Gospel Story Finder

Evan’s inspiration to help orphans living thousands of miles away in China began with his visit to that country in December of 1996. Evan accompanied his parents, Dave and Mary Pressley, when they adopted his little sister, Marianne Kai Yue. “After I got home, I just wanted to help some babies who are not as fortunate as my little sister, who has found a family.” Marianne and Evan have two older brothers, Ben, 19, and Dan, 18.
As a result of traditional prejudice against females, hundreds of girls are abandoned daily in China. Evan’s little sister was one of them. She had been left on a doorstep in a small village when she was only one day old. On a note attached to her clothing was the handwritten date and time of her birth: “April 15, 1996, 9:23 A.M.” Eight months later, when the Pressleys took her home, she weighed only 10 pounds. Poor nutrition is a fact of life for Chinese orphans. Their caregivers are very loving but lack the funds to feed the babies well.
In the spring of 1997, Evan sent a handwritten letter to Lily Nie and Joshua Zhong, directors of the agency the Pressleys went through to adopt Marianne, informing them of his project. His goal was to raise $2,175. He exceeded that goal and came up with a total of $2,418 (and 45 cents). He made a list of specific things he wanted done with that money: repair a child’s cleft palate and lip; buy a heavy-duty washer and dryer; provide enough formula for eight babies for one month; buy a crib and some toys; set up a small children’s health clinic. All this for $2,418! “Money goes a long way in China,” Evan explains.
In August of 1997, Evan hand-delivered the money to Lily and Joshua. And they more than honored his request. Joshua, who affectionately calls this “the Evan Project,” traveled to China last fall with the money and carefully carried out Evan’s itemized list. He even chose the child that would have the cleft palate surgery. The funds went to the Fusan Children’s Welfare House in Liaoning Province in northern China. “There are more than 150 children there,” Evan says, “and 95 percent of them are handicapped. They’ll never be adopted.”
Was Evan’s project easy? “A lot of people turned me down. I almost quit when I knocked on one man’s door and he told me that he wouldn’t contribute. He even admitted that he was hard-hearted!” Very discouraged at this point, he says, “I fasted for 24 hours and prayed. I told Heavenly Father that I really needed to do this, for the babies in China, and would he please help me find people who wanted to give.” Evan’s prayers were answered.
Several articles were published in the newspapers about the Evan Project. Later, Joshua Zhong sent a letter to one newspaper thanking the people of Craig, Colorado, for their support. He also sent a letter to Evan expressing his feelings. “I want to thank and salute you for an incredibly moving and successful fund-raising effort. I am deeply touched by your love for the Chinese children. … You are an amazing kid with a very BIG heart!”
What does this “amazing kid” have in mind for the future? You guessed it. He’s not through helping orphans in China. He’s given it a lot of thought, and he’s getting close to earning his Eagle Scout Award. For his project he’s going to do something like gathering baby formula—lots of it—to send to Chinese orphanages. After all, when you have a BIG heart, it can strrreettch a whole lot to make room for one more Chinese baby … or 50 … or 150.

The noise was so loud it woke Christina Foster up—a roaring like a midnight train rumbling through the town. She cowered in her sleeping bag, afraid that the window near her would shatter from the violent vibration.
Christina, 16, of the Monck’s Corner Ward, Charleston South Carolina Stake, was living through the nightmare of Hurricane Hugo. Her family was camping out in the stake center, along with other ward members warned by civil authorities to evacuate their homes.
After a few minutes, Christina got up and joined her parents and sisters as they tried to see what was happening outside. It was the darkest, blackest night she could remember.
“All we could hear were things moving around, and the snap, snap, snap of trees falling,” said Christina. “I was more scared than I should have been. But everyone at the church was calm, so I felt safe.”

On March 10, 1978, he was called to be a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy. Two days after that interview he had a very special experience. “When my wife and I went down to share my call with my father and mother, it was one of the special evenings of my life. I don’t think I could have given my dad any other gift that would have made him more proud and happy. All my life I’ve wanted to make my parents proud of me because they made me proud to bear their name. Some of the most satisfying experiences that I’ve had have been when I’ve been able to do that very thing.

“I’m so grateful to my parents. The pattern of life they have established and practiced has been a powerful example to me in everything that I’ve done. My dad was a bishop. Some of my earliest memories are of running up to sit beside him on the stand in the 34th Ward in Salt Lake City. From that time on, I don’t remember when my dad didn’t have a responsibility in the Church. His pattern of life was that family and service in the Church came first and everything else was secondary. He taught us the payment of tithes and offerings, giving of our time and our talents and our means. One thing that thrilled me was when he was released from the stake presidency and made an adviser to the Aaronic Priesthood. He took that new calling and ran with it, just as he had when called to be a counselor in the stake presidency. That taught me a great lesson. My mother fully supports him in everything. She has had many responsibilities herself, including several years on the General Board of the Relief Society. My father is now 88, and my mother is 84. They recently returned from a trip to China. They have loved life all their lives.”

Elder Backman remembers with joy an experience he had while president of the Northwestern States Mission. “I invited my dad and mother to come up to visit us, and we took them to a district conference in the Bend District of Oregon. I asked my parents to sit beside us on the stand during the general session on Sunday morning. I asked dad to stand up and bear his testimony. He stood up there at the pulpit with tears in his eyes and said, ‘I know now to a greater degree how our Father in Heaven must have felt when he said, ‘This is my Beloved Son in whom I am well pleased.’ I just sat there and cried like a baby.”

In 1979 Elder Backman was called as general president of the Young Men. And so the unbroken chain of sharing is forged. He received strength from his goodly parents, made it his own through love and obedience, and now shares it with the youth of the Church.

What is his message for them? “Based on my personal experience, it is that they must recognize that they are children of God with potential to become as he is. If that is true, there’s no excuse for failure. And there is the seed within us to succeed at anything we want to do in life. As I look at young people today, I think, ‘If they just had self-esteem, the recognition of their own self-worth.’ That’s where it’s got to start. It’s difficult to serve valiantly until you get some faith in yourself and your own identity. I think often service and self-esteem come together. The sooner we learn that happiness comes through service, the sooner we’re going to come to a realization of our own potential and our own worth. That’s why my mission was so important in my life. I was able to forget myself and my troubles and my own worries and concentrate on serving others. I came to a realization that I am a son of God, that I have potential to perform great service, and that my happiness is dependent on the kind of service I render.

“When I was called by President Harold B. Lee to be president of the Aaronic Priesthood MIA, I had a most interesting conversation with him. He talked about the young people of the Church and about the challenges they face in growing up in this world in which we live. He expressed his deep concern about the fact that some of them could go through Primary, Sunday School, Mutual, priesthood quorums, and seminary and come out the other end without testimonies.

“He said, ‘Do you know why I think it is? Because our young people have grown up spectators.’ Then he gave me a challenge that I’ve never forgotten and that I’d like to pass on to the youth of the Church. He said, ‘Bob, I challenge you to provide a program that will prepare this generation to meet the Savior when he comes.’

“If our young people could just realize how important they are in God’s eyes, coming to earth when they have and being the royal generation they are! I envy them the years they’ve got ahead of them because this Church is bound to grow and develop, and they are going to be its leaders. They are going to have some of the most exciting, fulfilling experiences that man or woman has ever had if they’ll just be where the Lord can find them.”

Elder Backman lives up to his own words, serving the Lord and his fellowmen with joy and enthusiasm. There is a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye as he travels around the Church or works in his office, ministering in the affairs of the kingdom. As chairman of the General Church Scouting Committee, he exemplifies the Scout motto, Oath, and Law as he meets with boys and leaders of boys. He has a special empathy for young men because he has not only been where they are, but he can actually remember being there. Like them, he has had challenges and sorrows and troubles, but he has overcome them by always being available to the source of all help. He has always been, and always intends to be, where the Lord can find him.

Kip pulled out of his book of remembrance a sheet of photocopy paper containing the imprints of two hands, one large and the other small. “This is one of my favorite pictures,” he said. “I was about ten when my dad and I were playing around with a copy machine and took these pictures of our hands.” Looking again at the difference in the sizes of the handprints, he added, “Now I’m taller than my dad.”

They met in the kitchen for the priests quorum lesson. John sat in the back row and idly played with a set of keys while his adviser gave the lesson. He never volunteered any answers; it was a practice he had acquired early in school.
Brother Stewart came into the kitchen and interrupted the lesson. He had a large bald spot that made his head look like an eagle’s nest. John never did know what calling Brother Stewart had, but he always carried a clipboard.
“We need some help with the ward welfare project next Saturday,” Brother Stewart announced.
John hunched over in his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Seconds of silence passed. Finally one of the priests cleared his throat: “I can’t next Saturday. That’s when we’re going to practice for the roadshow.”
“That’s right!” another remembered happily. “I can’t either.”
Brother Stewart waited, his pen ready to pounce on a name.
“John,” his adviser asked, “are you in the roadshow?”
“Are you kidding?” John scoffed, “No way.”
“Well, could you work for a couple of hours next Saturday?”
“I don’t know anything about the welfare project,” John complained.
“No trouble,” Brother Stewart replied, already writing down the name, “we’ll show you what needs to be done. Anybody else?”
Before he left, one other priest had agreed to work.
On Friday night John was involved in his usual TV marathon when the phone rang. His father answered it, took the message, and relayed it to John. “It was Brother Stewart. He just wanted to remind you about working on the welfare project tomorrow.”
Since his father now knew about the assignment, John realized that he wouldn’t be able to conveniently forget it.
“I guess that means you’ll need the car,” his father said.
“Yeah,” John brightened, “I guess I will.”
John stopped by Saturday morning for the other priest who had volunteered to work. On their way out, they stopped at a drive-in and had a milk shake.
They arrived a half hour late.
The welfare project was honey production, and the ward had 50 hives. The efforts on that February day involved building new hives for the coming season. John was given the job of collecting nine newly assembled wax frames from the assembly line of ten people making them. He put the new frames into a newly constructed box that people called a “super.” Then he carried the new super to a storage area.
On the second that the two hours he’d been assigned to work had elapsed, John was heading for the door. Before he made it out of the building, he was intercepted by Brother Stewart.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” John answered. “I’ve worked my two hours.”
“But you’re not smiling.”
“So?”
“When I see someone leave here who isn’t smiling, I get concerned.”
“Oh wow,” John cynically thought to himself.
“Aren’t you happy that you worked here today?”
“Sure, and I’m also happy to be going home.”
Brother Stewart thrust his arm around John’s shoulder. “You can’t go home yet.”
John felt himself being escorted back to the assembly line.
“Why not?”
“You haven’t worked here long enough to catch the vision of Church welfare projects. You need to work here until you do.”
John stopped and squared off, facing Brother Stewart.
“You can’t make me stay.”
“I know, but please stay. Working on welfare projects is supposed to bring you blessings. It’s supposed to make you feel good. Stay here just a little while longer. I’ll even give you a different job.”
John was given a hammer and a place in the assembly line.
“Work with Brother Mattson. Ask him about bees.”
Brother Mattson was at least 70 years old. He had worked with bees all his life and helped the ward start its honey project two years ago.
“If you’re going to work here, you’d better learn how to build the frames right. Next summer, each of these frames will hold 20 pounds of honey. They’ve got to be built right so they won’t fall apart.”
Brother Mattson showed him each step in assembling the plastic laminated sheet and wooden frame together.
The first frame that John built needed some work by Brother Mattson before it was good enough. On the second frame, John had to pull out one of his nails and redrive it.
Finally, after 15 minutes, John showed Brother Mattson a frame that was built exactly the way he had been told. Brother Mattson examined it carefully, and then smiled and said, “I couldn’t do better myself. Now all you need to do is work on speed.”
At what seemed a short time later, his friend from the priests quorum came over to John.
“Let’s go. I finally got away from Brother Stewart. Let’s get out of here before he puts us back to work.”
“I think I’ll stay,” John said.
“Are you crazy? We’ve already been here three hours.”
“Can you get a ride with someone else? I’m staying.”
Sunday morning during their quorum lesson, Brother Stewart came again with his clipboard.
“We need to build some more frames next Saturday. We didn’t finish yesterday.”
Two of the quorum members began to tie their shoes.
“I’ll go,” John said.
“You went last week,” his adviser said.
“That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“We need two crews, one to work in the morning and one to work in the afternoon. When do you want to work?”
“I don’t mind working all day,” he said. The priest next to John looked at him strangely.
On Monday morning John faced the ordeal of school and, much worse, American History and Mr. Lattimer, who had a theory that the more uncomfortable a student was in class the more he learned.
John was gazing out the window, coveting the cars in the parking lot, when Mr. Lattimer confronted him.
“You seem bored by our discussion.”
“No,” John answered. He had learned long ago that you never tell a teacher that you’re bored—even when you are.
“Maybe it’s because you already know about the Civil War. Let’s see, can you tell me when the Civil War began?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me when it ended?”
“No.”
“Can you explain the extent of foreign intervention in the war?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Mr. Lattimer derided. He had a habit of repeating what a student said and making it sound ridiculous. “Did you read the assigned material?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. There must be a better reason than that.”
“I don’t like to read,” John confessed.
“You don’t like to read. If you don’t like to read, then why don’t you pay attention in class? Do you think that might help?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how important an education is today? What kind of a job do you think you can get if you don’t read?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know? Let me tell you. I might as well give you a broom and let you practice using it because that’s all you’ll do in life unless you show a little interest in school. Do you read anything?”
“No.”
“I bet you watch TV though, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
Mr. Lattimer then went on about how TV was wrecking the education system. John sat quietly in his desk, outwardly quiet, but inside furious and embarrassed.
The winter months passed slowly. John’s grades that year were even lower than they had ever been before, which prompted several discussions between him and his father.
“How do you expect to go to college on these grades?”
“I don’t. I’m never going to school again after I graduate.”
“What will you do to make money?”
“I’ll work.”
“You need an education to get anywhere today,” his father said.
“Okay,” John exploded, “I won’t get anywhere!”
The next time the ward built new frames was in May. Again John volunteered to work. By then he was almost as good as Brother Mattson in assembling frames.
While he was working, Brother Stewart escorted a girl over to the assembly line. “John, this is Cathy Barker. Her parents just moved here a few weeks ago. Cathy’s just come back from BYU, and she’s here for the summer. Will you show her how to build frames?”
Cathy stood next to John and observed as he put a frame together. He found it hard to concentrate on his work. Her pale blonde hair flowed gently around her face. Once as she leaned over to see where he placed a nail, he could feel her hair brushing against his arm.
John knew guys at school who had clever sayings that could start up a conversation with a girl, but John didn’t remember what they were. The more good-looking a girl was, the less he could say to her. With Cathy he couldn’t say anything at all.
“How old are you?” Cathy asked.
“Seventeen.”
“I’m 19,” she said.
“Oh.”
Several minutes passed as they both worked silently.
“You must be the strong silent type,” she said.
“Why?”
“You don’t talk much.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘Tell me about yourself.’”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
Cathy talked about where her parents had lived before they’d moved, and about BYU and her roommates, and how she didn’t know anybody in the ward.
“How about yourself?” Cathy asked. “Tell me about you.”
“There’s not much to tell. I’ll be a junior in high school next year. That’s about it.”
“That’s not much.”
“No.”
At noon they walked outside and ate their sack lunches together.
“John, would you consider … no, forget it.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m going to go crazy this summer unless I get out of the house. Could we go roller skating or fishing or something this summer?”
“Me take you out?” John asked. “There must be plenty of guys who want to take you out.”
“Well, there’s a 26-year-old returned missionary I met last Sunday in church. But I’m a little wary of him. He keeps talking about how much he wants to get married and about the rising price of houses. He says if he waits any longer, he won’t be able to afford a house. I think he’d marry me just to avoid spiraling inflation. Anyway, he makes me nervous.”
“I can take you fishing, but I still don’t see why you’d go with me.”
“I’m waiting for a missionary who gets back in 18 months, and I don’t want a romance, but I could use a friend. Okay?”
“Okay,” John agreed. Before John left that day, Brother Mattson asked him if he’d go out with him next Saturday to work the hives. “I’ve got to install some new queen bees. The ward has a bee suit you can wear. How about it?”
“Okay,” John said.
A week later Brother Mattson picked John up about 10:00 in the morning. They rode in his old battered pickup.
“Sweet clover looks real good this year, don’t it?” Brother Mattson remarked as they bounced along a gravel road toward the ward’s beehives.
John looked out the window. It was the first time he’d ever noticed the tiny yellow flowers on what he thought were just weeds along the side of the road.
After they arrived at the site, they put on their bee suits over their clothes. By the time John got on the white coveralls, the veil, the long gloves, and put elastic bands around the cuffs of his suit to keep bees from crawling up his leg, he felt like an astronaut about to set foot on the moon.
Brother Mattson opened up a hive and examined each frame to find the old queen. When he found her, he killed her and set a small cage with the new queen carefully into the super.
“See that plug there,” Brother Mattson said, pointing to a plugged hole in the cage. “It’s made of candy. The worker bees will go to work clearing the plug, and by the time they get it open and get the new queen free, they’ll be accustomed to her and they’ll accept her.”
As they worked, Brother Mattson pointed out the drone bees, the larva cells, and explained about beekeeping. Even though there was a cloud of bees around them, John felt his fear leaving and being replaced by deep respect.
After they got back to town, Brother Mattson loaned him two books about beekeeping. John read the books in two weeks.
From that time on, he went out with Brother Mattson every chance he got.
A few weeks later in priesthood meeting opening exercises, Brother Stewart announced that a local beekeeper wanted to sell his 50 hives. The ward was going to buy 20 of them, but any members who wanted to buy any of the other hives should contact him.
As they were leaving to go home to get the family for Sunday School, John told his father, “I want to buy ten hives.”
“What for?”
“I can provide the family with honey for food storage and sell the rest.”
“I don’t know,” his father said. “The last project you started and didn’t finish was selling Christmas cards. That cost me $20.”
“That was four years ago. Besides, this is different.”
“Let me think about it. Okay?”
On Monday night after family home evening, the family talked about John’s plan. Finally they decided that John would borrow $500 from the bank on his father’s signature, and he’d also throw in $200 of his own savings to buy 15 hives.
By Wednesday, John found a place to put his hives. It was in the middle of an alfalfa field in a small valley whose hills were covered with sweet clover.
He took Cathy fishing a couple of times a month. She was easy to please, she could bait her own hook, and she seemed happy just to be with him without feeling pressure about getting serious. But John felt himself falling in love, although he didn’t tell her because he knew it would upset her.
Once that summer he took her out to see his bees. As he helped her get her bee suit and veil and gloves on, she half-seriously threatened, “If I get stung, you’re in real trouble.”
“Don’t worry. Bees don’t hurt anybody unless they’re being hurt.”
He took off the top hive cover, and pulled out a frame of honey, covered with bees. He gently brushed them off with a small brush. A cloud of bees surrounded them. He showed her the pattern of eggs laid by the queen, and, after some searching of some frames from another super, he showed her the queen.
“You love it here, don’t you?” she asked him thoughtfully.
He nodded his head. “I really do.”
After they were through, they moved several hundred feet away from the hives, took off their veils, and sat down and ate lunch. John looked up from his sandwich, and it seemed that his mind etched the scene forever into his memory. Cathy, her hair the color of ripe wheat, talked happily about the Church; her voice was like a pleasant song. The field of alfalfa was a sea of purple blossoms. Further up on the hill, the yellow sweet clover blanketed the ground. John watched a steady stream of his bees returning to the hives, each one carrying a small bead of pollen. Small puffs of clouds hung lazily in the sun-drenched sky.
It was a moment that lasted forever.
“Are you listening to what I’m saying?” Cathy asked.
“Cathy, you’re so beautiful.”
“Oh sure,” she said with embarrassment, “in a pair of coveralls.”
“Really you are.” He thought about telling her that the sun made her hair look like a tan flame, and that he loved her, and that the moment seemed perfect, as if all nature had contrived to give him one moment when all his senses would come alive and record forever in his mind one instant of his life, and that no matter how old he got he’d never forget this one moment.
“It’s real nice out here, isn’t it?” was all he said.
The next Sunday the bishop called him to be an assistant beekeeper for the ward welfare project. John learned as quickly as he could. When Brother Mattson applied powdered antibiotic mixed with powdered sugar to the church bees, John helped him and then hurried to his bees and did the same thing. When Brother Mattson split some hives, John split some of his hives.
By the end of the summer, he had extracted 1,800 pounds of honey from his hives, sold it for $900, paid off his loan, and put $100 dollars in the bank.
From that time on, John knew what he’d do with his life. He’d be a beekeeper.
A day before Cathy was supposed to go back to BYU, he took her out fishing. As they sat in a small rubber raft in the middle of a lake, he finally got the courage to say it.
“Cathy, I think I love you.”
“Do you? I think a lot of you too.”
“If I were older, and if I’d already been on my mission, I’d ask you to marry me.”
She touched his cheek. “I guess our timing’s not too good, huh?”
“I guess not,” John said.
“But you’ll always be one of my best friends,” Cathy told him.
The next day Cathy left for the Y.
The next summer, John set aside $2,000 for his mission from money he’d earned from his hives.
That November John worked with Brother Mattson to winterize each hive. They reduced the entrance holes and wrapped tar paper around each hive to cut down the flow of cold air. The hives were then two supers high, giving the bees just enough honey to survive the winter.
In January of that winter, Brother Mattson died. John learned about it from his father when he got home from school one day.
“It was a heart attack. It came in the night when he was asleep. Maybe he never even woke up.”
John didn’t cry at the funeral or out at the burial site. The graveside service took place in a snowstorm as the prairie winds whipped across the cemetery, slowly drifting over the flowers set there by friends.
The next day John drove out to the ward’s hives. Walking ankle deep in fresh snow, he trudged across the barren fields to the hives. It was too cold to open up the hives, and he didn’t really have a purpose to be there, but he just stood for a long time, his hands in his pockets, looking at the black, tar-paper-covered hives standing alone in the middle of the cold white field. It’s like the bees are in mourning, he thought, seeing the blackness covering each hive. And then the memories of Brother Mattson flooded into his mind, and he heard himself sobbing loudly, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself for a long time.
Two weeks later John was called in to talk with the bishop. “John, you’re the only one in the ward now who knows the details of beekeeping. We’d like you to take Brother Mattson’s place and be the ward’s beekeeper. You’ll work with the priesthood quorums when you need help. Will you do it?”
“Nobody can ever take Brother Mattson’s place,” John said.
“I know, but he’d want us to continue on, wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” John agreed.
“He told me once how proud of you he was, and how much you’d learned. He said that you knew as much as he did. After we cleaned out his apartment, we found a couple of books about beekeeping. I think he’d want you to have them.”
They were the same books Brother Mattson had loaned John after the first time they’d gone out together to work the bees. John handled the worn books with care.
“Bishop, I’ll be glad to accept the calling.”
“I knew we could count on you.”
“There’s just one thing. I’ll need to train someone who can look after the bees while I’m on my mission.”
“Who would you like?”
“My dad.”
“Okay, we’ll call him to be your assistant.”
That winter John spent an hour a week with his father, training him. It brought them close together again.
In April John received a wedding announcement from Cathy, who was getting married to her returned missionary. John attended the reception in the ward cultural hall. She and her husband looked radiant.
“I gave you some honey for your honeymoon,” he told Cathy in the reception line.
“How sweet,” she countered, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
“Have you met my cousin yet?” she asked. “She’s going to be staying with my parents this summer. I’ve told her all about you, and she wants to learn about beekeeping.”
He looked four places down the reception line where a girl with long blonde hair smiled back.
“She’ll be 19 when you return from your mission,” Cathy said with a scheming smile.
The last semester of his senior year, John took an elective course from Mr. Lattimer. It was a class in which each student could specialize in some aspect of American history. John chose to write about beekeeping in America.
“You’re the last person in the world I would have thought would take another course from me,” Mr. Lattimer remarked one afternoon.
“People change,” John said.
“You have. You seem like a different person. You seem to know what you want from life.”
“I do,” John answered, proceeding to outline his plans for a mission, marriage in the temple, and becoming a professional beekeeper.
“What’s made the difference to cause you to change?”
John thought back over the past two years and finally answered, “I guess it all came because I agreed to work on a Church welfare project.”

My mum’s relationship with me skyrocketed when I said, “I want to spend more time with you, but I don’t know what to do or when to do it.” Playing board games happens to be our favorite pastime. So we set aside a time together to play, laugh, and make memories. When you are open with your parents, eventually they become your best companions. You will be able to talk to them about anything, and you will be sure of an honest answer. That is the sign of a mature relationship.
Ephraim S., age 15, New South Wales, Australia

William Clayton was the official camp historian. To help direct those who would follow, he and others kept careful records of the camp’s travel. In order to calculate the distance traveled each day, he tied a piece of red flannel to a wagon’s wheel spoke and walked beside the wagon, counting the times the wheel turned. This was a tiresome task, and he proposed the idea for a mile counter. Orson Pratt designed the machine, and Appleton Harmon constructed it. This device, called an odometer, tallied ten miles, then started over. This made William’s job much easier.

The corners were curled from frequent use. The pages were wrinkled and torn in places. The text was thoroughly marked, and notes were added to the margins. The blue cover was nearly separated from the other 531 pages, and the gold lettering was beginning to lose its shimmer.
I couldn’t believe it. My Book of Mormon looked nothing like that. I had had mine since I was 9, and now that I was 18, my book still looked brand-new. The cover, as well as the pages, were crisp and clean. The binding had barely been opened, and the few markings found in my scriptures had little significance to me.
I had never seen a Book of Mormon so worn from use. My friend had studied the word in a way I simply couldn’t comprehend. I had read the book, and I had prayed about it. I truly felt it to be the word of God. Yet when I saw her Book of Mormon and the light in her eyes, I knew there was something more to do with the words I had always taken for granted.
I began to pray that I would have the Spirit of the Holy Ghost with me as I read the Book of Mormon, and I began to read several times each day. I would ponder the things I had read, and I studied any verses I didn’t understand.
As I was searching, I found a scripture that I had seen many times but that had never before meant so much. “Wherefore, I said unto you, feast upon the words of Christ; for behold, the words of Christ will tell you all things what ye should do” (2 Ne. 32:3). I had always been reading the word, but I had never before feasted on it. Somewhere in my efforts I had stopped merely glancing at the writings and began to see the message. I looked forward to the time I spent with the Book of Mormon. It no longer became a chore but a blessing.
My Book of Mormon is still not as worn as my friend’s. The pages are still not as marked, and the cover is not as tattered from repeated use. But someday it will be. And it is amazing. Christ truly does fill those who will feast.

President Quashigah is grateful for the very practical truths that he continues to learn daily as a member of the Savior’s true Church. He remembers the very first time he attended Sunday meetings in the Aflao Branch. The lesson topic for the second hour was forgiveness. A principle that he was struggling with. After the lesson, he understood what he needed to change in his life to be able to forgive unconditionally. He testifies that the principles and doctrines of the Church continue to help him in all aspects of his life.

Once while riding in a plane, I engaged in conversation with a young man who was seated beside me. We moved from one subject to another and then came to the matter of religion. He said that he had read considerably about the Latter-day Saints, that he had found much to admire in their practices, but that he had a definite prejudice concerning the story of the origin of the Church and particularly Joseph Smith. He was an active member of another organization, and when I asked where he had acquired his information, he indicated that it had come from publications of his church. I asked what company he worked for. He proudly replied that he was a sales representative for an international computer company. I then asked whether he would think it fair for his customers to learn of the qualities of its products from a representative of its leading competitor. He replied with a smile, “I think I get the point of what you’re trying to say.”
I took from my case a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and read to him the words of the Lord expressed through Joseph Smith, words which are the source of those practices my friend had come to admire in us while disdaining the man through whom they had come. Before we parted, he agreed to read the literature I would send to him. I promised him that if he would do so prayerfully he would know the truth not only of these doctrines and practices which had interested him, but also of the man through whom they were introduced. I then gave him my testimony of my conviction concerning the prophetic calling of Joseph Smith. That baby boy born 200 years ago this month in humble circumstances in rural Vermont was foreordained to become a great leader in the fulfilling of our Father’s plan for His children on earth.

I have always loved the story of the son of King Louis XVI of France because he had an unshakable knowledge of his identity. As a young man, he was kidnapped by evil men who had dethroned his father, the king. These men knew that if they could destroy him morally, he would not be heir to the throne. For six months they subjected him to every vile thing life had to offer, and yet he never yielded under pressure. This puzzled his captors, and after doing everything they could think of, they asked him why he had such great moral strength. His reply was simple. He said, “I cannot do what you ask, for I was born to be a king.”

Ward members made very effort to make Sage’s return from Galveston as smooth as possible. During a Sharing Time just before she returned, the Primary presidency held an activity to show the children that although people may be hurt or maimed, they are Heavenly Father’s children and need our help.
Nancy Eldridge, then Primary president, had a video tape made of Sage speaking to the children. On the tape Sage talked about her experience and hopes for the future. She closed by assuring her friends that she was still “the same old Sage.”
Nancy says that each of the children had to adjust to Sage in his or her own way. Her own son had a particularly difficult time. “He loved Sage, but he was afraid, and it bothered him. So he wrote her letters of love and friendship until he was able to work through his feelings.”

One elder who was transferred from another mission wanted to go home. He knew his parents and bishop wanted him to stay and complete his mission. In one of the many interviews we had, he said that five previous elders in his ward had abandoned their missions and had returned home early. I thought what a great disservice the first elder did to the other young men who followed his poor example. I made a solemn vow that this elder would not go home until his mission was completed successfully. Every week for thirteen to fifteen weeks he would write in his letter to the president all the reasons he should be released from his mission. Each week I wrote a letter of response.
After all these weeks I received a letter which appeared the same as the others—until I got to the P.S. He said, “President, you are winning and you know it.” I sat in my office, and tears filled my eyes.
Vince Lombardi said, “The harder you fight for something, the harder it is to surrender.” This elder completed his mission as a great presiding zone leader. He has a great warmth and a great talent to teach; he loves and cares for people; and he is extremely spiritual. He returned home with an honorable release from a very successful mission, married a beautiful girl in the temple, and now they live near the temple where they visit regularly. This elder set a great example for all prospective missionaries from his ward.

Forty-four years ago I heard William J. Critchlow Jr., then president of the South Ogden Stake, speak to the brethren in the general priesthood session of conference, and retell a story concerning trust, honor, and duty. May I share the story with you. Its simple lesson applies to us today, as it did then.
“Rupert stood by the side of the road watching an unusual number of people hurry past. At length he recognized a friend. ‘Where are all of you going in such a hurry?’ he asked.
“The friend paused. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said.
“‘I’ve heard nothing,’ Rupert answered.
“‘Well,’ continued [the] friend, ‘the King has lost his royal emerald. Yesterday he attended a wedding of the nobility and wore the emerald on the slender golden chain around his neck. In some way the emerald became loosened from the chain. Everyone is searching, for the King has offered a reward … to the one who finds it. Come, we must hurry.’
“‘But I cannot go without asking Grandmother,’ faltered Rupert.
“‘Then I cannot wait. I want to find the emerald,’ replied his friend.
“Rupert hurried back to the cabin at the edge of the woods to seek his grandmother’s permission. ‘If I could find it we could leave this hut with its dampness and buy a piece of land up on the hillside,’ he pleaded with Grandmother.
“But his grandmother shook her head. ‘What would the sheep do?’ she asked. ‘Already they are restless in the pen, waiting to be taken to the pasture—and please do not forget to take them to water when the sun shines high in the heavens.’
“Sorrowfully, Rupert took the sheep to the pasture, and at noon he led them to the brook in the woods. There he sat on a large stone by the stream. ‘If I could only have had a chance to look for the King’s emerald,’ he thought. Turning his head to gaze down at the sandy bottom of the brook, suddenly he stared into the water. What was it? It could not be! He leaped into the water, and his gripping fingers held something that was green, with a slender bit of gold chain. ‘The King’s emerald!’ he shouted. ‘It must have been flung from the chain when the King [astride his horse, galloped across the bridge spanning the stream, and the current carried] it here.’
“With shining eyes Rupert ran to his grandmother’s hut to tell her of his great find. ‘Bless you, my boy,’ she said, ‘but you never would have found it if you had not been doing your duty, herding the sheep.’ And Rupert knew that this was the truth.”
The lesson to be learned from this story is found in the familiar couplet: “Do your duty; that is best. Leave unto the Lord the rest.”

As a teenager, Sister Kalombo Rosette Kamwanya from the D.R. Congo, now serving in the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission, fasted and prayed for three days to find the direction God wanted her to take. In a remarkable night vision, she was shown two buildings, a chapel and what she now realizes was a temple. She began to search and soon found the chapel she had seen in her dream. The sign said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Sister Kamwanya was baptized and then her mother and her six brothers. Sister Kamwanya said, “When I received the gospel, I felt like a captured bird that had been liberated. My heart was filled with joy. … I had the assurance that God loves me.”9

I sit at the sewing machine and feed thread onto seams of flannel. Child-print patterns in soft colors decorate the tops, and coordinating colors form the backs of the baby receiving blankets I’m sewing.
Our ward Relief Society assembles newborn kits for poverty and disaster areas. I’m an amateur seamstress, but I’m committed to participate. I enjoy choosing fabric for the project and cutting out blanket-sized squares.
I put right sides of the fabric together, sew around the edges, and leave an area open to turn the blanket right side out. Then I stitch along the edges, clip the corners, turn the blanket so that the colorful sides are on the outside, and stitch up the open area.
I sew along the top of the edges to reinforce the seams. I ease the fabric into place and take off at a brisk pace. As I rush to finish so I can resume household duties, a thought strikes me: “What if I were sewing this blanket for baby Jesus?”
With that thought, I slow down and take great care to straighten the seams. But even with care, the stitching doesn’t run straight.
Next I sew a 10-inch (25 cm) square in the center to secure the front to the back. I make a heavy paper template, center it on the blanket, and lightly mark around it. I put the fabric in place, ease down the needle, and carefully sew.
When I’m done, I clip the threads and pull out the finished blanket. It isn’t square—it’s a cross between a trapezoid and a parallelogram.
I set the blanket aside, pull out fresh flannel, and start again—taking greater pains for this gift worthy of Deity. But even with the extra effort, the results are only slightly better. Each blanket I sew is imperfect.
I feel that I can’t take any of the blankets to the collection site, at least not this year. I’ll keep practicing, and perhaps someday I can make a contribution.
Then another thought floats through my mind: “If you wait until your sewing is perfect, the Christ child will be in Egypt.”
I understand. The opportunity for service would be gone. The Savior accepts our offerings when we use our best efforts, imperfect though they may be. I know that a newborn, wrapped in a soft, clean blanket, would not refuse to sleep because the corners aren’t square.
As I contemplate whether my efforts will make a dent in worldwide needs, Christ’s counsel comes to mind: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).
So I continue sewing blankets, working to make them as attractive as I can. I know there is a need now, not some vague time in the future when I can sew them perfectly.

The first role models who presented the gospel to me were the missionaries who taught my family in the Philippines. Their example had a lot of influence in our decision to join the Church. They were patient with us, and they always brought a wonderful spirit with them.
While we were still new members, we encountered a man who had left the Church. He gave us a lot of anti-Mormon literature, and I was shocked. It was my first encounter with opposition to the Church, and my testimony was still tender. While he was confronting us and attacking everything the missionaries had taught us, I was filled with fear. But when the missionaries were with us, they brought peace. Because of the missionaries, our family learned to tell the difference between faith and fear, and we chose faith.

“Should we turn back or move ahead?” This was the question that dominated the thoughts of the pioneer company on the night of 3 December 1879. Church President John Taylor had called this group of pioneers to settle the San Juan Mission, in the southeastern part of what is now the state of Utah. But at this point in the trek, there seemed to be no clear answer on how to proceed.
The pioneers were camped at 40-Mile Spring, located on a high plateau. Silas S. Smith, the president of the company, realized how serious their situation was. Camped in some 80 wagons were nearly 250 men, women, and children. Hundreds of cattle were also part of the caravan. Winter was upon them, and they had too few supplies and other resources to remain at this encampment until spring.
President Smith sat in his tent and deliberated with other leaders. Turning back seemed impossible. Behind them, to the west, heavy snows had buried the road through the Escalante Mountains, as well as any foliage the livestock could eat. Besides, the pioneers took seriously the calling President Taylor had given them to settle the San Juan Mission, which was part of President Brigham Young’s original plan to establish settlements throughout much of the West. Who among them would refuse such a call?
Ahead of the pioneers, to the east, lay more than 300 kilometers of rough terrain with no road and little water. A decision to go forward would force them to travel through Hole-in-the-Rock—a crevice in the west wall of Glen Canyon at a high plateau above the Colorado River. It was a dangerous shortcut, but the only other trail was more than 600 kilometers long. An exploring party’s report had been pessimistic. Going through Hole-in-the-Rock would mean taking wagons and cattle on a trail that dropped 610 meters, one-third of that drop at a 45-degree angle.
Most felt it was impossible. After much discussion, one of the men made the motion to leave the decision to “President Smith and the Lord.” A unanimous vote reflected the faith of those present that the Lord would inspire their leader.
The next morning, President Smith called a meeting to announce the decision to move ahead. “The miracle of this decision went through the company like an electric shock,” wrote Kumen Jones, a member of the group, “and all was good cheer and hustle.” In the meeting, many bore testimony in support of moving ahead. Someone began to sing. Others joined in, and soon the chilly December air rang with “The Spirit of God like a fire is burning!” (Hymns, 1985, number 2).

“My name is Omar Interdonato,” the e-mail began. “I’m the son of Fiorella Italia. I hope you still remember her baptism.”
Thirty years before, my missionary companion and I had been assigned to the island of Sicily and were serving in Siracusa, a beautiful city on the Mediterranean coast. On Sundays we met with the few Latter-day Saints in the area in an old villa, holding sacrament meeting in the villa’s living room.
Missionary work was difficult, and we had few baptisms. Sixteen full-time missionaries labored in the city, which had been tracted over and over. But as my companion and I studied a map of the city one day, we noticed a small village located a few miles from our apartment on the edge of the city.
We hiked through the fields to this village, knelt on the edge of a ridge overlooking a valley, and offered up our hearts and souls to God. We then began tracting in a group of tenement-type buildings that made up most of the village.
We were eventually greeted at a door by a woman in her 40s dressed all in black—a tradition in Italy following the death of a loved one. We changed our door approach to emphasize the plan of salvation. The woman invited us in, and we met with her, two of her teenage daughters, and one of their friends. We learned that the woman was recently widowed and had four teenage children to care for. We showed the filmstrip Man’s Search for Happiness and were invited to return the following week.
The mother, along with her oldest son and two teenage daughters, their grandmother, and their friend were eventually baptized. Following my mission, I kept in touch with the family, but until I received the e-mail, I had wondered what had happened to Fiorella, the daughters’ young friend.
“My mother has been faithful to the gospel all her life and in 1983 married a good Church member from the Messina Branch and got sealed in the temple,” her son wrote. “I was born in 1984 and my sister, Veronica, in 1987. We are all active in the Church. I served a mission in the Italy Rome Mission from 2005 to 2007, hoping to repay the Lord for all the struggles of two missionaries who decided to preach the gospel in the small town of Floridia!”
There were times during my mission when I wondered if the two years of sacrifice were worth it. But how great is my joy (see D&C 18:15–16) to learn that Fiorella’s life was changed forever because my companion and I made the decision to go forth and forget ourselves in the service of others on the island of Sicily.

One of the mountains we had to climb was when we were making all the arrangements with my wife’s family for our marriage. Her family, who is Catholic, made it a condition that if I wanted to marry their daughter, we had to get married religiously in the Catholic Church. We were completely at a loss as to what to do.

My wife and I said to each other that temple marriage is a commandment of God. We have faith in Him and in His son Jesus Christ; we shall pray and fast, and then whatever our Heavenly Father will reveal to us we shall do it, even if it is to get married in a Catholic Church. We decided to meet with my wife’s family to ask them if we could all pray together. If our Heavenly Father reveals to us that we should get married in the Catholic Church, then we shall do it. But if God reveals to us that we should get married in the temple, then we would invite my wife’s family to accept that answer. The goal: to accept the will of God.

After we prayed and fasted, our Heavenly Father revealed to us that we should get married in the temple. To our great surprise, my in-laws did not challenge us anymore.

We are married now for three years, and we plan to go to the temple next month.

A few months ago, my mother-in-law told my wife that she felt that we had “bewitched” them during the prayer. They did not understand what had happened! My wife tenderly explained that it was the Spirit of God that touched her heart.