Gospel Story Finder

The Saints in Johannesburg reach out to each other and to those around them. For example, when the house of Ross’s friend Tumi flooded, many friends from church helped clean up the water and cheer up the family. “This was a turning point for Tumi’s mom, who wasn’t a member,” explains Ross. “She started seeing the missionaries, and today she is a member and a Relief Society teacher.” Such loving watchcare is fairly typical, as the South African members see each other as brothers and sisters. “We involve ourselves as though it was our problem,” Ross says.

Now 15 years old, I went to live with a foster family for about a year. That was when the fifth miracle came. While sleigh riding with two friends, I met an LDS family with two nice daughters. During the ride home, one of the daughters spoke up, saying, “I think the Lord wants us to adopt Ephrem Smith.” Remarkably, the other three members of the family had also received the same inspiration. The father worked with the Department of Social Services, and soon I moved to my new home. From the very beginning my amazing new father gave me agency. For example, he explained that their family goes to church on Sundays. He allowed me to choose to join them or stay home; he said that they still would love me if I chose not to attend church. I chose to attend church, and I have since made many other righteous decisions.

Karen Cromar’s Laurel class from the Holladay 14th Ward went together to fill sandbags as a service project. But for Karen, that was just the beginning of her volunteer service. Karen said, “Filling sandbags just seemed like a more worthwhile activity than going to a leader’s house for dinner or something. I guess I’m the type that likes to be involved. When I found out that we were needed, my friends and I went back several more nights after work to help fill sandbags. It’s hard work. We would go for half an hour working really hard then take a break before starting all over again.” The priests quorum in Karen’s ward was called out of Church meetings to help sandbag Big Cottonwood Creek, which was endangering hundreds of homes.

It was the type of crisis that didn’t go away in a few hours. The danger continued for weeks as the creek rose, but when the call went out for volunteers, young people responded in record numbers. But when they were asked individually how they felt about helping, the answer was nearly always the same, “It feels good to help where I’m really needed.”

Help was given freely to anyone who needed it. Ward organizations were used to make assignments, but those who were not members of the Church received the same care and consideration as their LDS neighbors.

Curt Dennis and his wife, Sharon, had moved into their home exactly one month before mud filled the basement and covered their yard. Discouraged by the sheer effort it would take to clean up, Curt was trying to decide where to start when he saw a most unusual sight. “It was fantastic. It was Sunday, and I was standing by my house when I saw a hundred people with shovels over their shoulders walking down the street. The last twenty or so peeled off and came over and started digging the mud out from around my home. They were the members of the wards around here. It was incredibly backbreaking work lugging mud out of here in wheelbarrows, but with two crews working all day, they accomplished more than I could have with the tractor I was planning on renting.”

The Dennises appreciated the help they received. “We are getting to know a lot of people really fast. We are so appreciative of the people just pitching in. There is no substitute for a lot of help.”

Curt has found that the experience has changed his mind on a lot of things. “I think the thing that felt best was people coming up and wanting to help. It wasn’t like they felt they had to; they really felt good about it. The fact that they were there helped us know that things would be all right.”

The floodwaters subsided. Left behind, besides the muck and mud, are the stories of young people really pitching in and helping where they were needed. There were few individual heroes. But there were those like the blind boy who came every day for a week with his brother to fill sandbags. There was the Mia Maid class who rescued rosebushes from the flow of mud that covered a yard. And the young men who stood in icy cold water stacking sandbags to protect the home of an elderly couple.

This response didn’t happen just in the Salt Lake Valley. It went on throughout Utah where the danger of flooding was a daily concern for weeks. The youth were there to help in Vernal, in Spanish Fork, in Fillmore, in Ogden, wherever there was danger.

It seemed that when they were needed, thousands of young people came through with the energy of youth and the humility of those who truly know how to serve.

When Leo Winegar of the United States first encountered questions about Church history, he learned the importance of compassionate friends. “My testimony withered,” he explains, as he went through a period of “loneliness and dark despair when I struggled to pray.” One day Leo felt impressed to contact a Church history professor. He not only encouraged Leo to reconsider his path of doubt but also became a close friend. Leo’s testimony gradually returned with the help of Leo’s mentor and years of hopeful study. In time, he found answers to many questions. “I feel eternally grateful to my Savior Jesus Christ for guiding me back,” he explains, “and for the friends who represented Him.”

When Heber J. Grant was 10 years old, he took a singing class.
Teacher: You can’t carry a tune, Heber. You’ll never learn how to sing.
Years later Heber heard Horace S. Ensign sing.
Heber: I would give you three months of my spare time if I could learn to sing one or two hymns!
Horace: Anyone can learn to sing. Are you willing to practice?
After two weeks, Heber had learned to sing “O My Father.” Two months later he could sing four other hymns.

“If those clouds get any darker, I’ll need a light to work by,” grunted the older man who worked alongside Lao Moy. He was placing a low-power explosive into a crack in a mammoth-size granite boulder.
Twelve-year-old Lao Moy wiped the rock dust from his eyes and squinted into the wintry heavens. The sharp wind that knifed down through the cottonwood canyons of the Wasatch Mountains cooled the sweat on his face. He thought of the high winds he and his father Chen had experienced on the clipper ship that had brought them to America from their ancestral home in China seven years ago.
Lao Moy’s father had been a fisherman on a sampan in Canton when a terrible wharf fire took the lives of Mother, Grandfather, and his baby sister Sze. Then the lure of gold in a strange, far-off land called America tempted Chen in the summer of 1855 to leave China for the goldfields of California. Perhaps, he thought, I can do better by Lao Moy there.
But Lao Moy was to discover at a very young age, along with his father, that the Lord makes the rain to fall on the just and the unjust. What little gold Chen was able to earn as a mine worker was stolen by his rough, bad-tempered employers. Then had come that awful night when a half-dozen drunken men had broken down their shanty door and killed him.
Lao Moy stared at the cloud shadows drifting across the canyon walls like a vulture’s wing. He gritted his teeth and his eyes filled with tears. The bitter memory of his father’s death lodged once again in the depths of his heart.
The immigrant’s youthful eyes shifted to Mosiah Twiggs, the big, bearded Mormon who had rescued him that fateful night. Waves of love and gratitude rolled up the shores of Lao Moy’s sore heart and washed away his tears.
Mosiah, too, had been ensnared by dreams of gold, so he left the Salt Lake Valley settlement in ’49 to fall prey to the same misfortune that had beset so many others—empty pockets and broken dreams.
After his father’s death, Lao Moy had agreed without misgivings to return with Mosiah to Salt Lake City, feeling a loyalty to the soft-spoken stranger who had risked his life to save someone he didn’t even know.
It had been a hazardous journey by wagon from the goldfields of California to the Salt Lake Valley, and they had encountered countless perils. But Mosiah’s promise that the God of Israel would protect them had planted the seeds of a testimony in the boy’s heart. Lao Moy wondered about this man who dutifully paid 10 percent of his earnings to his church for tithing.
Yet standing in the way of Lao Moy’s spiritual progress was that old bitterness born in the goldfields. It crouched like a great beast over his peace and challenged his moments of newfound joy. He had long wished to rid himself of it, to strike out against it, but something or someone always seemed to stand in the way.
Mosiah gazed curiously in the direction of the boy’s unbroken stare. “Autumn leaves die beautifully, don’t they, Lao Moy?” he said, his face lifted into the leaf-spattered wind.
“Yes,” answered Lao Moy, his hurtful thoughts suddenly scattered by his guardian’s grand vision. Autumn was indeed a beautiful time of year, especially in the canyons. Lao Moy’s eyes raced up the huge, yellow red chasms with renewed excitement. He loved these mountains. Mosiah had told him many times about them. How the erosion of long ages had cut deep canyons. How huge glaciers, descending with unyielding power, had broken loose and carried countless boulders, many of goliath size, down the immense mountain furrows. It was these isolated blocks, called erratics, that provided the supply of building stones for the Salt Lake Temple.
In these canyons, Mosiah, Lao Moy, and many other faithful Saints worked tirelessly to divide the boulders with hand drills, wedges, and low-power explosives. The rough blocks were then transported by oxteam—four yoke required for each block—and every trip was a difficult three- or four-day journey to the temple site some twenty miles away.
Mosiah touched Lao Moy’s shoulder and brought him out of his reverie. “I’m going to set off the blast, Lao Moy,” he cautioned, and then shouted a warning to the nearby workers. Mosiah lit the fuse and sprinted with Lao Moy for cover.
Two other workmen held a team of oxen. One of them was fourteen-year-old Corey Atwood. Corey, a tough, stout boy, had long taken pleasure in cruelly funning Lao Moy because of his broken English, his long queue (braid), and his quiet and obedient ways. It was often Corey who kept Lao Moy’s bitterness alive, but the Chinese boy had held it all inside, even when the troublesome Corey had once grabbed Lao Moy’s queue and threatened to cut it off with a knife.
The blast erupted like the sound of cannon fire over a Virginia cottonfield, and the big piece of granite split in two. Cheers went up, and Mosiah scrambled up the rocks to view his accomplishment. Lao Moy started up, too, but was soon held fast by Corey, who held onto his queue.
“What’s the matter, Lao Moy,” he chuckled, “somebody got your tail?”
Suddenly something exploded inside Lao Moy with no less force than Mosiah’s dynamite blast. He turned and struck Corey in the face so hard that the big boy was lifted off his feet and thrown backward in front of the team of oxen. The wide-eyed Atwood looked as surprised as Lao Moy. He wiped at the blood on his mouth and started to lift himself up when a clap of thunder suddenly boomed. As the already spooked oxen lurched forward, Lao Moy sprang for Corey and rolled him out of the path of pounding hooves and grinding wheels.
For a long moment the two boys just lay there, staring at each other. Finally, a smile broke across Corey’s dusty, blood-smeared face. Lao Moy smiled back, and all the old bitterness in his heart seemed to melt away like ice in a summer sun. A new peaceful feeling assured him it would not return.
Lao Moy was forty-five years old when the Salt Lake Temple was finally dedicated on April 6, 1893; Mosiah, seventy-six; and Corey Atwood, forty-seven. Corey sat close beside Lao Moy as President Wilford Woodruff offered the dedicatory prayer. A friendship had grown between them, a friendship as strong as the temple granite they had helped to cut. And like that granite, it would last forever.

Paul and Mar Jean Lewis from Utah had already served three missions together (Palmyra New York Temple; Hong Kong China Temple; and Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia with seminaries and institutes). They were preparing to serve another when their stake president asked, “Would you be willing to serve right here in our own stake, supporting the mission we live in?”
“We’re new here, so it was a wonderful opportunity,” Sister Lewis says. “We serve with the young elders and sisters, have a close association with the mission president, go to district and zone meetings, and work with ward mission leaders.” They also visit investigators and those who are less active.
“We have met wonderful people we would never have known otherwise,” Sister Lewis says, “including some who have drifted off the path. To see them come back, receive ordinances, and go to the temple is a wonderful blessing.”
“Many couples, when they think about serving a mission, are worried about what they’ll do with their home and their car or what they’ll miss out on with their family,” Elder Lewis says. “We’ve been able to live in our own house and drive our own car. We are encouraged to go to family activities, as long as they don’t interfere with missionary responsibilities. And we were even here for the birth of a grandchild.”

Riptide “‘He needs a hug,’ Zach’s father said, ‘and then he needs a name.’” Zach named the puppy Riptide after the current so strong when it runs out to sea that the sandbars crumble. Riptide became a self-appointed lifeguard on the beach. The officer didn’t want him there—until the riptide came when the human lifeguards couldn’t save all the swimmers being dragged out to sea. … Based on a true story.Frances Ward Weller4–8 years

Otavalo, a beautiful city in northeastern Ecuador, is even more beautiful in my memory because of an experience I had there while serving in the Ecuador Quito Mission. One afternoon in September 1996 my companion and I were walking to a teaching appointment. Suddenly, some children ran out of a small, humble house, crying, “A blessing! A blessing! Give us a blessing!”
We were astonished and didn’t know what to think. We considered ignoring them and continuing on, but something prompted us to find out what was happening. We feared something terrible had taken place.
The children quickly ran back inside the house. We followed them and found a lady who was as surprised to see us as we were surprised to see her. We explained what had happened, and smiling, she told us, “The children were just playing.” We talked for a few minutes, took her name as a referral, then left.
Two days later we returned and discovered she was a member of the Church. She hadn’t gone to church for a long time, she said, mostly because she hadn’t felt anyone had encouraged her. Her children were not members of the Church. We sensed that she wanted the gospel of Jesus Christ to be part of her and her children’s lives.
We shared the message of the gospel with her children, and they were baptized two weeks later. At the baptismal service, one of the children began to cry with joy. He said his mother had changed, and he was very happy the Lord had sent the missionaries to their house.
Little did those children know that when they so playfully asked for a blessing, the Lord would answer them—in abundance. Today, the family continues to be strong and faithful in the Church.

When I was 14, some Latter-day Saint missionaries came to our home and taught my mother and me. They soon invited us to be baptized. My mother declined, but I said yes. Looking back, I don’t know that I was converted. I think that, like many teens, I was simply looking to do something different than the norm.
For the next year I went to church by myself. I didn’t really feel like I fit in, and I didn’t understand much of what was taught. But I was active. The next year I lived away from home and attended a Church-owned high school in Mexico City. Although I had loved the high school during my initial visit and worked hard to be accepted to the school (and to convince my parents to let me attend), I quickly found that being on my own wasn’t easy. I still didn’t have a testimony. I didn’t really understand who Joseph Smith was or what the Book of Mormon taught. More than ever I felt like I didn’t fit in.
Of course, I didn’t tell my parents. I had spent a lot of time convincing them to let me come to this school. How could I admit that maybe this wasn’t the place for me after all? Because of my pride, I just struggled silently.
My difficult situation became worse when I received news that my parents were divorcing. I felt as though my whole world was being destroyed.
It was at that point that my bishop took me aside and asked how I was doing. I told him about all of my frustrations and my sorrows. “I feel like I really don’t know anything anymore,” I said.
That good bishop started teaching me about the gospel. We started with how to truly communicate with Heavenly Father. Over time we talked about the Atonement. He taught me truths of the gospel, and for the first time, I felt I had a testimony. I was glad I had something to cling to in that shaky period. Even though I felt powerless to help my family, I was able to feel a sense of happiness in being close to Heavenly Father. I knew that He knew me, and that changed everything.
Thanks to the love and patient teaching of my bishop, high school became a positive period in my life. Attending the Church high school changed my vision of who I was and what my life could be. When I graduated, I stayed in Mexico City. The first thing I did once I found a place to live was find the local ward so I could continue to have a place of refuge, a place where I could grow in the gospel.
A short time after that, I served a mission on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. I found great joy in sharing with others the truths that had given me a solid foundation in an otherwise turbulent time of life.

A sister with Down syndrome testified at a legislative hearing in Utah to protect unborn children diagnosed with Down syndrome. She boldly stated that she and others like her had a right to live. Afterward, she stood and gestured to all the committee members and stated, “And I love all of you!”
Lisa Wilson testified at a Utah legislative hearing to protect unborn children with Down syndrome.
Photograph courtesy of Lisa Wilson’s family

Today I share an example with you of “how the Lord can help you” that was shared with me many years ago by one of my youth leaders. This man had an enormous personal impact on me growing up and has recently passed away. Thad Carlson was raised in the Great Depression era (in the United States) as the ninth of fourteen children. His family made a living by farming and raising cattle. It was a difficult time financially, and their greatest asset in being able to support their large family was their herd of cattle. In his youth, one of Thad’s responsibilities on the farm was to care for and, when necessary, herd the cattle to assure they found the best feed, a big job for a young boy. He was able to do this with the aid of a smart cow pony who knew exactly what to do with very little direction. The pony was named Old Smoky. Thad described that Old Smoky had one fault – which was that he never wanted to be caught. Whenever this horse was approached to be caught, he would just run away, knowing that he was going to be put to work!

On this day, after Old Smoky was caught, bridled and saddled, young Thad rode out to the pasture where the cattle were grazing. The ground was dry, and so was the pasture, as the whole area was experiencing a drought. Thad noticed that the grass outside the pasture along the sides of the railroad tracks seemed longer and greener. So, he thought they could herd the cows outside the fenced pasture and let them enjoy some of that good feed which was right along the railroad tracks. With the help of Old Smoky, he herded the cattle out of the pasture, where they began to move back and forth along the rail tracks feeding on the better, greener grass. Everything seemed to be working out so well with this plan. The contented cows seemed to be taking care of themselves, so Thad got off his horse, and sat on the reins of the bridle enjoying the surroundings around him, playing and amusing himself. Old Smoky eventually drifted away, his reins slipping out from under Thad, looking to graze in the green grass himself.

This idyllic and peaceful moment came to a crashing and abrupt halt when Thad suddenly heard a loud noise from far away. It was the whistle of an oncoming locomotive barreling down the very rail tracks where his cattle herd were lazily scattered right in front of him! He recognized the consequences could be devastating to the herd and also to his family if he did not act quickly to get the cattle back into the pasture away from that oncoming train. He felt he would never be able to forgive himself for not fulfilling his trusted responsibility. He swiftly jumped to his feet and ran to grab the reins of Old Smoky. Old Smoky saw him coming and quickly danced away from Thad – of course not wanting to be caught. Breathless and desperate, with images of dead cows and family tragedy flashing through his mind, Thad knew he had to act fast.

He later recorded what followed next :
“My primary teacher had taught us to pray, and reinforced teachings learned from my mother. With no other recourse, I dropped to my knees and started to pray for help to clear the cows off the tracks.” He continues, “I didn’t hear a voice, but the clear thought came, “Notice how the cows can walk by Old Smoky and he doesn’t move. So . . . now that you are on your knees, also get on your hands. Play [pretend] like you’re a cow and crawl over to Old Smoky.” I did. He didn’t move. I grabbed his reins, led him to the fence, hopped on his back and we raced like the wind to get the cows back into the pasture. Old Smoky was unusually brilliant at every twist and turn.”

Thad continued to describe that at the time he “didn’t dare tell anyone about this for fear of getting his pants kicked . . .”
He also described that it was sometime later, when he was in high school that it fully dawned on him that he had a very clear answer to his prayer in a critical time of need. He observed that, “angels administered to Old Smoky beyond my ability, and our family was spared a tragedy.”

Later on, he shared: “this was the first of many promptings that was to come to me. ‘And whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, which is right, believing that ye shall receive, behold, it shall be given unto you.’”10
He finally quipped, “whenever someone would sing the song ‘On Top of Old Smoky’, I always thought of prayer.”

Let me tell you another story on this theme. This time, I am the basketball player chastened by the coach.

THE FANCY PASS When I was a freshman playing for BYU, Coach Frank Arnold did not like behind-the-back passes or any kind of fancy pass and he told us so. He taught sound fundamental basketball. I remember vividly the time when I caught the ball on a fast break and a defender caused me to stop and turn my back to the basket. As my teammates came running down the floor, no one in the first wave was open. Then I noticed our center, Alan Taylor, who was trailing the play. I was at the foul line extended, and Alan ran down the opposite side of the lane and was headed unguarded directly to our basket. So with my back to our basket, I threw the ball behind my head, trying to hit Alan for an easy dunk. The only problem with my plan was that as I released the ball toward Alan, the guy guarding me deflected it to one of his teammates, who took off with the ball the other way. Shortly thereafter, Coach Arnold took me out of the game. When I walked off the court, he let me know, in no uncertain terms, that that was the last fancy pass I would ever throw behind my head. Sitting on the bench, I had to make a decision. I could shout back at my coach. I could pout and say to myself, “He is wrong.” I could go back in the game and ignore his instructions. OR I could follow the coach’s direction and eliminate the behind-the-head pass from my game. I liked playing. I hated sitting on the bench. So I didn’t want to do anything to alienate my coach. That was the last behind-the-head pass that I remember throwing in my college or professional career.

Emmeline gave birth to a son, Eugene, on September 1, 1844. But after six weeks, he died of fever. Her husband James went down the river to the city of St. Louis, Missouri, for work. There he began working as a merchant seaman and sailed for the East Indies. She never heard from him again.
To earn money, Emmeline started teaching again. She instructed the younger children of Newel K. and Elizabeth Ann Whitney. Sister Whitney, who had been a counselor to Emma Smith in the Female Relief Society of Nauvoo, taught her much about the gospel. Newel explained the promises of the priesthood and of temple ordinances. Emmeline was sealed to Newel as a plural wife. She joined the large Whitney family for the trek west with the Saints.
Emmeline and Newel had two daughters, Isabel and Melvina, before Newel died suddenly in Salt Lake City, Utah Territory, in September 1850. Emmeline was only 22 and again needed to support herself as a teacher. Though feeling lost, she cherished a prophecy Newel made about her life: “He said I should have nothing to do but to devote my whole time to writing and to literary pursuits, and that I should sit and eat and drink and converse with the nobles of the earth and tell them of the Gospel.”4
In 1852, Emmeline married Daniel H. Wells as a plural wife. They had three daughters together, Emeline, Elizabeth Ann, and Louisa. In the 1870s, Emmeline accepted callings in her ward Relief Society as assistant secretary and then as a visiting teaching leader.5 These callings built her confidence as she furthered her writing and speaking skills.
In 1872, a new semimonthly periodical called the Woman’s Exponent started in Salt Lake City “for Latter-day Saint women to help them learn about their work, their lives, and their history.”6 Emmeline submitted articles. Eliza R. Snow, a member of the Exponent committee, noticed her talent and asked her to write an editorial. Emmeline wrote in her diary, “I love this kind of work.”7 She began helping in the Woman’s Exponent office and in 1875 was named associate editor. In 1876, President Brigham Young asked Emmeline to lead the women’s grain storage program as well. In August 1877, Emmeline became the editor of the Woman’s Exponent.
Emmeline was also a strong advocate for the rights of women and of the Saints. She later became president of the Utah Woman’s Suffrage Association, where she educated women and urged lawmakers to confirm women’s right to vote in the state constitution. She acknowledged the demands on her time and energy. But she wrote that it was her way to “work for the elevation and uplifting of humanity.”8
In her lifetime, Emmeline met and talked with six presidents of the United States. She spoke with two of these presidents in the White House on behalf of the Church. She hoped to lighten legislation against Latter-day Saints.
In January 1879, Emmeline and Zina Young Williams presented a message to members of Congress and to President Rutherford B. Hayes and his wife. Emmeline and Zina spoke against bills aimed to punish Church members in the Utah Territory for their religious beliefs. They also asked for consideration of wives and children who would be harmed by measures to send men to prison for participating in plural marriage.9 Emmeline wrote, “I thank God I was the first to represent our women in the Halls of Congress.”10
Seven years later, Emmeline traveled to Washington, DC, USA, with a similar purpose. She met with congressmen and senators. She talked with Rose Cleveland (the president’s sister and Acting First Lady) and then spoke with President Grover Cleveland himself. Emmeline and Dr. Ellen Ferguson represented the Latter-day Saint women of the Utah Territory and presented him a memorial plea urging fairness for the Saints in political matters.11
In these efforts, Emmeline was supported by leaders of the National Woman Suffrage Association, particularly by Susan B. Anthony, who greeted her warmly whenever they met and emphasized their common interest in improving the lives of women.12
Emmeline served 22 years as corresponding and general secretary of the Relief Society under Presidents Zina D. H. Young and Bathsheba W. Smith.13 She edited the Woman’s Exponent for 37 years. She led the grain storage movement for 42 years. She had a keen memory and was a fount of information for those who counseled with her. When President Joseph F. Smith called her to be the Relief Society General President in 1910, she served for ten and a half years, until shortly before her death in 1921. She was the last Relief Society General President to have known Joseph Smith personally, and she bore witness that when he spoke, she “saw his magnificent presence,” felt his influence, and knew “that he was in very deed a Prophet of God.”14
As Emmeline fulfilled roles of homemaker, editor, and leader of women, she felt “very grateful to God for all His mercies and blessings in giving me powers and faculties that are a constant source of wealth to my mind; my spirit is usually invigorated and buoyed up, and I am able to bear all that devolves upon me.”15

A few years ago I was at the house of a friend when I met two well-dressed young men who introduced themselves as Latter-day Saint missionaries. I thought it was strange that they had come all the way to Italy to convert people who already believed in the Savior.
I later asked them to come to my house. “If you want, you can come see me for a cultural exchange,” I said. “But don’t think I’m going to change religions.”
When we met the next night, the missionaries spoke of the Book of Mormon. I thought it strange that I had never heard of it before. I invited them back, but after the second visit my wife, Anna Maria, decided they were crazy and would leave the house during our discussions. The missionaries seemed a little unusual to me as well, but I was curious to know what they had to say and continued to meet with them.
One night when Anna Maria came home, she heard us talking about eternal marriage. This greatly interested her, and we decided that we would start the discussions again together. She had a great knowledge of the scriptures and always had a long list of questions. The elders answered some of them right away, but others they had to go home and research. Each week without fail they returned with responses, and each week Anna Maria had another list of questions.
Shortly after we had finished the discussions, Anna Maria surprised me by asking for my permission to be baptized. I told her I had nothing against it if she was truly converted. I attended her baptism on March 5, 1995, enjoying a wonderful feeling during the service.
I continued to read extensively about the Church, and the missionaries continued to encourage me. Finally I decided to put Moroni’s promise to the test (see Moroni 10:4–5). I wanted to know whether the Book of Mormon came from God or whether it was just a nice novel.
One day in June 1995 while I was alone at home, I knelt at the foot of my bed and asked Heavenly Father, “Is the Book of Mormon true, and if so, when should I be baptized?” Suddenly I felt in my heart and in my mind a clear voice that told me, “The Book of Mormon is true.” I then had a clear impression when to be baptized. A week later I prayed again and received the same answer. My heart was bursting with joy. I now knew that God had spoken to me: the Book of Mormon was inspired of God and Joseph Smith was a true prophet.
Finally, on September 17, 1995, I entered the waters of baptism, a year and a half since I started meeting with the missionaries. Soon our daughter, Aba Chiara, became interested in the Church and was also baptized. In January 1997 our family was sealed in the Bern Switzerland Temple.
We know that this is the true Church, governed by Jesus Christ through a prophet and the priesthood. We are thankful to the Lord for His love, for leading us to the missionaries, and for our knowledge of the gospel.

The rooms that April morning had been beautifully decorated with flowers and potted plants, for it was President Snow’s eighty-seventh birthday. On the mantle of the northeast parlor stood a gorgeous bouquet of American beauty roses. Early that morning, before the president was up, there had come a knock at the door of the Beehive House. When it was opened, there stood two little girls almost hidden behind armloads of stunning red roses. They explained that the flowers were for President Snow.
With radiant faces, the children were conducted directly to the prophet’s bedroom. There they sang two or three songs. President Snow was deeply touched by the serenade and said he would cherish the memory all of his life.

The prayers of one missionary’s parents were answered by the personal ministry of another. A missionary arrived in a foreign mission and was struggling with discouragement. He said he couldn’t take it and wanted to come home. His parents and others tried to encourage him but to no avail. At a reception during a training session, this distraught father mentioned his son’s struggle to a priesthood leader.
The following week an envelope arrived at the parents’ home. Inside was a copy of a letter that had been sent to their son. The letter had been typed on a typewriter and very tenderly addressed to the discouraged elder. It was several pages long, full of encouragement and the writer’s own missionary experiences about faith and sticking to it. The letter was warm, loving, thoughtful, personal, and signed, “Sincerely, your brother, President Gordon B. Hinckley.” Shortly after this, the elder wrote his parents to say he was staying. He became a mighty power for good among the people of his mission.

Fredrick A., 17, says that when his friend Robert invited him to church, he felt the Spirit so strongly that he couldn’t deny it.
“When I got to church, the Spirit of God was sent upon me,” Fredrick says. “As I was given the Book of Mormon, I started reading it. If I don’t understand, I always ask my branch president and pray.”
Robert (left) and Fredrick have remained friends since Robert introduced him to the gospel.

One day there was a big storm. My friend’s basement filled with water. They had to get rid of a lot of stuff. My friend lost all of her summer clothes except for one pair of pants. My mom, sister, and I decided to help. We made dinner and gave them money to help buy some clothes for my friend. We also got a clean-up kit from the Church. My friend’s mom cried when we took the things over. When I handed her the money and dinner, I felt the Spirit and I felt my testimony of service grow in my heart. I know we did the right thing. It has made me want to serve more.

Almost as soon as the caravan stopped at the end of the forest road, the doors popped open and Scouts, dads, and a lot of backpacking equipment and fluorescent-orange life jackets came tumbling out of the cars and trucks. In no time at all the Scouts were lined up, drawing their allotment of food to carry, and stuffing it into their packs. Everyone seemed to know his duty and how to perform it. The few dads who were along to help were impressed with the organization. In fact, the only person not surprised by all this super efficiency performed by 12- and 13-year-old boys was their Scoutmaster, Nob Wimmer.
For Brother Wimmer this trip with the American Fork Utah 14th Ward Scouts was only one of hundreds of Scouting outings he has participated in during his 25 years of Scouting experience.
When asked how he got 12- and 13-year-old boys to perform much beyond their years, he commented on his philosophy:
“The age of the boys isn’t that critical. With cooperation you’d be surprised what even young boys can accomplish. There are three elements that do seem to make for a great trip. First, you need to plan well in advance. Second, a trip needs to require effort from everyone. Preferably the work starts a long time before the trip. If it does, the people involved get more excited about the actual event, they learn more, and they improve their teamwork. Then when we have taken care of all the variables that we can control, the third element of a great trip often comes into play. This is the element of surprise—the unexpected or the unusual happening that really makes the event stay alive in people’s minds long after the trip is over.”
To the 35 Scouts and adults who went, the trip was a success. They had been planning for months; each of them knew his duties and how to carry them out. They had also been working very hard to get ready. They learned how to handle canoes. They conditioned themselves to their backpacks, and many of the Scouts invested extra hours in learning to tie fishing flies. They worked one evening a week with Brother Wimmer learning how to do it, and then they tied quantities of flies in anticipation of the trip. In addition, every meal of the five-day camp was carefully planned in advance. Then, a few days before the trip, the food was bought and repacked so it would be easier to carry. They used off-the-shelf grocery items rather than the more expensive dehydrated backpacking foods. They even made their own oven-dried jerky to save on weight and expense.
Once the gear was out of the vehicles and strapped on backs, everyone started up the trail together. The few miles to the lake seemed more like a dozen since each person not only had to carry his own personal gear but also had to take a turn helping to carry one of the canoes.
At the lake, supplies and Scouts were ferried across the water to a lovely campsite. Scouts built simple, plastic-covered shelters under the pines, and had camp completely set up and organized in time to take in an evening’s fishing.
It was easy to get to sleep that first night. David Miller, however, woke up in the middle of the night with a creepy feeling that he wasn’t alone in his bag.
“I thought I felt something in my bag. I lay still for a while, and pretty soon whatever it was began running down my back. I grabbed it between the folds of my sleeping bag, got out of the bag, and woke my father. He helped me brush it out. It was a little squirrel, and it seemed as glad to be out of the bag as I was.”
The next morning Bishop Bean found fresh moose tracks around his sleeping bag, and there were deer tracks all through camp. After that everyone kept watch for the abundant wildlife in the area. Every morning and evening they were able to watch moose saunter down to the lake for a drink and a swim.
“The wildlife provided the unusual and the unexpected on this trip,” said Brother Wimmer. “Each day most of the boys got to see deer and moose in their natural setting. The animals didn’t even seem frightened of us. We didn’t bother them, and they seemed content to let us share their lake for a few days.”
Everyone caught some fish, and even one boy who had been cool on the trip in the first place had a terrific time. He told the leaders when they were planning the trip, “I don’t want to go up in the woods somewhere and play cowboys and Indians.”
“He sure got interested when the fish started biting,” said Bishop Bean. Like the rest of the boys, he had set goals he wanted to accomplish on this trip. Each boy became more proficient at some skill, and they were all better trained to operate as a group than ever before.
During lunch one day one of the adults was swatting at some of the huge horseflies that seemed to be everywhere. “These horseflies are terrible,” he said.
Brother Wimmer piped up, “Don’t say that! Nothing up here is terrible!”
“Okay, I’ll just say the horseflies are mildly aggravating.”
“Fine,” said Brother Wimmer with a smile, and then let silence complete the sermon. It was a sermon that was relived time and again as the boys later shared the memories of this experience at troop meetings and a special ward banquet in their honor.