Gospel Story Finder

Both his parents and he understood the importance of education and a mission. After his graduation from the university, he faced a major decision in 1933, when he was called to go on a mission. At that time, most young men in the Church were not able to serve because of a global economic depression that deprived nearly everyone of available cash. Earlier, his wonderful mother, with foresight and faith, had established a small savings account for his mission. Though she died before his call, her fund sent him on his way.

Shortly after Elder Hinckley’s labors began in England, he became discouraged and wrote to his father. After reading that letter, his father’s wise reply closed with these words: “Forget yourself and go to work.” Thanks to noble parents and a crucial decision to remain, Elder Hinckley completed his mission with honor. Now he often states that the good things that have happened to him since have all hinged upon that decision to stay. On his mission, he developed good habits of study, work, communication, budgeting, time management, and more. There he learned that nothing is too hard for the Lord.

I know exactly what you’re talking about. I thought I must be a terrible person to be so friendly and nice to my friends and so insensitive to my family. I heard this saying: “If you treated your friends like you treat your family, would you have any friends?” And I really started thinking about my situation. Then I considered each member of my family separately, finding things other than relation that we had in common. I found that my four little sisters, my older brother, and I have a lot in common, All of us love sports, My sisters and I love dancing. None of us likes to practice piano. We all love Mexican food, and none of us likes to fight. Also, I started to smile whenever any one of them would look at me, and I started including them in some of my activities, and now we really have some good times together. I hope you find a solution because families really are a lot of fun—if you take the time to get to know them.
Darcie Christian, 15St. George, Utah

One of the most serious deterrents to any success is that we spend too much time practicing those things that we don’t want to be. We might learn a great many important lessons from the story told many years ago by Dr. Harry Emerson Fosdick entitled “On the Wrong Bus.” It tells of a man who got on a bus with the intention and desire of going to Detroit. But when he arrived at the end of a long trip, he found himself in Kansas City. At first he would not believe it. When he asked for Woodward Avenue and was told there was no Woodward Avenue, he was indignant—he knew there was. It was some time before he could face the fact that in spite of his good intentions and his earnest desire, he was not in Detroit at all but in Kansas City. Everything was fine except for one little detail; he had just caught the wrong bus.

In my early childhood I lost both my parents. Aunt Gu Ma, a spinster sister of my father, kept my brother and me together. She brought us up in a little farming village where she grew vegetables for a living. Every morning she would carry the produce to the market in two big baskets, one on each end of a long pole resting on her shoulders. She then would bring home rice and meat purchased with the proceeds of her vegetable sales.
I can remember cooking rice in a huge wok on top of a reed-burning stove. I was then six years old. The wok was so big that my brother and I had to lift it together, each standing on a stool while grasping a handle on opposite sides. Our occasional dinner special was either half-cooked or burnt rice, or both.
Aunt Gu Ma was a wonderful person. Although she had no formal education, she had a noble philosophy of life. She instilled in us correct principles, stern self-reliance, and the value of hard work. We are forever grateful for her love and sacrifice in our behalf.

Benson, where are you? It’s time for bed.
I don’t want to go to bed.
Why not?
Because there is a ghost in my room.
There is not a ghost in your room.
Are you sure?
I promise.
Dad, what is the Holy Ghost?
That’s a good question.
The Holy Ghost is a member of the Godhead. His job is to help us feel what Heavenly Father wants us to know and do.
Do we see Him?
No, but we feel Him near. He helps us feel happy.
All right, now close your eyes. It’s time to go to sleep. I love you.
I love you too. And I think I feel the Holy Ghost.

If you routinely traveled through Weber Canyon in northern Utah between the hours of 8:00 A.M. and 10:00 A.M., you probably saw him. He rode an old rickety bicycle with a box of aluminum cans on each side of the back tires. At age sixty-five, he had ridden this same bike from his home in Tennessee to Utah. Then, for reasons known only to him, he had made a canyon cave his home.*
Everyone in Morgan County knew of him. They had either seen him riding his bike through the canyon or had noticed the bike parked at a local convenience store early in the morning. He had become a part of the community. People would visit him from time to time in his cave, but he told them very little about himself. He was a sad sort of man.
Many people were afraid of him, including four-year-old Amy Creager. She had seen the man on many occasions and wondered about him. One day, about six weeks before Christmas, as she, her baby sister, Sydney, and her mother left the convenience store, Amy saw him. As they waited to turn onto the road, she said, “Mama, tell me about that man. Where does he live? And why does he have all those cans on his bike?”
Amy’s mother told her that the man lived in a cave in the canyon and that each morning he went around to dumpsters in the town to sort out the cans, load them onto his bike, and take them through the canyon into Ogden to turn them in for money.
As her mother told her what she knew about the man, a worried look came over Amy’s face. Her mother told her of the different names people used to refer to him, such as “the can man” and “the hermit.” But from that day forward, Amy and her mother began to call him simply “the man on the bike.”
With her voice trembling, Amy said, “It’s too cold to sleep outside. Why does he want to live in a cave?”
Trying to explain it simply, her mother said, “He probably doesn’t have enough money to live anywhere else.”
Amy and her family had just built a home the year before, so the solution seemed simple: “Why can’t Daddy build him a new home?”
“Well, we don’t have enough money, and Daddy doesn’t really know how.”
“The men who built our home can do it!”
“Well, it’s not that simple, Amy.” Mother tried to explain why that could not happen.
With tears welling up in her eyes, Amy sat silent for a few seconds, then said, “He can come and live with us! I am afraid of him, but he can have my room! I just won’t look at him.”
Tears came into her mother’s eyes as well. She could tell that Amy was determined to help the man somehow.
They finally reached Grandmother’s house, where Amy and Sydney would stay while their mother went to help their father at his shop. Reaching the shop, Amy’s mother told her husband about the events of the morning. The story touched him.
“We need to figure out a way for her to help him,” Amy’s father said. He thought for a while. “Since we can’t build him a home, let’s get him a new bike! I know a guy who owns a bike shop. I’ll call him, and he can tell us which would be the best bicycle for the man’s needs.”
Amy’s parents were both so excited about the idea that they stopped working and made the call. Her father told the bicycle shop owner the story. They decided that the man needed a sturdy mountain bike. After working out a few other details, they felt that Amy needed to decide the rest.
When Amy’s mother went to pick up her and her sister, she told Amy about their idea.
Amy’s face lit up. “Let’s get him a horn so that he can honk back at the cars! And let’s make sure the bike has two big baskets on the back for his cans! And, Mama, it has to be purple! Purple is everyone’s favorite color!”
As the days went by and Christmas drew nearer, Amy’s excitement about the bike grew. She could hardly wait to go and pick it out. She did many chores around the house to earn money to help pay for it. Whenever she saw the man riding his old bike in the canyon, she’d say, “He is going to love his Christmas present! How many more days, Mom?”
One night her mother went to Relief Society Homemaking meeting. Each sister was invited to tell of her most memorable Christmas. When it was time for Amy’s mother to tell of hers, tears filled her eyes. She said that she thought this Christmas was going to be one of her most memorable. She told them of Amy’s love for a stranger of whom she was afraid. She told the sisters of their plans to purchase the bike, and they were touched. After the meeting, many of the sisters asked Amy’s mother if they could be part of this Christmas memory. One sister wanted to make the man a quilt and a pillow. Another thought it would be nice for him to have some new, warm shirts. And the offers for contributions kept coming.
The next morning, Amy’s mother had a phone call from a sister in the ward who worked at a local business. The company employed many in the community. She had mentioned Amy’s desire to help the “can man” to some of the employees. They had all seen him because their place of work was his first stop every morning. He’d pick up the cans that they had gathered in a garbage bag for him. She wanted to know, on behalf of the employees she had spoken to, if it would be all right with Amy if they took up a donation to help with the cost of the bike. It was.
As the days went by, the word began to spread. More things were donated, including food and more clothing. It was exciting to watch the community rally together to help a four-year-old girl serve a sixty-five-year-old man.
About two weeks before Christmas, the “man on the bike” was invited to have dinner with a family who lived in the area. He told them it was time for him to move on. He was beginning to feel that he was an embarrassment to the people there. The family tried to tell him differently, but he had made up his mind. Amy heard of his plans and worried that she wouldn’t get the bike to him on time.
The day to buy the bike finally arrived. When she and her father reached the store and walked in, Amy looked around. Her eyes fixed on one bike.
“This is it, Dad! I want this one!”
“It is a mountain bike,” the store owner said.
It wasn’t purple, but it was the brightest blue you could imagine, with even brighter splashes of pink paint all over it! Amy loved it, and that was all that mattered. With the money that had been donated and what Amy had earned, she was able to pay for the bike and buy the largest baskets and the very best horn.
That night as Amy was tying a bow onto the bike, she said to her father once again, “Daddy, I really don’t want the man on the bike to see me.”
Her parents talked it over and asked the sheriff for his help in delivering the collected items and the bike to the “‘man on the bike.’ We understand he goes into the convenience store every morning. Do you think you could try to catch up with him there tomorrow?” Amy’s father asked.
The sheriff agreed, so Amy and her parents took everything over to his house and loaded it into his truck.
“I’m proud of you, Amy,” the sheriff said. “This is a very kind thing you are doing for a stranger.”
The next morning, the sheriff drove to the convenience store, and the man was there. The sheriff went in, walked right up to the man, and said, “You need to come with me.” The “man on the bike” thought that he was in trouble. They walked together out the door. Then the sheriff began to unload his truck, and the man stood there in silence, looking very bewildered.
“This is all for you!” the sheriff told him.
When the sheriff lifted the bike out, the man just stared at it. Then the tears began to fall. “Whose idea was this?”
“A four-year-old girl who is worried about you,” the sheriff said, his own eyes filling with tears. He explained to the man how it had all come about and how the whole community had wanted to help Amy help him.
The man was overwhelmed by this act of love. He said, “I don’t deserve all of this! You need to give these things to someone who really needs them!”
“I think you are plenty deserving. I’ll help you take them over to your cave.”
“Will you tell her thank you for me?”
The sheriff quietly nodded.
The man ended up staying in the area until May of the following year. Every time the people of Morgan County saw “the man on the bike,” they were reminded of the Christlike love of a child.

When temple visits for my branch were announced, I attended. Even though I could not yet enter the temple, I often walked the temple grounds. I prayed to Heavenly Father expressing my deepest desires to one day enter the temple. Some of these visits were only 10 minutes, but they had a profound impact on my spirit.
On one particularly cold and rainy evening, I arrived at the temple late. Although the grounds were closed, temple security allowed me a few moments on the grounds. I had with me a copy of the temple’s dedicatory prayer. I was impressed to read it.
I was filled with emotions as I read the following words: “Wilt Thou whisper peace to Thy people by the power of Thy Spirit when they come here with burdened hearts to seek direction in their perplexities. Wilt Thou comfort and sustain them when they come in times of sorrow. Wilt Thou give them courage, direction, and faith, when they gather, as to a refuge, from the turmoil of the world. Wilt Thou reassure them of Thy reality and divinity, and of the reality and divinity of Thy resurrected Son.”1
I knew then that my visits to the temple grounds meant something to the Lord, even though I was not inside the temple.

The courage of a military leader was recorded by a young infantryman wearing the gray uniform of the Confederacy during America’s Civil War. He describes the influence of General J.E.B. Stuart in these words: “At a critical point in the battle, he leaped his horse over the breastworks near my company, and when he had reached a point about opposite the center of the brigade, while the men were loudly cheering him, he waved his hand toward the enemy and shouted, ‘Forward men! Forward! Just follow me!’
“The men were wild with enthusiasm. The veriest coward on earth would have felt his blood thrill, and his heart leap with courage and resolution. The men poured over the breastworks after him like a wide raging torrent overcoming its barriers” (Emory M. Thomas, Bold Dragoon: The Life of J.E.B. Stuart [1986], 211–12).

My grandfather loves to tell my brothers and me stories about events in his life. Many of them are funny, others are scary, and I love them all. But the greatest story my grandfather ever told me has affected my testimony and my faith in the Church greatly. I still cry when he tells the story—even when I just think about it.
Before I was born my grandfather was a recent convert to the Church after many years of opposing it. He was a construction worker and would work on many sites, including the construction of large buildings.
Just one week after joining the Church, my grandfather was working on a building while 30 feet up in the sky. He was trying to get to one end of the building to do some work on the roof. In order to get to where he needed to go, my grandfather had to walk on a high beam hanging out over the ground. When my grandfather got about halfway onto the board it snapped, and my grandfather plummeted 30 feet onto the ground.
He was rushed to the emergency room. His neck was broken in three places, a lung was punctured, and a kidney was torn in half. Other parts of his body were ripped and bleeding. The doctors said he wouldn’t survive long enough to see the next day. During the whole ordeal my grandfather was still awake and in excruciating pain. He was sinking closer to death every second. Finally, my grandfather said he needed a blessing from a man with the priesthood.
Fortunately, a man who had helped my grandfather grow stronger in the Church had stayed home from work that day. When he received a call from the hospital stating that he was wanted there, he rushed to the emergency room and asked my grandfather what he needed.
My grandfather said, “I need a blessing.”
The man told him the doctors had said there was nothing more they could do to help my grandfather. But my grandfather shook his head and repeated that he needed a blessing. Finally the man agreed and gave my grandfather a blessing.
After the blessing, my grandfather relaxed. The pain finally having left him, he fell asleep. Several days passed, and my grandfather was released from the hospital.
When he went back for a checkup, his doctor had some surprising news. “You are a walking miracle,” he said. My grandfather had fully recovered from his deadly drop with no negative effects other than a few scars. The blessing from God that one man gave to my grandfather had saved his life and restored him to health.
When I first heard this story, I was too young to understand, but now that I am older, I understand it completely, and it has helped my testimony grow stronger. I know for a fact that through the priesthood, the Lord can heal those who truly ask for it in faith.
I will never forget the story, for I live with the walking miracle—my grandfather.

Another favorite image comes from a story told by Elder John R. Lasater of the Seventy.
Many years ago, Elder Lasater visited a country in Africa as part of an official government delegation. One day, when they were traveling in the desert in a caravan of black limousines, an accident happened. The car he was in crested the hill, and he noticed that the vehicle in front of his had pulled off the road. He said, “The scene before us has remained with me for these many years.”
An old shepherd, dressed in long, flowing robes of the Savior’s day, was standing near the limousine talking to the driver. Nearby stood a small flock of about 15 sheep.
The car had hit and injured one of the sheep, Elder Lasater’s driver explained. And because it was the king’s vehicle, the shepherd was now entitled to 100 times the value of the little lamb when fully grown. But under that same law, the lamb would be killed and the meat divided among the people.
Then the driver said to watch: “The old shepherd will not accept the money. They never do.” When asked why, he added, “Because of the love he has for each of his sheep.”
They watched as the old shepherd reached down, lifting the injured lamb in his arms and placing him in the folds of his robes. He kept stroking the lamb, repeating the same word over and over, and when Elder Lasater asked the meaning of the word, he was told, “Oh, he is calling it by name. All of his sheep have a name, for he is their shepherd, and the good shepherds know each one of their sheep by name.”

At first I didn’t want to serve a mission. I thought there were many other things I could do during this time, like going to college or working hard to buy a car. But then I heard a talk from our prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, where he talked about faith and mentioned missionary service. I thought about how I have a knowledge of the gospel only because two missionaries decided to serve. So I talked to my bishop about going on a mission.
I realized that I needed to work to pay for my mission, but finding work during the pandemic was hard. One day I was feeling stressed about earning money. I decided to pray to God. As I pondered, the words “Sell bottled water” came to my mind. The impression was so strong! In Brazil, people often sell treats or drinks at stoplights. I immediately had lots of questions about selling water, but I felt inspired about how to do it. I did some research and decided to sell water in a more professional way.
It was hard to sell water, because it was extremely hot. The first day we started working, it was a brutal 100 degrees Fahrenheit (38 degrees Celsius) and extremely humid, and we couldn’t stay for too long under the umbrella because we were keeping the coolers under it. That day, we worked for five hours nonstop under the burning hot sun. During all those hours I kept thinking, “This is for my goal. I am going on a mission!” Deep inside I knew the Lord was with me and was going to protect me and help me through.
I am the only member of the Church in my family, so what motivates me is my faith in Jesus Christ. I know that even though I am alone in some ways, He is there for me. And if we do what He asks, trusting in Him, He will help us get where we need to be.
Even though we may have many storms in life, I know that I can choose to strengthen my faith in tribulations. Jesus Christ has the power to help me come closer to Him and witness miracles that I would never have witnessed without tribulation. If I follow Him and repent of my mistakes, all my sacrifices will be for a great purpose, and that brings me peace.
Ítalo O., Brazil
Since writing this article, Ítalo has begun serving in the Ecuador Guayaquil South Mission.

For most of my life, I considered myself an atheist. I wasn’t sure what I wanted out of life or what the point of it was, but I was happy enough.
But when I started going to college, I hit some bumps in the road. I wasn’t making the best decisions. I felt lost. A few years later, I reconnected with a few friends who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’d grown up with them and had always enjoyed their company, but I’d never felt like their way of living was for me.
When we caught each other up on our lives, all I saw was joy in their countenances. They had both gotten married and had kids, they had careers that were taking off, and most of all, they seemed to radiate goodness.
When I compared my life to theirs, I realized that my trajectory was way off. I was heading down a path I didn’t want to go down. I wanted life to have meaning, and I didn’t want to chase things that wouldn’t bring me happiness in the long run.
For the first time, I felt like something was missing in my life.
And I was pretty sure these friends had the missing piece.
As I started hanging out with these friends again, I realized that they weren’t finding joy and success just because they were members of the Church. But my friends’ sense of purpose in life and motivation to continue progressing was amazing. They were so loving and driven and had this endless energy. I didn’t understand what was making them live like this.
Eventually, though, I realized their zest for life came from following the basic principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ. So I started asking questions, and my friends encouraged me to learn more.
As I learned about the gospel, it was strange at first. I didn’t have any spiritual beliefs to build on, but the truths of the gospel just started to click for me. I felt like life finally had purpose.
President Russell M. Nelson recently said: “My decision to follow Jesus Christ is the most important decision I have ever made. … That choice has made all the difference! That decision has made so many other decisions easier. That decision has given me purpose and direction. It has also helped me weather the storms of life.”
I’ve felt the same as I’ve chosen to follow Jesus Christ and get baptized.
Since joining the Church, my circumstances haven’t changed a ton. I still have a lot to figure out, but my overall feelings about life are completely different than they used to be.
Learning about the Savior, knowing my divine identity, and realizing we aren’t alone on this journey has helped me feel that same sense of peace and drive that my friends always have.
I have so much trust in our Heavenly Father, and I hold on to the idea that no matter what happens, He has my back. As I keep my covenants and strive to better align with my divine identity, I know He will be with me every step of the way. And if He is with me, I have nothing to fear.
President Nelson also testified: “Entering into a covenant relationship with God binds us to Him in a way that makes everything about life easier. Please do not misunderstand me: I did not say that making covenants makes life easy. In fact, expect opposition, because the adversary does not want you to discover the power of Jesus Christ. But yoking yourself with the Savior means you have access to His strength and redeeming power.”
I think that’s what living the gospel is all about. The gospel doesn’t make life easy, but it helps us create the earthly and eternal life God wants for us.
Despite unanswered questions, fear about the future, and setbacks, I see how the gospel gives us the guidelines we need to live the best life we can.

The family of Joseph Stanford Smith and his wife, Arabella, was the last wagon to descend that day. A grandson, Raymond Smith Jones, has described their experience. I doubt that a modern film company, with millions of dollars and modern engineering resources, could film this epic.
Stanford Smith had helped the preceding wagons down that long day. His outfit had evidently been forgotten. Deeply disturbed, he climbed the two-thousand-foot incline. He found Arabella sitting on a quilt, holding the baby, patiently waiting. His outfit and their two other children in the wagon were hidden behind a huge, mountainous rock.
Stanford Smith moved his load to the edge. A third horse was hitched to the rear axle. Stanford and Arabella looked down the “Hole.” He said, “I am afraid we can’t make it.”
The wife replied, “We must make it.”
He said, “If we only had a few men to hold the wagon back we might make it, Belle.”
Replied his wife, “I’ll do the holding back.”
A quilt was laid on the ground. There she placed the baby between the legs of three-year-old Roy. “Hold little brother til papa comes for you,” she said. Ada, the older girl, was placed in front of them. Behind the wagon Belle Smith grasped the reins of the horse hitched to the rear. Stanford started the team down the “Hole.” The wagon lurched downward. The rear horse and Belle were thrown from their feet. Recovering, she hung back, pulling on the lines with all her strength and courage. A jagged rock cut a cruel gash in her leg from heel to hip. The horse behind the wagon fell to his haunches. The half-dead animal was dragged down most of the way. The gallant woman, clothes torn, with a grievous wound, later said, “I crow-hopped right along!”
On reaching the bottom, Stanford and Arabella heard a faint call from the children. Joseph Stanford Smith climbed to the top to get them. They were safely in place. Carrying the baby, the other children clinging to him and to each other, he led them down the rocky crack. As they approached the river’s edge, they saw five men carrying chains and ropes in the distance. The Smiths had been missed. The men were coming to help. Stanford called out, “Forget it, fellows. … My wife here is all the help a fellow needs.” (See David E. Miller, Hole-in-the-Rock: An Epic in the Colonization of the Great American West, Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1959, pp. 101–18.)

One day I was talking to a friend, who is not a member of our church, and we almost got to the point where we started putting each other’s churches down, but I didn’t want it to get to that point, so I just bore my testimony and stopped. A few weeks later I got some pamphlets and magazines in the mail from her. I could have kept them so that I would know what some writers think about our church, but I didn’t. This experience made me want to be more prepared when things like this happen.Alexandria M., 15, Oregon

Todd and I went to the temple again today. I realize now that there is still a lot I need to learn. I feel peace though, because I know I don’t need to learn everything at once. Todd said, “That’s one reason why you go back over and over again.”

Todd and I are blessed to live near a temple. We have already decided on a day and time to go every week. I can’t think of anything else that will bless our new marriage more.

“Oh dear! It looks like I’ll have to go to the store,” Aunt Mabel suddenly announced as she closed the refrigerator door.
“But it’s snowing, and the wind is howling,” Annie said. She’d just been looking out the window of Aunt Mabel’s cozy farmhouse.
“But I must go—my refrigerator and cupboards are bare.” Aunt Mabel sounded determined.
Annie was spending a few weeks on Aunt Mabel’s farm. The early snowstorm had been sudden and unexpected. The snow was being whipped around by a wind that sounded quite fierce! It was hard to see anything but snow out the window. Annie got a worried expression on her face.
“We’ll just get all bundled up and make our way through the storm—like the pioneers did. On a farm, one has to keep the pioneer spirit alive,” Aunt Mabel continued as she helped Annie put on her jacket and boots.
The pioneer spirit? Annie’s face took on a look of determination. If Aunt Mabel had the pioneer spirit, she would have it too. “Are we going in your pickup truck?” Annie asked as they headed out the door.
“No, sweetie. We’ll walk.”
Walk? Annie thought. Walking will require a lot of pioneer spirit. “I’m ready if you are, Aunt Mabel.”
“You’re a brave girl. Just for that we’ll bring back an extra special dessert,” Aunt Mabel promised, opening the door.
The snow swirled in the wind. Though it was freezing cold, Annie couldn’t help noticing how beautiful it looked.
Aunt Mabel walked around the side of the house. Annie followed, fighting the strong wind that seemed determined to rip her scarf right off her neck!
Aunt Mabel pulled open a large door in the ground.
Annie stared. What was she doing?
“Come on, sweetie. Follow me to my store. Watch these steps—they’re a bit steep,” Aunt Mabel cautioned. Annie held on to the railing as she followed. At the bottom of the stairs Aunt Mabel pulled a string. A light came on.
“Wow!” Annie exclaimed. “A store right in your yard!” There were rows upon rows of shelves bulging with rows upon rows of jars! Jars filled with colorful fruits and vegetables—green beans, corn, peas, pickles, jams, peaches, pears, applesauce, and more.
On the dirt floor were boxes filled with carrots, potatoes, onions, cabbages, and apples. Practically any kind of food one could find in a grocery store was right there in Aunt Mabel’s cellar!
“All summer, while my garden is producing, I work hard stocking my store. Then when winter arrives, I can relax with a good book—or with my favorite niece—and enjoy it,” Aunt Mabel said.
“Are those watermelons in the corner?” Annie asked in amazement.
“They certainly are. Those are the last melons from my garden. I coated them with paraffin, which is like candle wax. That way, if I’m lucky, they’ll keep into early winter.”
They filled two boxes with both canned and fresh fruits and vegetables and carried them up to the house. Annie’s box had potatoes, carrots, and apples in it. Aunt Mabel took jars of other fruits and vegetables. Then Aunt Mabel rushed out to the cellar again and came back up with a watermelon in her arms. “Our special dessert,” she said, smiling at Annie.
Back in the cozy, warm kitchen, Aunt Mabel and Annie soon filled the refrigerator and cupboards.
A pair of headlights shone through the kitchen window. Angie looked out. “Someone in a blue truck is here.”
A man came to the door. “Come in, John,” Aunt Mabel told him.
“I’m on my way to town. I just stopped to see if you might need something. You know that my truck has four-wheel drive. It’ll make it through anything.”
“Thank you, John. I certainly do appreciate your stopping by, but we don’t need a thing. In fact, I just brought up a watermelon from my store. It’s too big for the two of us—this is my niece Annie, who’s visiting me from the city—so won’t you take some home with you?”
“What a treat! Thank you.” He turned and smiled at Annie. “Hello there, young lady. It looks like you’re getting a taste of our country winter.”
“Yes, but I’m not worried about it. We have Aunt Mabel’s store, right in the cellar. And we have the pioneer spirit. We can make it through anything.”

That’s when the young missionaries found me. I have always had a soft spot for those who evangelize, knowing the rejection they often face, so I welcomed them. If they came while I was eating, I put my food aside. If I was napping, I got up. But I was a skeptical audience. When they declared, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true church on earth,” I almost asked them to leave. How could that be, when I had witnessed God’s work in so many other places?
Their patience was my gateway. They never dismissed my questions. When I challenged them, they often said, “That’s a good question. We need to study and come back with an answer.” Their intellectual honesty was refreshing; they weren’t selling a simple product. They encouraged me to pray about it myself. I took this challenge to the Lord in earnest prayer. “I have served You in another church,” I pleaded. “You have worked with me there. Do You mean to say all those deliverances and miracles were not from You?” The answer I felt was not a denial of my past experiences but an invitation: You’ve been here, and you’ve been there—why not be here too and find out the truth for yourself?
I began reading the Book of Mormon. I compared what I was learning with what I knew. I saw a stark contrast in missionary work. In my former church, “evangelism” often meant convincing members of other congregations to join ours. It was about numbers. But these young men had left their homes and families for two years, dedicating themselves entirely to teaching anyone who would listen. Their commitment was a testament to their belief.
The most profound shift came when I learned about the Restoration of the priesthood authority. In my charismatic background, the laying on of hands was a tense moment; we believed a person’s spiritual character could be transferred, for good or ill. The concept of authority restored by heavenly messengers, not just claimed through personal revelation, resonated with a deep need for order and divine sanction I didn’t know I had. This understanding became the keystone of my budding testimony.
As my baptismal interview approached, I wrestled intensely. The enemy of my soul whispered doubts. What if you are making a mistake? Think of the backlash from your community. The night before the interview, I prayed for a sign, a specific confirmation that I was on the right path. The next evening, while running an errand, my eye was caught by something fluttering in the middle of a busy highway. It was a 100-cedi note. As I waited for traffic to clear, a second note appeared, tumbling to meet the first. In that moment, a thought, clear and penetrating as a voice, entered my mind: Are you not the one who asked for a sign pertaining to your decision? I knew it was the Lord. He had provided both a spiritual answer and, in my time of need, temporal sustenance.
The interview itself was anti-climactic. The young elder began his questions, and I immediately stated, “Yes, of course. I believe this is the only true Church.” It was no longer a statement of theory but of settled fact in my soul.
My baptism day was the most spiritually significant of my life. Dressing in white, I felt like a king. The members of the ward had stayed after their own services to support me, a gesture of love that moved me deeply. As I stepped into the water, the symbolism of burial and resurrection with Christ, which I had taught so many times before, finally felt completely real and personal. It was a covenant, not just a ritual.

When I was growing up and would have frustrating times, my Dad would always say: “Well, just remember this will pass, it won’t continue forever.”
I found myself in the midst of one of those times recently, wishing that some of my problems would go away and some of my dreams would come true. But neither seemed to be happening. I began to wonder if sometimes things did continue forever. I wondered why some prayers seemed to go unanswered and why some blessings were withheld.
While visiting my parents I found some answers in the corn patch.
It was Saturday and the vegetable garden needed to be irrigated. Since I was home, I volunteered for the assignment.
“Water everything but the corn,” Dad had said as I headed for the ditch with my shovel. I wondered what Dad had against corn.
“Are you sure it doesn’t need any water?” I asked. He decided to come and check. We walked out to the garden together and looked at the corn, which was about 60 centimeters high. The leaves were wilting and had begun to droop from the heat.
As usual, we had planted the garden at our family home evening in the last week in May. A frost had come a few days before the end of the month, and then summer weather had begun.
This year Dad had planted peas, beans, corn, potatoes, and squash. Our garden was growing according to the usual schedule this year. Everything had been watered two or three times since it had been planted, except for the corn. It was getting close to July, and still Dad hadn’t watered it.
“I guess now it’s time to water it,” Dad said as he inspected the droopy leaves. Then he explained to me why he had waited so long.
“If you water corn when it first starts to grow, it’ll shoot right up. But it won’t develop a root system to support its height, so it won’t be good for much of anything.”
As he left me, I began thinking about what he had said. He was disciplining the corn so it would be well developed and there would be a balance between the roots and the stalk.
I looked at my own life and thought how much I was like the corn. Crying for water before I’d developed my roots.
I remembered a talk Elder Neal A. Maxwell gave at Ricks College. He talked about being “grounded, rooted, and established.” Maybe the Lord was allowing me to go a little while without water so I would become grounded and well rooted in the gospel. Perhaps there were roots of patience that I had not established. I could work on tolerance and love. I thought of many areas of my life where my roots were shallow.
I have learned not to mind so much the dry spells in my life because I know the Master Gardener will send water in His own due time. And when it comes it will be, as Elder Maxwell calls it, the Malachi measure: “there shall not be room enough to receive it.” (Mal. 3:10.)

On the surface, it was easy. Crawford attended all his meetings. Not once did he clown around in class. He had all the right answers to the questions. He pursued Varsity Scouting with the doggedness of a marathon runner. And he got along well enough with the other teachers. But he didn’t really pal around with them.
With me, he was polite, but distant. I knew something wasn’t right, but I still had to find out what. Sister Jones’s words about hoping he’d find friends kept ringing in my ears.
The first break came during priesthood meeting. There was an announcement about the junior basketball team beginning practice. Crawford was by far the tallest boy in the stake. It seemed like a natural. I pulled him aside after the lesson.
“You’re going to play, aren’t you?”
“I’m awfully busy.” He hesitated. “And despite my stature, I’m not athletically inclined.”
“Are you kidding? With your height, just stand under the basket with your arms out. That’s how Bill Russell got started.”
“Bill who?”
“Never mind. Just look menacing. Go ahead, you can do it.”
He twisted his face into what was supposed to be a scowl. It looked more like a smirk.
“More teeth. Give me some teeth.”
He pulled his lips back a bit.
“Now a growl. Mean and low.”
Crawford obediently growled.
“Okay, we’ll work on it. Let me call Todd Bowers. He’s the coach. He’ll make sure you get to practice.”
“Well …”
“You can do it, Crawford. At least try.”
“All right. Maybe I have some undiscovered native ability.”
Nothing more was said about basketball until several weeks later, when Crawford called one evening.
“Our first game is tomorrow night. I expect you’ll attend.” There was a twinge of excitement.
“Oh … well, I expect I will.”
“Terrific. Simply terrific. I will not let you down.”
So I went to the game the following night. How do I explain the way it went? Easy. It was a nightmare.
Crawford was selected to jump for the tip-off. He was so eager to get the ball that when the referee tossed it up, he lunged in and knocked over the opposing player. Whistle. Foul. One second had ticked off the clock.
The other team took the ball out of bounds. One of the players took a pass, drove to the basket, and put up a shot. Crawford blocked it with a wild swoop of his arm. That was the good part.
The bad part was that he almost knocked the player’s head off in the process. Whistle. Foul. We were now 20 seconds into the game.
The fouled player made his first free throw but missed the second. Up went Crawford for the rebound—up and over another player. Whistle. Foul. Our ward called a time-out.
I watched Crawford during the time-out. His eyes were brimming with determination. He wanted to atone for his mistakes, and I got the feeling, he wanted to do it all at once. I hoped Todd would pull him and let him regain some composure. Instead Crawford trotted back onto the court.
Our team had the ball. Crawford took a pass at the top of the key. He turned toward the basket, pulled his lips back, and growled. I sensed disaster.
Before I could mumble, “No, don’t do it,” he put his head down and like a bull, battered his way toward the basket. One of those huge feet got tangled with the other, and Crawford was airborne. Three innocent players were in his path. I cringed and closed my eyes. Then came a crash and four distinct thuds as the bodies dropped to the floor. I opened my eyes slowly and wondered if I should call the paramedics.
Four young men were sprawled on the floor, a tangled heap of arms, legs, and dazed looks. Fortunately, no one was hurt, although Crawford seemed a little confused about which planet he was on.
And yes, there was a whistle and a foul on Crawford. Four fouls in 30 seconds. It must have been some kind of a record.
Todd motioned for me to come onto the floor.
“Crawford’s a little woozy. Will you keep an eye on him?”
“Sure.”
Crawford was sitting up now, holding his head with his hands.
“C’mon, Crawford. Let’s take you some place to rest.”
I helped him to his feet and he groggily followed me out the door. He slumped onto a couch in the foyer.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, looking up. “You’re Brother North.”
“Good. And who are you?”
“A failure.”
“That’s not true.”
“I let you down. I let everyone down.”
“You did not. That was the most memorable half-minute of basketball I’ve ever seen.”
He turned and stared out the window. He didn’t say a word for a couple of minutes. Finally, I moved to where I could see his face.
A thin line of tears ran down his cheeks.
“It is so difficult,” he said quietly. “I try. I really try. But I don’t seem to fit anywhere. Where do I belong, Brother North?”
I wasn’t sure what to say, other than I knew I had to begin with the truth. Crawford deserved that much.
“I’m not sure. But I do know this, Crawford. You will find your place someday. Just keep doing what’s right, and it will happen.”
He shifted a little on the couch. “I hope you’re right.”
“Hey, I’m the one you called astute, remember? Has that changed?”
“No.”
“You’ll have some rough spots, Crawford. Everyone does, especially while they’re growing. But you’ll be okay. More than okay. You’re a good person. You know who you are and where your roots are. Right there you have an advantage over most people.”
“But it doesn’t seem fair. If I have advantages, why isn’t it easier?”
“Life isn’t always easy.” I winced when I said it. More than most people, Crawford already knew that. From the time his father died and he started washing cars, Crawford knew it wouldn’t be simple and comfortable. Still, I wanted him to look at what he had, not what he didn’t have.
“A lot of blessings have already come to you. There will be more. Sometimes blessings are so close that we don’t recognize them.”
He rubbed his hand over the back of his head.
“Yes, I believe you are correct on that point. I have a terrific mother, three beautiful sisters, and I’m a member of the Church. And I have a great friend in you.”
“And I have a great friend in you. Now, do you want to get back in the game? You still have one foul left to burn.”
He said his head was still throbbing, so I helped him to my car and drove him home.

As a boy, I was baptized with my family in 1971. For years we were very active as a family in Church. Then, little by little, we stopped attending meetings. My family began to have many problems that resulted in my parents’ separation.

After a long period of time I began to attend church again. One of my friends from seminary days had found me and encouraged me back into activity. I began to read the scriptures and Church books—especially the Liahona (Spanish)—and I developed the desire to serve a mission.

As part of my mission preparation I read the Book of Mormon all the way through. This special book of scripture became my constant companion and was a great help to me.

I am now serving a mission and I love the work. My parents are back together and my younger brother and sister are planning to go on missions. The trials still keep coming, but with the gospel we can overcome them.

Based on my own experience, I would encourage all of the young men of the Church to prepare now for a mission. One of the best ways to prepare is to read the Book of Mormon and the Church magazine. Do not hesitate to accept a mission call. You will never regret it.
Elder E. Jorge Luis LeonArgentina Buenos Aires South Mission