Gospel Story Finder

The other day as I watched the videotape Called to Serve, my eyes moistened in instant tenderness as each new missionary opened and read aloud with his family the official call to a full-time mission, signed by the President of the Church. I recalled my own mission call to Argentina. After sharing the excitement of my call with my parents, I sought out my mentor, who was not a member of the Church, a former U.S. senator, to share the news of my call with him. He was not impressed and let me know in no uncertain terms that if I insisted on serving a mission, upon my return all the good jobs would be taken and I would never amount to anything. I was disappointed but realized that he saw my future only as the world perceives.
Years later I realized that my mission had prioritized my life toward family, service, and gospel principles. As an added bonus, I was far ahead of most of my former classmates in worldly achievements.

The service and interdependence among members in the Galápagos Islands that have created such unity led to rich blessings in 2007. That year David and Jeanneth Palacios escorted five branch families, nearly 25 people in all, to the Guayaquil Ecuador Temple.
“To see those families sealed, I felt as though we had been transported to the heavens,” says Jeanneth. “We felt the presence of the Lord so profoundly. All five of those families are very active today.”

Nine-year-old Carrie held her dad’s strong hand tightly as they walked through the bleating sheep in the paddock (enclosed area). Ewes, watching their playful lambs, stamped their feet protectively as father and daughter pushed through the milling flock to the sheep shed. Old Jake, his face weathered by the Montana summer sun and winter cold, met them at the door. He was holding a new lamb.
“We have a bad one this time, boss. I gave him his first feeding, but he’s got a crooked set of hind legs and can’t seem to get up on them at all.”
Dad took the squirming lamb gently and carefully examined its twisted legs.
“What do you think, boss?” Jake asked. “He won’t be able to suck from his mother, so he’ll be just another bummer (orphan) lamb—and a mighty poor one at that.”
Dad put the lamb down in the new straw and watched the determined baby struggle to get up. Its forelegs were strong.
Carrie knelt beside it and stroked its wiry, short wool, hardly warm enough to keep it alive without a mother in the cold April nights. Its huge, soft eyes turned to her, and with a loud bleat it again struggled to get to its feet. Instead, it fell, the deformed legs useless. “Daddy, you wouldn’t really kill this lamb, would you?”
Dad studied the lamb, then Jake, then Carrie for a long time. Finally he asked Jake, “Do you think he’s pretty healthy otherwise?”
“Seems to be. He took the bottle OK.”
“Please, Daddy,” Carrie pleaded, “if he can take the bottle, can’t I feed him with the other bummer lambs?”
“That’s a big responsibility,” Dad said. “Raising a bummer is hard enough when they can fend for themselves and go to the pasture for grass when they’re bigger. You’d have to be not only his mother but also his back legs.”
The lamb continued to bleat and struggle to get up. Carrie hugged it. “But could I try? I promise to get up early to feed him before school. And as soon as I get home, I’ll take care of him again.”
Jake laughed, “Well, you can’t beat that for loving. But you’re forgetting the feeding during the day and at least one in the middle of the night. And how are you going to keep this little fellow warm?”
Carrie looked up at the old sheepherder. “You’d help me, wouldn’t you?” she pleaded. “I could help extra by feeding the ewes after school for you.”
“It looks like she’s as determined to keep that lamb as he is to get up and walk,” Dad said to Jake. He turned to Carrie. “Yes, you can keep this lamb. He will be your special responsibility. Jake and I will help you, but you will have to ask us.”
Joyfully Carrie picked up the lamb and followed Dad outside.
Soon Carrie faced the problems of her little lamb. It couldn’t be put in with the other bummer lambs for fear that they would trample it. She not only had to put up a pen for it outside, but she also had to put it in a big box in the sunroom at night to keep it warm. It couldn’t move about by itself, so she needed to move it often and change its straw frequently to keep it clean and warm. Like all the other bummer lambs, it had to be fed at six in the morning and again in the evening, as well as by Jake while she was in school. And she had to get up at night to check on and feed the hungry baby. No matter how sleepy she was, she had to clean out the bottles so that no sour milk would cause sickness. Besides, as she had promised, she helped Jake with the ewes.
One night at supper, Carrie, especially tired, slumped in her chair and blurted, “It’s just too hard.”
“What’s too hard?” Mom asked.
“It’s too hard to take care of my lamb. And he’ll never run and play with the other lambs. He’ll always be different.”
“Did you want to help him?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want all his problems,” Carrie faltered.
“Have you asked your father for his help? I know he said that he’d help you if you asked him.”
Carrie did ask for help. She and her dad made a better pen for the lamb outside. They also fixed up an old wagon for her to haul the growing lamb around in. They found that with some grain and a few hours in the pasture each day, it needed fewer bottle feedings.
Whenever the lamb, affectionately named Little Lamb, heard Carrie’s voice, he bleated happily to her and wriggled all over in excitement. Despite his unusable back legs, he started to pull forward on his forelegs, and when she held him, he nuzzled her lovingly and shook his head playfully.
Spring slipped into summer. The lambs spent more and more time in the pasture. With his strong forelegs, Little Lamb joined the others, pulling himself forward slowly but determinedly.
Watching the little flock of orphans one evening, Carrie and Dad laughed to see the strong bummers leap over Little Lamb and circle back around him, including him in a playful game of tag.
“Well, Carrie, it seems that your lamb is doing wonderfully,” Dad observed. “Thank you for taking such good care of him.”
“Oh, Dad, I couldn’t have done it without you!”
The next morning, Carrie ran out with her bucket of bottles as usual, calling “Lambie, lambie, lambie,” and hearing a chorus of noisy, appreciative blatting in return. Just as they recognized her call, she knew their voices. But one was missing—Little Lamb’s.
She ran to the lamb pen. He was gone! Frantically she looked in the pasture, in the driveway. No Little Lamb. She ran to the house, calling, “Dad! Mom! Jake! Have you seen Little Lamb?”
Soon the entire family was involved in the hunt.
It was Jake who discovered that the pasture gate had been left open. Somehow, Little Lamb had pulled himself to the creek flowing past the house. Jake found him lying lifeless near the water.
Carrying the lamb, he slowly walked back to the house. “I’m sorry, Carrie. He’s gone.”
“Oh, no!” she sobbed, reaching for the lamb. “He can’t be. I tried my best to take care of him. I loved him even with his bad legs. Dad, Jake, can’t you do something?” Dad gathered Carrie and the lamb into his arms, cradling them silently for a few moments as Carrie continued to sob. “Why did he have to die? Why?”
Finally Dad spoke. “I don’t know why this lamb died, but I do know that he lived for a special reason. He was born too deformed to stay with his mother. But he lived to give you love, to help you know that all life is good, even though it may be different. He lived so that you could learn the joy that comes from caring for someone else, for putting the needs of someone else above your own. Maybe you won’t understand all that right now, but I hope you’ll understand that the love you have for Little Lamb is good and that your memories of him should be happy ones.”

I had just graduated from high school and went to work as a disc jockey at a radio station. As I was making money and gaining valuable experience in broadcasting, the thought of serving a mission was pushed further and further from my mind. After much deliberation I accepted a mission call. I had a great mission and grew to know that some things in life are not as important as we sometimes feel. When I got home, the radio station that I had worked for before my mission called me and asked if I would like to return. I did and had a great opportunity to do sportscasting, my ultimate goal.
I shake when I think of the time that I considered not going on a mission in order to pursue my own goals. I know the Lord will bless you in your life pursuits when you decide to put his work first.
Scott C. Miller, 23Bountiful, Utah

Dave, 27, had long dreamed of going into advertising. His father was an excellent graphic designer in Los Angeles. Dave would spend hours talking to his father about the business. He would help with pasteups and layouts. He had a natural eye and quickly developed the skills to be a fine designer. When he went to BYU, he tried to find a company willing to hire him, but he had no luck. So he decided to see if he could create his own job.
He contacted a printing shop and found they occasionally needed design work. He visited companies he thought would benefit by his artistic talents. He found school organizations and clubs willing to pay for a flyer or poster. He also found companies needing an artist for advertisements and other business needs. Soon Dave was very busy, and the work he was doing helped his schoolwork, too.
After graduation, Dave went to work for a major advertising agency.

The second thrill happened after I retired from professional football. A young man became interested in the gospel through some discussions we had. I invited him to my home. He brought his girl friend with him, and the full-time missionaries taught them the gospel. They were converted. I had the opportunity of baptizing these two young people. A year later they came to Salt Lake City, and I had the privilege of going through the Salt Lake Temple with them when they were sealed for time and eternity.
The experience of seeing those beautiful young people accept the gospel and be united forever was a great thrill. It was a different kind of thrill than the touchdown pass. There were only a few people present in the “sacred silence,” but it was still very exciting.

Mimi tried not to squirm, but it was hard to sit quietly in church. The pew (bench) just wasn’t the right size for her body. Mimi remembered Mom saying that reverent behavior in church shows love and respect for Heavenly Father. Mimi loved Heavenly Father very much, but sitting still for so long wasn’t easy. Mom also said that sitting quietly in church was less difficult if you really paid attention to the meeting, so Mimi tried.
It was fast and testimony meeting. Sister Richards was just saying how grateful she was to work in the nursery. After she finished, Jason stood to bear his testimony. Jason was only a little older than Mimi, about her brother, Ben’s, age. Mimi listened as Jason said, “I know the Church is true. I know we have a true prophet. I love my family. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Jason sat down. His little sister Ava stood up. Mimi was surprised. Ava was in her own Primary class. Wasn’t she scared to speak in front of so many people? But Ava stepped right up and said, “I love my mom and dad and Grandma and Grandpa and my brother, Jason. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After a few more grown-ups spoke, Tyler, another Primary child, bore his testimony. He also said that he loved his family, adding, “and I try to be good. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Then the closing hymn began.
After church, Mimi said, “Next fast Sunday, I want to bear my testimony.”
“That would be fine,” Dad answered. “Have you thought about what you would like to say?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mimi. “It’s easy. I’m supposed to say, ‘I love my family. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.’”
“Well,” said Dad, “Those are very good things to say in a testimony, but they are not necessarily what you are supposed to say. Do you know what bearing your testimony means, sweetheart?”
Mimi nodded, then stopped. Maybe she wasn’t exactly sure what “bearing testimony” meant. She knew it had nothing to do with the animal kind of bear or with a bare wall that needs a picture.
Dad noticed her puzzled face. “Bearing testimony,” he explained, “means telling people what you believe or know is true. It’s not just repeating words you’ve heard others say. It is saying what you have faith in, or what spiritual things you have learned, or what the Holy Ghost tells you in your mind and heart.”
“Do you mean that Ava was wrong to stand up and say what the others said?” Mimi asked.
“No,” answered Mom. “She wasn’t wrong. She’s learning to bear her testimony, and that’s wonderful. She’s learning to speak in front of people, too, which can be scary. And she’s learning the kinds of things people have testimonies about. But as she grows, she will have special spiritual experiences that will help her testimony to grow. Then when she bears her testimony, she will have some very personal things to say.”
“Mimi,” Dad said, “if you want to bear your testimony, that’s great. But first, think about the things you feel deep inside you. What do you really know or have faith is true? And why do you feel that way?”
The next day started like any other Monday. But after school, Mimi was greeted at home by her neighbor, Mrs. Martin. “Your mother isn’t here, dear. She took Ben to the hospital. I’m staying with you and your little sister until she or your dad can come home.”
Mimi’s eyes widened, and a scared feeling filled her stomach. “What’s the matter with Ben?”
“The doctors at the hospital said that his appendix ruptured.”
“Ruptured?”
“That means it burst, dear,” Mrs. Martin explained. “It was all full of infection, and it burst, letting the infection out into his tummy.”
Mimi gulped. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, it’s pretty serious, but they operated quickly to take it out. And your dad and grandpa hurried to the hospital to give him a blessing. He should be just fine. There’s nothing to worry about now, I’m sure.”
But Mimi did worry. The scared feeling in her stomach became a sick feeling. She went to her room and knelt by her bed. “Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “please help Ben be all right. I know we argue sometimes, but I really love him. Please bless him to get better. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” As Mimi finished praying, she felt warm all over, and the sick feeling faded away.
Later, when Mom came home, her tired face looked white, but she smiled at Mimi and her sister and hugged them tightly. “Everything is going to be all right,” she said. “Ben is very sick, but his blessing promised him that he would heal quickly and without too much pain. He’ll have to be in the hospital for a while, and I’ll go back tonight to be with him.”
Before Mom left, she prayed with the girls. Again Mimi felt a warm, peaceful feeling all through her body. Before she went to sleep, she carefully read the scripture on a card her Primary teacher had given her; “Whatsoever thing ye shall ask the Father in my name, which is good, in faith believing that ye shall receive, behold, it shall be done unto you.”* Mimi slipped out of bed onto her knees and prayed once more. Then, full of the warm, peaceful feeling again, she crept back under the covers and went right to sleep.
After several days, the doctor said that Ben could leave the hospital. “I expected him to need to stay longer, but there’s no sign of infection now, and I’ve never seen anyone heal so quickly.”
The doctor may have been surprised, but Ben wasn’t. “Of course—didn’t my blessing say I would get well fast and without too much pain?”
Mimi just smiled.
Before long, life was back to normal—school, playing, and, of course, church. On fast Sunday, just as she had said she would, Mimi bore her testimony. When she stood to speak, her knees trembled and her tummy did flip-flops. She never knew so many people could fit in the chapel, and they were all looking at her! She almost wanted to sit down again. But then she saw her family smiling at her.
She took a deep breath and began, “I know that Heavenly Father is really there and that He listens to our prayers. I know that because when I talked to Him about something really important, I felt all warm and calm inside. And I believe in the priesthood and in blessings, because everything my dad promised in Ben’s blessing happened just the way he said it would. And I believe in the scriptures because they promised that Heavenly Father will answer our prayers.” She looked at Ben. “I know that He answered mine. And I love Him. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Mimi felt an even greater love for Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ as she walked back to her seat. She saw tears in Mom’s eyes, but she was smiling. Daddy slipped his arm around her and whispered, “Now that, sweetheart, is what bearing testimony is all about.”

Andrea Fawson thought she was hearing things when she was introduced to Andrea Fawson at a Young Women conference in northern California. But after checking out their well-mapped family histories, the two girls discovered that they not only shared names, but bloodlines too.

Andrea Fawson, 15, from Fairfield, California, and Andrea Fawson, 16, from Ukiah, California, noted in their conversation at the conference that they both had 13-year-old brothers named Richard [will the two Richard Fawsons meet up at a Scout camp some day?] and first cousins named Angela and Christy. Once they got home, they looked at their family charts and found that they were actually distant cousins. You never know who will turn up in your family history.

An illustration of the spirit of President Hunter occurred at the conclusion of a regional conference at BYU’s Marriott Center as he was exiting the building through the west tunnel. This was the period when he was just beginning to stand again and use his walker, but he was still a little unsteady. My son Lee and three of his children had attended the conference, and they were also exiting the Marriott Center through the west tunnel. As Lee and his children moved up the tunnel, his son Justin, who was wandering more left and right than in a straight line, drew dangerously close to President Hunter. Lee cautioned Justin, “Don’t get in President Hunter’s way.” President Hunter stopped for only a moment, turned his head around, smiled, and with a twinkle in his eye said, “Nothing gets in my way.”

Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

As I spread the threadbare but clean tablecloth over our table, I glanced out the window. My husband and I and our two children were living in the small, rural village of Hämeenkyrö, Finland, in the 1960s. I saw my four-year-old daughter, Marika, and three-year-old son, Petri, playing with our dog on our small patch of green grass. My husband was tending to some chores in the garden. I straightened the cloth, and when I looked up again I saw a stranger walking up the path to our front door. She was a gray-haired woman and seemed to limp a bit. She didn’t look poor by any means; she wore a beautiful flower-print dress and a long apron. In her hand was a bulging bag.
My children followed her as she came into our kitchen. “Excuse me for entering your home like this,” she said, “but I had to come.” She hefted her bag onto the table. It was full of food. As the butter, meat, sausage, and freshly baked bread made their way onto the table and then into my children’s hands, tears came to my eyes.
“Can you be our grandmother now?” Marika asked the woman.
“If I may!” our guest answered. “I’d be happy to, and you can call me Aunt Toini.”
In that moment I recalled my prayer to Heavenly Father: “Please send someone to help us!” Aunt Toini was an answer to my prayers, and not only did she bring us food, she also brought lessons of love.
Life was simple in Hämeenkyrö. We had bought a small house by a beautiful forest. I had recently joined the Church, but my husband was not interested in the gospel. We were trying to be self-reliant. We grew potatoes and other vegetables in our garden. I sewed the children’s outfits and patched our clothes. We needed and were thankful for surprise packages of clothing my mother sent from northern Finland.
But as time went on, things got worse. Our family had to strictly ration food. At times my husband and I would eat only potatoes so the children would have a bit more. This is when I started my pleading: “Dear Lord, please send someone to help us!”
I found a job, but it didn’t help enough. There wasn’t much of my salary left after meeting my expenses, including bus fare and the babysitter’s payment.
Though we struggled I always taught my children to be grateful for all we did have. Petri often blessed the food: “Thank You, Heavenly Father, for this porridge, but could You please give us a piece of sausage too, if You have some?”
At those times I pleaded even more, “Please send someone to help!”
As she carried water from the well, I offered a different prayer: “Thank You, Heavenly Father! Blessed be the full bag and 20 marks!”
Every Saturday Aunt Toini came at the same time, with the bag full of food and 20 marks. She never asked how she could help; she just went to work. Occasionally she would stay at our house for a day or two. At those times she would always be the first to get up in the morning to make the porridge. She bought us some new pots and pans when she noticed the need. Sometimes she would wash our laundry by hand.
The weeks went by quickly as we looked forward to Saturdays and Aunt Toini’s visits. I would sometimes tell her about the Church, and many times we prayed together. Marika and Petri were very happy every time she came, and Aunt Toini never forgot to bring some sausage for Petri. It seemed she enjoyed the time with our family, and I thought perhaps we were giving something back to her.
Aunt Toini visited us regularly for three years. Then one Saturday she didn’t come. Nor did she come the following day. Later we learned that Aunt Toini had just left a shop and was heading to our small cottage when she collapsed to the ground, never to recover.
My husband and I and our children attended Aunt Toini’s funeral. We didn’t know anyone when we arrived, and we didn’t know when it would be appropriate for us to lay our flowers on her grave. We decided to be the last to lay down our flowers, to express our gratitude, to say good-bye.
After the funeral a woman approached us and told us she was Aunt Toini’s daughter. “You could have laid your flowers down first. You were so dear to our mother,” she said. “What was the power that changed her? She used to be a stingy and selfish person. But during the last three years she changed into a new person. She was so tender and loving.”
I didn’t know what to say except, “It was love.”
Though it has been more than 40 years since I first met Aunt Toini, I am still learning from the lessons she brought along with her bag of food. She was my teacher. She taught me how to long for forgiveness and how to give service and help. And now I realize that though she came to feed us, she too had been fed.

I first heard the wonderful story of The Little Engine That Could when I was about 10 years old. As a child, I was interested in the story because the train cars were filled with toy animals, toy clowns, jackknives, puzzles, and books as well as delicious things to eat. However, the engine that was pulling the train over the mountain broke down. The story relates that a big passenger engine came by and was asked to pull the cars over the mountain, but he wouldn’t condescend to pull the little train. Another engine came by, but he wouldn’t stoop to help the little train over the mountain because he was a freight engine. An old engine came by, but he would not help because, he said, “I am so tired. … I can not. I can not. I can not.”

Then a little blue engine came down the track, and she was asked to pull the cars over the mountain to the children on the other side. The little engine responded, “I’m not very big. … They use me only for switching in the yard. I have never been over the mountain.” But she was concerned about disappointing the children on the other side of the mountain if they didn’t get all of the goodies in the cars. So she said, “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.” And she hooked herself to the little train. “Puff, puff, chug, chug, went the Little Blue Engine. ‘I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can.’” With this attitude, the little engine reached the top of the mountain and went down the other side, saying, “I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could.”

The Church News recently told of Aaron Thatcher, a young man with a love for baseball. Aaron had had many baseball scouts observe his unique talents, but he told them repeatedly that he would not sign a professional contract until after he had fulfilled his obligations to the Lord by serving a two-year mission.
“How could a young man turn down such an offer?” people ask. But he did! His desire to serve the Lord was greater than his desire for instant fame. Aaron explained, “I’m going on this mission not because … my Dad went. I’m going because I have a testimony of the gospel and the prophets have told us that every worthy and healthy young man should serve a full-time mission. I want to with all of my heart” (in Quig Nielsen, “Baseball ‘On Hold’ While He Serves Mission,” Church News, 4 Sept. 1993, p. 5).

The limousine pulled to the curb in front of NBC in New York City, and a pretty brunette woman smiled at the driver and got out. It was 5:00 in the morning. It would be an hour yet before the sun finally edged around the skyscrapers to lighten the scene. But you have to be early if you’re starting a new job as a regular on the early-morning talk show, Today. And Dian Thomas was starting what she hoped would be a long stay on the show.
Dian was left on the curb surrounded by suitcases and bags of props that she would need for her demonstration on backyard cooking. She had a new pitchfork for roasting hot dogs and a foil-covered shovel for cooking hamburgers. She had a child’s wagon that would be adapted as a barbecue. She had cans and food and fuel that she would use to simulate a backyard party in the studio.
Dian’s claim to fame was authoring several best-selling books on outdoor cooking, but she hoped to expand her demonstrations to include interesting ideas for home entertaining and unusual foods. She presented a proposal for a series of segments to the producers of the NBC Today Show, and they wanted to see how she would do on the air before inviting her to join the show as a regular.
It took several trips, but she struggled with her load to the main elevator. She finally managed to carry her props to the dressing room assigned to her. As she carried the last of her things in, a flustered man rushed up to her. “You’re not supposed to carry all those things in by yourself. There’s a prop man for that.” Later, the prop man put a star on her dressing room door and told her, “See that. You’re the star. You don’t have to carry your things up by yourself.”
Dian arranged her first show, and it was time to tape her segment. She demonstrated to Tom Brokaw, the host of the show, how to fill the wagon with dirt and charcoal to serve as a barbecue. She showed him how to use an ironing board as an impromptu buffet table. She showed him how to keep drinks cold in a wheelbarrow filled with ice. As she finished, Tom asked her, “What if one of my guests stumbles and sits in the barbecue by mistake.” Thinking quickly, Dian quipped, “Then you would have rump roast!”
The studio personnel burst into laughter at her answer. The host smiled at her quick response. “It was that show that gave me the courage to talk to the host and producer about doing a regular segment,” said Dian in retrospect. Since then Dian has been seen by millions of television viewers several times a month for more than three years. She also represents major companies in product promotion at conventions and in the media. She is a popular speaker and lecturer. She is articulate, witty, attractive, well liked, and successful.

Such a project is ongoing on the Pacific Island nation of Kiribati.
Tamana Natanaera, the local self-reliance manager for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, was tasked with finding members with gardening experience and a passion for growing things.
Working with local leaders, Tamana helped to identify seven qualified members whom he refers to as “champions.”
Each champion was given the equipment to set up a nursery tailored to fit in his or her available space.
A simple greenhouse was supplied to hold and protect seedling trays, as well as to offer shade as needed. Seeds were provided for growing nutritious produce such as cucumber, eggplant, capsicum, cabbage, tomato, watermelon, papaya and rock melon.
A watering system is a particular necessity in Kiribati. Although the 33 islands that comprise Kiribati stretch across 3.5 million square kilometres of ocean water, fresh water is very scarce.
The champions were thus each provided with a watering system composed of a small solar pump to draw water from a well, a water tank with a stand, and a piping system.
Tamana Natanaera noted that the water system given to the champions is a big help as it greatly improves their ability to produce more.
With these necessary tools, the champion gardeners are able to do their part. For two years now, they have been planting the seeds in the small trays and nurturing them.
When the seedlings are ready to be transplanted into a garden, the champions begin sharing them with neighbours and friends. They may ask their church leaders to announce to their congregation that seedlings are available. They may also give the seedlings to coworkers or to neighbours in their communities who are interested in growing their own produce.
When the champion has seedlings left over, they can transplant them into their own garden for their personal use or they may sell their excess produce to neighbours.
The Church will provide seeds to the champions for one more year and at the end of that period, the gardeners should be capable of producing their own seeds to maintain growing and sharing the seedlings. The program will continue to bless many people in Kiribati communities.
This project is not just an example of growing seedlings, but also of growing self-reliance, community spirit and neighbourly friendships. Underpinning all of this is a growing faith—among many participants—in He who created all things, and who cares for His children, one by one.

These escapes started at an early age.
One morning in my eleventh year my brother, my cousin, I, and a fourth boy were standing on the rim of Salt Lake’s City Creek Canyon.
The fourth boy had a mail-order 22-caliber pistol with a broken trigger spring. He had stretched an elastic band across the hammer and under the trigger guard to act as a spring to fire the weapon.
He was showing us how Buffalo Bill shot, by raising the gun high and then bringing it down slowly, releasing the hammer when it was level. Suddenly I felt my left hand go numb. Looking down, I saw a red stain on the white sleeve of my left arm at the biceps level. The stain got larger. I yelled, “I’m shot,” and ran for home.
The bullet had pierced my arm and passed completely through it without touching bones or arteries. I had been on the extreme left of the group, the boy with the gun on the extreme right. The bullet passed in front of my chest on the level of my heart and must have been very close to the skin as it passed. Otherwise it could not have hit my left arm. If that gun had been turned one-fourth of an inch farther to the left, I wouldn’t be here now!
I have since thought about what it was that protected me. I am not one to say that I am a man marked for protection, but I believe I was protected that time.

There is no dinner like a Christmas dinner in France. The food comes in courses, at least seven of them. And we had feasted on each course, from hors d’oeuvres to entrées to pièces de résistance. And to top it all off, dessert. Not some ordinary cake, pie, or pudding. Not even flaky pastry from the local patisserie. Sister Gournillon had made a bûche de Nöel.
To say a bûche de Nöel is a Christmas cake is to say the Eiffel Tower is some building in Paris. A bûche is the culinary crown of a French Christmas. It is composed of layers of butter frosting, cream custard, and light, white cake swirled together in the shape of a Yule log, from which it gets its name. Sister Gournillon had made hers herself and had even pushed a tiny plastic hatchet into the chocolate frosting.
“Nobody is going to say the branch president’s wife didn’t feed the missionaries well on Christmas,” she said. Nobody would.
It was thanks to the bûche, I guess, that I fell asleep on the couch. We had told President Gournillon that we could only stay a short time for Christmas dinner, and he understood. But when I sat down after such a huge meal, I must have dozed for a minute.
It didn’t take me long to wake up. The kids, all seven of them, were playing soldiers. Stephan, age 6, was the commandant. He was chasing Natalie, age 5, around the couch when she tripped and fell. Her forehead popped against my cheekbone just below my eye, hard. She was so startled she didn’t even cry. I was amazed at how fast my ruptured blood vessel produced swelling.
We left for home a few minutes later. By then, my eye was swollen so much I felt like a prize fighter.
“Oooh, Frère Romney, cette beurre noir va vous fair du mal,” Sister Gournillon said. (“This black eye’s going to hurt.”)
“I’ll live,” I said.
President Gournillon held Natalie up next to me so she could kiss it better. “Je suis triste (I’m sorry),” she said.
“Ca va, ça va (that’s okay),” I smiled. “Next time pick on someone your own size.”
When we got out to our bikes, I gathered up some snow and held it to my cheek. It felt better.
How does a missionary with a black eye go tracting? I wondered. The same as any other missionary: one door at a time. Some people gave me funny looks, as if they wondered who would punch a foreigner and why. One man even asked me if I had hit the other guy first. But the embarrassment really deepened when the zone leaders arrived for their visit.
“You know, Elder Romney, for a brand-new missionary you’ve really come out swinging,” Elder Zoelfelt said, grinning. “Just don’t think you’ve got to fight your way to the top.”
“I’d rather fight than switch,” I joked back. By now my black eye was purple and yellow—and all over the side of my face.
Elder Zoelfelt and I were assigned to go tracting together that day. I was a little intimidated to be out alone with a zone leader, but I wanted to do my best.
“You decide where we’ll go,” he told me following a word of prayer.
“Let’s head for the Z. U. P. de la Cité (government housing area),” I said. “It’s not far and we only did about half of it the last time we were there.”
We pedaled the half mile, climbed off our bikes, locked them to a tree, and took out the flip-charts. As we approached the nearest building, I suddenly realized that I had no idea where Elder Norton (my regular companion) and I had left off. It had been about two weeks. There hadn’t been many people home, and we hadn’t made any teaching appointments. The only thing I remembered about the cold, gray complex was that in one building one lady hadn’t liked us at all. When we had told her we were Mormon missionaries, she hadn’t just said, “Non, merci.” She had said, “Non! Non! Non!” at the top of her voice and chased us down the stairs. Everyone in the building must have heard her yell at us.
I picked out an entrance to one of the nearest stairwells (they all looked alike).
“I feel good about starting here,” I said.
“Always follow your feelings,” Elder Zoelfelt said.
We walked up the five flights to the top floor and started our way down. Nobody home. Nobody home. Come back later. Nobody home.
“It’s your turn, elder,” the zone leader reminded me.
I rang the bell. We could hear someone inside.
“Un instant! (just a minute),” a voice said.
That voice!
I looked around me. The potted plant. The light switch. The color of the door. How had I picked that door? It was the door of the lady who had chased us down the stairs! Maybe if I ran for it I could get out before she charged us. What would a zone leader think of a missionary who flees from battle?
She opened the door.
“Bonjour,” I said. “I think we’ve met before.”
“Yes, we have,” she said. “But last time you were with someone else. And … you didn’t have that black eye.”
“Well … ,” I stammered, “Would you like to know how I got it?”
“Sure,” she laughed. “Come on in.”
Her name was Madame Barnet.
“I was quite rude to you the other day,” she apologized. “But you see, I’m the local catechism teacher. The priest told us the Mormons were in the area and that we should not make it pleasant for you.”
“All we want is to tell people about Christ,” Elder Zoelfelt said.
“But we already know about him.”
The silence was deadening, the kind of silence that happens when everyone knows the next word could set off sparks.
“Well … ,” I said. “Let me tell you about my black eye.” I started with the bûche de Nöel. Then we talked about the branch president’s family. Then I told her how Natalie had tripped and bumped me on the cheekbone.
“I thought someone must have hit you,” Madame Barnet said. “But I didn’t dream it would have been a little girl.”
We talked about Christmas in France and Christmas in Ohio. We talked about turkeys and roast chestnuts and caroling and sleigh rides. We talked about families and Christmas cards and being away from home. She told us about the children in the neighborhood and how she loved them. Since her divorce, teaching them about Jesus had been a great comfort to her.
“Would you like to tell them how Jesus came to America?” Elder Zoelfelt asked.
“Come on,” she said. “No fairy tales here.”
“Seriously,” he said. “That’s something we know about Christ that you may not know. Look at this picture.”
He showed her the picture of Christ appearing to the Nephites and bore his testimony that it had actually happened. I could feel the Spirit.
“That is something that I never heard before,” she admitted. “Et vous en êtes si convaincus (and you are so sure it’s true).”
We talked a few minutes more, and then she sent us on our way. She wouldn’t let us make an appointment to teach her, but she at least smiled and shook our hands.
When we got outside, Elder Zoelfelt looked at me and smiled.
“Elder Romney,” he said, “that was one of the most original door approaches I’ve ever seen. I wonder what you’d do with a broken leg.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“I wish she would have invited us back to teach her more,” I said. “I bet she’d really like to see ‘Christ in America.’”
“Maybe someday she will,” Elder Zoelfelt said. “Maybe she will. For right now, you’ve helped her understand us a little better. She might even consider us friends. At least you didn’t give the Church a black eye.”
I groaned. I had to. But at least I felt like I’d helped someone know a little bit more about the Church. Maybe that bump on the cheek had been worth it after all.

“Come on, Sam,” Jeremy said as he walked along the old dusty roadbed with his friends. “Nobody will know but us.”
Lagging behind the group, I thought about the conversation Jeremy and I had had that morning. He had told me about his plan to steal watermelons from Brother Vargas. I knew stealing was wrong, but I thought if I did what he wanted, we would be friends. So when he had finished talking, I told a lie. “I know all about stealing. It’s easy. I’ve done it before.”
“You have!” he had exclaimed, looking surprised. “Wait until I tell the other guys.” After he had told everyone in the group, they looked at me with renewed interest. I liked that, but now I was in trouble. I didn’t want to steal anything, especially Brother Vargas’s prize watermelons.
Brother Vargas was as old as my grandpa, but he had been my only friend when we first moved to Fawn Creek. He knew I was lonely and needed a friend. And I knew that the money from his melon field made up most of the income he and Sister Vargas lived on.
“Hurry up, Sam,” one of the kids called over his shoulder. “Brother Vargas will be back soon to pick up another load of melons. If we don’t get to his field before he does, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Oh, well, I thought, walking faster, I need friends my own age. Jeremy’s in my Primary class and my Scout troop, and all the guys like him. If we become friends, I’ll have a lot of guys to hang around with. Besides, Mom thinks he’s a good friend. So did I—until now.
When I caught up to Jeremy, he began making plans. “Clint, you be the lookout. If anyone comes, whistle. Brett, you take Sam and head for the nearest row of melons. Jeff and I will be right behind you. Remember, we won’t have much time, so don’t be too choosy. Just get the biggest ones you can carry.”
“Yeah,” Clint agreed, licking his lips. “We already know how good they taste.”
“What if we get caught?” I asked.
“Getting nervous?” Brett questioned.
“Not me,” I lied for the second time in a half hour. “You’re right; we’d better hurry.”
The real reason I wanted to hurry had nothing to do with taking melons. The truth was, I didn’t want to see the way Brother Vargas would look at me if he caught me robbing him. We were friends, and true friends take care of each other. I was starting to feel awful.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Jeremy said. “No one will find out.”
How did I get into this situation? I wondered. I needed someone to blame. So I blamed Mom. It’s her fault we moved after Dad died.
“Yeah, sure,” I muttered under my breath. “And look at what you’re doing.” I knew why Mom had sold the house. She didn’t want to go to work and leave me home alone. She’d loved that old house, and I knew she didn’t want to move away from her friends any more than I did.
“Sam, you’re dragging your feet again,” Jeremy said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, as I sent a rock flying across the road with the side of my foot.
When we finally reached Brother Vargas’s melon field, I knew I had made the worst decision of my life. But I didn’t know how to get out of it. Then the words to a song we were learning in Primary popped into my head. I began to sing softly:
“Choose the right when a choice is placed before you. In the right the Holy Spirit guides; And its light is forever shining o’er you, When in the right your heart confides” (“Choose the Right,” Hymns, number 239).
When I got to the chorus, all the boys began to sing with me. When we finished, I knew I had to say something. “We can’t do this!” I declared looking first at the guys and then at the melon field. “This just isn’t right.”
“But you said you’ve stolen things before,” Jeremy said accusingly.
“That was a lie,” I admitted. “I’ve never stolen anything in my whole life, and I don’t want to start now.”
“Neither do I,” Clint said, walking over to stand next to me.
Surprised, I turned to Clint. “I thought you had stolen before. You even said you knew how good Brother Vargas’s melons are.”
“We lied, too,” Brett admitted. “Brother Vargas gives my family watermelons from his field every year.”
“Yeah, and they sure are good!” Jeff said, almost drooling. “He gives melons to anyone who wants them.”
“Then why were we going to steal them?” I asked, almost shouting.
“We thought it would be fun,” Clint said as he dug the point of his shoe into the loose dirt.
“Yeah,” Jeremy agreed, his voice a whisper. “But it sure doesn’t seem like fun now.”
When Brother Vargas drove up, we were sitting in the shade of the big metal shed still talking about his watermelons.
“Hi, boys,” he called. “It’s good to see you. I could sure use your help putting another load of melons on the truck.”
Feeling a little guilty, we asked him how we should do it so we wouldn’t damage the melons. Two hours later, after the truck was loaded, he offered us jobs for the rest of the summer. Then he said, “Each of you take a watermelon home to your families.”
“My family is going to love this!” Brett said excitedly. “Just yesterday Dad said his mouth was watering for a taste of Brother Vargas’s melons.”
“Mine, too,” Clint said with a big grin.
After Jeff, Clint, and Brett headed for home, only Jeremy and I were left.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I guess I just got carried away.”
“I’m sorry, too, Jeremy. I’m glad we finally made the right decision.”
Jeremy’s whole face lit up. “So am I! Now we can eat watermelon without feeling bad—and we have jobs, too! It doesn’t get much better than that!”

I would like to share an example of how living a principle helps us become converted to that principle. I was a young woman in the ’60s and the only LDS girl in my high school. It was a revolutionary period characterized by the rejection of traditional morals, drug use, and an “anything goes” mentality. Many of my peers were good people but found it easy to get caught up in the excitement of this new morality, which actually was just the old immorality. My parents and teachers at church had impressed upon me the value of treating my body with respect, keeping a clear mind, and most of all, learning to trust in the Lord’s commandments. I made the decision to avoid situations where I knew alcohol would be present and to stay clear of tobacco and drugs. It often meant I was not included at parties, and I rarely dated. Drug use was becoming more and more common among young people, and the dangers were not as well known as they are today. Many of my peers later suffered permanent damage from mind-altering drugs or got caught up in serious addictions. I was grateful to have been taught to live the Word of Wisdom in my home, and I gained a deep testimony of that principle of the gospel as I exercised faith and lived it. The good feeling that came to me from living a true gospel principle was the Spirit of the Holy Ghost confirming that the principle was true. That is when true conversion begins to take place.

And, finally, be a good influence on others. When I was a sophomore in high school, some of my friends started drinking and smoking. They knew I didn’t drink or smoke, but they began to pressure me to join their parties anyway. The more they pressured me, the more uncomfortable I felt, until finally I stopped hanging around them. I figured that if they were really my friends, they wouldn’t push me to do things I didn’t want to do. Real friends would never ask you to do something you shouldn’t.