry condition—in sickness, in health, / In poverty’s vale or abounding in wealth, / At home or abroad, on the land or the sea— / As thy days may demand, … so thy succor shall be.” Because of these words, others told me they wanted to learn more about the Church.
One of the men in our group was the leader of a church in our country. After we returned to our village, this brother told me he wanted to find out more about the gospel. I responded to him, following the example set by Alma in Mosiah 18 (see Mosiah 18:8–10). In the end he joined the Church.
The hymn “How Firm a Foundation” touched my soul and brought me great joy and comfort while I was in the wilderness, and it brings me joy today knowing that it helped a good brother to join the Church.
Thierry Alexis Toko, Republic of Congo

When I was a young girl, a group of us were invited to Elder Widtsoe’s home for a fireside, and afterward he showed us his pedigree chart, a result of devoted research. As he unrolled the chart, it stretched across three rooms of his house. This was so impressive to our young minds that it motivated us to begin searching for information about our own ancestors. What a wonderful beginning to a lifelong interest and participation in this sacred work! A spiritual dimension is truly added to our lives when we work on our family histories.

I have learned this truth through a personal experience that, though seemingly insignificant, left a lasting impression on me. At the age of 22, while serving in the French Air Force in Paris, I was thrilled to learn that Elder Neal A. Maxwell, an Apostle of the Lord, would be speaking at a conference on the Champs-Élysées. However, just before the event, I received orders to drive a senior officer to the airport at the exact time the conference was set to take place.
I was disappointed. But determined to attend, I dropped the officer off and rushed to the conference. After finding a parking spot, I sprinted down the Champs-Élysées to the meeting place and arrived breathless with only five minutes left before the meeting ended. Just as I entered, I heard Elder Maxwell say, “I will now give you an apostolic blessing.” In that instant, I had a beautiful, unforgettable spiritual experience. I was overcome by the Spirit, and the words of the blessing seemed to penetrate every fiber of my soul as though they were meant just for me.
What I experienced that day was a small yet powerful manifestation of a comforting aspect of God’s plan for His children: When circumstances beyond our control prevent us from fulfilling the righteous desires of our hearts, the Lord will compensate in ways that allow us to receive His promised blessings.

September 2
Dearest Sarah,
We sold some tomatoes this week, and I got $13.00. They’re easier to pick than beans, and I like the way the vines smell. I also like to stop every now and then and eat one—all juicy and warm from the sun. I wish I could send you one in the mail.
I hope that you’ll understand this part. I was in a store last week, looking for notebooks and pencils for school, when I saw this little sweatshirt just Lindsay’s size with a penguin on it. She needs school clothes. I knew it would remind her of you; she still adores the penguin you sent her. It was $9.99, and so I bought it for her. Lindsay was thrilled. She put it on and wouldn’t take it off, even for bed. But after tithing and the notebooks … well, I hope you understand.
School starts Monday.
Love,Angela the Spendthrift
P.S. I promised the Claybourne kids some pumpkins for Halloween and a watermelon.

But Paul was born with something Phillip didn’t share—a disease called cerebral palsy. Although Phillip soon grew to be healthy, Paul had problems controlling his leg muscles. His brain would send too many signals to his legs, so the legs didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t sit up or walk. He had to have lots of physical therapy.
Then when Paul was five years old, a therapist recommended a new kind of surgery. Fewer than 100 people in the country had ever had such an operation, but doctors said chances were good it would help.
The operation was long. Surgeons cut nerves in Paul’s back and in one leg to reduce the nerve signals to his legs. After the surgery, the recovery was slow and painful, with six more months of therapy. “It was hard for Phillip to watch Paul struggle,” their father says. “They asked to be together, so sometimes we would let Phillip spend the night where Paul was recovering. He just wanted to be with his brother.”
Today the brothers are still together—and still sharing. Paul drags his foot a little, but he walks! That allows him to pass the football back and forth with Phillip. He can also hold the ball while Phillip kicks. They work on Cub Scout pins and badges, and go to their Primary class on Sundays. They earned their Faith in God Awards together. And they practice their trumpets while their older sister Avery, 12, plays clarinet and their younger sister Kaylene, 10, holds the music. All of the children love soccer, and Paul was asked to be the manager for Phillip’s team at school. All of the brothers and sisters read and study together and talk about their school assignments. And all of them play with Avery’s pet hedgehog, Pooka, which she shares with the entire family.

Just last month our youngest son, Chad, went to the temple with a beautiful, worthy young woman to be married for time and all eternity. As he took her hand and knelt at the altar, I looked into the mirrors on either side, and again I wanted to whisper, “Do you understand why it is so important to be clean and pure?” But this time I didn’t have to remind him, because the Spirit did the whispering.
To the youth of the noble birthright, look into the windows of eternity! See yourselves in the Lord’s holy temples. See yourselves living worthy and pure lives. Generations are depending on you! I testify that worthiness is possible because of the redeeming and enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. I pray that it may be said of each one of us, “They shall walk with me in white: for they are worthy.” In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.