Gospel Story Finder

I just had to write and tell you how much the New Era means to me. It is just as great a help out here in the California Los Angeles Mission as it was when I used to get it back home before that. I just love to read all the Church magazines and newspapers I can get my hands on.
I had glanced through the New Era from time to time after I joined the Church, but not being very strong in the Church for the first three years or so, I was not interested in reading it.
A few years ago I was given a very special home teacher who made the difference in my life. Both my spiritual and mental attitude had to change, a change I was ready to make when he walked into my life. We talked about my sudden strong interest to really find out about this church I had joined in 1979. I had a sudden, overwhelming desire to read all the Church books I had in my house, one right after another without worry about lack of sleep, reading most of the night. It took me no more than two weeks to complete my collection of 12 Church books.
One day while waiting at his home to go to some activity with his family, I picked up their copy of the New Era. I soon found myself engrossed with it. He asked if I received Church newspapers or magazines, as I was the sole member of the Church in the home. I mentioned that I got the Church News which was promptly put on my bed the day it arrived, but otherwise no.
A few months later I found that this special home teacher gave this hungry-for-knowledge member a gift of the magazine. The subscription ran out just before my mission began. I still enjoy the New Era here in the mission field.
Sister Robin FreemanCalifornia Los Angeles Mission

President Faust had to leave his studies at the University of Utah twice. He first left in 1939 to serve as a missionary in Brazil, where he learned to love the people and strengthened his testimony. It was a hard mission with few baptisms. Speaking of himself and one of his companions he said, “We didn’t accomplish much except for the changes in ourselves. I feel it was one of the most productive and valuable times in my life.”4
He left the university a second time to serve in the U.S. Army Air Force during World War II.
At war, President Faust was sometimes lonely. He had left behind his beloved Ruth, whom he had met in high school. They were married in the Salt Lake Temple on April 21, 1943, while he was on 10 days of military leave.
As the only Church member assigned to his ship in the South Pacific during the war, he would often go to the front of the ship—one of the only places he could find privacy. There he would sing hymns, study the scriptures, and pray.
He also wrote to his wife every day. Sometimes the letters would not be delivered to her regularly. One day she received 90 letters, and her boss gave her the afternoon off to read them.
President and Sister Faust have two daughters and three sons. President Faust always put a high priority on caring for his wife and family. “This is the kind of person he has been all his life,” Sister Faust said. “Family and loved ones have come first!”5
“We … bear our testimonies by our lives,” President Faust once said.6 Truly, James Esdras Faust bore his testimony of the Savior not only with his words but through his exemplary life.

When Eddy Bourdeau was baptized in 1983, he never imagined one day becoming the district president for the entire country (before its recent division). “I didn’t have a strong conviction at first,” he says. “In fact, I was apprehensive about receiving the Aaronic Priesthood.”

Then he read several books on Church history that increased his dedication. “When I came across an account of the early pioneers who left their homes, countries, even families, to go to an unknown wilderness in Utah, I thought, ‘They traded everything. They wouldn’t sacrifice that much for something that wasn’t true!’”

His subsequent reading of the Book of Mormon added to his conviction that “if they can do it, I can do it, no matter how hard things get.” He now recalls many blessings—such as his returned-missionary wife—that came to him when he decided to devote himself to God. “God provides. He’ll help us here in Haiti,” he says. “But we ask that the members throughout the world pray for us as we try to start over again. We need your prayers.”

One day I telephoned a lady who had investigated the Church for four years. Over the phone, she told me she didn’t need the Book of Mormon because she had found a “more beautiful book.” When we went to her house, my companion and I hoped we could convince her to give the Book of Mormon another chance. She showed us parts of her book dealing with charity and pride, and she looked at us as if to say, That isn’t written in your book, is it?

Fortunately, I had studied the Book of Mormon in seminary that year, and I knew of some scriptures on those subjects. I soon found them and started to read. I explained them to her in a way I had not known I was capable of.

When I finished, she had tears in her eyes. She said she had intended to give her copy of the Book of Mormon back to us, but now she had decided to try reading this most beautiful book—the Book of Mormon—again.

Since my early school days, I have had a strong interest in various religions. I attended many church services and listened to many sermons. When I was in junior high school, I began searching for a true church, just as Joseph Smith did, and prayed earnestly that I might be led to one.
One afternoon, a friend I had not seen for some time came into my classroom. In my friend’s hand, I saw my first copy of the Book of Mormon. I was curious about the front cover design showing someone blowing a horn, and asked him, “What is that?” That was how I began to learn about the Church.
The Book of Mormon became priceless to me, just as it is to many others throughout the world. It is not just an ordinary book. I found it gave me great strength. I always carried it with me so I could read it whenever I wanted to. After a while, I discovered that I could do more than just read it. I realized that there are many people around me who may be in need of the Lord’s words, just as I was.
Sometimes the Spirit prompts me to talk to a particular person. When that happens, I pray to know what to say, and then I say it. This happens quite frequently.
Because I have a personal attachment to my copy of the Book of Mormon, and I would rather not give it away, I decided to carry an extra copy with me. However, I realized that sometimes one copy is not enough, so I started to carry two copies instead.
Frustrating my mother’s wish to see me grow up a charming little lady carrying a petite purse on my arm, I began to carry copies of the Book of Mormon in a heavy shoulder bag instead. The weight of the bag reminds me that I am a Latter-day Saint with something important to share. When I am tired, I try to do my missionary work more quickly, sharing my load.
Whenever I tell someone how important the Book of Mormon is to me and how great a joy it is for me to share it, they usually accept it. They may not read it right away, but you never know when that person may stop to ponder who he is, what the purpose of this life is, and where he is going. He may then remember what I testified to him, and open the book.
Whenever I give someone a copy of the Book of Mormon, I always try to imagine their expression when they discover that the book is a second witness of Jesus Christ, which contains his teachings, including the plan of salvation and our Heavenly Father’s love for us. That discovery may change the rest of their life.
Once in a while I go to the local Church Distribution Center to buy ten copies of the Book of Mormon. As I travel home, there is always someone on the train who says to me, “Your package seems heavy. I’ll hold it on my lap for you.” Whenever that happens, I always present a copy of the Book of Mormon to that person as a token of my appreciation. At the same time, I bear my testimony that the book comes from God and I tell them how important it is to me. On one occasion, another passenger sitting next to the person holding my package watched what went on. He also offered to help me.
For me, even holding a copy of the Book of Mormon brings blessings. I always like to hold my copy when I go to sleep, and if I ever feel insecure, I can go to sleep peacefully. You can imagine how blessed I feel when I read it.
When I feel inner turmoil because of personal pride, King Benjamin (Mosiah 2:20–22, 24–26) speaks to me. When I suffer from my weaknesses, I am taught by Moroni and Nephi (Ether 12:27, and 2 Ne. 4:17–35). When I am feeling hesitant, I read about Nephi (1 Ne. 3:7). When I am afraid to bear my testimony, Abinadi, who bore his testimony at the risk of his own life, speaks to me.
I think of Amulek (Alma 15:16), rejected by those who were once his friends; the courage demonstrated by the two thousand valiant warriors (Alma 57:19–21); the Anti-Nephi-Lehis, who showed their deep repentance and strong love for their fellowmen (Alma 24); marvelous missionaries, like Alma, Ammon, Aaron, and Muleki; the humility and strong faith demonstrated by the Brother of Jared; King Lamoni, whose heart was as pure as that of a child; Moroni, and Samuel, the Lamanite prophet, who had firm convictions of their faith and courage. I wonder what Moroni thought when he was left all alone after the great battle at the Hill Cumorah, and then as he buried the golden plates.
I appreciate Joseph Smith desperately protecting those same sacred plates, and being worthy to translate them so that we may have the Book of Mormon in our day. I feel the joy and privilege of having the Book of Mormon as my companion, and I pray that I may be worthy to meet its authors someday.

When I decided to go to the temple, it meant that I committed to following the Ten Commandments and the rules and regulations of the Church. But I also knew that I would get lot of blessings if I went to the temple. My goal in life is to return to live with Heavenly Father.
Nepali people can’t afford to go to the temple again and again, but with help from the Temple Patron Assistance Fund, I was able to go at least once.
I had to arrange time off of work and arrange things financially at home to be able to go. My wife is not a member of the Church, so she could not go. It was difficult for me to leave her alone at home.
Getting a passport was not a problem, but there were concerns about getting needed visas for travel. (No visa was needed to enter the Philippines, but depending on the route of travel and airlines, visas might be needed. The group ended up traveling through Malaysia. It was not the direct route, but no visa was needed.)
Getting an airline ticket proved difficult. The less expensive flights didn’t have enough seats available for our group of ten. But we finally made it to the temple.
When I saw the angel Moroni on the top of the temple, I felt peace, happiness and comfort. There were several housekeeping things we had to do before we entered the temple. We had to check into patron housing and go to the distribution center to buy garments. We had to eat meals and dress in our best clothes. At last we were ready to go inside the temple. I was so excited and felt more and more happiness as we did all we needed to do to be ready to go inside. Once there, we all changed into white clothing. I saw many people from different countries, but we were all dressed in white. I felt like I was I heaven. I felt so peaceful inside.
I want to go to the temple again.

Those listening ears are greatly missed by Julie-Ann and Heather for many months each year. These two leave home, family, and Irish stew behind and attend school at the renowned Mary Hare United Kingdom Grammar School for the Deaf in Newbury, England. Due to the rigorous academic requirements, for one pupil to be accepted at this outstanding school is an accomplishment (a bit like being chosen for Oxford or Cambridge), but for two from the same family to attend is something of a miracle.
“Letting the children be educated so far away has been a traumatic experience for us all,” Brother Ferguson says. “But through prayer we found comfort and confirmation that our decision was right.”
“We all send letters once or twice a week,” says Julie-Ann, “and there’s a special telephone at school which allows three-way conversations between pupil, interpreter, and parent, so we don’t have to go too long without help from home on any problem.”
“Brother and Sister Williams from Newbury Branch pick us up for church each Sunday,” says Heather. “We enjoy that. There’s a lovely feeling among the members.”

As he plows his farm today, Paulo still tries to plant gospel seeds by singing hymns for his neighbors, and he still travels 40 kilometers to church in Guarapuava. But now he travels with Rita and their son, Saulo, at his side, and rather than leave early Sunday morning, they take the last bus of the week late Friday night. After spending the weekend associating with the Saints and attending Sunday meetings, they return by bus to the farm on Monday morning—happy to have gone where the Lord would have them go.

Through obedience we build spiritual strength that sustains us during times of adversity. My friend and counselor Joy F. Evans tells of such a time in her life. She had four young children and was expecting her fifth child. The much-anticipated day of birth arrived—about six weeks early. They had expected to have “a” baby, but they had twins instead—Michael and Amy, premature and very small.

They had already lost one child earlier, and Joy, being a nurse, felt certain those babies were also going to die. She was even afraid that her own lack of faith would contribute to their dying, and she wanted desperately for them to live!

In her words, “I think it was the first time I couldn’t say ‘Thy will be done.’ I just couldn’t say it.”

When her husband went home the second day after the babies’ birth, he prayed, not for the babies, but for his wife, their mother. Then a sweet assurance came to her that everything was all right: whatever happened was the Lord’s will. The babies did die, one after two days, and the other after three; but Joy still had her feeling of peace. She could draw from the wonderful reservoir of strength she had developed by keeping the commandments through the years.

Having the babies dressed appropriately for burial was very important to their mother, but they were so tiny that clothes could not be found small enough to fit them. When the Relief Society president came after the second baby died, she sensed Joy’s disappointment in not being able to dress the babies as she would like. The president went home and sewed busily that night. When she came back the next morning, the day of the graveside service, she had a darling little white suit for Michael and a dainty little white dress for Amy.

Peace can come to both the giver and the receiver as we follow the promptings of the Spirit to serve one another.

Marianne pulled her sweater around her as she walked home from church. She loved autumn. The air was cool and crisp, the trees had turned a beautiful orange and yellow, and the layer of snow on the top of the mountains reflected the sunlight.
Her older brother walked ahead; her mom was still in the meetinghouse library. Marianne knew that when she got home, her dad would be sitting in the family room, reading the newspaper, as he had every Sunday for as long as she could remember.
She sighed and looked down at the paper cup in her hand. Jesus often taught the gospel by talking about seeds. Today her Primary teacher had helped her and her classmates plant seeds and told them about Alma’s teachings about faith. Marianne knew that every time she looked at her little plant, she would remember that Jesus wanted her to plant his words in her heart and to always choose the right.
Right now, though, she was thinking about some different seeds—missionary seeds she had learned about a couple of weeks ago at the Primary activity. The Primary president had talked about the ones we plant when we talk to people who are not members of the Church.
Her father was not a member of the Church, and she wanted to help him gain a testimony. She thought about the things she did and said when she was with him. Sometimes she forgot to obey quickly, and sometimes she and her big brother fought. But she was trying her best to be a good example, and she prayed for her father all the time. Today she wondered if maybe there was something more she could be doing. She decided to ask her mom about it.
Right after school the next day, Marianne put on her warmest sweatshirt and went out in the front yard to help her mom plant tulip bulbs. The sun warmed her back, but her face and hands felt the bite of fall. Her mom hummed as she dug the holes, and Marianne put in the bulbs and covered them with the dark, cool dirt.
“I’m glad you came out to help me,” Mom said, smiling. “When these come up in the spring, they will be twice as beautiful because we planted them together.”
Marianne smiled back, then cleared her throat. “Mom, remember our Primary activity a few weeks ago?”
“The missionary activity?”
“Yes. We talked about setting a good example for our nonmember friends and about sharing our testimonies.”
“Those are good things to do.”
“Well, I wondered if there is something else I should be doing … you know, with Dad, so he can be a member too.”
Mom thought for a minute. “I think we’re doing all we can.”
“Well, then, when is he going to get baptized?”
“We just have to be patient, Marianne. Sometimes it takes a little time.”
Marianne felt confused. She had a strong testimony that the Church was true. If she could tell him and show him, why didn’t her dad see how right it was? She wrinkled her nose and looked at her mother for an explanation.
Mom smiled at her. “Marianne, go in my room and get my scriptures. We’ll see if we can find an answer there.”
It only took a minute to get the scriptures. Marianne sat on the porch step and handed the worn brown books to her mother.
Brushing the dirt off her hands, Mom carefully turned the pages. She handed the book to Marianne and said, “Read aloud from Matthew 13:3–8.” [Matt. 13:3–8]
“‘And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying, Behold, a sower went forth to sow;
“‘And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up:
“‘Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth:
“‘And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered away.
“‘And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them:
“‘But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit. …’”
“What do you think this parable is saying?” Mom asked.
“Well, it says that not all the seeds that were planted grew. Some didn’t have good soil, weeds choked some, and some were eaten by birds.” She paused a second, then, with a troubled look, asked, “Do you mean that you don’t think our seeds will grow? You don’t think that Dad will ever join the Church?” Tears started to gather in her eyes.
“No, Marianne. I do believe that your dad will join the Church. I just don’t know when. You see, the seeds we plant are very important, but so is the soil. The heart has to be ready to receive. Your dad has to do that for himself; no one can do it for him or force him.”
“But Dad is the best!”
“Yes, he is. He’s a great man.” Mom thought a minute as she returned to the flower bed, dug in the ground, and placed a tulip bulb in the hole. “Look at these bulbs we’re planting. They aren’t going to grow now. No matter how we care for them, these tulip bulbs have to lie in the soil all winter long if they are to be ready to grow in the spring. Do you understand?”
Marianne was silent for a moment. “I guess so. We have to set a good example, share our testimonies, and love Dad. Then we have to wait until the seeds are ready to grow, right?”
“Yes, that is right. And while we’re waiting, we continue to support him as the head of our home.”
“And we can still pray.”
“Yes, sweetheart, we always pray. Does that help you?”
“Yes. I feel much better.”
“Good. It looks like we’re just about done here. Let’s finish up and go fix a nice dinner to welcome Dad home from work.”
As Marianne was putting the last things on the table, Dad drove in the driveway. She ran to give him a hug. “Hi, Dad!”
“Hi, sweetheart. What have my two best girls been doing?”
Marianne took Dad’s hand, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and said, “Oh, just planting some seeds.”

One day I came home tired from work and threw myself on our lower bunk bed. Looking up, I saw a paper posted under the bed above me. It said: “I Know That My Redeemer Lives!” My brother Jonathan had put it there. How close children are to the heavens that even a Primary child can be an instrument in sending a message from God to comfort a troubled heart and mind!

This testimony sustained me when I realized I just couldn’t provide for our needs and we had to leave our home. Jonathan was taken to live with my mother’s side of the family, but Ephraim and I chose to stay with our other grandparents because they were Church members. In their home we arose early to do chores before school and then cared for our grandfather late into the night. It was exhausting. However, the Lord was mindful of us, and we stayed close to the Church.

Now, years later, I still have the picture of those words from above my bed in my heart and mind. That message has helped my brother Ephraim and me in our years of service as full-time missionaries and in striving now to live celestial marriages.

Even though Corey was constantly busy with his academic studies and activities such as debate and drama, he made the choice to attend early morning seminary. He knew he would have to give up something, and that something was swimming. By then he knew he wanted to focus on academics, and that made dropping swimming much easier. Seminary, on the other hand, was too valuable. Corey says, “I’ve known all my life that I would take seminary. It is very helpful in understanding the scriptures. If you study the scriptures every day, you come to a better understanding of what they are all about.”

Six-year-old Charlotte Clark left Nauvoo, Illinois, with her family during the winter of 1846. They spent the following winter at Winter Quarters and continued west in the spring of 1847.
The ground over which they walked was very rough. Charlotte was an active girl who never seemed to tire of exploring, and she soon wore out her only pair of shoes. After that, the rocks, brambles, and burning sand made her tender feet even more tender. Her mother did all she could to treat her daughter’s injured feet, but it didn’t help much.
Charlotte’s solution was to kneel every night by her blankets and ask Heavenly Father for a pair of shoes. The fact that there was no place to get shoes in the wilderness never occurred to her. She knew only that she needed shoes and that Heavenly Father answered prayers.
One day while walking beside the wagon, Charlotte and her sister, Mary Ann, saw some berry bushes growing along the creek some distance from the trail. They asked their mother if they could go over and pick some berries. It was unusual for their mother to consent, due to the dangers of the trail, but the girls’ eagerness and the thought of fresh fruit for supper persuaded her to say yes. She told them to fill their pail as quickly as possible and to hurry back to the wagon.
The two little girls were eagerly picking berries and laughing over their good fortune, when suddenly Charlotte cried out, “Oh, He sent them! I knew He would if I only asked Him! Come and look!” When Mary Ann came running, she found Charlotte kneeling on the ground, clutching a pair of sturdy shoes.
In between laughing and crying, Charlotte sat on the ground and pulled on one of the shoes. She turned to her sister and said, “Look, Mary Ann, Heavenly Father knows my size.” She pulled the other shoe on and jumped to her feet. Then she grabbed the nearly-empty pail in one hand and her sister’s arm in the other. “Come on. Let’s go show Mother and Father!”
When Charlotte’s mother saw her girls running toward the wagons at breakneck speed, she feared something terrible had happened. She ran to meet them.
Charlotte’s first words were, “Mother, He sent them to me, and they fit perfectly!”
Her mother was puzzled. “Who sent you what, dear? How did you get your berries so soon?”
“No, Mother, not berries—my shoes. See, Heavenly Father sent me the shoes I asked for!”
By this time her father had arrived. Charlotte ran to him. “See, Father, my shoes! Heavenly Father put them over there by that bush for me, and they’re just my size! Oh, isn’t He just wonderful to us!”
Charlotte’s father was as perplexed as her mother. He looked at the shoes, then at his happy daughter, then at his wife. Picking Charlotte up, he walked along beside the wagon with her. “Now,” he said, “tell me what this is all about.”
“Well, Father, I asked Heavenly Father to send me a pair of shoes. You said that He always sends us things we really need, and I really need a pair of shoes, so I asked Him to send them to me. Here they are, and they fit!”
“Where did you find the shoes, dear?”
“Back by those bushes. Mother said that Mary Ann and I could pick some berries, and these shoes were under a bush. I know they’re mine because they just fit!”
Tears came to her father’s eyes. “Heavenly Father wants you to have a pair of shoes, dear, and so do I, more than you know. But these shoes belong to someone. Someone put them by that bush, and when she goes back for them, they won’t be there. We couldn’t take someone else’s shoes, now, could we, dear? That would be stealing.”
No one was more opposed to stealing than Charlotte, but she was undismayed. “It wouldn’t be stealing if Heavenly Father put them there for me, and I know that He did.”
Finally a solution came to her father. “If those shoes belonged to someone in a wagon train that has already gone by, you may have them. But if they belong to someone in our wagon train, we must return them. I’ll tell you what—we’ll tie them here on the end of our wagon. Tonight when we camp, they’ll be on the inside of the circle where everyone can see them. We’ll leave them there a week, and if nobody claims them, you may have them.”
Charlotte reluctantly took off the shoes, and her father tied them to the wagon. The week passed slowly, and she hardly took her eyes from them. Every night in her prayers, she asked Heavenly Father to watch over them.
At the end of the week, no one had claimed them. Father untied the shoes and gave them to her. She wore them not only on the journey to the Salt Lake Valley, but for many months after they had established their new home.

August 16 is rainy and gray, but just before the rodeo the rain stops; The grounds are filled with Rocky Mountain Rodeo Association members, and everything smells like wet hay and leather. Neal throws his long legs into the saddle and heads for the barrier.

“Come on, Fran, let’s give it our best shot,” he whispers.

The rope barrier springs back and they charge out. Mud flies as Neal leans, grabs, twists, and pins the steer. Time—3.35 seconds! Neal’s fastest time ever! With a big smile he glances toward the stands where his family sits.
The morning is quiet. On his way out of the house to feed the horses, Brother Gines glances at the shelves of trophies and stops. He stands there, silent, silhouetted against the early morning light, looking at Neal’s basketball trophy and remembering the long hours Neal practiced to prove that he wasn’t clumsy. As he stands there, he recollects the times he and Neal have spent together.

“Back when Neal was younger, we milked the neighbor’s cows. It was Neal’s job, but I went anyway, figuring that it was important to be with him. We talked about horses and football and bulldogging and the Church. We grew closer together, understanding each other, becoming best friends.

“When Neal started bulldogging, I became the hazer (the one who guides the steer in a straight line). It’s kind of symbolic, both of us coming out together, with me hazing to keep the steer from running wild so Neal can grab him and throw him to the ground. We work well together, we’ve done it for so long. I can tell if Neal is hurt, how bad it is, whether it is just another scrape to add to his scars, or whether the horns have dug deeper this time. I never say much, but I’m right there.

“One time I’ll never forget is the afternoon we hiked to the top of the mountain looking for deer. When we got to the top, we just sat there, talked, and forgot about the deer. Neal was at that age when he wanted to know things. That was one of the best father-son interviews we’ve ever had.

“As Neal grew older, we didn’t stop doing things together. My wife teases us about being inseparable, but a father likes to know that his son wants to spend time with his old dad,” Brother Gines adds with a smile.

On cool fall nights they work outside together, joking, trying to hurry and get the wood stacked so they can go in and eat. They spend long hours hauling hay; taking trips to the saw mill to gather shavings so the animals can have the “softest beds”; walking quietly through the just-fallen snow, tracking down pheasants; going downtown to get a malt. They are still inseparable, still best friends.

“Need some help feeding the horses, dad?” Neal asks as he walks into the room.

Brother Gines turns to see Neal all dressed, ready to help. “Sure,” he replies.

Together they walk out into the bright morning.

Editor’s note: On August 26, 1980 (while this story was being written) Neal Gines died from injuries inflicted by a lightening bolt while he was working as a telephone linesman. “I’ve always had a testimony of living forever as a family,” said his father. “Neal was prepared. Now we as a family must be prepared. I know that we will be together again.”

The big day Neal was waiting for finally arrived. All week long he had anxiously watched his dad build a tree house for him, and now it was almost finished.
“Can I sleep in it tonight, Dad?” Neal asked, dancing around the tree trunk while waiting for the answer.
The door of the tree house opened and his dad, crouching low, came out and climbed down the ladder. “Well, it’s done,” he said, collecting his tools. “Do you think you’re ready to sleep up there?”
Neal’s face lit up. “I sure am. Can I?”
“I guess a boy who has just turned seven is big enough to sleep out all night,” Dad answered. “Get your sleeping bag and whatever else you need and then wash up for supper.”
After Neal finished eating, he rushed out and climbed up into his tree house. What a great place! he thought. When Neal looked out of either window, he could see the branches waving in the gentle breeze. He rolled his sleeping bag out on the wooden floor and plumped up his pillow. He was set!
To help pass the time until darkness and bedtime, Neal played in the sandbox that his dad had made under the tree house. Long shadows crept across the grass as he finished making the last road for his small cars. By the time he had all his things put away, the sky had darkened, and a few stars were blinking brightly.
Neal crawled into his sleeping bag and zipped it up halfway.
“You all settled?” Dad asked, opening the door a crack.
“Yeah, Dad,” Neal answered. Even though he was happy to finally be sleeping in his tree house, he felt lonely when Dad left. Soon his eyes became used to the dark and he could see the shadows of the trees dancing on the inside walls of his house. Neal played a game, trying to find the shapes of animals in the strange shadows. But before long his eyes became heavy and he drifted off to sleep …
During the night Neal was awakened by a loud clatter. His blue eyes widened with fear as he lay still, waiting to hear the sound again. Then he heard a garbage can rolling around in the wind. The tree house creaked.
“Whew!” Neal said, crawling further into his sleeping bag. “It sounds like a storm coming.”
The rain began to pound on the roof and against the windows. And the tree branches scraped the sides of the tree house, making a scratching sound.
Neal huddled in his bag and wished he were in his own bed. But he was too frightened to climb down the ladder and run to the house that seemed so far away.
Neal’s ears perked up when he heard a new sound. One of the boards on the ladder was creaking. He saw a yellow light bobbing through the window. Neal’s eyes darted from the light to the door. It rattled slightly and slowly began to open.
The frightened boy scooted back into the corner, his sleeping bag pulled up to his chin, a scream frozen in his throat. Through the opening door appeared a bright light. Then, with relief flooding over him, Neal saw it was only a lantern, and Dad’s smiling face was behind it.
“Hi, Neal,” Dad said. “I couldn’t sleep in the house so I thought I’d come out here. Do you mind?”
Neal smiled. “Nope, I’m glad you came,” he replied and slid his bag over so Dad could spread out his sleeping bag.
The lantern’s soft glow made everything in the tree house look friendly and safe. The storm seemed less scary as the two slid down into their bags. They could still hear the rain beating on the roof, and Neal said, “That storm is really loud, huh?”
“Yeah,” his dad answered. “I like to be with someone when it’s storming, don’t you?”
But Neal only mumbled an answer, “Uh huh,” because already he was drifting off to sleep, snuggled up next to his dad.

I wanted that Spirit to remain. I gathered up the remnants of my faith and offered a prayer. Because I hadn’t been praying for a while, I had no real hope or expectation of an answer. But as I knelt and prayed, I felt an overpowering warmth come into my heart. Complete love and understanding filled the room. I was surprised at the depth and strength of the Savior’s love—how well he knew me!
There was no room for misunderstanding or doubt as he lovingly empathized with my challenges. All of a sudden a black cloud lifted, and I knew, as words came into my mind, where I could improve, and the Savior promised me all the help I would need. I learned that there is indeed a loving Heavenly Father and a Savior, Jesus Christ, and that they know each of us as individuals. I also learned that they will give us the help we need as we extend our faith in them. And, no matter what, we must always pray.
Although I still had problems to overcome, I knew the Savior was there, ready to help; I have never felt completely alone with my problems since. I can now say, along with the hymn, “I know that my Redeemer lives” (Hymns, no. 136). And I am grateful.

When I was growing up in Guatemala, my family owned a factory that made uniforms for sports teams.
My dad wanted the children in our family to learn to work hard. We helped him in the factory. I got in trouble a lot when I was little. I always seemed to break things! But when I was older, my dad let me take care of the knitting machines.
My dad paid us for the work we did. Then he would ask, “What are you going to do with your money?” I knew what the right answer was: “Pay my tithing and save for my mission.”
When I was about 13, our business lost a lot of money. We had to get rid of a lot of our sewing machines. Instead of having two hundred workers, we had fewer than five. They worked in our garage at home.
I had always paid my tithing, but I never really understood how important it was. Then I learned an amazing lesson. One Saturday morning I heard my parents talking quietly. My dad told my mom that there was enough money to either pay tithing or buy food. There wasn’t enough for both. I was worried. What would my dad do?
On Sunday I saw my dad hand an envelope to our branch president. He chose to pay tithing! I was glad he did, but I was also worried. What would we eat?
The next morning some people knocked on our door. They told my dad that they needed uniforms right away. Usually people paid us after the order was finished. But these people paid my dad that day, even before we had made the uniforms!
In one weekend, I learned a beautiful lesson that has lasted me a lifetime. The law of tithing helps us build our faith and show our gratitude to Heavenly Father. Paying tithing is a blessing!

When President Nelson spoke about using the correct name of the Church in the October 2018 general conference, his message was very clear to me: “It is the command of the Lord. …
“… To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan” (“The Correct Name of the Church,” Liahona, Nov. 2018, 87, 88).
I realized that I needed to rethink how I approached my conversations with those around me, including certain clients at my work who had gotten used to calling me a “Mormon” and a member of the “Mormon Church.”
Committed to using the Church’s full name, I waited for the next opportunity to claim my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sure enough, that opportunity came, again in a business context. “You Mormons are such kind people,” a potential client told me. “Well, thank you,” I answered. “As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe we’re all brothers and sisters.” Then the conversation continued with him and everyone else talking about the kindness of “Mormons.”
Although I had done my part in saying the full name of the Church, I still felt something was off. My friends and associates still viewed me as part of the “Mormon Church” and not necessarily as a follower of Christ, let alone as a member of Christ’s restored Church.
Over the next several interactions about my faith, I found myself beat back because of the awkwardness of saying the full, lengthy name of the Church multiple times in the same conversation. Everyone I spoke to seemed to give me odd expressions. And the conversation still always focused on “Mormons.”
I tried to make my interactions feel somewhat more natural. But this turned out to be much more difficult than I expected, particularly with individuals I didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to be sheepish or complacent about living my faith, but I also didn’t want to come across as harsh, since many of these people had previously called me “Mormon,” with me accepting it. I also heard many members of the Church still calling themselves and other members of the Church “Mormons” at various meetings and other contexts.
I found myself asking whether using the full name of the Church was really that important in the grand scheme of things. The “Mormon” brand, after all, is quite positive in the minds of many people—being a “Mormon” had often been an asset to me. But in revisiting President Nelson’s talk, I was impressed that this really is that important, even if it did cause some awkwardness in conversation. So I recommitted myself.
The next time I had to use the Church’s full name, I was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Someone came up to me and with a bright smile asked if I was a Mormon. “I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, yes,” I said. He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: “Does the Mormon Church believe … ?” And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: “In the restored Church of Christ, we believe …”
This banter went back and forth four or five times. When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title “Mormon,” he asked me point-blank, “Are you not Mormon?”
So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet, a historian, a military general, and a political figure in the ancient Americas. I am honored to be associated with a man who was so dedicated to the service of God and others.
“But,” I continued, “Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Mormon didn’t shed his blood for me or suffer in Gethsemane or die on the cross. Mormon isn’t my God. Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. He is my Redeemer. And it is by His name that I want to be known at the last day, and it’s by His name that I hope to be known today.”
I felt the assurance of the Spirit supporting me in this short testimony to my new acquaintance. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “So, you are a Christian?”
“Yes, I am a Christian,” I responded, “and a member of Christ’s restored Church.”
Seeking to follow the instruction of the prophet seemed simple, but it turned out to take more effort than I expected. I’m still not perfect at following everything I’m asked to do. But in every case, I now make sure to use the full name of the Church.
I’m grateful for the Spirit that I feel when I get to testify to others about my Savior and my membership in His Church. And now I have a great way to naturally testify of Him and His restored Church whenever I’m asked about being “Mormon.”

A good man shed some light on a bright path for me in earlier years, and I would like to share his story with you.
I was 12 years old and a Tenderfoot Scout when I experienced my first overnight excursion away from home. I was excited, and I was frightened; we all were.
The group of boys who lined up with their gear on the lawn of the old 19th Ward building in Salt Lake City were variously equipped for the planned adventure to Lake Blanche in the high mountains to the east of us. Some had elaborate and expensive sleeping bags and pack frames, and some had bedrolls attached to old army knapsacks. I was in between, having the use of a homemade bag fashioned by my brother-in-law, together with the pack frame he had built, on which the bag and contents would be lashed.
All of us had been told to lay out our equipment for inspection by the man in charge, and we each fearfully waited by our stuff as the examiner approached. No marine trainee facing his sergeant could have been more apprehensive.
The man passed down the line rather quickly, commenting on this item or that boy’s pack, directing the abandonment of this extra baggage, sending one boy home to his mother with the three clean sheets she had sent along for his big trip.
I was last in line and thus nearest home, since our little house lay just alongside the old Relief Society building that separated us from the chapel. There was a narrow alley between the chapel and that building, and at the end of it a wall which formed the east border of our yard.
Being closest to home might have been an indicator of my frame of mind, because I was not altogether sold on this adventure and I was a bit apprehensive about the equipment I had borrowed, having been admonished carefully to keep it very clean and in absolute good repair.
When the inspector reached me, many foolish questions had been asked and answered, with increasing impatience, I suspect, so that the man as he faced me had become a bit short on good will. He was, in fact, quite a dynamic person of whom I was somewhat afraid, though he had always been appropriately dignified in his calling and never had been anything but kind to me.
This day under the circumstances and with the provocation of so much juvenile incompetency, he reached the end of his rope. Observing the number of items I was carrying which seemed to him superfluous for the high mountains and which he felt should not be carried in my pack, he sternly directed me to remove them and take them home to my mother. He seemed to dwell a bit sarcastically upon the pronunciation of my first name, about which my life on the west side of town by the railroad tracks had made me a bit touchy, if not defensive.
When he seemed to be making fun of me, the other boys up the line, having had their turn, snickered or broke into open laughter. Everybody but I thought it was funny. When he had left me and returned up the line to begin to herd the crowd onto the trucks which were to transport us, I made my gesture of protest. Not having anything else to do that I could think of, I just bent over, picked up the pack frame in one hand, and the two ends of the sleeping bag on which my gear was resting in the other, and walked up the alley, dragging it all behind me. When I reached the wall I dropped over, retrieved the equipment, and dragged it all behind the coal shed which was separated by a few feet from our house. Then I sat down on the ground under the basketball hoop on the back of the coal shed and suffered the pains and anguish of the damned—that is, those who have through willfulness and stubbornness painted themselves into an impossible position. I was 12 years old and in trouble.
I could not retreat and keep my self-respect; this man of authority had made a fool of me in front of others and had, to me quite unjustifiably, subjected me to ridicule. I was resentful and hopelessly frustrated. I could not see a way out of my dilemma, and I was deeply distressed.
After a long time—no doubt it seemed much longer than it actually was, but it was a long time—I heard footsteps coming up our pathway from the front street, heard the pause and a murmured conversation at our back door, and then felt and heard him resume his pace toward me. Mother had told him where I was.
He came down the little passageway between our house and the coal shed, around the corner, and sat down beside me on the dirt. He said nothing for a time but joined me as I nervously flipped little rocks and clods of dirt with a stick between my feet. I didn’t look at him. After a time he spoke.
“Do you ever get up on Kotter’s garage?” “Does Brother Kotter care?” “Do walnuts from the Perkinses’ tree fall in your backyard?” “If you take ten shots at this hoop from the line over there, how many can you make?”
I gave brief answers to all questions, and again there was silence.
Then a large, strong hand reached over to my knee and grasped it warmly.
“Son,” he said, “I made a mistake and I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, bishop,” I said.
“Are you ready to go now,” he said. “The others are waiting.”
“Okay,” I said.
“We better get your pack ready.”
He helped me roll the gear into the sleeping bag, secure it to the pack frame, and lift it to my back. We then walked out past our back door to the street and onto the truck where the others were waiting. I later learned that after I had left he had called all of them together and explained that he had made a mistake and had been unkind to me and that my reaction had been understandable. He apologized to them in my behalf, prepared them to receive me without clamor when I arrived, got them all ready in the truck, and then made the long walk back to find me.
I do not dramatize what might have happened had a good man who was also a great man and a generous man not made that long walk, if he had not been mature enough and humble enough and capable of acknowledging and correcting a mistake. I know I was wounded and frustrated by the impossibility of my circumstance. I know that he was the bishop we prayed for by name at our house every day. And I know that my wonderful mother who did not intrude on my dilemma must have helped pray him up the path.
I also know that boys and girls, even stubborn and rebellious ones, or hurt ones or bewildered ones, are worth something to our Heavenly Father and should be worth something to all the rest of his children. I do know that I myself have taken a few long walks when my own sense of pride or impatience might have prevailed, whispering to me, “Ah, let him go. Let him sit there and see how he likes it. Why should I be bothered?”
To this hour I remain grateful that my wonderful bishop overcame any such thoughts, if he had them, and made that long walk.
His light in my life has made a difference.

James Setterberg was also part of the first generation of missionaries to use Preach My Gospel. When he arrived in the Texas Houston East Mission in 2005, his fellow missionaries had been using the resource for several months. But because of the example of a local priesthood leader, Elder Setterberg realized that the tool’s usefulness wasn’t limited to the missionaries.
“In one area, we missionaries lived in the home of a stake president and his family. Every morning, they got up for scripture study, which included going through the various chapters of Preach My Gospel. That’s when I realized that this book really is for everyone,” he says.
It was a lesson he brought home with him. “Before my mission, I had never really set specific goals for my life; I guess I didn’t want to overshoot things,” he admits. “But because of the emphasis on goal setting from my mission president and chapter 8 of Preach My Gospel, that began to change.”
Weekly planning and goal-setting sessions for two years formed a habit that James has retained since his return home. He has, for example, set and worked toward educational and spiritual goals. He says, “I’ve come to realize that without setting goals, you can’t really tell where you are in life, progression-wise. But when you do set and work toward goals, you stretch yourself and become a better person. I have Preach My Gospel to thank for learning that.”