Gospel Story Finder

Another lesson I have learned came from an experience I had as a missionary many years ago in the South Africa Johannesburg Mission.
One particular day had been discouraging. My companion and I had met with no success from our proselyting efforts, even though we had worked long and hard in a spirit of fasting and prayer. It was past the time we usually left for home when we turned our bicycles toward a nearby store. Our only thought was finding something to eat. Unfortunately, it was late and the store had already closed for the night. As we debated what to do, I remembered a store on the other side of town that might be open. We both felt impressed to go there. To our delight, we found it open.
I was bending down to select a chocolate bar when I felt a tap on my shoulder. On turning around, I looked into the smiling face of a woman I had not seen for many years.
In speaking with her, we learned that during the past several years she had become less active and had married someone who was not a member of the Church. Recently she and her family had moved into an area about nine miles (15 km) from our proselyting area. She was feeling lonely and missed her association with the Church, but she was a shy person and was reluctant to make contact with strangers. So she had been asking the Lord to bring her into contact with someone she knew well who could introduce her family to the ward they now lived in. She felt our meeting in this store was an answer to prayer, as this was her first visit to this particular store and her decision to visit had come to her suddenly.
On the following Sunday my companion and I gratefully welcomed her and her husband to the local ward.
Many years after this event, she sent me a detailed summary of all the members of her family who in some way had been affected by this experience. Before she returned to Church activity, all of her extended family who were members of the Church were less active. Because of her renewed activity in the Church, her husband was baptized and together they raised their children in the gospel. Since her activation, more than 20 family members have been activated or baptized. Many of them have been married in the temple. Some have also served full-time missions. Three have served as bishops.
I continue to marvel at the faithfulness of this sister and at the graciousness of the Lord in responding to her humble prayer. The store we met in late that evening was out of the way and a long distance from both of our homes—and yet the Lord used it to perform a great work.
When I think of that experience, I see in my mind’s eye two tired, discouraged missionaries and a fulfillment of the Lord’s promise: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say” (D&C 82:10).

February first at ten o’clock in the morning, Willie Wonka greeted the five lucky young finders of his golden tickets and their selected guests and escorted them on a tour through his famous candy factory.
They first visited the Chocolate Room and sailed down the Chocolate River, which carried them to the Inventing Room, and eventually to the Great Glass Elevator.
In the process of the tour, four children and their guests were separated from the others and only Charlie Bucket was left. When Mr. Wonka pressed the button he had been longing to press for years, the Great Glass Elevator shot upward to a bright future for Charlie.

But sometimes there is no one like President Monson, no home teacher, no caring sister available to minister in time of need. In those situations I have come to find solace and direction from the Comforter, another role of the Holy Ghost (see D&C 36:2).
Our grandson Quinton was born with multiple birth defects and lived three weeks short of a year, during which time he was in and out of the hospital. Sister Jensen and I were living in Argentina at that time. We truly wanted to be there with our children to comfort them and be comforted by them. This was our grandchild, whom we loved and wanted to be near. We could only pray, and we did so fervently!
Sister Jensen and I were on a mission tour when we received word Quinton had died. We stood in the hallway of a meetinghouse and hugged and comforted each other. I witness to you that assurances came to us from the Holy Ghost, a peace which passes all understanding and continues to this day (see Philippians 4:7). We also witnessed the unspeakable gift of the Holy Ghost in the lives of our son and daughter-in-law and their children, who to this day speak of that time with such faith, peace, and comfort.

A week later my mother died. How would it be in a motherless home, without the encouraging look of a proud mother to push us along when times got rough? I thought mothers were always supposed to be there. Who was going to teach me all the things mothers are supposed to teach their daughters? Who was I going to have those special talks with? Why did it have to be my mother?
My father knew it was up to him. It must have been like a building falling on him to have all the responsibility of raising the family. After losing the woman he loved so dearly, he had to be strong to set the example for his family. He did. I remember him standing there and asking us if we understood about paradise and heaven. We all hesitated, as if a nod of approval to his question was an approval for her to die, but then with great effort he told us she was gone. My father’s a big man, but he was even bigger then, when I knew that inside his heart was broken and he was full of loneliness.

My new friend Jonah wrote: “I often feel nervous on my way to school in the morning. I worry about things like being late, forgetting something, and taking tests. When I was 10, I started saying prayers on my drive to school with my mom. I ask for the help I need, and I pray for my family too. I also think of the things I’m grateful for. [Praying to Heavenly Father has] helped me. Sometimes I don’t feel the relief right as I get out of the car, but by the time I’m at my classroom, I feel peaceful.”

Jonah’s faith is growing as he prays every day and then moves forward.

I have an uncle who was continually seeking to improve and increase the gifts and talents he had received from Heavenly Father. Let me share one story from his life that has helped me to see how spiritual gifts and talents are developed and magnified.
One day when my uncle Ben was at work at a copper mine, he noticed an old piece of bent metal lying by a railroad track. He asked his boss if he could have it. His boss said, “Ben, that old piece of metal is worthless. You are wasting your time to even pick it up.”
Uncle Ben smiled and said, “I see much more than an old piece of metal.”
With his boss’s permission, he took it home. In his workshop he heated the metal until it was red hot. Then he was able, with a great deal of work, to mold and bend it until it was straight.
When it cooled, he drew a large knife-shaped pattern on it. With a hot blowtorch, he cut the metal into the shape of a knife. Uncle Ben then began knocking off the rough edges, working hour after hour to cut, grind, polish, and refine that old piece of metal.
Day after day he worked on what his boss had called a worthless piece of metal. Slowly the blade began to take shape and become a beautiful, shining masterpiece.
All it lacked now was a handle. Uncle Ben went to the woods and found an elk antler. Back at his workshop he cleaned, cut, and polished the antler. When he was done, it was smooth and beautiful. Carefully he attached the handle to the knife. What was once an old, rusty, bent piece of metal became a beautiful knife that won several awards.

Let me tell you of a young man who really understood these scriptures. He lives in Seoul, Korea. One day, when this young man was 15, his father received a call from a close friend who asked him if he were having financial difficulty. Being in affluent circumstances, he indicated “No, everything is fine.” He then wanted to know why his friend would ask such a question.
The man replied that he had seen his son selling newspapers on a street corner in Seoul.
The father couldn’t believe it because his son received quite a liberal allowance and would have no need to work for additional money. When asked if there couldn’t have been a mistake, the friend said, “No, I stopped and talked with him on the corner.”
When the son returned from school that evening his father asked him about the incident. The son said, “Yes, I was selling newspapers.”
“Isn’t your allowance sufficient to take care of your needs?” the father wanted to know.
“Yes,” he said, “but we had a lesson in seminary on the Good Samaritan, and I wanted to experience what it meant to be a Good Samaritan, not just learn about it. So I have taken my allowance and bought newspapers and asked some of my friends to join with me in selling them. We want to raise enough money to help one of our classmates, who is very poor, remain in school. Without the help, he would have to drop out.”
In addition to this, sometime earlier, this young man had asked his mother to double his lunch. She had done so without questioning him, thinking that as a growing teenager he was just extra hungry. He told his father that this other student would have to go hungry each day if he did not share half of his lunch with him.
This is what the Lord means when he encourages us to be doers of the word and to show our faith by our works. There are many experiences that would take on greater meaning if we made these scriptures a part of our lives.

“Ah, come on,” called Mike impatiently. “It’s going to be time to go home before we get started.”
“All right! Don’t rush me,” Jerry called back. Jerry, who never liked to be hurried, came out of the house dressed in a pirate costume.
“Hey, you look super,” Mike said.
“So do you, Mike. Where shall we start?”
“Let’s start with the Andersons next door,” Mike answered.
When the door opened, Jerry said, “Give us a treat or we’ll give you a trick.”
“Goodness,” said Mrs. Anderson in mock surprise, “I certainly don’t want a trick. Wait here and I’ll get you a treat.”
The door closed and Jerry started to giggle. “Wouldn’t it be fun if she refused to give us a treat and we could play a trick on her?”
“What would you do?” asked Mike.
“Something that would really make her cross.” He laughed again. “She really looks funny when she’s excited.”
“Sh-h. Here she comes,” cautioned Mike.
Mrs. Anderson returned with a bowl of apples. “Will these do?” she asked, offering each boy an apple.
“Thanks,” they called as they ran down the driveway.
An hour later Mike peered into his bag.
“Look at all this stuff!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go home. It’s getting kind of cold.”
“Why the big rush?” asked Jerry. “There’s still a lot of houses we can go to.”
“I guess I should have worn a heavier jacket,” complained Mike.
“Let’s go to just one more house, then we’ll go home,” Jerry promised, turning into the next driveway.
“All right, but not this house,” said Mike walking on.
“Why not?” asked Jerry, hurrying to catch up with him.
“Mr. Johnson lives there and he’s an old grouch.”
“I know he is,” said Jerry, “but Dad says it’s probably because his wife and little boy were killed in a car accident a few years ago.”
“But why should he take it out on us? We didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I know,” said Jerry. “But Dad says that when some people are unhappy, they take it out on everyone around them.”
“He sure gets after us,” Mike complained. “The other day we walked across his lawn and you should have heard him. You’d have thought we were digging it up instead of just walking on it.”
“Dad says he used to be a real neat guy. He spent lots of time teaching the neighborhood kids how to play football.”
“Boy, has he changed! You wouldn’t catch him doing anything like that now,” Mike groused. “Say, I have a great idea. Since Mr. Johnson has been so crabby with us, let’s give him a little surprise.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“Let’s pile leaves against his front door so that when he opens it, a mountain of leaves will pour in on him.”
“That would be fun,” agreed Jerry, “but we’d better not. If my Dad found out, I’d be a goner.”
“Then what can we do?” Mike questioned.
The boys walked on in silence. “I know something we can do,” said Jerry finally.
“What?” asked Mike.
“The neighbors have given us lots of stuff, haven’t they?”
“Yeah?”
“We could fill a basket with some of our treats and leave it on Mr. Johnson’s porch. That would be a real surprise!”
“What kind of an idea is that?” Mike grumbled.
“Come on, Mike,” Jerry coaxed. “Let’s do it and see what happens.”
“Well, OK,” agreed Mike reluctantly, “but I think it’s a dumb idea.”
At Jerry’s house the boys found an old Easter basket and filled it with treats.
“Should we put a note on it or something?” Mike asked.
“Let’s write ‘Happy Halloween’ on a piece of paper and sign it ‘your friends,’” suggested Jerry.
At Mr. Johnson’s house the boys put the basket on the porch, rang the bell, and quickly hid behind some bushes. Mr. Johnson opened the door and peered out. When he realized no one was there, he scowled. “A prankster again. I should have known,” he muttered. Mr. Johnson started to close the door when he spied the basket. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up. He read the card. “My! My!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “What a surprise! Who would do such a nice thing?”
“He surely seems pleased,” whispered Mike.
“He does, doesn’t he,” answered Jerry.
The next morning Mr. Johnson was sitting on his porch when Mike and Jerry passed on their way to school. The basket was beside him. “Good morning,” he called, “would you boys come up here for a minute?”
Mike and Jerry exchanged glances. They started to walk across the lawn, then they changed their minds and walked on the sidewalk.
“Thank you for walking on the sidewalk and not across my lawn,” said Mr. Johnson. “I have a terrible time making it look decent with all these shade trees. Did you get lots of treats last night?” he asked.
“Yes sir, we did,” said Jerry.
“So did I,” said Mr. Johnson. “My treats were delivered in this basket,” and he lifted the basket up onto his lap. “It brought back a lot of memories. It reminds me of a basket my little boy once had. He used to fill it with treats for his grandmother then secretly leave it on her porch. Could you help me eat some of these goodies?”
The boys looked at each other and then helped themselves to a cookie. As they ate, Mr. Johnson went on talking. “Thinking about my little boy made me remember how I used to kick a football around with him. Maybe you boys would like to go to the park Saturday with me. I used to play a lot of football.”
“That would be neat,” said Mike.
“Yeah,” said Jerry, “we’d like that. Can we stop by on our way home from school and make plans?”
“You bet,” Mr. Johnson answered. “I’ll be expecting you.”
The boys started toward school but stopped to wave good-bye to their new friend before they turned the corner.
“Jerry,” said Mike just before they entered the school building, “I’m glad we didn’t do that dumb thing I suggested about piling leaves on Mr. Johnson’s porch. It was a lot more fun surprising him with the basket. I can hardly wait until Saturday!”

Danielle Menlove, a Beehive from Sandy, Utah, has running in her blood. Her parents, both runners, noticed something special when she beat her mother in a race at seven years old. Now she holds four USA national track and cross country titles and numerous records.
Danielle started winning big races when she was just 10 years old. She now holds the USA Track & Field—Utah youth records for the 11–12 age group in the 800m, 1500m, and the 3000m. In the 13–14 age group, Danielle holds the records in the 1500m and 3000m.
Danielle has learned that track involves enduring to the end. And she learned it the hard way. At the USATF National Junior Olympic Track & Field Championships in 2005, she accidentally stopped a lap short. She says, “I was in first place, and I had a 100m lead, but I stopped and started walking off the track.” When an official told her she had a lap to go, Danielle scrambled to rejoin the race. She still took second.
Recalling the event, Danielle says it helped her learn to finish strong. “It was a good thing to happen because I made the mistake once, and I’ll never make it again.”

Of course, Shawn’s basketball prowess has not gone unnoticed. He has attracted national attention since he was in the ninth grade. His family’s ability to look for the positive really helped while college recruiters visited around Castle Dale trying to persuade Shawn to consider goint to their colleges. Shawn’s dad, Reiner, says, “We were told the recruiting process could become unpleasant. We sat down as a family and said, let’s not let it get that way. Let’s do this from a positive angle. Let’s enjoy it. It was an incredible experience, and the family enjoyed every minute of it.”

It’s important to obey the commandments and do what the Lord wants you to do. I learned this at a fairly young age.
When I was eleven years old, I began a paper route and was amazed at the amount of money I made. It was hard work, but I enjoyed it and was still delivering papers six years later.
One day the manager of the newspaper, as a result of my loyalty to the paper, offered me a job as assistant manager of circulation for the newspaper. My duties would include supervising other newspaper carriers and helping them sell subscriptions. In addition, every day after school and after delivering my route, I would spend a few hours at the office, answering complaints on the telephone. Between phone calls, I would be allowed to do my homework. The new job would include a raise—triple what I had been making as a newspaper carrier!
I was thrilled. I had been saving money for my mission, and many of my friends didn’t even have jobs. I really felt that the Lord was blessing me for keeping the commandments, including paying my tithing faithfully and keeping the Sabbath day holy.
A year and a half later, the manager approached me again. Plans were being made to begin a Sunday edition of the newspaper. He indicated with some enthusiasm that I would be able to deliver my papers early on Sunday morning, then come into the office to answer the telephone from 7:00 A.M. to 2:00 P.M. There would, of course, be another pay increase.
The manager saw that I was hesitating. Knowing that I was an active member of the Church, he said, “You may be thinking of not accepting this extra responsibility, but if you don’t take the job, you’ll lose your regular paper route and your weekday job. Many of the other paperboys would give their right arms to have your job. If you don’t take it, you’re fired.”
As I went home that day, I was discouraged and confused. I knew that I had been obeying the commandments, and I couldn’t understand why I would have to make such a difficult decision. I talked to my father and to my bishop, but they both indicated that the decision was up to me. My dad said, “I don’t know the answer, but I know someone who does (meaning the Lord). Ask Him.”
After I prayed and struggled for two days, I knew what I had to do. I knew that while there are some people who have to work on Sunday, I didn’t have to and shouldn’t. When I told the manager of my decision, he was angry, told me I was fired and to come in Saturday to pick up my last paycheck, then stomped away. For the next several days, he hardly spoke to me. I really wondered if I had made a correct decision, as it would have a direct impact on the finances for my mission.
When I went to pick up my last check, I found the manager waiting for me. “Please forgive me,” he said. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have tried to make you go against your beliefs and break a commandment of the Lord. (He was an inactive member of the Church.) I have found another young man who is willing to work on Sunday. You can keep your job. Will you?” He then added. “You will find in your check next week and for as long as you work for me the amount of money you would have received had you worked on Sunday.”
Of course I did keep the job. I felt great joy that afternoon as I went home. I know that the Lord blesses us for keeping His commandments and doing what we know we should. Be careful that you never compromise the principles that you believe in. Remember to always trust in the Lord, and He will bless you for it.

Among the people of Córdoba, Argentina, lives a remarkable man named Natalio Virazapia. A descendant of Bolivian and Chinese ancestors, he was born in 1922 and now lives alone in humble circumstances, earning his living by working the soil.
Brother Virazapia considers himself an instrument in the hands of the Lord to help his brothers and sisters in need. Wherever there is a small place to plant seeds, there you will find his battered bicycle. He will be in the small field sowing corn or other vegetables—food that will eventually feed needy families. Although he doesn’t have any land of his own, he always seems to find space to plant his seeds, and the Lord blesses him with abundant harvests. He often brings to church special bouquets of his carrots, cabbage, or chard to share with the other members.
“I have little,” he says. “I can give service only with this small body I have that takes me from one place to another. Through the Church and the teachings of the gospel, I have learned to work with my hands in behalf of others.” His rough, work-worn hands do indeed show the humble victories he has won. They reveal an abiding love for his Father in Heaven, for the land, and for his neighbors.
Some people are satisfied simply to know about our Heavenly Father. Brother Virazapia uses his gifts to glorify Him.

Turning 18 is a very important event. Since Eric was away at BYU for his 18th birthday, we decided to send him something special. Every member of the family had an assignment. Jennifer would make cookies, Dad would send money, Brad (also at BYU) would help him spend it, Jeff would draw illustrations, and I would write verses for a spectacular birthday card.
I got very enthusiastic about my assignment. I decided to write a verse about every year of his life. There would be a verse about the time he took his first trial flight off the garage when he was four, and one about the time he self-medicated his cold with half a bottle of cough syrup to save the doctor’s fee when he was five. And it would end with a verse about his latest venture—refusing to withdraw from a spontaneous football squad even after he saw his six-foot-four, 280-pound opponent. (Yes, they carried him off with a broken collarbone.) That was my Eric! Active, daring, and a little mischievous.
I sat down and wrote the first few verses and laughed. And then I thought about Eric when he was six.
“Eric’s got a girl friend! Eric’s got a girl friend!” I remembered how Brad teased as he and Eric made their afternoon entrance after school. I waited for a typical “I don’t!” from Eric and a “You do!” from Brad.
There was none. Eric was silent. I couldn’t detect a smile, a frown, anything on his cherubic face. He just ignored Brad totally and asked, “Can we eat breakfast sooner tomorrow, Mom? I want to go to school early.”
“Yes,” I answered. I was surprised at his coolness. “Yes, of course. Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No.” He shook his head, smiled, and walked out the back door to play.
“See. I told you!” Brad confirmed.
I’m not a nosy mother—well, only a little nosy. I wanted to know why Eric went to school 15 minutes early and came home 15 minutes late for a week. But he volunteered nothing. I didn’t want to turn Brad into a spy (it only entered my mind twice and I got over it), so I learned nothing.
On Tuesday I had to return library books. I decided to go at 1:50 so I would be driving by the school at 2:20 when school was out. (A mother does have to look out for her children.)
I was late and had to drive almost home before I saw Eric. He was with a girl. From the back I could see she had long, blonde hair and a pretty dress. But something was different. She didn’t raise her left leg far from the sidewalk, and as I passed I could see her left arm was limp. Eric saw me. He grinned widely and waved. As I smiled back my eyes surveyed a beautiful little girl with an enchanting smile and blue eyes.
At dinner I decided it was time to be open about the whole thing. I wanted Eric to know it was acceptable to have lots of friends in the first grade—even if one was a girl.
“I saw your friend today, Eric. She’s pretty.”
“She’s nice,” he added.
“So that’s the reason you go to school early?” his father asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, tell me about her. What’s her name? Where does she live? What does she look like?”
“Her name’s Jena. She lives on Vista View. And she looks like … like … uh … like a girl.”
The family laughed. “She’s very pretty.” I explained. “She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a radiant smile.”
“What’s radiant?” Eric asked.
“That’s like a heater,” Brad informed him.
“That’s a radiator,” Father clarified. “But it’s like that. It means warm and friendly.”
“What’s wrong with her leg?” Brad asked innocently.
Eric bristled and raised his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with her leg.”
“Brad wasn’t being mean, Eric. She does have a problem with her leg and arm. She has cerebral palsy, Eric. That doesn’t change her being pretty or nice.” I taught physically handicapped children and accepted the fact that everyone has limitations of some kind, but Eric was crushed. His fork clattered to the plate, and he proclaimed loudly in his squeaky, first-grade voice, “There’s nothing wrong with her at all,” and ran into his room.
We said nothing further about it. Eric was a normal boy who ran bicycles into garage doors, played Zorro, and chased strange dogs away. He just went to school a little early and came home a little late every day.
In early December I got a phone call.
“Is this Eric’s mother?”
When anybody started a conversation like that I wondered if Eric had just ridden his bike over someone’s flower bed. “Yes,” I replied. After all, I was responsible.
“This is Mrs. Hamilton. I’m Jena Hamilton’s mother.”
“Oh, yes. Hello!”
“I called because I wondered if you were aware of what Eric has been doing for us—I mean for Jena—but really it affects all of us.”
I was puzzled. “No, I guess I’m not,” I replied honestly.
“Do you know Jena?”
“I saw her going home from school. She’s a very pretty girl.”
“Then you know she has a problem with her leg and arm. She has cerebral palsy.”
“I see.”
“When we moved here last summer and I went to register her, the school said they wouldn’t accept her. Her learning isn’t impaired. It’s just a motor involvement, but they insisted the kids would taunt her until we would be sorry. They asked me to enroll her in the special education program over at Fairhaven. I didn’t want her at Fairhaven. She’d have to ride the bus for over an hour. I insisted they let her try it here. They were skeptical, but I was quite adamant.”
“I understand your feelings.”
“When school started, it was just like they said. Some of the kids wouldn’t quit yelling names and making fun of her. And no one would play with her. After the first week and a half of school, with her coming home in tears every day, I decided to reconsider Fairhaven. Then a little miracle happened—Eric!”
“Eric?”
“He decided enough was enough. He asked Jena if he could play with her at recess. The boys laughed at him and called him names too. But he ignored them.”
“That’s not my Eric,” I thought.
“He walked home with Jena to the accompaniment of jeers. From that day on he has walked her to school, played with her at recess, and walked home with her. The third week of school some boys started throwing rocks at Jena. Eric challenged them to a ferocious fight if they didn’t stop.”
That’s my Eric. He was two inches shorter than anybody, but he was never afraid of a fight if it was necessary.
“I guess he said it so firmly they decided to leave her alone. Jena is doing so well now. Other children are playing with her, and no one seems to be paying attention to her problem.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“There’s more,” she continued. “Yesterday I stopped Eric out in front—I was so happy how things are going—and I said, ‘You’re such a nice boy! How did you ever get to be such a nice boy!’ It was a comment, not a question of course, but he spoke right up and said, ‘Our church teaches all the boys to be nice boys.’”
“Well, I was so surprised, I said, ‘And what church do you belong to, Eric?’
“And he said, ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, sometimes called the Mormon church. Would you like to have the missionaries?’ He’s quite a boy!”
Well, do you want the missionaries? I was hoping my voice would say. But it didn’t. “Yes, I guess he is. I really appreciate your calling me.”
Jena Hamilton didn’t need Eric much after that. They were friends, but he went back to playing with the boys and calling all girls “dumb.” In a year or so Jena moved, and we moved.
I looked down at the birthday card I was making. I decided not to write a verse about Eric when he was six. It was too special.
Later I mailed the overweight birthday card and savored the thought of Eric reading his life out loud to his roommates.
It was almost midnight Friday when the phone rang.
“Mom, this is Eric.”
“Eric, what’s wrong? Are you sick? Are you hurt? Did you wreck the car? Did you …”
“Mom! I’m fine. Just listen a minute.” His voice was exuberant.
“Oh, yes. Today’s your birthday. You got my card! You got the money! You loved them both! But you didn’t have to thank us at this hour!”
“Mom! Listen! And put Dad on the other phone. Okay? Brad and I went out to dinner with the money. We were just sitting around here in the dorm reminiscing when the phone rang. It was a girl.”
She said, “Is this Eric Miller?”
“Yeah.”
“Is this Eric Miller who used to live on Hillview Avenue in San Sebastian?”
“Yes! Who is this?”
“Oh, you probably won’t remember me. It’s been a long time. This is Jena Hamilton.”
“Jena! I can’t believe it! Sure I remember you. Hey, what are you doing here in Provo? Visiting?”
“I’m going to the Y just like you.”
“But why? How did you decide to come here?”
“Well, about three years ago Mom and I were doing dishes when two young men knocked at our door. They said they were representatives of Jesus Christ and would like to leave a message with us. Mom said, ‘No, thank you, we really aren’t interested.’ Then for some reason she asked, ‘What church are you from?’ And they said, ‘We belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, sometimes called the Mormon church.’ Mom looked at me, and we both said, ‘That’s Eric’s church.’ There was an unstated courtesy we would extend to someone from Eric’s church. We weren’t interested, of course, but we would be courteous. Well, you know how that goes! We were baptized after the fourth lesson.”
“Jena! That’s wonderful! Hey, it’s my birthday. We’re celebrating! Where are you living? Can we come over?”
Eric ended his story. I wiped a tear off my chin and nose. He paused a long time. “Well,” I demanded, “Did you go over? How is she doing?”
“She’s beautiful!” Eric replied enthusiastically.
“And her leg? Has it improved?”
“Her leg? What was the matter with her leg?”

Early in our marriage my wife and I attended school in the northeastern United States, where winters are harsh and road salt is plentiful. After several winters, the body of our old car began to corrode, culminating with a passenger stepping through the floor of the car. With optimism I purchased some sheets of aluminum and pop rivets, and we called my parents to see if we could visit that weekend and work on the car.
We arrived late Friday night, and my father and I got up early on Saturday to work on the car floor. We pulled back the rubber mats and started looking for sound metal to which we could fasten the metal sheets. Our search revealed nothing but corroded metal. We looked at each other silently, replaced the mats, and went to breakfast.
After we made the slow and careful five-hour drive back to our apartment, the phone was ringing when we walked in. Mom had decided that she “needed” a new car and wondered if we would like her old one. My dad cautioned that the car was three years old and had many miles on it. My mom then joked that it couldn’t be too bad—it had been driven by a full-tithe payer. We laughed, and after we hung up the phone, we danced around the apartment in honor of this bit of manna from heaven.

I learned recently of loving service given to a mother when her children were very young. Frequently she would be up in the middle of the night tending to the needs of her little ones, as mothers do. Often her friend and neighbor across the street would come over the next day and say, “I saw your lights on in the middle of the night and know you were up with the children. I’m going to take them to my house for a couple of hours while you take a nap.”

Said this grateful mother: “I was so thankful for her welcome offer, it wasn’t until this had happened many times that I realized if she had seen my lights on in the middle of the night, she was up with one of her children as well and needed a nap just as much as I did. She taught me a great lesson, and I’ve since tried to be as observant as she was in looking for opportunities to serve others.”

I live in Canberra, Australia. My dad and mum gave me my first journal as a present when I was about eight years old. I wrote in it for a couple of months; then I gave it up. A few years later when I was 12, I got it back out and read it one day. I decided I’d better start writing again, because by then I had received three other journals as presents!
About this time, a seminary teacher in our branch challenged me to write in my journal every day for 20 days. She said if I did, it would become a habit. I decided to try it.
Writing was hard at first, but it got easier. I found that by writing my feelings and thoughts, spiritual things got included too. I made my record fun by trying to include information I thought my children might be interested in someday, like how much things cost. I figured it would be interesting for them to see what it was like for me when I was a kid.
I found that a journal is a good way to express your feelings. Things you may not want to share with anyone else you can write in your journal. For example, I find it hard to bear my testimony in sacrament meeting (even though I do it sometimes). But I bear it all the time in my journal.
I really like to write on Sundays, when I’m thinking about spiritual things. And I like to go back and read what I wrote before. I can see how much I have changed; I can see that parts of my journal are much more spiritual than others. It helps me analyze my life and see what the Lord does to help me. It relaxes me and gets my mind off the world.
I received my 20-day challenge five years ago. I’m still writing in my journal every night. I get it out before I go to bed. I read my scriptures; then I write in my journal. It’s automatic. I haven’t missed an entry in five years.

Last year, while serving in the Asia North Area Presidency, I received a phone call from President Russell M. Nelson inviting me to serve as the Second Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric. He graciously invited my wife, Lori, to join the conversation. After the call was finished, we were still in a state of disbelief when my wife asked, “What does the Presiding Bishopric do anyway?” After a moment’s reflection, I responded, “I don’t know exactly!”
A year later—and after profound feelings of humility and gratitude—I can answer my wife’s question with greater understanding. Among many other things, the Presiding Bishopric oversees the welfare and humanitarian work of the Church. This work now spans the entire globe and blesses more of God’s children than ever before.

Consider this lesson taught to me many years ago by a patriarch, whom I will call John. He was as saintly a man as I have ever known. His was a life of service, both to the Church and to his community. Although I thought I had known him, he told me things about his life I would not have supposed.
John grew up in a little community. He had a desire to make something of himself. He struggled to get an education.
He was well employed, he had married his sweetheart, and she was expecting their first baby—everything was just right.
The night the baby was to be born, there were complications. The only doctor was somewhere in the countryside, tending to the sick. After many hours of labor, his wife’s condition became desperate.
Finally the doctor was located. He acted quickly, the baby was born, and everything seemed to be all right. However, some days later, the young mother died from the very infection that the doctor had been treating at another home that night.
Now everything was all wrong. John had lost his wife, and he had no way to tend the baby and do his work too. He grew angry and bitter. “That doctor should not be allowed to practice,” he said. “He brought that infection to my wife. If he had been careful, she would be alive today.”
One night a knock came at his door. A little girl said simply, “Daddy wants to talk to you.”
“Daddy” was the stake president. This spiritual shepherd had been watching his flock. His wise counsel was simple: “John, leave it alone. Nothing you do about it will bring your wife back. Anything you do will make it worse. John, leave it alone.”
My friend wondered how he could leave it alone. Right was right! A terrible wrong had been done, and somebody must pay for it! But he decided at last to follow the counsel of the stake president. He would leave it alone.
Then he told me, “I was an old man before I understood, before I could finally ‘see’ that a poor country doctor—overworked, underpaid, run ragged from patient to patient, with little medicine, no hospital, and few instruments—was struggling to save lives, and succeeding for the most part.
“He had come in a moment of crisis, when two lives hung in the balance, and had acted without delay. I was an old man,” he repeated, “before I finally understood. I would have ruined my life—and the lives of others—if I’d done something.”

“Dear Dad,” I started the most important e-mail of my life. “Since Allie is about to turn eight, I was wondering if you would let all of us get baptized together.”
My brother, sisters, and I had known our entire lives that baptism was out of the picture until we turned 18. My father is not a Church member, and my mother has always hoped for the day when the entire family would be able to fully embrace the gospel.
That e-mail marked the first time I had gathered the courage to ask my father’s permission in a straightforward, sincere manner. I’d fasted and had so much hope that this would be the time he would agree. His answer of “no” followed by an explanation of his personal beliefs and why he felt so strongly about having us wait was disappointing.
Even though I was not a baptized member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I was an active participant. I had stood by as my friends were baptized at age eight. I missed the trips to the Idaho Falls Temple when others my age participated in baptisms for the dead. Although discouraged, I kept my faith and activity. I knew someday I, too, would enter the waters of baptism.
The long-anticipated open house for the Rexburg Idaho Temple began in December 2007. My uncle arranged a private tour for my siblings, my dad’s parents (who are not Church members), and me. A member of the Quorums of the Seventy led us through the beautiful temple. Once in the sealing room, he spoke of his son who had died early in life and talked about how he would be waiting for them with open arms in the spirit world. Tears began to roll down our faces. My grandparents had lost a son when he was 15. Sharing that tender moment with my grandparents in the sealing room was a miracle that strengthened my testimony and prepared me for what would transpire over the next month.
On January 25, 2008, I arrived home late after a school skiing trip. I was very tired and inattentive during family scripture time, only half-listening to my mother read from the Book of Mormon. Suddenly Mom’s voice said, “I talked to your dad today.” My ears perked up mildly because he had recently moved to the East Coast. She continued, “He has decided to let all of you get baptized.” I sat up on the couch and stared at my mother in disbelief.
One week later my siblings and I were each baptized by our maternal grandpa. He had not baptized his own children, and this was his first experience performing a baptism. Humbly, my grandpa took me by the hands as I was immersed in the water into an unbelievable moment. The next day my uncle confirmed me a member of the Church and I received the gift of the Holy Ghost. Later I joined the youth in my ward on a trip to the Idaho Falls Temple to do work for those who had also waited for baptism.
It took the same courage as before to contact my dad, this time by phone, and thank him for allowing me to be baptized. He gave me a quick but sincere “you’re welcome” as we moved on to talk about other things. Even though most of this conversation seemed a usual chat with my dad, I know this was one of the most special phone calls of my life.

The lake’s water stays at an almost constant temperature of 51º F (11º C); that’s pretty brisk for swimming—downright cold for a baptism. But it was in Lake Titicaca that Roberto Carlos Condori Pachuri, 16, was baptized last year. Sometimes the village doesn’t have enough water to fill the font at the meetinghouse in El Alto, Bolivia, so they go to the lake. Roberto Carlos remembers his baptism well, but it’s not because of the water. It’s because of the warm spirit he felt when he became a member of the Church.
Roberto Carlos was introduced to the Church by his friend José Luís Mamani Kari, 15. “I came to seminary,” says Roberto Carlos. “It was the first time I entered a Church building, and I was a little scared.” But he quickly found out he was welcome. In fact, usually 15 of the 30 or so youth who attend seminary each week are not Church members. Youth from the Batallas Branch, Titicaca Bolivia District, attend seminary on Thursday evenings and study at home during the week.
Roberto Carlos wanted to attend seminary for all these reasons. “I liked the things I was learning, and I have lots of friends here,” he says. “We play soccer or volleyball after class.” It was at seminary and in meeting with the elders that he learned about ancient prophets, a living prophet today, and Christ’s visit to the Americas. It was through learning the truths of the gospel that Roberto Carlos joined the Church.
President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) had a motto to remind us of our duties as member missionaries: “Do it!” He promised that as we testified of the Restoration we would be blessed. José Luís knows this is true.
“It felt good,” says José Luís, to see Roberto Carlos accept the gospel. “I wanted to share my testimony, so I did.”