Gospel Story Finder

I think of her. I think of my father. I think of all those General Authorities who’ve influenced me, and others, including the widows whom I visited—85 of them—with a chicken for the oven, sometimes a little money for their pocket.
I visited one late one night. It was midnight, and I went to the nursing home, and the receptionist said, “I’m sure she’s asleep, but she told me to be sure to awaken her, for she said, ‘I know he’ll come.’”
I held her hand; she called my name. She was wide awake. She pressed my hand to her lips and said, “I knew you’d come.” How could I not have come?

One hot summer day, Reesey and Cheyenne invited Zara over to play. Mum made a snack. The girls sat at the table to eat.
Mum sliced mangoes from their mango tree. She put apple slices and grapes on a plate. Reesey looked at the delicious food. She remembered to say a prayer before eating her snack. She asked Zara, “Do you pray at your house?”
“What’s that?” Zara asked.
“Like this,” said Cheyenne. She folded her arms and bowed her head. She asked a blessing on the food. When she was done, she said, “See? Like that. Easy!”
“We don’t do that at our house. We just eat,” said Zara.
Reesey had never thought about not praying. “Mum,” she said, “can we stop saying prayers?”
Mum smiled as she carried cups of ice water to the table. “We like thanking Heavenly Father for what He has given us. We’re going to keep saying prayers. But it’s OK if other people don’t.”
Reesey knew Mum was right. She was happy when her family prayed. Maybe praying would make Zara happy too. “You could try it,” she said to Zara. “Prayers are good.”
“I like it when we pray,” said Cheyenne.“It makes me feel like a smile all over me inside.”
Zara smiled. “Maybe I will,” she said and ate a slice of mango.
Reesey and Cheyenne were happy they could tell their friend about praying. They all finished their snacks and ran back outside to play.

Young men and women, you can be a great influence for good in your homes as you help to achieve worthy family objectives. I shall never forget the family home evening years ago in which the name of each member of our family was placed in a hat. The name you picked from the hat would be your “secret friend” for the week. You can imagine the love that filled my heart when I came home that Tuesday after work to sweep out the garage, as I had earlier promised, and found it cleanly swept. There was a note attached to the garage door which read, “Hope you had a good day—your secret friend.” And on Friday night, as I turned down my bed, I uncovered an Almond Joy, my favorite candy bar, wrapped carefully in scotch tape and plain white paper, with a note: “Dad, I love you a lot! Thanks, your secret friend.” Then to top it off, after returning home from a late meeting Sunday evening, I found the dining room table beautifully set, and written on the napkin by my place were the words “SUPER DAD” in big bold letters and in parentheses, “Your secret friend.” Hold your family home evenings, for this is where the gospel is taught, a testimony is gained, and the family is fortified.

So plain was [my] vision [of the resurrection], that I actually saw men, before they had ascended from the tomb, as though they were getting up slowly. They took each other by the hand and said to each other, “My father, my son, my mother, my daughter, my brother, my sister.” And when the voice calls for the dead to arise, suppose I am laid by the side of my father, what would be the first joy of my heart? To meet my father, my mother, my brother, my sister; and when they are by my side, I embrace them and they me.
All your losses will be made up to you in the resurrection, provided you continue faithful. By the vision of the Almighty I have seen it.

The Spaniards’ attitude was reinforced when Simón was sent to Spain for further education. By this time he was a slim young man with a thin, suntanned face and dark piercing eyes. He was a better athlete and horseman than any of his admiring friends who benefitted from the almost limitless supply of money Simón provided for their pleasures.
One day while riding his horse, Simón was stopped by the police, searched, insulted, and told that he was no longer welcome in Spain. He was furious at the incident, for it pointed out more clearly than any of his tutor’s words the low regard that the Spanish rulers had for Creoles. Then began his dream to free all of South America from Spanish rule and make it one glorious republic much like the United States of America. Although this dream was not realized, Simón Bolívar is now often called “the George Washington of South America.”

Let me share with you a rather private but joyful example from my own experience.

As a bishop, I worried about any members who were inactive, not attending, not serving. Such was my thought one day as I drove down the street where Ben and Emily Fullmer lived. Aches and pains of advancing years caused them to withdraw from activity to the shelter of their home—isolated, detached, shut out from the mainstream of daily life and association. Ben and Emily had not been in our sacrament meeting for many years. Ben, a former bishop, would sit constantly in his front room reading and memorizing the New Testament.

I was en route from my uptown sales office to our plant on Industrial Road. For some reason I had driven down First West, a street which I never had traveled before to reach the destination of our plant. Then I felt the unmistakable prompting to park my car and visit Ben and Emily, even though I was on my way to a meeting. I did not heed the impression at first but drove on for two more blocks; however, when the impression came again, I returned to their home.

It was a sunny weekday afternoon. I approached the door to their home and knocked. I heard the tiny fox terrier dog bark at my approach. Emily welcomed me in. Upon seeing me, she exclaimed, “All day long I have waited for my phone to ring. It has been silent. I hoped the postman would deliver a letter. He brought only bills. Bishop, how did you know today is my birthday?”

I answered, “God knows, Emily, for He loves you.”

In the quiet of their living room, I said to Ben and Emily, “I really don’t know why I was directed here today, but I was. Our Heavenly Father knows. Let’s kneel in prayer and ask Him why.” This we did, and the answer came. As we arose from our knees, I said to Brother Fullmer, “Ben, would you come to priesthood meeting when we meet with all the priesthood and relate to our Aaronic Priesthood boys the story you once told me when I was a boy, how you and a group of boys were en route to the Jordan River to swim one Sunday, but you felt the Spirit direct you to attend Sunday School. And you did. One of the boys who failed to respond to that Spirit drowned that Sunday. Our boys would like to hear your testimony.”

“I’ll do it,” he responded.

I then said to Sister Fullmer, “Emily, I know you have a beautiful voice. My mother has told me so. Our ward conference is a few weeks away, and our choir will sing. Would you join the choir and attend our ward conference and perhaps sing a solo?”

“What will the number be?” she inquired.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’d like you to sing it.”

She sang. He spoke to the Aaronic Priesthood. Hearts were gladdened by the return to activity of Ben and Emily. They rarely missed a sacrament meeting from that day forward. The language of the Spirit had been spoken. It had been heard. It had been understood. Hearts were touched and souls saved. Ben and Emily Fullmer had come home.

I had the strangest feeling when the whole family left for church without me. My mother and father didn’t make half the fuss I had expected when, just before time to leave, I announced, “I don’t want to go to meeting today.”

“Oh!” Grandma said, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not, are you sick?” Mama asked.

“Sort of,” I replied. “I’m sick of listening to long, boring talks.”

“Well, sounds as though we have only a part-time Mormon,” Papa remarked.

“I am not a part-time Mormon,” I protested. “I’m one all the time.”

“Your testimony sounds a bit shaky to me,” Papa responded.

“What does a testimony have to do with going to church anyway?” I asked.

“Everything,” my sister Laura chipped in. “If a person knows the gospel is true, she tries to do what she’s supposed to.”

“You’re preaching,” I objected.

“What will you do while we’re in church?” Mama asked.

“I’ll play with Joyce and Joan and their cousins.”

“Church is out by five. You can play with them after that,” Mother suggested.

Everyone was looking at me like I had two heads. I was annoyed. Couldn’t I be different just once? I knew plenty of kids that didn’t have to go to church, and their parents didn’t go either.

“If we wait until after church, we can’t finish our hut down by the river,” I explained.

Shaking her head, Mama sighed, “So Papa is right. We do have a part-time Mormon in the family.”

Feeling hurt, I asked, “How come?”

“Just think it over,” she answered.

And off my family went to church without me. I almost ran after them as they passed through the gate, but then I overheard Laura say, “She won’t really miss meeting. She’ll catch up with us before we reach the corner.”

Well! I’ll show her, I thought.

To prevent my weakening, I changed quickly into my old sweat shirt and jeans. Already Joan and the others were calling for me over the picket fence.

I had a strong urge to shout, “I’m not going.” Instead, I met them at the gate.

Usually going to the river was exciting, but today it wasn’t. There was still time to change my mind and attend church with my folks, for they always left early. While I stood, debating, Joyce asked, “Well, what’s bothering you? Did your old cat die or something?”

“Of course not, silly. Come on, let’s go,” I answered decisively.

I didn’t feel much like talking, so I ran ahead, making the other girls race to catch up. When we came to the river, we were winded.

The river! Big deal! I thought. It’s nothing more than a trickle through sand and rocks, and I thought it would be so great!

The sun was sizzling hot, my clothes were sticky, and a rock was in my shoe. Suddenly Joyce wailed, “Oh, look! Someone has caved our hut in.”

Sure enough! All our hard work of cutting and placing tamarack branches was wasted. The hut was a wreck.

Discouraged, I plopped down against a boulder in the shade of a black willow, shaking the gravel out of my shoes. A gnat that wouldn’t be shooed away buzzed my ears.

“Who wants a tamarack hut anyway?” I snapped.

Indignantly, with hands on her hips, Joan stood before me. “Look! Something is bothering you. What is it? You’re the one who thought the hut was so important.”

“Ah, I’m all right,” I said. “I just have some thinking to do, OK? Why don’t you all forget about me and go have some fun?”

“C’mon, let’s let the old potato sit and stew,” Joan urged. “The last one in the river is a mud turtle!”

There was a scramble as the girls pulled off their shoes and stockings, and I was left alone.

I sat and thought, If I need a testimony, I’d better do something about it. All my life I’ve heard people get up in church and say what they’re thankful for. Being thankful is important. Our Heavenly Father wouldn’t want to bless us if we weren’t thankful. But a testimony must be more than that. I thought hard.

When Joseph Smith went into the woods to pray, he saw the Father and the Son. So he had a testimony. He knew Jesus Christ was the Son of God. Hot as the day was, that thought made my skin prickle, and I shivered.

In Sunday School we had talked about an angel of God coming down and showing the gold plates to the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. So of course they had testimonies.

But I had never seen an angel or seen a light or heard a voice from heaven. So that’s probably why I was in this sorry state, sitting in the dirt against an old lava rock in my grubbiest clothes, while my sisters sat in church in their crisp pink and blue dresses beside Papa, Mama, and Grandma. Then like a bolt, the thought struck me! None of my family has seen or heard anymore than I have!

I learned back against that boulder ready to cry. I wanted a testimony too! “Please help me, Heavenly Father,” I prayed.

Gradually, a sweet, sweet feeling swept through me. Why, I did have a testimony. I had always had one. If I knew Joseph knew and that the Three Witnesses knew that Jesus Christ was the Son of our Heavenly Father—then naturally I knew too. How wonderful! Tears trickled down my gritty cheeks. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered.

I ran to the riverbank where my friends were playing. “Hey, everybody, c’mere,” I called excitedly.

“Well, look who’s come alive,” Joyce said. Eagerly they came.

“Come on, let’s go home. This is no way to spend Sunday,” I told them.

Timidly one of the cousins said, “Mama and Papa would never let us do this at home.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” I agreed. “And we’re not coming to the river anymore on Sunday. We’ll fix that hut tomorrow.”

“Then the hut matters?” Joan asked.

“Sure it does. Tamarack huts are important.”

The family was already home when I got there. I hurried and scrubbed away my disgrace. No one paid any attention to me except Mama. “Did you have a good time at the river?” she asked.

“I suffered,” I answered.

The following Sunday was fast day, and I had been saving a surprise all week for my family. I was the first one at the pulpit when it was time to bear testimonies. I knew exactly what I was going to say.

But when I looked down at the people, their faces blurred. I was scared. My heart pounded and my throat was dry. I couldn’t remember one single word I had planned to say. Lying on the pulpit was a slip of paper with the title of the closing song, “I know That My Redeemer Lives.”

Tingling from head to toe, I took a deep breath and said, “Oh, how very much I know that my Redeemer really and truly lives.” Tears began to sting my eyes. Fearing I might cry, I could only add, “in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Reaching my seat again, I squeezed in between Laura and Papa. His big brown hand closed over mine and his smile was broad and warm.

Matthew slapped a pickle on top of his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. He opened his mouth wide for an extra big bite. Crunch! Matthew bit into the pickle. “Yummmm,” he said, jelly sliding out one corner of his mouth and peanut butter sneaking out he other. He wiped his sleeve across his lips.
Peanut-butter-jelly-and-pickle sandwiches were Matthew’s and Grandpa’s favorite. Matthew had showed Grandpa how to make them, and Grandpa said they tasted great!
Grandpa used to live at Matthew’s house. But one day Grandpa got a terrible disease. It made him very sick. The doctors tried to help him, but there didn’t seem to be anything they could do. Then one day Grandpa died. Matthew missed him. He missed him a lot. Mom said that Grandpa was now living with Heavenly Father and that he wouldn’t be in pain anymore. Matthew was glad Heavenly Father would take care of Grandpa, but he still missed him.
Matthew licked the jelly off each finger and picked up the valentine that sat next to his glass of milk. He had made it all by himself. Red hearts covered the card, and silver glitter formed neat letters that spelled out “I Love You.” Tomorrow was Valentine Day, and this special valentine was just for Grandpa.
“Mom, tomorrow can we mail my valentine to Grandpa?” Matthew asked as Mom tucked him into bed that night.
Mom smiled. “Grandpa is in heaven. The post office doesn’t deliver mail to heaven.”
“But I made it just for Grandpa!”
Mom bent over and kissed Matthew on the forehead. “Grandpa would love your valentine, but I’m afraid there just isn’t any way to get it to him. Good night, dear.” She turned out the light as she left.
Matthew lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. He folded his arms behind his head—it was his best thinking position. “That’s it!” he blurted, sitting up in bed. “I know how to get my valentine to Grandpa.” Then he snuggled down under the covers and went to sleep.
The snow glistened in the morning sunshine. Valentine Day had arrived! Matthew’s boots crunched through the snow as he stomped his way out to the giant oak tree in the corner of the yard. He clambered up the rope that hung down from his tree house. He could see Mrs. Johnson’s house next door. She had lived all alone in that house as long as he could remember. Grandpa said that she was lonely and needed a friend. Once, Matthew had helped Grandpa gather the eggs from the henhouse and take them to her.
Matthew squinted as he gazed across the frozen snow that covered his own backyard. Then he looked way up into the sky. An icy breeze bit at his nose. He shivered and buttoned the top button of his jacket. He didn’t mind the morning breeze, though. He knew it was just what he needed to make his plan work.
He reached under his coat and pulled out the valentine, now neatly folded into a paper airplane. Holding it tightly between his fingers, he thrust it out into the icy air and shouted, “Fly, valentine. Fly all the way to heaven!”
The wind caught the valentine and sent it whirling and twirling into the sky, across the yard—and onto Mrs. Johnson’s front porch.
“Oh, no!” Matthew moaned.
He scampered down the big tree and across the yard and peeked over the fence. Mrs. Johnson was nowhere in sight. Slipping through the gate, he bolted toward her door. In three giant steps he reached the porch and scooped up the valentine.
But before Matthew could retrace his steps, the front door opened and Mrs. Johnson stood in the doorway. She stared at the valentine in Matthew’s hands. She smiled and tears welled up in her eyes. “Bless you child,” she said.
Matthew looked at her. He studied his valentine. Then he smiled and slipped it into her hand.
“This is the best valentine I have ever been given,” she said. “I hope this means that you will be my friend, too, like your grandpa was.”
Matthew felt all warm inside. And just maybe Mrs. Johnson would even like peanut-butter-jelly-and-pickle sandwiches!

One year before Travis started wrestling, his family was sealed in the Dallas Texas Temple. Brother Trahan had been baptized about a year after Travis’s older sister, Samantha (17), was born. Travis knows that he, his mom and dad, Samantha, Glenn (14), and Alayna (6) can be together forever.
When the Houston Texas Temple was dedicated, Travis and his family attended it with his grandmother, Claire “Peggy” LaLande.
Going to the temple has helped the Trahan family stay strong in the gospel. There are few members in the area, and the Trahans drive about 45 miles (72 k) each way to church in Lake Charles.

We will dedicate a number of new temples beginning the first of the year. Some of these will be larger, some smaller. During the last conference I expressed the hope that we would build 30 new temples during the next two years. I am sure that many thought this was just wishful dreaming on my part. It seemed totally unrealistic.
I am grateful to be able to say that our building people, our architects, our engineers, our designers and furnishings experts, advise me that in all likelihood we will have 100 or more temples operating in the year 2000, nearly twice the number we have today. I assure you that nobody is sleeping on the job—no one who has anything to do with this immense project. I speak of these temples as smaller temples. Actually, they do not look small, they look large. They are beautiful. They are built of the best materials and in the best fashion of which we know. Each will be a house of the Lord dedicated to His holy purposes.
We shall not stop at these. We shall go on building. We know there are so very many locations where they are needed in order that you, the faithful Saints of this Church, may go to receive your own blessings and to extend those blessings to those who have passed beyond the veil of death. We pray that our people will be worthy to use them. Where repentance is needed, now is the time to turn about and prepare ourselves for their use.

“Come on, Sarah!” Kim called as she ran up the stairs. “I want to show you the new books I got for my birthday!”
“I can’t wait!” Sarah said, following close behind.
The girls sat on the bed in Kim’s room and pulled out the books. “You’ll love this one,” Kim said, passing Sarah a book with a dragon and a beautiful princess on the cover.
The girls read stories together until Kim’s mom said it was homework time. The girls agreed that the fun always seemed to end too soon.
The next day at school, Sarah and Kim sat down in the cafeteria for lunch. They were talking about Kim’s new books when three boys from the next grade walked by. One of them said something about Sarah’s glasses and laughed. Everyone around them laughed too. Sarah’s cheeks flushed pink. She looked over and saw Kim laughing too.
“Why are you laughing?” Sarah whispered, looking at Kim in surprise.
“Oh, they’re just teasing,” Kim said. “Don’t worry about it.”
On the way home from school, Sarah and Kim walked together as usual. But Sarah kept her head down.
“What’s the matter?” Kim asked.
“Well,” Sarah said, hesitating, “I don’t understand why, when it’s just us, you’re such a good friend. But at school, when that boy said those mean things, you laughed.”
“I didn’t really think it was funny,” Kim said. “I just laughed because everyone else was laughing.”
The girls finished their walk home in silence. Kim didn’t understand why Sarah was so upset.
Later that night, Kim thought of Sarah. She tried to imagine the kids at school laughing at her the way they had laughed at Sarah. Maybe they would laugh at her hair one day, or maybe they would laugh at the shirt she was wearing. Having Sarah laugh with them wouldn’t feel so good.
The next morning, Kim waited outside for Sarah. When Sarah came out of her house, Kim waved. “Hey, Sarah!” she said. “I’m sorry I laughed yesterday. I should have been a better friend. I won’t do that again, I promise.”
Sarah smiled. “Thanks,” she said.
At lunch, the girls were sitting together again when the boy who had teased Sarah walked over. He said the same thing and laughed again. This time, instead of laughing, Kim looked at him and said, “I think Sarah looks great in her glasses. I might even get a pair myself.”
The boy looked around. No one else was laughing with him this time, so he walked away.
Sarah smiled at Kim. “Thanks for doing that,” she said. “You really are a true friend.”

One young lady had a missionary experience that started on a shopping spree.
“A couple of weeks ago my mother and I were talking to the owner of a dress shop, and my mother was hinting around about how I had to wear my dresses long, and the lady didn’t say anything. Then my mother said, ‘It’s really cold where she’s going next fall.’ The lady said, ‘Oh, where’s that?’ Mom answered, ‘Brigham Young University.’ Then we talked a little bit about the Church, and the lady asked, ‘How does a person go about becoming a Mormon?’ My mother answered, ‘It’s easy.’
“We were interrupted right then, but we went back the next day so I could try on an outfit I had liked. We were trying to think of a way to start talking about the Church again when the lady walked over and said, ‘Do you remember what you said yesterday about it being easy to become a Mormon?’ My mother tried to look nonchalant and said, ‘Yes?’ The lady said, ‘Well, will you please explain that?’
“So we sat there talking for about three hours about the Church, and she just kept asking questions. She and her husband had gone to church after church after church, and nothing satisfied them. Every time we answered a question, she said, ‘That’s just what I’ve always believed.’ I think she had a testimony already, before she ever heard about the Church. So now she and her husband are taking missionary lessons, and I think she wants to be baptized. It’s pretty exciting.”

1 Several elders reported to Joseph Smith the success of their missions in the eastern states, and while they were together, the Prophet received a revelation concerning the priesthood.
2 Joseph was told that Adam was the first man on earth to hold the priesthood. The Lord then traced the line of priesthood authority back through some of the Old Testament prophets.
3 Only properly ordained priesthood holders have the authority to baptize, bless the sick, bestow the gift of the Holy Ghost, and administer the sacrament. When they exercise their priesthood righteously with humility, love, and kindness, the Holy Ghost will be their companion.
4 Missionaries were to preach the gospel to all the world, encouraging people to repent and baptizing them so that their sins would be forgiven and they could receive the Holy Ghost.
5 The Lord promised the missionaries that if they were faithful in proclaiming the gospel, all their needs would be provided for.
6 Joseph and the other brethren were grateful for the teachings from heaven about the priesthood, and they were eager to share its blessings with others.

Donovan aimed his slingshot at the empty soup can on the stump.
He stretched back the slingshot’s rubber tubing.
“What are you doing?” his little sister, Dana, asked.
“Watch this!” he said.
Thwack!
The rubber snapped back into place as Donovan let go, sending the small rock flying. Some leaves in a nearby tree rustled. But the tin can didn’t move. Donovan stuffed the slingshot into his back pocket. He had missed. Again!
Dana tilted her head to the side. “What am I supposed to see?”
“Nothing,” Donovan said. “Come on. Let’s go home.” They started heading back to the house.
Donovan kicked a stick out of his way. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to use Dad’s slingshot right. And he loved that thing! He always liked using it when Dad was out of town working, like now. It helped him feel close to Dad when he couldn’t see him.
He pulled the slingshot from his pocket and spun it slowly in his hand. The rough bark had become smooth a long time ago. Dad had made the slingshot out of a strong tree branch and used it for years before giving it to Donovan.
Dad had pointed at the soup can that day. “When you focus, amazing things can happen.” Donovan still remembered what happened next. Dad had aimed the slingshot and hit the soup can. In one try! He made it look easy. Donovan really missed him.
He was still thinking about Dad when he fell asleep that night.
The next morning, Donovan carried his slingshot to his favorite patch of trees to try again.
“Focus …” Donovan said as he stared at the can on the stump. He placed another small stone in the slingshot and pulled back.
Dad keeps trying, even when things don’t always work out, Donovan thought.
Donovan tried to stop thinking about all the times he had missed before. He closed one eye, the way Dad taught him. He really focused. Donovan didn’t look at anything else but the red soup can.
Taking a deep breath, he let go.
Thwack!
CLUNK!
Donovan blinked in surprise as the can sailed off the stump. “I did it!” he said. “Yes!”
Later that night, Donovan sat next to Mom after dinner. He held up the slingshot.
“I finally hit the can today,” he said, grinning.
“Well done!” Mom said.
“You know, I think this slingshot is my favorite thing in the whole world,” Donovan said.
“Oh?” Mom asked.
“Yup. Because it helps me think about Dad and feel close to him.”
Mom smiled. “I think he’ll be happy to know you feel that way. And guess what? Dad will be home in only three days. You can show him your new skills.”
Donovan could hardly wait! “That gives me an idea,” he said.
He ran to find Dana. He could teach her to use the slingshot the same way Dad had taught him!
“Hey, Dana,” he said. “Wanna learn how to use the best slingshot in Jamaica?”
What special things help you feel close to someone in your family?

The “bus sisters” who come all the way from Utah to be in pageant are almost a legend. This year, six buses started out from Salt Lake City. Only three hours later one bus broke down, which meant a crowding of the girls all the way to Palmyra. It warmed my heart to learn of the pioneer stoicism and fortitude these girls displayed. “Rest stops would take two hours,” said bright-eyed Nancy Cox from the Lynwood (Oregon) Ward. “It was really crowded on the bus until someone finally bought some little kids’ chairs to sit on in the aisles.” What did they do to relieve the monotony and keep discouragement at a minimum? “We sang a lot and prayed. I feel very close to all the girls on my bus,” said Nancy. No doubt “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” with its trek-to-Salt Lake origin, was a favorite.

On Thursday of that week, members of the Relief Society presidency visited to introduce themselves and welcome our parents to the ward. On Sunday the bishop came to meet them and inquire whether they needed anything. He spent almost an hour with them, genuinely getting to know them and asking if they’d be willing to take ministering assignments.
Within two weeks of their arrival, they had ministering brothers and sisters assigned to them and were contacted by both. They also received ministering assignments and were introduced to their assigned families. Even with Mom’s late-stage dementia, her ministering companion made the effort to invite her and bring her along as they visited the sisters they were assigned to. The ministering brothers were consistent, loving, and genuine. They immediately found a commonality with roots from Wyoming, and my parents felt loved from the first visit.

How did you start sculpting? My dad is a sculptor, so we would always have clay around the house. I would just mess around with it, making little knickknacks and pots.

Del Norte Ward
The Primary children of the Del Norte Ward, Poway California Stake, were encouraged to do extra chores to earn money to purchase 100 copies of the Book of Mormon. Each child wrote or dictated his or her testimony to be pasted in a Book of Mormon. They also collected placemats and ribbons, which the girls sewed into scripture bags during an activity day. They put each Book of Mormon in a scripture bag, and the Primary president gave them to Primary children in Daveytown and Johannesburg, South Africa.

One tragedy of love has already occurred this year. A beardless youth became so enamored of a young miss (although she did not encourage him) that each day for 47 consecutive days he wrote her a special-delivery letter, until finally, on the 48th day, she eloped with the mailman. The lad is probably blessed, since all he had to offer the lady was a mission yet unserved, a college education one quarter complete, and no funds (he had spent all of his money on stamps).

Olga Kovárová Campora was baptized in 1982; her member-missionary work resulted in 47 baptisms over the next eight years.