Gospel Story Finder

As sister missionaries, we were sharing the gospel with a woman who lived in modest circumstances at the bottom of a large hill near a small city dump on the outskirts of Asunción, Paraguay.
Soledad and her husband, Oscar, lived in one room of a long, narrow house that was actually a series of connected rooms, side by side, with very thin walls. Each room was a tiny residence with one window, one door, one table, and one bed. There were several such buildings in this area, constructed of wood, with a thatched roof and dirt floors. Clay that had been pushed into the crevices kept out some of the cold.
Soledad was the mother of three young children, and she was young herself—and overwhelmed. It was all she could do to take care of her home and the daily demands of her children. But she seemed to welcome our visits and to recognize a need for God in her life.
Soledad expressed her thoughts and feelings freely. She had fallen in love and run away from home with Oscar, even though her parents didn’t approve. Neither she nor her husband had any education or a job, and their future was bleak. She wondered if God had abandoned her and if He was punishing them for the poor choices they had made.
Oscar peddled trinkets door to door in an effort to help his family survive. When he had a successful day, he would buy food and, sometimes, small gifts for the children. But when sales were poor, he would often return home depressed, angry, and drunk.
We felt challenged to help them deal with so many temporal concerns. But we also felt urged by the Spirit to continue loving and teaching them, even though at times their progress was disappointing. After several more visits and after praying sincerely, we finally felt we needed to give them some time to consider what we had taught, study the Book of Mormon, and pray by themselves.
We explained our concerns to Soledad, and she was upset. She felt we were abandoning her family. She also told us they were expecting a fourth child and didn’t know how they would survive. In anger she told us to leave and never return.
Unknown to us, however, the neighbor next door, Juan, had been listening through the wall to what we had been teaching. He was young, curious, and painfully shy. As he had listened, he had had many questions about the plan of salvation, the Book of Mormon, and repentance. He had even been borrowing Soledad’s copy of the Book of Mormon, reading it, and praying regarding all that he had been quietly learning.
Days passed. Juan began to worry when we did not return to teach Soledad and Oscar. Then one night, as a heavy winter storm was brewing, he asked Soledad where we lived and how he could contact us. She said she didn’t know, and he began to cry. He bore his testimony to her of the truthfulness of our message and ran out into the stormy night to look for us as rain poured down, turning the streets into muddy rivers.
Hours later, tired and cold, he continued to search. He began to pray as he made his way through the darkness, promising his Father in Heaven that if He would help him find us, he would be baptized and serve Him all the days of his life. In the meantime, Soledad, impressed by Juan’s testimony, started praying that we would return. Juan came home but continued to pray and read the Book of Mormon for the next two days. Soledad also prayed earnestly and talked with Oscar. Together they began reading the Book of Mormon.
Two days after the storm, as my companion and I knelt in prayer, we felt compelled to return to the tiny little homes at the bottom of the hill. We went immediately, and when we arrived, we were greeted with happy tears and excitement by Soledad, Oscar, their children, and Juan. They told us all that had happened, and from that time on, all of them were eager to learn about the gospel. It wasn’t long before Juan was baptized, and Soledad and Oscar soon followed.
I remember wondering why we were so strongly impressed to keep teaching even when Soledad and Oscar weren’t responding well. I remember wondering why we felt such an urgency to return when we had been chased away in anger. But as I saw the joy that came into Juan’s life and then into Soledad and Oscar’s family, I knew that not only was Juan listening through thin walls but that Heavenly Father was listening to prayers from each of us in turn, prayers that came from the heart.

Illustrations by Katie McDee
Grandma, how old are you?
186!
What?! You can’t be that old.
I’m only joking! But I’m still old. And do you know how I’ve lived this long?
How?
Because I always eat my vegetables!
Does eating vegetables really make you live longer?
It helps! When we take care of our bodies, God blesses us with strength and energy.
I think the stew is done! It smells good.
Time for a taste test!
Did we pass?
Yes! It’s delicious! And healthy too.
Maybe one day I’ll live to be 186.
Then you better eat your vegetables!

I witnessed this truth during a particularly difficult week on my mission. Everything seemed to be going wrong: I wasn’t getting along with my companion, people we had been teaching had suddenly stopped talking with us, and the weather was extremely hot.
I felt like God had forgotten me. As I was walking down the street in the blazing heat, I thought: “How could you forget about me? It’s so unfair. I’m trying so hard!” And in that moment, a drop of water hit me in the eye—right between my eyebrow and glasses. At first, I was so annoyed that I didn’t even consider the cloudless sky. And then, seconds later, another drop of water hit me in the same spot. I stopped and looked up, and the words “Jacob, I haven’t forgotten you” entered my mind and heart.
I began to cry. I knew those words and raindrops were a message from Heavenly Father. I felt His perfect love for me and for all of His children. I was reminded of who I was and that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would never abandon me—or any of us.
Now when I am struggling to remember my divine identity, I ponder this experience to remind myself that I, and all of Heavenly Father’s children, have great worth.

I wrote in my journal about band practice that Valentine’s Day. My friend Jill and I had to stay after school a half hour with the rest of the brass section because we couldn’t get the notes right to “When the Saints Come Marching In.”
We tried to phone home for rides, but only got answering machines. So we both had to walk the three miles. We hardly said anything the whole way. Over the last couple of blocks, it started to rain. We couldn’t run very fast because I had my trumpet case and Jill had her French horn case. When we got to Jill’s, she discovered she didn’t have her key, so we ran across the street to my house. We sat in my bedroom with our wet hair and clothes and griped about the day.
We each hoped someone would invite us to the Sweetheart Dance that night. Never mind that neither of us had a boyfriend; we thought someone secretly fascinated with us might make himself known and appear at the last moment. My friend Tara had been asked the week before, and we’d watched a bunch of girls get little bouquets of flowers all day at school. It was getting later, and no one called. We checked the messages on my family’s answering machine and then called Jill’s mother, who had finally gotten home, to ask if there was a message for Jill. The only messages were the two of us begging for someone to give us a ride home from school.
So we knew the dance was out. We were two mediocre band students with soggy hair and no romantic prospects.
Jill looked through my CDs and we played a couple of songs, but they were all about love and romance. I considered trying to see how many ways I could destroy a CD, but CDs are expensive and I only had four anyway.
So it’s no wonder we did what we did, even though there is no excuse for it.
It started when we wandered into the kitchen for a snack. Mom said, “Hi, girls. Sorry I wasn’t home or I’d have come to get you. How was school?”
I just threw her my don’t-ask look.
Mom gave us some leftover heart cookies she had made for Brandon’s kindergarten class. That’s when we saw Brandon’s blank animal valentines he hadn’t used because he wanted the Spiderman ones instead. Even now I don’t know why we took the valentines.
In my room we were feeling unloved and grouchy. We started writing on the valentines. One of them had a hippo on it. It said, “I like you a ton.” I wrote on the back “Weight Watchers, 7:30 P.M. on Tuesday” and signed it illegibly, giggling. Jill started laughing, too. She found one with a skunk on it that said, “Don’t be a stinker—be my Valentine.” On the back of it, she wrote, “Try deodorant and a fly swatter.”
Now we were really rolling. We wrote something mean on the back of every single valentine. We managed to twist every little animal into a negative label.
I’m sorry to say it was my idea to actually deliver the valentines. It was too bad the rain had let up, or it might have squelched the idea. We waited until after dinner and told my mom we would be back soon. Then we ran a few blocks away from our houses. We put each valentine on a porch, rang the doorbell, and ran. We hid behind a car or a tree, then laughed when someone came to the door and looked around with a puzzled expression, finally noticing the white envelope on the doormat. Then they would pick it up and take it into the house. I’m only glad we got tired after leaving eight of them.
At one house, a bunch of little kids answered the door and jumped up and down, hollering, when they found the valentine. We quit after an elderly woman had trouble stooping to pick up her delivery.
Jill went home and so did I, feeling more hollow as the night progressed. I’d started to wonder if the rude valentines had hurt anyone’s feelings. I hoped all the recipients had thrown them in the trash and gone back to watching TV or whatever it was they’d been doing. I thought about how I would have felt to get one of our valentines. I’d have been crushed.
The crummy day got crummier.
In the weeks that followed, Jill and I talked about it.
“Lauren, you know what? I wish we hadn’t done that.”
“I know,” I told her. “I bet that one lady had arthritis or something.”
“Yeah, and maybe her children have all moved away and no one writes to her or calls her,” Jill said.
“And then we go and leave a rude valentine on her porch. Bet that just made her day,” I added glumly.
We sat in silence for a while.
“How can we fix it?” Jill asked.
“I’ve thought about that a lot. But I don’t know. Do you remember whose houses we went to?”
Jill shook her head. “It was so random. We were just going wherever. I don’t know who those people were.”
“We wouldn’t have done it if we had known them.”
“But somebody knows them. They’re somebody’s kids or somebody’s grandmother.”
“Well, keep thinking. Maybe there’s a way to fix this.” But I knew we couldn’t undo the damage we’d done.
I prayed a lot more, all through March and then April. Jill and I both felt terrible. I didn’t write much in my journal. I just didn’t feel like it. My mom always told me I had a hyperactive conscience. But I thought it was better to have a hyperactive conscience than no conscience at all.
I went over and over what we’d done, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The next time we had to stay after school to get a song right, we walked home together. We didn’t even call for a ride because we didn’t feel we deserved one.
On a boring Tuesday in May, I was drifting off in Mr. Bates’s history class when a folded sheet of looseleaf paper slid onto my desk. I popped awake.
I opened it.
It read: “Hey, cute stuff! Tried to call your house but got no answer last night. Do you want to go with me for dinner and a movie on Friday? Let me know after class.” It was signed “Nate Campbell.”
Nate Campbell? Talk about cute stuff!
I folded the note up and turned around to give Nate my most dazzling smile when I saw the name on the front of the note: “Shannon.” It might as well have said in red neon letters, “NOT YOU.” I turned down the wattage on my smile and passed the note to Shannon, two seats up.
Of course the note wasn’t for me. Shannon probably didn’t write mean things on valentines and deliver them to the elderly. A wave of embarrassment swept over me, and I kept fully alert for the rest of the day. Who knew what else I would do to humiliate myself before the day was out?
School ended for the summer, and we still hadn’t figured out how to repair the damage we might have caused by our rude valentines.
The summer passed, and I kept practicing my trumpet. We marched in the Fourth of July parade. I dropped my trumpet once, and some boys laughed and pointed at me. I had to run to catch up to the rest of the band. My face was already hot because of the temperature; afterward, it felt even hotter. My family was nice and told me how well I’d done, avoiding any mention of my klutziness.
The orthodontist put braces on me in July, and I decided I was being humbled by degrees.
I played with Brandon during the summer, and we built a zoo in the backyard with his stuffed animals in cages made out of overturned laundry baskets. We made tickets, and I popped popcorn for everyone who visited the zoo. Word got out in the neighborhood, and some of Brandon’s friends came three times.
I helped Jessica, my seven-year-old sister, set up a lemonade stand, and I counted change and went back and forth to the house to keep her in paper cups. She turned eight and was baptized just before school started again. My brother Stephen gave a short talk about the Holy Ghost, and my sister Emily gave a talk about repentance. And I thought about what I’d done on Valentine’s Day.
Dad baptized Jessica, and she came out of the water smiling and fresh.
I remembered my own baptism and wished I could go back in time. It wasn’t like I’d killed someone, but I was frustrated because I had deliberately done something hurtful I couldn’t undo. If I’d hurt someone I knew, I could have gone to them and told them how sorry I was. I decided that I really needed to think about what I was doing before I did it. What we did wasn’t such a huge thing, but it preyed on my mind.
After the baptism, I found a note on my pillow:
“Dear Lauren, It seems like you’ve been having a rough time lately. If you want to talk, I have two listening ears. I want you to know how proud I am of you. You’ve been a big help with your little brothers and sisters this summer. You’re a thoughtful, kind person. I love you very much. Love, Mom.”
The next morning, I waited until everyone else had gone out to play or work. Mom was busy doing dishes.
“Mom, thanks for your note. I needed it.” I took a breath as she turned around. She was smiling until she saw my face.
“Except I’m not really such a thoughtful person.”
Mom dried her hands with a towel and asked me, “Why not?”
I didn’t want to be too specific. “I just did something mean awhile ago.”
“Did you repent of it?” Mom asked gently.
I shook my head. “I’m still trying to figure out how.”
“Do you need to talk to the bishop about this?”
“No, it wasn’t that mean. I just did something mean to people I don’t know, so I can’t even tell them I’m sorry.”
Mom looked thoughtful. “That is a tough one. But being kind and considerate to your family and everyone you come in contact with may help. You really have been wonderful with the little kids.”
School started and I was lugging my trumpet back and forth again. We put on a concert, and Jill and I did pretty well. I don’t think I played any wrong notes when we played “When the Saints Come Marching In.” I think I had finally gotten it right.
Homecoming came and went. Jill got asked to the dance, but I didn’t. It really didn’t matter. I tended my brothers and sisters while Mom and Dad went out that night. We had a good time watching a Godzilla movie, turning the sound off and making our own subtitles and monster noises.
Jill and I made plans for Halloween. We had received an answer to our prayers, finally coming up with the best thing we could think of to repent for our meanness. We did some baking and targeted certain homes in our ward.
We headed for Sister Campbell’s first. She was living by herself in a tiny farmhouse in the middle of an apple orchard. We rang the doorbell and waited.
“Treat or trick,” we yelled, when she answered the door.
“What?” asked Sister Campbell. “Oh, girls, I wasn’t expecting anyone clear out here. I’m sorry, I don’t have a scrap of candy. But you’re welcome to the apples.”
“That’s okay,” we told her. “We’re reverse trick-or-treating. We bring you the treat.” She laughed and invited us inside. She told us about the things she used to do at Halloween.
“Some of us played terrible pranks.” Jill and I looked at each other. “We knocked over an outhouse while a boy was in it.”
“Oh, no!” I laughed, though I didn’t mean to.
“I felt awful about it,” Sister Campbell said.
“What happened? Did the boy get even with you?”
Sister Campbell giggled. “I’ll say he did. He married me.”
Next we visited the Shepherd family. They have seven kids, ranging in age from three months to 12 years. We offered to help paint faces on the kids and get them into their costumes. Sister Shepherd gladly turned over their Halloween preparations to us while she finished getting dinner ready.
We took some cinnamon rolls to Brother Baird, who walked with a limp. We helped him out to his porch. Then we covered him with a blanket so he could watch the trick-or-treaters. He laughed at the costumes and the excitement of the little kids.
Last, we left notes on some porches. One went to one of our Young Women advisers, thanking her for her wonderful lessons; one to the bishop’s family to thank them for loaning their dad and husband to the ward; and one to Julie Beck, a girl a year older than us who didn’t date much and was shy and quiet. We told her what a nice person she was and how good she was with animals, since she had two well-groomed cats and a parakeet.
We signed the notes legibly this time.
We came home empty-handed but full-hearted, in time to help pass out candy to the little neighborhood ghouls. Maybe we had canceled out our Valentine’s Day mischief. We both felt better about ourselves. We felt like we had repented.
I’ve got it all down in my journal. For a while, I didn’t have anything very good to write about. But I have been writing a lot more lately. Ever since Halloween, I’ve enjoyed holidays so much more.
And life in general.

“Are your chores done, Jesse?” Ma called as I grabbed the old baseball and darted for the open front door. The fellows were waiting for me down at the churchyard.
“Mostly done,” I answered. “I’ll feed the chickens and pigs when I get back,” I promised.
I looked at the tattered leather ball with the frayed red string. Ma had tried to repair it a half dozen times. Last time, she had muttered, “I’m just repairing the repairs now.” But in 1892, it was the best baseball we had in Snowflake, Arizona.
I’d been playing baseball ever since Uncle Rupert had given me the ball when I turned five. He had played with that same ball on the Deseret Territory championship team years before.
“We’re burning up our afternoon,” Hal Kartchner grumbled to me when I finally arrived at the churchyard. The meetinghouse was right in the middle of town. We boys had fixed up a nice baseball diamond close by, but we were plagued by prairie dog holes dotting the field. We had to be careful to not step in one and drop to our knee in a prairie dog’s front room.
I looked over at Winston Hatch, who owned our only bat. It was scarred and had nicks everywhere except where we gripped it, which was smooth and polished from all the sweaty hands clutching it. I was the youngest one there, but I could play as well as anybody because I practiced every chance I got.
I was about to throw the first pitch, when Willie Flake yelled, “Hey, fellows, look who’s coming.”
Riding slowly down the street were six cowboys from the Aztec Land and Cattle Company. Hardly anybody made us as nervous as they did—the Hashknife Cowboys. The Aztec Cattle Company claimed thousands and thousands of acres around Snowflake and ran more than fifty thousand cattle on that land. They didn’t have much use for us “Mormons.” The Hashknife Cowboys seemed as happy to argue and fight as to tip their hats and say hello.
“That’s Red Martin on the black horse,” Heber Ballard whispered. “I hear he’s really mean and ornery.”
“Just keep playing,” I cautioned. “They won’t bother us.”
Heber missed my first two pitches, then sent that old ball flying out to center field over Mel Rogers’s head. As the ball rolled to the far end of the churchyard, Red Martin galloped across the street. Holding onto his saddle horn, he scooped up our ball, and charged across the field toward me.
I stood frozen to the ground, my eyes bulging, my heart pounding. A few feet before his horse trampled over me, Red pulled back on his reins. The horse slid to a stop in a cloud of dust. Red laughed raucously, holding my ball over my head. “That’s how you play ball, Mormon boy.”
“Could I have my ball, sir?” I rasped, trying hard to hide my fear.
Just then, his five buddies charged across the street whooping and hollering, and suddenly I wished I was home feeding the chickens and pigs.
Those six cowboys crowded their horses around the pitcher’s mound and grinned down at me. “Do you fellows want to play a little baseball?” Red asked his buddies, still clutching my old ball. “I used to play baseball back in Texas.”
“That was probably before the Rangers ran you out of the territory,” a big burly cowboy howled.
“Hush up your face, Chappy,” Red growled.
“I never saw much sense to baseball,” Chappy grumbled. “It’s too much of a city boy’s game—whacking a little ball around with a stick.”
Red frowned, tossed me the ball and jabbed a finger at him. “Get off your horse, Chappy. This here city boy is going to pitch you the ball.”
“I sure ain’t afraid of no dog-eared ball that some little Mormon weasel will throw my way,” Chappy snapped, glaring down at me.
“I bet us city boys can take you cowboys any time,” I challenged. “We’ll even spot you five points.”
The cowboys looked at Red. He twisted his thumb in his beard, thinking. “I never knew a Mormon who could beat a Hashknife Cowboy at anything. We’ll chew them up and spit them out before the supper bell rings. We bat first.”
My buddies looked a little scared. “Why’d you have to invite them to play?” Mel Rogers grumbled.
The cowboys tied their horses to a juniper tree, but every single one of them kept his guns, chaps, and spurs on. They stomped over to home plate.
“Give me that there stick,” Chappy ordered. He spit once in each hand and gripped the bat. “Let her fly, city boy.”
Red and the other cowboys hooted and hollered. Had Chappy not called me a city boy, I’d have thrown him a nice slow pitch. Instead, I burned that tattered baseball across home plate. Chappy swung with all his might—and missed that ball a mile. In fact, he swung so hard that he twirled around and fell in the dust in a heap.
“Don’t let an itty-bitty bat buck you,” Red cackled while the other cowboys beat their hats against their legs, laughing loudly. Chappy sprang to his feet and glared at me. I burned another one so fast that the ball had already passed him when he swung. I barely lobbed the third one. He swung before the ball was halfway to home plate.
“Give me that there bat,” Red stormed, stomping over to home plate.
Red hit my first pitch. The ball sailed clear over Mel’s head, and Red charged for first base. But he was so wobbly in his high-heeled boots that he wasn’t very fast. And halfway there, his spurs got caught in his chaps and he fell flat on his face. Mel snatched the ball and threw it to first before Red could untangle himself.
A wiry little fellow named Flaco was the next batter. He got two strikes, then connected on the third pitch. He would have had a double had he not been packing his guns, chaps, and spurs. To make matters worse, he stepped into a prairie dog hole and took a tumble worse than Red’s.
The game was never close. We Mormon boys took our turn at bat and hardly missed a pitch. Those cowboys chased all over the field, stepping in prairie dog holes and getting their spurs tangled in the grass, their chaps, or each other. In frustration, some of them started to cuss.
“Nobody’s allowed to cuss when we play,” Willie Flake called out, feeling suddenly brave. “If you cuss, we have to go home.”
Chappy started to protest, but Red growled, “Hush up, Chappy. They have us down by fifteen runs. I ain’t losin’ to any Church-going city boys.”
We ended up beating the Hashknife Cowboys by a good twenty points. The score might have been closer if they hadn’t been determined to play with every bit of their gear.
Two days later, we boys were down at the church playing ball again. Red, Chappy, and their buddies rode up. “We came for a rematch,” Red declared, tying off his horse to a juniper tree. Frowning, he unbuckled his gun belt, hung it in the tree, and pulled off his chaps. “You others do the same,” he ordered.
Grumpily Chappy stripped off his gun belt and chaps. “I ain’t playing without my spurs, though,” he growled. “I’d feel undressed without ’em.”
This time we beat them by only eight runs. They still had a hard time racing around the bases in their boots and spurs, but they were getting better at dodging prairie dog holes. We had to remind them about cussing, because they kept slipping.
“You won’t ever beat us as long as you cuss,” Heber taunted Red with a grin.
The following Saturday afternoon, they were back. “Today we’re going to beat you!” Red declared. Turning to his buddies, he roared, “The first one of you boneheads that lets slip a cuss word is going to walk back to camp in your stocking feet!”
That day the game was a terrible fight. After six innings, the score was 10 to 9, our favor. The cowboys had two outs. Flaco was on second, and Chappy was up to bat. Although sometimes the cowboys had to almost bite off the end of their tongues, they had managed to play the whole game without a single cuss word. I wound up and burned my battered ball over home plate. Chappy reared back and smacked it with all his might, and it exploded in a dozen different directions. Uncle Rupert’s championship baseball was history.
Muttering bitterly the cowboys rode out of town. “I guess that’s the end of baseball with the Hashknife Cowboys,” Mel complained. “I was getting so I kind of liked them. I think they liked us, too.”
Three days later, I trotted out of the barn and almost bumped into three horses. Red, Chappy, and Flaco were frowning down at me. “So you’re hiding out here, slopping the hogs,” Chappy snarled. “You Mormons flat cheated us last time.”
“Cheated?” I protested. “We don’t have to cheat to beat you!”
“You didn’t finish the game,” Flaco snapped. “It’s the same thing.”
“You busted our ball to powder and string.”
Red reached inside his shirt and pulled out a brand-new white leather baseball with bright red lacing. “You have one now,” he growled. “Chappy rode all the way to Holbrook to buy it.” Then all three of those cowboys busted out in big grins as Red tossed me the ball.
Staring down at the smooth ball, I could smell the new leather. “M-Mine?” I stammered.
“It is if you and your city buddies can beat us. But we pick up right where we left off. The rest of our boys are at the churchyard warming up.”
The cowboys beat us that afternoon, but Red still let me keep the baseball—on condition that whenever the Hashknife Cowboys came to town, we’d let them play.

Olga stared at the picture of the temple hanging on her wall. She sighed. If only her family could go to the temple! But there were no temples close by, and it was too hard to leave her country.
Olga had been baptized years earlier. But then the missionaries were forced to leave the country. Members of the Church weren’t allowed to go to church anymore. They couldn’t even talk to others about their faith.
Olga still kept living the gospel. So did her husband, Jirí. They prayed and read the scriptures. They had home evening and taught their children. On Sundays, they had sacrament meeting in their little apartment. They hung up lots of temple pictures.
And when Olga and her family felt lonely, they remembered that there were thousands of Church members around the world.
One day something exciting happened. President Russell M. Nelson, the Sunday School General President, came to their country to visit. Olga smiled as she shook President Nelson’s hand. Then he made her a special promise. “Sister, one day you will come to the temple.”
Olga’s heart felt warm. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Months passed. Then years. Olga looked longingly at the temple pictures hanging on the walls. Going to the temple seemed impossible!
After four years, Olga and Jirí were invited to go to general conference in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. Olga was worried they wouldn’t be able to go. Things in their country were still difficult. It would take a lot of paperwork to travel. But somehow everything worked out. Olga felt butterflies in her stomach as their plane took off for the United States. It was a miracle!
Olga and Jirí went to conference and listened to the prophet. They got to see Temple Square and go to the visitors’ center. But the best part was going inside the temple!
Dressed in white, Olga felt like she was in heaven as she made special promises with God. She even got to be sealed to Jirí. President Nelson’s promise had come true!
Olga and Jirí returned home. As time passed, things in their country got better. Finally they were able to go to church, and missionaries could teach again.
One day the phone rang. It was President Thomas S. Monson. He called Olga to be matron of the Freiberg Germany Temple. Jirí would be the temple president.
Olga smiled as she stood in her long, white dress inside the Freiberg Temple. The temple had once seemed so far away. But now she could treasure it every day! It was a wonderful dream come true.

One night, I couldn’t sleep because I was very scared about things that weren’t there. I asked my dad if he would give me a blessing. He gave me one, and my mom tucked me back in bed. Then she pulled out my Bible and starting reading from Psalms. When she got to Psalm 4:8, it was all about my trouble falling asleep! It said, “I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.” We said it was “my scripture,” and my mom typed it on a piece of paper for me, and I was able to get to sleep. I know that Heavenly Father puts things in the scriptures to help us. I also know that blessings really help you, and I’m glad my dad has the priesthood so that he can give them to me.
Melanie Fry, age 11Layton, Utah

During the monsoon when heavy rains swelled the Ciliwong, a monkey PLOPPED in front of Kancil while she was nibbling on tender young liana leaves. Kancil reared back on her tiny hooves and her large eyes rolled wildly. “Why scare me so, Monyét (monkey)!” she cried.
“Hurry, Kancil,” Monyét urged, “your grandmother is gravely ill. She wishes to see her family one more time. I’ve just risked my life leaping from branch to branch over the Ciliwong to find you. Hurry, before the river bandjirs (floods).”
Kancil dashed toward the Ciliwong, but the fast-rising waters were already touching the upper banks. Her familiar stepping boulders were hidden under the rushing waters. How was she to get across to her seriously ill grandmother?
Just then a large tree trunk, felled by the storms, came floating by and halted in a whirling eddy at the river’s edge.
Kancil lifted one tiny hoof to see if the trunk were solid. Then she noticed nostrils and beady eyes. She stepped back and did some quick thinking. “Hello there, Buaya!” she shouted over the roaring river.
Buaya’s piercing eyes never left Kancil. He had not forgotten his humiliating defeat in front of his girl friend and this time he vowed he’d get even.
“Guess what I just heard!” Kancil shouted even louder.
Buaya only stared, hoping to lure her into the water.
“Monyét claims the Kancil family far outnumbers the Buaya family!”
“Impossible!” cried Buaya, his eyes looking even beadier. “The Buaya family has always outnumbered every family in the jungle.”
“Monyét says there are more of us than you!” Kancil switched her short tail while keeping a wary eye on Buaya.
“‘Tis a lie!” Buaya’s tail slapped the water in disgust.
“Ask Monyét!”
Buaya’s eyes searched the tree branches overhanging the Ciliwong, but Monyét was nowhere to be seen.
“Why don’t you call all your family members together and I’ll call mine. In an hour we’ll meet again and count them and get this over with once and for all!” Kancil shouted.
Kancil had to make her preposterous proposal twice because Buaya never quite trusted her. But Kancil’s eyes looked so big and anxious and sincere that Buaya dove into the river and within half an hour was back with sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews, nieces, grandparents, and other distant relatives.
When Buaya saw only Kancil on the riverbank, his tail slapped the water. “Where’s your family?” he shouted.
“On the other side. I sent Monyét to tell them about our argument, and they’ll be waiting to be counted. In the meantime let’s start counting the Buaya family.” Kancil continued smoothly, “You line up side by side in rows across the river and I’ll count you. When I’m finished, you shall count my family.”
The crocodiles lined up side by side, feet touching, and Kancil jumped from back to back, counting, “1, 2, 3, …” until she reached 207. Then she jumped onto the shore. “Thank you friends!” she shouted, making a curtsy by bending one slender hoof under her tiny body, “for making a bridge. I was in desperate need to get across!”
All the crocodiles’ tails churned the muddy river into a bandjir that overflowed the banks for miles. But Kancil ran ahead of the spreading flood till she was safe with her grandmother.

When I was about six, my father bought the only small store in town. He also kept the farm. We were very poor, and Dad worked hard so that he could pay the bills. While Dad worked on the farm, my sister and I worked almost every day in the store. We had two gas pumps out front, and even as a youngster I learned how to pump gas into cars. I also learned how to write up sales. Sometimes I took care of the store all alone, even though I was quite young.
Mother spent most of her time in bed because she was sick, so I learned early to do chores and be responsible. I did the family wash and ironed my own clothes. From her bed, Mother taught me how to make bread, and that became my weekly chore. Of course, few children like to clean their rooms, and I was normal. I could put that off because it was upstairs and Mother didn’t get up there often! But I did all my other jobs as best I could.
Dad was in the bishopric for seventeen years, practically the whole time I was growing up. My sister and I would walk the three-quarters of a mile to church and sit in the congregation and watch Dad up on the stand. Then we’d walk home and tell Mother about what we’d learned. Mother’s health gradually improved, and from the time I finished high school, she lived a normal, active life.
Seeing Dad up on the stand is a fond memory because I knew that Dad was doing what Heavenly Father wanted him to do. As long as he was trying to do what was right and serving Heavenly Father, everything was OK. Nothing was lacking in our lives. I knew that Dad was doing his best. I knew that Heavenly Father was taking care of Mother. And I knew that all I had to do was do my best, and Heavenly Father would help us.
We all must have faith in Jesus Christ. When we have faith in Jesus Christ and hard things happen in our lives, we can be strong. We can know that Heavenly Father loves us, He is aware of us, and He is there for us.

“We didn’t have a lot of material things, but we were rich in the things that mattered. We didn’t have much land, but we squeezed everything onto it. We had chickens and cows and pigs. Raising pigs taught me how to work, and I learned about the law of the harvest. I also discovered that farmers have to work very hard to make money. After our pigs were sold and the cost of raising them was calculated, the profit on them was very little—sometimes nothing.”
Elder Maxwell won so many award ribbons for his prize pigs that when they were pinned to a blanket, they filled its entire surface. “I was proud of those ribbons,” he said. “And I still have that blanket.
“The part I didn’t like about farm work was that you were never through with it. If you milked cows or fed the animals in the morning, you knew that you had to do it again at night. Our turn to use the irrigation water for our crops would often come in the middle of the night. It was hard work, but it was good discipline.”

Sometime, either before, during, or after the call, the Lord confirms to the man being called that his call is of God. One young stake president reported his confirmation this way:
“When I was interviewed, I was 32 years old and had served about four years as bishop. One of those conducting the interviews asked two poignant questions: (1) How did you gain your testimony? and (2) Would you share with us your testimony of the Savior? I shared my experience as a teenager, shortly after my mother passed away, when I learned for myself the truthfulness of the restored gospel, specifically with regard to the Book of Mormon.
“As I shared my testimony of the Savior, I received a witness that I would be called as the next stake president. I drove home and told my wife about my experience. When I told her that I thought I could be called as the next stake president, she responded, ‘You’re good, but you’re not that good.’ The phone rang two hours later, and I was invited to return with my wife, and the call was extended.”

God expresses His love for us by helping us to progress and reach our potential. Perhaps a simple story will illustrate this point. A young boy could not get a computer to work properly. Soon he became discouraged. His temper grew short, and he threatened to destroy the computer. His wise father decided to help and took his son to a local computer store to get an instruction manual. After all, who would know more about a computer than the person or company that created it? By working within the guidelines given in the instruction book, the boy soon enjoyed the full potential of his computer.

A second significant event occurred a few years later when I was called to serve a mission to Peru. My grandfather, who was not religious but was the man I respected most, did not want me to go. Mine was a Chinese family, and my grandfather was its patriarch. In effect, the family was our religion, and obeying and honoring our elders was our moral code. For weeks my grandfather did not talk to me because of my intention to go on a mission. One week before I left, he offered me a present. He gave me the razor I used during my mission—a razor I still keep to this day. He was a loving man. In order to help him feel better about my mission, I told him I would do what I could to find his relatives living in Peru.
In the first three months of my mission, I met Guillermo “Willy” Hauyon, my grandfather’s nephew. I told Guillermo I had heard there was a Chinese poem in the family from which each generation took a word and incorporated it in their given names. To my surprise, he produced the poem and copied it for me. When I returned to Uruguay after my mission, I had my grandfather transcribe the poem in his own handwriting. Today it is a precious reminder of my grandfather and my heritage. The poem contains 48 Chinese characters and is used to mark generations; it has since proven invaluable in helping determine family relations.

I believe that many bright and special and valiant spirits have been saved for this challenging time. I’m thinking about one bright little boy called Timmy.
Timmy had only two pennies in his pocket when he approached the farmer and pointed to a tomato hanging lusciously from a vine.
“Give you two cents for it,” the boy offered.
“That kind brings a nickel,” the farmer told him.
“This one?” Timmy asked, pointing to a smaller, greener, and less tempting specimen. The farmer nodded agreement. “OK,” said Timmy, and sealed the deal by placing his two pennies in the farmer’s hand. “I’ll pick it up in about a week.”
You young men could learn from Timmy, who invested two cents in a tomato that would be worth five cents in the future. If you are willing to invest now, you young men will have opportunities to accomplish as much as any generation that has ever lived. For too many, however, the seed of faith falls among thorns, and the seed becomes unfruitful.

As a Montana rancher for most of my 70 years, I treasure the parable of the good shepherd, found in John 10:1–18, for I have lived it. The following experiences were particularly powerful in bringing this parable to life.
In biblical times each shepherd vocally summoned his personal flock from the many herds pooled together into a nighttime sheepfold (see vv. 3–4). Likewise, whenever I move my sheep, I simply call, and they follow.
Years ago my spry 96-year-old neighbor, Alice, who also raised sheep, became ill during lambing season, so I offered to do her night lambing. When I entered her lambing shed my first night “on duty,” Alice’s nearly 100 ewes were peacefully bedded down for the night. Yet when I appeared, they immediately sensed a stranger in their midst. Terrified, they instantly sought safety by huddling together in a far corner (see v. 5).
This continued for several nights. No matter how quietly I entered, the sheep panicked and fled. I spoke soothingly to the newborn lambs and ewes as I tended them. By the fifth night they no longer stirred as I worked among them. They had come to recognize my voice and trust me.
Sometime later I told Alice I would feed her dozen or so bum lambs their bottles. (A bum lamb is one whose mother has died or cannot produce enough milk.) Imitating Alice, I called to her lambs, “Come, BaBa! Come, BaBa!” I expected the lambs to hungrily stampede me as they did her. But not a single lamb even glanced up. Alice then stepped out her kitchen door and called. Hearing her voice, they eagerly rushed toward her, clamoring for their milk.
Intrigued, Alice and I conducted an experiment. Standing in my corral, Alice mimicked my call: “Here, lamby, lamby! Here, lamby, lamby!” and received no response whatsoever. But when I called with the exact same words, my sheep quickly surrounded me. Even though the words we used to summon the sheep were identical, our unfamiliar voices went unheeded. The sheep loyally heard only their true shepherd (see v. 4).

I remember when I was washing the car as a 17-year-old young man, my father came out to the driveway and, with justification, began to criticize me for something I had done wrong. I became upset and turned to dad and said something like, “Hey, let up, dad. This is the first time I have ever been a teenager.”
My father, in a beautifully sensitive way, said, “Hugh, this is the first time I have ever been a parent.”
My father, perhaps unknowingly, had taught me a great lesson. As a teenager, I had responsibilities to my parents and was to be patient with them as I expected them to be patient and understanding with me.

The TET offensive was at its height in Vietnam when I received orders to report to Korea. I was to become Chief of Professional Services for the Surgeon of the U. S. Army and for the United Nations Forces. I had been at my new assignment only a month when a male nurse, no older than many of the other young soldiers I deal with daily, arrived at the same command.
My surprise came when he asked to see me alone one day and said, “Colonel, as near as I can see, there are only six ‘straight arrows’ in this entire command (‘straight arrow’ was a term the soldiers used to mean a man who maintained his chastity while in the service). You are the one I admire most. I desire very much to go back home to my wife and family pure, but I’m afraid I don’t have the courage and stamina to do it. Are you going to remain a straight arrow? How are you going to do it?”
I was a bit surprised by the abruptness of his inquiry, but I knew the answer. I had faced the same decision and found my own answer long before I had arrived in the Far East. I told him I would remain a straight arrow throughout my tour in Korea and forever. I said I didn’t know how strong I was because I didn’t allow myself to get in a position where I could be tempted. I also told him I didn’t anesthetize my conscience by drinking.
Then I bore my testimony about Church-related activities during my off-duty hours, noting that they provided a wholesome means for keeping me occupied.
As our conversation progressed, I realized that this young man deeply loved his wife. I told him that if he lost his virtue, it would somehow be conveyed in the next letter he wrote to her and that a great wall would begin to rise between them. He acknowledged that he knew this to be true, and we both realized that we had seen it occur in the lives of our unchaste friends. We then made a contract. He promised to maintain his chastity as long as I maintained mine. We attempted to involve others in a similar agreement, but no one wanted to join us.
About two months later, my friend returned to my office. “Well, Colonel,” he said, “there are now only four straight arrows left in this outfit.” Shortly after that he came again to tell me that the number was down to three. When I had just four months remaining to finish my duty in Korea, he came in one day and said, “It’s down to you and me.” I asked him if he was going to make it. His reply? “Absolutely.”
When the time came for me to return to the United States, my friend faced one more month before he could rejoin his wife. We had often discussed the gospel and our friendship was a sturdy bond. We both wept as I bid him farewell. He assured me that he would do nothing during his last month that would jeopardize in any way the happiness he had worked for until now, not when he was so close to reaching his goal.
Even though that young man was not a member of the Church, he understood some vital lessons of life. He knew that it is necessary to set a goal in order to obtain it. Returning home clean and pure would require struggle, and he was willing to put forth the necessary effort. He also was humble enough to let someone else know about his objective so that he would have a person to turn to who could strengthen him during a moment of weakness.
The Savior would like to have a similar relationship with those he loves. He wants us to set our goals high, founded on his commandments. We can work with him by planning in advance what we hope to achieve and reviewing our goals with him regularly in prayer. Many of the other soldiers in our outfit thought about remaining straight arrows. However, this young fellow and I were the only two who succeeded, and there was a reason why. The others succumbed in a moment of weakness. We accomplished our goal by planning what we would do in advance.

It did not take long for me to realize that my mission was going to be very different than I had expected. I was faced with some unexpected challenges. I tried to stay positive, but my attempts often failed, leaving me feeling discouraged. Thankfully, I received encouragement at zone conferences, which always concluded with a testimony meeting.
I remember one particular zone conference when each missionary took the stand, expressing the joy of serving a mission. As the meeting progressed, I began to feel uncomfortable. I had been a missionary for a full year but had never felt the joy others were describing. I left that conference heavyhearted and confused, questioning why I was even serving a mission. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I feel that same joy? Later that night I expressed my concerns to Heavenly Father and asked Him how I could feel such joy.
Several weeks later, while attending stake conference, I received my answer during a talk by my mission president. Although he spoke to the hundreds in the audience, I felt that he spoke directly to me. He talked about the joy of Christ’s Redemption that each of us can feel every day. He testified that even during difficult and uncertain times, we can feel joy from understanding the significance of the Savior’s Atonement.
I knew those words were for me. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. Perhaps my mission was not going as I had thought it would, but the Savior loved me and had atoned for my sins. The joy I thought I had never experienced was all around me. I just hadn’t opened my heart to feel it.
My challenges continued, but this experience taught me that I could feel joy by choosing to open my heart to the Savior’s redeeming power and by sharing my testimony of that power with others.
Since my mission I have come to understand that situations and surroundings have no lasting impact on our ability to feel joy. Instead, true joy comes from obeying and believing in Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, who made life here—and hereafter—“that [we] might have joy” (2 Nephi 2:25).

“OK, class,” the teacher said. “We’re done with maths.* It’s craft time!”
Ismay smiled as the whole class started chatting. Ismay loved craft time. This was the only chance she had to talk with her friends during class.
“Can you believe Christmas is next month?” Mason asked.
Ismay nodded. “I can’t wait!” Ismay thought about her favorite treat. She could almost taste the pavlova, buried in whipped cream and topped with blueberries and kiwifruit. Mmmmmm …
“What’s your favorite Christmas tradition?” Ava asked.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Mason said. “Barbecue at the beach! Mum and Dad spend weeks getting ready for it. It’s the best food in the world!”
Ismay grinned. She loved doing that too. But it wasn’t her favorite. “Ours is going to see the pohutukawa trees,” Ismay said. “We have a picnic under them.”
Pohutukawa trees bloomed at Christmastime. That’s why people called them New Zealand Christmas trees. Their pretty red blossoms made Ismay think that even the trees were celebrating Jesus!
“Well, my favorite is what we do on Christmas Eve,” Ava said. “We go to a church service and talk about when Jesus was born. Then we each get to open one present.”
Everyone around her got excited about opening presents. They started talking about what they wanted for Christmas.
Just then, Charlotte dropped her scissors and crossed her arms. She looked grumpy all of a sudden. “Jesus isn’t even real! Besides, Christmas is just about giving presents that nobody needs.”
Then Charlotte picked her scissors back up and started cutting quickly. Everyone was quiet for a moment.
“Actually,” Mason finally said, “I really do need a new scooter.”
Ismay’s other friends laughed. They kept talking about what else they wanted for Christmas.
But Ismay didn’t laugh. She felt sad because of what Charlotte said about Jesus. She wanted to say something. But would that only make Charlotte more mad?
Ismay kept working on her craft for another minute.
Then she turned to Charlotte. “You know what you said about Christmas? Well, I don’t feel that way,” she said quietly. “To me, Christmas is about being with family and friends and showing love to people.” She took a deep breath. “And it’s about Jesus. He is real.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Prove it!”
Ismay blinked. Prove it? How? “I … I can’t,” she said. Then she put her hand over her heart. “But I feel it in here. I believe He’s real and that He loves me. He loves you too.”
She felt so good inside when she said that! A warm, happy feeling washed over her. For just a second, she thought she saw Charlotte’s face get brighter. But then her grumpy frown came back.
“Whatever,” Charlotte said. But her voice didn’t sound quite so angry anymore.
Later that night, when Ismay told her family what happened, Mum said, “I’m proud of you. I think you planted an important seed today. Who knows what that will grow into someday?”
A seed! Ismay thought again about the beautiful pohutukawa trees they would soon visit. Those trees started out as seeds too. Then, over time, they grew tall and beautiful.
“Thanks, Mum!” Ismay felt glad she could plant a seed about Jesus. That was the best Christmas gift she could give anyone.

Many years ago, Bishop Marvin O. Ashton (1883–1946), who served as a counselor in the Presiding Bishopric, gave an illustration I’d like to share with you. Picture with me, if you will, a farmer driving a large open-bed truck filled with sugar beets en route to the sugar refinery. As the farmer drives along a bumpy dirt road, some of the sugar beets bounce from the truck and are strewn along the roadside. When he realizes he has lost some of the beets, he instructs his helpers, “There’s just as much sugar in those which have slipped off. Let’s go back and get them!”
In my application of this illustration, the sugar beets represent the members of this Church for whom we who are called as leaders have responsibility; and those that have fallen out of the truck represent men and women, youth and children who, for whatever reason, have fallen from the path of activity. Paraphrasing the farmer’s comments concerning the sugar beets, I say of these souls, precious to our Father and our Master: “There’s just as much value in those who have slipped off. Let’s go back and get them!”
Right now, today, some of them are caught in the current of popular opinion. Others are torn by the tide of turbulent times. Yet others are drawn down and drowned in the whirlpool of sin.
This need not be. We have the doctrines of truth. We have the programs. We have the people. We have the power. Our mission is more than meetings. Our service is to save souls.
The Lord emphasized the worth of each man or woman, youth or child when He declared:
“The worth of souls is great in the sight of God. …
“And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great will be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!
“And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me!” (D&C 18:10, 15–16).
Remember that you are entitled to our Father’s blessings in this work. He did not call you to your privileged post to walk alone, without guidance, trusting to luck. On the contrary, He knows your skill, He realizes your devotion, and He will convert your supposed inadequacies to recognized strengths. He has promised: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (D&C 84:88).
Primary leaders, do you know the children you are serving? Young Women leaders, do you know your young women? Aaronic Priesthood leaders, do you know the young men? Relief Society and Melchizedek Priesthood leaders, do you know the women and men over whom you have been called to preside? Do you understand their problems and their perplexities, their yearnings, ambitions, and hopes? Do you know how far they have traveled, the troubles they have experienced, the burdens they have carried, the sorrows they have borne?
I encourage you to reach out to those you serve and to love them. When you really love those you serve, they will not find themselves in that dreaded “Never, Never Land”—never the object of concern, never the recipient of needed aid. It may not be your privilege to open gates of cities or doors of palaces, but true happiness and lasting joy will come to you and to each one you serve as you take a hand and reach a heart.
Should you become discouraged in your efforts, remember that sometimes the Lord’s timetable does not coincide with ours. When I was a bishop many years ago, one of the leaders of the young women, Jessie Cox, came to me and said, “Bishop, I am a failure!” When I asked why she felt this way, she said, “I haven’t been able to get any of my Mutual girls married in the temple, as a good teacher would have. I’ve tried my very best, but my best apparently wasn’t good enough.”
I tried to console Jessie by telling her that I, as her bishop, knew that she had done all she could. And as I followed those girls through the years, I found that each one was eventually sealed in the temple. If the lesson is engraved on the heart, it is not lost.
I have learned as I have watched faithful servants like Jessie Cox that each leader can be a true shepherd, serving under the direction of our great and Good Shepherd, privileged to lead and cherish and care for those who know and love His voice (see John 10:2–4).
May I share an additional experience I had as a bishop. I noted one Sunday morning that Richard, one of our priests who seldom attended, was again missing from priesthood meeting. I left the quorum in the care of the adviser and visited Richard’s home. His mother said he was working at a local garage servicing automobiles. I drove to the garage in search of Richard and looked everywhere but could not find him. Suddenly, I had the inspiration to gaze down into the old-fashioned grease pit situated at the side of the building. From the darkness I could see two shining eyes. I heard Richard say, “You found me, Bishop! I’ll come up.” As Richard and I visited, I told him how much we missed him and needed him. I elicited a commitment from him to attend his meetings.
His activity improved dramatically. He and his family eventually moved away, but two years later I received an invitation to speak in Richard’s ward before he left on a mission. In his remarks that day, Richard said that the turning point in his life was when his bishop found him hiding in a grease pit and helped him to return to activity.
My dear brothers and sisters, ours is the responsibility, even the solemn duty, to reach out to all of those whose lives we have been called to touch. Our duty is to guide them to the celestial kingdom of God. May we ever remember that the mantle of leadership is not the cloak of comfort but rather the robe of responsibility. May we reach out to rescue those who need our help and our love.
As we succeed, as we bring a woman or man, a girl or boy back into activity, we will be answering a wife’s or sister’s or mother’s fervent prayer, helping fulfill a husband’s or brother’s or father’s greatest desire. We will be honoring a loving Father’s direction and following an obedient Son’s example (see John 12:26; D&C 59:5). And our names will forever be honored by those whom we reach.
With all my heart I pray that our Heavenly Father will ever guide us as we strive to serve and to save His children.