Gospel Story Finder

When Relief Society was officially organized, Emma Smith continued in her calling as a leader. She was named as president of the organization, with two counselors to serve with her in a presidency. Rather than being selected by popular vote, as was common in organizations outside of the Church, this presidency was called by revelation, sustained by those they would lead, and set apart by priesthood leaders to serve in their callings, thus being “called of God, by prophecy, and by the laying on of hands by those who are in authority.”9 Being organized under the priesthood made it possible for the presidency to receive direction from the Lord and His prophet for a specific work. The organization of Relief Society enabled the Lord’s storehouse of talent, time, and means to be administered in wisdom and order.
That first group of women understood that they had been given authority to teach, inspire, and organize the sisters as disciples to assist in the Lord’s work of salvation. In their first meetings the sisters were taught the guiding purposes of Relief Society: to increase faith and personal righteousness, strengthen families and homes, and seek out and help those in need.
I hope my granddaughters will understand that the organization of Relief Society was an essential part of preparing the Saints for the privileges, blessings, and gifts found only in the temple. President Joseph Fielding Smith taught that Relief Society “is a vital part of the kingdom of God on earth” and “is so designed and operated that it helps its faithful members to gain eternal life in our Father’s kingdom.”10 We can imagine what it must have been like for the sisters to be in Joseph Smith’s Red Brick Store at those first Relief Society meetings, facing the hill where a temple was being built as the Prophet taught them that “there should be a select society, separate from all the evils of the world, choice, virtuous, and holy.”11

Peering through the rails of a fence, 17-year-old Fabio Fogliatto and his friends of the Canoas Brazil Stake watch intently as workers in hard hats construct a building near the southern tip of Brazil. Fabio notes with satisfaction that one of the workers leaves the construction site before smoking a cigarette. “He must know this is a sacred site for us,” Fabio says.
On the other side of the fence from the teens is a spectacular sight. Against the backdrop of the city, the walls of the Porto Alegre Brazil Temple rise out of the red earth.
“Just watching them build the temple, I can feel it really is a temple of the Lord,” says Ivan Carvalho, age 14, of the Esteio Ward. “It makes me feel even stronger that I want to come here to do ordinances for the dead and for myself.”
Fourteen-year-old Guilherme Recordon of the Estância Velha Ward adds, “And now that we have to go only 20 kilometers instead of 300, maybe we’ll be able to come here every week!”

“Hurry, Cathy,” Anne called over her shoulder to her sister as they ran along the road.
“I am hurrying!” Cathy yelled back, barely three steps behind her. Laughing, they turned into the parking lot of Mr. Parkins’s Plant Place. Breathing hard, they burst through the front door into the rich smell of potting soil and damp, growing things.
“Well, hello, girls.” Mr. Parkins smiled as he looked up. “Did you come to work?”
“Yes, please,” Anne said. “Today and tomorrow too, if you need us. We want to earn money to buy a present for Mum.”
In the early spring Mr. Parkins often paid the neighborhood children to help transplant seedlings. “Where is your cousin Emmy today?” he asked.
“She went to help Granny,” Cathy said.
“Well, come along.” Mr. Parkins led them into one of the long, low greenhouses. “We’re working on the petunias right now, and I need all the help I can get.”
In the greenhouse, long tables were covered with young petunia plants. Allen, Tom, and Lance were already working and laughing loudly.
Mr. Parkins stayed long enough to make sure the girls knew what to do and to check on the boys’ work. “I’m sure glad the five of you could come,” he said as he left.
The potting soil was crumbly and moist on Anne’s fingers as she carefully separated the plants. Cathy worked beside her, filling each of the small containers with soil and planting the seedlings. For a while no one said anything.
Then Lance elbowed Allen and whispered something in his ear. Allen laughed loudly, then whispered in Tom’s ear. Tom snorted. Then Lance stopped whispering and started saying nasty things out loud.
Anne’s fingers started to shake, and she felt slightly sick. “I wish Emmy was here,” she whispered to Cathy.
Cathy nodded. “So do I.” Emmy would know what to do. She was as brave as Nephi.
But Anne wasn’t Emmy, and she didn’t know what to do. She was afraid if she asked the boys to stop, they would just get worse. Now they were using words Anne knew were not right.
She looked over at Cathy. Cathy’s lips were pressed tightly together, and she was about to cry.
“Shall we leave?” Anne whispered.
“But I want to buy something nice for Mum,” Cathy said quietly.
“Me too,” Anne said. “Besides, Mr. Parkins said he needs all the help he can get.”
Cathy nodded and blinked as two tears slid down her cheeks. She hid her eyes so Lance, Allen, and Tom wouldn’t know she was crying.
Anne moved closer to her. She was angry now. If only Emmy was here! she thought. If only I knew what to do!
Suddenly she had an idea. Softly she started humming her favorite hymn. When Cathy heard the first few notes, she looked up at Anne in surprise. Then she smiled. By the end of the hymn, they were humming softly together.
The boys were still making ugly jokes, but Anne didn’t feel angry anymore. She and Cathy hummed “I Am a Child of God” a little louder, and by the end of that song, Lance was quieter. Anne, feeling braver, gave him a big smile as she started singing a Primary song. Cathy joined in, and their voices echoed sweetly through the greenhouse, while the boys gradually became silent.
Anne and Cathy were still singing Primary songs when Mr. Parkins poked his head in an hour later. “Sounds good, girls.” He came over to the long table. “Your work is good, too. But it’s almost dark—you’d better get home. I’m glad you’ll be coming back tomorrow—I can always use good, cheerful help.”
Rubbing the soil off their fingers, the children followed Mr. Parkins out of the greenhouse and into the early evening light. Lance, Allen, and Tom scooted past Anne and Cathy.
“Babies,” Lance hissed as he ran past. Anne just smiled at him again.
The air was cooler now, but the girls didn’t feel cold.
“I feel warm and happy,” Cathy said, looking up at the pink sky.
“Me, too,” Anne said. “Race you home!”

A few days later, Sarah and I were in the bone marrow transplant clinic, where she would receive a red blood cell transfusion. She had been premedicated for the procedure and was peacefully sleeping in my arms. I began to think intently about Sarah and how her situation was so dire: she was getting sicker and sicker by the day. Parts of her body had quit functioning altogether. Her red blood count had fallen drastically; she had no white blood count to speak of and would also be receiving a platelet transfusion before the day was finished. She was lethargic and weaker than normal, and her appearance was paler. Without new red blood cells to revive her body, life would eventually slip away.
But gratefully, I watched as precious red blood cells slowly dripped from a tiny bag and flowed through the IV tubing directly into Sarah’s body through her central line, literally offering her new life. I observed a physical transformation as Sarah’s cheeks and hands became a beautiful pink hue again. She even seemed to be breathing a little easier. Peace filled my mind as I knew that, once again, her body would be receiving its vital nourishment through the circulation of the new red blood cells. Life would continue.

A lifetime of spiritual experiences for Lorenzo Snow was climaxed following the death of President Wilford Woodruff. President Snow, who was then serving as President of the Quorum of the Twelve, went to the Salt Lake Temple. Dressed in his temple robes, he knelt to pray, reminding the Lord that he had often prayed that President Woodruff would outlive him, so that he would not be required to carry the heavy responsibilities as President of the Church. But he then told the Lord that he would do whatever was required of him.
After his prayer, President Snow waited for an answer from the Lord, but nothing came. Later, as he was walking through a corridor, a glorious manifestation was suddenly opened up to him: The Lord Jesus Christ appeared to him. President Snow later told his granddaughter about the experience, showing her the spot in the temple where it had occurred. She wrote:
“Grand-pa came a step nearer and held out his left hand and said: ‘He stood right here, about three feet above the floor. It looked as though He stood on a plate of solid gold.’
“Grand-pa told me what a glorious personage the Savior is and described His hands, feet, countenance and beautiful white robes, all of which were of such a glory of whiteness and brightness that he could hardly gaze upon Him.
“Then he came another step nearer and put his right hand on my head and said: ‘Now, grand-daughter, I want you to remember that this is the testimony of your grand-father, that he told you with his own lips that he actually saw the Savior, here in the Temple, and talked with Him face to face.’”

To clarify this concept, we can learn from the astronaut. Any time during the selection process, planning, and preparation, he is free to withdraw. But once the powerful rocket fuel is ignited, he is no longer free to choose. Now he is bound by the consequences of his choice. Even if difficulties develop and he might wish otherwise, the choice made was sealed by action.

The Latter-day Saints had many problems in Missouri. In the autumn of 1838, Governor Boggs told leaders of the state militia (army) to force the Saints to leave the state.
The Mormons must be treated as enemies.
Joseph and other Church leaders were arrested for crimes they did not commit. The militiamen mocked the prisoners and kept them out in the rain without any shelter.
The commander of the militia told General Alexander W. Doniphan to shoot Joseph and the other prisoners. The prisoners prayed that they would not be killed. Their prayers were answered.
It is cold-blooded murder. I will not obey your order.

Let’s compare the emotional healing process with that of caring for and treating a physical injury. Suppose that when you were young, you broke your leg. Rather than going to the doctor to get it set, you hobbled along until the deep pain was gone, but there is always a slight pain with each step you take. Years later you want the pain to go away, so you go to a doctor. The doctor must reset the bone, clean away any buildup that has grown, cast it, and send you to physical therapy to strengthen your leg.

On one occasion, I spent a few minutes with a young man who had left high school and entered the military. Now he was trying to decide what to do with his life. I encouraged him to return to finish high school.

I did not provide him with money; the Church had no school for him, not even a scholarship. In those few minutes, I simply taught him that self-reliance which is such a part of our way of life. Even though over age, he returned to finish high school, and now he provides for his family and encourages his children in their search for truth.

I am a stay-at-home mom. I have three boys and a husband who are my entire life. I am their biggest supporter. They embody who I am. I don’t have a career outside my family. My older sister is a stay-at-home mother to four kids, but she is an amazing author as well. My baby sister is the only college graduate in the family, she is working at the place of her dreams, and she is still single. We are all different. We may have different labels, but those labels don’t make us worth more or less than one another. Despite our differences, we are all children of God, and He loves us all. In the end, that is truly all that matters. My labels may be different from my sisters’, but when you strip those away, we are all the same. We have the same eternal potential.

Airman First Class Randy Welch, 19, has come down out of the “wild blue yonder,” for the time being anyway, to study youth leadership at BYU on a full, four-year U.S. Air Force scholarship.
Randy competed in the Air Force-wide scholarship competition while stationed at Ubon Airfield in Thailand. He was active there in the local organization of the Church and served as organist not only for LDS meetings, but also for other denominations represented on the base.
A member of the local Scout group, Randy spent his Saturdays working in Ubon with Thai Boy Scouts and also found time for volunteer work at a local orphanage.
Randy comes from an Air Force family. His father is a lieutenant colonel.

Joseph Smith did, two years before his death, in a letter to a newspaper editor, John Wentworth. Mr. Wentworth had asked for information about the Church. The Prophet Joseph wrote to him about the First Vision, the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, the organization of the Church, and the persecution Church members faced. The Prophet finished the letter by listing 13 of our key beliefs, which are now called the Articles of Faith.

When I was in high school, I got offended about some of the Church doctrine. It eventually led me to become less active. I attended some activities at another church, but my joy was not full. It was as if there was something missing.
It took me time to find what was missing, but one day after I prayed, I opened my eyes and saw the Book of Mormon on my table. I was about to go to sleep when a thought came to me: “I was born a Mormon. How come I haven’t finished reading the Book of Mormon?” So that day I decided I would finish reading the Book of Mormon.
After many years of searching, I finally found the missing piece of that happiness.
Elder Jayme Promise, Philippines Quezon City Mission

Hello readers,
My companion and I exercise for half an hour every morning. We also walk about six miles a day! I’m so grateful for my body. The scriptures teach that the body is a temple of the Holy Ghost (see 1 Corinthians 6:19).
Sincerely,
Sister Jogger

Watch out for Apii’s feet!
With one well-placed kick, she could knock you over.
But Apii’s feet are dangerous only when she’s competing in Tae Kwon Do tournaments. In everyday life, Tereapii Rota, sixteen, of Tokorua, New Zealand, is a bright, pleasant girl who serves her school as the representative to the board of trustees. But in her free time, she is trained by her father in the fine art of self-defense. She is so good at it that she won the junior women’s national championship in Tae Kwon Do. She was a little surprised by her success, since it was the first time she had seriously competed in a tournament. “Many of the people in the audience gave me their support,” says Apii, a little incredulously. “And I didn’t even know them.”

I still can’t believe I’m writing to you; I mean I just don’t write magazines to thank them for love stories. I always thought they were just for girls, and as a busy missionary I just don’t have time to read that kind of stuff anyway. But “Home Cooking” had a whole different aura about it. To my surprise I found myself reading it while shaving, dressing, and tying my boots. I can’t believe it.
Elder Kenn LiveseySwitzerland Mission

When our bus rolled in, we didn’t realize Silver Lode was a town with a crisis. But then, our bus had a crisis too. And we didn’t exactly roll into town, either. We sputtered in and coasted to a very dead stop in front of the local Ben Franklin store.
We untangled ourselves from our Walkman headphones, bags of snacks, and the wadded-up jackets we used for pillows. One by one we stumbled on stiff legs off the Clark District school bus and into bright sunshine. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” somebody muttered as we looked around.
“Okay, everybody, just listen up for a minute, please.” Mr. Watkins, our band director, stood in the shade of the narrow awning over the store window. He looked even more rumpled than usual, trying to tuck in the tails of his short-sleeved plaid shirt. “The driver’s gone in to phone the district garage. And then we’ll try to find a mechanic here in town. Go ahead and stretch and walk around, but please don’t go far, stay in groups of at least three, and be back here at the bus in 30 minutes.”
The director turned to talk to Vince and Betty Scholes, parents who had volunteered to chaperone our small high school jazz band for this trip to the Northwest Band Festival.
“Gee, a town this big and this exciting, and we only get 30 minutes.” Mike Forsgren’s voice bulldozed into my consciousness as I looked in the variety store window at faded displays of work clothing and school supplies. “I’d like to spend a couple of days, see a few shows, visit museums. Hey, Reed,” Mike raised his voice. “C’mon with Harrison and me and we’ll check this place out.”
Clint Reed is one of the most perfectly named people I know. He’s as thin as one—a reed, that is—and he plays the clarinet. Mike’s favorite line is “Hey Reed, step out from behind that thing so we can see you.” Mike, on the other hand, is beefy, with a reddish face and big hands that make his trumpet look like a toy.
So we flipped a coin to determine the direction and started off down the main drag of Silver Lode. Mike, Clint, and me, Josh Harrison, a very average-looking guitarist.
Like most of the towns we had passed in this part of the state, Silver Lode wasn’t much to look at. It was just off the interstate, small and narrow, squeezed on two sides by rolling, forested mountains. The hills were blighted here and there with rusted machinery and the yellow-brown streaks of mine dumps. The side streets held old homes, widely spaced among big old trees. The old main street, which used to be the highway, had a small city hall with an old war memorial in front, an appliance store, a shabby real estate office, a tavern. And half a block away, on the other side of the highway, the Bluebell Cafe.
Cafe. The word leaped out at three guys who were always hungry. As we approached, we could see a hand-painted sign in the window.
“We serve and cook with only pure, bottled water,” Mike read aloud as we stood in front of the cafe. Then, before we knew it, he was inside at the counter, ordering in his loudest voice, “A glass of your finest, pure, bottled water, please.”
They have good ice cream at the Bluebell, and we were just finishing our cones as we got back to the bus. When we were all gathered, Mr. Watkins told us the part for the bus wasn’t available anywhere nearby. Another bus was on the way, but we would have to spend the night in Silver Lode. The Scholeses were back at the motel we had passed when we left the freeway, arranging for rooms. “I’m sorry we’ll have to miss the first day of the festival,” Mr. Watkins said, “but at least we’re not scheduled to play until the second day.”
It took a while before the Scholeses got back, and lugging our suitcases and instruments to the motel was hot work. The motel sign touted free coffee and free cable TV. We had to share rooms, of course, and Mike and Clint and I opted to stay together. As we stood at the desk to get our keys, there was another hand-lettered sign: “Bottled water is available for drinking. Please ask clerk.”
“What’s with the bottled water in this town?” Mike asked.
“Well,” the clerk said, “about four months ago the state found heavy metals in the water here. The stuff leached into the water supply from all of the mine dumps and tailings.”
“Heavy metal! Whoa, that’s not for us,” Mike said, looking over his shoulder at me. He turned back to the clerk, leaned forward as if in confidence, and said quietly, “We’re into jazz ourselves.”
The clerk looked blank for a moment, gave a half smile, and went on. “Tap water’s fine for bathing and for brushing teeth and things like that. There’s no bacteria problem. But they don’t recommend drinking it until they hook us up to another source.”
We each got one free one-liter bottle and headed toward our room. It was small, but it would do for one night. Clint immediately turned on the TV and began channel surfing, while Mike grabbed the TV listing to see what was on today. “Hey,” he said, “at nine o’clock Carnal Killer is on. I’ve been wanting to see that.”
“What’s it rated?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“It’s rated R, but some guys I know saw it and said it was just for some language and a few scenes. It’s nothing you haven’t seen or heard before.”
“Face it,” Clint added, “it can’t be worse than the stuff we see and hear in the halls at school.”
What could I say? Clint was right. I had seen and heard some pretty raw stuff, and so far I still had a testimony. I was still planning on a mission. And I hadn’t killed anybody yet, or even committed any serious sins. So I didn’t argue. Clint and Mike went back to channel surfing, and I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth because my retainer had left my mouth tasting kind of foul.
The bathroom had glasses “sanitized for your convenience,” and I unwrapped one, got out my brush and paste, and brushed teeth and retainer. I rinsed several times, spit, and out of habit took a drink of water. Here in this mountain town it was cold and refreshing. Not until I went out and saw the bottle of water on the bed did I remember.
I groaned out loud in disgust. “I just realized, I drank the local water.”
“How was it?” Clint asked. “Did it taste more like mercury or lead?”
Mike sipped from an imaginary glass, gargled, and swallowed with a loud gulp. “I also detect iron, copper, and zinc, with overtones of trout. Obviously the finest stream water money can buy.”
Then Clint jumped in again. “With all of that metal in you, you’re probably a better conductor than Mr. Watkins.”
And so we laughed and joked all the way down to our practice session, crammed into the motel’s small lobby. The clerk really seemed to be enjoying it, except for the few times he had to give us the hand-across-the-throat signal to stop so he could answer the phone. Afterward, it was time for dinner, and as long as we stayed in groups and were back by dark, we had our choice of the Denny’s-type chain restaurant next door or the Bluebell, half a mile down the road. We chose the Bluebell because it was different. And thanks to Mike, we were known there.
In a booth with patched red Naugahyde seats and gray Formica tabletop, we studied the menus while our waitress poured water. Mike put his hand over his glass just as she was about to pour his, and he dumped about a cupful on the back of his hand before she could react. “I’m sorry,” Mike said, “but could I have your assurance that this is pure bottled water?”
I thought she would get mad, but Mike turned on his famous 500-watt smile, and she smiled back. “Believe me, this place would get shut down if we served tap water.”
The waitress finished pouring Mike’s water and reached for my glass when an idea hit me. I reached out and covered my glass too, and everybody shot me a quick this-could-get-old-in-a-hurry look. “Wait,” I said, “what if I don’t want bottled water. I tasted the tap water in this town earlier, and I liked it. One glass isn’t going to hurt me, is it?”
It was a slow night at the Bluebell, so I guess she had time to be patient with an obvious idiot. “No, I don’t suppose one glass will hurt you. Heck, you could drink a pitcherful and it wouldn’t kill you. But the metals build up in your body. It can’t get rid of them. I’ve got a five-year-old and a seven-year-old, and they tested high, so they need special treatments because those poisons are even harder on kids. I get tested tomorrow. Who knows what it’s done to me all these years.”
The Bluebell’s specialty is fried chicken, and it really was fine. Clint had the meatloaf to see if it was any better than his mom’s. “Maybe there’s no such thing as good meatloaf,” he said thoughtfully as we walked back to the motel.
In the distance, the motel’s sign was brighter in the dim light of dusk. Free Cable. Free Coffee. “That free coffee sounds kind of good, doesn’t it?” I said. “Maybe I’ll drink some of that free coffee while we watch the free cable.” Mike and Clint didn’t even bother to reply. They knew I didn’t drink coffee, and neither did they. It wasn’t even an issue.
An old pickup went by, spewing blue smoke, and there was the smell of diesel fumes from a tractor trailer rig idling nearby. “I know one thing,” I said as we stood outside the motel for a minute. “I’m going to drink cold tap water tonight. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t drunk it before. Besides, there are lots of pollutants around. I wouldn’t be taking in anything new.”
I stopped talking and looked first at Clint, then at Mike. Finally Mike rolled his eyes. “Okay, Guitar Boy, I get your message.”
Clint looked from Mike to me and back again. “What?”
“The movie, Carnal Killer,” Mike said with exaggerated patience. “We were talking about how it didn’t have anything we hadn’t already been exposed to in the halls at school. Now Guitar Boy here,”—he put a catcher’s mitt-sized fist on my arm and shoved—“is saying just because we’ve been exposed to some pollution, that doesn’t make it smart to take in more.”
“I remember reading for a report in a health class,” I said. “Those heavy metals stay in people’s tissues. And then I thought about the images and jokes and words I wish I didn’t remember, and how they settle in the brain.”
Clint didn’t say anything, just nodded. And we went to report in to Mr. Watkins.
I wish we had cable TV at home. Those old Mary Tyler Moore shows are kind of fun.

Very little is now known about the author of the next legend, except that he was an Indian from the southern sector of the Inca empire who prided himself on having been “Christianized.” He wrote under the unwieldy name of Don Joan de Santacruz Pachacuti Yamqui, and his manuscript, a curious mixture of Spanish and Quechua words, remained unpublished until 1880. Santacruz Pachacuti’s version of the white god tradition, though, is most interesting:
“Some years after the devils had been cast out of this land, there came to these provinces and kingdoms of Tabantinsuyo7 a bearded man of medium build with long hair, wearing a rather long tunic, and they say that he was more than a youth. He had white hairs, was slender, walked with a staff, and he taught the people with great love, calling them all his sons and daughters. But, he was not always listened to nor obeyedby all the people, and when he journeyed through the provinces he performed many miracles visibly: he healed the sick by touching them with his hands, and he didn’t bring belongings, nor did he have herds of animals. This man, they say, spoke all of the languages of the provinces better than the natives, and they called him Tonapa or Tarapaca Viracochanpa Chayachicachan or Pacchacan and Bicchhaycamayoc Cunacaycamayoc. … He chastised the people with great love by the apotampo8, and they listened to him with rapt attention, receiving the stick from his hand, such that in a stick they received what he preached to them, indicating and emphasizing each chapter of the discourse. This man called Thonapa, they say, journeyed through all the provinces of the Collasuyos9, preaching tirelessly. This Thonapa they say cursed a certain city to be drowned, and today it is called Yamqui Capacocha, the lake, which all the Indians say was anciently a principal city, and now it is a lake. Another thing they say is that on top of a high hill called Cachapucara there was an idol in the form of a woman, and they say that Tunapa hated this idol, and afterwards he caused fire to come down and burn the hill and the idol, destroying and melting the hill as if it had been wax, and even today there are remnants of that awesome miracle, never before heard of in the world. They say that Tunapa continued his course by the river Chacamarca until he came to the sea, and from there he crossed the strait to the other sea. This has been verified by extremely ancient Incas.”10

I served the first 11 months of my mission in Utah instead of where I had been assigned. This reassignment came because of the COVID-19 pandemic. I spoke my native language, ate food I was comfortable with, and visited familiar faces and places. It was amazing!
When travel restrictions lifted, I spent the remaining seven months of my mission in the beautiful Dominican Republic (my original assignment). I walked hours along the bright and lively streets, spoke Spanish, ate a ton of plantains and mangos, and taught the gospel of Jesus Christ to some of the most humble, fun, and faithful people I’ve ever met. This was also absolutely amazing!

I became a member of the Church in 1997 through my elder brother, Francis Marveh, who received the gospel in Freetown through his friend. Through the callings I have had, I was motivated to serve a full-time mission. Though I thought it was to be a place of laxity and comfort, I realized it was entirely the opposite. I had a lot to learn and to experience, and I clearly understood what it was. I served diligently as a senior companion, trainer, district leader, and a zone leader. I am grateful to be a returned missionary, still serving in the Church as a leader in my ward. I am married and sealed to my beautiful and supportive wife, Isatu Fatima Marveh, and we are truly blessed. I know that perseverance strengthens our weaknesses if only we rely on our Saviour and Redeemer of the world, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen. —Josephus Salia Marveh, Njagboima Ward, Bo-Sierra Leone West Stake