Gospel Story Finder

Born 30 November 1874 at Oxfordshire, England, young Winston was the son of Lord Randolph Churchill and Jennie Jerome, a beautiful American woman. He longed for attention from his parents, whom he dearly loved, but Lord and Lady Randolph were caught up in political and social responsibilities and spent little time with their son. Consequently his nurse, Mrs. Everest, whom he affectionately called “Woom,” was the one whom he grew to love as a mother.

During his early life, Woom was the only person who gave Winston any real love. When she visited him at Harrow, he walked hand-in-hand with her, despite the ridicule of his schoolmates. Years later, one of his classmates wrote that it was one of the greatest acts of courage and compassion that he had ever seen. Winston wrote and visited Woom often, and he kept a picture of her on his desk until he died.

There were two times when I saw my brother’s space jet in pieces. The first time was right after he opened the package.
“Whoa, that’s cool!” I said as I knelt down next to Calvin. A big blanket was spread out in the living room, covered with what seemed like a million colorful blocks. Calvin was carefully sorting them by color, size, and shape.
“What are you going to make?” I asked. Calvin pointed to the box nearby. The picture on the front showed a jet zooming through space.
He worked on that thing for hours. By the end of the day, it looked awesome. It had four rocket blasters and three robotic arms. The next day he added a movable windshield.
It was the third day when things went wrong. Calvin went to science camp, and I was home with Mom.
“I think it’s about time for Calvin’s jet to move upstairs,” she called out. I heard her footsteps heading up the stairs.
And then I heard a crash. The sound of a thousand plastic blocks hitting the stairs and scattering in a hundred different directions.
“Oh no!” I think Mom and I both said it at the same time. I ran to Mom, who looked ready to cry and was still holding her empty hands out in front of her. We started scraping pieces into a pile, trying to figure out how everything had fit together.
After a while, Mom let out a deep sigh and looked at her watch. It was time to pick up Calvin.
During the car ride, I kept thinking about how Calvin would feel about the news. Would he yell? Or cry? Or just be really sad? If it were me, I’d probably do all three. He had worked so hard on that jet!
“Hey, Mom!” Calvin said, sliding open the van door and hopping inside. “Today was way fun! First we learned about why plants need sunlight, and after that …”
His voice trailed off as he looked at us. “Is something wrong?”
Mom turned around in her seat.
“Today we were cleaning the house, and I tried to move your space jet. But I tripped while I was walking up the stairs and dropped it. I’m so sorry! It broke apart, and we couldn’t figure out how to put it back together.”
I looked at Calvin. I could tell he was trying to understand what she had just said. I was sure he was about to burst into tears or something! And then—
He smiled a little. “It’s OK, Mom.”
What? I could tell Mom was as surprised as I was.
“Really, it’s OK. I can fix it. Don’t worry about it. I forgive you.”
Now Calvin really was smiling. And he smiled even after he got home and saw the mess that was once his space jet.
Over the next few days, Calvin put together his jet without complaining once. And I realized that I could be nicer and more forgiving to my family members too—even when everything seems to fall apart.

At age 19, Bruce served a two-year mission in the Eastern States Mission. After returning home he attended school at the University of Utah, earning his B.A. degree, and later his juris doctor degree. It was while walking to and from school at the university that he developed a habit of study that was of great value to him. He would think of a subject in the gospel such as repentance and would then, in his mind, make up an outline for a sermon on the subject, adding the appropriate scriptures and supporting material. Doing this daily as he walked gave him practice in analysis of doctrinal subjects. This careful organization and logical progression was evident in his sermons.

I wrote my dissertation at the University of California at Berkeley on pion-nucleon interactions. I have never seen a pion and I have never seen a nucleon, and yet I published an article on them, and I expect the scientific community to take that article seriously. I never touched anything I worked with. It wasn’t tangible; I couldn’t get hold of it.
I wrote my dissertation on pions without ever seeing any pions. I don’t know whether they are green or round or square or fuzzy, but when we turned on the cyclotron beam in the meson cave (a room made out of 12-foot-thick lead-impregnated concrete blocks), the beam struck a hydrogen target and splattered particles in all directions. Certain detectors that I had designed and had placed in appropriate spots in the cave registered these particles by sending out electrical impulses. All I actually observed was a series of two-volt jumps in the voltage on some coaxial cables. By fitting the pattern of these blips together, I published what I claim is a scientifically accurate explanation of certain pion-nucleon interactions.

Recently I read of an experience that touched me deeply. It took place at the USA Masters Track and Field National Championship—a competition for seniors.
One of the participants in the 1,500-meter event was 100-year-old Orville Rogers. The author writes:
“When the starter pistol fired, the runners took off, with Orville settling immediately into last place, where he remained alone for the entire race, shuffling along very slowly. [When] the last runner besides Orville finished, Orville still had two and a half laps to go. Nearly 3,000 spectators sat quietly watching him slowly make his way around the track—completely, silently, and uncomfortably alone.
“[But] when he began his final lap, the crowd rose to their feet, cheering and applauding. By the time he hit the homestretch, the crowd was roaring. With the cheering encouragement of thousands of spectators, Orville called on his last reserves of energy. The crowd erupted with delight as he crossed the finish line and was embraced by his competitors. Orville humbly and gratefully waved to the crowd and walked off the track with his new friends.”
This was Orville’s fifth race of the competition, and in each of the other events, he had also taken last place. Some might have been tempted to judge Orville, thinking that he shouldn’t have even competed at his age—that he didn’t belong on the track because he greatly prolonged his events for everyone else.
But even though he always finished last, Orville broke five world records that day. No one watching him race would have believed that possible, but neither the spectators nor his competitors were the judges. Orville didn’t break any rules, and the officials didn’t lower any standards. He ran the same race and fulfilled the same requirements as all the other competitors. But his degree of difficulty—in this case, his age and limited physical capacity—was factored in by placing him in the 100-plus age division. And in that division, he broke five world records.
Just as it took Orville great courage to step out on that track each time, it also takes great courage for some of our sisters and brothers to step into the arena of life every day, knowing they may be judged unfairly even though they’re doing the best they can against daunting odds to follow the Savior and honor their covenants with Him.
On the last lap of the race, the crowd overwhelmingly cheered Orville on, giving him the strength to keep going. It didn’t matter that he finished last. For the participants and the crowd, this was about far more than a competition. In many ways, this was a beautiful example of the Savior’s love in action. When Orville finished, they all rejoiced together.

A few days later, Margarette and her older brother, Wallace, set out for school. It had been raining, and the ground was slippery and muddy, especially along the street by the Prophet Joseph’s Red Brick Store. As the two children hurried along their way, they got stuck in the mud. Although they tried to get out by wrapping their arms beneath their legs to lift their feet, it was no use.
“Oh, what shall we do?” cried Margarette. She remembered seeing wagons stuck in the mud, and sometimes they were left until the ground became drier. Margarette feared that she and her brother would have to stay where they were until the ground dried up and they could walk out on their own.
Wallace let out a loud wail. Seeing her brother’s fear, Margarette joined him with cries of her own. But looking up, she saw the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, walking toward them. He lifted them out of the mud, wiped off their dirty shoes, and used his clean handkerchief to wipe the tears from their faces. He smiled and spoke with such cheery words that they were soon happily on their way to school.
“He is every child’s best friend,” Margarette told Wallace. He smiled in agreement.

After World War II, my mother and father settled for a time in South Africa. My father was a seaman and the shipping company he worked for was based in South Africa and sailed the world. My parents had two very young children at the time and while my father was a world away from home on one trip, their younger child, Gillian, fell ill. She was less than a year old and sadly passed away during emergency surgery.
My mother was devastated. She was not only without the support of her husband, but also, because they were still not well established in South Africa, she had no extended family or even close friends to turn to. Fortunately, around the same time, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had recently knocked on her door and had been teaching her the gospel of Jesus Christ. I am so grateful for those missionaries.
They taught my mother that “little children are alive in Christ, even from the foundation of the world” (Moroni 8:12).
Something we never knew until we read about it in her diary decades later, is that in the days after the loss of her child, the mission president sent his car with a driver to take my mother to all the places she needed to go and to attend to all the matters that arose, including arrangements for a funeral. I am so grateful for that mission president.
His act of kindness to someone whom the missionaries were merely teaching has had long lasting effects unknown to him.

When my mission call came, I read the letter until I got to where it said ‘Birmingham.’ I thought, well, it’s going to be cold there in England. Then I read again and I saw that it said Alabama Birmingham Mission. I had to go find a map of the United States so I could see where I was going.”
That’s how Elder Terrence John Brooks of Perth, Australia, discovered he would be heading north to serve in the South.
“I got to Alabama in February 1984. So far I’ve served in Sylacauga, Florence, Bessemer, and now I’m in Montgomery.”
And in Montgomery a surprise was in store.
“When I got my mission call to Alabama, I laughed,” said Elder Graeme Thomas McKim of Adelaide, Australia. “It was the last place I was thinking of and there was sort of disbelief. But I was really happy. I thought it would be an interesting foreign country. My friends couldn’t believe it. I got heaps of Alabama jokes poured upon me in Southern accents. My mum was a little bit apprehensive; but she was just happy, as was the rest of my family, that I was going on a mission.
“My first assignment was in Troy for four months. Then came transfers.”
And, of course, Elder Brooks and Elder McKim ended up as companions. Now they make the rounds door-to-door in Montgomery, causing a few double takes when people hear their conversation.
“Most people think we’re English,” Elder McKim said.
“Someone told me I had a nice South Dakota accent,” Elder Brooks chimed in. “A man in Florence asked me if I could understand English better than I could speak it.”
The elders are quick to add, however, that they are in the South to preach the gospel, not to talk about their homeland.
“The fact that we are ‘foreign’ stirs a desire in people to speak to us,” Elder McKim said. “They want to know what we think about America. They want to know about Australia. They are curious about the way we speak and why we are here, even more so as we labor together. It’s the same with the members, too. We are the first Australians many of them have ever known.”
“But laboring here in Montgomery with another Australian only makes a difference as far as the initial reaction,” Elder Brooks said. “It doesn’t make a great deal of difference as far as teaching the gospel is concerned.
“To me the most spiritual thing a person can do is to find, teach, and then to baptize someone, to watch them grow, to go through their adjustments and trials with them. To go through these trials and come out with a testimony of the gospel is the greatest thing that can happen.”
Elder McKim agreed. “I’ve had several spiritual experiences since coming on my mission, but the one that comes to mind happened in Troy. We’d been working all day, but we hadn’t been very successful. Then one woman invited us in. At first she was cool toward us, polite. But we talked to her and taught her a lesson and noticed that tears were coming to her eyes. The Spirit was very strong.
“At the end of the lesson, she told us that for weeks she had been depressed and that the night before, at her lowest ebb, she prayed that the Lord would send someone to help her. The next day, there we were! It was such a great experience for me because I had heard so many stories like that before in magazines like the New Era. You hear these stories, and you think it would never happen to you. But it did!”
Elder McKim, 19, was actually born in Glasgow, Scotland. “We moved to Australia when I was five. My parents are converts to the Church. Most of the children were born after my parents were sealed in the London Temple. My father was a stake patriarch in Glasgow. He was set apart by President Kimball, who was at the time a member of the Quorum of the Twelve.
“I was brought up in the Church, and when I was a little boy I knew I was going to go on a mission. But as the time grew near, I planned to put it off until the end of the college year. Then one night I just had this feeling that I had to go on my mission and I wasn’t to put it off. I talked to my bishop and put my papers in. And I’m glad I did. My mission has drastically changed my life and my ideals. Things which I thought were important are so trivial now. And things which I really didn’t think of before are now so important.”
Elder Brooks’s story is quite different.
“I am a convert to the Church of four and a half years, the only member in my family. I became interested in the Church through a girl I dated that was a Mormon. My testimony came slowly over a period of ten months. I really didn’t want it to be true because it meant I would need to change my life-style. But the more I was exposed to the Church the more convinced I became that it was true. The things that rang true were that there is a prophet on the earth today and that there is modern revelation. As a child I always wondered why the Bible stopped where it did and why we didn’t have someone like Moses on the earth.
“Since I was 23 when I joined the Church I thought I’d be too old to go on a mission. But I went to a Young Adult conference in Brisbane, and after talking with some friends there I was motivated to go. I worked as a civil servant before my mission, and I had saved enough money to support myself as a missionary.
“My mission has changed my life, too. I used to be shy, almost embarrassed to talk about the Church. That shyness has left me and I feel now that I can talk about it with anyone. When I told my parents I was going to go on a mission they were quite upset—they were concerned about my job. But when I received my call they were really happy for me. So in a period of about six weeks there was a real transition in my family’s attitudes. And now they are actually having a friendship with the missionaries at home. I don’t know if they’re being taught or not, but there was a time when they wouldn’t even let missionaries in the door.”
Both Elder Brooks and Elder McKim say they’ve had to adapt a little to life in the States. “The biggest adjustment is to cars being driven on the wrong side of the road!” Elder McKim said. “Several times my companions have saved my neck as I’ve gone to walk out in front of an oncoming car,” Elder Brooks agreed.
They’ve also had a few strange looks from fellow missionaries when they talk about Australian children eating fairy bread (bread and butter with candy sprinkles), or when they reminisce about hot summer Christmases celebrated with a barbecue at the beach.
“One preparation day we had an Australian day for missionaries in our zone. We invited them to an Australian party and tried to make it as authentic as possible, with food like fish and chips served on newspaper. It was especially fun for me and Elder Brooks, and the other missionaries seemed to enjoy themselves,” Elder McKim said.
In the early days of Church history, the gospel restored in New York and eventually headquartered in Utah sent missionaries from America to other lands around the globe. As the Church continues its worldwide growth, young men like Elder Brooks and Elder McKim will increasingly represent a new generation of missionaries, those who leave their homes to help share the gospel in a foreign land—America.

Marusia Lawrence, longtime member of Aylesbury Ward lives in a small community on the outskirts of her town.
In 2018, she made a house-to-house collection hoping to raise enough funds to purchase a silent soldier (also known as ‘Unknown Tommy’, see https://rbli.shop/products/unknown-tommy), a black silhouette of a soldier armed with a rifle, which would be displayed permanently in the village. To her delight, these efforts raised enough money for two silent soldiers for the special 100 Year Centenary Remembrance Sunday in 2018.
For 2019, she organised a Remembrance Service for November of that year. She felt strongly that there should be a formal start prior to the two-minute silence and asked fellow Church friend—Richard Godivala—to play the “Last Post” on his trumpet, dramatically setting the scene for the rest of the programme.
All neighbours attending were able to sincerely reflect on a reading of “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae (Canadian poet, soldier, and physician, who died in 1918 in France) and then a reading of “For The Fallen,” written by Englishman Laurence Binyon in 1914.
The service finished by singing the national anthem. Afterwards attendees socialised and talked of their thanks for peace in Europe since 1945, sharing beverages and biscuits at local venue, Cooper’s Barn. Marusia said these quotes made by World War II soldiers truly resonated at this Remembrance Service:
“For your tomorrow they gave their today.”
“Attitude, gratitude and service before self brings happiness and fulfilment in life”
“Brave soldiers laid down their lives for everyone to bring peace into the world.”

After the brilliant red, yellow, and orange autumn leaves had fallen and winter’s chill set in, Erastus bid good-bye to parents, kin, friends, and Vermont. On November 8, 1835, the day before his 17th birthday, he and Elder Hazen Aldrich started West for Kirtland, Ohio, to meet the Prophet Joseph Smith. Levi Snow, knowing his son preferred preaching to farming, gave Erastus permission to leave and also put 15 dollars into the youngster’s pocket.

Despite winter storms that blocked their boat on Lake Erie, Erastus and Hazen Aldrich managed to reach Kirtland, Ohio, early in December 1835—a 700-mile trip. There Erastus met Joseph Smith for the first time and inspected the nearly finished Kirtland Temple. For several weeks Erastus boarded with the Smiths, earning his keep by doing chores. “During the winter I continued to preach on the Sabbath in Kirtland and the surrounding neighborhood,” he said, “and attended grammar school during the week, which was taught by Sidney Rigdon.”

Spider pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the perspiration from his brow. The hot afternoon sun was yellow white. He had spent the day traveling from house to house in the village, hoping to wheedle a dinner invitation. Alas! His neighbors, who were generally kind and generous, had grown weary of Spider’s shiftless, greedy ways.
“Well,” sighed Spider, “I suppose I shall have to prepare my own supper.”
He shuffled slowly to his cottage. Grumbling at every turn, he managed to put together a rather sumptuous dinner. Just as he sat down and drew his chair close to the table, he heard a rap at the door.
“What now?” mumbled Spider to himself. He opened the door a tiny crack to see a bedraggled turtle staring at him.
“Could you … would you … ,” began Turtle, standing on his hind legs and sniffing hungrily at the delicious aroma that floated through the doorway, “spare a bite for a weary traveler?”
Now Spider hated the thought of sharing anything with anybody, but he feared the ridicule of his neighbors if they should hear of his selfishness. So, reluctantly, he opened the door and nodded to an empty chair at the table. Turtle sat down gratefully and reached for the bowl of steaming yams and the platter of fish.
“Tsk, tsk, my friend,” said Spider loudly. “Where are your manners? Just look at your filthy hands! You must wash them before coming to my table.”
Turtle stared at his dusty paws. Mumbling apologies to his host, he waddled as fast as he could to the river. There he washed his hands thoroughly and scrubbed his face for good measure. As quickly as he could, he returned to Spider’s table. The dish of yams was half-gone, and several fish had been devoured. Eagerly Turtle reached again.
“Dear friend,” scolded Spider even more loudly. “You surely don’t call those hands clean!”
“But the dust from your path … ,” began Turtle. He stopped. He didn’t want to sound ungrateful. Slowly he rose from the table and waddled again to the river. On his return, however, he was careful to walk on the thick grasses so his hands would remain spotless.
Turtle climbed onto his chair only to see the last bite of fish passing Spider’s lips. The bowl of yams was licked clean.
“A delectable dinner, wouldn’t you agree?” said Spider, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
“To be sure!” answered Turtle disgustedly. “If you are ever near my home, you must let me repay your hospitality.”
Some months later Spider wandered far from his village. Tired and hungry, he stopped beside a quiet river to rest. He spied Turtle sunning himself on a large rock. Spider called to his friend.
“Well, well,” said Turtle, smiling. “At last you have come. You will stay to supper, of course.”
“Of course,” answered Spider eagerly.
“Wait here,” said Turtle. “It will take a short while to prepare.” He disappeared beneath the water. Before long he popped to the surface, munching a juicy clam. “It’s ready,” he called to Spider.
Spider dived eagerly off the rock into the water. He sank a few inches but bobbed immediately to the surface. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t propel his spindly body to the bottom of the river. He flipped. He flopped. But nothing worked.
However, Spider was as cunning as he was greedy. He hurried to the riverbank and stuffed his jacket pockets with pebbles. This time when he jumped off the rock, he sank quickly and plopped right into a chair by Turtle’s table.
What a feast awaited him! On a bed of fresh watercress lay dozens of tiny fish. There were bowls of clams and mussels and a platter of warm eels. Hungrily Spider reached for them.
“Tsk, tsk,” said Turtle loudly. “Where are your manners? It is very rude to come to my table wearing your jacket. You must remove it at once.”
Greedy Spider didn’t stop to think. As quickly as he could, he took off his jacket. Without the weight of the pebbles, he shot to the surface of the river, barely missing a large rock in his ascent. The laughter of Turtle followed him. Realizing the lesson was deserved, Spider headed for his village, still tired and hungry, but much wiser.

Katie Daines, 16, of the Manhattan Second Ward, used a history assignment at school as the reason to write a short history of her great-great-grandparents, Nels and Ingra Carlson. Katie found that her relatives joined the Church in Sweden and emigrated to the United States to join the Saints in Utah. While waiting on the ship in New York harbor, Ingra gave birth to her son, John. Eventually, the family moved to Utah, where they lived and raised their children.
Now Katie, who has lived all her life in New York City, can look out on the harbor and see some of the same sights and shoreline that greeted her ancestors on their journey. Their willingness to be pioneers for their faith reminds Katie that she too is willing to be a pioneer for her beliefs. As she faces being one of only a couple of members of the Church in her school, she learns to be an example.

Prodi sat up in bed with a jolt. His heart was beating fast.
Rain pattered on the roof as he sat in the darkness. He could hear water dripping from the African fig tree outside his window, and the air felt sticky and warm. Prodi took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was just a dream.
He crawled out of bed and peeked at his parents. Mama and Papa were sleeping peacefully. His little sister, Célia, was curled up in her bed too. Everything was OK. His family was safe.
Prodi climbed back into bed and tried to go back to sleep. He tossed and turned, then tossed and turned some more. He knew his dream wasn’t real, but it had been so scary! Even though he was tired, he was afraid to fall asleep again. What if he had another nightmare?
Prodi lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. He tried to think of happy thoughts. Heavenly Father, are you really there? And do you hear and answer every child’s prayer? A wave of warmth came over Prodi as he thought of the words of his favorite Primary song. Sister Kioska had taught them that Heavenly Father was always watching over them. They could pray to Him anytime, anywhere.
Prodi knew what to do. He got out of bed and knelt down to pray.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “I’m really scared. Please keep my family safe. And please help me to go to sleep and not have any more bad dreams.”
Prodi finished his prayer and climbed back in bed. His body relaxed, and his mind felt peaceful. Soon he was asleep.
When morning came, Prodi woke up to the warm sun shining through the window. He could hear pots clanging in the kitchen. Célia was at the table eating leftover cassava. Mama was warming some up for him to eat too.
“Bonjour,” Mama said. “How did you sleep?”
“I had a really scary nightmare,” Prodi said. “But then I said a prayer. Heavenly Father helped me feel safe.”
“I’m sorry you had a bad dream,” Mama said. She hugged Prodi close and didn’t let go for a long time. “But I’m so glad you said a prayer. It sounds like praying really helped you.”
“It did,” said Prodi. “I was able to fall asleep again, and I didn’t have any more bad dreams.” Prodi hugged Mama tight. He was glad to know that no matter how scared he felt, Heavenly Father was just a prayer away.
Go to page 15 to meet the boy from this story!

While watching a documentary on the Amazon jungle, I learned that missionaries from various religions had taught the Native Americans about Jesus Christ. I began to wonder about the salvation of the millions of their ancestors who had never heard about Jesus, the gospel, or saving ordinances like baptism. If the Savior came for the salvation of all humankind, why had so many throughout history been excluded from His glorious message?
I searched for answers in the Bible, but I couldn’t find anything suggesting that the Old World was even aware of the civilizations in the Americas. No pastor, priest, or Bible student could answer my questions.
One day I was moved by a hymn I heard. I learned the hymn in my own language, Portuguese, and as I struggled to translate it into English, I remembered that my Latter-day Saint neighbor, Jesuina, often received American missionaries in her home. I asked her if the missionaries could translate it for me. The next day they left a translation with a short note that read, “It was a pleasure to be able to help you. One day we would like to meet you.”
When I met the missionaries a week later, they invited me to visit their church. But I did not like Mormons. Members of my family and leaders of other churches I had investigated criticized them, calling them a dangerous sect. They made many absurd criticisms that I believed to be true. One rainy Sunday shortly thereafter, however, I awoke with a great desire to visit their church—to repay them for their kindness but also out of curiosity. During the first meeting, people went to the pulpit and testified they knew that the Church and the Book of Mormon were true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Somewhat disturbed, I left the meeting and went to Sunday School.
When the teacher mentioned scriptures or stories from the Bible, I was eager to participate. But when she spoke about the Book of Mormon, I remained quiet and pensive. Why another book if we already had the Bible? Before I left, the teacher thanked me for my participation and then surprised me by giving me her copy of the Book of Mormon.
When I returned home, I went to my room, knelt on the floor, and began a sincere conversation with Heavenly Father. I told Him that I felt something special about the Mormon Church but that I didn’t want the adversary to delude me. I prayed that He would help resolve my confusion and show me which church was true.
Afterward I felt a great desire to read the Book of Mormon. I prayed again for strength and direction. During my prayer, I felt a strong and good feeling—an interior warmth. I knew I was not alone at that moment. A thought came instantly into my head: “Read the book!”
I opened it and began reading. Before I had finished the introduction, tears began running down my face as the Lord revealed to me the mystery of the Native Americans. The Book of Mormon seemed prepared especially to respond to my concerns. I felt great joy to have my questions answered. It was as though the ancient Americans had spoken from their graves to tell me about their lives and to testify that they also knew Jesus and that He had suffered for them as well.
Amazed with my discovery, I sought out the missionaries and listened to their lessons. On Easter Sunday, March 31, 1991, I descended into the waters of baptism—the best decision I had ever made.
I feel immensely grateful to Heavenly Father for His mercy and great wisdom. I know that He is just, that He has not forgotten any of His children, and that He is eager to reveal His plan to all humankind. I know that the Book of Mormon is a sacred book. It is true.

In 1989, Elder Haight became critically ill and was rushed unconscious to the hospital. He later reported in the October 1989 general conference that while unconscious, he found himself “in a calm, peaceful setting … conscious of two persons on a hillside. … I was conscious of being in a holy presence and atmosphere. During the hours and days that followed, there was impressed again and again upon my mind the eternal mission and exalted position of the Son of Man. I witness to you that He is Jesus the Christ, the Son of God, Savior to all, Redeemer of all mankind, Bestower of infinite love, mercy and forgiveness, the Light and Life of the world. I knew this truth before—I had never doubted nor wondered. But now I knew, because of the impressions of the Spirit upon my heart and soul, these divine truths in a most unusual way” (Ensign, Nov. 1989, pp. 59–60).

June pushed as Grandpa pulled the old red wagon up and down the long rows of vegetables. Grandpa stooped to inspect a knee-high, leafy green plant. “June, here are some nice big green peppers. Do you think that they are ready to pick?”
June stooped down to look. “Yup.” She carefully picked one and held it up to Grandpa for final approval.
“Yup,” Grandpa agreed. “Just right.”
June smiled and picked two more. She carefully placed them next to the corn in the wagon. The wagon was almost full, but there were still cucumbers, green beans, and squash to harvest.
She beamed as she looked at the beautiful fresh vegetables in the wagon. There were big red tomatoes, ears of yellow corn, orange carrots, leafy green lettuce, red radishes, and now, big green peppers.
Grandpa and June had planted the big garden in the spring. First they got the soil ready. Next, June helped Grandpa plant seeds in little holes. Then they carefully covered them with dirt.
After the seeds were covered, she helped Grandpa sprinkle the rich, dark soil with water. Up and down the long rows they went, digging and planting and watering.
They had also put in some small plants. “If we plant these instead of seeds, we’ll get vegetables sooner,” Grandpa explained. “I just can’t wait to pop a ripe tomato into my mouth!” Grandpa loved tomatoes.
Together June and Grandpa watered their garden almost every day. Grandpa put on his big black irrigating boots, and June tugged on her little blue rubber puddle hoppers. It was fun walking up and down the long rows, getting their boots muddy while they made sure that each plant got enough to drink.
Grandpa and June spent a lot of time weeding the long rows of vegetables, too. “Weeds drink up all the water,” Grandpa explained. “Now what is this I see?”
June squatted next to Grandpa to have a look. “Does it look like the plants around it?” Grandpa asked.
June compared the green plant to those near it. “Nope.”
“Weed or vegetable?”
“Weed,” June stated firmly and pulled it out with a hard jerk.
“Yup,” Grandpa said with a big smile, “you sure are a good gardener.”
June looked up at Grandpa. “Wow, Grandpa, we sure have lots of vegetables!”
“Yup, with lots more to come!” He unloaded the last acorn squash from the wagon onto the back porch. He sat down and wiped his forehead with his little red handkerchief. “Well, June, do you think we can eat all these vegetables ourselves?”
“Nope. We couldn’t eat that many in a hundred years.”
“You’re right,” Grandpa replied with a chuckle. “Well then, what do you think we should do with them all? I hate to waste any of our hard work.”
June thought a moment. She was proud of the vegetables and didn’t want to waste any, either. “I know! Let’s share them!”
“Now, that’s what I call a good idea! But who do you think would want some?”
June didn’t have to think very hard. “Sister Rencher doesn’t have a garden since she can’t bend down to pull weeds anymore. I bet she would like some.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa thoughtfully. “Who else?”
June’s mind was working fast. “Sister Rice works all day. She doesn’t have time to plant and care for a garden.”
“Good thinking, June. And the Sorenson’s next door don’t have room in their yard for a garden. I bet they would like some.”
“May we give some vegetables to my Primary teacher, Sister Johnson?” June asked. “I know she would like them.”
“Yup,” Grandpa said. “Now, how many people is that?”
June counted on her fingers. “Sister Rencher is one. Sister Rice is two. The Sorensons are three, and Sister Johnson makes four.”
Grandpa scratched his gray head. “How can we get all these vegetables to all those people?”
“I know! I know!” She jumped up and went into the house. Soon she was back, carrying four big brown grocery sacks. “We can put vegetables in a different sack for each person!”
“That’s a great idea,” Grandpa said. Together June and Grandpa thoughtfully chose vegetables for each person and carefully put them into the sacks.
“How can we get the sacks of vegetables to the people?” Grandpa asked.
“Can we take them in our wagon?”
“Yup. I think that will work.” Grandpa said. “You always have such good ideas! Now, who should we visit first?”
“The Sorensons. They’re the closest.”
Later, June held Grandpa’s hand as they pulled the empty wagon home. They had delivered all their vegetables. June’s small hand felt warm and secure inside Grandpa’s big one. She felt good inside.
“Grandpa, it’s sure fun to plant a garden. It’s even more fun to weed and water it. But do you know what’s the most fun of all?”
“What?”
“Sharing the vegetables.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa with a big smile.

As the sun rises over Mount Baw Baw, Callan Brooks is doing what he loves: building. He smiles as he fits another two-by-four into place, feeling the sense of accomplishment for a job well done.
Watching Callan work, you’d never guess that he is hearing impaired. But it hasn’t slowed him down. To Callan, it seems he was born to do this. And perhaps he was—for five generations his family has been builders.
“When I was 15, I left school to start my apprenticeship,” he says. “If you find an apprenticeship you like, it’s common among Australians to leave school and do that full time.” Callan has been building ever since. Whether he’s constructing homes, bolstering his own testimony, or magnifying a calling, Callan is consistently engaged in building God’s kingdom.
Just as his hearing loss hasn’t held him back from his work in construction, it hasn’t hindered his desire to learn and preach the gospel.
“While growing up, I barely understood 10 percent of what was said from the pulpit,” Callan says. He wanted to serve a full-time mission but didn’t qualify because of his hearing. However, he prayed and trusted that the Lord’s will would be done. Then something unexpected happened: Callan’s hearing worsened.
“When I was 18, I was completely deaf for six long months. I went to church for the feelings, because that’s all I got out of it,” he explains.
During this time, Callan built his testimony and relied on the Spirit. But what initially seemed to be a larger trial turned out to be the answer to his prayers. Because of the sudden drop in his hearing ability, he qualified for a cochlear implant, which improved his hearing enough to qualify him for a full-time mission. Callan soon left to serve in Perth, Australia.
Now home in Moe, Victoria, Callan serves in his ward’s Young Men presidency, where he helps 10 young men stay strong in the gospel in a place where remaining so is particularly difficult. To do this, he emphasizes the role of the Spirit in building up true conversion.
“We try to lead the young men to experience their own conversion through reading the Book of Mormon and utilizing Church programs,” he says.
The impact of this fifth-generation builder’s work is obvious, through his work on buildings, his witness of the gospel, and his mentoring of young men in his ward.

As a young man of Primary and Aaronic Priesthood age, I attended church in the grand old St. George Tabernacle, construction for which had begun in 1863. During very lengthy sermons I would amuse myself by gazing about the building, admiring the marvelous pioneer craftsmanship that had built that striking facility. Did you know, by the way, that there are 184 clusters of grapes carved into the ceiling cornice of that building? (Some of those sermons were really long!) But most of all I enjoyed counting the window panes—2,244 of them—because I grew up on the story of Peter Neilson.
In the course of constructing that tabernacle, the local brethren ordered the glass for the windows from New York and had it shipped around the cape to California. But a bill of $800 was due and payable before the panes could be picked up and delivered to St. George. Brother David H. Cannon, later to preside over the St. George Temple being built at the same time, was charged with the responsibility of raising the needed funds. After painstaking effort, the entire community, giving virtually everything they had to these two monumental building projects, had been able to come up with only $200 cash. On sheer faith Brother Cannon committed a team of freighters to prepare to leave for California to get the glass. He continued to pray that the enormous balance of $600 would somehow be forthcoming before their departure.
Living in nearby Washington, Utah, was Peter Neilson, a Danish immigrant who had been saving for years to add on to his modest two-room adobe home. On the eve of the freighters’ departure for California, Peter spent a sleepless night in that tiny house. He thought of his conversion in far-off Denmark and his subsequent gathering with the Saints in America. After coming west he had settled and struggled to make a living in Sanpete. And then, just as some prosperity seemed imminent there, he answered the call to uproot and go to the Cotton Mission, bolstering the pathetic and sagging efforts of the alkali-soiled, malaria-plagued, flood-bedeviled settlers of Dixie. As he lay in bed that night contemplating his years in the Church, he weighed the sacrifices asked of him against the wonderful blessings he had received. Somewhere in those private hours he made a decision.
Some say it was a dream, others say an impression, still others simply a call to duty. However the direction came, Peter Neilson arose before dawn on the morning the teams were to leave for California. With only a candle and the light of the gospel to aid him, Peter brought out of a secret hiding place $600 in gold coins. His wife, Karen, aroused by the predawn bustling, asked why he was up so early. He said only that he had to walk quickly the seven miles to St. George to give $600 to Brother David H. Cannon.
As the first light of morning fell on the beautiful red cliffs of southern Utah, a knock came at Brother Cannon’s door. There stood Peter Neilson, holding a red bandanna which sagged under the weight it carried. “Good morning, David,” said Peter. “I hope I am not too late. You will know what to do with this money.”
With that he turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to Washington, back to a faithful and unquestioning wife, and back to a small two-room adobe house that remained just two rooms for the rest of his life. (See Andrew Karl Larson, Red Hills of November, 1957, 311–13.)

Sixteen! What a time of life! “Nobody should have to go through this alone,” I thought.
My wise parents were kind and always gave me good counsel. My older sister had just gotten married and moved out of state. My little brother was involved with his 11-year-old concerns. I had great friends, and I knew my Church leaders sincerely cared about me.
But my older brother, Gary, was my confidant. I looked up to him in all things as a teenager. “Whenever I talk to him, things make more sense,” I said to myself. “I wish he could be here right now.”
But he wasn’t. He was far away in Japan, serving a full-time mission.
Despite missing Gary, I did have a fun birthday. My mom made me our traditional birthday breakfast, and I received a few gifts before going to school. That night, my family and I went out for a pizza dinner and ended with birthday cake. I even let myself daydream about dating, driving, and other exciting things I would do as a 16-year-old.
However, the best present I received that day was a letter in the mail. Gary hadn’t forgotten my super special day! This was before the days of email, so a letter took a long time to travel from Japan to Cache Valley, Utah, USA. I was amazed that his letter arrived right on my birthday! The letter was handwritten, which made it more like having my brother present with me as I read:
“Dear Merilee:
“Well, you have got the big birthday coming up, don’t you? I guess when you get this letter it will already be past. I can’t believe it—you are 16 years old. It seems like only a few years ago when you used to [wear your little red cowboy hat].
“Stay sweet and pure, and always let everyone know that the Church means a lot to you. If you do that, you won’t ever get into a situation where you have to make a decision with all the peer pressure weighing on you. Example: In high school, everyone knew that I didn’t want to drink or smoke, not at all, so I never got invited to a party where that sort of thing went on. My friends knew I didn’t do that. …
“If you let people know your standards, then people with your standards are attracted to you. I don’t mean you have to tell everyone, but actions speak loud. Your spirit is really sweet, and you do fit your name. And you have a good sense of humor. Happy ‘Sweet 16’ Birthday!” The last sentence was underlined in red. No other birthday present could’ve been better! I read it over and over again, until he was back home from Japan and we could finally talk to each other face to face.
It has been years since I received that letter, but I still have it. Many things have changed since then, but not my love for my brother. Today I sustain him not only as my brother and friend, but as Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. The counsel he offers as a special witness of Christ to all the world is an added strength in my life, just like the letter he sent me on my 16th birthday.

Two months now. Michele and Shawna were gone, Dad was in Houston on business, Mom was playing golf in Provo—and I sat under the locust taking in the dance of monarch butterflies along the hedge. So peaceful, so quiet, so dull. I amused myself by considering that the Savior was never a “returned missionary.” I had come to distrust the phrase. His mission was a mere three years, and he never went back home with nothing to do. Returning from a mission was a personal loss. You had to go on from there—become a goshawk and keep flapping your wings. I decided to make myself useful by helping Dad. He wanted the locust limbs trimmed away from the chimney before summer school.
On the roof I caught my breath after tossing off limbs. Gracious, I was thin! Wiping my forehead I saw Sister Hunter, two backyards away, bent over a rototiller—just as I had seen her husband do. Oh—it struck me: Brother Hunter had died of a heart attack a few weeks into my mission. How could I—I hated to even think the word—forget? Certainly he still hoed his beets and flooded his yard. Had he and Sister Hunter made it to the temple? Since my little medical problem I saw the temple as the abode of Deity, the place where, whatever the need, one found solace. Mom and Dad had worked with them after Brother Hunter joined the Church. But I hadn’t heard the results. As I grew up Sister Hunter offered me candy and nursed a bruised knee. She used to give me ice cream bars and a hug.
I climbed down from the roof and walked quickly down the block and into the driveway leading to her fence. After catching my breath, I said, “It’s the carburetor.”
“This pesky machine,” she said, “I want to kick it.” She was not old, only about 65, a small woman with hair the color of a fresh Oregon waterfall. She liked to wear a white cardigan sweater in cooler weather. Her eyes were green. She had a small, doll-like mouth that gave an appearance of youth. She loved to make vegetables and flowers grow.
With a screwdriver I adjusted the carburetor. But the short, frayed cord came taut under my jerked pulls. Nothing happened. I checked the oil—nothing wrong. Sister Hunter hovered above me like a mother eagle, watching first here and then there. Finally I got a spark plug out of our own lawn mower and, after more tinkering, the rototiller started. She said, “You’re a wonder. I never could have done that.”
After tilling her garden, which was deftly situated between the bank of grapes and the gray shed in the back, I helped her hand weed the corn against the side fences. I hadn’t had this much fun with dirt since the preparation day in Salem when I helped Brother Goss tie up his tomatoes. After a few mornings weeding by hand, we stood by her prospering garden as water filled the rows. She smiled and said, “Wouldn’t Henry be proud?”
Several “situations”—she refused to call them problems—plagued Sister Hunter. The grimy red pickup gathered heat in the driveway, and the water pump had quit in her washing machine on the back porch. I asked Mike Nelson, a young acquaintance at church, to help me, and within a few days we had installed a new fuel line in her ancient pickup. We road tested it through town with Jack, Sister Hunter’s faded-blond retriever. He wasn’t much help when I stalled at the Suprette Market. All he did was hang his head and loll his tongue. We ended up at the back of the store giving him water out of a discarded paper cup. Back at Sister Hunter’s we guzzled lemonade while taking breaks from her washing machine. I bought some frozen cans of lemonade to replenish her supply—and threw in a small pot roast for good measure. Mike thought I was nuts, but I wanted to do it. I found out she hadn’t had a special Sunday dinner since her husband died. Sure enough, at church she invited us over, and I graciously declined, not wanting to negate my good deeds. But she insisted. The next Sunday we arrived, and I discovered the table set with stunning china and sparkling silverware, a bouquet of peonies, and the steaming roast. Afterward I teased her about such a nice meal. Then we listened to a tape of a general conference talk by Elder James E. Faust on temple work while Mike fell asleep on the couch.
The next Tuesday I cornered Mike in an aisle of Pay Mart with a brilliant idea.
“Clean every one of her windows?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Inside and out?”
“Sure. It’s a small house.”
“You’re out of your tree.”
“So?”
So we armed ourselves with squeegees, clean rags, and spray bottles of glass cleaner and assaulted Sister Hunter’s windows, Mike outside, me inside. Her place sparkled, not a book out of place, not a dog hair on the couch, the islands of throw rugs floating on the polished hardwood floors. I spied on a lamp table a photograph of her husband, taken years ago. It stood behind an opened Bible which had on it a red pencil and glasses and which lay on an intricate doily. A hallowed feeling lingered in the house.
Both Mike and I figured our small act of kindness was finished. But one afternoon as I drowsed under the locust and thought about Sister Hunter, a strong feeling came over me that we hadn’t done enough. Her pickup ran, her washing machine purred, her windows shone, and her garden was a showpiece, the cool upturned earth mellowing in the furrows. What more could we do?
By now summer school was heating up, and I was busy as an instructor in the elders quorum. For diversion I hiked a few miles above Strawberry Reservoir, until I was too tired to go on and had to return. In the solemn hours I picked out lonely love songs on my guitar. Then late one evening as Mom and I endured our brewer’s yeast milk shakes I asked her about the Hunters’ temple sealing. Mom shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Since her husband died she has stayed pretty much to herself.”
That night, in the privacy of my room, I poured out my heart to the Lord for courage to finish our task.
On a Friday after class at the Y, without Mike, who was shopping for a quick-action .22, I found myself enjoying the pungent aroma of cut apples in Sister Hunter’s blue kitchen.
“I appreciate you and Mike so much,” she said over her apples. “I’m an old sourpuss, I know. I’m too set in my ways. Won’t even talk to Bishop Thompson that much, but the home teachers are a blessing. Those young rascals think I can’t do for myself. But I can.” She glanced up at me. “Since Henry passed away, I’ve had to.” She went back to slicing apples, their whiteness glistening under her knife. Then she stopped and looked up at me again. “I never had a more trying time than when I waited for Henry to join the Church. I thought he never would, and I kind of gave up. But through it all I had to stay true—true to what I felt. You know, you’re the first one to take a real interest. And I don’t know how to say thanks.”
Like the goshawk, Sister Hunter had fierce eyes. They were light like a hawk’s, but green. She had learned to take care of herself—to keep her eyes alive by the spirit of life. She had flown into the cold recesses of fear and come back. She had fought harsh winds and long boreal hours of loneliness. The contempt I had read in the goshawk’s eyes, as in Sister Hunter’s, was a disdain for giving up—for anything vulgar or hurtful—a disdain for anything that kept him from flying freely through his northern forests.
I told her thanks were not necessary, and then I said good-bye, without having asked her about going to the temple. In Grants Pass, Oregon, I had strenuously challenged a hardened truck driver to quit smoking and he did, but I had not yet brought up the matter of the temple with Sister Hunter because I hadn’t found the words. We had talked about the temple, and we had listened to the words of an Apostle, but just what I should say had not come to me, short of simply asking, “Why haven’t you gone to the temple?” Tomorrow I would ask her.
On the back porch she stopped me. “You wait here. I want to show you something.”
She came from the house with a flat, white box, tattered and crushed, but still with its lid. She sat down beside me and opened it. She lifted out a lace veil from the box.
“This was my mother’s temple veil.” The veil, pure and white, held a sacred aura.
Sister Hunter’s eyes were intense, sparkling. For some time we sat on the back porch steps. Quietly, still composing herself, she asked, “Would you—and your folks—come with me to the temple some day? If I am worthy? Would you stand in for Henry?”
“Need you ask?” I replied, in hushed voice. “Of course.”
For days I thought about Sister Hunter’s temple veil. I had spent too much time worrying about myself. I too wanted to attend the temple and consecrate my service. The goshawk, Dad said, had to keep flying, and it too, after long hours, must have wondered about going on, wondered how it might finish what it had started. Sister Hunter had somehow shown me the continuity I sought between my mission and my present life—simply by being available to serve.