Gospel Story Finder

In January 2019, Brother Santosh came to Kolkata from Odisha to receive the ordinance of baptism. He came to know about the gospel in a very challenging time of his life. During that time, the scriptures comforted him and helped him to overcome the hardships he faced. The story of Alma’s faith has taught us that when we sow love, we receive love. And just like Alma, Brother Santosh had felt the same love of the Savior. His quest to know about the only true Church, led him to contact the Elders through internet. As he came to know more about the gospel, he felt the Spirit testify to him about the truthfulness of the gospel and the Church. He feels extremely happy about his decision and truly blessed to be a part of the Church.

I sat in a meeting at a university seminar where Dr. John A. Widtsoe in his older years was one of several panelists speaking to the subject of alcoholism. One stood representing a great Christian denomination and justified the use of alcohol in moderation, declaring that there is nothing wrong with such use. A second speaker represented another part of the Christian world, a young man of considerable conviction, who announced that he differed with the viewpoint of the preceding speaker. He said, “I look upon alcohol, used even as it is used by men who think they are moderate, as a tool of the devil.” He talked about the terrible destruction visited upon humankind through alcohol. Dr. Widtsoe was the last speaker. He was an internationally famous chemist and a man of celebrated intellectual accomplishment. He stood and said, “I think there is little need for me to add much today. I link arms with my young brother in what he has just said and walk with him.” And then he said, “Because I am a chemist and know something of the nature and effects of alcohol, perhaps I could talk a little about that.” And he did, and let it go at that.

I have never forgotten the imagery, and I have enjoyed the blessing frequently of trying to practice it. We must link arms with good people who have similar or common objectives and walk with them as long and as far as we can.

George Bond was so excited to receive the Aaronic Priesthood that he counted down the days until he turned 12. “I was really excited to become a deacon so I could pass the sacrament,” George says.
At last the Sunday arrived. He awoke early and got ready for the 9:00 a.m. sacrament meeting of the Arlington Ward, Jacksonville Florida East Stake.
“George was ready at 8:00. He had his white shirt and tie on. He was set to go well before any of us were,” his dad, Bill, remembers. “At sacrament meeting that day, I didn’t hold the tears back when I saw him up there passing the sacrament for the first time. When I thought that he was a part of our family and now also a holder of the priesthood, it was wonderful.” George, who is from Russia, was adopted by the Bonds on April 29, 2002.

An important aspect of the path to developing potential through service and servant leadership is often times other people, such as the Lesuma’s, Litchfield’s, Budge’s, and Nainoa Thompson, see things in you before you are able to see them in yourself. I can count on two hands the number of hours Captain Nainoa slept in the 16 days and 2,500 miles before we arrived in Rangiroa in the Tuamotu Archipelago, and then two days on to Tahiti. He actually spotted land about 30 minutes before the apprentice navigators did. But my teacher didn’t need to find land; it was his fifth trip back to Tahiti. Instead, he allowed us to find the coconut trees, which were the highest points on Rangiroa so that we can likewise teach the rising generation (this is a photo of that moment). Servant leadership is exhausting, and at the same time nourishing, visionary, and self-replenishing. By following the Lord’s invitations through service and servant leadership, we honor those who have gone before us and strive to do His will by raising the next generation.

When Renee* moved to a new school in Belgium, she was happy to make new friends. Then one friend did something to make things difficult. Renee explains:
“My friend Nora created a Facebook account using another friend’s name, Kate. She started harassing people using that profile, and everyone accused Kate of being the bully. Nora even made fun of me at school, picking on my religion and my personality. I tried to avoid these attacks but I couldn’t, so I started hanging out with other people.
“When Nora confessed about the fake profile, everyone was mad at her. Nora gave me a letter of apology, but I didn’t think I could forgive her. I was so angry.
“One day I was reading the scriptures, and I came across Doctrine and Covenants 64:9–10: ‘Wherefore, I say unto you, that ye ought to forgive one another; for he that forgiveth not his brother his trespasses standeth condemned before the Lord; for there remaineth in him the greater sin. I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.’
“Instantly I thought about Nora. I knew it wasn’t right for me to feel so angry. I prayed and asked Heavenly Father if He would help me forgive her. It wasn’t easy, but I still managed to do it. I started by sending her messages asking her about her day, and occasionally we talked at lunch. I learned that Nora’s father had died four years earlier. Her life was hard, and she thought everyone disliked her. I was glad I hadn’t stayed mad at her. Kate and some others didn’t understand how I could forgive Nora, but I knew that what I had done was right, and I knew that Heavenly Father was proud of me.”
Renee learned that God commands us to forgive all. By following that commandment, she gained compassion and understanding for Nora and was able to completely forgive.

Nineteen members were baptized on the above date by Elders Rendell N. Mabey, Edwin Q. Cannon, Jr., and A. Bruce Knudsen. The Aboh Branch was organized, with Anthony Obinna as president, his brothers Francis and Raymond as his counselors, and his wife Fidelia as Relief Society president. When President Obinna expressed concern about the propriety of having his own family in these offices, Elder Mabey assured him that they had been chosen for their worthiness, not for their kinship. The new branch presidency promptly reported the event in a jubilant letter to the First Presidency:
“Dear Brethren,
“All the members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in this part of Nigeria have the pleasure to thank you and the Latter-day Saints throughout the world for opening the door for the Gospel to come to our people in its fullness.
“We are happy for the many hours in the Upper Room of the Temple you spent praying to the Lord to bring us into the fold. We thank our Heavenly Father for hearing your prayers and ours and by revelation. He has confirmed the long promised day, and has granted the holy priesthood to us, with the power to exercise its divine authority and enjoy every blessing of the temple.
“There is no doubt that the Church here will grow and become a mighty center for the Saints and bring progress enough to the people of Nigeria as it is doing all over the world.”

One of the choice privileges of a General Authority is perhaps thirty or forty times a year to visit the stakes of the Church and to be guests in the homes of stake presidents. I am certain we have seen firsthand some of the greatest homes there are in all the world.
I remember being assigned to a conference some time ago in a stake where the president was a dentist. It was evident from his home and furnishings he had a successful practice. I guess he could have given his children almost anything they could have wanted. However, he loved them enough to teach them responsibility. He moved from the city out into a rural area, where he was teaching his family the value of work.
How I enjoyed sitting with the children and having them describe the projects they had been assigned the responsibility for. With pride they would tell me how many eggs per day the chickens were producing, or how high the corn was, or how the cattle were in the field. This family had as their motto the 88th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, 119th verse: “Organize yourselves; prepare every needful thing; and establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God.”

I have been a member of the Church for two years and have never before been so spiritually uplifted as I was this last weekend. Our Liverpool England Stake organized a youth conference. It was regional, and therefore youth from Preston and Manchester came. The activities were organized by the BYU dance team, that had just won the world formation dancing title. It was fantastic! There were about 200 youth present.
The New Era talked about youth conferences in the May FYI department and really captured what they are all about—good, clean, healthy fun, with an important spiritual message. During the conference the BYU group taught us some important gospel principles and some dance routines. I would especially like to thank a girl from Colorado named Martha, who displayed fantastic patience while teaching me to cha-cha.

“She’s just a better version of me.”
Months after coming home from my mission in California, this thought was still tormenting my mind. There hadn’t been a day that went by without me thinking about my mission and who I was while I was serving. “Mission-me,” as I called this past version of myself, was better than my current self. Mission-me prioritized the gospel over everything else. She was kind, selfless, and acted on what she knew was right.
The current me?
She was different.
My scripture study habits had all but gone out the window. My prayers were sporadic at best, and though I was still attending the temple and church weekly, I knew I could be doing better at inviting the Spirit into my life.
But no matter how many times I tried, it seemed I could only keep up my spiritual habits for a couple of days—a week at most—before failing. I knew how much I loved the gospel and my Savior, but for some reason, I just couldn’t grow into the person I wanted to be.
I finally felt relief after nine months of being home. I was attending an institute class, trying desperately to learn from The Divine Gift of Forgiveness, a book by Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Just then, a paragraph jumped out at me.
It reads, “If we find ourselves temporarily facing setbacks, we don’t become discouraged. We focus on our love of the Savior and His love for us, and we move forward. Week by week, year by year, our repentance and resolve draw us closer to Him.”
I froze—his words felt like they were meant specifically for me.
I knew that through His Atonement, Jesus Christ could help me. I had faith that He was cheering me on, but I’d been missing one key detail: timing.
See, God wasn’t expecting me to be perfect right then. That’s the whole reason Christ atoned for us. God knows that we will never be perfect in this life, and He loves us so much that He sent His Only Begotten Son to save us.
Instead of trying to become perfect right then, the Savior’s enabling power could help me continue to grow over the course of a lifetime. Week by week, year by year. The best version of myself was going to take my whole life to develop—that’s how it’s supposed to be, as we learn to walk with Him.
I started looking at life with this new perspective and tried again to build spiritual habits. I set goals to pray twice a day and to read my scriptures for 15 minutes at least once a day. These goals seemed small to me, but I told myself I was growing—and that’s what mattered.
One morning, I realized that I had missed my scripture study the day before. I initially felt disappointed in myself, but upon remembering Elder Andersen’s words, I was filled with assurance that I still had time to open the scriptures that day and try again.
I could feel my relationship with Heavenly Father growing. I had a stronger desire to put the gospel above other enticing things. There were days I forgot to pray before going to bed or I didn’t get a full 15-minute study. But there were also days that I prayed more, chose to spend extra time studying the scriptures, and created new goals, like journaling.
I’m continuing to grow, keeping in mind the perspective that every day I’m slowly growing into the woman God knows I can become. As our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, has said, “perfection is pending.”
As a returned missionary, I’m grateful for the shift in my perspective and for the knowledge that I can grow over time. Even though I slipped from my mission habits before, I know the Lord is pleased with my efforts today—however small they may be. I know that one day I’ll look back as a completely changed person and be grateful for the days that I chose to try again, read a little more, pray with more sincerity, and focus on Jesus Christ.
I hope you’ll do the same.

Today was Kvitka’s baptism day. She had been thinking about this day for a long time. She had imagined it all. Wearing a special white dress. Tato (Dad) baptizing her. And all her friends and family there, smiling proudly.
But today was going to be a bit different than Kvitka had imagined.
Some things were the same. She was wearing a special white dress, just like she imagined. Babusya (Grandma) had sewn this dress for Mama to be baptized in when she was young. And now it was Kvitka’s turn.
Tato was going to baptize her. Just like she had imagined. Kvitka watched him dip his hand into the water in the font.
“Nice and warm,” he said. He smiled at Kvitka. She smiled back. Then she looked at the chairs that she had helped Tato set up.
There weren’t many. That was the biggest difference. Kvitka had always imagined that many people would come to her baptism. But there would only be a few.
Ever since COVID-19 had started making people sick, many things were different. She and her little brother, Vlas, had school at home. They wore masks when they left their apartment. And nobody met in big groups. Not anywhere. Kvitka wanted to help keep people safe, but sometimes it was hard.
Like when you couldn’t invite everyone to your baptism.
“Kvitka! You look beautiful!”
Kvitka looked up to see Babusya walking through the door.
“Hi, Babusya!” Kvitka hopped off her chair and ran over.
“You look just like your mama did,” Babusya said. She touched the white flowers in Kvitka’s hair. They matched the lace flowers on her dress. Kvitka liked flowers. Her name meant “flower” in Ukrainian.
“Are you excited to get baptized?” Babusya asked.
“Yes,” Kvitka said. “Only, nobody is here.”
“Nobody!” Babusya said. She looked around. “But I see Mama, Tato, Vlas, and little Melania. And there’s the bishop. And even two missionaries. That’s not nobody.”
Kvitka shrugged. “But none of my friends are here.”
“That must make you sad,” Babusya said. “But we do have two surprise guests.”
Kvitka perked up. “Who?”
“Your aunt Pavlina,” Babusya said. “And your cousin Emma!”
“Really?” Kvitka asked eagerly.
Babusya smiled. “When they get here, will you do me a favor?”
Kvitka nodded. “What?”
“Well, when you get baptized, one thing you promise is to stand as a witness of Jesus Christ. Do you know what that means?”
Kvitka did know. Her family had been studying baptismal covenants for weeks!
“It means to be a missionary!”
“Very good,” Babusya said. “Your aunt and cousin have never been in one of our Church buildings before. Will you be a missionary and help give them a tour?”
“Yes!” Kvitka said.
When Aunt Pavlina and Emma arrived, Kvitka and Babusya did just that. They showed them the Primary room, her classroom, and the chapel. Then they came to the baptismal font. Kvitka told them she wanted to be baptized to follow Jesus Christ. She felt a light, comforting feeling as she spoke. Aunt Pavlina and Emma smiled at her. She hoped they felt the same feeling.
Soon it was time for the baptism. Kvitka held her breath as Tato dipped her all the way under the water—just like she had imagined. There may have only been a few people watching, but they were smiling just like she had imagined. And she was sure Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were smiling down at her too. That was easy to imagine.

The last time a hurricane made landfall in Florida, USA, I was a little boy. The year was 2005. At the time we lived in Utah and were visiting Florida on a family vacation. My parents say I was not happy to wake up at 3 a.m. to evacuate when the eye of the hurricane was headed directly toward us.
The day after that hurricane passed, we woke up and went outside. My mom said the sky was a beautiful blue and the ocean was calm, but the city looked more like my little sister’s bedroom—a disaster zone.
Fast-forward to now. It’s the first week of October 2016. My family and I have lived in Florida for eight years, and there’s a hurricane in the Atlantic Ocean that’s destroying everything in its path. It’s moving toward us.
Every day we wake up, have family prayer, and then watch the news before we leave for school. My siblings and I all watch to see the damage the hurricane has caused and to track the path the meteorologists think the storm will take. The only good news about the storm so far is that school is canceled on Friday.
It’s 5 a.m. on Sunday morning, and my dad wakes me up and says it’s time to go. Just like in 2005, we’re up early and drive for several hours. I really don’t want to be awake this early in the morning, but this time we aren’t running away from a hurricane—we’re going toward its aftermath.
We’re driving a vehicle filled with chainsaws, gas cans, wheelbarrows, ladders, and a bunch of other tools. Hundreds of members of our stake are headed to a chapel in Daytona Beach, an area hit hard by the hurricane, to meet up with nearly 1,500 other Latter-day Saints from other stakes across the state.
The closer we get to Daytona, the lighter it gets outside, and we can actually start to see around us. Everything is a mess. Most of the businesses are closed, even the ones that are usually open 24 hours (yes, even McDonald’s!). Very few of the gas stations are open for business, and if they are, they don’t have any gas. Billboards on the side of the road are torn apart. The frames holding highway street signs have been twisted and snapped. Fallen trees and other debris litter the roadways, businesses, and people’s homes. The destruction is overwhelming at times.
At the chapel, volunteers from each ward are organized into teams of 10–15. It’s Sunday, so inside we can still go in and partake of the sacrament. Outside, we each get a uniform: a Mormon Helping Hands yellow T-shirt. Then each team is given their service assignment.
The two teams from our ward are assigned to go work in Flagler, about 15 miles north. We drive to the courthouse to meet with county officials, who have a long list of homes and businesses that need assistance.
Our team has to navigate roadblocks and downed power lines on our way to the first home, which the county officials said has a large tree that has fallen in the yard. After we arrive, I jump out of the vehicle and take my saw in hand. I can’t believe how big the tree is. But in less than 15 minutes we have completely cut it up and piled the pieces by the road for pickup. One of the most special times of the day is when we have a prayer with the home’s family before we move on to the next home.
We travel from home to home and even make a stop at the local First Methodist Church, clearing fallen trees and helping them repair the damage. We finish up just before their Sunday worship service. The reverend comes out to personally thank each one of us, then offers up a beautiful prayer asking the Lord to bless us for our service.
By lunchtime, both teams from our ward have completed all of the assignments we were given. I’m exhausted, but there are still plenty of people in the area we can serve. We take a short break for lunch, and then we begin looking for the next person to help.
We only have to drive past a few homes before we find that person. The rest of the day goes like this: we look for a home in need, we stop, we ask if they need help, we help, we pray with them, and then we look for the next person. Every time we finish helping someone, a member of our group says, “Let’s find just one more home.”
It’s hot outside, and we’re dirty, sweaty, hungry, thirsty, tired, and sore. But at some point during the day, I think we all forgot about how hard the work was because we were having so much fun serving. And at the end of the day, we all look around at each other and notice two things in common.
First, our actual “Mormon helping hands” had become filthy from the work we’d accomplished, but we’re all proud of it. It’s our badge of honor.
The second thing is that we are all smiling. It reminds me that we are all blessed to be a part of this great Church, where we are taught the importance and the benefit of Christlike service.
It was the most exhausting Sunday of my life, but the great thing about this on-the-job Sunday School lesson is that we were living our Christian convictions at the same time we were learning them.

Even though it was a cold, hard piece of plastic, at that moment my chair was my only friend. Our English teacher had asked us to express our opinions about controversial statements. If you supported a statement, you were to move to the left side of the room. If you didn’t support it, you were to stay to the right. “First statement: Coed sleepovers should be allowed,” she said. There was a brief pause, then a giddy stampede to the left side of the room. I was the only one left sitting.
In my mind it wasn’t an option to go to the left side of the room. I knew what I believed. So I stood up, faced my friends, and told them I didn’t think coed sleepovers were appropriate. As I did so, I said a silent prayer that my words would make sense and testify of truth. Then the bell rang, and the students scrambled to collect their backpacks. A girl from my class stopped me in the hall. “I just wanted to say that was really brave of you,” she said. “I don’t think I would be able to do that.” I smiled and said a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for showing me that I was able to touch someone.
Although that was a difficult experience, I was able to define myself. Because I had the gospel in my life, I knew where I stood and I knew nothing could shake me. I eventually found friends who really cared about me and respected my beliefs. I am a much happier person because I understand that when I stand up for my beliefs, the Lord is with me and He will never leave me alone.

The old car barely ran anymore. The engine stalled just as I pulled into the parking lot. There were few other cars around; it was just the beginning of August, and school didn’t start for another month. The dormitory was a long rectangle of orange-brown brick. It looked rather like a warehouse with lots of windows. I coasted to a space with a clear downhill run in front of it, so I wouldn’t have to get someone to push-start me when I had to leave. I set the parking brake and let out a big sigh. It had been more than two years.
I staggered up the steps with all my worldly possessions balanced precariously in my arms. Luckily someone had the door wedged open with a folded welcome mat. I plopped all of my things down in front of the table in the lobby where Coach Reese was passing out room keys.
“Marchant, David C.,” I said.
“Marchant …” he repeated as he sorted through his box of keys. He found one with my name on it and handed it to me. “Don’t we have to call you Pastor, or Father, or something like that now?”
“Coach, I explained all of that before I left,” I said with pretended impatience, “but if you’ve forgotten, I suppose I could spare an hour or two right now. Could you call for some pizza?”
“Always a wise guy,” he said, shaking his head. “I just hope you still remember how to play football after two years in South America.”
“Me too,” I called back as I started down the hallway with my pile of bags.
I could hear the music even before I got close to my room. Obviously my future roommate had already arrived, and he liked playing music loud enough to rattle our door. I carefully let my things fall to the floor of the hallway and listened. It definitely wasn’t the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The doorknob buzzed my fingertips as I turned it and stepped inside. Dorm rooms are comfortably furnished, about on par with your average state prison cell; they contain a couple of desks with chairs, two closets, and a pair of beds about six inches shorter than most football players. One of the beds in my room was occupied by a large young man casually flipping through the pages of a magazine. He had already staked claim to one side of the room; it was covered with posters, a pyramid of beer cans, and a giant stereo box that looked detailed enough to control a manned space flight. He hadn’t noticed me as I hadn’t yet made any noise over a hundred decibels, so I leaned in front of him and waved. He looked up with a start, stood up, and turned down the music. I’m six-foot-four, and he was a little taller than me, and looked generally like the kind of guy you like to have on your side if a fight ever breaks out.
“Mike Webster,” he said, grabbing my outstretched hand. “Freshman tight end.”
“Dave Marchant,” I said. “Sophomore linebacker.” I nodded my head toward the bare side of the room. “I’ll take this bed.”
Training camp is football’s version of the Missionary Training Center. For a month you’re cut off from the outside world. You do nothing but eat, sleep, and practice football, and your body soon feels like the losing entry in a demolition derby. The passage of time is eased somewhat by the wonderful company you keep; one hundred bruisers whose demeanor would give Miss Manners a terminal migraine. Actually, by the end of the month quite a brotherhood develops among teammates under such trying circumstances.
That first night all we had was an orientation meeting, and after it was over I went straight back to the room and got ready for bed. Mike came in a couple of minutes later.
“Man,” he said, “those coaches treated me like a king when they came to my high school in the spring.” He sat down on his bed and started examining the playbook they’d just given us. “Now they act like I’m some Marine recruit or something!”
I laughed a little, remembering my freshman year. “They tend to take things a little serious during camp,” I said, “but don’t let it get to you.” Out of habit I turned back the covers on my bed and knelt down to say my prayers. Even before I got started, I had a strange feeling that someone was watching me.
I turned around, and sure enough, Mike was staring at me like I’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a concerned voice. I wasn’t sure what to say. I got up and sat down on my bed for a second. I hadn’t thought about how I was going to act in situations like this. Before my mission it was easy being the only member of the Church on the team; I was just a Mormon incognito. I kept the gospel tucked carefully under a bushel, ensuring that no one could make life miserable for me. Remembering how I used to act was starting to make me feel guilty; here I was a returned missionary, and the guy who would be my roommate for a whole month didn’t even know I was a member of the Church.
“I believe in God and I’m saying my prayers,” I explained in my best door-approach-type voice. “I’ll be doing this every night and every morning.
You can basically ignore me, but I would appreciate it if there was no music playing during that time, if that’s possible.” His eyes were still as big as golf balls.
“Oh,” he said nervously. His eyes were searching as if he were looking for a possible escape route. “Fine. Fine. That’s uh … That’s just fine.” I turned back to my prayers. After I finished I stayed on my knees a while, thinking about what my duty as a missionary was in this situation. I should get up and tell Mike I’m Mormon, I thought. I should ask him what he knows about the Church and if he’d like to know more. Then I’ll challenge him to take the discussions. I reconsidered when I thought about how he reacted to my prayer. He’d freak out, I concluded to myself. He’d grab his stereo box and go sleep on a couch in the lobby tonight and ask coach for a room change first thing in the morning.
Then I remembered something my mission president had told me in my last interview with him, not two months before.
“Missionary work involves both planting and harvesting,” he counseled. “You have seen a lot of harvesting the past two years. Now go home and do some planting.”
For the first time, what President Bender had told me started to make sense. It was no longer my calling to teach Mike the discussions and challenge him to be baptized. My job now was to let the light of the gospel plant the seeds inside of him. I knew what to do. I’d throw away that candle-snuffing bushel, and I’d start acting more like a candlestick.
I climbed in bed and got ready to read my scriptures. I took out a blue missionary copy of the Book of Mormon and placed it in plain view on the edge of my desk. I opened the New Testament to Matthew, chapter 5, where the Savior talks about this whole candlestick and bushel thing. I glanced over at Mike, who was unsuccessfully trying to act nonchalant and ignore me. I was obviously the first praying and Bible-reading linebacker he’d met.
The next day during the afternoon practice, the linebackers, tight ends, and running backs met for tackling drill. This is a very sophisticated variation of running into a brick wall on purpose. Two players line up ten yards apart and run full speed into each other, smashing themselves senseless. I was fourth in line on my side. I looked over at the other side and saw Mike. He was third in his line. I said “excuse me,” and stepped around the guy in front of me, so I would be in line to tackle Mike. I could see Mike peering around his line, trying to see what I was doing. I could see a smile creep onto his face when he realized I had changed places so I could tackle him. I knew what he was thinking: This is one of those religious wimps. He reads the Bible. I hope I don’t put him in the hospital.
Now, for Mike to have a reasonable basis for serious consideration of the gospel, his preconception about men of faith would have to be reformed. So when our turn came I did my best. I have to admit that it was a great effort. I let out two years of pent-up tackling energy on Mike. Planting my helmet square into his number, I lifted him up off the ground and body-slammed him into the grass, ending up almost in a headstand on his sternum. He just lay there for a second. I helped him up, gave him a friendly slap on the helmet, and trotted off. When I got back in line I looked over and saw him in the other line, rubbing his chest and looking very perplexed. He was getting ready to see some light.
I continued to leave the Book of Mormon on the edge of the desk. It took another week before Mike’s curiosity got to him, or at least before I caught him. The linebacker meeting ran a little late that night, so when I got to the room I opened the door quietly in case Mike was asleep. He was leaning over from his side of the room, gingerly holding open the Book of Mormon with his fingertips, as if it might bite him, and peering inside.
“Hi there!” I said cheerfully. He just about jumped out of his socks.
“How ya doin’?” he said, trying to think of something to say. “I was just …”
“Listen,” I interrupted, “you can borrow that book anytime you want. You don’t even have to ask.”
“Oh no,” he stammered, “I don’t … uh …”
“Honestly,” I said. “It’s no bother. I have two copies.”
“Well,” he said, “maybe I will look at it some other time.” I left it at that.
Two nights later it was really hot, and I was having trouble sleeping. I could tell Mike was awake also, as I heard him wrestle with his sheets about every fives minutes in a vain effort to get comfortable.
“Marchant,” he whispered, “you awake?”
“Yeah,” I said, “what’s up?”
“Is that book—” he asked, “that blue one on your desk—is it like the Mormon Bible or something?”
“Well, it’s not a Mormon Bible,” I explained. “But it is a religious history, like the Bible is. We consider them both to be books of scripture.”
“What do you mean, history book!” he said out loud in the darkness.
“Well, Mike,” I started out, “the Bible is basically a religious history of the ancient Mideastern people, and the Book of Mormon is a religious history of the ancient American people.”
“Don’t give me that!” he shot back in the darkness. “That’s no history book.” He threw off the covers and turned on the light. He grabbed the Book of Mormon off my desk and flipped right to the page with Arnold Fribergs’s painting of a well-muscled Nephi on it.
“Look at this guy!” he said, shoving the book in my face and pointing to Nephi. “This looks more like Muscle and Fitness magazine!”
It took me the better part of an hour to explain that picture and all the rest of them to his satisfaction. After that Mike kept the Book of Mormon on his desk, and whenever we couldn’t sleep we would talk about the gospel.
At the first of September school started. Mike and I decided we’d see if we could room together for the whole school year. His parents flew in from California for the first home game, to see their son’s college debut. As I was jogging off the field after the game, Mike grabbed me and introduced me to them.
“Mom, Dad, this is my roommate, Dave Marchant. He’s that Mormon guy I’ve been telling you about.”
I got a lump in my throat. I was sure they were going to tell me that they weren’t going to allow Mike to have a roommate who was a religious fanatic.
“How do you do,” I said. “Your son is pretty tough for a freshman.”
“We’ve heard about you,” his father said as he shook my hand. Oh no, I thought to myself. Here it comes.
“And we want to thank you for being such a good friend to Mike,” he continued. His mother put her hand on my shoulder and said: “Our next-door neighbors at home are LDS, and they’re such fine people.” I offered a prayer of gratitude in my heart for the light of that family, whoever they were.
Mike’s parents took us both to dinner at their hotel, and afterward I drove him to the airport so he could see them off. They wanted to let us use their rental car to drive back to the university, because we always had to push-start my car, but we said we were used to it. On the way home, while we were stopped at a stoplight, I asked Mike if he had told his parents anything else about the Mormons, besides the fact that I was one.
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly, “I told them I was thinking about becoming one.”
“You did what?” I choked, as I popped the clutch and stalled the car right in the middle of the intersection.
“Well,” he explained, “I told them that I read the Book of Mormon and I think it’s true. They’ve always said that when I was old enough, I could choose my own religious beliefs. Anyway, I think we better get out of the middle of the intersection.”
He got out and push-started us. When we got going again I decided I had better find out if he was really serious.
“Mike,” I counseled, “are you sure about this? When did you read the Book of Mormon?”
“Whenever you weren’t around,” he said, “and sometimes I used my flashlight and read it after you were asleep. Anyway, it says in this part at the end to pray to God to find out if it’s true.” He stared out the window at the lights going by. “I did, and it is.” He turned toward me. “What do you have to do to belong to this church of yours?”
I started to feel that missionary glow inside again. It was a nice feeling.
“Well,” I said, “I suppose we could find some harvesters around town someplace.”
“Harvesters?” Mike’s voice had that concerned tone again.
“I meant missionaries,” I laughed. “I told you how I used to be one.”
“Oh, yeah,” he remembered. “Who push-started the car for you when you were in South America?”

In preparation for my first trip to the temple, my mother and experienced Relief Society sisters helped me select the items I would need, including beautiful ceremonial clothing. But the most important preparation came even before knowing what to wear. After interviewing me to determine if I was worthy, my bishop explained the covenants I would make. His careful explanation gave me the chance to think about and be prepared to make those covenants.

When the day came, I participated with a feeling of gratitude and peace. Even though I did not understand the full significance of the covenants I made, I did know that I was bound to God through those covenants and was promised blessings I could scarcely comprehend if I kept them. Since that first experience, I have been continually assured that keeping the covenants we make with God allows us to draw upon the Savior’s power, which strengthens us in our inevitable trials, provides protection from the adversary’s influence, and prepares us for eternal glory.

Two of the blessings that a senior priesthood companion can give are trust and an example of caring. I saw that when my son was given a home teaching companion who had vastly more priesthood experience than he did. His senior companion had been a mission president twice and had served in other leadership positions.

Before they were to visit one of their assigned families, that seasoned priesthood leader asked to visit my son in our home beforehand. They allowed me to listen. The senior companion opened with prayer, asking for help. Then he said something like this to my son: “I think we should teach a lesson that will sound to this family like a call to repentance. I think they won’t take it very well from me. I think they would take the message better from you. How do you feel about that?”

I remember the terror in my son’s eyes. I can still feel the happiness of that moment when my son accepted the trust.

It was not by accident that the bishop put that companionship together. It was by careful preparation that the senior companion had learned about the feelings of that family they were about to teach. It was by inspiration that he felt to step back, to trust an inexperienced youth to call older children of God to repentance and to safety.

I don’t know the outcome of their visit, but I do know that a bishop, a Melchizedek Priesthood holder, and the Lord were preparing a boy to be a priesthood man and someday a bishop.

In the spring of 1950, he began to worry more about an annoying hoarseness. Cancer was diagnosed, and he was operated on. Doctors removed all of one and part of the other vocal cord, which would leave him with a raspy voice.
Under total anesthesia after having been operated on, he was being wheeled back to his room. Still drugged, Spencer sensed his table stop by an elevator and heard the orderly, angry at something, profaning the Lord’s name. Half-conscious, he managed to say, “Please don’t say that. I love Him more than anything in this world.” The orderly answered softly, “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

Olivio Gomes Manuel wasn’t raised in a rat-infested urban tenement building. He and his seven brothers and sisters lived in a small Angolan village in a two-room mud hut with a dirt floor and thatched roof. Plumbing and electricity were unheard of.
At least he didn’t have to deal with drug dealers—no, he and his family had revolutionaries to watch out for. When Olivio was nine years old, his country was thrust into an extremely violent civil war in which thousands were murdered or just disappeared. Then, when most of the fighting was over and the blood had seeped into the ground, the country’s troubles were far from over. Famine swept through Angola, and thousands more died of starvation. “It was not a good life,” he says, in his very deep, soft voice. Understatement is typical of him.
It was something completely out of his control that saved him from starvation, although there were many days that he and his family went hungry. “God blessed me,” says Olivio, tall and, even though he hasn’t missed a meal lately, still very lean. He was granted incredible height and agility. Olivio was able to play basketball for food.
At the age of 11, Olivio was six-foot-three. He’d been playing professional ball for about two years. Well, professional meant that the company that sponsored your team would sometimes feed you on game days. Some weeks those were the only full meals Olivio ate.
And the road trips were the best of all—your meals were all taken care of. Olivio played in Nigeria, Algeria, Zaire, and even went to Czechoslovakia. “I was there for ten days, and they gave us money for food,” said Olivio. “With this money I bought clothes and shoes for my family. It was difficult to buy clothes in Angola. They were so expensive.”
Olivio had been raised by his parents to be a good Christian, but at times his faith was tried. “If there is a God, how can he let so many people die—so many people suffer?” he asked. Still, Olivio could not deny that God had had a hand in his survival. He felt that he was being prepared for something.
When Olivio was 17, he played on a team for the Angolan military. All the boys in the country were required to go into the military for an indefinite amount of time. He also made the national team.
That’s when Olivio began to dream of playing ball in Portugal. He was fluent in Portuguese. (Angola is a former Portuguese colony, and Portuguese is the official language.) And what’s more, Olivio heard that they actually paid professional players salaries in Portugal. He would be able to send money home to his family.
It took Olivio a few years to get a visa to go, but once in Portugal it only took him a few days to find a professional team that wanted him. At six-foot-seven, he not only had the stature they were looking for, but he had the moves.
And it only took him a month to find something else. “I was on the metro, and I saw these two boys—they were only boys, but they were wearing nice suits, and they said they wanted to talk to me, so I said okay.”
“They started to teach me the discussions. The Joseph Smith story surprised me, but it felt good. Everything felt good. One week later I went to a conference. I attended the meetings, and afterwards I was baptized. Baptism is for the remission of sins. I was a good guy, but I knew I needed to be baptized.”
Little did Olivio know what that baptism would lead to. When he wasn’t playing basketball, Olivio was at church. “I tried to go to church all the time. Every time I would go, my mind would open up and I would learn something new. It felt good.”
Then one day, about a year later, one of Olivio’s American teammates said, “Hey—you’re Mormon. Don’t Mormons go on missions? Are you going to quit the team and go too?”
That got Olivio thinking. “The things I learned made sense to me, and I said, ‘Well, if these things come from God, I have to explain them to other people.’”
But leaving basketball—that would be tough. Olivio had just made the Portuguese national team, and they had offered him a very lucrative contract—lots of money, a car, and a luxurious apartment.
“It was a difficult decision to leave basketball, so I decided to get my patriarchal blessing. There it said that I was going to serve the Lord, so I decided to do it. God prepared me to come here and find the gospel by giving me these talents to play basketball. I don’t have a problem leaving it to serve him. I think I can help many people.”
And now, Elder Olivio Gomes Manuel, who left northern Portugal almost two years ago to serve in southern Portugal, is helping many people. He’s well known throughout the mission for his good nature and easy smile, his hard work, and his gentle rapport with the people he towers over.
That isn’t the kind of fame that makes you a star on national television—it’s more the kind of fame that makes you a star in the eternities. And while he won’t make millions from gigantic contracts and endorsements, he knows that his eternal reward will be far greater.
Still, you see his eyes light up when you put a basketball in his hands on P-day. Watching him glide around the court, you realize basketball is as natural for him as swimming is to fish. It seems to be what he was made for. Oh, once his mission is over he would like to use basketball to earn a university education. But then he wants to return to Angola “to help the Church and help the people grow there.” Elder Manuel speaks mostly Portuguese now, but he remembers his native language, an African dialect called Quinbondo, and he knows English as well.
Even though the end of this tale is far from written, it’s already a success story as tall as Elder Manuel himself. After all, the richest pro in the world can’t buy his way into heaven, and no matter how many autographs you’ve signed, if your name isn’t written in the book of life, your fame won’t mean a thing.
Elder Manuel has already gained more success than he ever hoped to, and his secret is simple: “I listen to God, and when I do what he says, he blesses me.”

Last year my family moved from Utah to Oklahoma. On our first Sunday at church, I didn’t know anyone, and everything seemed strange. Even the building seemed strange because we met in the public library while a chapel was being built. At first I felt scared and out of place in Primary. I wondered if I’d ever belong. Then a good thing happened. Primary started with a song I had often sung in my old Primary. I felt a happy feeling inside, and I didn’t feel strange or different anymore. I sang the familiar words louder than usual. Some things might be different, but the songs were the same. They gave me comfort and helped me feel at home. I am grateful for Primary songs.Preston C., age 11, Oklahoma

“What were you assigned to bring?” Melissa asked Clara as they walked to Sister Wilson’s house for their achievement day activity.
“Flour,” Clara answered. “What are you bringing?”
“Some yeast,” said Melissa.
“I wonder what we’re doing today,” Clara continued. “Hannah is bringing flour too. Sister Wilson has kept it such a secret.”
“I know,” Melissa agreed. “All she would say was it’s going to affect many Church members this Sunday.”
The girls were still talking about the mystery when they reached Sister Wilson’s house. Tina, Jenny, and Susan were already there. Just as Clara and Melissa sat down, Hannah arrived. Now all the girls were present, and they hoped the mystery project would soon be revealed.
Sister Wilson offered the opening prayer, asking that they might understand the importance of the great sacrifice Jesus Christ made for them. She also prayed that the food they would prepare might be blessed for the sake of all who would eat it.
After the prayer, they went to the kitchen with their assigned ingredients.
“Let’s see,” Sister Wilson began, “who was assigned to bring the yeast?”
“I was,” Melissa said.
“Good,” said Sister Wilson. “We’re going to put the yeast into a small bowl with some warm water and let it dissolve. We will put the other dry ingredients into a larger bowl. Who has the flour, sugar, and salt?”
“I do,” Clara, Hannah, and Jenny answered together.
As the girls worked, they talked and laughed. Amid the chatter, Clara asked, “What are we making, and how will it affect the Church members?”
“Can anyone guess?” Sister Wilson asked.
“Are we making cookies?” Susan asked.
Sister Wilson smiled. “We are making the bread that will be used next Sunday for the sacrament.”
The giggling stopped suddenly, and the girls spoke reverently. They weren’t making bread just to learn how. They were making bread for use in a sacred ordinance!
When the yeast was dissolved, Susan poured in the milk she had brought and Tina added her oil. Then the girls mixed the liquid and dry ingredients together. They took turns kneading the dough, then covered it with a cloth and allowed it to rise. They shaped it into two loaves, and while they waited for it to rise the second time, they had a lesson on the sacrament.
“Can anyone tell me what the bread and water represent?” Sister Wilson asked.
“The flesh and blood of Jesus Christ,” Melissa answered.
“That is right,” said Sister Wilson. “Shortly before His Crucifixion, Jesus gathered His Apostles around Him in an upstairs room. He knew He was going to die, and He wanted the Apostles to always remember Him and to be faithful to His teachings. He blessed bread and broke it into pieces. He gave it to His disciples to eat in memory of His body. He blessed wine and gave it to them to drink in memory of His blood.
“When we partake of the sacrament, we renew the covenants we made when we were baptized,” Sister Wilson continued. “Can anyone tell me what we promised to do?”
“I know,” Clara said. “We promised to keep the commandments.”
“We promised to remember Jesus Christ,” Jenny added.
“Very good,” Sister Wilson said. “We also promised to take upon us the name of Jesus Christ. The way we act, the things we do, and the words we say should show others that we are followers of Christ. The Lord promised us that if we keep our covenants, we will always have His Spirit to be with us.
“Is there anything special we should do during the sacrament?” Sister Wilson asked.
Hannah raised her hand. “My mom always tells us we should be reverent.”
“She’s right,” said Sister Wilson. “And we should remember the Atonement and think about the promises we are renewing. We also need to think about ways to improve ourselves and become more like Christ.”
The girls talked about things they could do to be more Christlike. Then it was time to put the bread into the oven. While the bread baked, the girls planned upcoming activities.
Then they took the golden brown loaves from the oven, and Sister Wilson said, “After they cool, I’ll slice them. Then I’ll give them to Bishop Carmichael.”
On Sunday the girls sat with their families in sacrament meeting. They sang the sacrament hymn reverently as the priests broke the bread for the congregation. They listened carefully as a priest blessed the bread, and when they said, “Amen,” they really meant it. Then the deacons passed the bread. When Clara took a piece of bread from the tray, she was filled with gratitude for all the Savior had done for her. She thought about the Last Supper and what Jesus taught His disciples about the sacrament. She also thought about ways she could keep the commandments better.
Clara glanced at Melissa. From the look on her friend’s face, Clara knew the sacrament had touched Melissa’s heart too.
After the meeting, the girls stopped outside the meetinghouse to talk for a moment before going home.
“I’m glad Sister Wilson let us help make the sacrament bread,” Jenny said.
“I thought it made the sacrament extra special,” Tina added.
“It wasn’t just the bread,” Melissa replied thoughtfully. “It was really thinking about the sacrifice of Jesus Christ and what the sacrament means.”
Clara smiled. “I felt the same way. It wasn’t the bread that made the difference. It was the Savior.”

Administrators of the Ndejje Division of the Makindye Ssabagabo municipality in Uganda noticed that young girls attending the district’s schools often missed classes because their families could not afford to buy them sanitary pads during their menstrual cycles.
These public officials turned to humanitarian missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for help. Using donated Church aid funds, the missionaries purchased 1,500 reusable sanitary pads from a Uganda-based company and presented them to Ndejje Division officials in Makindye Ssabagabo municipality on Jan. 23, 2023.
These kits will be distributed to girls from families of limited means who attend 15 government-aided schools throughout the municipality over the coming months. Officials will monitor distribution and follow up with school officials to see that school attendance improves.
Several important local officials attended the handover ceremony. These included Dr. Ssonko Shafiq, chairperson, Nakilambi Deborah, vice chairperson, Lwanga Ronald, inspector of schools, Prossy Kizza, treasurer, Jumba Ahmed, assistant health inspector, and Aide Kalibbala Katerega, chairperson of production, Ndejje Division.
The Church was represented by John Katerega, member of the Kabowa Ward bishopric, Patricia Ekeesit, communications director of the Kampala Uganda South Stake, and Church humanitarian missionaries Elder and Sister Bird.
Dr. Ssonko Shafiq, of the division leadership, expressed appreciation for the work of the Church in their area and said the municipality looks forward to more engagement with the Church. Many girls have inconsistent classroom attendance because parents cannot afford to buy pads for the female students and as such they stay home during their menstrual cycle.
Brother Katerega explained that this donation was made possible by the sacrifices of faithful Church members, who abstain from food one day per month and donate the money they would have spent to the Church for humanitarian projects such as this one. He bore his testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and invited participants to attend local congregations to learn more.