Gospel Story Finder

When I heard that I had won a scholarship to do the cultural exchange in Argentina that I had always dreamed of, I could never have imagined that it would be the beginning of such a big change in my life.
I arrived in Rosario, Argentina, where I lived with a family who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And thus started a year of spiritual adventures, talking with the missionaries and attending seminary and institute. I wanted to know everything, and I could feel that what I was learning about the gospel was blessing me in so many ways.
In a short time I was able to obtain a strong testimony of the truthfulness of the doctrines I was being taught: faith, love, patience, charity, trust, and obedience to the commandments of the Lord, which He has given us to protect us from pain.
He does not want us to go through pains without purpose. He loves us so much, and He wants to prove it so much. But sometimes, through our own choices, we close that door, we separate ourselves from Him, and then it is in our own hands. We must then take that first step toward the recovery of peace in our hearts. This is something I would experience for myself.
After months of learning, missionary lessons, and classes, I experienced adversity in one of its most painful forms—adversity that confronts you with feelings of the past, tempts you to make incorrect decisions in the present, and tries to ruin the future you always dreamed of. I learned that affliction sometimes (and many times) comes from somewhere you never expected.
Being worthy and virtuous in thoughts and acts had always seemed part of who I was, up until then. I knew that the things that I was about to do weren’t right, that people I once trusted were about to go off-road, and that I had actually already begun creating a distance between me and my Heavenly Father. I knew that now was the time when I needed to choose whether I would continue this or stick to the values I had always honored. So I had to find that strength inside of me that told me that I couldn’t ruin these dreams so easily. I couldn’t ruin my hope of an eternal family and a loving husband. Something in my life was wrong, and I knew it had to change.
That feeling, together with the young testimony that had begun to flourish in my heart, and true angels in my life who were always there to help me, saved me from being lost and made me so strong again that I could choose to turn back toward the Lord in time. And I know that He always was there, blessing me in my efforts to listen to His voice and to stay worthy of eternal blessings.
When I think about that time that I went through now, I think of courage for not having surrendered, courage for having always demonstrated my values, and the faith I had and still have.
Although the time of repentance that followed was a time of pain, of recognition of wrong feelings and moments, and of humility, I am so grateful for it—and I always will be. Grateful for the fact that, at the right time, I could feel that my Heavenly Father had forgiven me, that He continues to love me, and that He always will.
The part that cost me the most was learning to forgive myself. I remember how I felt, unworthy and without beauty, neither on the outside nor on the inside. But my Savior was always there, giving me strength and inspiration. He put the right people on my path who helped me to learn even more about the Church, since I had returned to Belgium. They loved me for who I am and helped me love myself again and recognize that this experience didn’t have to be a pain that I carry in my backpack of life forever. I could see that I had the opportunity to choose, to experience how strong my testimony already was by defending my values. Now I see that because I worked on strengthening my testimony through this experience, I can be a blessing in the lives of so many people, near and far.
Don’t fear. Never give up, and always defend your values. Always keep in mind how beautiful and what a blessing it is to share that love for the Savior and have His pure love as a foundation on which to build a relationship and a future family. If you choose to be obedient and choose Heavenly Father in all things, sooner or later, eternal blessings will come. Do not worry if you can’t see them now, but trust that every day, a little more, you will see the hand of the Lord in your lives. Spring will start in our hearts and eternal flowers will begin to bloom.
I was baptized on March 16, 2019, in my ward in Belgium, and I am so happy to have taken this first step on my way to eternity. Yes, I will encounter more challenges along the way—we all will—but with my testimony in my heart, I am ready to face them, since I know Whom to choose.

I will start by sharing a brief history of a close friend. I know of a family who lived close to a large amusement park. Like others in the area, this family would drive by the park often. Each time their young son would ask, “Daddy, can we go there? I really want to go there and play on all the rides.” Understanding that his son would continue to ask the same question week after week, the father would reply, “Maybe tomorrow we can go.” This little interchange repeated itself again and again until finally, early one Saturday morning, the boy came running into his parents’ bedroom. He jumped on the bed, startling both of them, and exclaimed with great enthusiasm, “Daddy, tomorrow is today!”

This interesting play on words—“tomorrow is today”—illustrates a valuable point. Everything we hope to accomplish in the future, how we prepare for the responsibilities that will ultimately be ours, is really a function of what we do today. Though some things about the future will always seem uncertain, the future is not entirely a mystery. To a great extent the future is shaped by the accumulation of all our daily activities and disciplined efforts.

As another example, I remember my beloved grandmother, Mary Caroline Roper Finlinson, making homemade soap on the farm. Her recipe for homemade soap included rendered animal fat and wood ashes. The soap had a very pungent aroma and was almost as hard as a brick. There was no money to buy soft, sweet-smelling soap. On the farm there were many dusty, sweat-laden clothes to be washed and many bodies that desperately needed a Saturday night bath. If you had to bathe with that homemade soap, you could become wonderfully clean, but you smelled worse after bathing than before. Since I use soap more now than I did as a child, I have developed a daily appreciation for mild, sweet-scented soap.

Teachers Camron Stewart (right) and James Decker of the Sigonella Branch painted the bus stop at the Navy Air Station Sigonella in Sicily, Italy. With a little help from their youth leaders and a few of the boys’ friends who stopped by to help out, the bus stop looked great after the service project.
The young men had fun painting. Camron summed it up in these words: “It made me feel good, like I was making a difference in my community.”
Branch president Brian Stewart says this project, along with other activities the youth have recently participated in, has opened many doors for the young men to share their beliefs with friends and teachers at school.

I would like to tell you just one little experience of my own along that line. When I was a young fellow and was out at the old Saltair beach dance hall on Great Salt Lake, when that was reckoned to be the finest dance hall in all America, one of my girl friends came up and said, “LeGrand, we are having a banquet downstairs. Wouldn’t you like to join us?” Now you know the old saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I couldn’t turn that one down. So I took hold of her hand and went hopscotching down the steps over to the north end of that eating hall. We approached a long table that was all spread, and I saw by every plate a tall beer bottle like they used to have in those days. As soon as I could see that that was where we were headed, I stopped just like I was shot. I looked at that table, and I looked at that girl, and there I was, holding her hand. She said, “What’s the matter? Are you too good to drink a little beer?” Now you know if you have hold of a girl’s hand, you have to think pretty fast when she talks to you like that. I had to think fast.
I said, “Well, Elsie, I guess I am. I thought you were.”
“Goodbye,” I said, and I went up those steps a lot faster than I came down them.

Mara loved making people smile. She made her schoolteacher smile when she raised her hand to ask questions. She made her sister, Marcella, smile when she said nice things to her.
Then Mara would smile too. It felt good to help other people be happy.
But there was one time each week when Mara hardly ever smiled. That time was early Sunday morning. That’s when Mara and Marcella were always the most tired. Rushing around to get ready for church made them extra grumpy. Then there was the long walk to church. It was more than a mile away! Mara and Marcella often got there late. They would miss the first part of Primary.
“We miss you when you’re not here on time,” Sister Lima said one day. She was the Primary president of their ward in Brazil.
Mara knew she should get to church on time. But how? Then Mara got an idea. The next Saturday night, Mara decided to try something new.
Instead of sneaking bedtime snacks after dinner, Mara brushed her teeth. Most days Mama had to remind the girls to turn off the TV and go to bed. Even then they would play and whisper under their covers until late at night. Sometimes they stayed up so long they could hardly keep their eyes open. They had to wiggle to keep from falling asleep.
Tonight Mara put on pajamas and hopped right into bed. Mama didn’t even have to remind her. She started looking at the pictures in the front of her Book of Mormon.
“What are you doing?” Marcella asked.
“A test,” Mara said. Her mind was full of happy thoughts. Plus she was already feeling sleepy.
The next thing Mara knew, the sun was peeking through her window. It was almost time to get ready for church. Instead of feeling yucky, Mara felt great. Her head didn’t feel fuzzy. Her body didn’t feel tired.
She got to Primary even before some of the leaders.
“Thank you for being such a good example to the other children,” Sister Lima said.
Now it was Mara’s turn to smile. She decided she would always go to bed early on Saturday. That way she would be able to spread smiles all Sunday long.

The first lesson was learned when we were newly married and had very little money. I was in the air force, and we had missed Christmas together. I was on assignment overseas. When I got home, I saw a beautiful dress in a store window and suggested to my wife that if she liked it, we would buy it. Mary went into the dressing room of the store. After a moment the salesclerk came out, brushed by me, and returned the dress to its place in the store window. As we left the store, I asked, “What happened?” She replied, “It was a beautiful dress, but we can’t afford it!” Those words went straight to my heart. I have learned that the three most loving words are “I love you,” and the four most caring words for those we love are “We can’t afford it.”

The second-generation Church members in the Kreiberg family are solid evidence of President Andersen’s assessment of the fortification that comes through temple marriages. For Inge Kreiberg the strongest proof of this is in their third child, Caroline.

“We wouldn’t even have Caroline if we hadn’t joined the Church,” Inge explains. Like most Danish women, Inge felt she was through with having children—“I thought two kids and a job were enough. Then one evening as I prepared to teach an institute class on women’s role in giving birth, I stopped abruptly. I knew I wasn’t practicing what the lesson taught.”

She recalls believing the lesson was teaching the truth. She knew she needed to study and pray about motherhood, and her study became intense and personal. She decided that, for her, having another child was right—a choice of no small significance in Denmark. Now Finn, Inge, and Caroline, eleven, live in Odense, in a sturdy house with lots of leaded windows, converted from a derelict railway station where Finn had played as a boy.

In June of the following year, Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were arrested and taken to Carthage. Dan Jones was among those who accompanied them and was locked in jail with them. On the last night in Carthage, when apparently the others had gone to sleep, Joseph Smith whispered to Dan Jones, “Are you afraid [to die]?” He replied, “Has that time come, think you? Engaged in such a cause, I do not think that death would have many terrors.”

To this Joseph responded with the last words of prophecy he is known to have spoken: “You will yet see Wales and fulfill the mission appointed you before you die.”1

The next day the Prophet asked Brother Jones to deliver a letter to Orvil H. Browning of Quincy, Illinois, requesting that Mr. Browning represent Joseph and Hyrum in their forthcoming trial. While Brother Jones was leaving the jail and walking through the mob, his life was threatened. As he rode off on horseback, bullets flew about him, but none touched him. In his haste to get away, he lost his direction and thereby avoided a mob who might have killed him. He finally reached Quincy and there learned of the shooting of Joseph and Hyrum that sultry afternoon of 27 June 1844. He never got over his love for the Prophet. He never flinched in his loyalty to the cause to which Joseph Smith had dedicated his life.

As a person with long term depression and borderline personality disorder, it is easy to be weighed down by despair. This fog of sadness can limit my ability to feel the Spirit and to reach out to my Saviour. For a time, I was certain that this was a moral failing on my part; surely, I could just pray and fast and I would be healed.
I was dismayed that throwing myself into the scriptures did not fully heal me. I still gained a lot from my studies. Doctrine and Covenants 122:7, particularly got me through some very tough moments; “If the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.”
It wasn’t until I started receiving weekly priesthood blessings that a door opened. I was told that I should talk to doctors, and that these medical professionals would be inspired as they spoke to me. Heeding these words, I was given medication that has, at times, kept me alive.
Along the same lines, I sought help from mental-health professionals, all with the guidance of the Spirit. My mother and I would pray for inspiration in finding the right person to help me. I was able to begin dialectical behaviour therapy with a psychologist, to whom I believe I was directed by the Spirit.
I realised that Heavenly Father was giving me the healing I so needed, and He was doing it through the hands of His children who had been given the skills to help me.
Whilst I still suffer, I now have a greater understanding of how the Lord can help me, and how He will answer my prayers, even in ways that at first do not seem obvious.

Christmas of 1977 was not a happy one for me. No family members were close enough to visit, we had almost no money, and we had no pretty decorations to boost my spirits—only a scraggly little Christmas tree strung with colored paper and popcorn chains. If not for the wide-eyed hope of our small children, I probably wouldn’t even have bothered with the tree.
My husband had to drive our car about 45 minutes to get to work, taking with him our only means of transportation. I was stuck at home all day, every day, miles away from anything and everything. The nearest town was a 20-minute drive over insanely twisting mountain roads. The chapel and most of the members of our tiny branch were nearly an hour away.
We had moved to this isolated Appalachian valley in a spasm of youthful idealism and adventurousness. My husband heard of cheap land in Virginia, and before I could say, “Middle of nowhere,” we had moved there. He built us a little house on the side of a mountain, with water piped in from a nearby spring.
We did have neighbors, though they were few and far between. The closest house was an 1801 log cabin, rented for a short while by a young family from our branch, the Andersons (names have been changed). They were poor like we were. Donald, the dad, was working six and sometimes seven days a week. Donald and Ruth had three small children, as we did, and Ruth was in a constant state of exhaustion.
It was a fairly precarious hike from my house to Ruth’s, over a deeply rutted, muddy road. For either of us—with a baby in our arms and two small children in tow—visits were a bit tricky. On one of our rare visits, however, Ruth mentioned to me that they hadn’t been able to get a Christmas tree. Donald left home before dawn and didn’t get back until late evening. Ruth just wasn’t up to traipsing about the countryside in search of a tree.
One evening just before Christmas I was struck with a sudden, passionate urge to find a Christmas tree for the Andersons. Out of nowhere the idea hit me—I just had to get them a tree. As pathetic as my own tree might be, it brought at least a portion of the Christmas spirit into our home.
I spent the rest of the evening making paper chains, popcorn strings, and, of course, a yellow star with glitter for the treetop. In the morning I hiked out onto the mountainside and searched until I found a small tree. I hacked it down and found an old can to decorate and fill with dirt for a base. The end product was more laughable than beautiful, but it looked cheery enough—if you sort of squinted your eyes.
I called to ask Ruth if I could come down, then bundled up my kids and made the hike down the mountain. I somehow managed to balance the tree and the children without major mishap and arrived safely at the cabin door. When Ruth answered my knock, she took one look at my comical little tree and burst into tears. I entered the house very much afraid that my idea had not been such a good one after all.
When Ruth regained her composure, she explained her tears. It was late the evening before when Donald finally arrived home from work. With nearly empty cupboards, the family had piled into the car for the long ride to the store. After a while three-year-old Michael said, “Daddy, can we say a prayer?”
Donald asked Michael if he would like to say it. Then with the simple faith of a child, Michael asked Heavenly Father to help them get a Christmas tree. After saying, “Amen,” Donald and Ruth looked at each other, knowing they would have to try harder to satisfy the longing of their little boy’s heart. They were not able to come up with a plan that night and went to bed more than a little perplexed.
So it was that when we appeared with the little tree, we were an answer to more than one prayer. As soon as the Anderson children caught a glimpse of us, they squealed with joy and made a place of honor for the funny looking tree. There could never have been a Christmas tree more loved.
The miracle of that Christmas, however, was not just the prayer that bounced from a little boy’s heart to heaven and back again to the heart of someone who could help. It was also the healing power I found in the act of giving.
From the moment the thought of finding a tree for the Andersons struck me, the spirit of Christmas began to fill my own heart. I was grateful that the Lord loved me enough to try to get through to me and teach me. And I was reminded anew that it is in losing ourselves that we find ourselves. As we serve, we find that “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds” (Ps. 147:3).

A few years ago, President Harold B. Lee received this letter from a married woman: “When we thought that the end was here and that there was only one thing to do and that was to get a divorce, we had been told that we should counsel with our bishop. At first … we hesitated, because he was just a young man. … But he was our bishop so we went to see him. We poured out our souls to our young bishop. He sat and listened silently, and when we ran out of conversation he said, simply, ‘Well, my wife and I, we had problems, too, and we learned how to solve them.’ That is all … he said. But you know there was something that happened as a result of that young bishop’s statement. We walked out of there and we said, ‘Well, if they can solve their problems, what is the matter with us?’” (Ensign, Jan. 1974, p. 100.)

We live in the midst of the land of the Old Testament. The Tigris and Euphrates rivers are only a few hours’ drive from our house. The Sunday School lessons seem to bring this part of the world to life, so we decided to visit the places we were studying. Our first trip to the lands of the Bible was labeled a family home evening activity—but we stayed a week.

We started our journey at 4:00 A.M.; that is the only cool and refreshing time of the day in the Middle East. As a breeze blew across my face, I looked at the desert I had come to know so well. It looked like the sun was coming up on my right, but as I looked more intently, I realized it was just the roaring flames near the oil wells. Kuwait with all its oil has so much natural gas that most of it is burned off. The bright orange flames add color to the brown desert. We were heading this morning for the fertile crescent of ancient times, known to our generation as Iraq.

Our original family home evening activity expanded to include students, teachers, a school bus, and Nofan, our Arabic-speaking guide and bus driver. Nofan slowed the bus at the Iraqi border and told us to expect a long inspection. He was right; the border guards took over two hours to check the visas in our passports and search our bus. Finally, when our patience was emptied to a drop, we were allowed into Iraq.

Then the Bible came to life before my eyes. We passed some Bedouins herding camels, black-robed women riding on the backs of donkeys, square mud-brick houses, barefoot children tending goats.

Nofan drove us to Al Qurna where the Euphrates and Tigris rivers join. This area between the two rivers is the legendary Garden of Eden according to our guide. He even showed us a tree labeled in English “Adam’s Tree.” We believe otherwise, but it was a good lead-in to questions.

In the swamplands between the Euphrates and the Tigris live the Marsh Arabs. These people live as they have for centuries in barrel-shaped houses made of reeds called mudhifs. They still use Stone-Age utensils and live an isolated life. I wondered if this could be the way people lived in the days of the Bible. We stopped and bought a watermelon, broke it into chunks, and shared it with the kids who swarmed around us wherever we went.

In Genesis we had read about Chaldea and that after the flood Noah’s son Shem settled in this area. Abraham is the tenth generation after Shem. My excitement rose as our bus headed toward Ur, the birthplace of Abraham. The dry, dusty road finally brought us to a massive temple, the ziggurat of Ur, where the idol worshipers made sacrifices to their pagan gods. As soon as the bus stopped, my brother and I jumped out to climb the big stone steps to the top. The desert spread out far below us with a grand view of the excavated ruins of ancient Ur. Ur was no longer just a name in the Bible; I could see it! We climbed back down the ziggurat and followed the guide through winding passages excavated by archeologists. All around us lay broken clay pots and fragments of bone. I could imagine some of the pots being used by Abraham and his family. Terah, Abraham’s father, was a maker of images. Maybe he also made some of these pots. One of the teachers found an unbroken clay bowl, but after she carefully dug it out of the sandy cliff, it fell apart in her hands. As we walked deeper into the excavation, we saw skulls partly buried in the mounds. The guard pointed out the place where Abraham possibly lived. Unbelievable! He also showed us the Royal Tombs of King Mesannedpada who ruled about 2500 B.C. Forty-three of the King’s servants took poison and were buried with him. They believed in life after death, and I guess the King still needed his servants. What loyalty! The Queen’s goldleaf crown and some jewels were found in her tomb along with a harp. The guard told us these things were in the museum in Baghdad, so we headed the bus in the direction of Baghdad.

Baghdad—was it actually for real, or were those Arabian Night stories I read as a kid only fairy tales? I could see a golden minaret, but the fabled city of riches looked just like any other city in the Middle East—rather dirty, noisy, and crowded. We stayed overnight in a campground next to the Tigris River. We spread our sleeping bags out in what they called a “resthouse.” My parents took one look and went to a hotel.

A two hour drive from Baghdad brought us to the once great city of Babylon. Nebuchadnezzar was King of this city at the time Lehi left Jerusalem to come to the promised land. Nebuchadnezzar’s Ishtar Gate has been rebuilt and is big and impressive, but it is hard to visualize the once-famous hanging gardens. The ruins look just like ruins to me. It was in this city that Daniel interpreted the King’s dreams and became a ruler in the Babylonian kingdom. It was here that Daniel was brought as a slave when Jerusalem was destroyed. It was here that Daniel was put in the Lion’s den and was saved by the Lord. The stories of Daniel became very real to me.

The next day we decided to visit the old Assyrian capital of Nineveh in northern Iraq. The story of Jonah and the whale had always been a favorite of mine. It took Jonah a while to get to Nineveh because he thought he could run from the Lord, but when Jonah finally arrived there, he convinced the people to listen to him and repent and worship God instead of stone idols. The Lord saved the city from destruction that time, but it’s in ruins now. Nabi Younis (Jonah) Mosque stands on a mound overlooking Nineveh. We were told that Jonah stood on this spot when he preached repentance to the Assyrians.

Visualizing the Old Testament prophets walking in the places where I walked gave me a stronger feeling about the scriptures and their teachings. Seeing these biblical places strengthened my testimony. The Bible has become a very important part of my life.

It was past midnight when the bus stopped in front of our house in Kuwait. We had driven all day through Iraq to get back in time to start school the next morning. In the Arab world our school week begins on Saturday. Good old mixed up Kuwait! It’s been a real blessing after all. Tonight as I kneel beside my bed I will thank my Heavenly Father for one more blessing, the opportunity of having the world as my home.

The next year we enrolled in junior high school. But the building could not accommodate all the students, so our class of the seventh grade was sent back to the Hamilton School.

We were insulted. We were furious. We’d spent six unhappy years in that building, and we felt we deserved something better. The boys of the class all met after school. We decided we wouldn’t tolerate this kind of treatment. We were determined we’d go on strike.

The next day we did not show up. But we had no place to go. We couldn’t stay home because our mothers would ask questions. We didn’t think of going downtown to a show. We had no money for that. We didn’t think of going to the park. We were afraid we might be seen by Mr. Clayton, the truant officer. We didn’t think of going out behind the school fence and telling shady stories because we didn’t know any. We’d never heard of such things as drugs or anything of the kind. We just wandered about and wasted the day.

The next morning, the principal, Mr. Stearns, was at the front door of the school to greet us. His demeanor matched his name. He said some pretty straightforward things and then told us that we could not come back to school until we brought a note from our parents. That was my first experience with a lockout. Striking, he said, was not the way to settle a problem. We were expected to be responsible citizens, and if we had a complaint, we could come to the principal’s office and discuss it.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to go home and get the note.

I remember walking sheepishly into the house. My mother asked what was wrong. I told her. I said that I needed a note. She wrote a note. It was very brief. It was the most stinging rebuke she ever gave me. It read as follows:

“Dear Mr. Stearns,
“Please excuse Gordon’s absence yesterday. His action was simply an impulse to follow the crowd.”
She signed it and handed it to me.

I walked back over to school and got there about the same time a few other boys did. We all handed our notes to Mr. Stearns. I do not know whether he read them, but I have never forgotten my mother’s note. Though I had been an active party to the action we had taken, I resolved then and there that I would never do anything on the basis of simply following the crowd. I determined then and there that I would make my own decisions on the basis of their merits and my standards and not be pushed in one direction or another by those around me.

That decision has blessed my life many times, sometimes in very uncomfortable circumstances. It has kept me from doing some things which, if indulged in, could at worst have resulted in serious injury and trouble, and at the best would have cost me my self-respect.

President McKay’s bearing, nobility, and dignity and his love of the Savior he served were evidenced in every word he spoke and in every thing he did. But what he had become through his commitment to the gospel was evident even when he sat peacefully and said nothing. The following incident is told by a man who met President McKay on his return from one of his visits to Europe:
“I remember being in New York when President McKay returned from Europe. Arrangements had been made for pictures to be taken, but the regular photographer was unable to go, so in desperation the United Press picked their crime photographer—a man accustomed to the toughest type of work in New York. He went to the airport, stayed there two hours, and returned later from the dark room with a tremendous sheaf of pictures. He was supposed to take only two. His boss immediately chided him: ‘What in the world are you wasting your time and all those photographic supplies for?’
“The photographer replied very curtly, saying he would gladly pay for the extra materials, and they could even dock him for the extra time he took. It was obvious that he was very touchy about it. Several hours later the vice-president called him to his office, wanting to learn what happened. The crime photographer said, ‘When I was a little boy, my mother used to read to me out of the Old Testament, and all my life I have wondered what a prophet of God must really look like. Well, today I found one.’”

Many years ago when we lived at a different location, Merlene said she wanted a rock garden. On a particular Saturday I went out into the field that was right behind our home and decided that if I dug a hole six feet deep, six feet wide, and six feet across, the dirt from that hole should be enough to provide her with a hill whereon we could place rocks and beautiful flowers in the corner of our yard.
To begin with, as I started digging the hole, I could throw the dirt, each shovelful, over my shoulder, over the fence, and into the corner where Merlene wanted the rock garden. As the hole got deeper and I became more tired, I would have to throw the dirt up on the side of the hole. Then I would climb out of the hole and throw the dirt onto the pile across the fence. As the hole became even deeper, I finally had to lower a bucket into the hole, fill the bucket, and lift it out, and pour it on the hill over the fence.
As I started the hole, Lawrence, our three-year-old, began to gather his little friends around. There must have been 15 or 20 little friends watching me dig the hole. When I got deep enough in the hole to use a bucket to lift the dirt out, I said to Lawrence and his little buddies, “If you’ll pull the bucket filled with dirt out of the hole and dump it on the shoulder of the hole each time I fill it so that I will not have to climb out, when I get finished with this hole, I’ll give it to you.” Now a hole isn’t much of a prize for an adult, but for three- or four-year-old boys, a deep hole with a little trench leading down into it is a great prize. So they began to assist me.
After doing this work for a few minutes, Lawrence said to me, “Dad, why are you lifting the dirt out of the hole, then climbing out of the hole and throwing it over the fence onto that pile of dirt?” I said, “Lawrence, your mother wants a rock garden in that corner, so I came out here to get enough dirt to build the hill for her rock garden. What your mother really wants me to do, that is what I do.” Then Lawrence turned to his little buddies and said, “Our mom is our leader.”

As a young high school boy, I was wrestling in a state tournament, and I was in my usual position—on the bottom. When I looked up from the mat, I spotted a familiar face among the fans in the bleachers. It wasn’t a pleasant face. In fact, it was one filled with pain. It was one of a father who was seeing his son on the bottom and who was working with all his energy (at that distance) to get his son on top. Having seen that look on his face, I knew there was only one thing I could do and that was to change my position. From somewhere came the strength I needed. I am quite certain that the young man I was wrestling was as surprised as I was when he found that I was on the top and that he had suddenly lost the match. Immediately the look on the face of my father changed; and a smile, a sense of accomplishment, and a sense of satisfaction were there instead. The encouragement from that parent, and the desire of a son to please his father, had reached to the son and given him strength to change his situation for the better.

For Christmas one year, my wife, Julia, made candy-cane chocolate sweets that we wrapped in little decorated boxes. Then we visited those in the Spanish-speaking branch we ministered to and gave them our gift, along with wishes for a merry Christmas.
When we arrived at the house of Brother Sanchez, a friendly, elderly member of our branch, we knocked and waited. No one was home, so we left the candy in his mailbox.
Several weeks later, during sacrament meeting, Brother Sanchez spoke of his conversion and of the many miracles he had experienced throughout his life. He testified of the amazing power of the Book of Mormon to answer life’s deepest questions. He lifted the set of scriptures he had received decades ago from the missionaries who had taught him. His voice trembled with his love for and testimony of the Lord.
Then Brother Sanchez did something we did not expect. He set our little decorated box on the pulpit. He said that when he found the box, he didn’t think he would eat the sweets because he is diabetic. Instead, he placed the box on his nightstand and forgot about it.
A few days later, as he lay in bed, he said he felt his blood sugar suddenly drop. Fear overcame him when his body began to shake. He recognized that he faced an emergency, knowing that he might need to call an ambulance. Then he noticed the box. He grabbed it, opened it, and quickly ate the chocolates. He felt relief as his blood sugar returned to normal.
Brother Sanchez lifted the empty box and testified that small acts of service can make a big difference. He testified that such experiences are not a coincidence and that Heavenly Father’s hand is in the details of our lives.
My wife and I were humbled to know that our small act of service had made a large impact on him and had maybe even saved his life. As we do small acts of service for those around us, the Lord will unlock opportunities that bless lives in powerful ways.

Since I have been a member of the Church, I have had a sincere desire to keep the commandments. Paying tithing, however, was a challenge because my mother, who was not a Latter-day Saint, would not allow it.
When I got paid, I set aside money for tithing in one of my drawers. But when the day came to return the money to the Lord, it wasn’t there. I asked my mother if she had seen it, and she answered that she had spent it because the Lord did not need it. I did not argue with her, for I believed there was another way to resolve this problem.
Because I was not able to pay my tithing, I was sad for a long time. When I went to my bishop’s office for tithing settlement, he asked if I was a full-tithe payer, and with tears in my eyes I told him I was not because my mother had taken my tithing money. My bishop comforted me by saying that the Lord knew the desires of my heart. Then he asked me to bring my mother in for an interview that Wednesday. I agreed.
During that week I asked myself, “How can I take my mother for an interview with the bishop if she is not a Church member? She won’t accept the invitation!’
When Wednesday arrived I had not said anything to her, so I simply asked her to come with me to the meetinghouse, explaining that I did not want to go alone. Luckily, she said she would go.
Bishop Feitosa received her kindly and led her into his office. I was very anxious while my mother was in there. Finally my mother came out of his office—with a smile.
On the way home, my mother looked at me and said, “From now on you are going to pay your tithing every month.” What joy filled my heart! The Lord had prepared a means for my mother to understand my desire to observe this sacred commandment.
My mother has since joined the Church. She pays her tithing and makes sure I pay mine. We have received marvelous blessings from keeping this commandment because an inspired leader spoke with my mother about sacrifice, dedication, and faithfulness to the Lord.
Evanilda Gomes do Nascimento, Brazil

As a young boy, I wanted to have a paying job. My brother and sister and I started our own fish bait business. We put our stand on a busy street corner where fishermen could conveniently stop on their way to the many fishing spots up the canyon. We did not sell common variety fish bait like some of the other kids in the neighborhood; rather my father taught us that we were worm merchants. We distinguished ourselves from our competition by offering the liveliest worms at the best price. To keep the worms active we actually fed them coffee grounds that my dad brought home from the local drugstore. Our harvesting tactics were a closely guarded secret, and we had several prime spots for catching worms after nightfall. Our enterprise was so successful that it not only funded much of my education, but I still had $300 left of my earnings to buy a diamond ring for my wife when I got married.