Gospel Story Finder

When Sister Richards and I were first married, we were going to school and had very little income to meet our expenses. Paying our tithing was a great sacrifice. But Sister Richards never even considered using our tithing money for other things we greatly needed, like food or rent. She insisted that we pay our tithing first, and we always did. Sometimes we had only a penny left when all of our obligations were met, but we always seemed to have just enough to meet them. That was a blessing from exercising our faith to pay tithing.

The three children watched big-eyed but uncomplaining as their grandmother filled the visitor’s bowl with the watery, meatless stew. She served the small amount left in the pot to the children, not taking any for herself.
Black Elk compared his portion with that for the children, then poured more than half of it back into the pot. He unrolled his pack and removed most of a cooked rabbit left from his noonday meal. The smiling children ate ravenously. They had not had meat for many days.
He speared a chunk of meat with his knife and handed it to the woman. “Eat!” he said to the gaunt-looking grandmother. She had missed many meals, sacrificing for the children. And, still, they were too thin. The sad plight of the little family troubled the Indian youth, who had seen the lone tepee and had stopped for the night.
When the children were asleep, he and the woman talked by the fire. “My son,” she said, “was killed by a wounded bear last fall. The children, their mother, and I wintered here alone after that. Then the mother took cold and died of a fever. My joints are stiff and I am too lame to hunt game,” she sighed. “We have survived on roots, nuts, and greens still growing in sheltered spots; but the children grow weaker by the day. I am so old and weary … I—I fear for them,” she added hopelessly.
Black Elk slept little that night. It had snowed lightly and he rose at dawn, stiff and chilled. The children shivered in tattered blankets by the fire as the old one brewed herb tea for breakfast. The youth felt ashamed when his stomach growled protests at such meager fare.
He urged the woman to return with him to his village, a week’s journey from here, but she refused. It was almost spring. Her tribe would come searching for the lost family. There was another son. He and his wife would take his brother’s children for their own. She must wait here.
Black Elk was dismayed by her refusal. But since she would not budge, he could not leave them alone to starve. By chance, they had all become his responsibility! He was only a youth, and Black Elk felt overwhelmed by such a heavy burden.
He taught the older girl, Singing Bird, to set snares for small game. He and the boy, Brown Tree, fished through the ice that still covered the lake, and hunted large game that was sparse in the area.
The woman was a good cook, and every scrap of fur she turned into warm clothing for the children, whose thin faces were rounding out as they became sleek and well fed. The old one became stronger, and the baby no longer coughed during the night. Black Elk felt pride as he looked at them. He was a good provider for the little family, as he must someday become for a family of his own.
As the weeks passed, he began to worry more and more about his own people. The braves, thinking him lost, would certainly have searched for him after so long a time, but his tribe seldom hunted in this area where game was scarce. Had they given up hope of finding him? Was his mother mourning his death? And suppose this family’s people failed to come! Black Elk felt despair as he considered the possibility.
The old one saw that Black Elk was deeply troubled and homesick. “You have helped us enough. Return to your own people,” she urged gently one evening.
Black Elk looked at the dimpled baby making happy sounds as she played with rolling pine cones. “I cannot … yet,” he murmured miserably, turning away.
Pink fingers of light probed the eastern sky a few days later as the youth awoke to the sound of approaching horses. He rolled out of the wickiup he had erected beside the tattered tepee and snatched up his bow and arrows. Are the visitors friends or enemies? he wondered. The old one and Brown Tree stood bravely beside him. Singing Bird carried the baby into the forest to hide.
They listened. There were many horses! It was foolish to greet such a large group with weapons. Black Elk and the boy laid them aside and stood stiffly, waiting. The first Indians entered the clearing. Then Black Elk relaxed as the woman uttered a joyful cry and ran forward to greet her kinsmen!
The youth would have preferred to slip away unnoticed and return to his people, but the children’s uncle refused to permit it. Black Elk had taken the place of a dead brave and preserved his family from certain death. There must be a feast and dance in his honor.
The next morning Black Elk turned for a last look at the village of tepees that had sprouted like mushrooms. There was a haze of smoke from the cooking fires. He was leaving many new friends and the family he had nourished and cared for. When he said a sad farewell to the old woman and the children his eyes stung and his throat seemed strangely choked as the baby clung to him and cried. He would miss them.
Now he had long miles to travel. Miles that would go fast on the back of the beautiful spotted pony the uncle had given him. Other relatives had placed fine necklaces around his neck and a new skinning knife in his sheath.
But the most treasured gift was for his mother, from the old one. It was a magnificent woven rug of many colors. “To turn her tears of sorrow into tears of joy and pride in her son, who has proven he is a brave, returning to her in honor and high regard,” the grandmother said, clasping his hand for a moment.

After crossing the Arkansas River on September 16, the new battalion commander, Lieutenant A. J. Smith, sent most of the women and children to the Mexican village of Pueblo (in present-day Colorado) for the winter. The soldiers were upset because they had been promised that their families could travel with them to California. But it was a wise decision because the battalion marched at a rapid pace with little time to rest. Just a month later, a group of sick men and women were also sent to Pueblo.
The weary soldiers trudged into Santa Fe, New Mexico, on October 9, 1846. Colonel Philip St. George Cooke became their new commander, with orders to blaze a wagon trail from Santa Fe to California. The work wore heavily on the battalion, and in November 1846, a third group of fifty-five weakened and tired soldiers turned back for Pueblo.

Illustration by Chris Wormell
During a trip to see our extended family one summer, our 12-year-old, high-mileage minivan died and coasted to a stop. We were stuck. Fortunately, we were only five miles (8 km) from the small town of Limon, Colorado, USA.
The local mechanic gave us bad news. Our transmission needed to be replaced, and we would need to wait at least five days for parts. We were short on cash but did have our tent and some camping gear, so we opted to stay in the local campground.
Hundreds of miles from family and friends, we contemplated how we might get to a store to buy the groceries we’d need to survive. We decided to look up the local branch president in hopes of finding transportation. We called President Dawson, and within half an hour we received two calls from members of the small branch’s Relief Society. We happily discovered that one family lived within a block of the campground; they came to meet us within a few hours of our call.
Over the next week, the love and care we received from that small branch on the windy plains of Colorado overwhelmed us. The family who lived close by invited us to their home for dinner that first day, and we enjoyed a great evening of conversation with the parents while our children played with their daughter. The next morning we hitched a ride with another member to go shopping for food and supplies for our stay.
The generosity of branch members continued beyond our original request. They picked us up for church on Sunday. They helped us make memories at the town’s historic train museum. Our children took shelter in their homes during a passing hailstorm. One of the members even employed my husband for a few days to help us pay for car repairs.
Every evening, members of the small branch fed us and entertained our children in their homes. Toward the end of our stay, another family took us to their ranch, where our children learned to ride horses.
When we left Limon a week later, we left with prayers of thanks for a new group of dear friends who took us in and made us feel at home in Limon.

Renee Huggins was born in Haiti, a country located on a small island in the Caribbean Sea. When she was eight years old, she and her mother moved to Utah to be closer to Renee’s aunts, uncles, and cousins.
After the move, Renee’s family and friends told her and her mother about the gospel. Soon the missionaries started teaching them.
At first, Renee wasn’t sure she wanted to be baptized. Then one day the missionaries read a scripture about baptism from the Book of Mormon. The prophet Nephi said that baptism is like a gate to a path leading to Heavenly Father. He also described the blessings of receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost after baptism. (See 2 Ne. 31:17–18.)
Renee felt a warm, happy feeling in her heart. She knew she wanted to return to Heavenly Father. And she wanted the gift of the Holy Ghost. She thought the Holy Ghost would be a good friend and companion to help her throughout her life. She and her mother were soon baptized.

This analogy reminds me of an experience that a very faithful member of the Church shared with me some time ago. This member told me that when she awakened on one particular morning, an improper thought that she had never experienced before unexpectedly entered her mind. Although it caught her completely by surprise, she reacted against the situation in a split second, saying to herself and to that thought, “No!” and replaced it with something good to divert her mind from the unwelcome thought. She told me that as she exercised her moral agency in righteousness, that negative, involuntary thought immediately disappeared.

They don’t get chased by dogs or have companions. They don’t write letters home on preparation days because they still live at home, in Pleasant Grove, Utah. But the Willeys—Anthony, 18, Elizabeth, 16, and Kristina, 14—are still missionaries, music missionaries, actually. They were set apart in the Salt Lake Tabernacle.
“When I was set apart,” Elizabeth says grinning, “I was told, ‘Now you’re the youngest sister missionary.’ It made me feel special.” And she enjoyed being the youngest sister missionary until a year or so later when her little sister Kristina was set apart and took over as the youngest.
As music missionaries, Anthony, Elizabeth, and Kristina can share the gospel without ever opening their mouths. Anthony says music missionaries can reach people that regular missionaries might not be able to.
“Music reaches people who wouldn’t hear about the Church any other way. It isn’t like knocking on a door and going into someone’s house; it’s more subtle,” he says.
Elizabeth says, “People listening to good music will feel the Spirit, and when they feel the Spirit, they’re willing to learn more.”
So do the Willeys lug their violins, violas, and basses from door to door playing inspirational music for people? Not exactly. If you’ve ever seen a Church music broadcast or attended one on Temple Square, you’ve probably seen how Anthony, Elizabeth, and Kristina share the gospel through music. They are some of the youngest members of the Orchestra at Temple Square.
Being so young compared to the other members of the orchestra doesn’t bother these teens a bit. They actually love it. Elizabeth says, “Even though there are only a few members under 20 in the orchestra, I feel like I fit in. I think it’s great because there isn’t any goofing off. Everyone had to work so hard to get here.”
How did they get to be in such a prestigious orchestra at such a young age? “Lots and lots of practice,” Anthony says.
To be in the Orchestra at Temple Square you have to be one of the top musicians in the Church, able to play whatever difficult piece might be put in front of you. And it’s a huge time commitment.
Kristina says, “Being a part of the Orchestra at Temple Square is my favorite thing I’ve ever done, but it’s been a sacrifice. It’s hard to find time for homework and friends because we have to practice every day and rehearse several times a week.”
But Anthony, Elizabeth, and Kristina all say the hard work is worth it.
“It’s neat to be able to see the audience’s reaction when we perform,” Elizabeth says. “The Spirit is always there. It makes me feel like all my hard work has paid off.”
The teens’ mom and dad go to their concerts and sit up in the balcony where they can see all their children. Their mother, Denise, says, “When the music gets going, the Spirit sweeps over me and over the whole audience.”
The beautiful music the orchestra plays on Temple Square helps many people feel the Spirit. After the concerts are over, members of the audience can learn more about the Church from the full-time and Church service missionaries standing at the doors.
Anthony loves the missionary opportunities that being a member of the Orchestra at Temple Square has given him. “Being a member of the orchestra has made me want to be a better person,” he says, “and it has prepared me to be a better full-time missionary.”
Anthony, Elizabeth, and Kristina are not the only members of their family involved in music. Their younger siblings Alexander, Catherine, and Rebekah (also pictured above) have also been playing instruments nearly as long as they’ve been able to walk. The Willeys agree that music helps bind their family together. They also say that good music can bless everyone’s life, whether they play an instrument or not. Elizabeth says, “Anyone can enjoy music on some level. You don’t have to be a professional musician.”
Anthony says, “There are lots of opportunities for teens to learn music. You can sing in a ward youth choir or join your school band, choir, or orchestra.”
Alexander, 13, says listening to good music helps him with his schoolwork. He says, “Listening to Mozart before a test can help you perform well. Good music can clear your mind so you can learn or remember things better.”
Kristina listens to uplifting music when she’s sad because it makes her feel better. She says, “Good music can invite the Spirit. It’s like a prayer” (see D&C 25:12).

Illustrations by Tuesday Mourning
I never considered myself someone who compromised her standards. I didn’t wear immodest clothing or miss church on Sunday. I went to early-morning seminary every day, and being tempted to use bad language was never a problem for me. But dating was different.
Jonathan* and I first met at a summer youth camp. I was friendly, sure, but not really interested in him. Throughout the weeklong camp, we became little more than acquaintances and, at the end of the week, we got each other’s contact information. The camp was outside the state I lived in, so when I learned that he lived not only in the same state but also in a neighboring stake, I was kind of surprised. I was even more surprised when I received an email from him a few months later.
We began exchanging emails. I didn’t see him very often because he lived an hour and a half away, but we maintained a steady friendship for months. Neither he nor I was 16 yet, so going on dates wasn’t even on our minds.
Several months later, we saw each other again at the same summer youth camp. By that time, we were both 16. Our friendship progressed, and by the end of the camp, I was sad to see him leave. After we got home, we began talking even more frequently, and a few months later, we were officially dating.
At first, everything was fine. We would take turns driving to see each other twice a month. I became very close to his family, and he with mine. We spent hours talking on the phone or on the Internet every night.
I justified our dating: we were both 16, we lived an hour and a half apart so nothing bad would happen, and even though For the Strength of Youth says to “avoid going on frequent dates with the same person” ([2011], 4), it didn’t seem like a big deal.
Though we maintained a physical distance, we quickly became emotionally close. After over a year of dating, I felt like we’d grown too close, and I broke it off. I later learned that this had nearly destroyed him emotionally.
We didn’t talk to each other much for almost a year. But when we both started attending the same college, it wasn’t long until we were talking again. I soon realized how much I missed him, and I regretted my decision to break up with him.
Soon we were dating again. And because we had dated steadily in high school despite the counsel not to, our relationship progressed even faster than it had before. We saw each other every day, and I became emotionally captivated. We talked seriously about marriage and a future life together. After just a few months, I was certain that I would wait for him while he was on his mission and that we would get married after.
A few weeks before he received his mission call, I visited him in his hometown. I had just gone through one of the worst weekends of my life, and I looked forward to seeing him. When I got to his house, I noticed he was acting a little strange, but I didn’t think much of it. He wanted to go for a drive, which wasn’t unusual, but I felt uneasy. After driving for a little bit, we stopped.
“I don’t think we should date anymore,” he said.
I was stunned.
He went on. He told me he didn’t love me anymore and that he didn’t want to marry me when he got back from his mission—he didn’t even want to date me.
I left feeling angry, upset, frustrated, but mostly just heartbroken. I cried the entire way home, angry with myself for investing two years in someone who ended up not loving me.
For months I didn’t let go. I held onto the idea that he would change—that suddenly he would love me again, just as suddenly as he had decided that he didn’t. I couldn’t concentrate on classes. I wouldn’t let myself have fun. I constantly felt hurt and depressed.
During that time, I studied the scriptures more than I ever had before and prayed fervently every day asking for help through this trial. I desperately wanted the Lord to take away my pain. It didn’t go away all at once, but my pain did start to lessen. I began to let the Savior heal my broken heart. And I began to see what I had done wrong.
When we first started dating in high school, I didn’t immediately see the negative consequences of not following the guidelines in For the Strength of Youth. Life actually seemed pretty great. I was doing well in my classes, and Jonathan and I were having fun. But after we broke up, I realized what I had missed out on. I sacrificed better relationships with my family and friends because I was so focused on my relationship with Jonathan. I caused myself a lot of pain because I was too emotionally involved too young. And even though my decision to steady date as a youth hadn’t led me to violate the law of chastity, I left the relationship emotionally hurt. Had I followed the standard instead of thinking I was an exception to the rule, I could have avoided these trials.
After this experience, I learned a very valuable lesson. The Lord gives us standards not to prevent us from progressing but to guide us safely through this difficult life. I know that when we follow the standards, even if we don’t understand why they’re there, we will be protected.

In what we call the west boardroom of the Church Administration Building, there hangs a lovely painting rendered by the artist Harry Anderson. The painting depicts Jesus sitting on a small stone wall with numerous children gathered around, knowing they are the object of His love. Each time I gaze at that painting, I think of the passage of scripture, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”
On one occasion, I had given a priesthood blessing in that room to a small lad who was soon to undergo major surgery. I directed his attention and that of his parents to the painting of Jesus and the children. I then made a few remarks concerning the Savior and His never-failing love. I asked the boy if he had any questions. “Yes,” he replied seriously. “Brother Monson, how does a boy go about getting a little goat and a leash for it like that one in the painting?”
For a moment I was stunned by the unanticipated question, a little deflated concerning my teaching ability, but then I responded: “Jesus gives to you and me gifts far more important than a goat on a leash. He provides a road map to heaven. His teachings, His example, His love are far greater gifts than that offered by the world.”
“Come, follow me,” He invited. And we are wise when we follow Him!

Perhaps of all the Prophet’s Christmases, none was more pleasant than his last—December 1843. He recorded:
“This morning, about one o’clock, I was aroused by an English sister, Lettice Rushton, widow of Richard Rushton, Senior, (who, ten years ago, lost her sight) accompanied by three of her sons, with their wives, and her two daughters, with their husbands, and several of her neighbors, singing, ‘Mortals, awake! with angels join,’ which caused a thrill of pleasure to run through my soul. All of my family and boarders [in the house] arose to hear the serenade, and I felt to thank my Heavenly Father for their visit, and blessed them in the name of the Lord” (History of the Church, 6:134).
A large gathering of family and friends dined with the Prophet and spent the evening enjoying good music and dancing “in a most cheerful and friendly manner.” And then an uninvited guest interrupted the party. Joseph described the event:
“During the festivities, a man with his hair long and falling over his shoulders, … came in and acted [in an uncouth manner]. I requested the captain of the police to put him out of doors. A scuffle ensued, and I had an opportunity to look him full in the face, when to my great surprise and joy untold, I discovered it was my long-tried, warm, but cruelly persecuted friend, Orrin Porter Rockwell, just arrived from nearly a year’s imprisonment without conviction, in Missouri” (History of the Church, 6:134–45).

For the past year I thought there were too many rules in the Church, and I thought, “How can it be fun in heaven?” I felt like I was tied to the Church and it was impossible to break free.
I then watched my friends’ lives. Why didn’t I go through some of the trials they did? One night it hit me—I didn’t get into that stuff because I followed the rules that Heavenly Father set out for me. I also figured out that if you follow the rules, you can be happy and can raise a family and live with Heavenly Father and Jesus for eternity.
Stephanie H., age 13, Utah, USA

While walking down the hall of the Provo 24th–27th Ward chapel in the Provo Utah North Stake, my attention was drawn to a bulletin board on which was located an eye-catching photograph of a pyramid of young Scouts. A closer look indelibly impressed upon my mind the potential impact of Scouting, leaders, and parents, for drawn to the picture of each boy in the pyramid was a line, and at the end of the line appeared names of places both far and near, including Spain, Mexico, Oregon, Thailand, England, Arkansas, and Tahiti.
A desire to investigate further brought me to the home of the former Scoutmaster, Rex Craig, who told me that he had taken the picture in June 1970. At that time he had called members of the troop together to inform them that they had been selected by the YMMIA general superintendency as one of the top 50 troops in the Church with a ranking of #11. (In a later year their troop achieved a #3 rating.)
At the time, Brother Craig had 23 boys in his troop. All of the boys except one went on to achieve the rank of Eagle (the remaining boy lacked only two merit badges), and to date all but two have gone on to serve the Lord in the mission field.
When I asked how he accounted for this kind of activity, he said there were a couple of reasons: The boys were basically good, and, in general, there was excellent support from the homes and the bishopric. But he felt there was one other ingredient that contributed to the success; that ingredient was the application of the program of the Church in which leaders work together to build men. In this case it was the Scoutmaster and the deacons quorum adviser. He handed me a letter that he had received from William Jones, a deacons adviser who had served during the time the boys were in Scouting. The special ingredient is described therein. The letter reads:
“Dear Brother Craig:
“As I prepare to leave Utah, I feel it appropriate to express my feelings and impressions of Troop 194, both as a deacons quorum adviser and as a worker on the troop committee.
“You know of my deep respect for you as a man, but I need to expand this to include your unique role as Scoutmaster. The activities have often taxed your time to the limit, but time was still found to meet the sincere needs of both Scouts and parents, even a ‘confused committeeman’ on occasion. Many felt that after your son became an Eagle Scout your enthusiasm would die. On the contrary, each boy in Troop 194 has, in turn, become a son to you and achieved the Eagle rank. I know personally of the great love each boy has for you.
“As a deacons adviser I owe you much for assisting me in making the priesthood such an integral part of each boy’s life. In no other place is cooperation more important, and I personally feel that in no other area is it more present than in our ward. Because you were with us on Sundays and you allowed me to play an active role in Mutual and on campouts, every boy became our concern and gave the program a true completeness.
“I was privileged to work with a choice group of men, but my greatest joy came from the obvious source—the individual boy. I shall never forget my first outing with the boys to Silver Lake. I was critical and tried to oversee 20 active Scouts. I failed, of course, but by the second go-round things began to focus and I watched the patrol leaders function. I saw characteristics in boys then that will someday make them fine men and our future leaders. Clean speech, honesty, and other principles that were taught in priesthood lessons came alive as I watched our boys.
“Troop 194 has no perfect boy. We have had and will continue to have loud, fidgety, curious, active creatures called boys to love, appreciate, train, and say good-bye to as they head into future challenges, better prepared for having been a boy in our ward.”
In response to my question as to how this relationship between priesthood and Scouting could produce such good results, Brother Craig said, “Everything I’ve ever read or been taught in the scriptures seems to say, ‘Seek the best; cease to be idle; gain knowledge in thy youth; love thy neighbor; do your duty to God; obey; be loyal’; and the list goes on and on. It doesn’t take long to see that a boy’s time seeking, learning, obeying, competing, challenging, promising, and excelling is well spent. It’s not easy, and the boy isn’t happy 100 percent of the time. But he is growing, and he thinks a lot about life now and in the future, and in the end he feels like he’s done something. Though his Eagle badge is important to him, he soon realizes it is just a training step. He knows within himself, here was a challenge. He took it, and he conquered it. Even though it often meant ridicule, sacrifice, and even doing something he thought he could never do, he did it. If you want to see desire and courage, you just watch a boy who reaches the age of 12 and can’t swim. He may struggle, fail, fight, and fail. With determination he will try again, fail again, sometimes cry, but always pick himself up and go on. in the end he knows that he has succeeded at something he thought to be impossible.
“In case anyone should think that our goal in Scouting is to become the top troop in the Church, or 100 percent Eagles, or be awarded the most badges at a court of honor, let me straighten him out. There is only one goal and that is to return the best spirit and strongest character possible to our Father in heaven. This is our goal in priesthood and in Scouting. Scouting offers some tools to practice the principles taught in priesthood.”
Another look at the picture impressed upon my mind the impact that parents, leaders, and the gospel have had upon a closely knit group of boys and, in turn, the impact they are having upon the world: Italy, Taiwan, California, Belgium—Tenderfeet, Eagles, missionaries.

We challenge parents, home teachers, elders quorum presidents, and bishops that from today you show your concern for these young people. Flood them with affection, letters, tapes, cards, packages, birthday and holiday greetings of all types. Give your Young Adults, teenagers, and others in your ward a stimulating project. Sixteen-year-old Debbie Trujillo wrote a serviceman, “Hi. My name is Debbie Trujillo, and I’ve just been baptized in the Church. I don’t know much about you, but our class is doing this project, and I think it’s neat.” The serviceman said, “I hope my reply can be as sweet and uplifting as her letter.”

Elder Kikuchi’s background hardly made him a likely candidate for conversion to the Church. Born in 1941, he was raised in the rural “snow country” of Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost island. Latter-day Saint missionaries had left Japan more than a decade before his birth, finding little success in a country steeped in tradition. During the 1930s, as Japan grew increasingly militaristic and anti-American, the last traces of Church organization virtually vanished.
Then, five months after Yoshihiko was born, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, was bombed. And shortly before the end of the war, Yoshihiko’s father—serving in the Japanese military—died in an American bombing raid over Japan. Not many would have expected a boy in Yoshihiko’s situation ever to join an “American” church.
“I was prejudiced toward Americans because of my father’s death,” says Elder Kikuchi. “When I answered the door that day (in 1958) and saw two Americans—all bundled up in their hats and overcoats—I naturally told them, ‘No, thank you.’”
Even meeting the elders when he did would not normally have been a possibility because Yoshihiko should have been in school. But he was recuperating from an illness. A hardworking boy, he had been going to school at night and rising at 4 A.M. to work so he could help his mother support the family. This rigorous schedule completely exhausted him, and he collapsed one day on the job. After his release from the hospital, he was staying with his uncle, and was home alone when Elder Law and Elder Porter knocked on the door.
Just as Yoshihiko would have normally been elsewhere that day—either in school or at work—the elders normally would have been taking the day off because it was their preparation day. But they had not found many investigators in recent weeks, and were out going door-to-door because Elder Law had felt inspired to do so.
Elder Law persisted when Yoshihiko declined to talk to them, saying he and Elder Porter had an important message that would only take a few minutes. “My health crisis had put me in a position of seeking God,” Elder Kikuchi reminisces, “and I decided to let them come in. They told me the Joseph Smith story. I was very impressed.”
“Yoshihiko struck me as an exceptional young man,” says Brother Law, who now lives in Mapleton, Utah. “I knew he was ready for the gospel.”
“I’m grateful the elders went the extra mile,” Elder Kikuchi comments. Today, his appreciation for the work of the missionaries is often expressed. “I want to tell American Saints how much I appreciate my testimony,” he says. “I especially want the older brothers and sisters to know that I deeply appreciate the legacy—and heritage—they have preserved. I have met members of the Church in Bend, Oregon; Salmon, Idaho; Tooele, Utah; and many other places. These wonderful people live ‘common’ lives, attending church each week faithfully. They may wonder if they are really contributing to the kingdom of God. I want to assure them that they are. They are faithful individuals who raise their righteous sons and daughters and send them on missions. I want them to know they are doing a marvelous, marvelous work for the Lord.”
After his own contact with the missionaries, Elder Kikuchi turned out to be a “golden investigator,” eagerly receiving lessons and even coming to the meetinghouse when he did not have an appointment. In the spring of 1958, just a few weeks after meeting the elders, he was baptized by Elder Law. The date was April 6—the anniversary of the organization of the Church.

I wasn’t expecting a letter from my dad. I was away at college, just trying to keep up with my studies, when it arrived. It wasn’t my birthday or any other special occasion, so I thought the envelope just held some insurance information or some other document I had forgotten at home.
Instead, when I opened the letter, I found a short, three-paragraph note from my dad. He had written it during his free time on one of his business trips. It was his way of showing his love, but the words he shared also taught me a valuable truth I have never forgotten.
Dad told me a little about his trip. He also mentioned how he appreciated me. It made me feel so special that I had been on my father’s mind during his busy days of travel and work.
Then, in the last few lines, he wrote these simple words: “I am really excited to be going home to be with your mother. I haven’t seen her since Tuesday, and I miss her. She makes me better when I am around her. I hope the person you choose to marry makes you that way.”
My throat tightened and I got teary-eyed as I read this. I was so grateful for my dad’s love and appreciation for my mom. Their marriage has been the best example I could have on dating and relationships. I also was glad for dad’s subtle advice to me to associate with young men who help me to be a better person. It was a great reminder to me of what I really should be looking for and focusing on in my relationships.

The air was biting cold and damp. The pungent odor of smoke from coal fires stung our nostrils as we breathed. The fog and the darkness of the evening made it difficult to see. It was a typical winter night in England.
I was a new missionary of two months. My companion and I were hurriedly riding our bicycles to a nearby town to meet the lady missionaries. On the telephone the sisters seemed anxious and concerned. A member in their area needed help.
Arriving as quickly as we could after the phone call, we accompanied the sisters to the member’s home. We knocked at the door and a woman answered, inviting us into a very small room with a fireplace at one end. In the dim light I could see the woman’s face. She had puffy cheeks and sad, tired, reddened eyes. Her eyelashes were wet and matted. More tears streaked her face as she gestured toward a small crib near the fireplace. Sobbing, the mother said, “My baby is sick. She can’t breathe and the doctor says she will die.” Bronchitis and pneumonia kill many babies during the harsh British winters.
The mother asked us to administer to the tiny, three-week-old baby. Tenderly she lifted the baby from its crib and held it gently and protectively in her arms. Tears fell from her eyes onto the clean linen in which the baby was wrapped. There was hardly enough room on the tiny head for my two comparatively large hands. As I placed my hands on her soft little head, I could feel the delicate tufts of hair.
It was the first time in my life that I had administered to a sick person. Somehow I managed the correct words. “Sonja Holbert, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood …” At that moment I could feel a surge of power within me. It was something unique and unusual. I knew without a doubt that I was acting as an instrument in the hands of Almighty God himself to heal that little baby.
This experience merged into others as the time went by until the memory of it was dimmed. Almost two years later near the end of my mission, I was assigned to work in the town where the mother and the little girl lived. As we tracted down a street, one of our contacts told us that a member of our church lived around the corner. We found the house and knocked at the door. English row houses look much the same, and I was not immediately aware that this was the same house I had visited nearly two years before. The woman invited us in. As we entered the same small room, a pair of bright, blue eyes stared up at me. I sat down in a chair, and a beautiful little girl climbed into my lap. As I patted the blond ringlets on her head, a flood of memories returned to me—the dreary night, the tearful mother, the infant gasping for every breath, and the unmistakable power of the priesthood. “Thank you, Father,” I murmured silently, “for the privilege of using that power to help this little girl.”
I was strengthened by this experience. I knew then the reality of what it meant to say, “I know that the priesthood has been restored in this day, and I bear testimony that God lives and loves us. I know great blessings can come to pass through righteous exercise of his priesthood.”

Crouched and shivering behind the hedge, I watched my little brother Nickie do his best rendition of an Indian scout sneaking across Brother Henry’s front lawn. First he edged his way around the power pole that held the street light, and then he skittered to the locust tree. He paused for a moment before dashing for the corner of the house where he waited a long time, listening, I suppose, for crunching leaves or whatever ten-year-old Indian scouts listen for.
Since there aren’t many crunching leaves in December, and there was apparently no danger, Nickie made his final sprint to the door. He laid his gift on the step, rang the bell, and dashed back to the hedge.
“Did they see me?” he gasped.
“Not unless they can see through the door,” I whispered. “They haven’t even opened it yet.”
We crouched behind the hedge in the yard next to the Henry’s and waited. It was cold, but not bad. Maybe it would snow. I hoped so. What snow we’d had so far had melted a couple of weeks earlier and now, three days before Christmas, the trees and lawns were bare, bleak, and un-Christmaslike. To me, Christmas just wasn’t Christmas without snow.
I was puzzled as I watched Nickie, sitting beside me on the cold, yellow grass. All of a sudden he seemed so excited about our Christmas project. His attitude had practically done an “about face” in the last hour.
Playing Santa to the Henrys was Dad’s idea. At home evening two weeks earlier he asked if the family wanted to do a Christmas project again this year. We did our first project about six years ago; I was Nickie’s age. We took some toys to the Sub-for-Santa program, and I remember that I wasn’t very excited about giving away my toys, except for a few old broken ones that I thought I could part with. Then at school I heard a man talk about how much some gifts had meant to his family. He cried, and I barely managed not to. I went right home and wrapped up my biggest Tonka truck. It was only two years old and still in great shape.
Every year since, our family has contributed to Sub-for-Santa. When Dad asked about this year’s project, I thought that he intended to do the same. “There’s a family in our neighborhood who could use some help,” he said. I was surprised; I never thought that there were people in our own neighborhood who would not have a good Christmas.
“Who?” the family asked, almost in unison.
“Well, you know the Arnold Henry family, don’t you?” Dad started.
I knew the Henrys only slightly. They had moved into the ward in September or October. There were three or four kids, all young. The oldest boy was about eight or nine. That’s all I knew about them, but some of my little brothers and sisters were acquainted with the Henry children.
“Brother Henry had a job at the steel plant, but they had a cutback,” Dad continued. “The bishop mentioned last Sunday that Brother Henry hasn’t yet found work.” Dad paused long enough for us to get his message, and unanimously we adopted the Henry family as our Christmas project.
The grass was damp, but Nickie and I continued to peer through the hedge at the house. “Why don’t they come to the door?” Nickie whispered impatiently.
“Did you hear the bell ring?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“The first rule of successfully rousing people,” I sermonized, “is to listen for the ring. You were in too much of a hurry.”
“I’ll do it again,” Nickie said.
I guessed that he wasn’t sorry to have to repeat his dramatic approach. I watched him go again. This time he crawled to the locust tree like an infantryman under fire. Too much TV, I figured, had programmed him against simply walking up to the door, ringing the bell, and then running. I thought how silly he would look to the Henrys if they opened their door and saw this ten-year-old boy elbowing his way across their lawn. And I thought again about the change I’d seen in Nickie in the last hour.
From the time that we had decided as a family to assist the Henrys, the bulk of the work had fallen on Mom. She’s a good organizer—or maybe prodder is a better word. Every day she’d ask, “Who has an idea for the Henry’s three-year-old girl?” or “What should we do about a tree? Will they have one or shall we take one?” She kept us interested and excited.
On the first day my littlest brother, Tommy, age four, ran to his room and came back with a toy car he wanted to give. I suggested that we take a small decorated tree, whether or not they already had one. Since I had an after-school job and was earning a little money, I offered to buy it as my contribution. My two sisters, Ann, 13, and Tricia, 7, started working together to make presents.
Everyone got involved except Nickie. I don’t know why, unless ten is a selfish age or something, but he just wasn’t very interested. When Mom pressed him for a commitment, he said he’d put in a “quarter or something” on a present. I could tell that she was disappointed because he wasn’t catching the spirit of the project. But I remembered how I felt at his age on our first Sub-for-Santa, and I couldn’t be too hard on him.
It wasn’t that Nickie wasn’t a good kid. Once when he was about three, a neighborhood friend complained to Nickie that he was hungry. Nickie went to the refrigerator, stuck his hand into a bottle of home-canned fruit, and carried a dripping peach half to his buddy. He can be generous all right. So Mom didn’t push him; I think she knows that sometimes good deeds just can’t be forced.
Finally, the big night arrived. The excitement mounted as we gathered the things together to take to the Henrys. Even Nickie seemed a little more interested, but I don’t think he felt as much a part of it because he hadn’t really contributed.
The Henrys live only four blocks away; and we thought it would be fun to walk. But because we had quite a few things to carry, including a decorated tree, we loaded the station wagon instead. As the holder of the family’s newest driver’s license—only—six months old—I took my now-unquestioned place behind the wheel and drove past the Henry’s house. Only the porch light was lit. “Great,” said Dad, who was facing backwards in the third seat, holding the tree out the rear window. “They’re not home. We can take our time.”
I made a U-turn and drove past the house from the other direction. Still no sign of life, so I coasted to the curb two houses away, and we unloaded. We must have looked comical strolling down the sidewalk like a Christmas parade in the dark. We were quiet, so as not to draw attention from the neighbors, and we kept an eye out for cars, hoping the Henrys wouldn’t return too soon.
After everything was positioned on the front step, right under the porch light, we went to the neighbor’s yard to watch through the hedge, but we weren’t very well hidden. It was cold enough that it wasn’t fun staring at the porch, and we were just about to leave when a car turned in the Henry’s driveway.
“Come on,” Mom said. “They’ll see us when they get out of the car.” We tried to look casual as we strolled down the walk to the car. But Nickie, his spying instincts aroused, insisted on staying.
“Dad, can I stay?” he pleaded. “I won’t let them see me. I just want to watch while they find all that stuff. Then I’ll run home. Okay?” Dad consented, so Nickie crawled back to the hedge while the rest of us got in the car and drove home.
We’d been home about ten minutes and were sitting around the Christmas tree talking about our adventure when the front door flew open. In ran Nickie, all out of breath. It was obvious that he was excited about something. Without saying a word he went straight to the tree and pulled out a square box wrapped in shiny red paper.
“What’s up, son?” Dad asked.
“I want to take this present to the Henrys, Dad. I … didn’t give very much,” he said.
I couldn’t believe it! Everyone knew what was in that package. Nickie’s Little League baseball mitt, which he had inherited from me and which had already snared more than its share of fly balls, had seen its day. Since the end of last season Nickie had been talking about getting a new one. “And if I happen to get it at Christmas,” he had hinted with ten-year-old subtlety, “I’ll have plenty of time to break it in before spring.”
When Dad and I handed Nickie the wrapped mitt for him to put under the tree until Christmas morning, we could tell from the grin on his face that he knew what it was. And now he was going to give it to a family he hardly knew! Up until ten minutes ago he was only willing to give them a quarter! It didn’t make sense.
“They’ve got a nine-year-old boy, Dad,” Nickie said quietly. Dad swallowed and looked at Mom. She had a strange expression on her face. I wanted to say, “Hey, man, you can’t give away your new mitt!” but Mom just said, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Nickie?”
“Yea, Mom, I’m sure,” he replied as he ran out the door.
No one said anything for a minute, and then Dad asked if I would go with Nickie. It was a little late for him to be out alone, and I knew that Dad wanted me to find out what was going on—if I could. By the time I grabbed a coat and ran outside, Nickie was already a block away. I couldn’t catch him, and by the time I reached the hedge, he was doing that Indian scout thing across the lawn.
Nickie was now back with me behind the hedge after his second dash to the door. This time, results. Brother Henry opened the door, saw the red package, and shouted, “There’s more!”
Suddenly the doorway was filled with little faces, all wearing expressions of disbelief at finding yet another gift on the doorstep. We watched them pick up the package, shake it, and pass it around. They even came down the steps and looked around the yard and down the street. Then they went in and turned off the porch light, and we started home.
Nickie wasn’t running this time; he was quiet. After walking half a block I asked him what had changed his mind.
“Well, after you left for home,” he began, “I sneaked up to the hedge and watched while the Henrys started into their house. They stopped dead when they saw the stuff on their step. Then the kids ran up the steps. They shook every present, walked around the tree, and looked up and down the street. Finally, they gathered up everything and went inside.”
Nickie stopped talking, and we walked a while without saying anything. It was getting colder.
“Then what?” I finally asked. What I really wanted to say was, “What changed you? What made you give away your baseball mitt that you’ve wanted for so long?” but I refrained.
“They’d all gone in except the oldest boy and his dad,” Nickie continued. “They were starting to bring in the tree when I heard the boy say, ‘Dad, do you think the Lord blessed us with these things?’ His dad said, ‘I’m sure he did, son, but what do you mean?’ Then the boy—his name’s David—said the funniest thing. He said, ‘Well, it’s just that these things were brought to our house while we were taking Christmas to some poor people.’”
My feet stopped. I looked at Nickie.
“They were what?” I gasped. “Taking Christmas presents to other people? Why … why, they don’t even have a job! I mean, they’re supposed to be the poor people!”
“That’s what he said,” Nickie went on. “Then his dad said that even though they didn’t have much money right now, they wanted to share what they had, and that these presents must have come from people who felt that same way.”
“Right then I decided,” Nickie continued,” and I’m glad I did. I’ll bet David Henry never had a you-know-what before.”
He grinned at me, and I knew the secret was out. It was all right to talk about it.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s run.”
I could have beat him home, but instead I kept an even pace. As we turned in our driveway and leaped up the front steps together, I noticed that it was just beginning to snow.

1. “Jesus told Peter to feed His sheep. That’s how Peter could show Jesus he loved Him.”
“Mom, did Jesus have a herd of sheep?”
“No, sweetie. Jesus is sometimes called the Good Shepherd, and we are like His sheep. Jesus was teaching Peter that if we want to show Jesus we love Him, we should help others.”
2. “Is that why we are going to deliver the pie to Sister Jacobs after family home evening?”
“Yes, it is. But it would be nice for you to think of something you can do to show Sister Jacobs you love her.”
3. Olivia thought about what she could do. She remembered that Mom and Grandma really like the pictures she draws.
“I know! I can make a card for Sister Jacobs and draw a picture on it!”
4. Olivia drew a beautiful rainbow. On the inside of the card she wrote, “Get well soon! Love, Olivia.”
5. When Olivia and her family got to Sister Jacobs’s house, Mom asked Sister Jacobs how she was feeling. Sister Jacobs started to cry.
“I just found out I have to go to the hospital to have an operation tomorrow. I’m a little scared.”
6. Mom handed Sister Jacobs the pie. Then Olivia gave her the card she had made.
“Thank you, Olivia. This beautiful card and your sweet smile make me feel better.”
7. Olivia felt like somebody was hugging her heart. She was happy that she could help Jesus feed His sheep.

Some time later another family crisis occurred. My teenage daughter lost her contact lenses—both of them. There were feelings of self-accusation—“How could I be so stupid”—and some silent agreement by other family members. Again everyone scurried around looking everywhere for contact lenses. As I was doing my part in the search, I passed my daughter’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and I could see her kneeling by her bed and could hear her soft, pleading words asking if Heavenly Father would please, please, help us find those lenses. We all hunted for hours, but despite our best efforts, the contacts never appeared. My daughter was perplexed; she said, “After I said my prayer, I just knew we would find those contacts. After all, Grandmother’s prayer helped us find the keys. But we didn’t find the lenses, and I don’t understand why not.”

For thirteen years I was a devoted, “born again” Christian and an equally devoted anti-Mormon. As part of an organized evangelical program, I talked to people in stores, in parks, and in their homes, seeking to share the “good news of the gospel.”
Many of those people I encountered in my evangelical work were Latter-day Saints. I took every opportunity to tell them that their church was not of God, but was a cult inspired by Satan. I was well-read in anti-Mormon literature, and my heart ached for those “misguided Mormons.” They went about trying to “work” their way to heaven, believing in the words of a self-appointed prophet named Joseph Smith.
I told them again and again that those works didn’t count. Only those people who ask Jesus into their hearts will go to heaven, I said. All others, good and evil, share a fate of agony and eternal separation from God.
“What about those who have never heard of Jesus?” I was always asked. Having no answer, I quietly ignored the question.
After a divorce that was hard for me, I stopped going to church, and although my faith in God and love for him remained, I decided to lay aside the spiritual part of my life for a time. I married an inactive Latter-day Saint who nonetheless possessed an unshakable testimony. We rarely discussed religion, but whenever the subject came up, I made fruitless attempts to show him the error of his beliefs. He quietly listened, but his testimony remained intact. Then, through a family crisis, my heart began to change.
My father-in-law became very ill with cancer, and as death approached, he felt the need to express the importance of the Church to his children. Something about his simple testimony touched my heart, and I decided to find out for myself the truth regarding this church. I began by cross-referencing the scriptures, and found to my surprise that there were no inconsistencies between the Bible and the Book of Mormon. To me, the Bible was the precious word of God. I believed it without question. Could Mormon doctrine possibly be proven within the Bible? I set out to find the answer.
In going through my husband’s Church books, I came across A Marvelous Work and a Wonder by Elder LeGrand Richards. As I read it, I felt as if it had been written for me. I discovered New Testament scriptures regarding baptism for the dead and Christ’s mission during the time prior to his resurrection. I discovered Jesus’ words to Mary Magdalene at the empty tomb: “Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father.” (John 20:17.) Had he not returned to his Father immediately after his death? But I had used his words to the thief on the cross, “To day shalt thou be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43) to prove deathbed repentance! I had read these same scriptures countless times before but had never really understood them. Now I realized I had been deceived about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
As I studied and prayed, I began to find answers to the questions I had quietly pushed aside. Finally, I knew that this church was the Savior’s church, and its doctrine was his doctrine. In 1984 I was baptized.
I am grateful the Lord waited so patiently for the moment when my heart would open so that his Spirit would lead me to the truth.