Gospel Story Finder

I would like to tell you of a stake conference I was assigned to attend. It was a reorganization; the stake president and his counselors would be released, and a new presidency would be called. The stake president was young and had served wonderfully for almost 10 years. He was a spiritual giant, but he was also an administrative giant. In my personal interview with him, he told me how he had delegated much of the responsibility for the stake functions to his counselors and to the high council and had thus freed himself to interview those who needed encouragement. Individuals and couples were invited to come to his office. There he got to know them, counseled with them, and invited them to do better, to put their lives in order, and to receive the blessings available to those who follow the Lord. He helped them by putting them in the care of a capable leader, a teacher who helped them to understand the beauties of the doctrine. Then he told me that in these interviews he would often ask if they would like a blessing. “I have placed my hands on the heads of many members of the stake,” he said.
The next day in the general session of the stake conference, I doubt I have ever seen so many tears—not because they felt the president should not be released, but for the deep love of a young stake president who had blessed their lives. I felt prompted to ask, “How many of you have had the hands of the president on your heads?” I was amazed at the number of people who raised their hands. I thought to myself at the time, “How many of these people will bless the name of this great man, not only now but throughout the eternities?” Yes, these will be the great-grandfathers who will, because of this loving leader, leave a legacy of generations of thousands who will call him blessed.

I was sitting in a church meeting one day and caught myself staring at the variety of shoes people were wearing in the chapel. I saw leather dress shoes, black boots, bright sandals, colorful heels, and sparkly flats.
And my favorite pair of shoes? Someone’s pink buckled shoes, complete with embroidered strawberries.
It was then that I remembered the story of Christ washing His disciples’ feet.
In the times of the New Testament, I imagine most people’s feet were dirty, seeing that many wore sandals on the dirt roads and didn’t have access to regular bathing. So washing someone’s filthy feet back then probably wasn’t the most enjoyable act of service.
Thinking about this, I opened my scriptures to John 13 and read the interactions between the Savior and His Apostles as He washed their feet. I found an appreciation for Peter’s response to the Savior when it was his turn to be served. Peter replied, “Thou shalt never wash my feet” (John 13:8).
Perhaps Peter’s reluctance had to do with his love and respect for the Savior. I can imagine that, as a devoted disciple, Peter felt it was wrong to receive such treatment from someone so divine.
I realized then that some of us seem to share Peter’s reluctance to receive the Savior’s help.
The colorful selection of shoes I saw in my ward that Sunday symbolized, for me, what we each bring to our Master.
Everyone is different.
We all come from different walks of life, bringing different struggles, different perspectives, different experiences, and different questions.
However, despite all our differences, we all come to church every Sunday to partake of the sacrament, to renew our covenants, and to allow the Savior to serve us as we repent and, by doing so, accept the gift of our Savior’s atoning sacrifice.
President Russell M. Nelson reminds us that “Jesus Christ … stands with open arms, hoping and willing to heal, forgive, cleanse, strengthen, purify, and sanctify us.”1
So why are we sometimes reluctant to invite His grace and mercy into our lives? And what can we learn from His act of service?
Maybe our reluctance to accept the Savior’s help comes from feelings like shame, unworthiness, or even just our own stubborn pride. President Nelson has taught that “too many people consider repentance as punishment—something to be avoided except in the most serious circumstances. But this feeling of being penalized is engendered by Satan. He tries to block us from looking to Jesus Christ.”2 When we sin, it can be easy to feel like we aren’t good enough or we have too many flaws to be cleansed by Jesus Christ. But this is where we can take a closer look at this specific act of service for His Apostles.
I believe that Christ washing His Apostles’ feet symbolized His great love for us and His willingness to clean the spiritual dirt from our lives. He was willing to humbly serve His Apostles by cleaning one of the dirtiest parts of their bodies. Just hours later, through His atoning sacrifice, He descended below all things so He could wash us clean from the dirtiest parts of our own lives and succor us (see Alma 7:11–12).
This act, along with all His teachings, helps us understand that as we come to Him with repentance in our hearts, accepting His offer of service, we can find healing and redemption through His divine power.
As Sister Amy A. Wright, First Counselor in the Primary General Presidency, recently taught, “Because of Christ, our decision to ‘go forth and change’ can also allow us to ‘go forth and heal,’ for He is the source of healing all that is broken in our lives.”3
After washing His beloved disciples’ feet, the Savior gave them an invitation: “Ye also ought to wash one another’s feet” (John 13:14). In other words, He told them to love and minister to others as He did.
Jesus Christ is our Master Healer and our Savior. As we follow Him, we can also offer love and service to our fellow brothers and sisters in need of healing.
President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) taught: “We are surrounded by those in need of our attention, our encouragement, our support, our comfort, our kindness—be they family members, friends, acquaintances, or strangers. We are the Lord’s hands here upon the earth, with the mandate to serve and to lift His children. He is dependent upon each of us.”4
It is my testimony that as we seek the Savior—especially as we renew our covenants on Sunday—we will see that He desires to wash us of our sins, our mistakes, and even our heartaches and sorrows. And we can extend His love to those around us.
We only need to accept His help by exercising “faith unto repentance” (Alma 34:17) and seeking his grace (see Ether 12:27).
We all face circumstances and challenges as different as the variety of shoes on our feet, but we are all in need of the same love and grace our Savior offers.
I am grateful that I can follow in His footsteps and serve those around me who are in need of healing. As I allow myself to be healed and cleansed by Him, He gives me strength to do unto others what He has done unto me.

The snake lay coiled on the footbridge, its dark skin gleaming in the early morning sun like slick and shiny oil. Silken flashes of green and brown shimmered along its coiled length as it reflected the sunlight. The snake was beautiful.
Tim spied it immediately. “Look, Mama, a snake! A great big snake on the footbridge!” he exclaimed as he, Jan, and their mother walked toward the school bus.
“Oh, it’s so beautiful!” cried Jan, entranced.
“Yes, it certainly is a handsome snake,” agreed Mother. “If we’re lucky, it might come closer to our house and be our friend. A snake like that one could keep our yard clear of mice and rats.”
The next morning when the children walked through the woods on their way to the school bus, they saw the snake coiled in the same spot on the footbridge.
“That snake needs a name,” said Tim.
“I wonder what a good name for a snake would be,” Jan said.
“Well, I think it’s a girl snake,” Tim declared. “And because she’s so beautiful, how about calling her Beauty?”
And so Beauty she became.
The children looked forward to their morning walk to the school bus. There was always the chance that they would see Beauty again.
Beauty often raised her head now when the children came near her. She watched them carefully, her skin gleaming in the sun. One day Beauty opened her dainty mouth, and a tiny red tongue flicked back and forth. Tim and Jan were delighted with their new friend.
“She knows us! She knows us!” Tim shouted the first day Beauty raised her head and flicked her tongue at them. “Oh, Beauty, I wish you’d come and live in our yard.”
One day Tim left a dead mouse by the bridge that Tickles, their cat, had brought home. That evening when they returned from school, the snake and the dead mouse were gone.
The long spring passed into summer. School closed and the children no longer caught the school bus or passed over the footbridge every day. They were busy with garden chores. Days went by when they didn’t see Beauty.
Then one day Tim came running into the house, his eyes wild and filed with tears. “It’s Beauty, Mama. Something’s the matter with Beauty!”
“Calm down, Son, and take it easy,” Mother said. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“Beauty’s hurt. She’s coming apart, and everything’s leaking out of her. I found her in the bushes near the footbridge. Do something, Mama,” Tim pleaded. “Please help her. She might die.”
Jan had come into the room and was listening, her eyes wide with alarm. “We’re her friends, Tim. We’ll all help her, won’t we, Mama?”
Mother was silent for a moment. “I’ve never nursed a snake before,” she said hesitantly. “I’m sure it’s a gopher snake, but I don’t know what I can do for it.”
Looking at her children sympathetically, Mrs. Stacey made up her mind. “Let me get a basket,” she said, “and we’ll go take a look at Beauty and see what can be done.”
They hurried to the footbridge and peered into the bushes where Tim had seen Beauty. The snake had crawled even farther into the underbrush. Mother put down the basket, and Tim and Jan carefully lifted Beauty and laid her in it. Her shiny skin had been ripped open in several places, and it was turning dull.
“It looks as though someone has thrown rocks at her or poked her with a sharp stick,” said Mother.
All the way home Mother was thinking about what she could do. Back in the kitchen she said, “Tim, run to the bathroom and bring me that roll of adhesive tape. Jan, get me the scissors and some warm water and rags.” Then she cleared the table and covered it with newspapers.
Jan and Tim carefully transferred Beauty from the basket to the table. Her eyes were beginning to glaze over, her skin was torn and jagged and oozing blood, and she didn’t try to slither away when they lifted her.
Mother washed off the dried blood and the leaves and twigs that had stuck to Beauty’s open wounds, then patted her dry. Next, Mother cut strips of adhesive tape and wrapped them firmly around and around Beauty’s body, binding the raw edges of the cuts together. At last Mother was done.
“She looks like a zebra with black and white stripes!” Tim exclaimed. “Beauty, you’re a zebra snake! Mama, do you think she’ll live?” he asked.
“We’ve done all we can for her,” Mother said. “The rest is up to nature. Put the basket out in the sun behind the shed, and leave Beauty a bowl of water.”
The next morning the children ran to look behind the shed. Beauty was gone. The children mourned. Mrs. Stacey said, “She’s probably crawled off into the woods to hide until she’s healed.”
Summer passed into fall, and the children started school again. All through the fall and into the damp cold winter they trudged through the woods and across the footbridge, but they never saw any sign of Beauty in her favorite spot.
Then one day it was spring again. Tim ran outdoors looking for his baseball. There, coiled on a rock in the sun, lay a large snake. Tim ran to look at it. It seemed to be striped. What kind of snake is this? he wondered. Suddenly he let out a war whoop. “It’s Beauty!”
Jan and Mother ran outside. “Look, Jan!” shouted Tim. “She must have shed her old skin, and there are the markings from the adhesive tape on her new skin!”
Beauty certainly was odd-looking with her dark skin raggedly ringed with lighter places, but she was alive and well, and she had come back to live near her friends.

Zachary found the shiny star the Sunday before Christmas. He asked Mommy, “Where does it go?”
“I think I know,” she said. “You see if you can find where it belongs.”
Zachary looked at the Christmas tree, but the star at the top was still there. “Do you know where this star goes?” he asked Daddy.
“I think I know,” Daddy said. “You see if you can find where it belongs.”
Zachary looked at Mommy’s ears, then said to himself, “It’s too big to be one of Mommy’s earrings.”
He asked his big brother, Keith, “Do you know where this star goes?”
“I think I know,” Keith told him. “You see if you can find where it belongs.”
“OK,” Zachary said. He closed his eyes tightly and thought. But he couldn’t think where the star belonged. He went to play with the nativity scene while he waited for family home evening to start. As he tried to stand the angel on top of the stable, he had an idea.
When family home evening started, Daddy asked, “Who has something to share with us?”
“I do,” said Zachary. He put the star on top of the stable in the nativity scene. “Here is where the star goes—above Baby Jesus.”

We better get back to class.
Hang on. I think I found something.
Whoa! Josh, come here! Mike found 10 pounds!
A “pound” is what money in England is called.
Brilliant!
So what are we gonna do with it?
Maybe we could buy some sweets.
What are you talking about? It’s not ours.
Of course it is! Finders keepers.
No way. I’m gonna turn it in to the office.
Josh and Anthony: What?!
At least split it with me and Anthony. You can turn in the rest.
It’s not right to keep it. You can’t change my mind.
I found this in the courtyard. I thought someone might come looking for it.
Oh, thank you!
You’re such a goody-goody.
I can’t believe you wouldn’t share.
I know I did the right thing.
Label: A few weeks later
The headmistress wants to see you in her office.
Am I in trouble?
Come in, Mike! I just wanted to thank you for turning this in. Not many people would have. You’re a good example.
Oh! Thank you.
We held it in case someone came looking for it. But no one did. I thought you should keep it.
Wow, thank you!
Even if I hadn’t gotten the money back, I’m glad I was honest.

On Thursday, a group from the Mormon Battalion who had been released in New Mexico entered the valley and joined the Saints, increasing their number to about 400. These men from the battalion went to work immediately on the construction of a bowery on the southeast corner of the place designated as the Temple Block to serve as a place of assembly—a predecessor to this tabernacle. Poles were cut and brought from the mountains and planted in the ground to support a roof of leafy boughs. This first structure to be built in the valley was finished on Saturday, one week from the day of arrival. On the following day, Sunday, they were able to hold religious services under the shade of this bowery.

That learning experience with my family member shaped the outcome of another conflict I had. A few months ago, I had a disagreement with a friend, and it ended in an ugly, messy falling-out that splintered our friend group and left a lot of awkward tension behind. At first, I wanted to patch things up, but I was afraid of making the situation worse, so I avoided speaking with her.
Eventually, she messaged me, laying out her perspective in a direct but civil way. I was grateful she was being respectful, but I was still petrified. I spent hours that night crafting a response, my hands shaking as I typed. I ended up with a lengthy message that I felt was risky to send but necessary to say. I decided to let it sit for a while, and one thought kept coming back to me: “Is it Christlike?”
I thought about how Jesus confronted the Pharisees (see Matthew 22:15–46) and cast the money changers from the temple (see John 2:13–16). I knew that being Christlike sometimes meant saying things that people didn’t want to hear. But I kept thinking, “The difference is that Jesus understands this person perfectly, and I don’t.”
I decided to pray about what to say and then sleep on it. In the morning, I responded with a message addressing each of her points, acknowledging that I’d hurt her, and sincerely apologizing. I explained why I had made certain choices and was honest about my feelings but careful not to sound accusatory or unkind.
“Thanks for explaining your side,” I concluded, “and thanks for hearing me out.”
To my relief, she responded positively. We were both glad to resolve the conflict peacefully.
I was again struck by how important it was to simply listen.
When she explained her feelings, I was surprised by how similar they were to mine. While I couldn’t understand her perfectly, the way Jesus does, my view of her and the situation shifted as I listened and tried to understand her feelings. I could see that, like me, she wanted to be heard, respected, and loved.
And isn’t that what we all want?

There are inactive volcanoes near where I live, but recently one erupted. We were all really shocked when it happened. The sky was gloomy and dark, and there were lots of ashes falling from the sky. I was afraid, because we live in a pretty safe place and usually don’t have natural disasters. The scariest part was the aftershocks that came after the volcano erupted.
When the volcano erupted, my family went to stay at the church. There were lots of people staying there, which helped me not be scared. I was happy to see so many people because then I knew that they were safe.
While we were staying in the church, it was really nice to serve and minister to other people who were coming in to stay and escape the danger. I liked being able to serve without expecting anything in return. It reminded me that we need to make good decisions every day and be generous to everyone, not just in times of natural disasters but each day.

At the top of a hill, the highway traffic on I-65 rushes right by a grove of trees. Few people even notice the cluster of 30 to 40 headstones nestled in the triangle between the main road and an off-ramp leading toward Vinemont and some other small towns. But the young men of the Cullman Ward, Huntsville Alabama Stake, pay attention to the spot whenever they go by. It’s the site of the Wilhite Cemetery, and without their efforts, including four Eagle Scout projects over the years, the graves of these settlers from the 1820s, and of others in additional cemeteries nearby, could quietly disappear.
Back in Cullman, the young men talk about the value of building a tradition. “We’ve cleaned a lot of the cemeteries up in the hills here,” says Amel Drake, 13. “It started with one Eagle project, and that led to another and another and another.” For example, five miles away in Falkville, members of this same Troop/Team 335 earlier cleaned up a cemetery of about 150 graves, including the resting places of both slaves and prominent citizens. These Scouts have learned to safely operate weed whackers, to properly glue broken headstones together, and to keep a journal of names and locations for people who wish to visit graves or do family history research.
“We don’t just do cemeteries; we do other Eagle projects too,” says Enoch Jones, 15. “And we do lots of community service, to benefit others and ourselves.” He pauses, then adds, “Traditions are a part of our heritage. Building a tradition of service helps us to remember who we are and where we come from. Keeping up the cemeteries is just a part of that.”

“No tree?” I sat up in bed.
“That’s right,” my companion replied.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
I couldn’t believe it. Only eight days before Christmas and Elder Sonderegger was telling me we weren’t even going to have a Christmas tree.
“Good night, Elder Mitchell,” he called out from the other side of our small apartment. Our room, which was barely large enough for two beds, a closet, and a desk with one broken leg, was again silent. I quietly lay thinking.
“No tree,” I muttered to myself. That was too much. I thought of the Christmas my family would be having—good food, carols, snow, friends, and of course, a tree. The only carols I’d heard were sambas; snow was nonexistent; all my friends were in the States; and now to top it off, no tree. I rolled over in my lumpy bed and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Too soon, out of the corner of my ear, I heard a familiar buzzing.
“Oh no, not again tonight!” swatted in the general direction of the sound but missed. Quickly, I pulled a sheet over my head for protection, but this only intensified the humidity and heat. The perspiration began beading on my back. I stayed under the cover until my pajamas began sticking to my body, and then I furiously kicked it off. However, it was not much cooler since we didn’t even have a window in the room, and I still had the mosquitoes to contend with.
Suddenly, a flea began crawling up my leg. I reached down in time to pull it off before it bit me, but I knew I would not be so lucky all night long. I sighed, for I also knew it was going to be another long night. And mom had written that week, “Have a merry first Christmas in Brazil, Greg.”
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the wayyyyyy. Hey, get out of bed, Elder Mitchell. Only seven days till Christmas. Yes sir, Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way to the shower. Ooohhhh what fun …”
The door of our small apartment slammed shut as my companion went out to shower. The night before hadn’t been very restful between the mosquitoes, fleas, and sticky, humid heat. Lying back in bed, I decided to rest a few more minutes. It was only a short time later that I heard a familiar monotone coming up the hall.
“… one horse open sleighhhhh. Hey, you’re still in bed.”
“Hey, I’m meditating,” I replied.
“Well, do your meditating in the shower.” Elder Sonderegger stood in his robe, with water dripping off his six-foot-three-inch, 215-pound body. “It’s 6:48, Elder Mitchell. Time to be up and Adam.”
“That’s at’em,” I corrected.
“Like I said, ‘Adam.’”
Pulling off my covers, I kicked my feet onto the bare, wooden-tile floor. Putting on my shoes and grabbing a towel, I turned to Elder Sonderegger.
“No tree, huh?”
“Oh.” He stopped whistling. “That’s right. This is your first Christmas here, isn’t it?”
“Yup and some Christmas this is going to be. They don’t even have the simplest Christmas tradition of a tree.”
“Oh.” He nodded understandingly. “Well, they do have some trees, but they’re pretty expensive.” His brow wrinkled and his lips came together as he pondered the situation. “Look, you go shower, and I’ll see what I can do. Okay?”
I shrugged my shoulders. What could he do? I guess this was just one of those times on your mission when you had to sacrifice. After showering, I felt cooler and a little better. Reentering our room, I noticed Elder Sonderegger sitting at the desk reading his triple combination and wearing a suspiciously mischievous look. Turning to my bed I saw why.
“What’s that?” I cautiously asked, pointing to an oblong-shaped package on my bed. It looked like a bomb.
“Don’t have the foggiest, old chap,” he said in his best phony English accent. “Why don’t you open it and see?”
I walked to my bed and pulled the papers off the package. Inside I found a small, green, artificial Christmas tree. True, it looked as if someone had sat on it, but it was a tree nonetheless.
“It’s not in really great shape,” Elder Sonderegger hastened to say, “but it might do in a pinch—or on a mission.”
It wasn’t in the greatest condition, but it didn’t look too bad. “Where’d you get it?”
“My ex-girl sent it last Christmas, and I’d forgotten all about it until you started this talk about trees and Christmas. It’s been through some pretty rough transfers though,” he said, picking up one of the bent aluminum branches and sticking it into the base of the tree.
I didn’t know what to say. “Thanks, Elder Sonderegger.”
“It’s okay. Come on, hurry and get dressed. Remember we have an 8:00 appointment this morning.”
As I dressed, he looked in his Bible for a devotional scripture.
“Here’s a good one. Will you read it?” he asked, handing me the Bible.
I began reading. “Matthew 25:40: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’” [Matt. 25:40] I looked up.
“Amen, brother. Since you read the scripture, I’ll say the prayer.”
After prayer, we grabbed our briefcase, ran out the door, and hurried down the street to the blue and white pole marking the bus stop.
“Elder Sonderegger, I appreciate what you did about the tree and all,” I said, as we waited for the bus. “I was wondering if you could do anything about the snow situation?”
We laughed.
“To be honest, Elder Mitchell, being from Colorado, you wouldn’t know what good snow was if it hit you right between the earlobes.”
“You think Washington snow is better, I assume.”
“You know it.”
The bus came, and we left, but on the way we held an in-depth discussion on the relative merits of Colorado versus Washington snow.
Sorocaba, Brazil, is an interior city. And in our mission, interior is synonymous with hot, humid, and muggy. As the morning progressed, the temperature rose. After our lesson, we checked out some referrals and made some contacts, and then we were ready to return home for lunch. Leaning against the pole marking the bus stop, I was surprised by a tugging at my hand.
“Feliz Natal (Merry Christmas),” a small girl said, holding out her hand. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, although her eyes looked older.
“What does she want, elder?” I asked, turning to Elder Sonderegger.
Crouching down, he spoke with her for a minute and then stood up. “She said her father died three days ago, and they don’t have any food in the house.”
“Okay,” I said, “if she wants something to eat, let’s buy her some milk and pão dôce (sweet bread).”
Elder Sonderegger glanced again at her ragged, brown dress. “I think we at least ought to check it out. Maybe there’s something we could do.”
I looked at my watch. “We’ll be late for lunch if we go, and besides, we don’t have time to waste on some wild chase.”
He didn’t say a word.
“Oh, come on, Elder Sonderegger. Don’t be so naive, so gullible. We’re not out here to play welfare worker. We’re here to teach the gospel. Besides, even if we did go, we’d probably find her father in the house, unemployed but healthy.”
She looked up in polite confusion as we spoke in English.
“Elder Mitchell,” Elder Sonderegger reminded me, “Matthew 25:40: ‘When ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren. …’” [Matt. 25:40]
“Doesn’t apply.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t apply?”
Stubbornly, I insisted. “Just what I said. She’s probably lying, and you know that. Come on, it’s time to eat.”
A trickle of sweat slid down my back. He still gave me the “I think we ought to go” look, and sighed. I was obstinate, but in the month we’d been companions, I’d learned he was even more so when he felt he was right.
“All right, all right. You win, but I bet dollars to doughnuts we find the father home—alive, well, and lounging around.”
A swirl of dust from down the road announced the coming of the bus. It careened toward us and slammed to a stop ten feet past the bus stop. We ran, two large Americans and one small Brazilian, and grabbing the handrail, jumped inside. It started up again, and I jerked open a window for some fresh air while Elder Sonderegger leaned across the aisle and began conversing with the little girl. Her name was Angela; she had never been to school, never had shoes, and from the looks of her skinny body, hadn’t eaten a good meal for some time. I began to feel a little sorry for her (and a little ashamed of myself) since a majority of the Brazilian kids attend school, are neatly dressed, and eat fairly well. After a 15-minute ride on the dusty bus, she indicated it was time to get off. We did so and began walking up a steep dirt road into a poor section of the city. There were no cars, no glass windows no grass—none of the things that could be seen in the rest of the city. Here there was nothing but dirt—dirt roads, dirt houses, and dirty children. And unlike the rest of the houses in the city that were kept in good repair, most of the red-tiled roofs here had holes and the walls were either unpainted or had peeling and chipped paint. I felt out of place in my clean white shirt and tie.
Finally, we arrived at what she called home. Most of the homes in Sorocaba had a good gate and fence surrounding them. Her gate consisted of a few strands of wire tied between two posts, which she opened and invited us to enter. In the back of the lot stood a two-room shack made out of cardboard and old signs. On either side of the dirt path leading to the house, instead of flowers, grass, or beautifully tiled entrances, as was the custom, we saw litter, debris, and one scrawny chicken scratching for something to eat. Not seeing a flower or tree anywhere, I doubted whether even weeds would have grown. Angela scurried inside and quickly reappeared at the doorway with a man, also thin, with blue eyes and dark hair, who appeared startled to have visitors.
“Entrem por favor (Come in, please),” he said, still looking surprised but apparently pleased to have guests.
“My name is Antonio.”
“You’re her father?” we asked, pointing to Angela, who was now just one of seven or eight small children scattered on the dirt floor.
He nodded. Most homes had at least a gas stove, but here a thin, pregnant woman was kneeling by an open fire, stirring a black kettle.
“Did you know she was begging this morning? And she told us you died three days ago.”
A look of surprise crossed his face. “I’m shocked to hear she was begging, and as for being dead, well, as you can plainly see, I’m not.” He laughed at his joke.
“Come on, Elder Sonderegger. I think we should go,” I said quietly.
Ignoring me, Elder Sonderegger said, “No, you’re not dead, but you still need help. We’re missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Stop,” he said shaking his head. “We have our own religion. But if you really want to help,” he said, looking at our clothes, “a hundred cruzeiros would be very helpful.” He eyed us again as if wondering whether he should have asked for more.
“No, we won’t give you money,” Elder Sonderegger said. “Have you tried looking for a job?”
Antonio protested. “But I’ve looked all over, and there isn’t one.”
Elder Sonderegger thought for a minute. “Okay, I’m sure we can help you find something. In fact, this morning I saw an opening for a mechanic’s helper at a garage. If you want it, we’ll take you down right now.”
Antonio turned and looked at his wife. “Well, we were just going to have lunch …” His voice trailed off.
Just as I thought. He didn’t want to take advantage of an opportunity put right in his way.
“But I guess I could go,” he hesitantly added. “If my wife would save some lunch for me.” She nodded unemotionally. “All right, senhores, let’s go.”
I thought I detected just a hint of trembling enthusiasm in his voice.
The three of us left and walked down the hill to where the bus was parked. Entering, we paid his way, sat down, and the bus began its journey, dust billowing behind. It was about a half-hour ride to the garage, but since it was close to where we ate lunch, I could last that long. I looked at Antonio sitting on the bench across the aisle.
“Elder Sonderegger, you’re probably wasting your time again,” I whispered. “Do you honestly think that if we found him a job, he’d work? He probably wouldn’t stay more than ten minutes if he stayed at all.”
Shrugging, he simply said, “Maybe.”
Unexpectedly, Elder Sonderegger reached up and jerked the cord that signaled the bus driver to stop. Getting up from his seat, he raced to the front of the bus. I grabbed our briefcase and Antonio and followed. Ignoring my “What now?” look, he pointed to a sign he had seen from the bus window, Precisa-se serventes.
“The sign says they need construction workers. Why don’t we try there? It’d be closer to his home, and the pay would be better.”
By that time I had given up hope of ever seeing our lunch. “Lead on,” I wearily said. “We’re right behind you.”
It took only a few minutes to walk to where a few houses lay in half-completed shells.
“Have you ever worked construction before?” I asked. He shook his head and I shook mine in unison, looking at his lack of muscle. He reminded me of the skinny guy in the weight-lifting ads who always got sand kicked in his face, but he evidently was in good health. Elder Sonderegger started down to talk to the supervisor, and after a few minutes motioned us to come down too.
“Antonio,” Elder Sonderegger said, “the foreman has agreed to hire you starting early tomorrow. Do you want the job?”
“Do I want it?” he exclaimed. “You bet I want it! I’ve been all through this area looking for work. I didn’t know they needed workers so close to home.”
Antonio continued, “Can my son come, too? He’s only 17, but he’s strong.”
Hesitating, the foreman looked at us, then at Antonio. “Okay.”
Antonio walked to Elder Sonderegger and shook his hand vigorously. “You just don’t know what this means to my family, now that we will have two working members.” He turned to the foreman. “Six o’clock sharp tomorrow morning, I’ll be here with my son. Thank you, senhor.” Taking Elder Sonderegger by the hand again, he said, “And thank you.” I thought I saw a tear in Antonio’s eye.
“We’ll come back and see how you’re doing in a couple of days,” Elder Sonderegger said. “Okay?”
“Please do, and we’ll invite you home for dinner. Até logo, amigos.”
“Até logo, Antonio.”
We watched as he walked down the dirt road toward home, and once again we began walking to the bus stop and lunch.
“Elder Sonderegger …” I paused. I wasn’t sure how to say it. “I think I owe you an apology. I believe you were right and I was wrong.”
“That’s okay, Elder Mitchell.” Reaching the bus stop, he set the briefcase down. “Really makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does.”
A dusty cloud could be seen coming up the road. “Hey, here comes the bus,” he said. “We’ll have to hustle to get any lunch. I hope the dona didn’t throw it out.”
“The only question I have,” I said, stepping into the bus, “is how are we going to count these last two hours on our evaluation? It wasn’t member work or proselyting, and helping people find work isn’t listed on the sheet. Compassionate service?”
“Nope. We’re not in the Relief Society.”
We both laughed as the bus lurched to a start.
The next week was busy, with many families to teach during the holidays. We were so busy with lessons and contacting that besides being kept on the run, we hadn’t even had time to put up our little tree. A couple of days before Christmas we gave a lesson near the construction site where Antonio was working. Since it was only a few blocks away, we decided to drop in and see how he was doing.
“You know something, Elder Sonderegger?” I said as we walked toward the site. “You probably did more for that guy than anyone ever has. Why, this might be just the break he needs to pull out of the life he’s been living.” Crossing the street, I continued: “Think of what could happen now that he’s working: good food on the table, clothes and shoes for his wife and kids, and maybe even a nicer house one day. He could live like other Brazilians and have you to thank for it all.”
Elder Sonderegger blushed and tried not to show his enthusiasm. “That would be neat, wouldn’t it?”
We spotted the foreman easily but when we looked for Antonio, he couldn’t be seen anywhere.
“Probably in a corner somewhere or working on the inside of a house,” I suggested as we walked to the foreman.
“Who?” the foreman asked when we inquired about Antonio. “Oh yeah, that skinny guy you brought here last week. Neither he nor his son showed the next morning, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“Didn’t show up?” Elder Sonderegger asked unbelievingly. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” he replied.
“Thanks,” Elder Sonderegger said dejectedly. He kicked at a dirt clod. “Let’s go, Mitchell.”
Picking up the briefcase, we silently walked out onto the street. “That Antonio,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Elder Mitchell. You were the one who was right. I should have followed your advice.” Angrily he finished, “What a waste of time!” He stomped down the street.
But somehow, something wasn’t right. I just knew it wasn’t. Suddenly, as if in a flash, I understood. “Wait, Elder Sonderegger,” I called out. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What?” he asked, turning around.
I ran to where he stood. “I said, “‘It doesn’t matter.’”
“It doesn’t matter?” he asked lamely. “What doesn’t matter? Has the heat gotten to you, Elder Mitchell?”
“No, no, you don’t understand. It doesn’t matter what Antonio does. ‘When you’ve done it unto one of the least of these my brethren …’”
He paused and looked away. Then slowly he smiled. “You turkey. I guess you’re right. It really doesn’t matter.” He picked up the briefcase. “Come on, let’s go home and get that tree up. After all, what’s Christmas without a Christmas tree?”
I laughed. “That’s right. Can’t have Christmas without a tree.”
We sang “Jingle Bells” until the bus came. Still singing, we jumped on amid the mixed smiles and stares of other passengers. I didn’t mind, though, because they didn’t understand that this was my first Christmas.

His love of drawing has given him a chance to cheer others and has helped him gain some interesting friends as well. When Brad was eleven years old, he was watching a car race on television. He was stunned to see a car crash and burn in the pits. One of the men severely injured was Derrick Walker, the manager of a racing team.
“I drew a race car and sent it to him in the hospital as a get-well card. After that, he sent me a thank-you letter. We’ve been friends ever since,” says Brad. That simple correspondence has blossomed into a special relationship. Since then, Walker and Roger Penske, another racing friend, have flown Brad and a guest to major races each year.

One night when his father was away from home, David O. McKay heard noises outside his house. He was sure it was burglars, and he was very frightened. He decided to pray.
David had always said his prayers while kneeling beside his bed. It took all his strength and courage to climb out of bed now and kneel and ask Heavenly Father to help him.
Then, just as clearly as one person speaks to another, he heard a voice say to him, “Don’t be afraid. Nothing will hurt you.”
David climbed back into bed and fell fast asleep.

Thank you for publishing the article “Ten Things to Know Before You Go” (July 2002). I am currently dating someone who will be serving a mission in less than six months. He is very prepared spiritually but not in other areas. For example, his mom still does his laundry and cooks all his meals. He relies on her for many things. He knows he will have to learn how to do the laundry etc. for his mission, but he procrastinates learning to do so. When I read him the article, it hit him that it is essential to learn soon. Thank you for helping me with this problem and for helping others realize what to prepare for.
Name WithheldProvo, Utah (via e-mail)

A few days later, we fasted along with our extended family members. For the first time in a while, I felt like fasting in faith made sense. I had faith in the Savior and knew that whatever His will, we could get through it with His help.
We went forward with the treatment, and, amazingly, we soon found out we were pregnant. We were so excited. I felt with my whole heart that God truly is a God of miracles!
A few days later, we learned we were going to lose the baby. All our joy was suddenly replaced with sadness. But because of the experiences I’d had learning about miracles, I felt a sense of peace. I knew that through the Savior’s Atonement we would get through this—I had felt that strongly just a few days before. And the fact that we could get pregnant gave us guidance in the coming months.

Recently I sat by a man on an airplane. We began to converse and he asked what I did. I told him I was a Mormon missionary. He quickly retorted that he didn’t have much use for missionaries or others who went around “trying to get people to change their minds.”
I said, “Well, you’re a missionary!” He emphatically denied this and asked why I said he was. I told him that everything he did and said influenced others in some way, so he was a missionary for his way of life.
“For example?” he queried.
“Well,” I replied, “I see by the packet of cigarettes in your pocket that you believe in smoking. Your children see you smoking and are influenced to smoke also when they are able. You are thus doing missionary work for the tobacco people.”
“Oh no!” he exclaimed. “I don’t believe in smoking, and I’m certainly not going to let any of my children smoke. It’s a nasty habit that causes death.”
Needless to say we had a very interesting discussion the rest of the trip. But the point here is: we are all missionaries. All of our words and actions have eternal consequences—for they influence not only ourselves, but others as well.

Taylor’s 18-year-old sister, Kirsten, says that living the gospel makes people curious about you.

“At the beginning of the year I decided to read my Book of Mormon during study hall,” she explains. “Pretty soon people were asking questions and borrowing the book to look at it. Some days the whole study hall would be talking about Mormons and what we believe. I gave a couple of people their own copy, and I think it helped them understand where I got my testimony.”

The jaded, blank-faced crowd congesting the Las Vegas strip paid little attention to the boy behind the wheel of the shiny Corvette. “Just another kid out cruising in his father’s car,” thought anyone who happened to glance his way.

But that was all right with 18-year-old Jack Farley, because he didn’t care much for the crowd, either. He had other things on his mind. He’d started working at age 14, and four years later he’d become sort of a bubble gum baron, controlling his own vending business. He’d paid for the Corvette himself and he’d driven it from the California coast to the desert resort town for an exciting weekend.

Yet something was bothering him. Something wasn’t quite right. His mind kept reverting back to what those Mormons were teaching him in the Sunday School class he’d started attending—things like service to others and eternal families. He’d be missing that church Sunday. Or maybe he wouldn’t—what was he doing here anyway? If he turned around now, he could easily make it back by morning.

The decision to drive back to his home in Mission Viejo, California, was one of the most important choices Jack ever made. Although he’d fought and won many battles in his life, the choice to go home for church led to what he considers the ultimate victory of his life so far. “I’m real thankful for the Church,” he says, “real thankful. I can’t even dream of where I’d be without it. Outside the Church, it’s like you fall into a river and it carries you wherever it goes. In the Church, you have control.”

“But I didn’t join right off,” Jack said. “I kind of sat back and doubted for a while, but I wish I hadn’t.” His Las Vegas excursion helped him appreciate the truths they were teaching him. “I looked around at the people there and thought ‘Lots of these people have money, but they’re still looking for something to make them happy,’” Jack said. Maybe he really could find what he was looking for in the Church.

The same Spirit that helped Jack choose to head home from Las Vegas is still helping him now. And it will continue to help him as he teaches the Japanese.

George Albert Smith succeeded Heber J. Grant as President and prophet. The terrible Second World War came to a close during his presidency. Our people, as well as others in Europe, were starving in the aftermath of that war. President Smith went to see the president of the United States, Harry Truman. He asked for transportation to get foodstuffs and clothing to those in need. President Truman asked President Smith where he would get these resources. President Smith replied that the Church operated production projects under a welfare program and that women of the Relief Society had saved wheat. The shelves of our storehouses were well stocked and our granaries were filled. This had come of the prophetic foresight of Church leaders.
The government promised transportation, and Elder Ezra Taft Benson of the Council of the Twelve was sent to Europe to look after the distribution of the commodities which were shipped to Germany.
I was among those who worked nights at Welfare Square here in Salt Lake City loading commodities onto railcars which moved the food to the port from which it was shipped across the sea. During the time of the Swiss Temple dedication, when many of the Saints of Germany came to the temple, I heard some of them, with tears running down their cheeks, speak with appreciation for that food which had saved their lives.

I guess everybody at some time longs to feel important and to do something that will be remembered by the people of the world—something that will change the course of history and become legendary because of its momentous impact on society. At least that’s the way I felt when I was a teenager.
Of course, I could dream of being rich and famous, or of making a major scientific discovery, or of being the first woman on the moon or in the White House, but somehow I knew those things were not within the realms of probability. At least not for me.
I was not exactly what you might call an outstanding person. I don’t really remember standing out in anything, except maybe the rain. I was a great follower, but never a leader. I knew I’d never be class valedictorian or win any contests or talent shows, and I was too uncoordinated in sports to excel. It’s not that I didn’t try or didn’t care. I was just shy and lacked self-confidence. So how could a person like me possibly make a difference?
I asked my mother what she thought. She said getting through the school year without getting any C’s on my report card would certainly make a difference when it came time for me to go to college. I knew she was right, but that wasn’t the kind of thing I had in mind. I thought of rewriting the school constitution or taking a petition around for people to sign, but I couldn’t think of what to change in the constitution or what to petition for.
When I finally started to run out of ideas and hope, I turned to the Lord. I asked him to help me find something that wouldn’t take any special talents or qualifications, but would help me feel I was making a worthwhile contribution. Nothing earth-shattering just something suited to my capabilities.
It wasn’t long afterwards that I got this genius idea. It was so right for me that I knew it had to be inspired—I never would have thought of it myself. The idea was that I should get to know people’s names—everyone that I came in contact with on a regular basis—and greet them by name whenever I saw them.
I started with my own neighborhood and learned the names of everyone—even the children and pets. Then I went on to memorize the names of all my ward members. When I had successfully completed that, I started on my high school.
It was a big school in a large city and it took me quite a while, but I did it. I didn’t pay any attention to racial or clique boundaries. At first I felt a little strange saying hello and calling people by name that I didn’t even know, and I embarrassed myself quite a few times by accidentally calling people by the wrong name, but I got better at it as time went on.
It became a game to see how many new names I could learn in a day. Once in a while I got some puzzled looks and some questions like, “Are you trying to win an election or something?” But for the most part, everyone acted like they really appreciated it.
Did it make a difference? I think so. Once Brother Barton, the oldest man in the ward said to me, “Young lady, I think you are the only young person in this ward who knows my name. It sure is nice when you speak to me and remember who I am.” Then one day at school I found an anonymous note stuck into my locker that said, “Thanks for saying hi to me today. I’m new at school and I didn’t think anyone even knew my name. Thanks for making me feel welcome.” I even got to like some of the people I’d previously thought were unfriendly or snobbish. When I started being nice to them and calling them by name, they were usually very nice in return.
The greatest difference it made, though, was in me. My whole attitude changed. I didn’t feel average or ordinary anymore. I felt that I was a special person who was doing something worthwhile because I was helping others. I could see them light up inside whenever I said their name and greeted them with a smile. It may have made only a small difference to them, but with the Lord’s help, it made a big difference to me.

Nearly a century ago, a family from Oregon was vacationing in Indiana—over 2,000 miles (3,200 km) away—when they lost their beloved dog, Bobbie. The frantic family searched for the dog everywhere but to no avail. Bobbie could not be found.
Heartbroken, they made the trip home, each mile taking them farther away from their cherished pet.
Six months later, the family was stunned to find Bobbie on their doorstep in Oregon. “Mangy, scrawny, feet worn to the bone—[he] appeared to have walked the entire distance … by himself.”1 Bobbie’s story captured the imagination of people across the United States, and he became known as Bobbie the Wonder Dog.