Gospel Story Finder

When the question of going out with nonmembers arose, Heidi Grey, 17, had this to say, “Having tried it, I can look at both sides of the issue. It is hard to keep your standards when you’re going with boys oblivious to those ideals. They don’t know and can’t accept the high principles we have, and it makes life tough many times. But now I’m dating someone who is very strong in the Church and at last my head is above water. I can see where I want to be going.”

I was born in a tiny peninsula on an island south of India called Sri Lanka. Growing up there, I was fascinated with American football. I was five when I got my first football and learned how to play with the plushy ball. But my parents were not able to put me on a football team due to financial problems.
Years later, my family moved to New York, USA. Going into high school, I finally had a chance to get into an official team for free. There was one specific requirement: I had to go to football camp for a month, which meant no church for a month. On top of that, I had games on Sundays.
I was very upset and had no idea what to do. I prayed every day for an answer. One evening, I read a talk from President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) where he said, “We must put God in the forefront of everything else in our lives” (“The Great Commandment: Love the Lord,” Apr. 1988 general conference). This struck me so hard that as soon as I read that, I knelt down and thanked the Lord for giving me an answer. I told my parents that I wasn’t going to play football. They supported me through everything. I still am grateful I made that decision.

As I thought about all the gifts and cards we would be giving during another Christmas season, suddenly a question came to my mind. Of all the gifts I had received during Christmastime in the past, had any of them significantly affected my life? Then I remembered December 1963.
I was home alone because my parents had gone out. I was a young teacher at the time. Classes had ended, I was on vacation, and Christmas was fast approaching. I looked around for something to read, but I had already read everything in our home library. I decided to go see a neighbor who had a good book collection and had often loaned books to me. This time she offered a book that two young men—foreigners—had left with her.
“I’d like to know your opinion of it,” she said. “The content seems interesting.”
She then added that the young men were missionaries. Missionaries? My interest in the book immediately died. At the time I was not interested in anything having to do with religion, but I took the book anyway.
As I said good-bye, my neighbor added, “Inside the book you’ll find a little note they wrote, suggesting that before reading the book, a person needs to say a prayer to God.”
Not having any plans that rainy Saturday, I decided to read the “interesting” book. I opened it and found the note written by the missionaries. I put the book on my bed, knelt down, and for the first time in my life, offered up a prayer to God in my own words.
As I started to read, the story captivated me. How was young Nephi able to exercise such unshakable faith? I wondered if I would ever be capable of doing something like that. As I read the book of Mosiah, I drew strength from the words of King Benjamin. At the time I had no idea I was reading a book that would become my favorite for more than 40 years.
During those years the book’s pages have provided me with much support, comfort, and strength, and I have discovered many important insights that I shared in talks and lessons at the little Tucumán Branch in Argentina, where I was baptized and confirmed. Two years later, while serving a full-time mission, I also wrote little notes on pieces of paper, suggesting to investigators that they pray before reading the copy of the Book of Mormon my companion and I left in their hands.
So many years have passed since then. But how could I have forgotten the most precious Christmas gift I ever received and the neighbor who gave it to me? I can hardly remember her face, and I struggle to remember her name—Marina. Thank you, neighbor. You have my eternal gratitude.

By the time my plane approached the Salt Lake airport, I felt worn out with the traveling and emotions of the day. The plane had crossed the high Rocky Mountains, which in the early sunset presented a fairy world of peaks and crevices, clouds and shadows in changing, shifting patterns before my eyes.

But now, as the plane touched down, as I moved with the press into the crowded terminal, it seemed everyone had someone to meet them and some place to go. I hesitated, uncertain what to do or where to go next. I noticed a woman approaching, an older woman, very attractive, with rich brown hair and a lovely face. As she drew closer, I thought she looked familiar, so I glanced at her again. It looked as though she was coming directly my way. I shifted my feet and stared down at the floor, and when I glanced up again the woman was standing right beside me. She smiled, and the feeling that I had seen her somewhere before grew stronger.

“Michelle?” she said, with a little question at the end of the word. “You are Michelle Briggs, aren’t you?”

“Yes …” I stammered.

“I thought so,” she said. “You look very much like your mother, Michelle; you have her beautiful eyes.” She smiled again. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear, but I’m your Aunt Beth.”

“I don’t understand,” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me … or … or that I exist at all?”

“Your mother, Michelle,” she said, and took my hand gently in hers. “All these years I have written to your mother, but not once did she reply.”

“You, you mean, my mother’s known where you’ve been all along?”

“She’s known, but she hasn’t wanted to admit it. Your mother was very young when I went away, and your Grandpa Hunter did a good job of poisoning her mind. By the time she was old enough to understand … well, it was too late.”

“Understand? Understand what?”

She paused, and her eyes began to sparkle. “When I was a girl I defied my father and joined the Mormon church. I was young and unwise. I hurt his pride, and he refused to forgive me. When I left and went to Utah, he refused to tell anyone where I had gone or what had really happened to me. He died without knowing that I had married and that he had three grandchildren he had never seen and another one on the way.

“But you see, Michelle, I kept taking the Franklin City paper and I read about your mother’s wedding, and I wrote to her faithfully, hoping that sometime something would touch her heart and she would respond to me.”

“All these years?” I breathed in amazement.

“All these years. And all these years I have prayed that the Lord would soften her heart; and he has answered my prayers, Michelle, through you.” The sparkle in her eyes was wet now and her hand tightened over mine.

“But what …” I stammered, “how …” I still didn’t understand.

“Your mother wrote to me telling me you had joined the Mormon church, telling me you were coming to BYU and asking me to take care of you.”

“My mother … did that … ?”

My aunt nodded. “She told me what a special girl you were and how much she loved you.”

I couldn’t see too well, for my own eyes were clouded with tears and my throat ached trying to hold them back. My prayers and Aunt Beth’s prayers—and the prayers of a mother whose concern had overcome her “Pride and Prejudice,” and who could still teach me something about sacrifice and love! I smiled at the lovely woman who held my hand.

“I’ve got a long way to go,” I said.

“You’ll make it,” she replied, and I felt she understood all the things I was unable to say.

“Yes, yes,” I agreed, I have to make it. I want to be a real Latter-day Saint. I want to make my mother proud of me.”

“Mom, can I go play?” Kayla asked. “My morning chores are done.”
“Yes, you may,” Mom replied. “Thank you for doing everything so quickly.”
Kayla had been looking forward to summer break. She enjoyed the freedom summer brought. She loved the warm breezes, trying to catch butterflies, and skipping stones in the pond. So far this summer had been perfect, except for one problem.
“Wait for me!” Kayla’s younger sister, Brooke, cried.
Kayla grew frustrated as she waited for Brooke to catch up. “Pretty soon summer will be over, and I’ll have spent the whole time waiting for my sister,” she thought.
Kayla waited while Brooke tied her shoes. She waited while Brooke looked for her butterfly net. And she waited a long time for Brooke to catch a butterfly before they could go inside for lunch.
Things were the same after lunch. Kayla had just learned to ride her bike without training wheels. She loved pedaling hard, then coasting as far as she could. Brooke wanted to ride her tricycle too, but she couldn’t ride nearly as fast. Kayla didn’t feel like waiting anymore.
“Wait for me,” Brooke said as Kayla rode past.
“Zip!” went Kayla on her bicycle. She zipped and whooshed up and down the sidewalk while Brooke tried her hardest to keep up.
After a while, Kayla noticed how quiet it was. She listened nervously. She couldn’t hear Brooke, and she hadn’t seen her for a while. Worried, Kayla looked around the yard. Then she noticed Brooke sitting onthe lawn, frowning.
“I’m trying, but I can’t keep up with you. I give up,” Brooke said as she put her head down and began to cry.
Kayla sat down next to her. She felt terrible. “I’m sorry I left you behind,” she said. “Will you forgive me?”
Brooke looked up but didn’t answer.
“We can ride together,” Kayla said, smiling. “But only if you’ll wait for me.”
Brooke got on her tricycle and Kayla pushed her to the top of the sidewalk. “Now wait here while I get my bike.” Kayla ran down to her bike and quickly rode it back up. Then they coasted down together. Kayla set her bike down and began pushing Brooke back up the sidewalk again. She glanced at her sister, who sat smiling like a princess. Kayla’s frustration was gone. Instead, she felt warm and happy.
They rode together until they were so tired they flopped down in the long green grass. They stayed there and listened to the crickets until Mom called them inside.
Mom had been watching Kayla from the kitchen window. “That was a very unselfish thing you did today, Kayla,” she said, kissing her on the head. “Thank you for taking such good care of your sister. I think you treated her like Jesus would want you to.”
“This has been my best summer day,” Brooke said.
Kayla loved the way she felt inside. “Mine too,” she said.

The sudden jerk about knee height on my pant leg told me I was in trouble. Caught in a power take-off shaft that powered a hammering hay baler, I scarcely had time to realize what had happened when I was pulled in tight against the machine and thrown around it.
The day had begun quite routinely. I had gotten up early to bale a hillside piece of hay. There would be a little dew on the hay, and I knew this would keep the leaves from falling off as the hay was compressed into bales.
But the moisture always made hay tough to bale, and so as I made the first round, the frustrations of broken bales of hay coming out of the baler confronted me. Several periodic adjustments to the knotter didn’t seem to help, and I knew a growing row of broken bales wouldn’t ever get the job done.
It was a typically frustrating situation as I jumped from the tractor, leaving the baler running so that I could examine the knotter at work. The hay plunger pounded in rhythm as I watched the mechanical knotter pull a loop in the twine and bundle the leafy hay into a rectangular bale.
“Just temperamental; whenever you watch it, the bales come out perfect,” I thought as I watched a seemingly well-knotted bale move through the bale chamber.
“Try it one more time,” I decided as I walked toward the tractor again. With my mind still back at the knotter, I stepped forward, past the flywheel, and approached the tractor hitch.
Suddenly I felt my pant leg tighten and heard the heavy denim trousers tear from my leg. Instantly I knew what had happened. I had brushed against the power take-off shaft near the second universal joint, and it had caught my clothes. I remember the split-second thought that raced through my mind as I knew I was caught and hoped that it would tear off just a piece of the trousers and release me. But it didn’t.
Before I had time to brace myself, it pulled me in tight, and my clothes began wrapping around the shaft as it tore them from me. Turning clockwise, it worked down my leg toward my right foot and caught my sock and leather work shoe. Completely overpowered by the strength and persistence of the machine, I found myself defenseless as it twisted my ankle until the heavy work shoe shredded loose. I hardly remember being thrown by my foot across the menacing shaft, eventually landing on the short alfalfa stubbed ground.
Fortunately, my shoe had torn loose, and though my ankle was dangling disjointed on the end of my leg, I was free of the still spinning machine. I lay on the ground for a moment barely comprehending the fact that all of my clothes except my upper shirt collar and rolled up arm sleeves were still flapping around the shaft.
Unaware of how or where I was injured, I tried to get up to turn the machinery off. My right foot wobbled out from under the weight of my body, and I realized as I stumbled to the stub of my leg that I couldn’t walk. Pulling myself up to the tractor seat, I pushed in the power take-off gear and flipped the switch to turn the tractor off.
When the momentum of the baler stopped, I began tugging at my clothes that were tightly narled around the power take-off shaft. Not really thinking, I expected to pull a complete pair of trousers off, but torn pieces were all I could salvage to wrap around me.
Had I been at the far end of the field, it is doubtful that I would have been able to drag myself to find help. The pain sharpened as I hopped on my left foot and watched my cut and bleeding ankle swell up with fluid. I limped to the nearest fence post and clung to it. As a truck rounded the curve and headed down the road not far away, I waved frantically, and the driver, my neighbor, saw me and stopped.
I was conscious throughout the painful, ten-mile ride to the hospital. The terrifying fear of losing a limb and the despair of at best being laid up for months plagued my mind as they wrapped me in a blanket and hurried me to the emergency room.
The operations that followed, the plaster casts, and the awkward crutches are but a few of the memories of that tragic experience. However, the greater memory is not one of pain and hardship, but rather one of gratitude to the young men in an LDS priests quorum whose service in a moment of misfortune was remarkable.
Recognizing that I wouldn’t be able to return to my carpentry job of building a house, the priests quorum, whom I serve with as an adviser in the Mendon (Utah) Ward, responded with the ambition of youth, determined that they could provide the manpower to complete the house-building project if someone with experience would offer the direction.
“It didn’t matter how big the job was,” commented Michael Anderson, one of the organizers of the project, “we knew we could do just about anything if we had the cooperation of the quorum.”
And so, with some help from Bishop Stanton Barrett, who is also a building contractor, a spirited quorum of priests, armed with hammers and saws, undertook to finish the framing of a 1,200-square-foot home.
“As fast as the bishop laid it out, we’d nail it together,” Michael stated in explaining afterwards how the group succeeded in framing the complete house, from foundation to roof trusses, in only two days.
“Of course it took some organizing,” he added, “We called each quorum member, told him our plans, and got a commitment from him. The commitment was important.”
The owners of the home in progress, Mr. and Mrs. Bob Findlay, helped out too. “Bob was in there working with the rest of us, and his wife brought us lunch. That kept a hungry crew going,” Michael said. “Sure, there were a few bruises and some thumbnails got whacked, but there was just a special spirit there despite the hard work. The guys planned it and came out because they wanted to help, and that made it fun,” he added. “It was something I’ll remember all my life.”
Bishop Barrett suggested one reason for the success of the undertaking when he said, “The young men were working not because their adviser had planned a service project for them but because they had planned one for him … and that made all the difference.”
As the last nail went into the roof late Saturday, the physical work was done, but the surprise in announcing their accomplishment was still to come.
An unusually quiet quorum of teenage boys greeted me as I met with them the first Sunday after being released from the hospital. A shy and somewhat out-of-character member of the quorum stepped forward and said, “We’ve got something for you … because we wanted to help.” He handed me a homemade, booklike get-well card consisting of a set of photographs that documented their construction work. The room was silent as they anxiously watched me thumb through the pictures.
In the powerful moments of silence that followed, my mind went back to the many times before, when, in the same classroom, I had unconvincingly talked from the lesson manual on the subject of service. Suddenly we were experiencing that joy which before was only a subject of discussion. The lesson that day wasn’t expressed in words.
Finally, I broke the silence by saying, “Now you know the real joys of service—but let’s leave the hay baler out of the next project!”
What began as a tragedy was suddenly forgotten. Long after the plaster casts and crutches are gone, the memory will live of the young men who wanted to help and did.

It was our first Christmas away from home. Elders Heemeyer, Bright, Kehoe, Schulze, Westover, and I had all gathered in one apartment to share Christmas Eve. We hoped that spending the evening together as a missionary district might make it easier to be away from home.
It was about 5:30 in the afternoon, and we were all a little discouraged. Setting up appointments with investigators and finding new people to teach had been difficult recently. “Come back after Christmas,” everyone said.
After talking for a few minutes, Elder Schulze suggested we go caroling to the homes of our investigators and some of the members. We all thought it was a great idea, and we planned a short program. We would start with two hymns and a spiritual thought. Then we would conclude with another hymn and a prayer. The whole program would be only 20 minutes long, but we all felt pleased with it.
Before we left, we knelt to pray. Then we set out into the cold night on the south side of Chicago, Illinois, in the United States.
Our first stop was the apartment of a member whose daughter and two grandchildren were investigating the Church. We certainly weren’t the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but for six elders we sounded pretty good. After we shared our program, the family told us our “gift” was the best they had ever received.
Soon we were at a different apartment presenting our program to another family. At every stop, our enthusiasm and joy grew. We kept hearing the same response: “This is the best gift ever. You really brought the Christmas spirit.”
That night I came to better understand the true meaning of Christmas—that sharing and serving others are what Jesus Christ’s ministry is all about. And while we were busy in the service of others and of the Savior, home didn’t really seem so far away.

Later in the afternoon, after classes, Melanie, Jackie, and Petra go downtown to meet Sister Howells. They wander by the Spinrädl (the Spinning Wheel Inn), a Gasthaus that is one of Kaiserslautern’s oldest buildings. They look at the original city walls, the Stiftskirche (the biggest church downtown), the cars, and the people. Jackie stops at the Bundespost office and mails a letter.
This is another kind of learning—after-school learning, cultural assimilation. “There are so many things to see. I get excited just walking and looking,” Jackie says. “There is history everywhere you turn.” Melanie adds, “I want to remember the people, the way they dress and walk, the way they sell things, the open-air markets, the way they drive their cars and honk their horns, the posters plastered on every wall. When I go away to college in two years, I want to take part of Germany with me, at least in my mind.”
Sister Howells pulls up just as rain is starting to pour. Everyone’s a little bit wet and glad to be warm and drying out together inside the car. At home they change clothes, dry their hair, have dinner and family prayers, and talk over the day’s activities. Grandmother joins the group—in fact, she fixed the meal. Petra is invited to stay. On the front door and one of the walls Brother Howells had taped inspirational thoughts and reminders about home evening assignments. Some of the children read them as they respond to the call to eat. One of them notices a letter from John, 18, a sophomore at BYU, and brings it to the table to read to the family. They listen, even though they’ve already read it themselves. Somehow, they don’t mind the repetition.
This is another kind of learning—learning about family love and closeness, about the importance of building eternal ties.

As you trust in the Lord and His goodness, the Almighty God will bless His children through you. Elder Hollings from Nevada learned that early in his mission. The day after he arrived in India, he traveled with Sister Funk and me to Rajahmundry, his first area. That afternoon Elder Hollings and Elder Ganaparam went to visit a Church member and her mother. The mother wanted to learn about the Church because she had seen how the gospel blessed the life of her daughter. Sister Funk joined them to provide fellowship. Because the lesson would be taught in English and the mother spoke only Telugu, a brother in the branch was there to interpret what was taught.

Elder Hollings’s assignment in his very first teaching appointment was to teach the First Vision, using the words of the Prophet Joseph. At that point in the lesson, he turned to Sister Funk and asked, “Should I say it word for word?” knowing it would be interpreted.

She replied, “Say it word for word so the Spirit can testify of what you say.”

When this new missionary sincerely taught the First Vision, using the words of the Prophet, the countenance of that dear sister changed. Tears appeared. As Elder Hollings finished that glorious message and before what he said could be interpreted, she asked through her tears in her native language, “May I be baptized? And will you teach my son?”

My young fellow servants, doors and hearts open daily to the gospel message—a message that brings hope and peace and joy to the children of God throughout the world. If you are humble and obedient and hearken to the voice of the Spirit, you will find great happiness in your service as a missionary. What a wonderful season it is to be a missionary—a time when the Lord is hastening His work!

I had just graduated from high school and had just gone to work as a disc jockey at a radio station. As I was making money and gaining valuable experience in broadcasting, the thought of serving a mission was pushed further and further from my mind. After much deliberation I accepted a mission call. I had a great mission and grew to know that some things in life are not as important as we sometimes feel. When I got home, the radio station that I had worked for before my mission called me and asked if I would like to return. I did and had a great opportunity to report on sports, which is what I have always wanted to do.
I tremble when I think of the time that I considered not going on a mission in order to pursue my own goals. I know the Lord will bless you in your life pursuits when you decide to put his work first.
Scott C. Miller, 23Bountiful, Utah

Third, ward families provide encouragement. Becky and Danny’s second child was born prematurely. Recounting the days, then weeks and years, of caring for a critically ill child, Becky says, “It was difficult for my mother to watch us dealing with this situation. She wished that she could take it away from me. We were living in a distant state, and Mother would call me on the phone and feel so helpless as she listened to our daily struggles. One day she said to me, ‘Becky, I don’t know how you will get through this, but I am confident that you can.’ That encouragement was a turning point for me.”

The place was solemn and forgotten as only an old graveyard can be. It was a grotesque, weedy pause between railroad tracks and decaying buildings, a shabby plot where crumbling cherubs tilted above sagging gray monuments. Grass grew high there, and the chiseled epitaphs had disappeared under a slow tide of moss. It was a good place to ignore.
That’s why it didn’t make much sense one morning when a squad of bright-faced young men and women showed up at the rusting gates with hoes and shovels and clippers and mowers, and went to work. Heads appeared in the windows of the surrounding buildings, and the questions flew. Who are they? What are they doing here? What’s in it for them? And the answers didn’t make much sense either. The young people sweating among the tombstones weren’t even from the neighborhood; no one had asked them to come, and they weren’t getting anything out of it. For all anyone knew, they might have been so many ghosts come back to spruce up their own exclusive little subdivision.
And when they left, with the weeds out, the grass mowed, and the monuments standing straight, everyone knew that the neighborhood had become a nicer place to live, but no one knew who the mysterious band of “ghosts” were, and it’s not likely they ever will.
And that suits the young men and women of the Richardson Ward in Dallas, Texas, just fine. They’ve discovered that being doers of the word instead of just hearers isn’t merely a scripture—it’s a beautiful, happy principle of life. It means doing the yard work of widows in the area, helping to maintain the chapel, working on community projects, and even cleaning up an abandoned graveyard—just because they need doing.
Whether cleaning up a graveyard, staging a dance festival, or spreading the truth, they have discovered where happiness is at. It’s at home—wherever you are—if you’re living the gospel.

Not long after my call as a General Authority, I received a letter from an amazing, inspiring young woman. She told a powerful story of love, commitment, and missionary success. I’m fortunate to have contributed in small part to that success.

The letter is from Kendra Beesley Campbell, who was only 15 when the events described began. Let me share a portion of her letter with you:

“I don’t think you will remember me. I am from Columbus, Georgia, and when you were the mission president of the Georgia Atlanta Mission I had a brother leaving for a mission. Because I was at the peak age of peer pressure, my brother was concerned that while he was on his mission preaching the gospel to ’strangers,’ his sister (me) might choose to go the way of the world and lose sight of the purpose of our being here on this earth.

“Well, to assure my brother that I would be a ‘good girl’ while he was away, I made a deal with him that I would ‘go on a mission’ at the same time. Of course mine would only be part-time, but still it would be my ‘mission.’ So I told him that I would baptize one person for every five he baptized, since he would be full-time and I would be part-time. I felt good about this agreement.

“Then I spoke to you. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but you convinced me that I should turn the challenge around—I should baptize five to his one. And for some reason, I accepted your challenge, not knowing what the Lord had in store for me!”

Then Kendra noted that shortly after her brother arrived in the mission field, he and his companion baptized a family of four. That meant she now needed to baptize 20! Kendra said, “I began to work right away. I had the missionaries over every Thursday evening. But I fell short of my goal. Only 11 people were baptized. But at least two of them have served missions, and I can’t count the number of lives that have been touched by the Spirit.”

Eleven people! And two have served missions! And Kendra was only 15 at the time she began “her mission.”

I tracked her down. I found that she had moved to California.

She said my suggestion of turning the one-to-five baptism arrangement around caused her some fear at first, but she began taking the measures necessary to accomplish her revised goal.

Kendra’s missionary vigor helped 11 people join Christ’s true church and acquainted many others with its teachings. And Kendra herself grew tremendously while on her “mission.” She says it was the happiest time of her life because she cared so much about other people.

At the close of one of her letters to me, Kendra expressed joy that her “mission” really hasn’t ever ended. I sustain her in that thought. Though our callings in life may seem to change occasionally, their purposes remain the same—to help each other return to our Father’s presence.

Zina Diantha Huntington Young first encountered the Book of Mormon when she was fourteen years old and living in Watertown, New York. She later wrote, “One day on my return from school I saw the Book of Mormon, that strange, new book, lying on the window sill of our sitting-room. I went up to the window, picked it up, and the sweet influence of the Holy Spirit accompanied it to such an extent that I pressed it to my bosom in a rapture of delight, murmuring as I did so, ‘This is the truth, truth, truth.’” (See Ensign, March 1984, page 37.)

Three of my children are studying away from home right now, so we share family home evening through the Internet. I send them e-mails telling them about the spiritual experiences we have at home and the lessons we share from the Liahona or the scriptures—especially the Book of Mormon. If a week goes by and I forget to write, they all say, “Mom! Please! We miss family home evening.” By sharing with us in this way, they have been able to strengthen us even though they’re not here physically.
I believe that family home evening is an inspired program because it helps us build a foundation on the solid rock of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Family home evening also helps us achieve what the Lord wants for us—that we can be a family that is together forever.
Norma Leticia Treviño de Taylor, Nuevo León, Mexico

Not long after our friend Carolyn Rasmus joined the faculty of Brigham Young University, a group of her new teaching colleagues invited her to join them on a Saturday hike in the mountains above Provo. Carolyn was not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but she had felt particularly welcome in her new circle of associates. She eagerly joined them for the climb.
As the sun steadily rose, so did the hikers on the mountainside. Then, as the ten o’clock hour approached, the group began to find places to sit down. Carolyn thought, “This is wonderful. How did they know I needed the rest?” and she, too, looked for a comfortable spot to stretch out. But the participants seemed unusually earnest about this particular break, some pulling out pencils and notebooks while one intently dialed a transistor radio.
What then happened would be a turning point in her life forever. One of her friends said, “Carolyn, we need to explain something. This is the first Saturday in October, and for us that means not only lovely weather and bright fall foliage, but it also means a general conference of the Church. As Latter-day Saints, wherever we are or whatever we are doing, we stop and listen. So we are going to sit here among the oak and the pines, look out over the valley below, and listen to the prophets of God for a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours!” thought Carolyn. “I didn’t know there were prophets of God still living,” she said, “and I certainly didn’t know there were two hours’ worth!” Little did she know that they were going to stop again at two o’clock that afternoon for another two hours and then invite her to tune in at home for four more the next day.
Well, the rest is history. With the gift of a leather-bound copy of the scriptures from her students, the love of friends and families in the LDS ward she began to attend, and spiritual experiences we want all who make their way into the light of the gospel to have, Carolyn was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. The rest is, as they say, history. With her introduction to general conference that day sitting high atop Y Mountain, Sister Rasmus had seen her own personal fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophetic invitation: “Come ye, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; and he will teach us of his ways, and we will walk in his paths: for out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.”

In April 2024, the project reached a significant milestone. Brother Sylvain Tshibaka, known for his self-reliance initiatives within the stake, kicked off the inaugural inspection of the harvest alongside brothers Jean-Claude Buzangu, Tshimanga Pisthou, and Charles Kayembe, the Kinshasa region welfare and self-reliance manager.
After months of meticulous planning, diligent cultivation, and unwavering dedication, the fields are starting to show what promises to be a bountiful future. With a sense of pride and determination, these brothers picked the farm’s first harvest of maize and peppers. Working together, they exemplified the spirit of unity and collaboration that defines Project Moroni and shows the power of collective effort in achieving common goals.

Karine Dauriat, 12, of Poitiers, talks about life before and after November 1987. “That’s when our family was baptized,” she explains. “There’s a big difference in our home since we joined the Church.”
“That’s true,” says her sister Christelle, 15. “We’re nicer to each other. I think it’s because from the first time the missionaries came, we felt a feeling of joy. We started to understand why we’re here on earth and what we should be doing.”
“We have a common goal now,” says another sister, Sandrine, who is 17. “We want to keep the commandments so we can be an eternal family.”

Illustration by Joshua Dennis
I was called to teach the Aaronic Priesthood in my branch, and one Sunday the topic was respect for womanhood. During the lesson we discussed that respect should be shown to every female, from infant to adulthood, as stated in the Aaronic Priesthood manual.
Gabriel (name has been changed), one of the young men in the class, said that to him a woman is a female who is old enough to be his mother and any female younger than that should respect him because he is a man. No one else in the class agreed with him, which was hard for him to believe.
We continued to discuss ways to show respect to women, and I told them that one thing I do is give up my seat on the large public transportation van when a woman boards, even if it means standing for 30–40 minutes before arriving at my destination. I told them that men ought to stand and let women have the seats. Gabriel was still uncomfortable with the lesson.
Two days later, I boarded a van and sat down in the front. All of the seats were full when a man and his young daughter boarded and walked to the rear. Soon after, an elderly woman entered the van, and I stood up and offered her my seat.
A man behind me tapped my shoulder, pointed to the back of the van, and told me a young man had asked him to get my attention. I walked back to see who this young man was. Everyone nearby was smiling because the young man had just given his seat to the man and his four-year-old daughter who had boarded earlier. It was Gabriel, the young man in my priesthood class, who had been uncomfortable with the topic of respect for womanhood.
He said to me, “I was watching to see if you would stand for the woman who entered the van. I was moved when I saw that you did, and I remembered our lesson on Sunday and had to stand up for the little girl and her father.”
How happy I was to see that our young men live what they are taught in the Church. He used to think that respect was reserved only for older women, but after our Sunday lesson, he chose to show respect for a four-year-old girl.
I was also happy that I chose to live what I taught, helping him learn to show respect for women of all ages. I wondered what his feelings would have been if I had not stood up for the woman in the van. A scripture came to my mind: “If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them” (John 13:17).

The clock was running out in my New York high school wrestling match, and the score was 13 to 2. I was behind, and even though I had tried everything, I was no match for my opponent, Elmer. Yet I thought to myself, I can’t afford to lose. Everything depends on my match. If I lose, we can’t possibly get enough points in the rest of the matches to win. And there will go our undefeated season.
This was supposed to be our high school’s 99th consecutive wrestling team match win, and the 100th team match was scheduled later that day. It took many years of undefeated seasons to have a school record like that. Reporters from local newspapers and several radio stations would be at the 100th match because we were about to make Long Island wrestling history. No one ever expected us to lose.
Unfortunately, for publicity’s sake, the coaches had decided to save all the first-string wrestlers for the upcoming 100th match and let the second string wrestle the 99th. We watched in horror as many of our teammates lost their individual matches. It became painfully obvious to all of us that everything was going to depend on my bout. To make matters worse, I was not only the last-minute substitute for our sick, 165-pound wrestler, but my opponent outweighed me by 13 pounds.
Throughout each period, I worked extremely hard to leverage speed and skill to put Elmer on his back. Instead I fought most of the time to keep my own back off the mat. I simply could not compete with Elmer’s size and strength.
In the final moments of the match, Elmer was on his knees with his chest pressed against my back. He must have figured he could contain me there while he caught his breath and ran out the clock. Meanwhile, my coach sat despairing with his head in his hands. The roar of the crowd was deafening as they cheered Elmer’s imminent win and Brentwood’s upset.
By chance, my eyes caught sight of the clock. There were only 20 seconds to go. I wondered, What do I do now?
Just then, Elmer’s head dropped to obscure my view. He was exhausted. Instantly, both of my hands grabbed Elmer’s head. I tucked it into my chest and arched my back. Over he went like a sack of potatoes. “Pin!” shouted the referee as his hand slammed the mat and the buzzer sounded. I’d pinned Elmer before his feet ever hit the mat. Victory was mine. With only seconds left, I had glued Elmer, and our high school won its 99th in a row and went on to win the 100th team match.