Gospel Story Finder

Anna’s heart sank as she walked into the room and saw the Christmas tree. The water heater in their house had burst, and water was all over the floor. Dad was still trying to clean up the mess. The few presents under the tree were completely soaked.
Anna and her little brothers grabbed some towels and tried to dry the presents. But it didn’t really work. They were a soggy mess.
Anna’s family was going through a hard time. Her dad didn’t have a job right now. Her mom was going to have a baby soon, and she felt sick a lot. And now they wouldn’t have any presents for Christmas.
That night as Anna got ready for bed, she could hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen.
“What are we going to do?” Mom asked. It sounded like she was crying. “We don’t have enough money for the house payment, and now we don’t even have presents for the kids.” Anna had an empty, twisty feeling in her stomach.
“We’ll figure something out,” Dad said.
Anna walked into the kitchen. Mom reached out and gave her a big hug. With her arms around Mom’s tummy, Anna felt the baby move. She smiled. “We have a new baby coming. You always say that a baby is a miracle.”
Mom smiled back. “That’s right. We have a lot to be grateful for.”
“We have each other,” Dad said. He kissed the top of Anna’s head. “It’ll be OK.”
On the way to her room, Anna heard her brothers crying. She sat down on David’s bed.
“Everyone is so sad,” David said quietly.
“And we won’t have any presents,” Robbie said, sniffling.
“It’ll be OK,” Anna said again. “You’ll see.”
Before she got into bed, Anna knelt and asked Heavenly Father what she could do for her family. She didn’t have any money to buy presents, but she still had a warm, comforting feeling in her heart.
The next morning, she stayed in bed thinking for a few minutes before getting ready for school. Then an idea came to her! That afternoon she hurried home and did her chores and homework. Then she found some paper and string and a few markers and stickers she had gotten for her birthday. She took them all to her room and closed the door.
Anna almost laughed when she thought about how surprised her family would be. First she folded the paper and tied it together with string to make four booklets. She chose a star sticker to put on Mom’s booklet and a planet for Dad’s. She put a dog for David’s booklet and a rocket for Robbie’s.
Then Anna started drawing. For Mom she drew a picture of herself sweeping the floor. She drew a picture of herself cooking dinner with Dad, one of her playing soccer with David, and one of her reading a book to Robbie. It took her several days to fill each booklet with pictures.
Finally it was Christmas Eve, and Anna carefully placed her booklets under the tree.
The next morning, she gave each person in her family a booklet. “I like these pictures,” David said. “I like playing soccer.”
“They’re not just pictures,” Anna said with a sparkle in her eyes. “They’re coupons! The pictures all show things I’ll do for you.”
“This is the nicest gift you could have given us,” Mom said as she looked through her booklet. Anna was thankful that Heavenly Father helped her think of making Christmas coupons. A new baby was coming, and with Heavenly Father’s help, everything really would be OK.

Elder Hunk was the talk of the mission. Never had a missionary swept an area as he had. There had been talk of closing that area, but single-handedly Elder Hunk had swelled convert baptisms until conservative estimates ran in the thousands. His picture was on the cover of the Church News under the caption “Wonder Missionary,” and he was being compared to missionaries in the early days of the Church.
“How do you do it?” asked his mission president.
“Dexter. Dexter. How do you do it?” questioned his seminary teacher, Brother Larsen.
A classmate poked Dexter in his ribs, “Hey, wake up.” Brother Larsen patiently repeated his question. “How can we be member missionaries?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he said.

This seminary year of home study in the Cambridge Ward in England was going to be different, I thought to myself. The weekly lessons on Tuesday nights were fun because of the close friendships the class had. The previous year my friend Helena and I tried to make the work easier on ourselves. I took the odd-numbered sections of the manual, and Helena took the evens. We each completed the work for those sections and then swapped answers. I have to confess: this was a step up from the year before when I had spent a day at her house copying all her work.
I resolved that this year was going to be different. I was going to take the initiative to learn all my scripture mastery scriptures (not just crumple and smooth out every page in my triple combination with a scripture mastery item to make it easier to turn to) and keep up to date with the home-study manual, if not get ahead. I imagined myself as the shining example to all my classmates. I went to the first class of the new term with my manual, pencil, and newly sharpened red scripture marker in hand and smugly told Helena that I would no longer be needing her help. I would, for a change, be doing the work myself. Or at least that was the plan.
A month later I knew I was already over my head and would need to slog it out for a whole weekend to catch up. A few weeks later I still hadn’t done as much as open the manual, and I tentatively asked Helena how she was doing in her home-study manual, in the hope we could come to an arrangement.
“Oh, when you said you were going to get ahead in the manual, I followed your example and I’m now a whole month-and-a-half ahead in the book. Thanks. You were right,” Helena said smugly, knowing I had reverted to my old ways. I was stuck and had lost my partner in crime.
I decided that I needed a daily reminder to read my scriptures and fill out my manual. It would be hard, and wading through at least three sections of the manual in a short amount of time did not sound appealing. I tried several techniques to remind me to do at least an hour of seminary work every day.
I tried reasoning that after my favorite TV show I would do an hour every evening, but favorite shows were followed by favorite shows, and even when the evening news came on, I was still not motivated. The prayer rock placed on my pillow or where I would tread on it to remind me soon ended up in the back garden after countless bruises on my forehead and stubbed toes. Willpower was not working, and I needed a way to be a bit more diligent in my seminary study.
I decided to pray to Heavenly Father to forgive me of my laziness and asked if He would help me to get down to work. I started putting up bright yellow sticky notes on my bunk bed and desk where I would see them and be reminded to read and study. For the most part they worked. I just had to back them up with constant prayer so that I wouldn’t become complacent.
A week before we had to have all our work turned in, I still had a few sections left to complete. I ended up at Helena’s home again, but this time we completed the remaining work together, reading through the scriptures and answering the questions. Even though I had left a lot of the work till late and had struggled to catch up, seminary turned out to be enjoyable and rewarding as I learned and retained more knowledge than any previous year of seminary. All thanks to Heavenly Father and a few well-placed sticky notes.

I love to read books that show temples from around the world. When I had a friend ask me about temples, I knew that my explanation wasn’t enough to help her understand. So I brought my books on temples and showed her what the temple is, the purpose of the temple, and how thankful we are to visit the temple. I decided to invite her to church on Sunday, where the missionaries and Sunday School teachers could help her learn more.
Jessica A., age 18, Indonesia

An example of this comes from a mission president as he describes an unforgettable couple:
“I confess,” he said, “that when Elder and Sister Leslie arrived, I wondered how well they would do. He was seriously overweight and wore a hearing aid. She was limited with two artificial knee implants. But their spirit was sweet and their enthusiasm so strong. Two wonderfully ordinary people—full of love.
“I felt inspired to send them to Jamestown, Tennessee,” he said, “where we had a tiny, struggling branch that had been without missionaries for years.
“I knew they couldn’t tract, and for the first few weeks nothing was noted on their weekly reports. Their letters said, ‘We are getting to know the people.’
“After a few weeks their letters told of nonmembers who were attending church with them—at first two, then four, then seven. They had as many as twenty-four investigators at church on one occasion. Soon the baptisms started to flow. No set of missionaries, young or old, equaled the baptisms they brought about.”
And the mission president went on to say, “I doubt that either of them could give the missionary discussions in a way that closely resembled the suggested form that we have for the regular missionaries. What they had was a great love for the people. They wove themselves into the fabric of that little community, winning them over with friendship, compassionate service, and understanding hearts.
“Today, the Jamestown Branch is thriving, with a new building and more than 100 members attending. Many contributed their faith and works, but none more significantly or generously than Harry and Frances Leslie.”

The boys’ main assignment was caring for cattle and wagons—hitching, unhitching, feeding, shoeing, corralling, guarding, and mending harnesses. This work provided Zeb with some unexpected adventures. One day, according to his diary, “I was helping to shoe an ox, and witnessed the mosquitoes and horse flies driving off the horses and cattle, and in gathering the animals we kept what is called the dog-trot for about a mile. I finally caught a horse and jumped on him, and with considerable difficulty I succeeded in getting the animals back to camp.”

Young women, let your days begin and end with prayer. Read from your scriptures every day. When you pray and talk with your Heavenly Father, when you let him communicate with you through the scriptures and through his Spirit, you will find answers to your prayers—just as Dawn did.
When Dawn’s parents received a mission call to Japan, she was given the choice of going with them or staying behind. Going meant leaving her friends, missing her senior year in high school, and, in general, changing many of her future plans. The decision seemed too hard to make. She said, “I spent a lot of time crying and wondering why this should be happening to me.”
She fasted and prayed about the decision. It seemed coincidental that they were studying the Book of Mormon in seminary and were talking about Lehi’s family. In the past she had wondered why Laman and Lemuel had such a hard time choosing the right. It bothered her that they were the older brothers and didn’t set a good example. She began to liken herself to the scriptures. She was the oldest child in the family, and going to Japan was like going into the wilderness for her. She would have to leave a lot of important things behind. She said, “I didn’t want to be a Laman or Lemuel. I wanted to obey my Father in Heaven and do his will.” She knew her decision was right when she told her parents she would love to go to Japan with them and it felt so good.
At the farewell, Dawn told her friends how much she loved them and would miss them, then said, “I realize that the greatest friend I have is Jesus Christ. I feel of his love every day.”

Standing on the edge of the broad sidewalk leading from the front doors of the meetinghouse, Brian could see people milling around in the foyer. The meeting was just over.
Brian was actually going to meet a real prophet! When the missionaries called him a few minutes ago, he couldn’t believe his ears. They told him that President Spencer W. Kimball was visiting a neighboring ward to attend the blessing of a great-grandchild. Brian could meet the prophet, they said, if he came quickly.
As he hung up the phone, Brian yelled to his mom that he was going to the church. Then he jumped on his bike and raced the four blocks there. The missionaries were waiting for him. They stood on either side of him now. Other people were waiting on the sidewalk, too. Brian guessed that they’d also heard that the prophet was here today and had come to see him.
Brian glanced down and was dismayed to see his scuffed and tattered tennis shoes and his old T-shirt. He hadn’t thought about changing before he came over. He might have missed meeting the prophet if he had. But what would the great leader think of him?
Brian hastily tucked in his shirt. He couldn’t do anything to change his shoes, but maybe the prophet wouldn’t notice them. Suddenly he felt a wave of uneasiness. Turning to the missionary on his right, he asked, “Elder Turner, how do I look?”
Elder Turner peered at him closely and pointed to the corners of his own mouth. Brian quickly wiped away any traces of lunch, then looked at the missionary again. Elder Turner nodded with a smile.
Until meeting the missionaries a few weeks ago, Brian had never even heard of a modern prophet. He knew about Noah and Moses and other prophets in the Bible. But he’d never thought that a prophet might be on the earth today. The missionaries told him that the prophet tells people what Jesus would tell them if He were here.
He had seen pictures of Old Testament prophets with long white hair and flowing beards. So he was surprised when the missionaries showed him a picture of President Kimball. He did have white hair, but it was neatly trimmed. Brian thought that he looked like a kindly grandfather.
One day, when the missionaries had taken Brian to Primary, he heard a song about following prophets. He looked around him in amazement at all the children who believed in a prophet.
Brian’s attention returned to the church. The doors opened, and a small group came out. They moved slowly, greeting people as they made their way down the sidewalk. Some fathers held little children in their arms or on their shoulders so that they, too, could see and greet the prophet.
Brian could tell that someone was stopping and shaking hands. Grown-ups blocked his view, but he caught a glimpse of white hair and a dark suit. It surprised him that the man wasn’t much taller than he was.
As they came closer, someone moved and Brian could see clearly. He saw the man whose picture the missionaries had shown him. The man spoke softly and kindly to the grown-ups and children he shook hands with.
Brian felt worried. What would the prophet say to him? Would he sense Brian’s doubts and questions? Would he say something to try to persuade Brian that the Church was true?
Then President Kimball reached out his hand again, and Brian heard a familiar voice.
“President Kimball, it is so great to meet you. My companion, Elder Turner, and I would like you to meet our friend, Brian. He’s investigating the Church.”
It was Elder Ellis who was speaking and shaking hands with the prophet. His other hand reached out and rested on Brian’s shoulder.
The prophet turned and looked at Brian. He caught his breath as President Kimball smiled at him.
Extending his hand, Brian spoke haltingly. “I’m … very … glad to meet you, sir.” He felt his face becoming warm.
President Kimball took his hand in a soft but firm grip. Then suddenly the prophet released Brian’s hand and threw both arms around him and gave him a big hug. With his face close to Brian’s, he said softly, “I love you.” His voice was low and raspy.
When he released Brian, he smiled and then turned to greet Elder Turner. Brian was speechless.
He watched the prophet of the Lord continue to shake hands until he reached a car at the curb. Helping his wife into the backseat, he turned and raised his hand to the people gathered on the sidewalk. Then he climbed into the backseat, and the car pulled away from the curb.
Three words! That’s all he had said. Yet Brian felt deep inside that they were true. He knew that a prophet had spoken those words. A prophet! Were they the words Jesus would say to Brian if He were here? A warm feeling began in Brian’s chest and spread through his body. Yes, he thought, they were the same words.

Two shovels full of sand were poised in front of the slowly churning cement mixer, and two sets of eyes watched carefully the gray sludge sloshing rhythmically inside. Although one set of eyes belonged to a dark-haired 16-year-old from El Salvador and the other to a fair-haired 22-year-old from the United States, both held that clear, steady gaze of common understanding. Both knew that that gray sludge was worth its weight in gold. It was helping to build sturdy cement block houses that signaled hope for families in need. And it was helping to cement ties between Latter-day Saint youth from two different nations, and between these youth and the grief-stricken people of yet a third nation.
The youth—more than 30 young men from El Salvador and upper Guatemala and nine students from Brigham Young University—were working in Guatemala with a host of adult leaders from local branches and stakes, in addition to health and full-time missionaries from around the world. The group included about 55 people in all. Their task—to rebuild homes destroyed by the February 4 earthquake.
Their task was not easy. The terrible terremoto, or earthquake, destroyed about 20 percent of the country’s residential buildings, claimed more than 2,000 lives, and left an estimated one million people homeless. Church members were included in this number. President Guillermo Enrique Rittscher of the Guatemala City Stake, for example, reported 142 homeless families.
Statistics, however, do not paint as clearly the picture of human drama as the scene that greeted the volunteers when they arrived two months after the quake. Guatemala City had become a tent city. Large families were bravely trying to work out of small tents amid a cold, steady rain. They had begun to build portable plywood homes, but one room was inadequate for some of the large families. And in addition to all this, the water lines had been broken and much of the water was feared to be contaminated. It had to be boiled before use—not a simple task in a tent.
It was in these circumstances that mission president Robert B. Arnold and Harold B. Brown, Regional Representative of the Twelve for Mexico and Central America, organized the project and obtained the clearance for calling work missionaries from El Salvador and upper Guatemala to help build earthquake-resistant houses.
The young men who volunteered ranged in age from 15 to 18. They postponed their own work, their studies, and other activities to help.
“We really appreciate these young workers. We truly feel that the Church is going to be in fabulous hands as these boys grow and mature and take their positions of leadership in their various wards here in Guatemala and El Salvador,” said Carol Lyons, a health service missionary who helped pilot the program. “They truly love the gospel and all of its facets, and they really want to serve our Heavenly Father. This is their main purpose in being here—so that they can help their brothers in building these homes. But likewise, they can be prepared and go forth as proselyting missionaries in the months to come.”
The program had already begun when the BYU volunteers, most of them building construction majors, offered to share their expertise for eight weeks with the young workers. With the direction of Lon Wallace, their adviser and an instructor in BYU’s building construction and technology program, and the sponsorship of the BYU Benson Agriculture and Food Institute, nine volunteers loaded a van with hard hats, donated tools, and sleeping bags and headed for Guatemala and life in tent city.
The workers were located in two areas—Guatemala City and nearby Patzicia. They lived in tents alongside the members.
“You don’t understand what living in a tent is until you can experience a downpour of an inch or two and feel the dampness and the wetness of trying to build a fire to boil your water and wash your dishes,” said Boyd Lyons, a health service missionary who helped pilot the program. “The wind blows every day. Heavy fog rolls in every day and stays until 9:00 A.M. the next day. You can cut it with a knife.”
Complaints of any kind were scarce, however, although the days were long and hard, beginning at 5:30 in the morning. After a spiritual meeting with scripture reading and prayer, breakfast was served. Then the truck was loaded with needed supplies, and the volunteers were ready to start work at 7:00 A.M. Sometimes they took lunch with them, so they didn’t return to camp until 5:00 or 6:00 in the evening. After dinner there were English classes to teach or to attend and tracting with the full-time missionaries to do. Finally, many weary young men eased their bodies, aching from hard work, into damp sleeping bags.
The work was made hard, in part, by a shortage of materials. The workers had only one two-ton truck to transport all of the sand, gravel, and sometimes water for their day’s work. While one crew mixed the cement, another would go back to load up with sand and gravel for more. Because the water lines had been broken, many of the work sites had no water. So workers searched in the constant drizzle and filled 55-gallon drums from rivers, wells, and anywhere there was some water so that the cement mixing could go on.
“We ended up working hard. In fact, as I thought about it, I know that nobody could pay me enough money to do that kind of work. I’d do it for free for these people, but nobody could ever pay me enough to do work like that,” one volunteer said thoughtfully.
As the time neared for the BYU volunteers to leave, the young Central American workers showed their appreciation in ways that broke down all language barriers. One young man organized a party with decorations, poems, talks, and a special meal with Guatemalan goodies prepared by one of the local Relief Society groups. At the end of the celebration, he threw his arms around one of the tall BYU students and broke into tears at the thought of their leaving. And so the BYU group left to resume their lives with a new perspective. But their tools, their expertise in building, and, most important, their testimonies stayed.
“Words are inadequate for expressing our gratitude,” one Guatemalan woman told Brother Wallace. “Only the Lord can thank you, and he will in time.”
Following disaster, the Guatemalan Saints begin life anew, with a stronger faith in God and in their fellowmen. Within concrete walls, their gratitude reverberates and grows with the warmth that can only be inspired by love in action.

Some years ago president David O. McKay told from this pulpit of the experience of some of those in the Martin handcart company. Many of these early converts had emigrated from Europe and were too poor to buy oxen or horses and a wagon. They were forced by their poverty to pull handcarts containing all of their belongings across the plains by their own brute strength. President McKay relates an occurrence which took place some years after the heroic exodus: “A teacher, conducting a class, said it was unwise ever to attempt, even to permit them [the Martin handcart company] to come across the plains under such conditions.
“[According to a class member,] some sharp criticism of the Church and its leaders was being indulged in for permitting any company of converts to venture across the plains with no more supplies or protection than a handcart caravan afforded.
“An old man in the corner … sat silent and listened as long as he could stand it, then he arose and said things that no person who heard him will ever forget. His face was white with emotion, yet he spoke calmly, deliberately, but with great earnestness and sincerity.
“In substance [he] said, ‘I ask you to stop this criticism. You are discussing a matter you know nothing about. Cold historic facts mean nothing here, for they give no proper interpretation of the questions involved. Mistake to send the Handcart Company out so late in the season? Yes. But I was in that company and my wife was in it and Sister Nellie Unthank whom you have cited was there, too. We suffered beyond anything you can imagine and many died of exposure and starvation, but did you ever hear a survivor of that company utter a word of criticism? Not one of that company ever apostatized or left the Church, because everyone of us came through with the absolute knowledge that God lives for we became acquainted with him in our extremities.
“‘I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hill slope and I have said, I can go only that far and there I must give up, for I cannot pull the load through it.’” He continues: “‘I have gone on to that sand and when I reached it, the cart began pushing me. I have looked back many times to see who was pushing my cart, but my eyes saw no one. I knew then that the angels of God were there.
“‘Was I sorry that I chose to come by handcart? No. Neither then nor any minute of my life since. The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay, and I am thankful that I was privileged to come in the Martin Handcart Company.’” (Relief Society Magazine, Jan. 1948, p. 8.)

Grandma and grandpa really knew how to enjoy themselves. But wait! Who says it is only the gentle folks of the 1800s who could enjoy such great tastes and times? In the Ames Ward (Des Moines Iowa Stake) the young people still know how to put together ice and cream and old-fashioned fun.
The young men and young women insisted that everyone in the ward be invited personally to their ice-cream social, and so they began a phone-calling brigade. They then remodeled their cultural hall into an 1800s setting, including a sweet shoppe, general store, jail, claims office, some cactus, and hitching posts. The main attraction was the Oasis Ice Cream Shop where you could buy the “Great Divide” (a “splendiferous” banana split), a “Pie Alamo(de),” a “Golden Nugget,” a “Ghost Two Special,” and a “Flash Flood Float.”
While ward members ate, they were entertained with a talent show. Even the missionaries got in the act with a short skit called “A Typical Day in the Life of a Missionary.”
Two months of work went into the Oasis Ice Cream Shop—two months of work and gallons of ice cream, toppings, nuts, and bananas. The youth did it all themselves—with an adult leader here and there scooping ice cream, impersonating sheriffs, and complimenting the youth for one “very cool” job.

When my stake president first asked me if I would be willing to serve a service mission, my first thought was, “Yes!”
I trusted that the Lord had a work for me to do, and I believed that whatever He wanted me to do would bring me growth and happiness because He loved me and wanted what was best for me.
My second thought was, “What’s a service mission?”
My stake president explained what a service mission was as we met together in his office on that Sunday, but I didn’t really understand it or the importance of it until much later. At the time I even wondered if this calling meant there was something wrong with me, because I didn’t yet see the bigger purpose behind service missions.
I received my call to serve about a month before my mission actually started. This meant that I met my service mission leaders, attended a service mission conference in my area, and was even asked to lead companion study for the other two sisters in my area before I had been set apart.
I used the month between getting my call and giving my “farewell” talk (even though I didn’t go anywhere) to learn about service missions and the service missionaries around me.
At the service mission conference I attended, I learned that a lot of service missionaries, when they are first called, feel like they just weren’t good enough to serve a proselyting mission. I sheepishly recalled my own initial reaction to my call.
Ultimately, I realized that I wasn’t called to a service mission because I was inadequate, but because this was Heavenly Father’s direction for me. I wasn’t “less than” proselyting missionaries; rather, He needed me to help build His kingdom through other means of service. I received a strong testimony that all missions are important to Heavenly Father and important in His work, because all missionaries desire to serve Him and serve His children.
After learning about the other service missionaries in my area, meeting them, and hearing their stories, I knew they were wonderful, righteous servants of the Lord. I realized that even though some of us had felt a little sorry for ourselves at the beginning of our missions, we all came to the same conclusion: the Lord loves service missionaries and that we are right where He wants us to be, learning and growing while serving Him as His hands on the earth.

As I have contemplated this vast audience of priesthood bearers, and what I have in my mind and heart to convey to you this day, my thoughts have turned back to a bewildered and confused young man in a huge city. He had lost his way. In desperation he stopped a man on the sidewalk and said, “How do I get to such-and-such a destination from here?” After considerable thought, with the skyscrapers, dense traffic, confusing streets, winding rivers, freeways, bridges, tunnels, and so on in mind, the man said, “You can’t get there from here.”
I have often thought of this advice as I have contemplated particularly some of our youth in their present locations in life. Some are lost, bewildered, confused, scared, sick, insecure, and discouraged. What a tragedy to be in these straits and to be told, in answer to the questions “How can I get back to where I was?” or “How can I get to where I want to go?”—“You can’t get there from where you are.”
The disciples of the devil teach there is no way back: Live it up, everybody is doing it, be with the in-group, and it’s more fun to stay lost. The devil is an enemy to the ways of God, and enticeth to sin.
“Wherefore, all things which are good cometh of God; and that which is evil cometh of the devil; for the devil is an enemy unto God, and fighteth against him continually, and inviteth and enticeth to sin, and to do that which is evil continually.” (Moro. 7:12.)
What a happy day it will be when, in contrast to the experience this lost young man had in the big city, he or others can find someone who will say, “Yes, you can get there from here. Come, follow me.”
I humbly, but with all of the power in my possession, declare to our “lost” youth, young men and young women worldwide, you can make it back from where you are. The great social services program of the Church, operating as an arm of the priesthood, lends a helping hand to our young people with social and emotional problems. As President Smith has declared to us tonight, by honoring our priesthood we can help them find their way back to joy and stability.
Young people, be not deceived. God loves you. He cares about you. He wants you back in his paths, where there is comfort, companionship, and purpose. We as leaders need to effectively communicate to our youth that God loves them no matter where they are. We need to sacrifice our time and talents in this direction.
“But to do good and to communicate forget not: for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.” (Heb. 13:16.)
I pray to God that we in the future may communicate the positive, the happy, the abundant way of life to those around us.
I would like to share briefly with you a few experiences of some of our friends who are proving you can get there from where you are.
Roger Locke, a friend of mine, is presently confined in the Utah State Prison. (Incidentally, I have visited with Roger within the past few days and have his and Warden John Turner’s permission to share his name and thoughts.)
Incidentally, you young Aaronic Priesthood bearers, I would appreciate it if you would remember that when I go to the prison to visit, I have the same trouble as the inmates—in one respect. That is, it is easy for me to get in, but difficult for me to get out. The difficulty comes when I am stopped by prisoners who want to talk. During my last visit, a young man stopped me, and we talked for about fifteen minutes, time I didn’t think I had to spare. As I was leaving him he said, and I will never forget it, “Thank you for talking to me.” As I drove home that night, I recalled that in fifteen minutes I may have said twenty-four or twenty-five words; however, I believe that is the kind of talking and listening we need to have more of. But that is another subject. Let’s get back to Roger. He said:
“I don’t want to blame anyone back home for my being in prison today, but it is factual that I had no family relationships. I am involved in the family home evening program at the prison. Without the parents who have been assigned to me through this social services program, many times I would have given up. These people love me as if I were their own son. I have never had that, even when I was a small boy. Now, with their help and that of others, I believe I can now make it back a day at a time. I am not proud of being in prison, but I am proud of my recent experiences while being there. We have a tendency to blame others. We don’t want to blame our parents for not loving us, because we know they do, but maybe they didn’t have the guidance and direction in their lives to apply when they were bringing us up.”
Perhaps in the minds of many of us, Roger would be justified in believing he couldn’t make it back. He had detoured too long. But he doesn’t believe that. Instead, he is thanking those who are presently helping him and is sincerely grateful for the direction in which his life is moving today.
The Church attenders in prisons are unfortunately in the minority and are often classified by their associates in uncomplimentary terms, but this fine young man, bless his courage, is not ashamed to be identified at the Utah State Prison as a member of “God’s Squad.” He seems determined to make it back from where he is.

Jo Dee Wilkinson laid the paper pattern on the yellow quilted cotton material. She lifted one edge to see if the pattern was straight on the fabric and pinned the edges. Carefully she cut through two thicknesses. She had picked out white lace and brown ribbon to go with the yellow. Now she was ready to sew. She was not completely at home using a sewing machine, but this project was worth the effort.
Jo Dee was making a Sharing Sock, a handcrafted item that would be filled with small gifts and given to another girl about her age in another part of the world. Then she didn’t realize that as a result of her efforts, she would begin writing encouraging letters to a young Vietnamese girl named Tran Hgoc-Chi. The young girl would tell Jo Dee about her difficult life in the refugee camp and beg Jo Dee to write her long letters about life in the United States and in the Church.
Sharing Socks were made of brocade, felt, satin, and gingham. They were trimmed with lace, appliqué, and fancy needlework, but they all had one thing in common. They were made with love by hundreds of young women from all over the world.
The Sharing Socks project was an effort to show people in refugee camps or in orphanages that others were thinking of them and wishing the best for them. To begin the project, packets with pattern pieces and instructions for the eight-inch high socks were assembled by the Young Women General Board and distributed to interested stakes. The girls were asked to sew the socks, lavishing them with care and pride. Each girl was assigned a state of the United States or a country of the world in which the Church is active. They decorated their socks to illustrate that state or country. Also, each girl was asked to include a photograph and either her testimony or a favorite scripture.
At first the socks served double duty. The finished socks were sent to the Young Women headquarters in Salt Lake City. There they were used as decorations for the large Christmas trees in the two visitors’ centers on Temple Square. After the holiday season, the socks were packed carefully in boxes and shipped to the Philippines. There the girls of the Makati Stake helped fill the socks with small toiletry items such as combs, toothbrushes, mirrors, and other useful items such as pads and pencils. From the Philippines, the socks were sent to the island of Palawan, where refugees from Vietnam and Cambodia are awaiting transfer to countries that will become their new homes. These refugees arrive with virtually no possessions, so they appreciated the small gifts and the thoughtfulness that went into the Sharing Socks.
As the Sharing Socks were handed out to the refugees in the Philippines, Sister Margaret Collipriest of the Young Women General Board, seeing the poverty of the people, said to the interpreter, “It is a small gift but sent with love.” The chairman answered, “You say it is a small gift. For them it is a big gift.”
The project continues with 500 Sharing Socks being sent to Austria to be given to children in orphanages. Another 250 socks have been completed and are on their way to Hong Kong, where the young women there will fill the socks before they are sent to refugee camps in that area.
More socks are being made with care and love and continue to be sent throughout the world. And with each one goes a message of hope from a young Latter-day Saint girl.
There have been some nice side effects for the girls involved in making the Sharing Socks. One mother told how her daughter, who had not been very active, began searching for just the right scripture to put with her sock. She became so excited about the scriptures that she has continued her study of them. Now she and her mother are sharing favorite scriptures.
In another family where the mother is active and the father is not, their young daughter decided to make a sock and before sending it in, showed and explained it to her father. Because his daughter’s handiwork would be on display, he told her that this was one year they would be sure to go to the visitors’ centers on Temple Square.
For some girls it was their first experience using a sewing machine, and as a result they developed confidence in a newfound talent. For others, making a sock was a chance to grow closer to their mothers as they worked together on the project. To make a sock and imagine where it finally will go is to help a young woman have a vision, a perspective beyond her own world.
Each Sharing Sock, made with such care, is a message from one young girl to another—a message of hope, of love, and of caring. Sometimes a correspondence is started, sometimes understanding of different ways of life is gained, but always sharing of tenderest feelings takes place.
Sharing Socks are a gift of love.

It was the girls themselves who decided that Mormons ought to be involved in doing something for people in underdeveloped lands. So after discussing it with their MIA teacher, the girls of San Jose (California) Ward wrote to a nonprofit foundation that specializes in collecting medical discards, packaging them, and sending them all over the world. The girls decided to make Johnny coats (hospital gowns) and torn-sheet bandages, and to gather soap to send to those in need. They asked two motels in their area to save soap for them. One motel also volunteered to save old sheets from which the girls could make bandages. The first load of soap from one motel weighed 500 pounds. Then one Saturday nineteen girls got together and knitted, made bandages, and boxed soap. Their own ward Relief Society donated dozens of men’s shirts for Johnny coats. Now they want to learn how to make leper bandages …

On November 20, 1999, another important event happened. The Attridges were the first family sealed together in the newly dedicated Halifax Nova Scotia Temple. “I felt very happy and warm inside after I was sealed to my parents,” Ali said. “Now I know I can be with my mom and dad forever.”
“Looking in the mirrors in the sealing room, we saw our family going on forever,” Mother added. “Since Ali is adopted, this was the most wonderful day in our lives because we will be a family forever.”

From the front porch of my grandparents’ home, I could see the dark blue, spiny-backed ridge line of a mountain range. The road atlas called them the Clear Creek Mountains, but my Grandpa McClary said they were the Windmakers, though I never heard anyone outside of our family refer to them by that name.
“Why do you call them the Windmakers?” I asked my grandpa one summer evening as we sat on the porch, watching the sun’s last rosy light creep higher on the mountainside.
“Feel that breeze?” Grandpa replied. I did, a cool little gust that ruffled my hair and sent a shiver down my shoulders. Grandpa leaned back on his chair and wrapped his fingers behind his head. “That puff comes right from those mountains. I can tell you almost the exact spot, right up that big canyon next to that feather of snow,” he nodded. “Every day about this time, the wind blows down from those mountains. That’s why I call ’em the Windmakers. Someday I’ll let you in on a secret I know about those mountains.”
“Secret?” The word grabbed my attention, as it would capture the interest of any nine-year-old boy talking with his grandfather.
“Yes, secret. When the time’s right, you’ll understand it,” he promised, a trace of intrigue in his voice. “Don’t try to get it out of me; I won’t tell.”
So I had to be satisfied that I’d learn the secret of the Windmakers at a later time. But it was always on my mind when Grandpa, my father, and I made our annual fishing trip to the mountains.
The trip actually began 300 miles away from the Windmakers, in my hometown. On the first weekend in August, my father came home from work at noon, and we began a ritual honed to perfection through the years. We packed our car and said good-bye to my mother and little sister, Melissa. Then we began the long drive to my grandparents’ home in Springvale, a small town in the shadow of the Windmakers.
On Saturday morning, we’d spread out our camping and fishing gear in Grandpa’s backyard. Then we’d pack all of the equipment in the back of Grandpa’s pickup truck and pull a canvas tarp over it. One of Grandpa’s neighbors, Mr. Dahlstrom, always peeped over the fence during our preparations. “So, Jess, looks like you plan to do some serious fishing this week,” he’d greet. “That we do, Henry, that we do,” Grandpa replied happily.
It took all morning and some of the afternoon to get everything ready, carefully organizing every fish hook, tent peg, and frying pan. We never took much food. “We’ll live off the land, by our wits,” Grandpa winked. When we finished packing, Grandpa always looked solemnly at his truck and pronounced final approval. “We are now ready to go fishing. To the mountains, gentlemen.”
After that, my father turned the truck around and parked it front first in the driveway. “To make our getaway even faster on Monday,” my father explained. “When it comes to fishing and your grandfather, every second counts.”
Sundays, of course, we went to church. Although it was the ward my father grew up in and most people there knew our family, Grandpa took special delight in introducing us to anyone within earshot. “This is my son Richard, and his son, Jason. You remember Richard from his days as a deacon here. He was the ornery one in the bunch, but he turned out all right somehow. Credit his mother for that, I suppose.
“Anyway, he and Jason have come this week to exact a fearsome toll on the fish of the nearby mountains. Next week, I’ll let you know who was victorious—the fish, or the fishermen,” Grandpa pledged.
Early on Monday, when the sky was still black, we’d arise. Grandma McClary always had a huge breakfast on the table for us. “Last decent meal you three will get until you come back,” she teased. After eating, we were off, three generations spanning 50 years, yet close enough to fit snugly on the seat of a pickup truck. Our destination: the Windmakers, their dark outline only now taking shape against the pink morning sky.
The excitement of those mornings still lingers: Grandpa’s unfailing good humor; all of us singing on the drive to the mountains, always very loud and off-key; the fragrance of a forest morning, fresh pine and dew; and the conversation between my father and grandfather, always about good friends, good memories, and good lives.
Ninety minutes into our drive, two tracks of dirt veered away from the main road. We followed the little road a few miles to a small meadow at the foot of a dozen large trees. It was there, with the stream close by, that we pitched camp.
“In the name of our honorable family, I christen thee Camp McClary!” Grandpa exulted while jamming a shovel into the ground.
It didn’t take long for us to set up camp, a tribute to Grandpa’s meticulous packing. After the tent was up and everything in place, we broke out our rods and reels and tugged on our waders. Soon we stood at the water’s edge, casting Grandpa’s hand-tied fishing flies into the riffles and pools.
We worked our way upstream, hopscotching from boulder to boulder, from one bank to the other. Most years the fishing was good, and when one of us caught a fish, the other two invariably let out a whoop. We kept only what we needed. “It would break your grandmother’s heart if we came back a few pounds heavier,” Grandpa said.
The best memories of all, though, are of Grandpa. He was tall, white-haired, and handsome. On our outings to the Windmakers, he always wore a tattered blue hat with a dozen fishing flies hooked to it. He called it his lucky cap, and said it was as important on those fishing trips as his rod and reel.
Late in the afternoon, we hiked back to our camp. Grandpa fried our trout in his homemade lemon butter. Nothing ever has tasted quite as good as those high mountain meals cooked over a campfire. For dessert, Grandpa always had a bag of gingersnap cookies, though I never saw him pack them. We’d sit on the edge of the creek, the three of us, eating cookies and going over the day’s adventures. When the breeze kicked down the canyon in the early evening, Grandpa would lean back and announce: “The Windmakers.”
Tuesdays and Wednesdays were spent fishing. When Thursday came, the truck was loaded, though not quite as carefully as the Saturday before. We drove back to Springvale, arriving about noon. Grandma treated us to a sumptuous lunch, and we took turns grumbling about how bad the food was on our trip. “We stared starvation right in the eye,” Grandpa dead panned. “But your meal here, Sarah, has brought us back from the edge.”
“We were so hungry that we almost forced ourselves to eat some of Dad’s cooking,” my father chimed in.
On Friday, Dad and I returned home. Grandma and Grandpa stood in their driveway, waving good-bye until we turned a corner and went out of sight. We got home a little tired, with some trout in our ice cooler and enough wild tales of our adventure to the Windmakers to last until next August.
I started accompanying my father on the trips to the Windmakers when I was five, and for a decade, the trips varied only slightly. Never did I think that things might someday change. Then, suddenly, they did.

In November 2019, I listened to Elder Gong’s Face to Face event about the Children and Youth program with my family. Afterward, my bishop gave us booklets to help work toward our goals.
My first goal was to finish reading the Book of Mormon before my eighth birthday to prepare for my baptism. I had already started reading it but without much enthusiasm. But that day I made a plan with my dad. We figured out how many chapters I had to read each day to finish the Book of Mormon before my baptism. I started reading every day and marked when I finished reading each section.
As I read, I wanted to do more good things. So I joined the worldwide fast President Nelson announced to help control COVID-19. I was glad that I could do a full fast. My parents encouraged me to also pray and fast to gain my own testimony of the Book of Mormon and of baptism.
On the first Sunday in May, I prayed and fasted. Soon after, I finished reading the whole Book of Mormon. I was excited for my baptism—on my birthday. I felt ready to make this covenant with God! I know the Book of Mormon is true. I liked reading it, and I am happy I achieved this goal with the help of my family.

Before we knew it, it was 2012. Teni and I had grown even closer and were deeply in love—it is an amazing feeling, being married to my best friend—but something significant was missing. For six years, I just couldn’t fall pregnant. I began to think I might forever be an aunt, but never a mum.

We felt so incomplete.

One evening, we received a phone call which would change our lives! There was news of an unborn baby boy and an expectant mother determined to find a good family for him.

On the night that Kahn Ui was born, his birth mother—tears streaming down her face—delicately placed him in my arms and whispered, “He’s yours now. Thank you for loving him as much as I do.”

Alert and curious, baby Kahn looked up at me, completely unaware of the miracle that had just taken place. He fit perfectly in my arms, and it is with that same ease and sense of familiarity that he also fit into our family.

My husband and I entered the wonderful world of parenthood together. We took turns feeding our baby throughout the night; we talked to him, sung to him, and shed tears of immeasurable joy as we got to know him.

We realised a profound truth in those early days. As much as Kahn needed us, we—his new parents—needed the Lord more than ever. We prayed for His guidance as we learned our new roles.

Little did we know, another miracle was in store for us.

When Kahn turned 4, we holidayed in our homeland of Samoa, where we reconnected with Kahn’s birth family. They welcomed us with open arms, and Kahn’s birth grandmother wept when she recognised him. “Your son is gorgeous,” she said. “He’s so active, and he looks like he enjoys his food, too.”

It was an emotional reunion. They thanked us for loving and nurturing Kahn—and then they asked if we had room in our lives for another child.

My husband and I were astonished.

We discovered that Kahn’s birth mother had another baby. Naree Alalafaga was 5 months old at the time and, again, her family wanted more for this child than they were able to offer.

My mother’s words echoed softly in my mind: you reap what you sow.

It wasn’t by chance we met our miracle daughter this way. The Lord knows our deepest desires, and what is best for us. So, when our reunion with Kahn’s birth family brought a precious addition—his baby sister—to our home, it just felt right.

We relocated our growing family to Australia and then, in September 2017, our family was sealed, for time and all eternity in the Melbourne Australia Temple. It was a powerful experience; one we will cherish forever.

With hearts bursting with love for our newly sealed family, how could we know Heavenly Father had yet another miracle surprise for us?

Imagine my shocked delight only three months later when we discovered I was pregnant. How could this be? We double checked the home pregnancy test—positive! We took two tests just to make sure. We both wept. I know the Lord was with me through every step of that pregnancy. I felt the love and strength of my parents, from the other side of the veil, assuring me that everything would be fine.

In the early hours of 12 August 2018, our precious little girl was born. My husband named her after his mother—Faaifomailelagi, which in Samoan means ‘sent from heaven’.

Motherhood is one of the most difficult things I have experienced, but it is by far the most fulfilling. To this day, our children continue to make us better people and better servants of the Lord. They teach us patience, forgiveness, humility and so much more.

I know that all my challenges have been for my good. When we endure our trials well and learn from them, we discover that it is never by chance that things happen, but by divine design and all in God’s timing.

Together Again on Monday Night
It was Monday again, and the Veras family of the Gazcue Ward, Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Stake, was learning about the importance of listening to the prophet. Eight-year-old Shantalle led the singing. Four-year-old Yeraly helped her mother, Awilda, tell the story of Noah and the ark. Aaliya, two, was content sitting with her father, Nelson, as he bore testimony of President Gordon B. Hinckley.
Brother Veras’s rendition of “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” sent the three girls into peals of laughter. A prayer followed, then treats.
Family home evening had turned the Veras family’s cramped downtown Santo Domingo apartment into a peaceful haven five stories above the busy street. “I love being with my family,” Shantalle says of family night.