Gospel Story Finder

There is a much repeated story by Russell Conwell about acres of diamonds:
Ali Hafid, an ancient Persian, owned much land, many productive fields, with orchards, gardens, and money out at interest. He had a lovely family and was content because he was wealthy, and wealthy because he was content.
An old priest came to Ali Hafid and told him that if he had a diamond the size of his thumb, he could purchase a dozen farms like his, and Ali Hafid said, “Will you tell me where I can find diamonds?”
The priest told him, “If you will find a river that runs over white sands, between high mountains, in those white sands, you will always find diamonds.”
“Well,” said Ali Hafid, “I will go.”
So he sold his farm, collected his money that was at interest, left his family in charge of a neighbor, and away he went in search of diamonds, and he traveled through many lands.
The man who purchased Ali Hafid’s farm led his camel out into the garden to drink, and as the animal put his nose into the shallow waters, Ali Hafid’s successor noticed a curious flash of light in the white sands of the stream. Reaching in, he pulled out a black stone, containing a strange eye of light. Not long after, the same old priest came to visit Ali Hafid’s successor and found that in the black stone, containing a strange eye of light, was a diamond. As they rushed out into the garden and stirred up the white sands with their fingers, they came up with many more beautiful, valuable gems. Thus were discovered the diamond mines of Golconda, which were the most valuable diamond mines in the history of the ancient world. So, had Ali Hafid remained at home and dug in his own cellar or anywhere in his own fields rather than traveling in strange lands, he would have had acres of diamonds.

Would you think I was a bad boss if I told you that I want my employees to fail?

One of the areas that I was over when I was at BYU Broadcasting was fundraising and we had some pretty aggressive revenue goals. Ok, we had some very aggressive goals. I had told my employees that there was no way we would be able to hit our numbers if we kept doing the same things we had always done in the past. We needed to test and try new things. And not all of those ideas were going to work.

People were a little hesitant at first. Was I really telling them it was ok if they tried something and it didn’t work? So I did the only thing I could do. I included it as part of their yearly performance review. And in writing, I gave my employees permission to fail.

You can see it right here in black and white. Now, this wasn’t giving them a license to go crazy. They knew that we needed to be smart about how their “tests” were handled. For example, most of the new ideas that they tested would be done in the first half of the year. That way they would still have the rest of the year to make up any lost revenue for ideas that didn’t go as well as they had planned.

Qualicum Bay, British Columbia—
Jessica and Sandra Stüssi know all about family togetherness. They live across the street from the beach in a tiny town called Qualicum Bay, in British Columbia, where their parents own and operate a resort. With the waves lapping softly on the shore, the sun setting in a crimson burst, and the family sitting outside quietly enjoying ice cream cones together, it seems like heaven on earth.
But what about the days when Jessica and Sandra are helping their mom do the resort’s laundry? What about days when they seem to be moving in several directions at once to sports practices and school activities?
Of course the Stüssis aren’t perfect, but they know that keeping their home heavenly—even when they’re doing something that’s not particularly pleasant—is partly their responsibility. And they know that living the gospel will help them create love at home. Getting up at the crack of dawn every day with their mom (she’s the seminary teacher) is an important part of their success.
“Sometimes it’s hard to have your mom as a teacher because it’s hard to have lessons from her. But it’s good too because we sort of know what to expect and she knows what we need,” says Jessica. “Also, she’s wide awake when the rest of us aren’t.”
After seminary every morning, Jessica and Sandra head to a different secondary school than the other youth in their branch, making them the only Church members there.
“Going to our school can be sort of hard,” says Sandra. “Sometimes people ask me questions [about the Church] and I don’t always know how to answer them. I just try to take things one at a time.”
It’s a tough job, being the only Latter-day Saints in the whole school, but Jessica and Sandra both say that it forces them to stick to their standards—and to stick together.
“We have to back each other up,” says Sandra.
Soon Jessica will graduate and Sandra will be on her own. But their family ties will stay strong as Jessica travels to Switzerland to live with relatives for a year.
“None of the people on my mom’s side of the family are members, so hopefully I’ll be able to teach them and bring some of them into the gospel while I’m there,” she says.

Another memory taught me more about the value and importance of fulfilling a mission.

A few years ago, while serving as president of the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, I had a delightful visit with one of the missionaries who came into my office. He was obviously older than the average young elder. He was about twenty-five years of age. He told me of his conversion.

When he was sixteen, he was baptized into the Church in Europe along with his mother. His father did not object to his wife’s and son’s joining the Church, even though he was not interested. He was a banker and wanted his son to prepare himself for a profession in the same area.

The young man loved studying the scriptures, but occasionally had some difficulty when his father would interrupt him when he was studying his seminary course and say, “Don’t waste your time studying those things. Study your regular school courses so that you can be accepted at the university.”

The elder said, “One night later on, when I was about eighteen, I had a dream. I dreamed that I had been called on a mission to Japan. I felt so good about it. I really wanted to go. The next day, when I told my parents about my dream, my dad strongly objected. He said, “Oh, no! Don’t waste two years of your life on a mission. You need to get on with your university studies.”

Since he was too young to leave for a mission at that time anyway, he did go on with his university studies. He chose to come to Brigham Young University. He majored in finance and banking for his undergraduate degree and stayed to complete a master’s degree in business administration.

He was hired by an international banking firm in Germany and was doing very well as a promising junior executive, but the idea of filling a mission would not leave his mind, and so he went to visit with his bishop and stake president. When he told his stake president of the vivid dream he had years before about going on a mission to Japan, his stake president chuckled and said, “Well, I don’t think you will be going to Japan. Missionaries from here generally are called to some other country on the continent, and a few go over to the British Isles.”

When he received his call and his father heard of it, he came and tried to change his son’s mind because he thought that a two-year interruption would be a disaster for his son’s professional career. One of the bank executives came down from Frankfurt and tried to discourage him from leaving, saying something like, “My boy, do you know how much this will cost you in salary and opportunity loss? You ought to sit down and figure it out.”

The elder said that he did that, and he had determined that the mission would cost him a very large amount of money—more than 150,000 dollars. Then tears came to his eyes, and he said, “But President, if it were to cost several times that amount, I would still be here, because I know that serving a mission is what the Lord wants me to do.”

That elder was one of the few I remember who left the Missionary Training Center speaking what Japanese he had learned with a German accent. He was called to Japan. He served a successful mission, and I am confident that when he finished he found many international businesses that would like to hire a junior executive who can speak English, German, and Japanese—the major languages of the economic free world. Even if he didn’t earn an extra cent, he still knew that he had done what the Lord wanted him to do.

My mom passed away when I was 12. That’s when I started to have questions about what happens to families after this life. The priest at the church I attended told me that when we die, we will not have families. He said I will see my mother again, but I will not recognize her as my mom, and she will not recognize me as her daughter.
That was not the answer I had hoped for. I continued attending church with my family, but my questions persisted. I also wondered, “Where are the prophets? Where are the Apostles?”
When I turned 14, I searched “Jesus Christ” on the internet. It led me to a website for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Not long after that, two missionaries knocked on my door. They wanted to share a message about Jesus Christ. I invited them in and asked my father to join us.
The first question the missionaries asked me was, “Do you know that families can be eternal?”
I replied, “No, they cannot.” Then I told them what I had learned from my priest. After our discussion, I found the elders on Facebook. I watched videos of them saying goodbye to their families. I wanted to know why they had left their families to come to my country and why they believed as they did. I called the phone number they had left me and said, “Elders, I need to go to your church on Sunday.”
For two years, I attended church and met with the missionaries. My family, however, was not open to the Church. When I turned 18, I told my family I wanted to be baptized. I tried to share the gospel with them, but they were not ready.
In 2015, I was doing proxy baptisms in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. While I was there, a man asked me if I was preparing to serve a mission. I said I hoped to serve someday. Then he said, “I think you need to prepare to serve a mission and speak French.”
I thought to myself, “Why French? I’m from Brazil. How will I serve a French-speaking mission?” Nevertheless, because of that experience in the temple, I started studying French.
A few months later, I was at a bus terminal in São Paulo reading the Book of Mormon in French. When the woman next to me saw the book’s cover, she started speaking to me in French. I had been studying the language for only a few months, but I understood her perfectly!
To my surprise, she knew about the Book of Mormon because she had met the missionaries in Paris, where she lived. She asked me many questions about the Nephites and the Savior’s visit to the Americas. Inexplicably, I was able to speak to her as if I were speaking in my native language. I gladly gave her my Book of Mormon.
At the beginning of 2020, I went to England to study English through an exchange program. I met a girl there from Morocco. Her questions about why I didn’t drink alcohol led to a discussion about the Word of Wisdom, the Church, and the Book of Mormon. I showed her my Book of Mormon in French, and I was again able to answer questions about the gospel in French.
I realized that people need to know about the gospel and this special book in their own language and that I could use the Book of Mormon to be an instrument in God’s hands to help others.
Inaê Leandro (right) with one of her companions, Sister Wongsin Elisaia, while serving on Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah.
Later, when I opened my mission call, I learned I was going to Temple Square in Salt Lake City, speaking Portuguese.
“Really?” I thought. “Everyone there already knows about the Church, and they don’t even speak French in Utah.”
When I told my family, my father asked, “You are leaving your high school teaching job, your home, your career—everything—for a mission? How much will they pay you?” He was surprised when I told him I would pay for my mission myself.
At first, I didn’t know why I was called to Utah, but Heavenly Father knew where I needed to be. At Temple Square, I quickly learned that if you know 10 languages—or only 2 or 3—you can teach in all 10 languages there. My companions and I gave tours in Spanish, Portuguese, and English at Temple Square and at the Humanitarian Center at Welfare Square. We also taught online in different languages through the ComeuntoChrist.org website.
I have experienced the gift of tongues for myself. When we have the desire and the enthusiasm to learn a language, and if we work hard, God blesses us in miraculous ways that help us speak and understand.
“When we have the desire and the enthusiasm to learn a language, and if we work hard,” says Inaê, “God blesses us in ways that help us speak and understand.”
I love reading the Book of Mormon in other languages. Doing so helps my language skills and grows my testimony and understanding of gospel principles.
Whenever I called home on preparation day, I shared details about mission successes and experiences. I focused on what I had in common with family members, and they shared their travels and things that were happening at home. They even told me how they fed the full-time missionaries pizza because they had heard stories of nice people in Salt Lake City taking care of my companion and me.
It has been 16 years since my mother passed away. That was a difficult day, but I know that families can be eternal. I know I will see my mother again. I know she will recognize me as her daughter. Many people don’t have this knowledge.
That’s why I served a mission. That’s why I learned new languages. And that’s why I still try to help others find gospel answers for themselves.

Then I read a story about a pioneer woman. When that woman was a child, the prophet asked her family to help settle a Latter-day Saint community in a remote area. Tragedy befell when one of her siblings died. Her mother was distraught, and deep sadness permeated the family.
One day this little girl was looking out the window. As far as she could see, a blanket of snow surrounded the family’s modest home. As the little girl stared at the horizon, she saw two people trudging toward the house. On they came, slowly making their way, and suddenly the child realized who they were—they were her mother’s visiting teachers.
That story inspired me. I was baptized in May 1983. It is an honor to be a visiting teacher myself. I love associating with so many women who exemplify the “virtuous woman” whose “price is far above rubies” (Proverbs 31:10). It is wonderful to be with women who are also striving to be kind, to love one another, and to bring others unto Christ.

Another problem that has been solved by radar has to do with the activities of the cotton bollworm in the Sudan. Farmers there were always perplexed by the appearance of the crop-destroying larvae in their fields. How did the larvae get there? Where did they come from?
By using radar, scientists discovered that every night during their active season, bollworm moths took to the air out of fields of groundnuts, where they spent their days. The moths would fly for about an hour and a half, covering a distance of 15 to 25 miles. Then they would alight in the farmers’ cotton fields, where they would lay their eggs that would shortly hatch into the leaf-devouring larvae. Armed with this knowledge, the farmers could combat the insects at their source before their cotton fields were infested.

He was only sixty-eight, but he looked much older. His feeble body lay strapped to a narrow hospital bed. His breathing was shallow; his vital signs were failing. This was Charlie, one of twenty patients on the medical-surgical ward in the mental hospital where I was working as a nurse.
When I went on duty that night, his doctor told me Charlie was dying. But it was medically impossible to tell if his death would take a few hours or a few days. As night nurse, I would have to decide whether or not to call his family.
In a normal situation at a general hospital, I wouldn’t have hesitated to call the family, but here things were different. Here most of the patients had been hospitalized for a number of years. Families had learned to live without them; some had given up caring. Calling a family in the middle of the night without being certain whether a patient was actually dying was against hospital policy.
As I stood at Charlie’s bedside, wondering what to do, I tried to imagine him differently—no longer aged beyond his years and with poor physical health or without mental faculties including memory. I imagined him as a young husband with a happy wife and laughing children. I was filled with compassion for Charlie and his wife. They still loved each other, I was sure. They would want to be together at the time of his death—-but I stood between them because I didn’t know when that would be.
I bowed my head and prayed aloud to know if I should call Charlie’s wife or not. Words came forcefully to my mind and heart: “Contact Charlie’s wife right away; he will die before daybreak.” I knew that Charlie had less than six hours to live and that it would take his wife an hour to get here.
Immediately I phoned her, explaining that Charlie’s condition had worsened, and suggested that she come in. To my surprise, she was reluctant.
“I have a class to attend tomorrow,” she explained, “and I need to sleep.”
“But his condition is worsening,” I emphasized. “It might be a good idea if you were here.”
“What good would it do?” she said painfully. “He hasn’t recognized me in months. It’s hard to see him this way.” She sighed heavily. “All right,” she said, softening, “I’ll come in. I’ll be there between 7:00 and 8:00 in the morning.”
But that would be too late! Frantically, I tried to say the right thing. “I think you should come in sooner than that!” I said, “—like right away!”
“Why?” she asked.
I wanted to tell her what I’d heard in answer to prayer, but could not. “Ma’am,” I began slowly, “your husband is dying, and I think it would be a good idea for you to come in soon.” I paused. “But you need to decide.”
“Then I’ll come in first thing in the morning,” she replied, and hung up.
I was disappointed in her response, but I knew that the decision was hers to make. I tried not to think about it as I checked the other patients, but silently I prayed that she’d change her mind. Fifteen minutes later she called back.
“Do you really think he’s dying?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you think he’ll die before morning ?”
I paused briefly before answering. “Medically speaking, I can’t say for sure. But I feel that he will die before morning.”
“Then I’ll come in,” she said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
I was elated about her decision to come, but as I thought about it, I became concerned. How sad it was that her dying husband wouldn’t be able to recognize her or realize the effort she was making to be with him.
I went about my duties pondering the situation. At 1:00 A.M. I again felt the need to pray. So, going to a linen closet where I could be alone, I once again asked our Father in Heaven for help—that Charlie would at least be able to recognize his wife, that this one last time there might be love between them—if not in words, at least in tenderness and shared feelings.
It was 3:00 A.M. when she arrived. I was surprised at how young she looked. Her graying hair was neatly styled; she was slim and petite. She looked a youthful fifty, while Charlie looked an ancient eighty. She introduced me to a lovely young woman who had come with her—her daughter.
I walked with them to Charlie’s room. As they went to his bedside, a light seemed to pass through Charlie’s vacant blue eyes. His clenched fists relaxed and he tried to speak. His wife sat in the chair beside him, gently stroking his arm. Then Charlie smiled.
“I think he recognizes me!” she cried. There were tears in her eyes. And in Charlie’s. And in mine.
“I know he does,” I answered, and quietly left the room.
Periodically I checked Charlie’s vital signs. They were slowly worsening, but Charlie continued to be calm and gentle—contrary to his usual erratic behavior. He responded to his wife’s touch and soft-spoken words of love. He did not speak, but they communicated; love flowed between them.
At 5:00 A.M. Charlie was still alive. Sunrise was less than forty-five minutes away; I began to worry about Charlie’s death—not if he would die, but how. He and his wife had spent such a beautiful, special time together! I hoped the memory would not be spoiled by a difficult struggle with death.
Quickly I returned to the linen closet for the third time that night and prayed that when the time came, his life might end quietly. As I knelt there, a feeling of calmness surrounded me, and I felt certain that everything would be all right.
As I was checking my other patients, an attendant came to find me. “It’s Charlie,” he said. “I don’t know if he’s gone or not.” I reached for a stethoscope from the nurses’ station as we walked by to listen for his heartbeat.
Charlie was lying still on the bed. His eyes were closed; a look of serene peace was on his face.
“He closed his eyes as I spoke to him,” his wife said. “Is he asleep?”
I placed the stethoscope on his still chest, knowing I wouldn’t hear anything. I turned to them and said, “Charlie has gone home.”
They wept quietly. Later I walked them to the door, letting my arms around them convey what words could not.
“Thanks for calling me,” Charlie’s wife whispered, squeezing my arm. “These few hours with Charlie were very precious!”

Mother taught me the gospel. One time we had a cloudburst, and the ditch out back overflowed its banks. Our house was on a little rise, but there were at least three feet of water around it. Father was farming at a place called Dry Lake. I remember kneeling with Mother and praying that we would not be flooded and that Father would get home. About four or five hours later, the downpour stopped and Father came home. It had flooded where he was too. Water had been up to his waist, but he’d been preserved. I was very impressed with the power of prayer.

Brian Taylor, a BYU guard who served in the Spain Seville Mission, will never forget or regret his decision to serve a mission. “I had the great opportunity to go out and open up a new island in the Canaries. I felt like the Apostle Paul. We’d walk down the street and people would ask, ‘What are you young guys doing in white shirts and ties? Why aren’t you down at the beach in your swimsuits?’ And they’d be impressed, and they’d listen to us, sometimes 150 people at once. We’d show movies like The First Vision and Families Are Forever on the sides of buildings, and the whole pueblo would come out to watch. We would then bear our testimonies, and the people would weep.”
Brian smiled and shook his head as he remembered, “There is just no comparison between that and playing basketball. You win a game for your team, you feel great, but the feeling only lasts that long.” Brian snapped his fingers. “But just as I talk about being on that island and bearing my testimony to that many people, it makes me feel like cheering again. You just feel good about it, and it never leaves you. It’s that eternal kind of feeling.”

Twelve-year-old Simon Stone let more string out so that his kite could climb higher in the sudden rush of wind that lifted it aloft like a winged thing in the copper-colored sky. Simon’s uncle, Elias Thatcher, had helped the youth build the kite a few days earlier in an effort to keep Simon occupied while Elias felled trees.
Lumberjacking was a hazardous business, and the lumbering activity in Hammond County was no exception. Already that season three men had died tragically. A far safer place for a young boy than where they were cutting wood was in the bunkhouse, sweeping floors. But that chore took Simon no more than an hour to complete, and he pined for something else to do besides watching logs pour out of the flume at the sawmill. After all, he had been at the camp at White Pine for nearly a year.
Flying a kite in the woods was hard. Simon’s uncle had said that the trees on the slopes were closer together than hands in prayer and that the wind went into a fit just trying to find a way to go through them. Sometimes Simon found it difficult to believe everything that his joshing uncle told him. But Simon did believe his stories about an unusually large and mean wolverine that everyone called Old Scratch. The wily varmint usually roamed the slopes below Fox Meadow.
Suddenly the sound of a gunshot disrupted the stillness, and Simon’s kite began to tumble toward the earth like a piece of limp cloth. Simon glanced around and spied a youth with a single-shot army carbine emerging from the trees that bordered the small meadow, a dark grin creasing his face. “I guess I haven’t lost my touch,” the youth sneered.
It was Clay McCalister, a son of one of the lumbermen. Big for a thirteen-year-old, he was a short-tempered bully and had often taunted Simon because of his gentle manner and the book of scriptures that he always carried with him.
Simon gazed at his kite lying broken on the ground. “There wasn’t any call for that, Clay,” Simon blurted uneasily.
Clay’s grin widened. “No call for a lot of things, Stone,” he retorted. “But that doesn’t seem to keep them from happening, now does it?” Clay ejected the spent shell from his rifle and slipped another cartridge into the breech.
Simon, deciding that the best place for him to be was anywhere that Clay wasn’t, crossed to where his kite lay, picked it up, and started out of the meadow.
“I’m not through with you yet, Stone!” Clay declared.
Simon froze; then he turned and faced the menacing youth. “You ruined my kite,” Simon said boldly. “What more do you want?”
Clay stepped closer. “You think you’re something special, Mormon? You think that book that you’re always carrying around is going to save you?”
“No,” Simon replied, “but its teachings will, if I live by them.” Clay seemed to be listening, so Simon continued. “There was a prophet by the name of Joseph Smith who said that a man cannot be saved in ignorance—”
“Are you saying that I’m ignorant?” Clay barked.
“No,” Simon returned, “but it never hurt anybody to become a little more learned.”
Clay just stared. No boy had ever spoken to him with such simple boldness. He narrowed his eyes and demanded that Simon hand over the Book of Mormon. “Maybe I can make it even more holy with a bullet from my carbine,” he added with a cold chuckle.
Simon stiffened. “I can’t do that, Clay. It’s a sacred book.”
Clay regarded Simon threateningly. “Mormons aren’t real popular around Hammond County. Your uncle probably told you that already, him being one too.”
“Yes, he did,” Simon replied evenly. “He also told me that it’s important to stand up for what you believe, even when it’s not easy.”
Clay snickered. “Like now, Mormon boy?” Clay started forward. “Are you going to give me that book, or am I going to have to—” Clay’s boot caught under an exposed root, and he fell hard across a stump. It knocked the wind out of him, and his rifle discharged skyward.
“Are you all right, Clay?” Simon asked.
Clay glared at Simon, gasping for air. “I feel a lot better than you’re going to, Mormon!”
Simon sighed and started out of the meadow. Making his way down the slope, he was careful to give a wide berth to Old Scratch’s territory. Simon paused in a small clearing to rest. The brushwood was so dense that he almost missed seeing what appeared to be a burrow above him. He shuddered at the thought that he might one day encounter the beast.
As Simon was about to move on, he heard a crashing in the brush a short way uphill. His blood ran cold as he whirled around and caught a glimpse of Clay McCalister. The youth had regained his wind and was racing down the slope to overtake him.
Simon had no sooner turned to flee, when a scream erupted from the thick undergrowth above him. Again he stopped. Simon couldn’t see Clay, but the boy was still screaming. Simon started back uphill. When he got close enough to see through the foliage, he spied Clay lying on his back, without his gun, pressed against a half-decayed log. The wolverine was growling and slowly closing in on him, provoked by Clay’s intrusion of his privacy. Scratch’s short snout sniffed at the boy’s foot; his sharp teeth were bared.
Simon crept out from behind the trees, removed a hunk of jerky from his pocket, and tossed it a short distance from the wolverine to lure it away from Clay. While the animal’s attention was diverted to this new object, Clay quickly crawled off.
After distancing themselves from Old Scratch, Clay questioned, “Why did you do it, Stone? I mean, I shot up your kite and was going to bust you up good.”
“You needed help,” Simon replied matter-of-factly. He patted the small, worn book that protruded from his pocket and added, “In the Book of Mormon, it tells about a prophet named Enos who prayed for his enemies. If he could do that, the least I could do was try to …” Simon’s speech trailed as he beheld what appeared to be a tear in Clay McCalister’s eye.
Clay quickly wiped it away. “Haven’t you ever had anything in your eye before?” Clay snapped defensively.
Simon smiled understandingly. “Sure, Clay,” he said, “lots of times.”
Clay stared at Simon a long moment, his eyes gradually settling upon the Book of Mormon. “Could I borrow that book of yours for a few days, maybe?” he asked somewhat sheepishly. “I won’t tear it up or anything, honest. I’d just like to read some of it—find out what it’s all about. And what you’re all about.”
Simon nodded and handed Clay the book. “Keep it as long as you like,” he offered.
“Don’t start thinking that I’m going to become a Mormon or anything like that,” Clay asserted.
Simon smiled. Clay’s most likely right, he thought. But Simon had planted a seed, just as someone once had for his father and mother and his Uncle Elias. Those seeds had taken root, and many had been blessed because of it. Maybe, just maybe, Clay would be too.

Many other spiritual manifestations took place in the temple that year. Prescindia Huntington described how a little girl came to her door during one meeting and called out in excitement, “The meeting is on top of the meeting house!” Prescindia looked outside and saw angels walking back and forth on the temple. Many children in Kirtland saw the angels and remembered the glorious sight the rest of their lives.

A few years ago Sister Jolley and I concluded an assignment where I presided over a mission in south Texas. Our missionaries there wholeheartedly embraced the “balanced effort” concept of missionary work, which includes finding, teaching, baptizing, and doing everything possible to retain new converts, and spending several hours each week working with less-active members. Our missionaries, like all missionaries throughout the world, were great kingdom builders.

When my wife and I returned to our home ward in Idaho, I was determined to practice what I preached in the mission field. I therefore asked the bishop to assign me as a home teacher to some of our wonderful families who were not enjoying the blessings of full activity in the Church. He quickly obliged by assigning me to six of these special families.

After several visits to one of these families, I challenged the father, who had been inactive for almost 40 years, to become fully active in the Church and to participate in the temple preparation classes. He responded, “These kinds of things are more than I can understand; they are way over my head.” I was troubled by his response and felt bad that he did not think he could embrace the gospel because it was too difficult to understand. But I knew that the truths of the gospel are for everyone and that everyone can understand them through earnest prayer and scripture study. So our next few home teaching visits were spent talking about the simple and beautiful things of the gospel.

With patience and persistence our visits became more enjoyable and more spiritual. We developed a genuine friendship. As time went on, it became apparent that he could and did understand the principles of the gospel. This made his wife very happy. They grew closer in their marriage. They are now attending church regularly, becoming good friends with all members, and preparing to go to the temple. We had similar experiences with other families. The Lord blesses us as well as these wonderful families when we put forth the extra effort to share these simple truths with them.

I am reminded of a story President Packer told me about Sister and Elder Tuttle, a former member of the Seventy. The Tuttles had stopped to eat at a restaurant owned by a Greek proprietor who was struck by Sister’s Tuttle’s seemingly Greek profile. He said to them, “I’ll buy you dinner if you can tell me the greatest thing in the world.” They thought about it and said, “love.” The Greek man said “No. You can live without love. The greatest thing in the world is hope. You can’t live without hope.” Knowing his immigrant background, they sensed that he spoke from personal experience.

These inventions and discoveries set the stage for further contributions. In the early 1500s young William Tyndale enrolled at Oxford University. There he studied the work of the Bible scholar Erasmus, who believed that the scriptures are “the food of [a man’s] soul; and … must permeate the very depths of [his] heart and mind.” Through his studies, Tyndale developed a love for God’s word and a desire that all God’s children be able to feast on it for themselves.

Meanwhile, William Tyndale had become a trained priest and was fluent in eight languages. He believed a direct translation from Greek and Hebrew into English would be more accurate and readable than Wycliffe’s translation from Latin. So Tyndale, enlightened by the Spirit of God, translated the New Testament and a portion of the Old Testament. His friends warned him that he would be killed for doing so, but he was undaunted. Once, while disputing with a learned man, he said, “If God spare my life, ere many years I will cause a boy that driveth the plough shall know more of the scripture than thou dost.”

Eventually Tyndale, like others, was killed for his efforts—strangled and burned at the stake near Brussels. But the belief for which he gave his life was not lost. Millions have come to experience for themselves what Tyndale taught throughout his life: “The nature of God’s word is, that whosoever read it, … it will begin immediately to make him every day better and better, till he be grown into a perfect man.”

During my boyhood, the Roman Catholic priest taught me that repentance is not a casual act. He said that asking for forgiveness for the same sins over and over is not the turning around which is expected of us in repentance. The priest said this to me after listening to me ask for forgiveness for stealing my mother’s peanut butter several times. My mother would make peanut butter and place in a big jar. I would sneak in the kitchen unnoticed and scoop some out. I would then shake the jar so that my mother would not notice any was missing.
Once every six weeks the priest would visit our little chapel in Silobela, Zimbabwe. This was the only opportunity we had to partake of the sacrament. In preparation for the ordinance, the priest would take his chair and sit under a tree and invite us to kneel before him and confess our sins. The priest would ask Heavenly Father on our behalf to be forgiven of any wrongdoing. It was during these occasions that the priest told me how disappointed he was in me for asking for forgiveness for the same thing again and again. He said, “Edward, do not play with God”. I loved peanut butter, even up to this day, I love peanut butter! The change from stealing mother’s peanut butter was hard but with her help, I was successful, and it was worth it!

My day had been absolutely miserable. I wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz in biology, the teacher put me on the spot in English, and after our class ran laps for the entire period in P.E., I was exhausted.
I was a Mia Maid and my Young Women leaders had planned a service project that night for Sister Simmons, an elderly woman whose husband had passed away a few years ago. Sister Simmons’s health was failing, so it was almost impossible for her to accomplish simple tasks. Tonight the Mia Maids were going to do some deep cleaning in her home.
I had had such a terrible day at school, and I did not want to go and participate in this activity. All I wanted to do was watch TV and relax. While sitting in front of the TV, something kept nagging at my heart: “Would you deny this woman of your service?” As I sat there I pondered the Young Women value; good works. Yes! This was definitely good works. I knew that I must go and serve Sister Simmons.
My mom drove me to the church. I walked in feeling tired and worn out, but I was glad I had made the right decision to come to this activity.
Sister Simmons lived a block away from the church, so after opening exercises the seven of us Mia Maids ran in the rain to her house, carrying cleaning supplies. Sister Stout, our Mia Maid adviser, knocked, and Sister Simmons slowly opened the door, looking a little shocked to see us all. She said “Oh my, I had forgotten that you were coming.”
We all filed inside and were assigned chores. Carlene and I were assigned to scrub down the kitchen. Carlene washed all the dishes and the countertops, while I meticulously cleaned the front of all the oak cabinets and the old, white stove. As we worked, Carlene and I were giggling and talking. I was actually having fun.
An hour and a half later we had finished, and the house was sparkling clean. Time had gone by so fast. As we were all heading towards the door telling Sister Simmons “good night,” and giving her a hug, she stopped us and, with tears in her eyes, thanked us profusely.
I left that night with tears in my own eyes. I had learned so much about service. I had always been taught that when you serve someone else, you forget about your own problems. Now I knew that was true. I fell asleep peacefully that night, not thinking about myself at all.
The next morning Mom came into my room as I was getting ready for school. She sat me down on the side of my bed and explained to me that Sister Simmons had passed away in her sleep that night. I was shocked as I sat on my bed sobbing, thinking to myself how glad I was that I had been prompted to go and serve Sister Simmons. I am so grateful for the promptings of the Holy Ghost, and what I learned that night about serving others.

At the age of 17 I went with my parents on a trip to Mexico and Central America. I am the youngest and with the others gone from home it was just the three of us. We saw so many wonderful places and ancient archeological sites. On one occasion, we arrived at a pyramid, we stood at the base and marveled at the grand structure before us. With much excitement and anticipation, we started up the steps. There were so many people, going up and down so many steps. In his excitement, my dad soon outpaced us in our ascension. We were perhaps an eighth of the way up when my mom suddenly froze. Grabbing on to the step just in front of her so tight she exclaimed “I can’t do this. I’m stuck! “I can’t go up; I can’t go down. I will just have to stay right here.” I Looked around for my Dad only to find he was nowhere in sight, so, I tried to reason with her saying, “Let’s just take a break for a bit.” But each time I ventured some encouragement she would announce firmly, “but I can’t move.” So, there we were. I was sitting next to her on the very step she was clutching with her hands while she faced upward, absolutely frozen.

Until this point our life’s roles had been reversed, with her helping me. Gently guiding me through life’s big problems, big pyramids which seemed insurmountable at the time. She was gentle, soft and soothing. This time however, she needed me. Was I ready? Certainly, her example through my life had provided me with sufficient preparation.

Initially I needed to get my mom’s focus away from her predicament, so, very tenderly I coaxed her to turn around and sit down. Then, I suggested to her to just think of one step at a time. This seemed to be something she could do. So, gingerly at first, we ventured down one simple step. At first, I actually had to move and place her feet on the next downward step. Our progress was slow but steadily we made our way down. We went down that pyramid together scooting on our rear ends one step at a time. Until we made it safely to solid ground.For the rest of the pyramid sight-seeing, my mom spent her time on the ground, under a shady tree while my Dad and I climbed around, up and down.

For example, one prospective elder refused to come to church because he smoked. “I didn’t feel the Church was that important,” he says. But he and his wife decided to let their home teachers come by every week to teach them. There was no mention of smoking until the husband himself brought up the subject several weeks later. After three months they attended the temple preparation seminar, and now they attend church every week. He still struggles with his smoking, but he’s accepted a call to be a home teacher. He now understands that “the Church is ‘for the perfecting of the Saints’ (Eph. 4:12)” and “not a well-provisioned rest home for the already perfected.” (Elder Neal A. Maxwell, General Conference, April, 1982.)

I cannot begin to tell you how much the New Era has meant in my life. I received a copy of the New Era at the Young Women fireside in November of 1985, and it has strengthened my life. At first it just sat on my desk collecting dust. Then one day I came home from junior high feeling depressed, so I thought I would take a little peek. It just so happened that I spent the rest of the afternoon reading it—all!
Today I had a quarrel with my friend. When I got home from school I just fell on my bed and started to read the New Era. Then I prayed. Then I apologized to my friend, and the rest of the day has been wonderful!
I love the New Era so much, and I always know it is there when I need it, because we’re now subscribing to it.
Wendy FindgrenSandy, Utah