Gospel Story Finder

Mozambique. The name, for some, conjures images of exotic wildlife, lush green vegetation, or white-sand beaches. More likely, it will send the average person scrambling for a map to discover its location in southeast Africa. But for Maria da Conceição, it means home. And thanks to the efforts of members in the Inhamízua Branch and a few missionaries, Maria now has a place in Mozambique to call her own.
Maria is a tiny woman with a gigantic spirit. Abandoned by her husband and oldest daughter, she was left to rear two small children on her own. Crippled by a debilitating disease she has had since birth, Maria struggled to pay the rent each month. In a country that has high unemployment, work and money are nearly impossible to come by. Yet Maria managed to make a meager living and do the best she could.
I was a full-time missionary in Mozambique. When I first met Maria, I was impressed by her positive attitude and zest for life. She worked relentlessly in her machamba (large garden) to provide for two children and herself and to pay rent on a small mud house.
Church members helped by providing food and medical care. Tragically, Maria’s two children died within three weeks of each other due to disease and no access to the right medical facilities. Death and suffering are common in Mozambique.
Serving as the branch president for our tiny branch, I was extremely concerned for Maria. Both the youth and adult members of our isolated branch did everything they could to help Maria. Some worked in the machamba, others offered food, and a few even helped pay the rent; but she needed a permanent answer.
Late one night, while I was pondering and searching for an answer, inspiration came to me in the form of an idea for an ambitious youth project: building a home for Maria. My companion, Elder Bis-Neto, and I proposed our idea to the younger members of the branch, and they jumped at the chance to help build Maria a house. There was little money and a great deal of work to be done, but with many willing hands and a vision of a traditional African mud-and-stick house, a plan took shape, and the youth went to work.
Everyone got down to business immediately. First job: get wood.
A trip into the African jungle to gather wood for building a home is not a job for the fainthearted. The youth and missionaries made many two-hour trips through thick, swampy savannas, endless rice fields, dense overgrown jungles, and waist-deep mud to find the perfect trees with which to build Maria’s house. Using machetes, we hacked down the slender trees and then organized them into bundles for the journey back. Some of the youth used tall wild grass to quickly weave hats to help protect their heads from the rough logs.
The most difficult leg of the journey now began. Carrying a heavy load on our heads, scratching our way through the dense undergrowth, and battling the scorching African sun, we hauled our loads back. As we walked, the youth sang hymns of Zion, with smiles on their faces.
Alves Elídio Eguimane Razão, 18, says, “It was a lot of hard work, and we loved every minute of it!”
The wooden frame went up stick by stick, with care given to ensure a sturdy and lasting structure. Many generous hands constructed the roof by laying down strips of plastic, which were secured with mats of woven weeds. This roof would need to repel the violent storms of the annual rainy season.
From mud walls to mud floors to mud pies, mud was the menu for most building days. Barrel after barrel of rich brown dirt was hauled in and then drenched in water. Dozens of youth and other branch members turned out to help hand mix the mud and cover the frame house. The exterior was done first, followed by the interior walls and partition. After we had packed the walls with several inches of strong, dried mud, the house started to take shape. To jazz up the interior, a special layer of mud was carefully applied to create the floor and solid water-resistant surfaces.
These days were full of hard work, but the atmosphere abounded in good humor and many smiles, not to mention the surprised eyes of the neighbors as they watched missionaries and youth carrying large bundles of sticks and gallons upon gallons of water and slinging handfuls of mud.
Finally the door was hung, a lock installed, and the house was done. After more than 1,000 service hours, given by more than 40 members and a number of missionaries, Maria da Conceição had a beautiful home of her own.
On a tiny plot of land, in a remote village of Mozambique, Maria da Conceição’s home stands as a testament of love and obedience to the principles of the gospel. Maria and the members of the Inhamízua Branch have learned that, amid the harsh trials of life, there is hope to be found when Church members work together to make good things happen.

The warm August sun gave Margaret a feeling of peace and happiness as she gingerly set one foot exactly in front of the other and balanced herself with outstretched arms. The abandoned, rusty train track glowed like a long brown ribbon as it ran off into the distance. Jeff, her brother, was right behind her.
“C’mon, slowpoke,” he chided her as he accidentally stepped on the back of her shoe.
“Oh, Jeff, look what you’ve done! This is the first time I’ve stepped off the track since we began. You go ahead of me if you’re in such a great hurry.”
She glanced across at her best friend on the other rail and grinned. Allison was having a harder time staying on, and she reminded Margaret of a circus tight-rope walker. Cory, Allison’s brother, was quite far ahead of them. He’d had more practice at rail walking, but it seemed to Margaret that he skipped off often, even though he moved faster.
Looking down the track, Margaret had warm memories of past days when her father came home from the mine with coal dust on his face, hands, and clothes, set the wooden kitchen chair in the middle of newspapers spread out on the floor, and carefully removed his boots. Even more carefully he shook out his tucked-in pant legs. Margaret liked the sound of the coal particles falling onto the paper, and she mentally compared each little pile with the previous night’s. She missed those days. Diesel engines and other inventions had almost eliminated the need for coal, and many of her father’s friends and coworkers had had to move. It will be all right as long as Allison and Cory Anderson stay here, she thought now.
Cory was now out of sight around the bend and headed toward the forest. It was full of wonderful paths created by the miners when they’d walked between the town and the mine. The children spent hours galloping through the trees on pretend horses or playing king and queen on the large boulders in the woods. “Pretend” was always their favorite game, and Cory had a new variation in mind as he waited for them.
“Let’s pretend we’re miners,” he suggested, “and that we’re searching for gold. We must find it by dark so that we can take it to the wicked king and free the good prince before the rats go into his dungeon. Rats always come out at night, you know, and the prince hates them—they scare him almost to death!”
The four friends galloped through the forest toward the old tipple. Margaret was surprised at how quickly the three-story gray building where the coal had been washed and sorted had deteriorated. A few of the windows were broken, and the whole building seemed to be sagging as they stared at it in the shadows of the late afternoon.
To their dismay, they saw that fencing had been put up and that no-trespassing signs had been posted.
“Well,” sighed Jeff, “so much for finding gold.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Cory argued. “We aren’t going to let a little fence stop us. We can find a place to climb through.”
They found a sagging wire, and each crawled through as they held the other wires apart.
Just then something very strange happened to Margaret. She thought she heard a very quiet whisper: “Don’t go in there!” She wasn’t sure where the sound came from, but it seemed to come from deep inside her. Or did it? Maybe she had just imagined it. But as they climbed the hill to the back of the tipple, her spine seemed to tingle.
The four friends peered into the opening where the coal cars had once rolled on tracks into the building and were filled. It was dark and foreboding, and, of course, the boys had to hoot like owls and make ghostly sounds as they entered.
“Jeff,” Margaret pleaded, “it’s time for us to go home. Please, Jeff, don’t go any farther in there! Allison, Cory! Let’s go home now. Please!”
“Ha! Look at Margaret. She’s afraid.”
“No, I’m not. I just don’t want to go in there, that’s all.”
“C’mon, Margaret,” pleaded Allison. “It sounds like such a fun game, and I don’t want those two boys teasing me about being a scaredy cat. We’ll only be in there for a few minutes.”
“C’mon, Margaret,” begged Jeff. “This is the most fun we’ve had in a long time. All we have to do is cross the boardwalk and dig up the gold on the other side. It will only take a minute, and then you can run right back out.”
Margaret could see the board walkway just inside the big entryway. It seemed like only yesterday when she had stood with her father, watching the coal pickers standing on the boards next to the conveyor belt. It was their job to sort the “bony” coal, which was full of rocks, from the good ore by throwing the bony lumps over their shoulders into a huge bin behind them. The good coal continued on to a waiting coal car, which hauled it away to be processed. Even with her father there beside her, Margaret hated the steep drop behind the boardwalk. Now, standing just inside the old, dilapidated tipple, she felt much more uneasy. “I know what I’ll do!” she said. “I’ll stay here on guard while you three get the gold. If the wicked king’s men appear in the forest, I’ll hoot like an owl three times.”
“Good idea!” Cory seemed relieved that Margaret’s fears hadn’t discouraged the others. “You wait here, but hide inside the door. Spies might be crawling all over the forest, and you wouldn’t want to be captured and thrown in with the rats too!”
Margaret watched them scamper across the boards and into the dark shadows. She sighed as she glanced outside. Early evening was usually her favorite time of day because it was so peaceful. However, she wasn’t feeling very peaceful just then.
Her thoughts were shattered by a loud crash and the sound of splitting wood. She heard a scream and more splitting wood, then silence. She froze for an instant with the deepest fear she had ever known. Filled with panic, she ran to the edge of the boardwalk. She could see nothing, and she could hear only her own heavy breathing.
“Jeff! Allison! Cory! Somebody answer me. Jeff, please—answer me!” She tried hard not to breathe as she listened for a sound. None came.
She sobbed, then fell to her knees. “Please, Heavenly Father, help us. Help them not to be hurt!” Scrambling up, she ran out of the tipple, down the hillside, back through the fence, and through the forest. She slipped and fell, rolled and tripped for what seemed miles to her home.
When she gasped out what had happened, her father’s face went white. As he grabbed his miner’s hat and other equipment he thought he might need, he said, “I’ll stop by the Andersons’ on my way. I may need all the help I can get.”
“We’re going too!” Margaret’s mother was emphatic. “I’ll get some blankets and coats.”
Five very grim faces retraced the path to the tipple. Five very serious pleas were silently sent heavenward.
When they reached the entrance of the dark, rickety building, the two mothers and Margaret waited while the men lit the lights on their hard hats, gathered the ropes, and cautiously advanced to the edge of the bony bin.
“Jeff! Cory! Allison! Are you all right?”
Jeff answered. “Yes, Dad. I think I’ve broken my arm, but otherwise we’re fine.”
The two women and one very relieved Margaret gave thanks as they hugged each other with joy.
The house seemed extra cozy to Margaret when her parents tucked her into bed later that night. Cory and Allison were bruised, badly shaken, and very dirty. And Jeff had broken his arm. How grateful they all were that the bony bin had been half full instead of empty and that only the wind knocked out of them had prevented them from answering or even functioning for a few minutes. It had taken a while for them to crawl through the dark bin to find each other, but they were glad to be together until help came.
“Margaret,” her mother asked when she bent to kiss her good night, “why didn’t you go farther into the tipple with the other three?”
“My Primary teacher taught us the same thing you and Dad did about the still, small voice and how it speaks to us when we need comfort or are in danger. She said that it sometimes is so quiet that you can hardly hear it and that at other times it is clear and loud. Well, I heard it this afternoon when we were on our way to the tipple. I should have told the others about it, but I wasn’t sure until the boardwalk caved in. All I know is that it caused me to be afraid, even though I didn’t feel that way at first.”
Her father gently hugged her. “I’m grateful for your teacher—and for a daughter who paid attention in class. It might have taken days for us to find you. However, there was one thing you didn’t pay attention to when you played around the tipple. Do you remember what that was?”
Margaret thought very hard, then said, “Yes, Dad. We should never have crossed the fence that had those no-trespassing signs. That was very wrong. You taught us to regard warning signs and to not trespass on other people’s property. We were so excited about our new game that we just ignored those rules. None of this would have happened if we’d listened to our consciences right at the beginning.”
“That’s right, honey. We all learn through our experiences, and Jeff has learned the same lessons you have. I’m sure that Cory and Allison have learned them too. One of the greatest tools we can use in helping us through this life is to become a listener. We’re grateful that you did listen the second time.”
Eight hearts gave thanks that night to Heavenly Father, who also had listened that day, just as He always listens.

You can also talk with your parents. They may be able to help you decide if the best approach is to discuss this as a family, talk with your brothers and sister by yourself (either as a group or one-on-one), or perhaps to start by writing a note. In one family, sisters kept teasing a brother who was overweight. Finally he turned to his parents. “After that,” he recalls, “whenever we were together and my sisters would say something mean to me, my dad would help by changing the subject.” Eventually, the jokes stopped.

Richy Judd, who recently returned from serving in the Ohio Cleveland Mission, says one of his most memorable experiences in the temple happened when he was the one baptizing and confirming.
“I went to the temple with the youth one more time before my mission, when I had already received my endowment,” he explains. “I actually got to do the baptizing and confirming, and it just really got me excited to go out there and baptize and confirm people. I wanted to find the families I was supposed to teach and bring into the Church.” And every time he baptized someone on his mission, “I’d remember being at the temple as a teenager,” he adds.
Richy says going to the temple reminded him how important it was to stay worthy. It motivated him to make right choices. When his bishop and stake president interviewed him before ordaining him an elder, Richy could confidently say that he was living all of the standards. “It made the transition a lot easier,” he says.

No doubt about it, I was a bit cocky and thought I was the best missionary to ever hit Switzerland. The Missionary Training Center had humbled me somewhat (the hardest two months of my mission), and in Switzerland my greenie trainer had done a good job of keeping me from rising over the Alps. I realized that I had a language to perfect and discussions to learn, but I was still living on past achievements, sports victories, and pre-mission status. This is probably why a few flames of refiners’ fire were thrown in my path.
After two months in the field, I received a new companion, only one month more experienced than I. We were both excited about the work and full of anticipation and energy. We learned how to teach with each other, practiced the language together, and enjoyed being new as a team. He had also been active in sports and other activities at home. I would relate to him all my hero stories, and if they weren’t too courageous in truth, I would make them sound fine and noble by adding a little spice. He must have thought I was the next one to be translated by the way I carried on about myself.
Both of us could settle for nothing but the best. This soon led to a feeling of pride and superiority. Everything we set out to do became a major competition. I would not be outdone. Whatever the occasion, I was determined to be the best.
It became a question of who would remember more of the discussions, who would get more mail, who could pray longer, who knew the gender to a particular German word, or who could ride his bike faster (that is, longer without something going wrong).
I suppose many companions (or marriage partners) get those negative feelings and think everything they do is better than what the other does. This was at a maximum with my companion and me. It got so bad, at times I would find myself hoping he wouldn’t get in the doors while tracting so I could prove to be better at the next house. I don’t mean to say that our interaction was total strife or anger, but it was not how we should have been acting as a missionary pair.
It was at this time that the Lord chose to send us his way of solving our problems. He placed before us a challenge capable of humbling us: Hans.
We met Hans at a street display. My companion saw him standing back timidly, hoping only to get a glimpse of what some silly Americans were doing. I suppose he must have been a bit surprised when my companion approached him and asked if he could explain what the pictures meant. Hans came and listened intently, and Elder Perkinson secured his address. We didn’t think about Hans until later when we were in that area again.
We made our way to his house on a cool September evening. I was amazed at the size and location of the place; it was a nice, well-to-do area. The condition of the house was another story: weeds, tires, oil spots, rubble, and piles of rotting trash were strewn about the front yard where a garden should have been. I thought that perhaps someone was moving or cleaning, but then again, what I viewed inside changed that opinion all together.
I pounded on the thin and knobless door as my companion tried to connect two wires together where a doorbell had once been. The house appeared to be vacant until a light from the top of the hallway came through a small window and a thin shadow made its way down the stairs. We heard a screech of wood on cement as our new investigator ripped the weakened door back from its frame. There in the bright porchlight stood our man, grinning with excitement at his first visitors in ages. As he opened the door, we were struck by an unsettling smell. This was certainly a challenge I had never expected to find on my mission.
I looked at Elder Perkinson, and he met me with the same puzzled face. We had no choice, so we walked into the front hallway.
The house must have been at one time stately and well-built, but the remains now disguised all appearance of quality. Boxes, trash, dirt, groceries (old and new), shoes, and assorted pieces of junk were scattered in piles along the corridor. The walls, which were once white, now had a coating of grime.
He led us to his room on the top floor, like a kid would show his friends his snake collection. He clearly had no awareness of the disorganized surroundings in which he was living. All of the rooms were filled with old items; however, his room was among the worst in the house. I gulped and tried to act nonchalant, but my eyes couldn’t avoid sweeping back and forth. If my mother had seen this, she would have thought my room back home was a king’s chamber.
There were no chairs, so we sat on the bed. Hans sat on a vacuum cleaner lying in the middle of the room. Undoubtedly it had been there for years without being used.
For the first time, I looked at this young man before me, and it all became clear. He sat there alone, scared, thin, and insecure. He was 33 years old, the age of many aspiring and influential men. I could see in his face the pain and suffering he had endured and the times he had been ignored and turned from. I couldn’t help thinking of the story “Cipher in the Snow.” Right before my eyes I saw that little bright-eyed, white-faced boy who fell in the snow on the way to school.
He related to us some of, the events of his life: his parents had died seven years ago, and he was left the house and all the bills to be paid. From other sources and from looking through some of his old school papers, we gained further insight into his earlier life. The marks and comments on his schoolwork didn’t seem too poor, but his writing and drawing ability didn’t increase from about the eighth grade.
We began the missionary discussion, and I had to concentrate to keep my eyes from wandering. My companion began with the Joseph Smith story, and I finished up with the second half of the discussion. I really felt proud of my companion, and I don’t think I could have done it without him. We felt good; we realized later that it wasn’t what we said, but rather the fact that we were interested in him that made us feel good. He hardly spoke but looked at us bright-eyed and was interested.
It was our practice to pray at the end of each discussion, but as I looked at the soiled carpet below me, I wasn’t sure what to do. I could see myself being stuck to the floor after the prayer, not being able to rise, but I couldn’t think of any valid excuse, so I closed my eyes and dropped. I believe my companion said the prayer, and something told me inside that this lonely man across from me was going to be baptized. It seemed to me then that it would take a miracle for Hans to become a Latter-day Saint and live as an example to others, but the thought remained.
The following Sunday he showed up for church. The meeting had just started, and I walked to the front door to check for late-coming members. There Hans stood in a thin, soiled, turtleneck shirt, shivering from cold and fright. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked as if he were turning to go away again. I called to him, and a big smile made its way across his lips.
We sat in the corner. As the service ended, I stood with our visitor in the foyer. The members were forming in groups all around us, as the Saints do in every ward in the world, but we weren’t getting too much attention. Then my companion and I thought up a good plan. All we had to do was to bring the members to him. We took turns bringing warm and talkative persons to meet him. As one of us introduced, the other looked for someone to talk to our investigator. The members didn’t talk long, but they were open and friendly. For Hans, it was paradise. He had never received so much attention and such feelings of love in his life. He asked us later that week if he could come every Sunday.
In the next two weeks, we taught him most of the discussions. After each evening, he would show us his entire collection of model airplanes, his 500 stacks of airplane magazines, and his photos of airplanes and everything with wings. That was one of his hobbies or fantasies. He had lived his whole life in a fantasy, because he never had enough faith in himself to actually do anything. We knew that the gospel could change him and would give him a good chance to improve his life. The members would accept and love him, and he recognized it.
We challenged him for baptism, and he accepted everything without question. Besides the regular commandments, we felt there should be a few other things to help him. For this reason we prepared the “B” or “Bath Discussion.” This included his house, his yard, and everything else that needed cleaning up. This didn’t appear easy, and we tried to think of the best and most tactful way to say it. I remember rehearsing a dialogue all day, but we ended up just giving it to him straight. He took it surprisingly well.
The week before the baptism was a trial and tribulation for both Hans and us. I don’t know who’s to blame, but someone didn’t want us to baptize Hans. Both my companion and I got terribly sick; his wheel got stuck on my fender while we were riding and all his spokes flew out; I got hit by a train, and came within inches of being killed; and finally we had to look for a new apartment and didn’t know where we were going to stay until the last day. We baptized Hans, however, just three and a half weeks after our first visit. He came to the church showered and shaved and even wore a new pair of socks. I hardly recognized him. We could already see a part of our vision coming true. I had the great opportunity of baptizing him. He had never worn a tie, so we told him he could go without. Having him stand there in those pure white clothes was fancy enough for us.
As with all baptisms, the real work begins afterwards. We began that Saturday with the cleaning of his house. We worked like dogs, digging out the dirt, junk, and refuse. A sister in the ward, who lived just a few blocks away, came to help. I’ve always admired the courage of pioneer women, but I’ll never forget this act of kindness and fortitude. She started washing dishes and then cleaned out the cupboards. She kept scrubbing and washing till all was spotless.
“This is brotherly love,” I told myself. “This is how the Lord expects his children to help one another.”
Hans continued to improve and came to church every week. A year later I saw a picture of him in a suit. He looked fantastic.
I learned a lot of things from Hans and this whole sequence of my mission. I realized how important each one of our Father in Heaven’s children is, and how the gospel can help anyone in any situation. As my mother once wrote in a letter, “The gospel is a hospital for the sick and not a museum for the whole.” It was certainly true in this case. I know our Heavenly Father helped us in the changing of this man’s life.
The vision of Hans didn’t end there, however. He became, in his own little way, an example to his fellowmen. One month later we visited a lady across the street from Hans. She had seen the change in the house and in Hans himself and knew it had to be the Mormons. She called the same member who had helped us with the cleaning and told her to send the missionaries. Five minutes from the time we entered the home of this great family, we had challenged them to be baptized. What a thrill it was to know that Hans was the one whom the Lord chose to show them the fruits of the gospel.
It all started with Hans. We helped him to find a new life and he helped us as companions. From this time on, it was no longer a question of outdoing each other or being the best, but rather how we could help Hans or the other investigators. He was an example for us of true humility and how the Lord blesses his children.
I know now that the Lord loves us and wants us all to be happy, even the meek and the poor in spirit.

My mother taught me the same principle by insisting that I work hard. She got me out the door, mowing grass, trimming the hedge, and doing other chores around the house. I would gladly have played basketball or football or played army or ridden bikes all day long, but my mother believed that work came first. I didn’t appreciate that at the time. I thought that I was being driven pretty hard. It wasn’t until I reached the mission field that I was grateful to know how to work. I had been given a priceless nugget.

When I was a young boy, my family would gather around our piano, which is now more than a hundred years old. My mother had a beautiful soprano voice. At Christmas she played the piano as she led us in singing Christmas carols and hymns.
Even as a young boy, I felt joy in singing those songs. The music filled our small home with a spirit of peace. I could feel not only the love of my mother and father and two brothers, but of my Heavenly Father and the Savior Jesus Christ. Now when I see that piano, memories of love with my family and love from the Savior flood back over me.

I just wanted to write and tell you how much I enjoyed the article in the October 1995 issue “I Know the Feeling.” I have also been a member my whole life but had only recently begun to truly live the gospel in word and in deed. I knew I had a testimony of the truth of the gospel, but I couldn’t be sure if I knew because of the Spirit or because of the radical changes that took place in my life because of my decision to live the gospel. The expression “I really feel the Spirit” seemed to be something I could never truthfully say. I longed for the warmth and peace I had supposed I had only read about. Brother Aaron Lee Shill’s article helped me realize my problem was not in feeling the Spirit, but in recognizing it.
Meghan ForinashGreat Falls, Virginia

Several centuries later, Martin Luther built a lane for his children to use for bowling. It was Luther’s idea to use nine pins in a game.

An example of his persistence is demonstrated in the way he learned to sing. When President Grant was 43 years old, he decided he wanted to sing, despite the fact that he had never been able to carry a tune. As he explained:
“I had a private secretary with a beautiful baritone voice. I told him I would give anything in the world if I could only carry a tune. He laughed and said, ‘Anybody who has a voice and perseverance can sing.’ I immediately appointed him as my singing teacher.
“My singing lessons started that night. At the end of two hours’ practice I still couldn’t sing one line from the song we had been practicing. After practicing that one song for more than five thousand times, I made a mess of it when I tried to sing it in public. I practiced it for another six months. Now I can learn a song in a few hours.”14

There was a time when I felt like my most earnest prayers were going unanswered. I felt like I was lacking direction and pleaded with God for answers and blessings. As time wore on, praying became harder as feelings of frustration and impatience built. It was exhausting.
I couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong with me?”
As I searched the scriptures for answers, I found that they teach about a type of waiting that’s different from what I was experiencing. The prophet Isaiah taught, “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint” (Isaiah 40:31).
Was it possible that I was waiting all wrong? I felt there must be more to waiting upon the Lord than just simply waiting.
As I pondered these words, the word “wait” suddenly took on a new meaning. Instead of silence, it sounded like the Spirit was saying, “Stay here with me for a minute.” What I thought was the Lord’s indifference suddenly transformed into an invitation to sit with Him and be renewed by His strength.
I thought of one of my favorite scriptures: “For the Lord shall comfort Zion, he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord. Joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving and the voice of melody” (2 Nephi 8:3).
Waiting, to me, had always felt like being in a “desert” or a “waste place”—empty and tiring. All I thought I could do while in this “desert” was hope that one day God would finally give me the promised blessings I sought and lead me to a full and beautiful garden.
But these scriptures helped me realize that God has so much more power than I was giving Him credit for. He could make my “desert” a beautiful garden now, while I waited on Him. I started seeing this waiting period as a spiritual refuge as I prepared to receive whatever future blessings the Lord had in store for me.
As I continued to ponder on 2 Nephi 8:3, the last sentence stood out to me: “Joy and gladness shall be found therein.” So where does this joy come from if not from immediately receiving the blessings we seek?
As President Russell M. Nelson recently taught:
“The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.
“When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives. Joy comes from and because of Him. He is the source of all joy.”
Shifting my focus away from what I felt I lacked and toward the Savior has created a space where joy and gladness feel abundant in my life.
I’ve noticed I feel the Savior’s joy more clearly as I strive to build on the things in my life that uplift me. For me, this looks like creating deeper connections with family members and friends, serving in the temple, learning new skills, and going to my favorite Wednesday-night yoga class.
I also learned that because of Christ, God’s promises to us are assured. That, in and of itself, is a reason to rejoice.
I’ve found that gratitude is essential in transforming my waiting space from a desert into a garden. There is a healing power in being grateful for all the blessings I do have, but I’ve also especially found a deep sense of gratitude for the things that I don’t have yet and the time I’m spending deepening my faith in the Lord as I wait.
Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Patience helps us to use, rather than to protest, these seeming flat periods of life, becoming filled with quiet wonder over the past and with anticipation for that which may lie ahead.”
Waiting gives us the opportunity to sit with God, learn more of Him, see more of His hand, feel more of His love, hear more of His voice, and ultimately receive more of His abundance. As I look back on times I felt like God was making me wait, I see the abundance of spiritual treasures He offered me. I see loving and supportive friends, priceless moments of comfort and revelation, lessons about the security and power of keeping sacred covenants, and a deeper connection to my Savior, Jesus Christ.
As I practice waiting on the Lord rather than just waiting, I know that He will continue to make my life into a garden more beautiful than I can imagine.

Years ago, after leaving the Provo Missionary Training Center, I arrived in Florida feeling prepared and excited to get started in the mission field. When I met my new companion, we had many of the same interests and our companionship seemed like a perfect fit.
After a few weeks, however, I noticed some differences. For example, I was ready to go tracting every day, but my companion was not so enthusiastic about knocking on doors. In fact, even though he was the senior companion, he chose not to do much of it.
I also noticed that my companion seemed to talk a lot about himself. His family was financially well-off, and he had experienced many things that I, coming from lesser circumstances, had not.
These things started to develop some uncomfortable feelings inside of me, almost to the level of resentment. Harboring resentment toward my companion affected me spiritually, especially while I was attempting to teach the gospel. I had to do something. At first I considered talking to my companion and simply venting all my frustrations. But I chose a different approach.
Each morning my companion and I would take turns showering and preparing for the day. While he was in the shower, I decided to sneak over to the foot of his bed and shine his wingtip shoes. After quickly cleaning and buffing them, I would carefully put his shoes back where they were. I did this every morning for about two weeks.
During this time I noticed that my resentment began to leave. As I served my companion, my heart began to change. I said nothing to him about my little act of service. One day, however, my companion mentioned that he must have been blessed with “celestial shoes” because they never seemed to get dirty.
I learned two great lessons from this experience. First, I learned that the real problem was within me—even though the catalyst for my feelings came from outside. My companion was fine.
Second, I knew that we generally serve those we love. But I didn’t realize that the same principle works in reverse: we come to love those we serve.

I have hesitated for a long time, but now I feel I must write to thank you for the wonderful articles in Der Stern (German). One of the articles (“Temples and Work Therein,” Elder David B. Haight, October 1990 general conference) led me to have one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.
I was baptized in February 1991 and received a copy of the January 1991 issue containing the conference report. After reading Elder Haight’s talk, I decided I would be baptized for my deceased mother as soon as I could go to the temple. Later, my mother appeared to me by my bed and told me she would accept her baptism.
I will be eternally grateful to my Heavenly Father for a spiritual experience I shall never forget—an experience that came through reading the magazine.
Erika GiesenGluckstadt Ward, Neumunster Germany Stake

They also learned reverence for the sacrament by seeing other Aaronic Priesthood holders, including their older brothers, perform their priesthood duties. Evan, for example, remembers times when his older brother, who is now serving a mission in Brazil, talked to him about the sacrament, the priesthood, and other gospel topics.

When I was 16, most of my friends at school weren’t members, but they knew that I was a member of the Church. They started to smoke and do other things I wouldn’t do. So things began to change between us; our types of conversation were very different, and our thinking and activities weren’t compatible.

One day my father asked me, “Why aren’t you thinking about your friends’ effect on you?” He counseled me to be careful and think about the necessity of changing my friends.

When I started at the university, I became very busy and didn’t spend a lot of time with my friends, but one time when we were together, they decided to do something bad. We were in a car, and they drove really fast. A policeman pulled us over, and I was scared. I remembered the words of my father about taking care of the future. That experience helped me make a decision about the kinds of friends I wanted to have.

I became very involved in Church activities. Attending Mutual was wonderful because I decided to have those kinds of friends. I learned that my father was right—that I should take care of my relationship with good friends. I needed friends who would help me prepare for a mission.

Whether the young men were the only Aaronic Priesthood holders in their remote Alaskan branches or members from a large ward, nearly all of them said that being with the other young men in a gospel-centered environment, especially at a fireside on the Restoration, was more memorable than any leisure activity. As Dakota B. put it, “For me, the most memorable and profound moment of the camp was learning about the Restoration and singing ‘Praise to the Man’ (Hymns, no. 27). I will never forget the powerful experience of over 1,000 priesthood holders singing together.”

When I was 17, I was doubting that I would go on a mission. I really had no intention of going because I was focused on other things, like dating, movies, and parties.
As I saw friends who remained true to the gospel and had their minds focused on serving a mission, I had a distinct feeling to get on my knees and ask the Lord for guidance. I asked in sincerity if The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true Church. I received a confirmation by the gift of the Holy Ghost.
From that day on, I began preparing myself to go on a mission. It was very hard work, but it was worth it. I was able to follow my friends into the mission field, knowing that I was doing what was right.
Now I am on my mission, finding people so they can have the same blessings I have. I know that I couldn’t be in a better place than I am now.

Of course, in any happy home there must be time for study and for work. “Henrik is always good to help with the dishes and to clean his room,” his mother says. “And he really likes to help his dad in the garden.” He is also learning to play the piano—in fact, he learned a piece of music and played it at Michael’s baptism.

Jessica paused by the weed-tangled, paintless picket fence to gaze with uneasy wonder at the old, hauntingly still, two-story house. It stood in the scorched summer field just off Banberry Road.
She knew nothing about the old woman who lived behind those chipped gray walls except what had been told her by the townspeople of the whistle-stop town of Dogwood. In fact, she had only seen Emma Murphy once since she moved here with her parents the summer before, yet she still remembered the woman’s pale, weathered face eroded with furrows that seemed almost as deep as the ones in Papa’s field. She had wondered then how a woman so old could ever have been a little girl. And Jessica remembered every word the woman said: “Get away from here, you nosy little scamp!” She also remembered how anger elbowed its way past her own uncertainty when she yelled back, “You don’t scare me, you mean ole … snippety snap!”
Jessica turned and stomped off that day, small puffs of dust exploding about her feet. She was doubly certain that the tales spun about Mrs. Murphy were true—tales about her never coming out of that house unless it was to chase some poor child away with a big stick and stories about her howling and bellowing at everyone.
And if the accounts about the old woman weren’t enough to make Jessica a firm believer, the sight of the house was! Its walls, wrapped in heavy vines, rose eerily skyward. The old swing on the buckled wooden porch was blanketed with dust, leaves, and a gauze of ancient webs; and it creaked in the slightest breeze like something alive.
Today Jessica was on her way to the creek, another half mile down Banberry Road. It was mid-July, and the sun that rolled and burned its way across the hot creek bed had sucked up all but a few isolated pockets of water. She felt sorry for the small fish trapped in the puddles and had taken upon herself the task of catching and transporting them by bucket to bigger ponds upstream.
She studied the old house a final moment from behind the tall yellow weeds that hedged the fence. Never once had she seen the musty curtains drawn open. It must be awfully dark and gloomy in there, she imagined, dark as Papa’s eyes were the day I poked fun at old Mike Kelsay’s long braided beard.
“A body’s different only to the extent that he’s himself and not anybody else,” Papa had sermoned. “If it’s in Mike Kelsay to braid his beard, then it’d be unnatural, maybe even wrong, for him not to. A body can’t be dishonest in his feelings and ever hope to come to terms with himself.”
Papa had a way of saying things that one just couldn’t argue with. Somehow he always sounded so right that all a good Christian heart dared do was store it away with other pearls of wisdom.
But does that make Emma Murphy’s wild stick waving and unfriendliness fine and proper? Jessica wondered. Her face twisted in confusion, and she was just about to turn her back on it all and start down the dirt road when she saw the old woman a second time. The ancient claylike face suddenly peered between the tattered curtains and stared out from behind dirty windows into the yard, glancing in both directions up and down the road. Then it disappeared, reappearing a moment later in a patchwork of light that filled the open front door. Mrs. Murphy stepped out onto the porch, and Jessica cowered behind the weeds.
She didn’t want to be caught staring—not again. Just to be caught by Emma Murphy was a fate that could put white hair on a twelve-year-old girl. Uncertainty pulled at the coattails of calm and dared her to feel at ease. She would have to wait out Mrs. Murphy, who was starting down the crooked path toward her. Jessica gasped and glanced quickly over her shoulder. Banberry Road was empty—not a wagon, buggy, nor single soul in sight. She was alone.
Jessica’s eyes shifted back toward the old woman, who hobbled closer still. The girl scrunched into a ball like a little dead spider and shut her eyes tighter than two pages in a closed book, expecting the worst.
After a moment of tense, sun-blistered silence, Jessica heard the old woman’s grating voice and dared to open one eye a slit, just enough to see Emma Murphy bent over a little grave marker in a tangle of briers just a few feet inside the fence. “Picked you some bluebells by the side of the house this morning, John.” The quiet reverence of the voice stunned Jessica so that her eyes popped open round and wide.
Mrs. Murphy placed the small wad of flowers atop the crude tombstone. “Not too regular I get out here, John,” she went on, “what with the way folks stare at me, like I was something out of a bad dream. Haven’t come by a kind word from anybody as long as I can pain to remember. Just the sound of rocks thrown against the house and people whispering things could turn a God-fearing woman into the hardest human being that ever took a breath. Folks call a body mean long enough, he’ll start believing it.”
Emma’s chin quivered and emotion stumbled her words. “Been downright choreful to act Christian of late, John.”
Jessica watched Emma brush away a tear, cock her head, and gaze darkly off down the empty road, her explosion of white hair rivering in the hot wind.
Up close, Jessica observed something that distance had hidden before. It was more than the corroding of time that had set the shadows so deeply upon Emma’s face. And it was something more than the scowl she wore like a tiresome chore. It was a look of loneliness every bit as sad as was Jessica’s when she had first moved to town and had not known a soul. But children and grownups alike had talked to her and made her feel at home. Soon the loneliness had pleasantly vanished like a late winter day filled with sunshine.
Mrs. Murphy’s eyes glanced back to the grave, and her knotty hands pulled feebly at the weeds around it.
Jessica rose slowly, rigid as an old field oak. She wasn’t sure where her courage came from. Maybe it was something Papa had said, or maybe guilt had pushed it out. Whatever the cause, it was a hair ahead of fear. Suddenly she realized there was something she had to do.
Mrs. Murphy’s eyes took hold of the girl in the rustling weeds. They widened with surprise and then narrowed with the old hardness. “What do you want here?” she snapped.
“I—I want to help you,” Jessica declared meekly.
The old woman stared, disbelieving her ears.
Jessica managed a smile. “Maybe I could help you pull some of those weeds, Mrs. Murphy.”
“You want to help me?” the voice scratched out with puzzlement and suspicion.
Jessica nodded. Emma Murphy straightened, her eyes still narrowed with distrust, but she was too dumbfounded to speak. And since she didn’t lift her voice or raise a stick to Jessica, the freckle-faced girl pushed through the rickety gate and started pulling weeds.
Emma continued to stare, completely taken aback by the girl’s friendliness and grit. Finally she said, “Nobody wants to help me.”
“I’m not ‘nobody,’” Jessica declared, “I’m Jessica Goodhue. I live a few miles down the road.” She twisted off a prickly brier twig, then squinted at Emma Murphy’s withered shape, shadowed against the sun. “Can we be friends, Mrs. Murphy?”
The old woman’s silent stare was unbroken.
Just as Jessica thought that perhaps she had made a horrible mistake by coming through the gate, Emma hunkered down beside her and eyed her so deeply that Jessica felt her very soul had been seen for the first time since Heavenly Father had told her good-bye and she was ushered down to earth!
A smile slowly faltered across Emma Murphy’s face like a young baby trying to walk. She extended her hand to Jessica, and a moment later a smooth, youthful hand was enfolded in one old and worn. Winter was suddenly gone from the old woman’s eyes, and warm tears meandered down a furrow in her cheek and disappeared into the folds of her neck.
For a long while the two just sat there, lost in the magic of the other; then they turned to pulling weeds together.
Two days later when Jessica walked by the old house with some friends on their way to save the last of the fish in the creek puddles, they noticed the curtains pulled back in Emma’s room. For the first time in their recollection, Emma Murphy had let in the light!

Listen to the experiences of those couples who have gone forth to serve.Quoting a few lines from a letter recently received in the Missionary Department from the president of the Oklahoma Tulsa Mission, we read: “The Wilsons, who recently returned home, did an outstanding job in reactivating the membership. They were able to see two couples go to the temple, have eighteen baptisms, increase ward activity from an average of 136 to over 180 during just the year that they labored in the Nevada Ward. When they came into the mission field, they had just purchased a new truck. During their mission, they put 29,000 miles on the vehicle. This couple was truly dedicated to strengthening the Lord’s work in this area. Now they are retired, living in St. George, and would like to go on another mission in the near future.”