Gospel Story Finder

Sean Kimball loves to surf. So, naturally, he tried out for his high school surfing team. On the team he was expected to practice before school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, even though that meant missing early-morning seminary. After a while, however, Sean noticed that things just didn’t go as well for him on those days.
When did you realize that seminary was more important to you than the surf team? I had been torn between surf team and seminary, but I knew then that I needed to give up the surf team so I could go to seminary every day. I talked to the coach. He knows my family, and he understood. My friends told me I was letting the team down, but once I’d made up my mind, nothing stopped me. But a cool thing happened when school started this year. My surf coach called and asked if I’d be willing to compete in the Thursday-morning surfing contests as long as he places me in the heats that are scheduled after seminary. He respects that I’m going to seminary, but he really wants me on the team, so he’s going to make sure I can do both.

“Mrs. Ramirez, who is that?” Sydney asked, pointing to a girl sitting at a desk. She had never seen this girl in their class.
Mrs. Ramirez smiled. “That’s our new student, Yulia. Yulia just moved here from Ukraine. We’re excited she’s here.”
Sydney looked at Yulia. She looked scared. Sydney knew she would be afraid if she moved to a new country. That would be hard!
Sydney went and sat next to Yulia. Smiling, she said, “Hi. My name is Sydney.”
Yulia timidly smiled back but didn’t say anything. Sydney tried to talk to her, but Yulia just shook her head.
“She doesn’t speak English,” Sydney thought. “She needs help!”
Throughout the day Sydney was Yulia’s buddy. She showed Yulia around the school and helped her with classwork.
At lunch, Sydney asked Yulia, “Do you want to play with me?” She pointed to the playground to help Yulia understand. Yulia smiled and nodded. They played together for all of lunch recess.
Sydney began teaching Yulia lots of English words. She wanted to help Yulia feel more comfortable talking to people. Sometimes it was hard to understand each other, but the two girls soon became good friends.
In class a few weeks later, the girls were drawing a picture together. Sydney drew flowers and insects while Yulia drew grass and trees.
“We made a beautiful garden!” Sydney said when they finished.
Yulia smiled. “Yes, it is pretty. I like to draw.”
Mrs. Ramirez came over to their desks. “What a beautiful picture! I’m glad you two are working together.” She took their drawing and taped it on the class bulletin board. The girls smiled proudly.
One day when Sydney got home from school, her mom said, “Mrs. Ramirez called. She wanted to let you know that Yulia is in the hospital. She is having surgery on her heart tomorrow. She’ll be in the hospital for a while to recover.”
Sydney thought about Yulia the next day during school. She looked at their drawing on the bulletin board. That gave her an idea.
After school, Sydney told her mom, “I want to take Yulia something to cheer her up after her surgery. She liked drawing in class. Maybe we can take her some art supplies.”
“That’s a great idea!” Mom said.
Sydney and her mom bought a drawing pad and some bright crayons. Sydney couldn’t wait to give them to Yulia. A few days later, Sydney and Mom went to the hospital. They found Yulia’s room and knocked on the door.
Yulia’s mom opened it and smiled. “Please come in. Yulia is resting.”
Yulia turned as they entered the room. Her face was pale, and she looked tired. “Hi, Sydney.”
Sydney pulled out the drawing pad and crayons. She shyly set them on the bed next to Yulia. “I thought these might help you feel better.”
Yulia’s eyes lit up. She reached for the crayons. “Thank you! I really like to draw. Can we draw right now?”
“Sure!”
Sydney pulled a chair over to the side of the bed. The two girls laughed and talked together while they colored. Sydney was glad they had come to visit Yulia. When she and her mom left the hospital, Sydney had a warm feeling in her heart. She was glad she had helped make her friend happy.

When our son Matthew was five, he fell from the top of the high diving board at our neighborhood pool. He hit the concrete deck and suffered a fractured skull and a brain concussion. He was rushed by a Life Flight helicopter to the Houston Medical Center for emergency treatment. I needed priesthood assistance immediately. Our home teacher and our priesthood leader were both worthy and prepared at that moment. They helped give Matthew a blessing, and he completely recovered.
We must be ready at any time. As we say in Scouting, “Be prepared.”

You know what to expect at girls’ camp—tents, outdoor cooking, dirt.

During a week spent in the high mountains of southern Utah, girls and leaders from the Las Vegas East Stake found something more, something magic. They discovered in each of their fellow campers something special to love.

Mary Beth Long, a first-year camper, came to camp reluctantly, but that soon changed. “Our camp leaders are crazy. You should have seen what they did!” What they did had something to do with a zany sense of humor and red licorice in their ears. Somewhere between flag ceremonies and foil dinners, magic touched Mary Beth’s heart, and she knew her leaders loved her. “I will never be the same person I was before girls’ camp,” she exclaimed.

Growing up, I wasn’t that religious. I knew the basics of Christianity, but I always had more questions than faith and didn’t really think much of it. But I had always heard my devout, religious aunt repeat Matthew 22:14:
“For many are called, but few are chosen.”
“Chosen for what?” I would think.
I never understood what this verse truly meant, and I never bothered to ask her. I started to assume this verse of scripture meant that God must have a list of His favorite children who would fill up the seats of heaven—His chosen few.
I didn’t believe I was one of those favorites.
The older I got and the more I looked around at the way others lived, it seemed that no matter what I did in my life, whether good things or bad things, I would be insignificant if I wasn’t one of His “chosen.”
I didn’t even know how to reach that status!
Knowing this, I started to believe that I would never amount to much in God’s eyes. I wouldn’t inherit His blessings or promises because I wasn’t born a favorite.
These thoughts often filled me with anxiety. I desperately wished to learn more about what it meant to become one of God’s chosen people and what it took to receive His blessings.
One day, I was scrolling social media when I came across an advertisement for Come, Follow Me. When I clicked on the ad, I found a way to connect with missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My willingness to find answers and hope for my life led me to agree to meet with them.
Through their lessons and many prayers, I learned so much about the gospel of Jesus Christ, my purpose in life, and, most importantly, the perfect love Heavenly Father has for me—His divine child.
I was baptized and felt so much joy and understanding spilling into my life. But I still didn’t quite feel the reassurance I was longing for. My anxious thoughts prior to joining the Church had lessened, but I still didn’t know if I was one of God’s chosen few who would inherit all that He has. I wasn’t sure what more I could do to become one of those special people.
That all changed a few months later when I was watching general conference. I was hopeful I would find some answers to questions that still felt unsettling when Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles began to speak. I was shocked when I heard him mention the very same verse that had left me puzzled throughout my life.
I was suddenly struck with hope.
Elder Bednar explained that “[Heavenly Father] does not limit ‘the chosen’ to a restricted few. Instead, our hearts, our desires, our honoring of sacred gospel covenants and ordinances, our obedience to the commandments, and, most importantly, the Savior’s redeeming grace and mercy determine whether we are counted as one of God’s chosen.”1
And in that moment, I knew—I am chosen.
Elder Bednar’s words gave me a deep feeling of gratitude that overwhelmed me. I felt more blessed than ever to have found The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
God doesn’t have favorites—He loves all His children with perfect love—but being chosen means we also choose Him too.
We are chosen because we choose to let Him prevail in our lives above everything else.
We are chosen because we choose to let Him prevail in our lives above everything else.
Elder Bednar inspired me to faithfully stay on the covenant path as I endure to the end. I also felt inspired by President Russell M. Nelson’s message to prioritize my relationship with Heavenly Father and to strive to forsake and overcome the world2 so that I can return to Him!

In the opening exercises of our priesthood meeting, the bishop announced that many of the teachers would be assigned new senior home teaching companions. Filled with the gentle excitement that accompanies such changes in assignment, I left the chapel wondering who my new companion would be. I strolled down the hallway hoping that I had been chosen as the companion of one of the young, dynamic elders in the ward. I looked in the open classrooms that lined the hallway and imagined working with a powerful, spiritual man intent on fulfilling his calling. At the end of the hallway was the Relief Society room where the high priests met.
Turning to go up the stairs, I looked into the room and my eyes caught a glance at an old man sitting in an almost tattered gray suit. He was sitting alone, thoughtfully, with his fingers intertwined. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses and had a slightly blotchy, leathery complexion. I had seen this brother before, but I did not know him by name. And it seemed to me at the moment that he represented the companion I would like not to have. Please not him, I said to myself. He’s too old.
Upstairs the teachers quorum adviser informed me that I would be the companion to a brother Oliver Johnson. The name did not mean anything to me, but he was soon described as an elderly high priest who had round glasses, often wore a gray suit, and kept bees. That was him. That was the man I had seen downstairs a minute before. I was deeply disappointed. I reasoned that I deserved it after what I had thought about him, but that did not diminish my dissatisfaction. If anything, it made my yearning for a powerful young man—someone I knew—even greater.
Though I wanted to be a good home teaching companion, I still begrudged my assignment as the companion of this old, slow-walking, slow-talking brother. I remember in particular how critical I was of his driving. I was in the process of getting my long-awaited driver’s license, and I thought there was no better driver than myself. The first time we went out as companions, Brother Johnson drove up in a 20-year-old worn out car. In that outdated vehicle it seemed to me that he drove well below the speed limit.
But to accompany the slow, steady pace of his driving, he talked slowly and steadily, perhaps sensing my impatience and reluctance—my youth. As we visited our families monthly, I came to realize that dressed in that gray suit and tattered old hat was a man whose power was experience. He talked about the mission he and his wife had been called on. (During the course of the mission his wife had died, but after she was buried he returned to finish his calling.) He talked about Indian trails, about his bees, and about people who seemed to me to be out of another time period.
The more we talked the less critical I became. The slow driving no longer irritated me. It gave us more of a chance to talk. His old car, his funny glasses, his withered hat, and his pocket watch with the broken crystal no longer bothered me. It was as if he got younger, and as his years shed in my mind, some of them must have fallen to me.
Of all the topics we discussed, I was most drawn to Brother Johnson’s activities as a beekeeper. One early summer day, he called me and told me that he was going up the canyon to see how some of his bees were doing. He asked if I would like to come. We drove casually up the canyon, and he told me how he had started in beekeeping and what he did to help the bees produce their honey. We drove off the paved road, up a bumpy dirt road, through some streams. Periodically I had to get out, open sheep fence gates, let Brother Johnson drive through, and join him after I closed the gate.
We finally got to the hives. He gave me an old veil—a hat with material mesh that came down in front to protect my face from the bees. He told me to be sure my long-sleeved shirt (which he had warned me to wear) was buttoned at the wrists. Then he gave me some rubber bands to put around the wrists. He told me to push my pant legs inside my socks. As Brother Johnson did these things himself, he explained to me that if the bees flew or crawled up a sleeve or pant leg, they would not be able to get out, so they would become afraid and sting. I marveled that he did not wear any gloves. As he got the smoker ready with which he subdued the bees, I asked him if he got stung very often.
“Oh, you get stung every once in a while—usually if the bee gets scared or doesn’t know you. Or they may sting if you don’t know what you’re doing. And they sting if they get trapped.” As he said that he looked at me, and from beneath that distorting veil I saw the bright, shining eyes and the quick smile of one who knew what he was talking about. Brother Johnson was slow, methodical, careful as he lifted the tops off the hives and puffed in the smoke to relax the bees. Some landed on him, crawled on his gloveless hands. Some even buzzed agitatedly around his head, but he never cringed or moved away. I kept a safe distance where I could watch. I was not going to let bees crawl on me and have a chance to sting me.
Some of the hives were doing better than others, and I marveled that Brother Johnson could tell what was wrong, why some hives were not producing, and then correct the problem. He did not take any of the honey that day, but he promised me that when he did he would bring me some. He told me that you chewed the honey out of the honeycomb and spit the wax out. He said it was better than eating the honey itself because you had to work for what you got. I didn’t understand then how that could be. But once I had tried it, I knew.
A few years later in the mission field, I received a letter from my mother with a newspaper clipping. At the top of the clipping was the picture of the man who had so kindly taught me something of bees, something of aged men, and something more. The face in the picture of that obituary notice was strangely lifeless—so unlike the face I had seen in the Relief Society room the first time I remember seeing him, but much more unlike the face behind the beekeeper’s veil that day in the canyon. And though I could ask with Paul, “O death, where is thy sting?” I felt a quick pain of regret and sadness at the passing of this gentleman, this brother. And yet my mind is ever soothed by the memory of that rich, sweet honey he encouraged his bees to produce and which he gave to me—with the wax to chew out for myself.

Everyone in the family loved the house we lived in on East Franklin Street, everyone that is except me. My father called it “the Castle,” and from a distance (it was on a hill) it did look a little like a castle. The Castle was a dream come true for my parents. They’d had it built after nearly ten years of careful saving and planning, and even though it’s been years since we lived there my father still tells of my mother supervising the construction.
“Mama,” he says grinning. “She put her nose into everything. She made sure all of the carpenters put their nails in right and of course she knew more about bricklaying than any mason we hired. Everything had to be just so for her. If anyone did something she didn’t like, boy, did he hear about it.”
He tells that part of the story when my mother is listening. When she isn’t, he tells of how all the workers threatened to quit if she didn’t leave them alone and of how he saved the day by sending her to buy carpets and furniture.
When it was finished it was one of the most elegant homes in town. It was Victorian style complete with spires and a cupola. My mother was especially proud of the windows. Several in the front of the house were made of cut and frosted glass, and another on the south side had the design of a unicorn made with stained glass.
Everyone liked the house but me. The place just took too much work. If my mother and father were the king and queen of the Castle, I knew exactly where I stood—serf.
Painting the house was the biggest job. It was a project that lasted two months, two of the best months of summer, and involved everyone in the family. When we—I had six brothers and sisters—became old enough and careful enough we would be given the honor of doing the actual painting. This honor was bestowed with great ceremony. The night before the painting started, a large bonfire was built and then with the entire family watching my father would tap the shoulders of the honored person with a paintbrush.
“I knight you into the royal order of the paintbrush of the Madison family,” he said in his deepest and most ceremonious voice.
Afterward we celebrated with a banquet of fried chicken, potato salad, homemade root beer, and cake. A feast, of course, fit for a king. Toasts were made with the root beer and songs were sung, all directed to the new knight. It was great fun. The knights being initiated into King Arthur’s round table probably felt no more honored than we did when we became knighted into the royal order of the paintbrush.
Unfortunately for me, the year I became old enough to paint was the summer I became interested in baseball. The day painting started was also the day my team had its first practice game.
My mother wouldn’t let me get out of painting to go to the game.
“The house and the family are more important than anything else,” she said.
I knew my team wouldn’t have a chance without me, so while everyone was busy working, I painted my way to a far corner of the house and made a run for it. I reached a row of trees growing on the edge of our property and waited. I watched for a few minutes. No one was following me, so I hurried to the game.
It was the second inning. The other team, the North Side Wolves, had scored four runs. No problem. My team didn’t have anything to worry about. It was my turn to bat.
I stepped up to the plate, ready to hit the first home run of what was going to be an illustrious career of home runs. The pitcher hunkered down, spit, fleered his lips back, and gave me his fiercest scowl.
I just scowled back at him, swung my bat a couple of times for practice, and then to strike terror into the hearts of the outfielders, I casually pointed my bat at the church which was more than half a mile away. Several of them backed up. The pitcher, his face stone hard, swung his arms over his head, beginning the windup.
Just then a dark shadow came over me.
“Must be a cloud passing in front of the sun,” I thought, concentrating on the pitcher. Then I noticed the pitcher had stopped his windup and was backing up.
It was George, my oldest brother. George is big, six foot four, and he has this mean look on his face, the kind of look you see on a mad zoo gorilla. George makes most guys my age a little edgy, but not me. I knew what my mother would do to him if he hurt me.
“Let’s go,” George said. George never says more than he has to.
“After I hit a couple of homers,” I replied casually. I knew everyone there would be impressed with my bravery.
“Hey, let’s play ball!” the pitcher yelled.
George looked at him again and then tightened a hand into a fist. The pitcher dropped the ball and backed up several steps. His face was pale, just like he’d looked death in the face.
George looked at me, shook his head, and then reached for me. I sat down on home plate.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
George shook his head again.
“Dumb.”
He reached down, grabbed my leg, and started for home, dragging me behind him.
He let me walk part of the way after I promised to go along peacefully.
My mother was waiting at the house with my paintbrush and a bucket of paint.
“You do your work here,” she said, “before you do anything else.”
I thought then my mother cared more for that house than for anything else, including me. I was wrong, and it didn’t take me long to find out what was really important to her. That winter we lost the house.
Early in March my father called from work and told my mother he wanted to hold a family council that night.
My mother had built a fire in the fireplace and made us hot chocolate. When my father got home, he walked quietly into the living room and looked at us for awhile. Something was wrong. He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands. They were shaking. The room was dead silent except for the cracking sounds of burning wood. The room glowed with the flickering orange light.
“Papa, what’s wrong?” my mother asked.
He looked up slowly. His eyes were red. It was a shock to us to see him that way. He’d always been unmovably strong before. I’d thought there was nothing he was afraid of or couldn’t handle. The light from the fire that only a second before had seemed so warm was now dark and ominous.
“I’ve failed you,” he said.
He ran his finger through his hair slowly leaving his hand on his forehead.
“The business—I’ve lost everything.” He took a deep breath and looked directly at my mother. He looked old and defeated.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t true.”
He looked at her for a long time and then nodded his head.
“It’s true.” He stood and walked from the room.
The next day my mother sent me and my brothers down to see if we could help my father at work. We found out his business owed a large amount of money that would take him years to pay off. My father told us it would be hard just to make ends meet, and he didn’t know if we would make it, even with the money we’d get from the house. He seemed very depressed.
When we walked into the house that night, it was filled with incredibly delicious smells. We went into the dining room. The table was spread with a banquet. There was a roast goose, my father’s favorite, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, fresh baked bread, rolls, all of it steaming hot.
My father stood in the doorway. His face went red.
“Mama,” he shouted. “What is this? Have you gone crazy? Do you think Thanksgiving comes in March now?”
She smiled calmly.
“It’s a celebration.”
“What’s to celebrate? The world is going crazy, and we’ve lost everything.”
Mama smiled again.
“Papa, we’ve lost nothing.”
My father shook his head.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house. I found a buyer. He wants to move in next week! I don’t know where we’re going to go or how we’re going to live.”
Mama wasn’t smiling now. She had the determined look she gets on her face when she wants someone to know she means business.
“We’ve lost nothing,” she said. She was glaring at my father. “Nothing that matters. This celebration is to remind us what is most important to us. The food’s getting cold, so shut up and eat.”
For the first time in weeks my father relaxed. The pain he felt faded. He looked around the table at us and then back to my mother. He smiled.
“I married a hard, crazy woman,” he said. “And since Thanksgiving comes in March this year, I think we should give thanks for it.”
He sat at the head of the table and took my mother’s hands.
“Even if the food does get a little cold,” he said and then started a Thanksgiving prayer more eloquent and longer than any we’d ever heard on Thanksgiving Day.
A week later when my mother first saw the run-down house we rented she said, “I think it needs a little paint.” A week later when my mother first saw the run-down house we rented she said, “I think it needs a little paint.” That summer the royal order of the paintbrush went to work again.

Because of the shifting population, ward boundaries were reorganized. Parts of three wards were combined into one ward, and I was called as bishop. I had a few days to think about counselors. The first name came quickly and the Spirit confirmed it. But I wasn’t immediately sure who the other counselor should be.
I considered several younger men in the new ward, but I didn’t know them well. It seemed to me that we needed them more in the Young Men organization.
I knew an older man, Larry Morgan, who had lived in the neighborhood for a long time. In fact, he had been a youth leader when I was a teenager. Now he was 76. I felt prompted to talk with him. “Maybe he’ll help me become better acquainted with some of the people I don’t know,” I thought.
He was standing in the driveway when I arrived at his home, and without a word spoken, I knew Larry was to be the other counselor. I visited with him for a few minutes; then I returned home and called the stake president. That Sunday the bishopric was sustained, with Larry as second counselor.
Larry was soft-spoken and deliberate in his manner, but when he spoke, people listened. He also had unwavering faith in the Lord. I soon learned to trust his counsel.

Big teardrops splashed down Bobby’s cheeks as he watched Freddie and Dick lug Freddie’s wading pool over to Dick’s house.
All the way home from school, the three boys had eagerly planned to make a jungle hideout in a pile of dirt behind Dick’s garage. Dick’s father had said they could.
Freddie’s wading pool would be their hidden lake. The green branches Dick’s father had pruned from his shade trees would be the jungle trees. They would use their stuffed toys and odd-shaped rocks and pieces of wood for animals. Bobby knew where there was a crooked stick, streaked brown, that looked like a snake. He planned to put it on one of the trees, pretending it was a huge python.
They were going to wear shorts and go barefoot. They’d creep through their jungle with bows and arrows, looking for wild animals. What fun they were going to have!
Bobby had rushed into his house to get a snack and to put on his cutoffs—and there, on the refrigerator door, was the note: DON’T FORGET, BOBBY! Love, Mom.
He was so disappointed he didn’t even look to see what she had left for a snack. Who’d feel like eating when he had to weed two rows of corn before he could play!
It didn’t help to remember that it was his own fault. He had fooled around all day Saturday while Dad, Mom, Susan, and Peggy did their weeding. Then, when he was about to start, who should come to visit but Aunt Alice, Uncle John, Nick, and Michael.
“We’ll let it go for now. We don’t want to disappoint your cousins. They have come a long way to play with you,” Mom had said, adding firmly, “but you may not play after school Monday until your weeding is done.”
And there was the note to remind him.
Bobby started to cry. He felt awful. He felt even worse when he saw Freddie and Dick go by with the wading pool. They were going to make the jungle without him. And it was his own fault.
Trudging to the garden, he began pulling weeds. He started working fast, hoping to finish in time to play a while before dinnertime. Then he remembered how Dad had told him to be extra careful not to injure the tender shoots of corn. He couldn’t work fast. He had to be careful.
When he looked down at the row of corn, it looked as long as a road that never ends. And he had two of those long rows to weed before he could play! He would never get through in time to play in the jungle with his friends.
Bobby started to cry again, which, of course, only made matters worse—no weeds were pulled while he cried.
He noticed a shadow approaching and looked up. His father was standing behind him.
Usually Bobby was happy when Dad came home. But not today. If Dad was home already, it would soon be dinnertime. That meant no time at all to play.
“My boy seems upset,” Dad said.
Bobby tried to sniff back the tears.
“Those rows must look mighty long to you,” Dad guessed.
“Yes,” Bobby said. His lower lip began to quiver. “And Dick and Freddie are making a jungle—and I don’t get to help.”
“I know a trick,” Dad said.
“What kind of trick?”
“One that makes long rows grow shorter,” Dad answered, his eyes twinkling.
“No trick can do that.”
“Try it and see.” Dad tossed a small stick a little way down the row. “If you don’t look one bit farther than that stick, the row will grow shorter. Go on. Try it.”
Bobby started pulling weeds. In no time he had reached the stick.
“Now throw it a little farther down. But don’t look up,” Dad said.
This time Bobby seemed to reach the stick even faster. Dad tossed the stick again, and Bobby weeded to it. Again. Suddenly Bobby’s head almost touched the fence. He had reached the end of the row! “Wow! The row really did grow shorter!”
“Now do the other row the same way,” Dad suggested.
Bobby tossed the stick, then weeded to it. Again and again he tossed the stick and weeded to it. Then, as if by magic, he was through!
“Now look at the rows,” Dad said.
Bobby was amazed. The two rows weren’t shorter at all. They were as long as the other rows in the garden, just like before.
Then Bobby understood Dad’s “trick”: To make a job go faster, do it a piece at a time and work as hard as you can. He looked up. The sun was still a long way from the mountain. Dad must have come home early. There was still time to play!
“Yippee!” Bobby shouted. He gave Dad a big hug, then got his “snake stick” and rushed to Dick’s yard to help transform a pile of dirt into a dark, mysterious jungle full of fun and adventure.

“Mom, do you believe in miracles?” I asked my mother later that morning as I helped her clean the family room.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“What do you think a miracle is?”
Mom thought for a moment. “I suppose a miracle is something that doesn’t normally happen, and when it does happen, it’s because the Lord helps it happen that way. For example, when you had an earache in the middle of the night last year and there was no way to get you to the doctor, Dad gave you a priesthood blessing. Right away the pain stopped, and you went to sleep. That wasn’t a huge miracle, but it was a miracle.”

For Robert, 15 July 1853 was an exciting day; he had completed his apprenticeship and was free to marry the woman he had been courting for several years, Mary Ann Bainbridge. On 29 August, the couple were married in a registry office, before then being married again by Elder Thomas Squires.
“A day never to be forgotten… only thing I felt was deficient [sic], namely, my father and mother, and they knew nothing of it.”
Robert’s family soon found out about the marriage and although his father was happy for him, his mother continued to fret. But a far worse concern was about to grip the family.
Late summer of 1853 saw an epidemic of cholera sweep across the town. In six weeks, more than 1,500 inhabitants died, and now Robert was ill.4 On 8 September, he felt so unwell that he requested a fellow priesthood holder to administer to him. Then, although ill himself, Robert continued to serve others, by visiting and blessing those who were afflicted. Robert recorded:
“In the morning at 6 o’clock, Sister Sutherland knocked me up to lay hands upon her son who was taken ill. I went and administered to him and before I came away, he got out of bed and had his breakfast.”
Robert recovered and returned to full health. As time wore on, Robert continued to worry about his wider family, both temporally and spiritually. “May I do not descend to where they are, but may they ascend to where I am, and all of us go on rejoicing in our journey to Celestial Glory.” Sadly, soon after expressing these thoughts, his mother died; but good followed with the birth of his daughter in September 1854.
In the following months, Robert struggled to find and keep work due to uncertain economic conditions. He considered emigrating with his family. In January 1855, his mind was set: “I have been six weeks out of work, and we expect to emigrate this season for we are heartily sick of this land.” A month later, Robert was still out of work. The Hazen family, now resolved to emigrate and sold their furniture. They looked forward to “Gather with God’s people this year”. However, they still didn’t have enough money. Robert had been without work for over three months; what could they do to pay for passage to the United States of America?
The difference was made up by Robert’s elderly mother-in-law, also a member of the Church, who sold her house and joined them on the journey to Zion. On 25 March 1855, a small group of the Newcastle Saints set off for Liverpool on the first step of their journey. Ultimately, Robert and his family arrived safely in the United States of America and eventually made their way to join the Saints in Utah.
Robert continued to valiantly stand for truth and remained committed to it throughout his life. It was the harsh and sad realities of life in Newcastle that encouraged the Hazens, and many other British Latter-day Saints, to leave the land of their birth and seek Zion with the prospect of living with the main body of the Saints. Robert was just one of tens of thousands of converts who would make their way to America and pioneered the West.

One bright, warm Saturday morning, gangs of teenagers invaded the little town of Guadalupe, Arizona. They were all dressed alike. They were spraying paint, breaking up concrete, hanging out at the park, and having a loud, noisy time.
Of course, they were also laying sod, repairing mailboxes, cleaning up empty lots, building handicapped ramps, landscaping homes, restoring the median in the middle of the main road, interviewing residents for town and family histories, furnishing some temporary homes, and, in general, doing good wherever they went.
Persuading more than a thousand teens to donate their muscles and their time on a Saturday was due to the efforts of the East Valley Youth Service Committee, an organization combining youth in Gilbert, Arizona, from St. Anne’s Catholic Church with the youth from five Gilbert LDS stakes.
The whole idea of interfaith service projects got started when Father Doug Lorig of St. Anne’s Catholic Church wrote a letter to Salt Lake City asking how the youth in Gilbert of both the Catholic and LDS faiths could become united. The answer came through President John Lewis of the Gilbert Arizona Stake. The youth could become united as they served together.
But where? Who needed lots and lots and lots of helping hands?
The town of Guadalupe was the answer.
Guadalupe is the name of a major road that runs through the towns of Tempe and Gilbert, Arizona. Everyone knows Guadalupe Road. It’s a major thoroughfare lined with fast-food restaurants, gas stations, churches, and neighborhoods. But most teens didn’t know what is at the end of Guadalupe Road, right where the street ends. At that spot, just a little over a mile square, is the tiny town of Guadalupe.
Several members of the East Valley Youth Service Committee were assigned to do some calling. Their quest, to find some places that needed service. One young woman contacted Mary E. Hoy, the assistant town manager of Guadalupe. “She called and said, ‘We’d like to do a project in your town. What would you like us to do?’” said Mary. “I had a couple of pages of things that needed to be done because we have so much need here.”
To Mary’s great surprise, instead of picking one or two items off her list, the report came back that the committee had anticipated being able to do almost everything on her list. “The town has been very excited,” reports Mary. “They love the idea of these teens coming to help.” With nearly 1,500 teens and their adult leaders attending, the town’s population doubled for that one day.
Mary’s list included turning a flood retention basin into a park, painting a mural on a noise wall, replacing or repairing all mailboxes, building ramps for houses of handicapped residents, hauling rubbish from the lots of elderly residents, painting homes and repairing roofs, interviewing families for the town’s historical record, beautifying the town’s center street median, and collecting furniture for and landscaping around emergency housing.
The first meeting was at a public auditorium, when the whole idea of working together in service, in addition to gathering support and donations from the community, was presented to anyone interested. Chad Heywood, 16, of the Freestone Park Ward in the Gilbert stake, said, “I’ve had a lot of kids come up to me and ask how they can get involved in it. It’s a fun thing to do now.”
Jennifer Barger, the adult volunteer supervisor from St. Anne’s Catholic Church, said, “I think the more they got involved, the more eager they were to participate. It’s a growing thing, with each other and with the town. It’s been quite a neat experience.”
As the planning for the project progressed, the teens involved started to discover a change in their attitudes. Aubree Wright, 17, of the Gilbert Ninth Ward, Gilbert Val Vista Stake, said, “The first couple of meetings, I was not feeling like I wanted to go. The more I went, it just became such a neat thing. I was looking forward to it. I’ve seen it in other kids too. You can tell that it’s starting to touch them.”
You might not think that getting together on one Saturday and hauling sod or painting a house would do all that much for world peace. But each action, each person doing one good thing, can begin to change the world. Standing shoulder to shoulder with shovels and rakes in hand with God’s children of other beliefs and cultures can make a difference. Melissa Geiger, 19, of St. Anne’s Catholic Church, was asked to be a youth representative on the planning committee. She said, “It sounds like an enormous task, making peace in the world. We can start small and meet on a common ground of service. That was our basis.”
Whether it’s spending four hours at a cannery, packing boxes at a food bank, or getting your hands blistered while raking gravel, service improves most those who give it.
The youth of Gilbert, both Catholic and LDS, now know each other a little better. And with each opportunity to serve, they will learn a little more what it means to live a Christlike life.

Leury belongs to a priests quorum of one, so he carries a lot of responsibility. “I have been visiting a lot of people who can’t go to church and taking them the sacrament on Sundays. I also go home teaching,” says Leury.
“Having Leury active in the priests quorum tremendously blesses my life,” says Bienvenida. “He loves the Church and is very spiritual. I want to be an example for him, but he ends up being an example to me in many ways.”

In my gym class, we had to run the mile every Monday. We called them “Mile Mondays.” Everyone dreaded them because they were exhausting. Each Monday, one classmate was always picked on because he was a little overweight and always finished the mile a few minutes after everyone else. I felt bad for him and wanted to help him out, but I wasn’t sure how.
One day I had an idea. After I finished running the mile, I went back and ran with him until he was done. I was a little nervous because I wasn’t sure what everyone would think, but I decided that what other people think shouldn’t matter that much. I was surprised when more people joined me the next week. Every week, more people joined until eventually everyone in the class joined in! As we ran, we encouraged him by saying things like, “You can do it!” and “Only one more lap!” He began to smile while running, and people didn’t pick on him anymore. Each week he finished the mile in less time, and we cheered him on every time he beat his personal best.
I’m glad we could boost his spirit and help him do his best. It really brought our class closer together, and we were all a little nicer to one another. This experience helped me remember that we are all God’s children and of great worth, and everyone needs to be treated that way. I’m glad I decided to run a little extra, and I know that Heavenly Father gave us all added strength to help His children feel loved.

This story took place in Jamaica.
Dashanel helped her older brother take the nut bread out of the oven. It smelled so good!
Then she heard a knock at the door. “The missionaries are here!” her sister called.
Dashanel ran to the door. She loved it when the missionaries came. She always had a good feeling when they visited. Sometimes they brought games for her and her siblings to play.
“Tyrell made nut bread again!” Dashanel said. Her brother liked to make food for the missionaries.
“I can’t wait to try some,” Elder Colas said. He and Elder Yusaki came inside and sat down on the floor. Dashanel, her brother and sister, and Mom sat across from them.
“What are we going to do for the lesson today?” Dashanel asked.
Elder Yusaki pulled out a stack of cups. “We’re going to build a faith tower. Each of these cups represents something we can do to build our faith in Jesus Christ.”
Elder Yusaki started to stack the cups into a tower. Dashanel saw that the cups had words like “prayer,” “scripture study,” and “church” written on them.
“These are all things you’ve asked us to do as a family,” she said.
“That’s right,” Elder Colas said. “When you do these things, you are building your faith in Jesus Christ.”
Dashanel and her siblings took turns building their own towers with the cups while they listened to the lesson.
After the missionaries left, Dashanel thought about what they’d taught. She wanted her faith in Christ to be tall and strong, just like the tower she built.
As the months passed, Dashanel learned more and more about the gospel from the missionaries. She started going to church with her family. She pictured her tower of faith growing taller and taller.
One day after the missionaries left, Dashanel talked to Mom. “Can I get baptized?” she asked.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” asked Mom.
“Yes,” Dashanel said. “I want to follow Jesus.”
“OK,” Mom said. “If you want to, you can be baptized.”
Dashanel’s brother and sister chose to be baptized too. Mom said she didn’t feel ready to get baptized yet.
On the day of their baptism, Dashanel and her siblings dressed in white clothes. They each waited patiently to be baptized.
When it was Dashanel’s turn, Elder Yusaki helped her into the water. Then he said the words of the baptism prayer and lowered her under the water. When Dashanel came back up, she couldn’t stop smiling! She felt happy and clean. She never wanted to forget this feeling.
Dashanel kept doing things to build her faith in Jesus Christ. She read the scriptures with her family. She prayed to Heavenly Father. She did kind things for others. And she remembered how she felt when she was baptized. She wanted Mom to have that feeling too.
“Mom, why don’t you get baptized?” Dashanel asked one day.
Mom was quiet for a minute. “You have set a good example for me. Now I need to set an example for you,” she said. “I want to be baptized too.”
On the day of Mom’s baptism, Dashanel was so happy. When Mom came up from the water, everyone was smiling. Now Dashanel’s whole family could build their towers of faith together.
Illustrations by Alyssa Tallent

I have always had faith in our Father in Heaven and in Jesus Christ. But the Church was another matter for me. I believed it was like any other church; it was one church among many capable of leading me to salvation.
Why then was I a member? I had been searching for a church that fit my religious principles. When I found The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I knew I had found a “good religion,” one espousing doctrine I already believed from my study of the Bible. That knowledge was enough for me, I decided.
But as I attended church and listened to talks and testimonies, a desire began to grow in me to discover for myself if the Church actually was the restored Church of Jesus Christ—the only true Church upon the earth. I decided to read the Book of Mormon—something I had not done before. I realized, of course, from reading the Church magazines that I would not gain a testimony if I did not study with faith and a heart open to receiving a witness from our Heavenly Father. And so I studied, and I received a witness that the Book of Mormon is true.
Yet I still had doubts about the Church. I wanted a clear and definite affirmation from God, something remarkable that would make me feel sure. I knew I should not ask for a sign, but the thought dominated my mind and likely kept me from receiving the testimony I sought. The more I sought a confirmation in this way, the more rebellious I felt. Then I began to lose hope.
One day during an institute class, the teacher presented a video portraying a person much like myself—one who was not sure of his testimony. He sought counsel from his bishop, and the bishop explained that our Father in Heaven looks for moments to answer our prayers, but we must be attentive and receptive to the Holy Ghost. The bishop in the video also said that learning to recognize the voice of the Holy Spirit requires time and a humble heart.
These words touched me deeply. I recognized that I had never listened to the voice of the Spirit regarding the Church because I had been unwilling to do so. From the time I began praying for a testimony of the Church, the answers had come to me quietly, little by little, but I had refused to hear.
During that institute lesson I felt a change in my heart that I could not understand, and the heavy burden of doubt I had carried for nine years left me. I now accepted what I had previously doubted.
But even then I was tempted to fight against the Spirit. I told myself that what I was feeling was just a passing impression, an emotional response to the film. This war continued inside me as I left the classroom, so I found a place to be alone. And there the presence of the Holy Spirit came to me more clearly and finally liberated me from my doubts. I was filled with incomparable joy. A weight was lifted from my shoulders.
Now I can say with full conviction that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true Church, restored in these last days by Jesus Christ through the Prophet Joseph Smith. This testimony is precious to me. With it, I feel spiritually prepared to receive the greater light and knowledge the Lord and His Church have to offer.

I remember being impressed one time with the need to teach obedience. I was on a new job working long hours, and I guess I was somewhat neglectful of my family. My son seemed to crave more time and attention. He was finding all sorts of ways to attract my attention. One day when I came home, his mother had him prepared to take me downstairs to see what mischief he had recently created. As we descended the stairs, he sheepishly opened the door to our food storage room. There I found he had been using his dart set to practice his marksmanship on our food storage. He caught my attention all right, and made me realize he was looking for the metes and bounds we expected of him in our family government. When they were outlined, and when I gave him the proper attention, then he was very obedient. How important it is that we teach obedience early in the lives of our children, especially to the commandments of the Lord!

I want to tell you of an incident that happened many years ago. Two of our sons, then little boys, were wrestling on the rug, and they had reached that line which separates laughter from tears. So I worked my foot carefully between them and lifted the older one back to a sitting position on the rug. As I did so, I said, “Hey there, you little monkeys. You’d better settle down.”
To my surprise he folded his little arms, his eyes swimming with deep hurt, and protested, “I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person!”
The years have not erased the overwhelming feeling of love I felt for my little sons. I was taught a profound lesson by my little boys. Many times over the years his words have slipped back into my mind, “I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person!” I was taught a profound lesson by my little boy.
Now the cycle of life has moved swiftly on, and both of those sons have little boys of their own, who teach their fathers lessons. They now watch their children grow as we watched them. They are coming to know something as fathers that they could not be taught as sons. Perhaps now they know how much their father loves them. Hopefully, they know as well why prayers begin “Our Father who art in heaven.”
All too soon their children will be grown with little “persons” of their own, repeating the endless cycle of life.

While I was president of the Southern States Mission, a schoolteacher loaned a book to one of our Mormon children; and when the book came back, in it was an Articles of Faith card, and that schoolteacher read it. She went to her minister and said, “Why can’t our church have something like this?” The minister could not give her any satisfactory explanation, and so she wrote a letter to the Bureau of Information here in Salt Lake City. They sent her literature, they sent us her name, the missionaries called on her, and she joined the Church.

When I was 17, I’d taken out a small insurance policy that I thought would be useful, when it matured, to go towards a deposit for a house. I cashed it in early. (I lost nothing; every penny I had paid was returned to me; there was no financial penalty for early exit.) I was sent a cheque that paid for my whole mission. Isn’t it funny how things work out? Another small unplanned blessing. I then posted my papers.