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 âWoom,â 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.
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Heros and Heroines:Sir Winston ChurchillâDefender of Liberty
Summary: As a child largely overlooked by his busy parents, Winston Churchill found motherly love in his nurse, Mrs. Everest (âWoomâ). He bravely walked hand-in-hand with her at Harrow despite ridicule, an act later praised by a classmate. Churchill maintained a lifelong bond with Woom, writing and visiting her and keeping her picture on his desk until he died.
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đ¤ Children
đ¤ Parents
đ¤ Other
Children
Courage
Family
Love
Parenting
Calvinâs Awesome Space Jet
Summary: A child narrates how their brother Calvin carefully built a space jet from blocks. Their mom accidentally dropped and shattered it while moving it, and they both worried about Calvinâs reaction. Calvin responded with forgiveness and calmly rebuilt the jet, teaching the narrator to be more forgiving with family.
There were two times when I saw my brotherâs space jet in pieces. The first time was right after he opened the package.
âWhoa, thatâs cool!â 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.
âWhat are you going to make?â 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.
âI think itâs about time for Calvinâs jet to move upstairs,â 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.
âOh no!â 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, Iâd probably do all three. He had worked so hard on that jet!
âHey, Mom!â Calvin said, sliding open the van door and hopping inside. âToday was way fun! First we learned about why plants need sunlight, and after that âŚâ
His voice trailed off as he looked at us. âIs something wrong?â
Mom turned around in her seat.
âToday 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. Iâm so sorry! It broke apart, and we couldnât figure out how to put it back together.â
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 thenâ
He smiled a little. âItâs OK, Mom.â
What? I could tell Mom was as surprised as I was.
âReally, itâs OK. I can fix it. Donât worry about it. I forgive you.â
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 tooâeven when everything seems to fall apart.
âWhoa, thatâs cool!â 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.
âWhat are you going to make?â 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.
âI think itâs about time for Calvinâs jet to move upstairs,â 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.
âOh no!â 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, Iâd probably do all three. He had worked so hard on that jet!
âHey, Mom!â Calvin said, sliding open the van door and hopping inside. âToday was way fun! First we learned about why plants need sunlight, and after that âŚâ
His voice trailed off as he looked at us. âIs something wrong?â
Mom turned around in her seat.
âToday 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. Iâm so sorry! It broke apart, and we couldnât figure out how to put it back together.â
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 thenâ
He smiled a little. âItâs OK, Mom.â
What? I could tell Mom was as surprised as I was.
âReally, itâs OK. I can fix it. Donât worry about it. I forgive you.â
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 tooâeven when everything seems to fall apart.
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đ¤ Parents
đ¤ Children
Children
Family
Forgiveness
Kindness
Patience
In Memoriam:Elder Bruce R. McConkie,Advocate for Truth
Summary: As a university student after his mission, Bruce R. McConkie formed a habit of mentally outlining gospel sermons while walking to and from school. He selected topics, added scriptures, and organized supporting material in his mind each day. This practice sharpened his doctrinal analysis and was reflected in his well-organized sermons.
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.
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đ¤ General Authorities (Modern)
đ¤ Young Adults
Education
Missionary Work
Scriptures
Teaching the Gospel
Things Not Seen
Summary: While completing a physics dissertation at UC Berkeley, the speaker researched pionânucleon interactions despite never directly seeing a pion or nucleon. Using a cyclotron, detectors, and observed voltage signals, he inferred what occurred and published his findings. He uses this to illustrate that unseen realities can be reliably understood through their effects.
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 wasnât tangible; I couldnât get hold of it.
I wrote my dissertation on pions without ever seeing any pions. I donât 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.
I wrote my dissertation on pions without ever seeing any pions. I donât 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.
Read more â
đ¤ Other
Education
Faith
Religion and Science
Truth
Cheering Each Other On
Summary: At the USA Masters Track and Field National Championship, 100-year-old Orville Rogers ran the 1,500 meters, trailing far behind and finishing last. As he began his final lap, the crowd rose to cheer, helping him find the strength to finish and be embraced by competitors. Despite always finishing last, he broke five world records in his 100-plus age division. The account illustrates how support and fair judgment can recognize individual challenges and achievements.
Recently I read of an experience that touched me deeply. It took place at the USA Masters Track and Field National Championshipâa competition for seniors.
One of the participants in the 1,500-meter event was 100-year-old Orville Rogers. The author writes:
âWhen 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 trackâcompletely, silently, and uncomfortably alone.
â[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.â
This was Orvilleâs 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 shouldnât have even competed at his ageâthat he didnât 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 didnât break any rules, and the officials didnât lower any standards. He ran the same race and fulfilled the same requirements as all the other competitors. But his degree of difficultyâin this case, his age and limited physical capacityâwas 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 theyâre 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 didnât 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 Saviorâs love in action. When Orville finished, they all rejoiced together.
One of the participants in the 1,500-meter event was 100-year-old Orville Rogers. The author writes:
âWhen 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 trackâcompletely, silently, and uncomfortably alone.
â[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.â
This was Orvilleâs 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 shouldnât have even competed at his ageâthat he didnât 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 didnât break any rules, and the officials didnât lower any standards. He ran the same race and fulfilled the same requirements as all the other competitors. But his degree of difficultyâin this case, his age and limited physical capacityâwas 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 theyâre 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 didnât 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 Saviorâs love in action. When Orville finished, they all rejoiced together.
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đ¤ Other
Adversity
Courage
Gratitude
Humility
Judging Others
Kindness
Love
Joseph Smith: Loving Friend of Children
Summary: On a rainy day, Margarette and her brother Wallace became stuck in mud near the Prophet Josephâs Red Brick Store while hurrying to school. As they cried, Joseph Smith came, lifted them out, cleaned their shoes, and comforted them. They happily continued on their way, feeling his friendship to children.
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 Josephâs 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.
âOh, what shall we do?â 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 brotherâs 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.
âHe is every childâs best friend,â Margarette told Wallace. He smiled in agreement.
âOh, what shall we do?â 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 brotherâs 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.
âHe is every childâs best friend,â Margarette told Wallace. He smiled in agreement.
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đ¤ Joseph Smith
đ¤ Children
Children
Friendship
Joseph Smith
Kindness
Service
âAnd out of Small Things Proceedeth That which is Greatâ
Summary: After World War II in South Africa, the speakerâs baby sister Gillian died during emergency surgery while their father was away at sea. Missionaries had recently begun teaching the mother, and she learned comforting doctrine about little children. Unknown to the family until reading her diary decades later, the mission president sent his car and a driver to help her with funeral and other arrangements. This simple kindness had long-lasting effects.
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 âlittle children are alive in Christ, even from the foundation of the worldâ (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.
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 âlittle children are alive in Christ, even from the foundation of the worldâ (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.
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đ¤ Missionaries
đ¤ Church Leaders (Local)
đ¤ Parents
đ¤ Children
đ¤ Other
Death
Gratitude
Grief
Ministering
Missionary Work
Up from Down Under
Summary: Two Australian missionaries serving in Alabama are surprised by how their foreign accents and backgrounds attract attention from the people they teach. Despite cultural adjustments, both Elder Brooks and Elder McKim say their missions have changed their lives and strengthened their testimonies.
The article concludes by noting that as the Church grows worldwide, missionaries will increasingly come from other countries to serve in America, reversing the pattern of early missionary work.
When my mission call came, I read the letter until I got to where it said âBirmingham.â I thought, well, itâs 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.â
Thatâs how Elder Terrence John Brooks of Perth, Australia, discovered he would be heading north to serve in the South.
âI got to Alabama in February 1984. So far Iâve served in Sylacauga, Florence, Bessemer, and now Iâm in Montgomery.â
And in Montgomery a surprise was in store.
âWhen I got my mission call to Alabama, I laughed,â said Elder Graeme Thomas McKim of Adelaide, Australia. âIt 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 couldnât 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.
âMy first assignment was in Troy for four months. Then came transfers.â
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.
âMost people think weâre English,â Elder McKim said.
âSomeone told me I had a nice South Dakota accent,â Elder Brooks chimed in. âA man in Florence asked me if I could understand English better than I could speak it.â
The elders are quick to add, however, that they are in the South to preach the gospel, not to talk about their homeland.
âThe fact that we are âforeignâ stirs a desire in people to speak to us,â Elder McKim said. âThey 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. Itâs the same with the members, too. We are the first Australians many of them have ever known.â
âBut laboring here in Montgomery with another Australian only makes a difference as far as the initial reaction,â Elder Brooks said. âIt doesnât make a great deal of difference as far as teaching the gospel is concerned.
âTo 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.â
Elder McKim agreed. âIâve had several spiritual experiences since coming on my mission, but the one that comes to mind happened in Troy. Weâd been working all day, but we hadnât 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.
âAt 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!â
Elder McKim, 19, was actually born in Glasgow, Scotland. âWe 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.
âI 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 wasnât to put it off. I talked to my bishop and put my papers in. And Iâm 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 didnât think of before are now so important.â
Elder Brooksâs story is quite different.
âI 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 didnât 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 didnât have someone like Moses on the earth.
âSince I was 23 when I joined the Church I thought Iâd 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.
âMy 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 upsetâthey 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 familyâs attitudes. And now they are actually having a friendship with the missionaries at home. I donât know if theyâre being taught or not, but there was a time when they wouldnât even let missionaries in the door.â
Both Elder Brooks and Elder McKim say theyâve had to adapt a little to life in the States. âThe biggest adjustment is to cars being driven on the wrong side of the road!â Elder McKim said. âSeveral times my companions have saved my neck as Iâve gone to walk out in front of an oncoming car,â Elder Brooks agreed.
Theyâve 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.
âOne 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,â 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 landâAmerica.
Thatâs how Elder Terrence John Brooks of Perth, Australia, discovered he would be heading north to serve in the South.
âI got to Alabama in February 1984. So far Iâve served in Sylacauga, Florence, Bessemer, and now Iâm in Montgomery.â
And in Montgomery a surprise was in store.
âWhen I got my mission call to Alabama, I laughed,â said Elder Graeme Thomas McKim of Adelaide, Australia. âIt 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 couldnât 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.
âMy first assignment was in Troy for four months. Then came transfers.â
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.
âMost people think weâre English,â Elder McKim said.
âSomeone told me I had a nice South Dakota accent,â Elder Brooks chimed in. âA man in Florence asked me if I could understand English better than I could speak it.â
The elders are quick to add, however, that they are in the South to preach the gospel, not to talk about their homeland.
âThe fact that we are âforeignâ stirs a desire in people to speak to us,â Elder McKim said. âThey 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. Itâs the same with the members, too. We are the first Australians many of them have ever known.â
âBut laboring here in Montgomery with another Australian only makes a difference as far as the initial reaction,â Elder Brooks said. âIt doesnât make a great deal of difference as far as teaching the gospel is concerned.
âTo 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.â
Elder McKim agreed. âIâve had several spiritual experiences since coming on my mission, but the one that comes to mind happened in Troy. Weâd been working all day, but we hadnât 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.
âAt 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!â
Elder McKim, 19, was actually born in Glasgow, Scotland. âWe 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.
âI 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 wasnât to put it off. I talked to my bishop and put my papers in. And Iâm 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 didnât think of before are now so important.â
Elder Brooksâs story is quite different.
âI 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 didnât 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 didnât have someone like Moses on the earth.
âSince I was 23 when I joined the Church I thought Iâd 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.
âMy 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 upsetâthey 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 familyâs attitudes. And now they are actually having a friendship with the missionaries at home. I donât know if theyâre being taught or not, but there was a time when they wouldnât even let missionaries in the door.â
Both Elder Brooks and Elder McKim say theyâve had to adapt a little to life in the States. âThe biggest adjustment is to cars being driven on the wrong side of the road!â Elder McKim said. âSeveral times my companions have saved my neck as Iâve gone to walk out in front of an oncoming car,â Elder Brooks agreed.
Theyâve 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.
âOne 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,â 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 landâAmerica.
Read more â
đ¤ Missionaries
đ¤ Parents
đ¤ Friends
Diversity and Unity in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
Missionary Work
Aylesbury Member Preserves Remembrance Sunday
Summary: Marusia Lawrence, a longtime Aylesbury Ward member, raised funds in 2018 to purchase silhouette memorials for her village and succeeded in obtaining two. In 2019 she organized a Remembrance Service, arranging for a trumpet performance of the Last Post and meaningful wartime poetry readings. The service concluded with the national anthem and community fellowship, where attendees expressed gratitude for peace since 1945 and reflected on resonant quotes from World War II soldiers.
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 âUnknown Tommyâ, 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 friendâRichard Godivalaâto play the âLast Postâ 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 âIn Flanders Fieldâ by John McCrae (Canadian poet, soldier, and physician, who died in 1918 in France) and then a reading of âFor The Fallen,â 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, Cooperâs Barn. Marusia said these quotes made by World War II soldiers truly resonated at this Remembrance Service:
âFor your tomorrow they gave their today.â
âAttitude, gratitude and service before self brings happiness and fulfilment in lifeâ
âBrave soldiers laid down their lives for everyone to bring peace into the world.â
In 2018, she made a house-to-house collection hoping to raise enough funds to purchase a silent soldier (also known as âUnknown Tommyâ, 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 friendâRichard Godivalaâto play the âLast Postâ 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 âIn Flanders Fieldâ by John McCrae (Canadian poet, soldier, and physician, who died in 1918 in France) and then a reading of âFor The Fallen,â 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, Cooperâs Barn. Marusia said these quotes made by World War II soldiers truly resonated at this Remembrance Service:
âFor your tomorrow they gave their today.â
âAttitude, gratitude and service before self brings happiness and fulfilment in lifeâ
âBrave soldiers laid down their lives for everyone to bring peace into the world.â
Read more â
đ¤ Church Members (General)
đ¤ Friends
đ¤ Other
Death
Gratitude
Music
Peace
Reverence
Service
War
Snow on Fire
Summary: On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, Erastus left Vermont with Hazen Aldrich to meet the Prophet in Kirtland, his father giving permission and $15. Despite winter storms, they reached Kirtland where Erastus met Joseph Smith, boarded with the Smiths, preached locally, and studied in Sidney Rigdonâs grammar school.
After the brilliant red, yellow, and orange autumn leaves had fallen and winterâs 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 youngsterâs pocket.
Despite winter storms that blocked their boat on Lake Erie, Erastus and Hazen Aldrich managed to reach Kirtland, Ohio, early in December 1835âa 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. âDuring the winter I continued to preach on the Sabbath in Kirtland and the surrounding neighborhood,â he said, âand attended grammar school during the week, which was taught by Sidney Rigdon.â
Despite winter storms that blocked their boat on Lake Erie, Erastus and Hazen Aldrich managed to reach Kirtland, Ohio, early in December 1835âa 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. âDuring the winter I continued to preach on the Sabbath in Kirtland and the surrounding neighborhood,â he said, âand attended grammar school during the week, which was taught by Sidney Rigdon.â
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đ¤ Early Saints
đ¤ Missionaries
đ¤ Joseph Smith
đ¤ Youth
đ¤ Parents
Adversity
Education
Joseph Smith
Missionary Work
Temples
The Restoration
Young Men
Greedy Spider and Clever Turtle
Summary: Spider begrudgingly invites Turtle to dinner but uses rude pretenses to keep all the food for himself. Months later, Turtle invites Spider to an underwater meal; Spider tries to sink by filling his pockets with pebbles, but Turtle requires him to remove his jacket, sending him to the surface. Spider realizes he has been repaid in kind and returns home wiser.
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 Spiderâs shiftless, greedy ways.
âWell,â sighed Spider, âI suppose I shall have to prepare my own supper.â
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.
âWhat now?â mumbled Spider to himself. He opened the door a tiny crack to see a bedraggled turtle staring at him.
âCould you ⌠would you ⌠,â began Turtle, standing on his hind legs and sniffing hungrily at the delicious aroma that floated through the doorway, âspare a bite for a weary traveler?â
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.
âTsk, tsk, my friend,â said Spider loudly. âWhere are your manners? Just look at your filthy hands! You must wash them before coming to my table.â
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 Spiderâs table. The dish of yams was half-gone, and several fish had been devoured. Eagerly Turtle reached again.
âDear friend,â scolded Spider even more loudly. âYou surely donât call those hands clean!â
âBut the dust from your path ⌠,â began Turtle. He stopped. He didnât 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 Spiderâs lips. The bowl of yams was licked clean.
âA delectable dinner, wouldnât you agree?â said Spider, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
âTo be sure!â answered Turtle disgustedly. âIf you are ever near my home, you must let me repay your hospitality.â
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.
âWell, well,â said Turtle, smiling. âAt last you have come. You will stay to supper, of course.â
âOf course,â answered Spider eagerly.
âWait here,â said Turtle. âIt will take a short while to prepare.â He disappeared beneath the water. Before long he popped to the surface, munching a juicy clam. âItâs ready,â 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 couldnât 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 Turtleâs 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.
âTsk, tsk,â said Turtle loudly. âWhere are your manners? It is very rude to come to my table wearing your jacket. You must remove it at once.â
Greedy Spider didnât 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.
âWell,â sighed Spider, âI suppose I shall have to prepare my own supper.â
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.
âWhat now?â mumbled Spider to himself. He opened the door a tiny crack to see a bedraggled turtle staring at him.
âCould you ⌠would you ⌠,â began Turtle, standing on his hind legs and sniffing hungrily at the delicious aroma that floated through the doorway, âspare a bite for a weary traveler?â
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.
âTsk, tsk, my friend,â said Spider loudly. âWhere are your manners? Just look at your filthy hands! You must wash them before coming to my table.â
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 Spiderâs table. The dish of yams was half-gone, and several fish had been devoured. Eagerly Turtle reached again.
âDear friend,â scolded Spider even more loudly. âYou surely donât call those hands clean!â
âBut the dust from your path ⌠,â began Turtle. He stopped. He didnât 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 Spiderâs lips. The bowl of yams was licked clean.
âA delectable dinner, wouldnât you agree?â said Spider, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
âTo be sure!â answered Turtle disgustedly. âIf you are ever near my home, you must let me repay your hospitality.â
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.
âWell, well,â said Turtle, smiling. âAt last you have come. You will stay to supper, of course.â
âOf course,â answered Spider eagerly.
âWait here,â said Turtle. âIt will take a short while to prepare.â He disappeared beneath the water. Before long he popped to the surface, munching a juicy clam. âItâs ready,â 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 couldnât 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 Turtleâs 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.
âTsk, tsk,â said Turtle loudly. âWhere are your manners? It is very rude to come to my table wearing your jacket. You must remove it at once.â
Greedy Spider didnât 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.
Read more â
đ¤ Other
Agency and Accountability
Charity
Humility
Judging Others
Turning Their Hearts to the Family
Summary: For a school assignment, Katie Daines researched her great-great-grandparents Nels and Ingra Carlson, Swedish converts who emigrated and had a child while waiting in New York harbor before settling in Utah. Seeing the same harbor today connects her to their journey. Their faith and pioneering courage inspire her to stand as a pioneer for her beliefs at school.
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.
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.
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đ¤ Youth
đ¤ Pioneers
đ¤ Church Members (General)
Conversion
Courage
Faith
Family History
Young Women
Just a Prayer Away
Summary: After a frightening nightmare, Prodi checks on his sleeping family and struggles to fall back asleep. Remembering a Primary song and his teacherâs counsel, he kneels to pray for safety and peace. He quickly feels calm and sleeps through the night, later telling his mother how prayer helped him.
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, CĂŠlia, 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 wasnât 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 childâs 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.
âDear Heavenly Father,â he prayed, âIâm really scared. Please keep my family safe. And please help me to go to sleep and not have any more bad dreams.â
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. CĂŠlia was at the table eating leftover cassava. Mama was warming some up for him to eat too.
âBonjour,â Mama said. âHow did you sleep?â
âI had a really scary nightmare,â Prodi said. âBut then I said a prayer. Heavenly Father helped me feel safe.â
âIâm sorry you had a bad dream,â Mama said. She hugged Prodi close and didnât let go for a long time. âBut Iâm so glad you said a prayer. It sounds like praying really helped you.â
âIt did,â said Prodi. âI was able to fall asleep again, and I didnât have any more bad dreams.â 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!
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, CĂŠlia, 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 wasnât 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 childâs 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.
âDear Heavenly Father,â he prayed, âIâm really scared. Please keep my family safe. And please help me to go to sleep and not have any more bad dreams.â
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. CĂŠlia was at the table eating leftover cassava. Mama was warming some up for him to eat too.
âBonjour,â Mama said. âHow did you sleep?â
âI had a really scary nightmare,â Prodi said. âBut then I said a prayer. Heavenly Father helped me feel safe.â
âIâm sorry you had a bad dream,â Mama said. She hugged Prodi close and didnât let go for a long time. âBut Iâm so glad you said a prayer. It sounds like praying really helped you.â
âIt did,â said Prodi. âI was able to fall asleep again, and I didnât have any more bad dreams.â 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!
Read more â
đ¤ Children
đ¤ Parents
đ¤ Church Members (General)
Children
Faith
Family
Peace
Prayer
Testimony
The Book with Answers
Summary: The narrator, troubled by the fate of Native Americans who never heard the gospel, searches for answers in the Bible but finds none. After meeting Latter-day Saint missionaries and receiving a Book of Mormon, he prays, reads, and feels his questions about the ancient Americans are answered. He then investigates the Church, gains a testimony, and is baptized on Easter Sunday, 1991.
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 couldnât 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, âIt was a pleasure to be able to help you. One day we would like to meet you.â
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 churchâto 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 didnât 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 feelingâan interior warmth. I knew I was not alone at that moment. A thought came instantly into my head: âRead the book!â
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 baptismâthe 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.
I searched for answers in the Bible, but I couldnât 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, âIt was a pleasure to be able to help you. One day we would like to meet you.â
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 churchâto 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 didnât 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 feelingâan interior warmth. I knew I was not alone at that moment. A thought came instantly into my head: âRead the book!â
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 baptismâthe 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.
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đ¤ Other
Atonement of Jesus Christ
Baptisms for the Dead
Bible
Doubt
Jesus Christ
Missionary Work
Plan of Salvation
Our Lord and Savior
Summary: In 1989, Elder Haight became critically ill and was rushed unconscious to the hospital. While unconscious, he found himself in a calm, holy setting and became aware of two persons on a hillside. Over the following hours and days, powerful spiritual impressions confirmed to him the eternal mission and exalted position of Jesus Christ. He testified that he then knew these truths in a most unusual way.
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 âin 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 beforeâI 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 wayâ (Ensign, Nov. 1989, pp. 59â60).
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đ¤ General Authorities (Modern)
Apostle
Atonement of Jesus Christ
Death
Forgiveness
Health
Holy Ghost
Jesus Christ
Mercy
Miracles
Revelation
Testimony
Sharing the Harvest
Summary: June and her Grandpa plant, water, and weed a large garden together. When the harvest is abundant, they decide to share with neighbors and ward members who could use fresh produce. They sort vegetables into sacks, deliver them by wagon, and feel happy afterward. June concludes that sharing the vegetables was the most fun of all.
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. âJune, here are some nice big green peppers. Do you think that they are ready to pick?â
June stooped down to look. âYup.â She carefully picked one and held it up to Grandpa for final approval.
âYup,â Grandpa agreed. âJust right.â
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. âIf we plant these instead of seeds, weâll get vegetables sooner,â Grandpa explained. âI just canât wait to pop a ripe tomato into my mouth!â 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. âWeeds drink up all the water,â Grandpa explained. âNow what is this I see?â
June squatted next to Grandpa to have a look. âDoes it look like the plants around it?â Grandpa asked.
June compared the green plant to those near it. âNope.â
âWeed or vegetable?â
âWeed,â June stated firmly and pulled it out with a hard jerk.
âYup,â Grandpa said with a big smile, âyou sure are a good gardener.â
June looked up at Grandpa. âWow, Grandpa, we sure have lots of vegetables!â
âYup, with lots more to come!â 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. âWell, June, do you think we can eat all these vegetables ourselves?â
âNope. We couldnât eat that many in a hundred years.â
âYouâre right,â Grandpa replied with a chuckle. âWell then, what do you think we should do with them all? I hate to waste any of our hard work.â
June thought a moment. She was proud of the vegetables and didnât want to waste any, either. âI know! Letâs share them!â
âNow, thatâs what I call a good idea! But who do you think would want some?â
June didnât have to think very hard. âSister Rencher doesnât have a garden since she canât bend down to pull weeds anymore. I bet she would like some.â
âYup,â said Grandpa thoughtfully. âWho else?â
Juneâs mind was working fast. âSister Rice works all day. She doesnât have time to plant and care for a garden.â
âGood thinking, June. And the Sorensonâs next door donât have room in their yard for a garden. I bet they would like some.â
âMay we give some vegetables to my Primary teacher, Sister Johnson?â June asked. âI know she would like them.â
âYup,â Grandpa said. âNow, how many people is that?â
June counted on her fingers. âSister Rencher is one. Sister Rice is two. The Sorensons are three, and Sister Johnson makes four.â
Grandpa scratched his gray head. âHow can we get all these vegetables to all those people?â
âI know! I know!â She jumped up and went into the house. Soon she was back, carrying four big brown grocery sacks. âWe can put vegetables in a different sack for each person!â
âThatâs a great idea,â Grandpa said. Together June and Grandpa thoughtfully chose vegetables for each person and carefully put them into the sacks.
âHow can we get the sacks of vegetables to the people?â Grandpa asked.
âCan we take them in our wagon?â
âYup. I think that will work.â Grandpa said. âYou always have such good ideas! Now, who should we visit first?â
âThe Sorensons. Theyâre the closest.â
Later, June held Grandpaâs hand as they pulled the empty wagon home. They had delivered all their vegetables. Juneâs small hand felt warm and secure inside Grandpaâs big one. She felt good inside.
âGrandpa, itâs sure fun to plant a garden. Itâs even more fun to weed and water it. But do you know whatâs the most fun of all?â
âWhat?â
âSharing the vegetables.â
âYup,â said Grandpa with a big smile.
June stooped down to look. âYup.â She carefully picked one and held it up to Grandpa for final approval.
âYup,â Grandpa agreed. âJust right.â
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. âIf we plant these instead of seeds, weâll get vegetables sooner,â Grandpa explained. âI just canât wait to pop a ripe tomato into my mouth!â 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. âWeeds drink up all the water,â Grandpa explained. âNow what is this I see?â
June squatted next to Grandpa to have a look. âDoes it look like the plants around it?â Grandpa asked.
June compared the green plant to those near it. âNope.â
âWeed or vegetable?â
âWeed,â June stated firmly and pulled it out with a hard jerk.
âYup,â Grandpa said with a big smile, âyou sure are a good gardener.â
June looked up at Grandpa. âWow, Grandpa, we sure have lots of vegetables!â
âYup, with lots more to come!â 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. âWell, June, do you think we can eat all these vegetables ourselves?â
âNope. We couldnât eat that many in a hundred years.â
âYouâre right,â Grandpa replied with a chuckle. âWell then, what do you think we should do with them all? I hate to waste any of our hard work.â
June thought a moment. She was proud of the vegetables and didnât want to waste any, either. âI know! Letâs share them!â
âNow, thatâs what I call a good idea! But who do you think would want some?â
June didnât have to think very hard. âSister Rencher doesnât have a garden since she canât bend down to pull weeds anymore. I bet she would like some.â
âYup,â said Grandpa thoughtfully. âWho else?â
Juneâs mind was working fast. âSister Rice works all day. She doesnât have time to plant and care for a garden.â
âGood thinking, June. And the Sorensonâs next door donât have room in their yard for a garden. I bet they would like some.â
âMay we give some vegetables to my Primary teacher, Sister Johnson?â June asked. âI know she would like them.â
âYup,â Grandpa said. âNow, how many people is that?â
June counted on her fingers. âSister Rencher is one. Sister Rice is two. The Sorensons are three, and Sister Johnson makes four.â
Grandpa scratched his gray head. âHow can we get all these vegetables to all those people?â
âI know! I know!â She jumped up and went into the house. Soon she was back, carrying four big brown grocery sacks. âWe can put vegetables in a different sack for each person!â
âThatâs a great idea,â Grandpa said. Together June and Grandpa thoughtfully chose vegetables for each person and carefully put them into the sacks.
âHow can we get the sacks of vegetables to the people?â Grandpa asked.
âCan we take them in our wagon?â
âYup. I think that will work.â Grandpa said. âYou always have such good ideas! Now, who should we visit first?â
âThe Sorensons. Theyâre the closest.â
Later, June held Grandpaâs hand as they pulled the empty wagon home. They had delivered all their vegetables. Juneâs small hand felt warm and secure inside Grandpaâs big one. She felt good inside.
âGrandpa, itâs sure fun to plant a garden. Itâs even more fun to weed and water it. But do you know whatâs the most fun of all?â
âWhat?â
âSharing the vegetables.â
âYup,â said Grandpa with a big smile.
Read more â
đ¤ Children
đ¤ Church Members (General)
Charity
Children
Family
Kindness
Ministering
Parenting
Self-Reliance
Service
Building the Kingdom in Australia
Summary: Callan Brooks, a fifth-generation builder in Australia, has not let hearing impairment stop him from working in construction or serving in the Church. After his hearing worsened and he became completely deaf for six months, he qualified for a cochlear implant that made it possible for him to serve a full-time mission in Perth.
Now home in Moe, Victoria, he serves in his wardâs Young Men presidency and helps young men build their conversion through the Spirit, the Book of Mormon, and Church programs. His story shows how a trial became an answer to his prayers and a way to strengthen his testimony and service.
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, youâd never guess that he is hearing impaired. But it hasnât slowed him down. To Callan, it seems he was born to do this. And perhaps he wasâfor five generations his family has been builders.
âWhen I was 15, I left school to start my apprenticeship,â he says. âIf you find an apprenticeship you like, itâs common among Australians to leave school and do that full time.â Callan has been building ever since. Whether heâs constructing homes, bolstering his own testimony, or magnifying a calling, Callan is consistently engaged in building Godâs kingdom.
Just as his hearing loss hasnât held him back from his work in construction, it hasnât hindered his desire to learn and preach the gospel.
âWhile growing up, I barely understood 10 percent of what was said from the pulpit,â Callan says. He wanted to serve a full-time mission but didnât qualify because of his hearing. However, he prayed and trusted that the Lordâs will would be done. Then something unexpected happened: Callanâs hearing worsened.
âWhen I was 18, I was completely deaf for six long months. I went to church for the feelings, because thatâs all I got out of it,â 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 wardâs 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.
âWe try to lead the young men to experience their own conversion through reading the Book of Mormon and utilizing Church programs,â he says.
The impact of this fifth-generation builderâs work is obvious, through his work on buildings, his witness of the gospel, and his mentoring of young men in his ward.
Watching Callan work, youâd never guess that he is hearing impaired. But it hasnât slowed him down. To Callan, it seems he was born to do this. And perhaps he wasâfor five generations his family has been builders.
âWhen I was 15, I left school to start my apprenticeship,â he says. âIf you find an apprenticeship you like, itâs common among Australians to leave school and do that full time.â Callan has been building ever since. Whether heâs constructing homes, bolstering his own testimony, or magnifying a calling, Callan is consistently engaged in building Godâs kingdom.
Just as his hearing loss hasnât held him back from his work in construction, it hasnât hindered his desire to learn and preach the gospel.
âWhile growing up, I barely understood 10 percent of what was said from the pulpit,â Callan says. He wanted to serve a full-time mission but didnât qualify because of his hearing. However, he prayed and trusted that the Lordâs will would be done. Then something unexpected happened: Callanâs hearing worsened.
âWhen I was 18, I was completely deaf for six long months. I went to church for the feelings, because thatâs all I got out of it,â 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 wardâs 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.
âWe try to lead the young men to experience their own conversion through reading the Book of Mormon and utilizing Church programs,â he says.
The impact of this fifth-generation builderâs work is obvious, through his work on buildings, his witness of the gospel, and his mentoring of young men in his ward.
Read more â
đ¤ Missionaries
đ¤ Young Adults
đ¤ Other
Adversity
Disabilities
Faith
Holy Ghost
Miracles
Missionary Work
Prayer
Testimony
The Debt You Owe
Summary: During construction of the St. George Tabernacle, $800 was needed to retrieve window glass shipped to California. After the community raised only $200, Danish immigrant Peter Neilson spent a sleepless night and decided to donate his hidden savings of $600 in gold. He walked before dawn to deliver the money to David H. Cannon, enabling the glass to be obtained. Peter returned home, leaving his small house unexpanded for the rest of his life.
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 panesâ2,244 of themâbecause 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 freightersâ 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 Cannonâs door. There stood Peter Neilson, holding a red bandanna which sagged under the weight it carried. âGood morning, David,â said Peter. âI hope I am not too late. You will know what to do with this money.â
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, 311â13.)
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 freightersâ 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 Cannonâs door. There stood Peter Neilson, holding a red bandanna which sagged under the weight it carried. âGood morning, David,â said Peter. âI hope I am not too late. You will know what to do with this money.â
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, 311â13.)
Read more â
đ¤ Pioneers
đ¤ Church Members (General)
đ¤ Church Leaders (Local)
Consecration
Conversion
Faith
Prayer
Revelation
Sacrifice
Temples
Letter from a Loving Brother
Summary: On her sixteenth birthday, the author missed her older brother Gary, who was serving a mission in Japan. A handwritten letter from him miraculously arrived on the exact day, offering counsel about living gospel standards and strengthening her during that pivotal time. Years later, she still treasures the letter and now sustains Gary as an Apostle, finding added strength in his ongoing counsel.
Sixteen! What a time of life! âNobody should have to go through this alone,â 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. âWhenever I talk to him, things make more sense,â I said to myself. âI wish he could be here right now.â
But he wasnât. 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 hadnât 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:
âDear Merilee:
âWell, you have got the big birthday coming up, donât you? I guess when you get this letter it will already be past. I canât believe itâyou are 16 years old. It seems like only a few years ago when you used to [wear your little red cowboy hat].
âStay sweet and pure, and always let everyone know that the Church means a lot to you. If you do that, you wonât 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 didnât 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 didnât do that. âŚ
âIf you let people know your standards, then people with your standards are attracted to you. I donât 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 âSweet 16â Birthday!â The last sentence was underlined in red. No other birthday present couldâve 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.
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. âWhenever I talk to him, things make more sense,â I said to myself. âI wish he could be here right now.â
But he wasnât. 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 hadnât 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:
âDear Merilee:
âWell, you have got the big birthday coming up, donât you? I guess when you get this letter it will already be past. I canât believe itâyou are 16 years old. It seems like only a few years ago when you used to [wear your little red cowboy hat].
âStay sweet and pure, and always let everyone know that the Church means a lot to you. If you do that, you wonât 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 didnât 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 didnât do that. âŚ
âIf you let people know your standards, then people with your standards are attracted to you. I donât 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 âSweet 16â Birthday!â The last sentence was underlined in red. No other birthday present couldâve 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.
Read more â
đ¤ Missionaries
đ¤ General Authorities (Modern)
đ¤ Parents
đ¤ Youth
Apostle
Chastity
Dating and Courtship
Family
Friendship
Missionary Work
Virtue
Word of Wisdom
Young Women
The Goshawk
Summary: After noticing Sister Hunter struggling with her garden, the narrator helps fix her rototiller, tends her garden, and with a friend repairs her truck and washing machine. They continue serving her, even cleaning her windows, and feel prompted that more is needed. Following prayer, he visits her; she shares the struggle of waiting for her husbandâs conversion and shows her motherâs temple veil, asking the narrator and his parents to accompany her to the temple and stand in for her late husband.
Two months now. Michele and Shawna were gone, Dad was in Houston on business, Mom was playing golf in Provoâand 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 âreturned missionary.â 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 thereâbecome 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 rototillerâjust as I had seen her husband do. Ohâit struck me: Brother Hunter had died of a heart attack a few weeks into my mission. How could IâI hated to even think the wordâforget? 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 hadnât 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, âItâs the carburetor.â
âThis pesky machine,â she said, âI want to kick it.â 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 oilânothing 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, âYouâre a wonder. I never could have done that.â
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 hadnât 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, âWouldnât Henry be proud?â
Several âsituationsââshe refused to call them problemsâplagued 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 Hunterâs faded-blond retriever. He wasnât 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 Hunterâs we guzzled lemonade while taking breaks from her washing machine. I bought some frozen cans of lemonade to replenish her supplyâand threw in a small pot roast for good measure. Mike thought I was nuts, but I wanted to do it. I found out she hadnât 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.
âClean every one of her windows?â
âYeah. Why not?â
âInside and out?â
âSure. Itâs a small house.â
âYouâre out of your tree.â
âSo?â
So we armed ourselves with squeegees, clean rags, and spray bottles of glass cleaner and assaulted Sister Hunterâs 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 hadnât 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 brewerâs yeast milk shakes I asked her about the Huntersâ temple sealing. Mom shrugged. âI donât know what happened. Since her husband died she has stayed pretty much to herself.â
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 Hunterâs blue kitchen.
âI appreciate you and Mike so much,â she said over her apples. âIâm an old sourpuss, I know. Iâm too set in my ways. Wonât even talk to Bishop Thompson that much, but the home teachers are a blessing. Those young rascals think I canât do for myself. But I can.â She glanced up at me. âSince Henry passed away, Iâve had to.â She went back to slicing apples, their whiteness glistening under her knife. Then she stopped and looked up at me again. âI 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 trueâtrue to what I felt. You know, youâre the first one to take a real interest. And I donât know how to say thanks.â
Like the goshawk, Sister Hunter had fierce eyes. They were light like a hawkâs, but green. She had learned to take care of herselfâto 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 goshawkâs eyes, as in Sister Hunterâs, was a disdain for giving upâfor anything vulgar or hurtfulâa 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 hadnât 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, âWhy havenât you gone to the temple?â Tomorrow I would ask her.
On the back porch she stopped me. âYou wait here. I want to show you something.â
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.
âThis was my motherâs temple veil.â The veil, pure and white, held a sacred aura.
Sister Hunterâs eyes were intense, sparkling. For some time we sat on the back porch steps. Quietly, still composing herself, she asked, âWould youâand your folksâcome with me to the temple some day? If I am worthy? Would you stand in for Henry?â
âNeed you ask?â I replied, in hushed voice. âOf course.â
For days I thought about Sister Hunterâs 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 lifeâsimply by being available to serve.
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 rototillerâjust as I had seen her husband do. Ohâit struck me: Brother Hunter had died of a heart attack a few weeks into my mission. How could IâI hated to even think the wordâforget? 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 hadnât 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, âItâs the carburetor.â
âThis pesky machine,â she said, âI want to kick it.â 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 oilânothing 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, âYouâre a wonder. I never could have done that.â
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 hadnât 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, âWouldnât Henry be proud?â
Several âsituationsââshe refused to call them problemsâplagued 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 Hunterâs faded-blond retriever. He wasnât 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 Hunterâs we guzzled lemonade while taking breaks from her washing machine. I bought some frozen cans of lemonade to replenish her supplyâand threw in a small pot roast for good measure. Mike thought I was nuts, but I wanted to do it. I found out she hadnât 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.
âClean every one of her windows?â
âYeah. Why not?â
âInside and out?â
âSure. Itâs a small house.â
âYouâre out of your tree.â
âSo?â
So we armed ourselves with squeegees, clean rags, and spray bottles of glass cleaner and assaulted Sister Hunterâs 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 hadnât 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 brewerâs yeast milk shakes I asked her about the Huntersâ temple sealing. Mom shrugged. âI donât know what happened. Since her husband died she has stayed pretty much to herself.â
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 Hunterâs blue kitchen.
âI appreciate you and Mike so much,â she said over her apples. âIâm an old sourpuss, I know. Iâm too set in my ways. Wonât even talk to Bishop Thompson that much, but the home teachers are a blessing. Those young rascals think I canât do for myself. But I can.â She glanced up at me. âSince Henry passed away, Iâve had to.â She went back to slicing apples, their whiteness glistening under her knife. Then she stopped and looked up at me again. âI 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 trueâtrue to what I felt. You know, youâre the first one to take a real interest. And I donât know how to say thanks.â
Like the goshawk, Sister Hunter had fierce eyes. They were light like a hawkâs, but green. She had learned to take care of herselfâto 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 goshawkâs eyes, as in Sister Hunterâs, was a disdain for giving upâfor anything vulgar or hurtfulâa 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 hadnât 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, âWhy havenât you gone to the temple?â Tomorrow I would ask her.
On the back porch she stopped me. âYou wait here. I want to show you something.â
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.
âThis was my motherâs temple veil.â The veil, pure and white, held a sacred aura.
Sister Hunterâs eyes were intense, sparkling. For some time we sat on the back porch steps. Quietly, still composing herself, she asked, âWould youâand your folksâcome with me to the temple some day? If I am worthy? Would you stand in for Henry?â
âNeed you ask?â I replied, in hushed voice. âOf course.â
For days I thought about Sister Hunterâs 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 lifeâsimply by being available to serve.
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đ¤ Church Members (General)
đ¤ Young Adults
đ¤ Parents
đ¤ General Authorities (Modern)
Courage
Faith
Grief
Kindness
Ministering
Prayer
Sealing
Service
Temples