Gospel Story Finder

Brother José de Souza Marques was the type of leader who truly understood the principle taught by the Savior: “And if any man among you be strong in the Spirit, let him take with him him that is weak, that he may be edified in all meekness, that he may become strong also” (D&C 84:106).
As a member of the branch presidency in Fortaleza, Brazil, Brother Marques, with the other priesthood leaders, developed a plan to reactivate those who were less active in his branch. One of those who was less active was a young man by the name of Fernando Araujo. Recently I spoke to Fernando, and he told me of his experience:
“I became involved in surfing competitions on Sunday mornings and stopped going to my Church meetings. One Sunday morning Brother Marques knocked on my door and asked my nonmember mother if he could talk to me. When she told him I was sleeping, he asked permission to wake me. He said to me, ‘Fernando, you are late for church!’ Not listening to my excuses, he took me to church.
“The next Sunday the same thing happened, so on the third Sunday I decided to leave early to avoid him. As I opened the gate I found him sitting on his car, reading the scriptures. When he saw me he said, ‘Good! You are up early. Today we will go and find another young man!’ I appealed to my agency, but he said, ‘We can talk about that later.’
“After eight Sundays I could not get rid of him, so I decided to sleep at a friend’s house. I was at the beach the next morning when I saw a man dressed in a suit and tie walking toward me. When I saw that it was Brother Marques, I ran into the water. All of a sudden I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder. It was Brother Marques, in water up to his chest! He took me by the hand and said, ‘You are late! Let’s go.’ When I argued that I didn’t have any clothes to wear, he replied, ‘They are in the car.’
“That day as we walked out of the ocean, I was touched by Brother Marques’s sincere love and worry for me. He truly understood the Savior’s words: ‘I will seek that which was lost, and bring again that which was driven away, and will bind up that which was broken, and will strengthen that which was sick’ (Ezekiel 34:16). Brother Marques didn’t just give me a ride to church—the quorum made sure I remained active. They planned activities that made me feel needed and wanted, I received a calling, and the quorum members became my friends.”
Following his reactivation, Brother Araujo went on a full-time mission and has served as bishop, stake president, mission president, and regional representative. His widowed mother, three sisters, and several cousins have also entered the waters of baptism.

After a meeting with some of our servicemen in Da Nang, South Vietnam, one man in battle dress came up to me and asked if I would write a letter to his parents, who were nonmembers, explaining to them the great honor that had come to him that day. He said they knew nothing about the Church and asked, “Bishop Brown, would you mind telling them what a great honor it was for me to be ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood today?” Some time ago in New York City a fine-looking young man said to me, “It isn’t easy to be a Jew and a Mormon.” When this young man was baptized, his parents were so displeased they held a formal funeral. As far as they are concerned, their son is dead. How important it is that all young men of the Aaronic Priesthood recognize their responsibility as priesthood holders and, as President McKay used to say, act accordingly.

I was not a very impressive teenager and spent little time serving others. During this time my mother invited me to come with her to visit my great-aunt at a nursing home.
My cousin and her daughter Stephanie accompanied us on this visit. Stephanie was seven or eight years old. As we walked into the nursing home, she waved at everyone she saw. They lit up as if she were handing out sunshine and rainbows. I, on the other hand, avoided eye contact.
When we entered the room that my great-aunt shared with another elderly woman, I did my best to disappear into the background. Stephanie, however, jumped onto my aunt’s bed and began to regale her with stories.
I noticed something about this room. On my aunt’s side were signs of love and family. Pictures and crayon drawings hung on the wall, and flowers adorned a nightstand. The other side of the room was sterile and bare. There were no signs of any visitors; no cards or pictures hung on the wall.
My aunt’s roommate sat alone in a wheelchair and did not acknowledge our presence. She was humming a tune and tapping the arms of her wheelchair, which made me uncomfortable.
Stephanie tugged on her mother’s arm and asked, “Mommy, what’s the matter with that lady?” Stephanie’s mother leaned down and whispered, “She needs love.” I was not prepared for what happened next.
Without hesitation, Stephanie ran over and jumped into the woman’s lap. She then began to tell her stories and ask all kinds of questions. The woman did not answer. Instead, tears ran down her face as she embraced Stephanie. For the next several minutes, Stephanie sat in her lap, stroking her hair and kissing her cheek.
I had never witnessed this type of unselfish love before, and I tried to hide my tears. Later, as we drove away from the nursing home, I marveled at how young Stephanie could be so selfless and so full of love and compassion for a complete stranger.
Eventually I turned my life around and served a full-time mission. While I served, Stephanie wrote me cute letters that included drawings just like the ones in my aunt’s room in the nursing home.
Before I returned home, I received the devastating news that an illness had claimed Stephanie’s life. I still weep that her light went out so soon, but I remain grateful for her example. She taught me what service truly is.
We do not ever have to wonder how or if we should serve. If our hearts are in the right place, then service will become a part of who we are, not just what we do.

I arrived home. I heard crying as I walked in. It was Steven, my brother. He’d been teased at school and didn’t want to go back. The words from my patriarchal blessing echoed in my mind: “You may help the needy with your time, effort, and means.” Here was my brother in need.
“Hey Steven, you wanna go get some ice cream? Tell me what happened.”
Steven and I talked about his peers. Maybe I didn’t say anything helpful, but I could tell that my companionship meant a lot to him.
That experience with Steven taught me a lesson: the poor are just as likely to be in your home as on the streets. There are all sorts of needy people in the world—those who need food and shelter, of course—but also those who need love, counsel, and encouragement.
I haven’t given up my dream of ending the world’s social troubles, but for now, whenever I get the itch to seek out the needy, I’m inclined to go knocking at my brother’s bedroom door first.

“This will be the 10th load of hay,” David’s father called to him. “Drive over to the higher ground.” Young David O. McKay looked across the field to where his father was pointing. The first nine loads they had gathered were full of lesser-quality hay. David knew his father meant for this 10th load of the best hay to go to the bishops’ storehouse as their tithing. But he didn’t understand why they couldn’t give the Lord the same hay they were collecting.
David called back to his father, “No, let us take the hay as it comes.”
David’s father didn’t answer. David was about to repeat himself when he saw his father turn and begin walking straight toward him. Suddenly, the breeze in the hay field was gone, and the sun became feverishly hot. David wiped the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck. He knew his father was not crossing the field to give him a pat on the back for his snippy answer. He was coming all this way to be sure that David understood something.
“No, David.” His father spoke sternly, yet the calm in his voice made David pay extra close attention. “This is the 10th load, and the best is none too good for God.” David’s father looked closely at his son’s face to make sure he had been listening. Then he turned and walked away.
David swallowed the lump in his throat and then guided his team to the higher ground. As he loaded the cut hay onto the wagon, he began to think of what his father was trying to teach him. While he knew that tithing is a law, just as much as obedience and sacrifice are, David wanted to put their own needs first. But God had said to take the firstlings of the flocks—the very best—and give them to Him (see Deuteronomy 12:6).
“My father gives the best to God, and we get the next best,” David thought. “Perhaps this is how we make the Lord the center of our thoughts and our lives.”
There were times when David had watched his mother pay money for tithing. Instead of spending what she needed and then hoping there was some left for tithing, she immediately sent the tithing money to the bishop and then made do with what was left. The first and the best was always given to God.
David turned the hay wagon down the dusty road toward the bishops’ storehouse. He drove into the yard and unloaded the hay. It was a sacrifice for his father to give his best hay to the Lord, but David knew his father would have it no other way. He wanted to give his best for the Lord, just as Heavenly Father gave His perfect Son for the world.
As David turned his team back toward home, a good feeling came over him. He was glad his father had taught him the law of tithing. It was a lesson he would remember all his life.

“This was a once in a lifetime experience to be part of a team of like-minded people, freely giving of their time and enjoying being part of the community,” reflects David Cook about his experiences serving as a volunteer for the Commonwealth Games held in Birmingham this past summer.
David is a member of the Church and worked within a team of 14,000 other volunteers who were critical to the successful operation of the games.
His role, experiences, and feelings along with other volunteers in the games who are also members of the Church living in the greater Birmingham area are shared below.
David Cook, Coventry Stake
David was selected to assist in the interview process from September through December of 2021, to pare down over 40,000 applicants to the 24,000 who were eligible for an interview. After reviewing applications and a 30-minute interview, 14,000 individuals were finally selected to receive one of over three hundred roles as a volunteer. He later provided training for specific roles at the games’ venues and looked after the welfare of the volunteers.
He says, “I interviewed amazing people, I served with amazing people. I worked with amazing people.”
David recalls that those applying for roles as volunteers often expressed the sentiment, “The games are an opportunity for me to give something back to the city that has helped me so much and that I have enjoyed. It has meant so much to me.”
According to David Cook, there were over 6,000 athletes and officials at the Games. “We all agreed that this was a ‘once in a lifetime’ experience as the games happen every four years and could occur in any Commonwealth country. It is unlikely that they will be in Birmingham again in my life.”

I remember a woman who constantly nagged her husband (an inactive elder) about not paying his tithing, saying again and again, “When you don’t pay your tithing, you deny me and the children the blessings that are associated with this commandment … I want those blessings, even if you don’t.” She became so irate and her marriage became so disturbed over this issue that she went to the bishop trying to get his aid in forcing her husband to pay tithing. The bishop’s response was, “Overall your husband is basically a good and righteous man. If you sustain him in righteousness, even in his judgment not to pay tithing at this time, the Lord will sustain you, and you will be obeying God’s commandments and will not miss out on any of the blessings.” When the husband later learned of this bishop’s counsel, he was so deeply affected and impressed that his Church activity increased and the marital relationship was much improved.

It’s funny how you never really appreciate something until it’s gone. At least, that’s how I felt the day I realized that my reputation had become quite ugly. I guess I better back up a bit and tell you how I came to that point.
I’ve been LDS my whole life, and I was always a basically good kid. Then I entered ninth grade. Everything went downhill from there. I was so tired of being teased about being a goody-goody. I never intended to ever do anything really wrong. I just didn’t want to be hassled anymore. So I came up with what seemed like a great plan. Looking back I realize it was pretty stupid.
I decided I would lead a double life. When I was at church or with LDS friends, I would act the part of a perfect Mormon. When I was with my nonmember friends, I would go wherever they went, talk like them, and try to seem like one of them. I figured that as long as I didn’t drink their beer or smoke their pot I was still okay. Unfortunately, I was living a lie with both groups of friends. You can’t get away with a lie for very long. It wasn’t long before my LDS friends started to keep their distance. One girl told me that her mother had told her she couldn’t hang around with me anymore because I smoked pot and drank. She didn’t want her daughter being influenced by me. It just wasn’t true! But how do you convince someone of that when all of your actions point to a different conclusion?
My friends from school started seeing the lie too. My first kiss was in the backseat of a stranger’s car with a boy whose name I didn’t even know. He wanted to go farther than I was willing to. Later, his friend told me it was time I started following through on the life I was claiming to live. My partying friends decided that it was time to prove I was one of them, so they planned a little pot party in my honor for the last day of school. I didn’t go to school that day. It was the coward’s way out, but deep down inside I knew they weren’t really my friends.
That was when I realized how foolish I’d been. I had destroyed my reputation in six short months! My LDS friends didn’t believe a thing I said, and my nonmember friends thought I was a jerk—all talk and no play.
What took a short six months to destroy took years to rebuild. For the next full year I worked very hard to prove to the good kids that I was one of them. Every time I thought I had succeeded my past would come back to haunt me.
The summer after I was in tenth grade our girls’ church basketball team won the regional play-offs. We would be going to the area play-offs 1,000 miles away. We would be traveling with the boys’ team that won the regionals. I couldn’t believe what my coach said about me after that trip. She said that when we left home she had been sure she’d be sending me home early. After all she’d heard about me, she was just sure that I would get into some kind of trouble. She said she was surprised and pleased to discover that I was the best-behaved girl on the trip. I couldn’t believe it! I realized people were still judging me by the friends I’d had over a year ago. I’d never done any of the things people were saying I’d done in the past, but because of the people I’d associated with, the places I’d been seen, and the way I had dressed, everyone assumed I’d done the same awful things my friends had! I was guilty by association. Everywhere I went people were watching, testing me, judging me—all because of some choices I’d made in the past. It was so unfair, yet something I had to live with. You can’t fix a ruined reputation overnight.
Even in my senior year I had to defend my reputation! I met a boy that I really wanted to go out with. Finally, things clicked and we were really talking, the kind of talk where you feel so good and so close to someone. Then he shocked me into reality. I couldn’t believe I was actually sitting there hearing him tell me that he really liked me, but that he couldn’t date me because his standards were different than mine! He wouldn’t date someone who didn’t live the gospel. I was totally speechless. He had heard about things that I had supposedly done over three years ago. It took me several months to prove to him that the stories from my past were rumors and falsehoods. I am amazed to this day that a ruined reputation could have such far-reaching effects. You never know how the things you are doing—or even just pretending to be doing—are going to affect your tomorrows! It’s so much better to keep your reputation clean and intact than to play games with such a valuable possession.
I’d like to be able to say that the story ends there, that I went to college and left my blemished reputation behind me. But there is one more unfortunate chapter. What did my six months of spoiling my reputation do for me? Four years later, it nearly had disastrous consequences. A boy who knew me in ninth grade had moved away from our town to a different state just after ninth grade. He ended up at the same college I did, and when we bumped into each other one day, he introduced me to a friend. I’ll never know what he told him about me, but somehow his friend decided that he had found himself an “easy” pickup. One night, after going out with the friend I’d assumed was a good guy, I found myself trapped in a car with a person who was not prepared to take no for an answer. He actually had the gall to tell me that he “knew all about me” and he wasn’t going to let me go without “his share of the goodies”! I will forever be grateful to a loving Heavenly Father who inspired a campus policeman to patrol the stadium parking lot, “just one more time.”
Please, oh please, learn from my mistake. No number of “friends” or invitations to parties, no degree of “popularity” is worth the years of heartache a ruined reputation can cause you. However, if you find that your reputation is worse than you are, remember that Heavenly Father knows you very well and his judgment is always fair. If you sincerely try, you can eventually reclaim your good name. But how much richer and fuller your life can be if you never let your reputation slip. The value of the gospel in your life is far greater than the cheap, temporary thrill of a moment of being “in.”

You can see the shock when you remember having seen that problem before. Why, that rowboat has been in the water for generations. You might think that you’ll say, “Well, I’ll make my children feel better by showing them that I can’t do math either.” Let me give you some advice: they will see that as a poor gift.
There is a better gift, but it will take effort now. My dad, when he was a boy, must have tackled the rowboat problem, and lots of others. That was part of the equipment he needed to become a scientist who made a difference to chemistry. But he also made a difference to me. Our family room didn’t look as elegant as some. It had one kind of furniture, chairs, and one wall decoration, a green chalkboard. I came to the age your boy or girl will reach. I didn’t wonder if I could work the math problems; I’d proved to my satisfaction I couldn’t. Some of my teachers were satisfied that was true, too.
But Dad wasn’t satisfied. He thought I could. So we took turns at that chalkboard. I can’t remember the gifts my dad wrapped and helped put under a tree. But I remember the chalkboard and his quiet voice and even his not-so-quiet voice as he built up my mathematics, and me. It took more than knowing what I needed and caring. It took more than being willing to give his time then, precious as it was. It took time earlier when he had the chances you have. Because he spent it then, he and I had that time at the green board. And because he gave me that, I’ve got a boy this year who has let me sit down with him. We’ve rowed that same boat up and down. And his teacher wrote “much improved” on a report card. But I’ll tell you what’s improved most: the feelings of a fine boy about himself. Nothing I will put under the tree for Stuart this year has half the chance to become a family heirloom that his pride of accomplishment does.
Now I see some art, or are they music, majors smiling. You’re thinking: he surely can’t convince me there’s a gift hidden in my unfinished assignments. Let me try. Last week I went to an Eagle Scout court of honor. I’ve been to dozens. But this one had something I won’t forget. Before the Eagle badge was given there was a slide and sound show. The lights went down, and I recognized two voices on the tape. One was a famous singer in the background, and the other, the narrator, was the dad of the new Eagle Scout. The slides were of eagles soaring, and of mountains, and of moon landings. Maybe the Eagle Scout didn’t have a lump in his throat quite the size of mine. But he’ll remember the gift. The dad must have spent hours preparing slides, writing words that soared, and then somehow getting music and words at the right volume and at the right moment. You may have a boy someday, with all his cousins and aunts and uncles in a room looking on. And with your whole heart, you’ll want to tell him what he is and what he can be. Whether you give that gift then depends on whether you feel his heart now, and are touched, and start building the creative skills you’ll need. What it will mean in his life will make it worthwhile. I promise you.

While serving as a mission leader in Japan some years ago, I attended a weekend conference in a rural city in one of the far corners of our mission. The district president had arranged for me to conduct an interview with a man who had joined the Church a year earlier and was seeking to receive a temple recommend. He hoped to receive his own endowment on or close to the one-year anniversary of his baptism.
During our conversation, this new member described how deeply grateful he was for the bounteous blessings he had received in the year since he was baptized. He enjoyed attending weekly sacrament and other meetings. He became deeply involved in the activities of his branch. To me, he exuded a covenant confidence resulting from understanding his gospel purpose, which was now an integral part of him. He was a converted disciple of Christ who had experienced a mighty change of heart (see Mosiah 5:2).
The rest of our conversation followed a hopeful pattern. We discussed the ordinances and covenants that would be part of his temple experience. He affirmatively answered each of the standard questions associated with receiving a temple recommend.
Following the interview, I recall commenting to the district president how grateful I was to meet such an outstanding man. I told him how impressed I was that the missionaries and members had found, and spiritually nurtured, someone of such caliber and promise.
I was stunned when the district president shared that when this man began receiving lessons from the missionaries and attending church over a year earlier, he was homeless and in exceedingly difficult—near hopeless—circumstances. The district president then described how this brother’s study of the gospel and his conversion over a period of months led to his miraculous change, putting him on a path of both spiritual and temporal self-reliance and giving him a sense of purpose and joy.
I end where I began, recalling my experience years ago with a recent convert in Japan. Through his diligence and the diligence of missionaries and members, he found the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. In finding the gospel, he also discovered his purpose, which expanded his vision. He also found the great plan of happiness. Obedience to the plan’s gospel covenants brought him blessings and joy, lifting him temporally and spiritually.
His journey leading to membership in the Church of Jesus Christ allowed him to become a witness of Jesus Christ. Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has described the joy that follows:
“Because of the loving plan of our Heavenly Father for each of His children, and because of the redeeming life and mission of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, we can—and should—be the most joyful people on earth! Even as the storms of life in an often-troubled world pound upon us, we can cultivate a growing and abiding sense of joy and inner peace because of our hope in Christ and our understanding of our own place in the beautiful plan of happiness.”

During my junior year of high school, the bishopric called a new Sunday School teacher for my class. It was wonderful because this new teacher was very entertaining. At that time I didn’t go to Sunday School regularly. Before Brother Dahl was called, I hardly went at all.
One Sunday, I was walking down the hall to throw away my little brother’s leftover Cheerios from sacrament meeting and head for the bathroom to spend Sunday School time with my friends. On my way, Brother Dahl greeted me. Shaking my hand he said, “How are you doing, Sister Whitworth?” I just smiled, pushed open the garbage can, and dropped the bag in. “I hope you are coming to Sunday School today. The lesson is one of my favorites.”
“Brother Dahl, all the lessons are your favorites.” He smiled and left for class, leaving me with a weird feeling that he knew I had not planned on going to class that day. I am always one to do exactly the opposite of what everyone thinks I will do, so I went to the bathroom and casually said, “Come on, Kristina, let’s go to Sunday School.” Kristina always went to Sunday School, but I could see the surprise on her face when I was the one who suggested it.
As we entered the class, Brother Dahl asked, “Annie, what would you like for Christmas this year?”
“Money,” I said. Everyone giggled, even Brother Dahl. Brother Dahl asked everyone in the class the same question. Some wanted a mountain bike, others a stereo, and others didn’t really care as long as they got something.
Brother Dahl said, “Every year about this time I start wondering if my wife knows what I want for Christmas. I hope this year she gets me a new tennis racket and shirt, because my old ones are getting a little worn out.” Everyone knew he was joking because he was grinning.
“But that is not what Christmas is all about,” he said in a voice that changed the tone of the lesson. He started handing out paper and pencils. “At Christmastime we should be in the spirit of giving, but we should also remember what Christmas really is. On this paper I want you to write a letter to Jesus, thanking Him for all He has given you. And tell Him what present you will give Him.”
This was not an easy assignment for me. At first, I wrote down that I would give Him all of my money so He could build temples and churches, but I realized that the money really wasn’t mine anyway; it was His.
When class ended I still hadn’t thought of anything I could give Jesus that He had not already given me. I had found someone who truly had it all, and what kind of a present can you get the person who gave you everything?
That afternoon I had to set the table for Sunday dinner. While I was matching up knives with spoons, I tried to think of a really good present, but I still couldn’t think of anything. As we ate dinner, we talked about the lessons we learned at church. No one had any suggestions for what I should give Jesus for Christmas. But when my family read scriptures that night, I found my answer.
We were taking turns reading in Matthew. When I started reading, I wasn’t paying attention until I read Matthew 25:40: “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Now I realized the Savior had already told us what the best present is. I only needed to read His words for myself to understand.

“July 1839.—President Joseph Smith had taken the sick into his house and door-yard until his house was like an hospital and he had attended upon them until he was taken sick himself and confined to his bed several days.
“July 22, 1839.—Joseph arose from his bed of sickness, and the power of God rested upon him. He commenced in his own house and door-yard, commanding the sick, in the name of Jesus Christ, to arise and be made whole, and they were healed according to his word. He then continued to travel from house to house from tent to tent upon the bank of the river, healing the sick as he went until he arrived at the upper stonehouse, where he crossed the river in a boat, accompanied by several of the Quorum of the Twelve, and landed in Montrose.
“He walked into the cabin where I was lying sick, and commanded me, in the name of Jesus Christ, to arise and be made whole. I arose and was healed, and followed him and the brethren of the Twelve into the house of Elijah Fordham, who was supposed to be dying, by his family and friends. Joseph stepped to his bedside, took him by the hand and commanded him, in the name of Jesus Christ, to arise and be made whole. His voice was as the voice of God. Brother Fordham instantly leaped from his bed, called for his clothing and followed us into the street.
“We then went into the house of Joseph B. Noble, who also lay very sick, and he was healed in the same manner; and when, by the power of God granted unto him, Joseph had healed all the sick, he recrossed the river and returned to his home. This was a day never to be forgotten.
“During my further stay in Montrose I attended meetings and administered to the sick when I was well myself.”7

One morning at school, my class was on its way to music class. Some kids from another class were sitting against the wall waiting for their teacher. These kids were in an important class. It was a class for students with disabilities.
As I got closer to them, I noticed that they were trying to give the kids in my class high fives. But no one in my class would high-five them because they looked a little different.
But as I passed them, I gave them all high fives. When I looked behind me, I noticed that other kids in my class were high-fiving them too. That made me feel good.

The fictional character Mary Poppins is a typical English nanny—who happens to be magical. She blows in on the east wind to help the troubled Banks family of Number 17, Cherry Tree Lane, in Edwardian London. She is given charge of the children, Jane and Michael. In a firm but kind manner, she begins to teach them valuable lessons with an enchanting touch.
Jane and Michael make considerable progress, but Mary decides that it is time for her to move on. In the stage production, Mary’s chimney sweep friend, Bert, tries to dissuade her from leaving. He argues, “But they’re good kids, Mary.”
Mary replies, “Would I be bothering with them if they weren’t? But I can’t help them if they won’t let me, and there’s no one so hard to teach as the child who knows everything.”
Bert asks, “So?”
Mary answers, “So they’ve got to do the next bit on their own.”

The day dawned bright, hot, breathless. Perfect weather for planting, John thought as he jumped out of bed and dressed in his work clothes. It was the time of year he loved most. Days were getting longer, full of sunshine, and new things were beginning to grow.
John struggled to fasten the clumsy metal buttons on his overalls. “I have to hurry—I hear Grandpa outside,” he said to himself. His sleepy fingers finally managed to nudge the last stubborn button through the buttonhole. John was Grandpa’s helper now that his big brother, Mark, was serving a mission.
Today he and Grandpa were going to get the small south field ready to plant in wheat. After that, there would be weeks of work ahead for them—wonderful weeks of fertilizing, weeding, waiting. Then would come the biggest event of all, the harvest.
After a quick breakfast, a whoop of sheer joy, and a kiss on Mom’s cheek, seven-year-old John grabbed the knapsack his mother had prepared and bounded out the back door and across the yard. He scrambled excitedly up onto the well-worn metal tractor seat and settled down next to Grandpa. He surveyed the waiting field, then grinned his mile-wide, I’m-ready-to-get-down-to-work grin.
Today was a big day for John. Grandpa was going to let him steer the tractor all by himself for the first time. Grandpa trusted him to help with even the toughest jobs around the farm, and that made him feel grown-up.
John anxiously double-checked his gear. Yep, everything was there. Mom had sent along one man-sized lunch, a thermos of ice water, a hat to help keep the sun away, and. … Thrusting his hand deep down into his pocket, John fingered the coins he had brought along so that he could surprise Grandpa by taking him to town for an ice-cream cone after their work was done.
“Why, John!” Grandpa exclaimed over the noisy tractor engine, “I do believe you’ve forgotten something.”
“What, Grandpa?”
“You’ve forgotten your two front teeth,” Grandpa chuckled, tousling John’s hair and smiling into his freckle-splashed face.
Now both of them were laughing, and John, reaching up, gave Grandpa a mighty hug.
“You’ll be glad I lost those teeth, Grandpa, because the tooth fairy left me just enough money for …”
“Enough money for what?” Grandpa’s voice boomed over the rattle and roar of the tractor.
“You’ll see when we’re finished here, Grandpa,” John teased as they headed the tractor down to the field.
After forty years of farming, Grandpa had retired and John’s dad had taken over the farm. All of it, that is, except this one small parcel of land. “I won’t ever quit working this field,” Grandpa told John as they chugged along on the trusty old tractor. “This is our mission field.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” John giggled. “When Mark writes letters to me about being in the mission field, he isn’t talking about being out in a field of wheat.”
“John, I can see it’s time I tell you the story.” Grandpa reached over to shut the engine off. “When your dad was ready to go on a mission, almost twenty-five years ago now, your grandmother and I couldn’t afford to send him. We’d always tried our best to live the gospel, and we knew we could depend on the Lord, so we prayed that He would help us make enough money to send our boy on a mission.”
“Were your prayers answered, Grandpa?”
“Yes, John. Heavenly Father answered them in a surprising way. This little piece of land came up for sale, and your grandma and I felt inspired to buy it. It was a small field, nothing to rave about. But we had read in the scriptures that from small things great blessings come. So Grandma and I hoped that if we remained faithful and hard-working, the Lord might see fit to turn this small field into a great blessing.”
“Did you get your blessing, Grandpa?” John asked.
“Did we ever!” Grandpa answered, beaming. “We received enough money from our first crop to send your dad on his mission, and for as long as he was serving in England, we had a bumper crop. When he came home from England, the field’s production returned to normal, but as each of our three sons served missions, it thrived again. To this day, Grandma and I call it our mission field. Why, this very field is helping support Mark on his mission right now.” Grandpa smiled, giving John’s shoulder a healthy squeeze.
“And someday,” John whispered, “do you think that someday, Grandpa … ?”
“Yes, John, someday you’ll reap the rewards of our mission field too.”
It was time to work now. John and Grandpa dug right in, grateful for the fertile soil beneath them.
Under Grandpa’s watchful eye, John steered the tractor around the field, carefully overturning the hard soil. He tried hard to set his sights so that the rows would be straight and to concentrate on Grandpa’s instructions. He wanted to do his best, now more than ever before.
Dust swirled behind the tractor as John steered it, row by row, up and down the field. After the field had been plowed, they put the disk harrow onto the tractor and went over the field again to break up any large clumps of earth. Gophers, rabbits, and grasshoppers scurried ahead to avoid the harrow’s sharp disks. Seagulls swooped down from above in hopes of nabbing a succulent cricket or grasshopper as John and Grandpa made their rounds. Beneath him, John felt the soil break up, ready for them to plant the next day.
John imagined how it would be in early autumn, when the field would be beautiful with tall, golden wheat, ripe for harvest. Grandpa would pull a handful of wheat from the stalk, as he always did, and rub it hard between his strong, rough hands to separate the kernels from the chaff. Then he and John would stand together in the field, the breeze blowing waves of grain around them, while they tasted the wheat. Grandpa would chew slowly, deliberately, checking for texture and flavor. John would chew his handful of wheat until it turned to gum in his mouth. At last Grandpa would nod with satisfaction and say, “It’s ready, John,” and together they would harvest the crop.
John sighed contentedly as he and Grandpa climbed down off the tractor that day. This was going to be a most wonderful summer. John just knew it. There would be ice-cream cones to eat, laughter to share, and stories to tell. Best of all, he thought as he gazed out over the newly plowed mission field, this summer there will be a bumper crop!

“May I open it?” Rachel* could hardly contain her excitement as she watched Mom turn the white envelope over in her hand. Rachel was often allowed to help open the mail.
Mom smiled and handed her the letter. “I’m afraid it will never make it in time at this late date. I wonder how it ever came to be in our mailbox?” Rachel wasn’t sure what her mother meant.
Taking the envelope, she slit it open carefully so as not to disturb the New Hampshire return address. Mom took the letter and read it silently. Rachel could see tears in her mother’s eyes.
“Is it sad, Mom?” Rachel felt her own eyes start to sting.
Mom gave the letter back to her. “Why don’t you read it aloud?”
Rachel was just learning to read cursive. Slowly she began.
“‘Dear Santa,’”—Rachel paused—“Mom, is this what you meant when you said it wouldn’t make it?”
“Yes, Rachel. It’s already December 22. I want you to know that as I held the letter, my first thought was to return it to the post office, but the Holy Ghost whispered to me that I should open it.”
Rachel continued to read: “‘I am a single mother on welfare. I have one child, a boy, four years old. I can’t afford to buy him Christmas presents. Will you please help me? He is in need of clothes and shoes. His shoe size is 9 1/2, and in clothing, he is a 4 or 5. He also needs a winter coat, gloves, boots, and socks. Sincerely, Salina ReabaldP. S. A toy or two would be nice. Thank you.’”
Rachel set the letter down and threw her arms around her mother. They were both silent for a moment.
“We have to help them,” Rachel said finally.
“I know,” Mom agreed. “I noticed a return address—534 Pilgrim Street, Salem, New Hampshire. That’s a long way from southern Utah. How did it ever get here?” Mom stopped. “Rachel! Look at this. The letter is addressed to Santa, in care of The North Pole 84745. That’s our zip code!”
Rachel stared at the envelope. “Did you notice that she didn’t ask for anything for herself?”
Mom put an arm around her. “How would you like to play Santa this year?”
“Oh yes! Do you think we have enough time? There are only three days until Christmas.”
“I have an idea.” Mom walked over to the phone and punched in a number. “Hello. This is Sister Marjorie Banks. Would you please connect me with the Missionary Department?” Rachel waited quietly. “I was wondering if you could give me the name and telephone number of the New Hampshire Mission president. It’s important that I get in touch with him right away. Thank you. I’ll hold.”
Mom picked up the letter from the table and wrote quickly on the back as the information was given to her.
“Well, young lady,” Mom exclaimed as she hung up the telephone a second time, “we have our work cut out for us! President Hafen of the New Hampshire Manchester Mission will help us locate Salina and her son. If we can get a package together and send it by overnight mail to the mission home, he will see that it is delivered.”
They canceled all their plans for the day. Rachel even gave up the afternoon she had planned with her best friend.
Together Mom and Rachel bought some nice clothes and shoes for the little boy. Mom got a gift certificate from a nationwide clothing store for the mother. Rachel’s little brother, Alma, gave up one of his favorite toys for the package. Tucked inside two bright-red, fur-trimmed stockings were several pieces of Mom’s wonderful Christmas candy. After a trip to the local bookstore and toy outlet, the package was almost complete.
“Rachel,” Mom said as she wrote the address of the mission home on the package, “do you think you could write your testimony on this stationery? I’ll glue it to the inside cover of the scripture reader we bought for the little boy.”
Rachel took the stationery and wrote in her best cursive:
Dear Friend,I know you don’t know me. I am a little older than you. I am going to be eight in just one month. This is a special age for me, for I will be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You probably don’t know much about my church, but I love it! I want you to know that I love Jesus and Heavenly Father. They are always there to look out for me. I know that They love you, too, and will keep you safe. Merry Christmas! Love, Rachel
Rachel watched as her mother tucked her own testimony into a Book of Mormon for Salina.
“Mom,” she said quietly. “Do you think they will understand how much we love the gospel?”
“There’s really no way of knowing,” Mom said, giving Rachel a big hug. “Perhaps if they feel the love of someone who sincerely cares, they will accept the truth when it is presented to them. Now, what do you say we get this in the mail?”
Two days after Christmas, the mission president in New Hampshire called.
“Sister Banks? This is President Hafen. I wanted to let you know. …” President Hafen said that the package had been delivered by two fine young missionaries on Christmas Eve. When the young mother saw what was in the box, she was overcome with gratitude. Tears of joy streamed down her face. The box was the only Christmas gift she would have, but at least now she had something to share with her small son.
President Hafen went on to say that it was a very touching moment for the elders. They asked if they could call on her after the holidays, and she gladly said yes. The mission president added that the woman was very grateful and wanted to express her thanks for the nicest thing that had ever happened to her.
“And let me thank you, too,” President Hafen told her, “for making this one of the most memorable Christmases we have ever had.”
Mom hung up the phone and wiped her eyes.
“Do you think she will join the Church?” Rachel asked.
“I don’t know,” Mom replied. “But I do feel that the Lord had a hand in that letter coming to our mailbox.”
Rachel beamed. “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had!”
“Me, too,” Mom said, gathering her daughter into her arms. “Me, too.”

Eighty-eight-year-old Brother Thomas Coelho is a good example of one who saw with his heart essential things. He was a faithful member of our high council in Paysandú, Uruguay. Prior to joining the Church, he had an accident while riding his motorcycle. While he was lying on the ground unable to stand, two of our missionaries helped him stand up and return to his home. He said that he felt something special when the missionaries came to his rescue. Later he experienced strong feelings again when the missionaries taught him. The impact of those feelings was such that he read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover in just a few days. He was baptized and served tirelessly from that day forward. I remember him riding his motorcycle up and down the streets of our city, even in the cold and rainy winters, to bring others to church so they could feel, see, and know of a surety as he did.

You can decide—and you must—to change what you say even when you can’t control what others say. But I know from my own experience that even in such a terrible situation you can count on God’s help. Years ago I was an air force officer serving for two years in an office with a marine colonel, an army colonel, and a grizzled navy commander. They had learned to speak in war and in peace in a way which offended me, and I know it repelled the Holy Ghost. I was at the time serving as a district missionary, trying in the evenings to go out to find people and teach them under the influence of the Holy Ghost. It was very hard. I was only a lieutenant. They were very senior to me. I had no way of changing their language. But I prayed for help. I don’t know how God did it, but in time their language changed. Slowly the profanity disappeared and then the vulgarity. Only when they drank liquor did it come back, but that was in the evenings, so I could excuse myself for missionary work.

Irina Valentinovna Kratzer (b. 1965) lived in Barnaul, Siberia, where she went to medical school and became a cardiologist. Medicine was not a lucrative field; months would go by when the hospital did not distribute paychecks. After divorcing her abusive husband in 1996, Irina felt exhausted and hopeless as she worked extra night shifts to support her mother and daughter on low wages.
Irina was raised in an atheist environment and did not believe in God. Nevertheless, one night she ventured a request: “All right, God, if you’re there, just let me know, because you probably don’t even care about me. Who am I to you, a little thing here trying to survive?”
A few weeks later, in August 1996, Irina met a man who would introduce her to the Church and help her travel to the United States to study English. Eight months after her arrival in Utah, USA, in April 1998, Irina married Tay Kratzer.
Sister Kratzer was a teacher in an Orem, Utah, Relief Society when she was invited to speak at the Brigham Young University Women’s Conference. Punctuation and capitalization standardized.
There was a time in my life when I was touched by love and the Light of Christ. My life has since changed forever.
I know how it is to live without the gospel. I lived that way for 30 years. I was born in Russia of goodly parents. … When I grew up, I got married and gave birth to a lovely baby girl. Soon I successfully graduated from the university and got a job I really liked. And yet, … I was far from being happy.
… My marriage … gradually fell apart. … I was hardly able to provide simple food for my daughter and me. I sinned. I made one wrong choice after another. Hunger, depression, and poor decisions made my life miserable. I [blamed] bad fortune, not realizing that in many ways I was suffering the natural consequences of my sins. But how could I know that? Sin did not exist according to what I had been taught. …
Religion in [the Soviet Union] was prohibited after the Communist Revolution in 1917. I was taught from kindergarten that there is no such thing as God and that only the Communist Party and Grandpa Lenin could bring happiness to the Russian people. Religious people were badly persecuted in our society. Believers lost their jobs, were not allowed to go to school, and were labeled “crazy.” Everybody was required to take atheism classes at the university, where we proved that God does not exist. … I just did not think of God. Yet I felt pain in my heart about my poor choices. Later I would learn that the pain I felt was the Light of Christ giving me a sense of conscience to tell right from wrong. …
… Life seemed to me like a dark tunnel with only the grave at the end. I felt I was slowly dying. … I did not know how to pray, so I dreamed. … I dreamed that one day I would run away from everything miserable in my life and would start again from the beginning—happy and bright. I wanted so much for my daughter to have a better life than I did. …
Photograph from Getty Images
[Then] the Book of Mormon came into my life. I read one chapter every morning before I went to work. Reading this book, I learned that God lives, that Jesus is His Son, [who] came to this earth to help sinners like me. The more I read this book, the more I saw the gap between the teachings of Christ and the way I lived. I learned that was why my life was so miserable. …
… I was ready for a dramatic change. I will always remember the night … when I cried the whole night through, realizing that my life was not good, that my poor decisions had hurt people I loved the most. It was the most painful experience of my life. I sobbed and pled the whole night. … By the end of the night I was exhausted and had no more tears. When the first morning light broke through, peace and relief came to me. I heard the words: “Here is my hand. I will lead you and guide you. But you have to promise me that you will change.” And I did; I promised. I wanted this guidance and help more than anything else. …
I did not know, on that painful and joyous night in Russia, how great Christ’s promises are. I did not know then that in just a little while I would travel to America where I would learn more about the gospel, and I would soon be baptized. … I did not know that my daughter would come to America to join us in happiness. …
… He gave me so many miracles that I did not have even a little chance to doubt His divine hand in my life. …
Walk with Christ! Hold onto His hand! Feast upon His word. Drink in His light with your every pore, with all your soul. In times of hardships, you won’t be left in a dark tunnel but in the light of His love with brighter light always ahead of you.

At the same time, many Congolese emigrants found the Church in Europe and the United States. Mbuyi Nkitabungi was baptized in Belgium in 1980, served a full-time mission in England, and then felt prompted to return home in 1985. “One of my righteous objectives is to build … Zion in the heart of Zaïre,” he wrote to Church headquarters. “I know there is quite a few members from my country who are waiting for that opportunity. … Tell me everything I have to do.”
Nkitabungi was put in contact with other members in Kinshasa, who met in the home of Mike and Katie Bowcutt, an American couple. Like Nkitabungi, many members were Congolese Saints who had joined the Church abroad. Because the Church was still not legally recognized, however, the members held no public meetings. Nevertheless, the group quickly outgrew the Bowcutts’ home and moved their meetings to Nkitabungi’s garage.
In February 1986, the president of the country promised during a broadcast on state-run television that he would grant the Church legal recognition, and members soon began preaching the gospel openly. That same month, Ralph and Jean Hutchings, the first missionaries called to Zaïre, arrived and found a growing group in Kinshasa. Recognition was granted officially in April, and by June 1987 the Church was growing so quickly in Zaïre that a mission was organized, with Ralph Hutchings as president.
Missionaries also reached out to the unofficial congregations near Lubumbashi. Although the transition proved difficult for some, a second center of strength soon emerged. Between May and July 1987, 170 people were baptized. Some were traveling as far as 300 kilometers (186 miles) from Pweto, Kolwezi, and Likasi to attend meetings.
When 21-year-old Elie Monga of Kolwezi read the Book of Mormon in 1987, he was impressed. “I strongly felt,” he later said, “that that’s what I need.” Monga traveled the 300 kilometers to Lubumbashi to meet with the missionaries. After only one discussion, he decided to be baptized. After his baptism, with encouragement from missionaries, he held Sunday School meetings in his home. “We started gathering and teaching our friends [and family],” he said, “bringing them the message of hope through the restored gospel.” A large group was soon meeting in Monga’s home. When the first baptismal service in Kolwezi was held the next year, it took more than three and a half hours for Monga to baptize the 82 converts who had accepted the gospel. It was one success among many: in 1990, just four years after the Church received government recognition, branches and districts were thriving in Kinshasa, Lubumbashi, and many other cities throughout the country.