Gospel Story Finder

At the family history library near his home, Josh Taylor was looking at microfilm of a census for Stephenson County in Illinois. He was looking for information about his great-great-great-great grandfather, George A. Stiles. It was seemingly needle-in-the-haystack time.
“It’s a fairly big county, and I wasn’t looking forward to looking through the entire thing,” admits 12-year-old Josh. “But I had prayed about it, and immediately page 261 came to my mind.” And there it was: information about his relative.
“Whenever a page number pops into my mind, I can tell if it’s going to have something in it or not because I feel this excitement. It’s hard to explain,” he says.
What isn’t difficult to explain is how Josh feels about family history.
“Genealogy is addicting,” the Rexburg, Idaho, resident says. After school and on weekends, you’ll find the sixth grader working as a family history assistant at the Upper Snake River Valley Family History Center at Ricks College. Because he’s so young, some folks find it hard to believe he knows so much. After all, family history is a bit perplexing. That is, until they ask him a question and discover he really does know what he’s talking about.
“Once I’ve helped them, they will sometimes come in and ask, ‘Does Josh know something about that?’” he says. Even one of his trainers, Elder Melvin Dickerson of Rexburg, a former full-time family history missionary, was a bit skeptical at first. “We don’t run a baby-sitting service,” he said more than once.
But Elder Dickerson quickly changed his mind when he discovered Josh was serious about the work. “He learned very fast,” he says. “He just gobbled everything up. He was incredible, and still is.”
While the use of computers is sometimes a stumbling block to some researchers, Josh is adept. Dickerson adds, “He is still a young child in some ways, but when it comes to family history, he knows how to do it and how to run the computers.”
Josh describes genealogy as a puzzle. “I have names and I find dates. I have children and I find parents,” he says. “It’s like pieces of a puzzle, and when you complete it, you shellac it and put it on the wall. When quizzed on his own genealogy, he can recall the names of family members back at least 12 generations.
Each day after school, Josh returns home from school and does his homework. Then he showers and changes into a dress shirt and tie for his two hours of work at the library.
“I feel it’s important to get dressed up. I am kind of a missionary,” he adds. “Going there each day is about what I expected it to be except for the spiritual things that I have gained. That’s been totally unexpected.”
Josh’s interest was sparked in early 1996 when many of his fellow fifth-grade classmates were attending a school-sponsored ski school. Instead of skiing, the 10-year-old signed up for an alternative minicourse on genealogy offered by the school. Josh’s mother, Judy Taylor, initially was concerned that two hours of genealogy each week would be too long for her young son. But he soon was hooked and found himself wanting to stay longer and longer at the local family history center.
While his parents, who teach music at Ricks College, were touring with the college orchestra a few months later, Josh stayed with his grandparents for a few days in Logan, Utah. His grandparents, who were serving as family history missionaries, took him to the family history center, where he learned more about the computer programs used by genealogists. Later that year, Josh read in his ward newsletter that Church leaders were looking for more local family history missionaries.
“That caught my attention, and I thought it would be fun,” he says. Josh then prayed about what to do, finding his answer that night while reading his scriptures.
“Right then I knew it was my answer, so I went to see my bishop,” he says. Bishop Kendell Nielsen of the Rexburg 15th Ward says he was a bit surprised, but encouraged the boy to pursue his desire. Josh soon was asked to work at the family history center located at the Rexburg North Stake Center. He has now switched to the family history center at the college, where he serves as an assistant for about seven hours each week. His parents say they have seen signs of maturity because of their son’s work.
“It’s made him a better student,” Sister Taylor says. And it’s dramatically helped his spelling. Before he’s allowed to go off to the center, he’s told his schoolwork must be done. “So it gets done pretty quickly,” Josh’s mom adds.
Josh was recently honored by his school as Student of the Month in English, a subject in which he had struggled previously. His father, David Taylor, adds, “We’ve noticed a dramatic improvement in his social skills.”
Josh tells of a time when a woman was trying to find her long lost brother. When she found the man’s name listed in the Social Security death index, the woman broke down and cried. She didn’t realize he was dead. “You don’t know what to say,” Josh says. “I let my grandma take over.”
When he’s not helping others, he works on his own family line. Recently, he found an ancestor for whom the family had been searching for years. At that point, one of his relatives remarked, “He really does know what he’s doing, doesn’t he?”
Josh’s interest has spurred other family members to work on genealogy too. His mother, who in the past didn’t have the time, suddenly finds herself at the center more often. And his other set of grandparents also have begun researching their family line.
His grandmother Martha Taylor of North Logan, Utah, says their common interest in family history has tied the family together. “I find it’s been a real bonding thing between us,” she says. “It’s given us so much to talk about and to build a relationship around.
“He knows computers much better than I do,” Sister Taylor adds. “On the other hand, I slow him down and tell him to do it thoroughly.”
Blaine Bake, director of the family history center at Ricks, says, “I wish I were in his shoes. He’s at the beginning of his life, and I’m at the winding-down stages, and there are going to be so many technological changes. Now that he’s 12, he’s looking forward to doing the temple work for some of the ancestors he has researched.”
But family history isn’t Josh’s only interest. He plays percussion in the school band and has acted in several theater productions at Ricks College. Last year he also placed first in his division in the Idaho State History Fair.
As for the miniclass in genealogy where his interest all started two years ago? This past winter he taught the class.

In 1982, I was finishing my associate’s degree in topography at a technical school.
At the end of the year, a classmate invited me to have a conversation. I remember that we left the other members of the class and went to an area beside a sports court. When we got there, he spoke to me about his religious convictions, and not only did he show me a book, but he gave me the book. Honestly, I do not remember all the words that he said, but I remember that moment very well and the way I felt when he said, “I want to bear my testimony to you that this book is true and that the gospel of Jesus Christ has been restored.”
After our conversation, I went home, turned a few pages in the book, and placed it on a shelf. Because we were at the end of the year and it was the last year of my topography degree, I did not really pay much attention to the book or to my classmate who had shared it with me. The name of the book you can already guess. Yes, it was the Book of Mormon.
Five months later, the missionaries came into my house; they were leaving just as I was coming home from work. I invited them back in. We sat down in the little patio in front of my house, and they taught me.
In my search for the truth, I asked them which church was true and how I could find it. The missionaries taught me that I could obtain that answer for myself. With great expectation and desire, I accepted their challenge to read several chapters from the Book of Mormon. I prayed with a sincere heart and with real intent (see Moroni 10:4–5). The answer to my question was clear, and several days later—more precisely on May 1, 1983—I was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Today, when I think about the sequence of events that occurred, I see clearly how important the courage of my classmate was when he bore his testimony about the restored truth and presented me with tangible proof of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, even the Book of Mormon. That simple act, but of profound significance to me, created a connection between me and the missionaries when I met them.
The truth had been presented to me, and after my baptism, I became a disciple of Jesus Christ. During the following years, and with the help of very special people such as leaders, teachers, and friends, and also through my own personal study, I learned that when I decided to be a disciple of Jesus Christ, I had accepted the task of not only defending the truth but also proclaiming it.

I stopped at the bottom of Sanford’s huge sycamore tree and looked up the ladder of wooden slats that led to the door of our clubhouse. I avoided looking at the sign that read, “FOR BOYS ONLY” nailed to the tree trunk.
I glanced back uneasily at Meg and Michelle, the two sisters who had moved in next door to us the day before.
“The clubhouse is way up there,” I muttered, nodding toward our hideout overhead. “It’s pretty high up—kind of scary too. There’s not much to see. Are you sure you want to go up?”
Meg, the older of the two, gazed up into the branches. “Looks like a pretty neat place. I’m not afraid of heights, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Who put that up?” Michelle asked, pointing to the sign.
“We did.”
“Well, it’s kind of dumb, if you ask me,” she muttered. “Why aren’t girls allowed?”
“We like it that way.”
“Your mom said you’d take us up,” Michelle reminded me. “I’d like to see what it’s like.”
When Mom asked me to show Meg and Michelle around the neighborhood, I told her that I wouldn’t. She just shrugged and said something about my not getting to do something the next time I wanted to. Well, I knew what she was thinking about: Garett Hadfield’s family was going to Disneyland in two weeks, and Garett had asked me to go with them.
Slowly I turned back to the ladder, grabbed the first slat, and started up. When I reached the trapdoor in the middle of the clubhouse floor, I could hear voices inside. I gulped and knocked softly.
“Who’s there?” a voice growled.
“Me, Jared,” I answered meekly.
The trapdoor opened. I pulled myself up through the opening and sat there with my legs dangling down. “Hi,” I greeted them sickly. I looked around. Sanford was there. Garett too. Then I saw Will, Andrew, and Mark in the dim light. The whole club was there, except Paul. “I brought some … uh … some visitors,” I explained. “They’re our new neighbors.”
“Let’s have a look,” Sanford said.
I gulped again, pulled my feet up, and slid across the floor to sit against the wall. Then Meg’s head poked up through the trapdoor. She looked around and grinned. “Hi. I’m Meg.”
“A girl!” all the guys gasped, jumping to their feet. They stared at Meg as she climbed into the clubhouse, then glared at me.
Before the guys had a chance to get over their shock, Michelle poked her head up through the hole.
“Another girl!” the guys groaned.
“What’s wrong with girls?” Michelle challenged them.
“You brought girls into the clubhouse?” Andrew asked, pointing at me. He turned to the girls. “Didn’t you read the sign?”
“Sure,” Michelle retorted before I had a chance to open my mouth. “But we figured anybody dumb enough to put up a sign like that didn’t know what he was doing anyway.”
“It’s just for today,” I put in. “I’m just showing them around. Mom made me.”
“I haven’t even let my mom come up here,” Sanford protested. He glowered at the girls. “I say they leave right now.”
I looked at Garett. He looked back at me and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “They look all right.”
Well, as long as Garett was with me, I still had a shot at Disneyland, so I didn’t much care what the others thought. “I say they stay,” I said, standing up. “The clubhouse is part mine.”
“My dad built it!” Sanford shouted.
“He couldn’t have built it without my dad’s lumber,” I reminded him. “I say they stay.”
For a few minutes we all just sat there glaring at each other. Then Mark spluttered, “Listen, guys, we have a bigger problem than these girls to worry about—remember? Today’s the day we’re supposed to play the Highland Heights team.”
Then all of us boys groaned. We had been bragging to the Highland Heights team that we could beat them. All that they had to do was name the time and place. Well, they’d named the city park as the place, and this morning as the time. But our best pitcher had the chicken pox!
“We just can’t play them today,” Will croaked. “We don’t stand a chance without Paul pitching.”
“I can pitch,” Sanford volunteered.
“And we can help out,” Meg said.
“We let you come into our clubhouse just this once,” Sanford growled, “but that doesn’t mean we’re going to let you play baseball with us. Those guys would laugh us clear out of the park.”
“We’re going to need all the help we can get,” Garett said uneasily.
“Are you saying that we should let girls play ball with us?” Sanford yelped.
Garett shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe they can fall down in front of a ball. At least we can cover the field that way.”
“I say girls don’t play on our team,” Sanford insisted, folding his arms across his chest defiantly. “If they want to come, they can cheer for us.”
“We’re not cheerleaders,” Michelle protested. “We know how to play ball. Meg and I were in a league where we used to live.”
“I say we let them play,” I said, starting for the door. “If we lose, we’ll just say it was the girls’ fault.”
Michelle grabbed my arm and turned me around. “We don’t play on a losing team. We play to win.”
When we reached the city park, the Highland Heights team was there waiting for us. “We thought you got scared and decided not to show up,” TJ Blake called out as we walked up. TJ was the leader of his team and their best player. He could hit a home run almost every time. He started to grin. “No wonder you’re late. You had to find some girls to help you out. That’s OK with us—you’ll need all the help you can get.”
Well, the Highland Heights team batted first. We put Meg and Michelle in the outfield, where there’s a little less action. Sanford pitched, but he pitched everything that the other team wanted. The first three batters got hits and loaded the bases. Then TJ came to bat, grinning.
“I thought you said you could pitch,” I shouted at Sanford as I covered first base. “Now they’ll have four runs and no outs.”
“Well, you haven’t done anything to help,” he growled back at me. “The only thing you’ve done is drag those two girls along.”
“Michelle can pitch,” Meg called from center field. “She’s a good pitcher. She pitched for our old team.”
I looked at Garett, who was playing second. He shrugged. “She can’t be much worse than Sanford,” he muttered.
TJ laughed as Michelle came in to pitch. “Oh, I love it! I get to bat against a girl.” Then he frowned. “Just make sure you get it this far,” he grumbled at Michelle.
Michelle ignored him. She turned to me. “Meg plays shortstop better than any guy I know.”
I looked over at Mark, who was playing shortstop. “Mark, why don’t you trade places with Meg?”
“With a girl?” he protested.
“It’s just for a little while,” Garett explained. “Besides, we’re going to need three good outfielders while TJ bats.”
“Come on, little girl, throw it here,” TJ taunted when Michelle was ready to pitch.
Michelle just glared at TJ, then wound up and let the ball fly. It zoomed right across the plate, and TJ swung hard enough to knock it clear over Mark’s head. But he missed the ball! Instead, he spun around and fell on the ground. Everybody on our team laughed as TJ stood up, brushed himself off, and got ready to bat again.
“Don’t let a little girl strike you out!” chortled Jason, who was catching.
TJ glared at him, then turned back to Michelle, who was already winding up. Again she let the ball fly across the plate. TJ swung and got just a piece of it. Foul ball. The next time, Michelle wound up and looked like she was going to throw that ball clear into next week. But it was a slow one. TJ swung and missed the ball completely.
We all cheered as TJ stomped away from the plate. Clay Barnes came up to bat next. He missed the first two pitches, but on the third pitch, he hit a line drive—straight for Meg! I thought for sure that it was going to knock her right off her feet, but she snagged the ball and burned it over to me for a double play.
TJ pitched for his team. Boy, was he mad! And the first one to go to bat was Michelle. The fielders came in, since it was just a girl batting, and on the first pitch Michelle got a piece of that ball and knocked it over Clay Barnes’s head into right field.
We beat the Highland Heights team that afternoon ten to eight. And we were sure glad that Meg and Michelle had refused to cheerlead for us.
When we got back to Sanford’s backyard, his mom called from the back porch, “Sanford, there are some cookies and punch in your clubhouse.”
“How’d they get up there?” Sanford asked, surprised.
“You’ve never invited me up, so I decided I’d use the cookies and punch as an excuse to take a look around.”
“You went into our clubhouse?” Sanford gasped. “But it’s just for boys!”
“Don’t worry about it, Sister Nichols,” I called to Sanford’s mom. “You’re not the first girl that’s ever been there.”
“And you won’t be the last,” Michelle added, grinning.
As we were about to climb the tree, I looked at the FOR BOYS ONLY sign. I shook my head and turned to Garett. “There’s a pencil up in the clubhouse. Would you go get it?”
When Garett came back down with the pencil, I grabbed it and scribbled on the sign, “(AND A FEW GOOD GIRLS).”
We all looked at the sign and grinned, then climbed up for cookies and punch.

During my first Christmas as bishop, a single mother with three small children lived in our ward. This young woman had a strong testimony of the gospel and lived it to the best of her ability. She cleaned homes and did sewing to try to make ends meet, but often she could not.
Single-handedly raising three boys under the age of eight was a real challenge. These active, energetic youngsters always seemed to be in trouble of one sort or another. I remember pulling them from more than one tussle with their classmates.
Several good people helped this struggling family. I’ll never forget the brother who came into my office one Sunday just a couple of weeks before Christmas, asking to speak with me privately. He was concerned about the young mother and her family, and he wanted to do something for them. Would I accept his contribution and use it in the best way I could to help them? As we spoke, I hardly noticed his small son who remained in the office with us.
The man explained that he did not know what the woman and her family needed. He just wanted to help and felt that I would be inspired to know what to do. He then entrusted to me quite a remarkable sum of money—not remarkable in the amount, but remarkable in terms of his modest means, of which I was well aware. I knew that this gift meant a real sacrifice of his own family’s Christmas, at least in the temporal sense. But this wise brother knew where real rewards come from.
Seeing the resolve shining in his eyes, I protested only gently. Then I cleared my tightening throat, thanked him for his unselfish gift, and promised to do my best to make Christmas a little brighter for the young mother and her sons. I also agreed to honor his request for anonymity.
The story might well end here and still be memorable. But the event that has etched this experience in my mind was yet to occur. It wasn’t the way I was able to help the family with the unselfish contribution—although that turned out to be most gratifying—but rather what took place in my office one week following that good brother’s visit.
It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was between tithing-settlement interviews. I heard a soft knock on the office door, and when I opened it, I saw, standing quite alone, the six-year-old boy who had sat quietly in my office while his dad and I had talked the Sunday before.
He asked politely if he could talk to me for just a minute. After we walked into the office—which I presume is always a bit of a frightening experience for youngsters—I invited him to sit down. He fidgeted with something in his pocket and, after some struggle, pulled out three small coins and laid them on my desk. He apologized that the coins were all the money he had, and they were a little old and dirty, since he had had them quite a while. The money, he explained, was for me to use to help his three friends, like his dad was helping their mother. As my heart swelled and my eyes became moist, he added that he felt I would know best how to divide his treasure among his friends.
What lessons culminated in that moment—a father’s unselfish example, the trust of a small boy in his bishop, and the humble, Christlike act of a child without guile. Only a few weeks before I had pulled this boy from a scuffle involving the soon-to-be recipients of his forgiving love and charity.
I hugged him, partly to hide my tears—and mostly to tell him how much I appreciated him and how much I knew his Father in Heaven loved him. I then walked him to the door, shook his hand, and assured him that I would do the best I could to help his friends this Christmas with his generous gift. As I turned to go back into my office, he whispered after me, “And remember, Bishop, don’t ever tell anyone it was me.”
Well, I never have told anyone until now, my young friend. I hope relating our special story in this way is all right so that others might feel a bit of the quiet Christmas spirit of love and charity that we felt that day.

Elder Spori’s labors extended as far as Joppa, Damascus, and Jerusalem. It was here in the land of Palestine that he discovered how miracles can come about through small means.
By local law all Christians had to be out of the city of Haifa before the gates were locked at dusk. But Elder Spori was working in that city with an investigator who was ill at the time. The young Mormon elder hated to leave until he was sure his friend was better. That evening, with the investigator getting better, Jacob made plans to leave the city. He knew the gates were locked and that getting caught meant going to jail. As he walked along the city’s shore, pondering what to do, he watched the fishing boats coming into port. He noticed some men preparing the nets for the next day’s work and had the feeling he should help them. He stepped up and began working; no one seemed to notice him. When the work was finally done the men rolled up the nets, got into the small boat and prepared to set sail. Without a word Elder Spori also got into the boat. Before long they were on the sea. The next day the boat landed at Cairo, and Elder Spori jumped from the boat, went into the city, and resumed preaching the gospel.

For example, there was a young soldier on sentry duty one day. His foul-mouthed sergeant, whom he generally avoided, approached him. The recruit steeled himself for the customary barrage of profanity that he would later have to scour from his mind. Instead his sergeant said, “You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?” The recruit nodded in the affirmative, with some surprise, only to be stunned by the next observation: “I could tell because you don’t swear.” The private gulped inwardly as he took quick inventory. The sergeant continued: “You know what gets me about you guys? You are good when you don’t have to be!”
Another time in the military a whole delegation of LDS college men went through summer training. As they moved from one field demonstration to another, each hour they endured the military instructors who began each session with a dirty joke. One NCO unintentionally prefaced the inevitable lewd story by asking, “Anyone object to a joke?” There was a split second of intense silence while the opportunity ran through the group. Then quickly from the back came a solitary but solid, “Yes.” The cadreman looked up in shocked surprise, immediately becoming defensive. Intending to intimidate such an upstart, he fired back, “Well, leave if you don’t like it.” Again a second of silence—followed by a decision. Then three-fourths of the group voted with their feet.
The military experience is like other forays into secularism that LDS youth are facing today. They are away from home with carnal options on every hand—gambling, profanity, pornography, immorality, and bug-out-ism. Such crass enticements successfully ensnare the uncommitted, but thousands of others choose to swim against the current. One young priest, during his first week away from home, confronted some returned missionaries in his barracks who appeared more sophisticated. Why weren’t they saying their prayers, he queried. His challenge encouraged them all to overcome their smoothly disguised fears of censure. They joined after lights out for a family prayer each night. Soon they discovered that their Mormon compatriots throughout the post were doing the same in small scattered groups; they even included their fellow nonmember squad members. The result was a brotherhood—blessing when sick, counseling when troubled, and bolstering each other during competition—instead of the harassing, cutting, and undermining that are so common in basic training. This higher life occurs without leaders or instructions; it emerges from being “anxiously engaged in a good cause,” from conviction, from feeling the power of God within. All over the globe, many Mormon youth seek out each other. Their spiritual adventures are legion. They often reach out to friends who have followed the carnal path into deprivation. Their example, caring, and persistence have supported many through a transformation that has led them into the Melchizedek Priesthood, the temple, sometimes mission calls—in other words, into their eternal potential.

Brayden watched the deacons pass the sacrament up and down the aisles.
How am I going to do that? he wondered. January was only a few weeks away, and then he’d be a deacon. But he couldn’t carry a tray and use his walker at the same time.
After sacrament meeting, Mom helped move Brayden into his transport chair. Then she pushed him to Primary. All through class, Brayden kept wondering about how he’d pass the sacrament.
“Hey, Brayden, can you talk for a minute?” Brother Larsen and Mom were waiting in the hall after Primary.
“Sure!” Brayden said. He loved hanging out with the Larsens, especially their son Josh. Josh was a good friend, almost like a big brother, really. And Brother Larsen was kind of like a dad to Brayden. A really cool dad! He was also one of the advisers in Young Men.
Mom pushed Brayden into an empty classroom.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Brother Larsen said. “You’re going to be a deacon soon.”
“Yep.”
“And that means passing the sacrament.”
Brayden nodded. “Yeah.” But how? he wondered again.
“Josh and I had an idea. He and the other young men would like to take turns pushing you in your transport chair. That way you can carry a tray. What do you think?”
Brayden smiled. “I think it sounds great.”
The next couple of weeks went by in a flash. He had a New Year’s Eve party that was a ton of fun—a superhero movie night followed by board games. And the book on robotics that Mom gave him for Christmas was awesome. Just the thing to get him ready for the robotics team at school!
Then before he knew it, it was his first Sunday as a deacon. His sister, Rylie, pushed Brayden next to the other deacons before she went to sit by Mom in the chapel.
“Hey, Brayden, you ready?” Josh said quietly as he sat near Brayden.
“I think so,” Brayden said. His assignment was for the rows on the left. That sounded easy enough. But his stomach still felt twisty.
“Good morning, brothers and sisters,” began the bishop.
The meeting felt normal but different at the same time. It had all the normal pieces. But his own part was brand new.
One of the older boys blessed the bread. After the congregation said, “Amen,” Josh handed Brayden the bread tray. The cool metal handle pressed against Brayden’s palm as he gripped it tight. Josh pushed Brayden slowly and reverently to the left side of the room.
Brayden handed the tray to Sister Wright. She smiled at him, ate a piece of the broken bread, and then passed the tray down her row.
I’m doing it, thought Brayden. I’m passing the sacrament!
“Thanks for helping me today,” Brayden said to Josh after church was over. Then he gave him a mischievous smile. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going easy on you next Friday night for video games!”
Brayden and Josh laughed. Brayden was glad he got to pass the sacrament. He knew what an important and sacred ordinance it was.
He was also glad to be part of such a great deacons quorum with friends who were willing to help him! He would be glad to help them too. Especially if anybody ever needed help building an awesome robot!

Clarissa hurried from the Primary room when she was dismissed. She could hardly wait to show her mom what her Primary teacher had given her. She held the special card carefully as her eyes scanned the hallway for her mother.
“Maybe she is already in the chapel,” Clarissa thought. She walked in that direction and peeked into the chapel, which was filling with people for sacrament meeting. No, she wasn’t there yet. “Where could she be?” Clarissa wondered.
Then she remembered her sister Deseret in nursery. Maybe Mom was getting her. Clarissa went to the nursery room and smiled when she saw her mom. “How was Primary?” Mom asked.
“Great,” Clarissa said. “Mom, look what my teacher gave me!”
“That looks like a pass-along card,” Mom said. “What are you going to do with it?”
“My teacher said I should give it to someone who isn’t a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Clarissa replied.
“That’s great, honey!” Mom said as they walked down the hall with Deseret to the chapel. “Who are you going to give it to? Do you know someone who isn’t a member of the Church?”
“Of course I do, Mom!” Clarissa said. “I want to give it to Margaret!”
Margaret was two years older than Clarissa. Clarissa saw her almost every week when her mom gave piano lessons to Margaret’s older brother and sister. Margaret would come with her mom to pick them up after the lesson. Clarissa liked Margaret a lot. She wanted her to know about the true Church of Jesus Christ.
“OK,” Mom said. “Why don’t we go to Margaret’s house after church and give her the card.”
During sacrament meeting, Clarissa carefully held the pass-along card in her hands. She looked at the pretty picture on the front. She knew the back gave instructions about how to order a free video that would tell more about Jesus Christ. She hoped Margaret’s family would order the video.
After church, Mom took Clarissa and Deseret to the car. They drove to Margaret’s house. Clarissa was so excited!
When they stopped at the house, they all walked to the front door. Mom rang the doorbell. Margaret’s mom answered. “Is Margaret here?” Clarissa asked.
“No, Clarissa,” Margaret’s mom said. “She is at a friend’s house. I’m sorry you missed her.”
Clarissa looked sadly at her mother. Margaret wasn’t there. She didn’t know what to say next. Luckily, Mom said, “Clarissa has a card that she wants to give to Margaret. It has a number that you can call to order a free video that tells about Jesus Christ. Is it OK if she gives it to Margaret?” Mom asked.
Margaret’s mother smiled warmly at Clarissa. “How nice of you, Clarissa. Do you want me to take the card and give it to Margaret for you?”
Clarissa nodded and handed the card to Margaret’s mom. As they walked back to the car, she had a warm and happy feeling inside. It felt good to be a missionary.

Service is the gospel of Jesus Christ in action, and it’s evident in a story I love about Brigham Young. Upon learning that hundreds of handcart pioneers were stranded on the plains in unbearable conditions, he taught with power in this simple sermon at the October 1856 general conference: “I will now give this people the subject and the text for the Elders who may speak, … it is this, … many of our brethren and sisters are on the plains with hand-carts, and probably many are now 700 miles from this place, and they must be brought here, we must send assistance to them. The text will be, ‘to get them here.’ …

“That is my religion; that is the dictation of the Holy Ghost that I possess, it is to save the people. …

“I shall call upon the Bishops this day, I shall not wait until to-morrow, nor until next day, for 60 good mule teams and 12 or 15 wagons. I do not want to send oxen, I want good horses and mules. They are in this Territory, and we must have them; also 12 tons of flour and 40 good teamsters, besides those that drive the teams. …

“I will tell you all that your faith, religion, and profession of religion, will never save one soul of you in the celestial kingdom of our God, unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. Go and bring in those people now on the plains.”2

Whether we accept the fact or not, we are different from the world if we are living what we believe. Let me tell you about two of our missionaries.
It was the dinner hour, and it was raining without any sign of stopping. In spite of the rain, these two missionaries continued tracting. But let the father in one of these homes tell what happened that night:
“I had come home from work tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than to be left alone. I might also add that I dislike ‘door knockers’ and salesmen.
“I had just sat down to my dinner when the knock on the door came. I don’t know what I expected to find at the door, but I didn’t intend to be very pleasant about the disturbances at this particular hour.
“Perhaps I was too stunned at first to be angry, but for some reason or other I did not slam the door in their faces. There in the doorway stood two young men, smiling from ear to ear and literally beaming as they told me that they had a special message for me and my family. I still don’t know what prompted me to invite them to come in, except that there was something very special about them. There was a certain quality about them that I had never experienced before.
“I can tell you that when I invited them to come into our home. I also invited the greatest blessings that have ever come into my life and the life of my family. Yes, we were all baptized into the LDS church.”

After graduating with honors from high school, Bien studied political science at the Christian College of the Philippines. “We were talking in class about earthquakes,” Bien remembers, “laughing about getting caught in one.” Suddenly, the whole classroom swayed. It was an earthquake.

Terrified, everyone scrambled to escape. The building was dancing madly. Just as Bien was about to dash to safety through an open door, he was pinned by an avalanche of concrete.

“A broken chair jabbed at my stomach, one of my legs was in a half-kneeling posture, and I was face-down,” he remembers. His fractured right arm bled profusely under a block of collapsed flooring. Yet, incredibly, a huge chunk of fallen concrete had barely missed his head. “Classmates were crying for help, but I couldn’t budge,” Bien recalls. One by one they died, including three lying on Bien. The quake struck in late afternoon, and by evening it was pitch dark. Everything was silent.

“I cried,” Bien admits. But as he wept, a Primary song crossed his mind. He started singing “I Am a Child of God.” As each word pierced the silence, a feeling of peace came, a feeling that he was no longer alone. “I prayed, saying, ‘Father, if I still need to live, then please let me live.’” As he prayed, Bien remembered the Savior. “He suffered a lot more than I did,” Bien realized. The cave-in became a tremendous spiritual experience.

As the sun rose the following morning, so did Bien’s hopes. Rescue workers pried him from the rubble and carried him to safety. His relieved family was notified. Bien was rushed to a hospital. Doctors immediately amputated his right arm. “I woke up, looked at my right side and cried out, ‘What’s happening here?’ I thought I was dreaming.” Shock turned to sorrow. “I felt so lonely because I might not be able to do what I used to do.”

After three bedridden months, Bien went home. Nearly all of his 50 classmates had perished. It seemed the same thing happened to Bien’s will to live. How could he, a right-handed person, manage with just his left arm?

While tutoring his nephews one day, Bien felt prompted to practice writing the alphabet. At first it was pure frustration. “My mind knew the shapes, but my hand had difficulty following.” However, practice makes perfect; less than a year after that fateful day, Bien was not only writing with ease, but was also oil painting again. And he resumed college.

After a year, he felt it was time to make use of his newfound strength and serve a mission. His family was aghast. “We’d really worry about you,” his mother protested.

“I know this is what the Lord wants,” Bien reassured her.

Months later, as a missionary, Bien received a family letter. “Don’t worry about us,” they wrote. “We’re boasting about you already.”

Bien’s personality affects just about everybody. At the Manila Missionary Training Center he was an inspiration, and his dedication has touched the Santa Maria Branch. But Bien admits there are still some challenges, like forgoing basketball and missing service projects like harvesting rice.

One of Bien’s favorite scriptures says God “will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will … also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it” (1 Cor. 10:13). It’s a scripture that helps Bien see everything as a learning experience.

Mission life, he says, “is like a school where I learn much, not only about the gospel but also about myself.” He hastens to add that it was in the rubble of another school where he learned to trust Heavenly Father.

Ask Bien to sum up his blessings, and he’ll share his motto: “I asked God for health that I might do great things, and I was given an infirmity that I might do greater things.”

Then he’ll smile and extend his friendship to you—with a warm, left-handed handshake.

In June 1994, I learned a lesson that, I hope, will be forever engraved in my memory.
I had planned to climb with a coworker more than 1,200 meters up Spain’s Sierra de Alhamilla. From the top of this independent mountain range, we would each take off in our hang gliders. We planned to take advantage of bright blue skies and enjoy a marvelous flight over the Tabernas desert and the valleys of Pechina and Viator.
The night before our intended flight, my evening prayers were interrupted by a strong impression that I should not fly the following morning. I was surprised not only by the strength of this impression but also by its persistence. Though I had enough experience to know better—I was a member of the district council and was the district Young Men president—I foolishly ignored the prompting; I thought that perhaps the impression was a product of my imagination or my fear of a new experience. I decided that I would go ahead with the climb, but that I would cancel my flight if the weather conditions were not right.
The following day seemed perfect as my friend and I began our climb. I forgot about the impression I had received the night before and looked forward to my flight.
When we got to the top, we found that the wind was not blowing from the expected direction. As I assembled the glider, the wind changed again and began blowing from a different direction. I felt a great weight on my shoulders and questioned our decision to fly. Nevertheless, I felt some pressure to keep the promise I had made to my friend, and being stubborn, I decided to be the first one to take off.
As soon as I left the mountaintop, I knew I should not have done it. I dropped rapidly toward the trees right below my take-off point, my alarming descent announced by a constant beeping coming from a gauge I had with me. The tree tops, which at first had seemed far away, rushed toward me, getting bigger and bigger. Wind turbulence tossed the hang glider about like a leaf in the wind, and I lost control. Trapped in a narrowing canyon and unable to keep a flight path, I feared that I would crash into the mountainside and be killed. The wind was blowing in my ears, threatening me. It sounded as if it were saying, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Just at this terrifying moment, I remembered the impression from the night before. I realized it had been a warning, and I immediately repented of my disrespect for the concern the Lord had shown for my welfare. I prayed aloud, begging him to help me get out of the maelstrom that gripped me.
Suddenly, I seemed to gain a measure of control and saw a small clearing that I could use as a landing place. I was closing in to land when the wind hit me again. I fell 10 meters, the hang glider dropping fast toward the ground as if there weren’t any air. Just as I was about to hit the ground, the wing of my hang glider tipped up and I was able to land. When I pulled myself from the hang glider, I found I had a few cuts and the hang glider had two broken parts. And I had learned a lesson I will never forget.
I left the mountain feeling great gratitude toward the Lord for his tender care. In spite of my hardheadedness, he had preserved my life.
Some days later, I was preparing a program for a baptism when I was surprised to feel the Spirit bearing witness of the materials I was putting into the program. Among the items I had collected was a picture depicting Joseph Smith being visited by the Father and the Son. I noticed that below the picture was a caption: “I … called upon my servant Joseph Smith, Jun., and spake unto him from heaven, and gave him commandments” (D&C 1:17).
As the Spirit filled my heart, I felt forgiven for my lack of obedience. I rejoiced that the Spirit would once again communicate with me. And I promised myself that never again would I ignore any prompting the Lord was gracious enough to give me.

A wonderful lady in my town served as an elementary school principal for several years. She was the principal for all of my six brothers and sisters. One night she came to our house for a meeting. She was running for supervisor of our county. After the meeting I asked her if she had a Book of Mormon. She told me that she didn’t have one, but she would like one.
Three weeks later I went to a missionary fireside. The missionaries told me to take a Book of Mormon and give it to a nonmember friend. I took one but didn’t know who to give it to. Then the Holy Ghost whispered to me the name of the principal who had been at my house.
I told my dad that I wanted to take the Book of Mormon to her. I marked in it one of my favorite scriptures—1 Nephi 3:7 [1 Ne. 3:7]. Dad took me to her house after the fireside, and I gave it to her.
A month later, when the missionaries came to our house for dinner, they asked me if I knew anyone that they could visit. I told them about the nice lady I had given the Book of Mormon to. I told them her name, phone number, and address.
The next time the missionaries came to dinner, they said that they had visited the woman I’d told them about, and they had a feeling that someday she would join the Church!

Marny and Nancy attend early-morning seminary with one other student. It’s at 6:30 in the morning, and they have evolved a creative way of dealing with the early hour. They arrive at seminary with their hair undone, their makeup unapplied, wearing sweat suits or whatever else they can throw on. Then, after seminary, they both go to Nancy’s house, where they shower and dress for school.
Melissa attends a once-a-week seminary class, doing the rest of the work through home study. Both classes are taught by a Sister Babcock who is, by all accounts, a real ball of fire. She used to be a champion sprinter, and she still keeps things moving fast. “We never fall asleep in her lessons no matter how tired we are. She makes it so interesting, and she’s so enthusiastic. It gives you a real boost. We also have Mutual, and that helps. But I especially look forward to Sundays. Sunday is WOW! Supercharge! You come home from church a mile high! Getting together with LDS friends has the same effect. It’s like being in a desert and seeing water. ‘A Mormon! Talk to me!’”

I knew before the race started that it would be tough—a four-mile cross-country trek through the sandhills. There were plenty of ups and downs, and several places where your feet sank into the sandy soil and slowed you to a walk.
I knew it would be hard, because I’d helped my dad mark out the trail two days before. He’s the gym teacher at my school. It’s his job each fall to choose and mark out the route for the divisional cross-country races.
“I want it tough, David, but fair,” he said to me as we tied up small blue ribbons to mark the route. “There’ll be good runners as well as some who race just to get an afternoon off school. I want the course tough enough to challenge the serious runners.” He grinned at me and said, “You wouldn’t want it too easy, would you?”
I grinned back and shook my head. This was the first year I could be in the race. Each year I’d heard Dad talk about it, and I’d heard the older kids at school say it was really tough. I was eager to compete in it.
I’m in fine form, I thought. I’d been practicing for six weeks, and my legs and lungs felt ready. In gym class I easily beat the other boys at two miles, but we’d never run the whole four miles. That, plus all the hills, might make a difference. And, of course, kids from five other schools would be in the race too. I’d heard rumors that one of the other schools had a really good runner in my division.
When we lined up for the first race of the meet, I knew who it was. His classmates called him Mike, and urged him on. I was determined to beat him, even though he was a good six inches taller than me. That meant his legs were a lot longer—I’d probably have to take four strides to cover the same distance he did in three!
The route began with a really steep hill with stunted oak trees scattered over it. “Why did you put the start here?” I’d asked Dad when we set it up. “Do you want to scare everybody at the start?”
“That’s the idea!” He grinned, then explained that the actual reason was to make the runners spread out instead of bunching together. “They’re less likely to bump into each other that way.”
Now, racing up Heartbreak Hill, I saw what he meant. Everyone was soon walking, including me! At the top I resumed running. Only one runner—Mike—was ahead of me as I followed the course-marking ribbons down the other side. I didn’t try to catch him. This side was much shorter, but steeper, so I was careful to keep my legs under control.
At the bottom, the trail flattened out and wound through poplar trees. Then it took a sharp right turn through an open wire gate before twisting alongside a creek for half a mile or so. By the time we turned away from the creek, Mike was about a hundred yards ahead, going at a steady lope. The rest of the runners were so far behind that I couldn’t see anyone else.
We were more than halfway there, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d be able to catch Mike. My legs were straining on “automatic,” but his long legs seemed to carry him effortlessly up the hills. Even the sandy places didn’t slow him down much.
My breath was getting ragged. I thought about walking for a while, but I didn’t want to let Mike increase the distance between us. My classmates were counting on my winning, and even Dad had hinted that it would be nice to see my name on the trophy. I forced myself to keep running.
Then Mike suddenly slowed and turned his head from side to side as if he were lost. He’s right where the trail branches, I thought. He can’t tell which way to go.
The trail was marked to turn right, but he turned left and picked up speed again.
I’ll catch him! was my first thought. Then, Why didn’t he follow the ribbon?
In a moment I was up to where he’d turned off. There was no ribbon visible, though I’d seen Dad put one there. I took a few strides in the right direction, and there it was, fallen to the ground, and half hidden by grass.
He’ll soon figure out that he’s wrong, I thought and took a couple more strides. But it was almost as if I could hear Dad’s voice: “Winning is important, but it’s not the most important.”
I stopped running. “Mike!” I called loudly. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Is this a trick?” he shouted, turning back.
“No trick,” I called. “See? Here’s the ribbon.” I held it up and tied it to a branch for the later runners to see.
I waited for Mike to pass me, and when he was a hundred yards ahead again, I started running. Even so, I figured I’d gained a small advantage, since I’d had a short rest and hadn’t gone quite as far. My breathing was easier, and slowly I managed to lessen the distance between us.
Mike went up and over the last hill. In the distance I heard a cheer as the crowd sighted him. I topped the hill and saw that he wasn’t more than fifty feet ahead.
I’m going to catch him, I thought. He was almost staggering, and I urged my legs to move faster.
The gap closed. Mike glanced back, saw me coming, and made one last effort. With two feet to spare, he crossed the finish line ahead of me.
I walked around slowly to catch my breath. Dad was standing near the finish line, recording names as later runners crossed, and he gave me a thumbs-up signal. I knew that he didn’t mind that my name wouldn’t be on the trophy—but it sure would have been nice.
When I saw Mike recovering, I went over to congratulate him. “Good race,” I said, “but just wait till next year!”
He gave me a funny look. “Why’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call me back to the trail. And then give me a head start.”
I shrugged. “It was only fair,” I said. “You were ahead, and the ribbon had fallen, but I knew where to go.”
“But you’d have beaten me.”
“It wouldn’t have been right,” I said. “Not that way. You’d have done the same thing.”
“I don’t know, really,” Mike said, his smile uncertain. “What I know for sure is that I hope I would have.”
“What I know,” Dad said, coming up to us, “is that you’re both winners in my book!”

Days start early in the Chung Tien household. The father, Willie Chung Tien, is the baker for the village of Mataura, located on the island of Tubuai in French Polynesia. That means most mornings he starts work at 4:00 a.m. It’s the only way bread will be ready in time for breakfast, and many people depend on Brother Chung Tien for their daily bread.
Eleven-year-old Lee Yen Chung Tien has learned a lot from her father’s example. “I don’t get up as early as he does,” she says. “But I try to work hard like he does, and to serve other people like he does.” She knows that many mornings her father takes fresh, hot bread to the missionaries serving on Tubuai. She knows that he gives many hours in service to the Church in his calling as first counselor in the Mataura Branch presidency. She also knows that many people on the island admire his friendly smile and his positive attitude. “He is a great example to our family,” Lee Yen says. “His happiness helps us all to be happy too.”

Elder Mason had another experience just weeks after his marriage that helped him prioritize his family responsibilities. He said:
“Marie and I had rationalized that to get me through medical school it would be necessary for her to remain in the workplace. Although this was not what we [wanted] to do, children would have to come later. [While looking at a Church magazine at my parents’ home,] I saw an article by Elder Spencer W. Kimball, then of the Quorum of the Twelve, [highlighting] responsibilities associated with marriage. According to Elder Kimball, one sacred responsibility was to multiply and replenish the earth. My parents’ home was [close to] the Church Administration Building. I immediately walked to the offices, and 30 minutes after reading his article, I found myself sitting across the desk from Elder Spencer W. Kimball.” (This wouldn’t be so easy today.)
“I explained that I wanted to become a doctor. There was no alternative but to postpone having our family. Elder Kimball listened patiently and then responded in a soft voice, ‘Brother Mason, would the Lord want you to break one of his important commandments in order for you to become a doctor? With the help of the Lord, you can have your family and still become a doctor. Where is your faith?’”
Elder Mason continued: “Our first child was born less than a year later. Marie and I worked hard, and the Lord opened the windows of heaven.” The Masons were blessed with two more children before he graduated from medical school four years later.

Before my conversion, I used to read novels and magazines that did nothing for my spirituality. But following my baptism, I happened to find a copy of L‘Etoile (French) with an article “Come unto Me” that seemed to be written just for me. The Spirit inspired me to read the article several times. Since then, worldly books and magazines no longer interest me.
I read each issue of the magazine, and I especially enjoy the articles and testimonies of Saints all over the world because their testimonies help to increase mine.
I would encourage everyone to read and use the Church magazines to improve their lives and feel of the Spirit.
Bokota B. LouisonKinsuka First Branch, Kinshasa Zaire Masina District

Photo illustrations by Welden C. Andersen
Ever wanted to be a superhero?
Read on! While we may not be able to teach you how to fly or to shoot lasers from your eyes, we can give you a mission that could help lots and lots of people. The Savior taught, “Ye are the light of the world” (Matthew 5:14), and you can be a light to everyone you meet by reaching out and uplifting them.
The New Era asked youth to be their own variety of superhero by trying to make 10 people smile each day; their experiences were incredible. Are you ready to take the challenge? Here’s how it worked out for them.
“I found that making someone smile is not as hard as it seems. Sometimes all it takes is a joke or a friendly comment or a smile. Throughout my school day I saw countless people; some I knew, some I didn’t know, but that didn’t stop me. I tried to see people the way Christ would see them. Everything I said, I truly meant. I felt a connection between that person and me. But even more, I felt a stronger connection with my Heavenly Father. I know that as we strive to be more like Him through seeing and acknowledging our brothers and sisters, and looking for their Christlike qualities, we can see ourselves in the way Christ sees us and come closer to Him.”
Blaire A., Utah, USA

The brothers seldom separated; their desire to be together continued until the end. Only a few days before Joseph and Hyrum were taken to Carthage, Joseph asked Hyrum to leave, with his family, for Cincinnati, Ohio, where he would be safe. Hyrum rarely refused Joseph’s requests, but on this occasion he did, saying, “Joseph, I can’t leave you.”
Joseph once said about Hyrum, “I love him with that love that is stronger than death.” In the end their love did carry them to death together. On June 27, 1844, while they were being held as prisoners in the Carthage jail, a mob stormed into the building and murdered Hyrum. Seeing his brother fall, Joseph exclaimed, “Oh, dear brother Hyrum!” Then, just minutes later, he, too, fell dead, also a victim of the mob’s gunshots.