Gospel Story Finder

A few years later I met some missionaries for the first time. My parents had warned me about the young Christians who were going around preaching. As I was walking home, a tall American missionary with a kind smile stopped me. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid he would talk about his church. If he had, I might have run the other way! All he asked was how to find the post office. I told him and then walked home.
As I walked away, I felt something. If I see the missionaries again, I thought, I will talk to them.
Not long after that, I ran into a different set of missionaries. I was shocked that God would hear and answer the prayers of a boy like me, until I read about Joseph Smith. I had read in the New Testament to pray always, but God appearing to a man? It felt both radical and right. Rather than run away, I set up an appointment to have them teach me.
A month into meeting with the missionaries, they invited me to be baptized. I didn’t want to turn them down, but I was hesitant to leave the tradition of my parents and everyone around me. There were two paths before me, and I knew there was only one way to know which one to take—I had to pray like Joseph Smith. I asked Heavenly Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, if the things the missionaries had been teaching me were true.
That was my turning point. From then on, I knew for myself that the restored gospel is true. No one could take that knowledge away from me. I knew which path to follow, and nothing could change that.
I had many questions when I was younger. I learned that I am a child of God, He loves me, He has a plan for me, and He wants to answer my prayers. This knowledge changed my entire perspective on life. I learned that who I am and what I do is significant.
Before I learned that I was a child of God, I wanted to blend in with everyone. I was afraid of standing out. But after I learned that I am a child of God, I realized I can stand out; I can be different.
Praying and realizing that I am a son of God gave me the courage to explain my feelings to my parents, but they didn’t quite understand. They thought I was rebellious and too immature to make the decision to be baptized. They were embarrassed that their son was following this strange religion rather than their traditions. I knew who I was and what I wanted, but I also wanted to honor my parents and hoped they would honor my religion.
I explained my situation to the sister missionaries. They had an idea—they could come talk to my parents so that they would feel better about this religion. I told them I was afraid my parents wouldn’t want to talk to them. Then one of the sisters suggested that we fast together.
When I didn’t eat breakfast, my mom was worried. “Why didn’t you eat?” she asked. I explained that I was fasting, and that made her even more concerned.
“First you are going to this no-man’s land of religion, and now you are not eating. I’m worried. I’m shocked! I’m going to call those missionaries.”
She did call the sisters, and somehow they got themselves invited to our house for dinner!
We had a great time. The missionaries taught my parents the hymn “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301), and we sang it together. My father loved that. After dinner with the sisters, neither of my parents was worried about me going to church. And I felt I was able to honor them by living the gospel because it really encompassed everything they had taught me. I thought if I loved them long enough and treated them kind enough, eventually they would understand. It took 35 years after my baptism, but my mother was baptized and went through the temple just a few years ago!
Knowing that I’m a child of God has impacted many of my life decisions. I also know that as we follow the Spirit and do what Heavenly Father asks of us, even when it seems hard, He will bless us. That is always the best choice.

As the branch in Soweto grew stronger and larger, branches were started in other townships using the same model. Khumbulani Mdletshe was a young man living in the KwaMashu township near Durban. When he joined the Church in 1980, he brought with him suspicions of white people common to almost all young black men in South Africa at that time. But his experiences worshipping in an integrated branch changed his perspective.
In 1982, Khumbulani and several other young men in his branch were invited to attend a young single adult conference. His branch president, a white brother named John Mountford, wanted the young men to look their best, though few of them had nice clothing. He emptied his closet, distributing suits to the young men, who wore them to the conference. The next Sunday, President Mountford wore the suit he had loaned to Khumbulani. “I could not imagine a white person wearing the same clothes that have been worn by me,” Khumbulani recalled, “but there he was. He began to help me see white people differently than I’ve ever seen them before.”
Now an Area Seventy, Elder Mdletshe observed, “We all needed these lived experiences that caused us to change.”

When I was six years old, my parents divorced. Though I continued to live with my mom, my dad was still present in my life after the separation. I stayed at his house on weekends and for one day in the middle of the week.
Despite his efforts to be a good father, when I was seven, he betrayed my trust in a very serious way. This breach of trust marked the beginning of a growing distance between us. When he called the house, I would avoid answering the phone. When I was older, I demanded that I be able to choose when I went to stay at my dad’s house, rather than be forced to go when the custody order mandated me.
When I was in high school, visits gradually became a lot less frequent. I saw him only two or three times a month. When I went to college, the space between calls grew, until I would talk to him about once a semester. My relationship with my dad had become more of a formality than a true parent-child connection.
During my second year of college, I decided to talk to him about the incident from my childhood that I felt had damaged our relationship so many years ago. I hoped for closure, forgiveness, and a chance to start over. I e-mailed him my thoughts and waited for a reply.
Some time later I received his e-mail in reply. Before I read my father’s response, I prayed and asked Heavenly Father that His Spirit be with me as I read the e-mail. This was such an important moment in my life—I was about to see what my dad had to say and what direction our relationship would take. I was scared and felt very alone.
Indeed I was alone, sitting in my room with my computer. I needed support. I continued to pray to Heavenly Father and felt His Spirit. At last I had the courage to read.
My dad replied with a very short e-mail in which he denied any memory of what I was saying and said that it was a really bad time for him to discuss our past.
The way he dismissed something that was so important to me and didn’t seem to want any sort of reconciliation hurt me deeply. I felt deserted by my father, racked with grief over the troubled relationship we had had for more than a decade.
As I sat in my chair sobbing, I felt the Spirit around me. I had never felt my Heavenly Father’s presence so strongly. I literally felt “encircled about eternally in the arms of his love” (2 Nephi 1:15). I felt reassured and loved as I sat crying.
My relationship with my earthly father may have been lacking, but my Heavenly Father was with me. His presence is strong in my life. I know He loves me, cares for me, and will always want a relationship with me. I know that He is my Father. And He is not going anywhere.

Elder Yoon Hwan Choi of the Seventy says two 14-year-old boys brought his family into the restored Church.
Elder Choi was born on May 18, 1957, to Dong Hun Choi and Jeung Soon Lee. His father allowed Elder Choi and his siblings to choose any Christian religion, but they often argued over their different beliefs during dinner. His father wanted to change this. Impressed by the Mormon religion of Elder Choi’s 14-year-old brother, the family listened to the missionaries. After learning about another 14-year-old, Joseph Smith, they were all baptized.

When I was 15, my elder sister Swarupa met a couple from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints serving as missionaries in Rajahmundry, India, and soon she was taking the missionary discussions. Although the name of the Church seemed strange to me and I didn’t understand or speak much English, I listened in on some of the discussions. I felt good about the teachings, and eventually the two of us were baptized. Later my other sister and my brother were also baptized.

Allen C. Ostergar, administrative director, comments, “We have many visitors come here, most of whom are not even members of the Church. They want to see how we do it. They see missionaries out in the world, and they’re impressed. They want to see how we train these outstanding young men and women. We’ve had many people from universities all over the world. We’ve had government officials from state departments, from the United States government, from many other governments. We’ve had people from other churches. We’ve had people from the Vatican. We’ve had people from the Church of the Nazarene. We’ve had Baptists and Methodists. We’ve had military personnel here to see how we train in languages. Once a group of five high-ranking military officers from the Pentagon visited us. They were responsible for the language training of military units in the United States. They spent two days visiting classes, talking to missionaries, reviewing our materials. At the end of the time they said, ‘We’d like to contract with you to train our people here.’

“We told them that wouldn’t work, of course, and then they asked us a lot of questions. First of all they asked the same question that everybody who comes here asks. ‘How do you do it? What is it about these young people that makes them do what they do? We don’t understand it.’ And then thoughts like ‘testimony,’ ‘righteousness,’ ‘the Spirit of the Lord’ go though your mind—things some of these people don’t understand very well. Those are the things that make all the difference.

“We have a beautiful facility. We have a great training system. And then you add to this the great spirit of missionary work and the Spirit of the Lord, and there’s no way a missionary can fail if he’ll do his part.”

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

No plush seats. No ornate decor. No subdued lighting. No modern sound system. No ushers. Of course not. After all, this isn’t a concert hall; it’s Montréal’s busiest metro station. And yet it is a concert hall—the home of la Chorale de l’Accueil Bonneau. Under the harsh fluorescent glare of this noisy, cavernous station stand 18 men in black pants, white shirts, and a smattering of caps, berets, scarves, and bandannas. The singers range in age from 22 to 69. Their weathered faces glow with a joy that almost masks the lingering evidence of misfortune and rejection. “Oh happy day!” they sing, and you can’t help but believe them.
A subway train rumbles to a stop and releases a host of Saturday shoppers, weary students, and weekend workers. Many pause to listen. A few step forward and drop coins into a hat resting on the floor where you would expect the director to stand.
The performers don’t look much like a choir. In fact, they look as if someone just pulled them off the street. They don’t act like a choir either. They don’t stand up straight, and they don’t stand still. One of the older singers—sporting a long, shaggy beard—wanders through the crowd, presenting roses to women. During one of the more lively numbers, two of the singers find partners among the listeners and start to dance.
The choir’s repertoire is varied—everything from “Nearer My God to Thee,” straight from the Latter-day Saint hymnbook, to the pop song “California Dreamin’.” Although some of the men have good voices, these are not professionally trained musicians. One of the soloists even sings a bit off-key. But their energy more than compensates for any lack of training or natural ability. They sing with their whole hearts, and it is clear they are enjoying themselves. So is the audience, which changes about every three minutes as trains come and go.
By the end of two hours the hat is nearly full, and the concert is over. Only then is it evident this choir has a leader. As the last song ends and the crowd disperses, a slender man with dark hair, glasses, and a radiant smile steps from the ranks. His name is Pierre Anthian, and the choir, he will tell you, is merely an extension of his religious beliefs.
The choir ascends the stairs to street level. A yellow school bus will soon arrive to take them to a Catholic church on the outskirts of Montréal where they will perform later this evening. The afternoon sun is pleasant, and the autumn leaves, though past their prime, still adorn the city with splashes of faded yellow and rusty red. While waiting for the bus, one choir member, Jean-Louis, tells how the choir has saved him from harmful addictions. “Now I get high on music,” he boasts. Others have similar stories.
It is late Saturday evening. It has been a long day for the choir, and you can tell they are tired only because their voices don’t blend as well as they did earlier in the program and they hit a few painfully flat notes. But the more than 200 listeners at the church don’t seem to mind. The singers still exude the same level of energy they did this afternoon in the metro, and several of them patrol the aisles, pulling people at random from the audience to join them onstage.
The listeners have been treated to hymns and popular songs—but now comes the audience’s favorite part of the concert. The melody and words might be unfamiliar to a visitor from outside Québec, but it is obvious this song has special meaning to the locals. Everyone is standing, holding hands, swaying back and forth in time with the music, singing with his or her whole soul. Tears flow freely. The song ends, and for a magical moment there is only silence. Then the audience, sensing that this was the final number yet not wanting the magic to end, breaks into wild applause and calls for an encore. The choir obliges, not once but twice, and finally the audience lets them go.

The hot Venetian sun fills the upstairs room where the teenagers are discussing their upcoming activities. They’re using hesitant, mispronounced Italian, broken English, and some French, so the communication can’t help but break down.
Finally, one of the American boys turns to an Italian boy and translates into German. “Capito!” (understood), the boy replies, and the Young Men/Young Women group continues their discussion.
In September 1985 the Venice Italy Stake was created and the Vicenza Italian Branch and American Serviceman’s Branch were united to become the Vicenza Ward. Together, the youth of the ward are striving to strengthen their testimonies, grow in the gospel, and become united while overcoming language, cultural, and national barriers that in many parts of the world could seem insurmountable.
Vicenza is in northern Italy, where cultures have been blending and languages have been mixing, not for centuries but for millennia. In the shadow of the Alps, on the site of an ancient Roman camp not far from the Brenner Pass into northern Europe, Vicenza has been a trading area and cultural melting pot since the third century B.C.
Vicenza was first conquered by Romans, then by barbarians sweeping out of northern Europe to topple the Roman Empire, then by several medieval city-states, and then absorbed by the Venetian Republic in the 14th century. In the 1800s, it was conquered by Napoleon, then controlled by Austria until it became part of the new Italian nation in 1848.
The young men and women of the new Vicenza Ward are like the city itself, a montage of backgrounds, personalities, and nationalities. There are Americans whose fathers are stationed at a nearby military base, Italians from several areas of the country, and a German-American family. The youth are enthusiastic and bi- or tri-lingual, and strive to bridge the communication gap that separates them as much as the cultural differences.
With such diverse backgrounds and languages, Church lessons are different and more condensed than they are in a typical ward. When a missionary is not available to translate a lesson, one of the youth may try to help. But since the young people are more familiar with colloquial terms or schoolbook Italian or English, translating gospel concepts can be quite a challenge.
Some of the newer and younger youth find it difficult as well as distracting to wait for the translation, and they lose their train of thought. The older students, however, most of whom are studying languages, find this a challenge and a benefit.
“I really like how it helps me learn English better,” says Denis Evolani, a 15-year-old who is fluent in German and French and is currently studying English.
Most of the Americans are studying Italian, but many of them are new to Italy and don’t understand much. “I wonder sometimes why I can’t stay where I want to be, where I can understand the language,” says Donna Kennedy, whose family recently arrived in Italy. “But though it’s difficult now, I know that when I leave I’ll wish I didn’t have to.”
Athena Dayley, a senior at the American High School, is often the translator for the Young Women. She finds it challenging but fun. “It is so neat to be able to talk to someone in another language,” Athena says, “but translating at church is really hard, and I get flustered at times and can’t remember what is being said or comprehend the meaning of what I’m translating. All I’m doing is parroting words.”
But the youth have discovered that sometimes spiritual moments transcend the language barrier.
“I seldom cry at movies,” Athena says, “but at girls’ camp the Spirit was so strong that even if I couldn’t understand the words, I couldn’t help but have tears in my eyes.”
American Marc Dayley, 15, who attended the Young Men camp in the Alps, agrees. “You can feel the Spirit so strongly when someone is speaking about the Church, even if you can’t understand the words,” Marc explained. “Listening to other testimonies at camp really strengthened my own.”
The youth activities are very difficult to plan because school schedules for the Italian and American nationalities are very different. The Italian youth go to school six days a week, from 8:30 to 12:30, while the Americans attend school on post five days a week, 8:30–3:30, with many extracurricular activities and sports lasting until 6:30.
The Italians observe “riposo,” when shops and businesses close from 12:30 to 4:00, then reopen until 7:30, and the people often enjoy activities from 8:00 to 11:00 P.M., when most Americans are studying. Stake youth activities are often scheduled on Italian holidays, when American students must go to school. The large boundaries of the stake force many youth to commute an hour by train, so it is very difficult to schedule seminary or activities during the week.
“There are not as many youth activities here as in the States,” says Marc. “But I like the ward dances we have had where we’ve invited other youth from the stake, even if it’s more challenging to flirt with girls in a foreign language.”
Some activities, like volleyball, soccer, dancing, and camping, are universal, and can be enjoyed equally by all; while others, like scripture chases, Church knowledge games, and drama, are far more difficult because of the language problems. Food is another thing. Some youth are hesitant to try pumpkin pie, hot dogs, pizza romano (with anchovies), and other foods that may look or taste different. Yet they usually try some of everything and generally admit they like it “a little.”
These youth enjoy an opportunity to live in Europe and to gain an appreciation of another culture, whether it is the Americans viewing priceless Renaissance art or the Italians learning to play football. But they admit that it’s hard at times to be a member of the Church in Italy.
“In the States, most people know what the standards of the Church are, so it’s easier there,” Donna explains. “Here there are more temptations because they don’t know automatically what you stand for or what to expect from you.”
“It’s hard here,” Athena adds. “School activities are set up on Sunday and everyone plays soccer and goes to the movies. Here you’ve got to set your own standards for yourself and stand by them. It has strengthened my testimony.”
But despite the challenges, the youth are growing in unity, not just as a ward youth group but as citizens of the world. This was brought home forcibly to the young women when they participated in an activity that was conducted worldwide. They tied their written testimonies to balloons and released them into the Italian skies.
“I thought of all my friends in Arizona,” Donna said, “and I felt close to them, even though we are far away.”
Living in the mission field, or anywhere in the world as a Mormon youth, is not always easy, nor is gaining a testimony and understanding other cultures and people. But in the Vicenza Ward, the youth are learning to help each other by appreciating each other’s differences and reveling in their similarities.

“One memory that I have of my grandmother painting comes from when I was about 9 or 10 years old. For a while some of my cousins and siblings and I would go to my grandma’s studio each week to work on drawing, painting and sketching with her. During this time, she was painting a depiction of Christ and the Samaritan woman at the well. I remember whenever I saw her painting, every brush stroke was very careful and very intentional— though I was young and often didn’t really notice the difference that each individual brush stroke made. Each week we returned to her studio, and you could start seeing the difference and the changes and that it was closer and closer to being the beautiful, finished product that it is today. In some way I can’t help but think that is how the Lord can help us to one day become complete.”

Of all the illustrations of faith in the Lord, few stories are more powerful than that told of the pioneer who years later stood to defend the decision of the Martin Handcart Company to start for the Salt Lake Valley late in the year of 1856. He had been one of the nearly 3,000 Saints who walked from Iowa and Nebraska to Utah between 1856 and 1860 in one of 10 companies pushing and pulling handcarts loaded with their belongings.
In a Sunday School class, there was sharp criticism of the ill-fated Martin and Willie Handcart Companies, which met with tragedy because of their late start on the trek to the Salt Lake Valley.
An elderly man arose and said: “I ask you to stop this criticism. You are discussing a matter you know nothing about. Cold historic facts … give no proper interpretation of the questions involved. Mistake to send the Handcart Company out so late in the season? Yes. But I was in that company and my wife … too. We suffered beyond anything you can imagine and many died of exposure and starvation, but … we became acquainted with [God] in our extrem[i]ties.
“I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hill slope and I have said, I can go that far and there I must give up, for I cannot pull the load through it. … I have gone on to that sand and when I reached it, the cart began pushing me. I have looked back many times to see who was pushing my cart, but my eyes saw no one. I knew then that the angels of God were there.
“Was I sorry that I chose to come by handcart? No. Neither then nor any minute of my life since. The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay, and I am thankful that I was privileged to come in the Martin Handcart Company” (as quoted in David O. McKay, “Pioneer Women,” The Relief Society Magazine, January 1948, 8).

I wanted to be a missionary ever since I was young. It started as a simple desire and continued to grow. But life in the Philippines was difficult. My father and brother didn’t have jobs, so I was the only one who could help my mother support our family. Because I was helping my family financially, my savings for my mission built up slowly.
I wasn’t sure how things would work out. One night I read Ether 12:12: “For if there be no faith among the children of men God can do no miracle among them; wherefore, he showed not himself until after their faith.” Then I read a message from President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) regarding faith: “It takes faith—unseeing faith—for young people to proceed immediately with their family responsibilities in the face of financial uncertainties. … It takes faith to fill full-time missions. But know this—that all these are of the planting, while faithful, devout families, spiritual security, peace, and eternal life are the harvest.”1
These teachings helped me understand that I needed more faith to submit my mission papers and to be a full-time missionary. I knew that even though it was hard, God would help me.
My branch president interviewed me and told me afterward that the last thing I needed to do was make the initial payment and then be interviewed by the mission president. I felt so happy and excited. I would get my paycheck that week, and I would be able to give the required amount. However, when I got home, I found out that my father was in the hospital. I felt overwhelmed when I realized we had to pay the hospital the exact amount I needed for my mission payment.
But Heavenly Father prepared a way. We got some help from relatives and members of the Church, including my branch president. Miraculously my father was out of the hospital after one week, and I was able to make my payment. Two weeks after I turned 22, I received my mission call to the Philippines Olongapo Mission.
I know that Heavenly Father made it possible for me to submit my mission papers. I know that if I continue to trust in Him and to act in faith, He will make impossible things possible. He will answer all our prayers, and He will continue to guide us as long as we continue to obey Him.

Nicole ministered to me by just being my friend. She gave me the Book of Mormon, and we started reading together in her car after school.
The Book of Mormon started to fill the holes in my life. But I still felt alone. I wasn’t a member of Nicole’s church, but I also wasn’t completely part of my parents’ religion, either.
Nicole kindly prompted me to pray and ask God if the Book of Mormon is true. I had never prayed out loud, so I had no idea what I was supposed to say. But I just went outside and started talking. I asked God if Nicole’s church was the right church for me too. As soon as I finished my question, I felt chills through my whole body. I knew, somehow without a doubt, that the Book of Mormon is true and this Church was right for me.
I was 15 when I received this witness. For the next few years I believed, though my parents were not interested in the Church. But I wasn’t alone in my faith, because Nicole was still there supporting me.

I want to thank you for the article “Why Am I Running?” in the January 1991 issue. I am a 27-year-old male who is currently serving a prison term. I am here as a direct result of “running.”
As a teenager I became too concerned about what others thought of me. I began to do things that were not socially acceptable. By the time I was an adult my free agency belonged to those I was constantly trying to impress.
I am trying to return to the gospel, but old habits die hard. Please use your agency wisely. The road back is tough, so stay on the straight and narrow path.
K. T.Clallam Bay Corrections Center, Washington

This sacred Easter morning, I’d like to share an experience that helped me understand how much we need Jesus Christ to guide us in our lives. I pray that the Holy Ghost will bear witness to you of the resurrected Christ and that our desire to follow Him will grow.
Several years ago, as a young lawyer, I was involved in resolving a border dispute between countries that had been at war. The work required me to travel on foot through remote areas that were part of the recent war zone. Thousands of land mines had been laid during the war. Expert deminers were there, working to deactivate the mines; however, to my surprise, not all locations of the mines were known. Consequently, on occasion people would accidentally step on them and be injured or killed.
To help me complete my work, I’d been provided a special guide named Winta. Winta was well known in the area. He was from a border town that had been attacked. He escaped and then volunteered to stay in the region throughout the war to observe the activities of the opposing army. He knew the terrain and what occurred during the war.
Because it was possible that some places I would travel had undetected mines, I was given the following instructions: Carefully follow your guide. Winta knows this border area from personal experience. Walk in his footsteps a few paces behind him. Where he goes, you go. Where he steps, you step. I was literally to follow in Winta’s footsteps.
For several days I followed Winta through many areas in the border region. At first I felt uncertain and apprehensive, hiking at times in abandoned trenches, destroyed villages, and other areas where the armies had been. The more we walked together and I remained safe, the more my confidence grew. Thanks to Winta, I completed my work without harm and safely returned home. As I followed in his footsteps, walking with my guide, I developed great trust and gratitude for him.

When Elder Don Ray Clarke was president of the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission, he transferred to mission headquarters an elder who made it clear he would have preferred to finish his mission in another area. Soon after, the elder met a woman looking for a daughter she hadn’t seen in 10 years. When she showed him a photo, this missionary recognized her daughter from a previous area. He played a key part in reuniting a mother and her child.
From this experience and others, “I’ve come to know that God cares deeply about people,” Elder Clarke says. He welcomes surprise transfers and new callings that allow him to help others. “I hope I can minister,” he says of his new calling, “and not just administer.”

Some time ago I learned I was about to lose my job. At this time the June 2000 Liahona arrived; it included a message from Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles titled “Cast Not Away Therefore Your Confidence.” I immediately thought, “This is for me.” Indeed it was. I read the message several times until I had gained what I needed in peace, confidence, and security. My faith increased, and I knew I was not alone.
By applying the principles Elder Holland taught, I was able to find a new job. My heart was filled with happiness and gratitude to my Heavenly Father because once again I had been a recipient of His goodness. I realized that adversity is necessary for our spiritual growth and that we should not cast away our confidence.Freddy Baeza Sandi, Nuevo Loarque Ward, Tegucigalpa Honduras Toncontin Stake

When I was a boy, our family lived in the Sixth-Seventh Ward of the Pioneer Stake. The ward population was rather transient, which resulted in an accelerated rate of turnover with respect to the teachers in the Sunday School. As boys and girls we would just become acquainted with a particular teacher and grow to appreciate him or her when the Sunday School superintendent would visit the class and introduce a new teacher. Disappointment filled each heart, and a breakdown of discipline resulted.

Prospective teachers, hearing of the unsavory reputation of our particular class, would graciously decline to serve or suggest the possibility of teaching a different class where the students were more manageable. We took delight in our newly found status and determined to live up to the fears of the faculty.

One Sunday morning a lovely young lady accompanied the superintendent into the classroom and was presented to us as a teacher who requested the opportunity to teach us. We learned that she had been a missionary and loved young people. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She asked each class member to introduce himself, and then she asked questions which gave her an understanding and insight into the background of each. She told us of her girlhood in Midway, Utah, and as she described that beautiful valley she made its beauty live within us and we desired to visit the green fields she loved so much.

When Lucy taught, she made the scriptures actually live. We became personally acquainted with Samuel, David, Jacob, Nephi, Joseph Smith, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Our gospel scholarship grew. Our deportment improved. Our love for Lucy Gertsch knew no bounds.

We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic Christmas party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys with typical appetites, we converted in our minds the monetary totals to cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious event. Never before had any of our teachers even suggested a social event like this was to be.

The summer months faded into autumn. Autumn turned to winter. Our party goal had been achieved. The class had grown. A good spirit prevailed.

None of us will forget that gray morning when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sincere sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.

The lesson this Sunday was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” At the conclusion of the presentation of a well-prepared lesson, Lucy Gertsch commented on the economic situation of Billy’s family. These were Depression times, and money was scarce. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked: “How would you like to follow this teaching of our Lord? How would you feel about taking our party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted so carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope. A beautiful card was purchased and inscribed with our names.

This simple act of kindness welded us together as one. We learned through our own experience that it is indeed more blessed to give than to receive.

The years have flown. The old chapel is gone, a victim of industrialization. The boys and girls who learned, who laughed, who grew under the direction of that inspired teacher of truth have never forgotten her love or her lessons. Her personal influence for good was contagious.

Several weeks after we broke up, I returned to school late one spring afternoon. I searched through the mess in my locker and soon found what I was looking for. The little black paperback was slightly dog-eared but still readable. Maybe it would answer some of my questions. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me carrying an LDS book, tucked it inside my jacket, and went home.
When I got home I hurried upstairs with my secret bundle and hid it in my desk drawer. I knew my parents wouldn’t approve of me reading Mormon “propaganda.”
Two weeks passed before I had a chance to be alone with the book. When I had the opportunity, I took the book out of my desk, stretched out on my bed, and started to read.
I opened the book, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, and skimmed its pages. A section about the Joseph Smith story caught my eye, so I read it carefully. As I read the story of Joseph Smith’s vision, I knew that it was true. I also knew that if his story was true, then the church he founded must also be true.
A little later I agreed to take the missionary discussions, and I rapidly gained a testimony of the principles of the gospel. After the discussions, I knew that I should join the Church, and after much fasting, praying, and soul searching, I was baptized. Liz was there. She cried.
A little more than a year after I was baptized, Liz and I again visited the temple, this time to be married for time and all eternity. That was 13 years ago. Today, and every day, as I watch our family blossom and grow, I’m grateful for the strong testimony of that cute little Mormon girl. I’m thankful that she was courageous enough to refuse to compromise on an issue that meant eternal happiness for her, and eventually, for me too.

As a student, you probably have or will learn about William Shakespeare in school. But what if, instead, Shakespeare was a student who learned at your school? For David Arnold, this was a reality. He went to King Edward VI School in England, where Shakespeare is said to have attended.
This school was appealing to David because it has a good reputation. Getting in is also really competitive, and David didn’t know if he would be accepted when he applied at age 11.
But getting into the school taught David something about himself: “I’m better than I thought I was,” he says. “It made me realize that I can do it.”