Gospel Story Finder

Although Grant Heaton, president of the newly opened Southern Far East Mission, was merely looking for advice about teakwood furniture that August day in 1955, he found much more than that in Ng Kat Hing. He found a language teacher, a convert, a missionary, a Church leader—a true pioneer.
Reaching out to people has always been one of Brother Ng’s talents. In fact, it was his willingness to serve others that put him in even closer contact with the missionaries. After ordering furniture for the mission home, Brother Ng agreed to help President Heaton find someone to teach Cantonese to the missionaries. He talked to several friends, but none of them could help. So he quit his job at the furniture store and taught the missionaries himself. Married and the father of four young children, Brother Ng took a cut in salary with the job change. But he believes it was well worth it.
“I learned the truth,” Brother Ng states simply. “That was a good deal, right? Nothing is more important than that.”
The men took turns learning and teaching. Brother Ng presented basic language lessons, and the missionaries taught gospel discussions. At that time, investigators were taught a total of 18 discussions, so Brother Ng went through several sets of missionaries before hearing all the lessons.
“It took quite a while,” he acknowledges, “but by the time I was baptized, all my questions were answered. I had a strong foundation and a strong testimony.”
Brother Ng was baptized on 31 May 1956. He was one of the first converts after missionary work resumed in Hong Kong following the Korean War.

Katy Mangus was crowned Miss Legend at Oconee County High School’s annual pageant in January 2005. A Laurel in the Athens Second Ward, Athens Georgia Stake, Katy stood out from the other contestants in many ways—but one distinction was the most obvious. Of the 30 contestants who each took the stage in a formal evening gown, Katy was the only one whose dress was modest. When she stood at the microphone to introduce herself and her platform, she explained, “Something that influences our everyday lives—how we feel about ourselves and how we interact with others—is my platform: ‘Making a Difference with Modesty.’”

By choosing to stand for modesty, Katy hoped to set an example for other young people, both in and out of the Church, and to encourage them to take a stand and make a difference through modesty in dress and behavior. She said, “We can influence others for the better by being an example of modesty and setting a higher standard for ourselves.”

When Damien walked into the park, he heard happy music playing. His grandmother was taking him and his little sister, Adele, to ride his favorite carousel. It had a fun game with rings. Damien was excited to show Adele how to play.
Soon they were in line. The carousel was big and colorful, with lots of carved ponies. Smiling kids sat on the ponies and waved as they rode around and around.
“If you pick a pony on the edge, you can play the ring game!” Damien told Adele. “See the sticks the kids are holding? And see the man with the rings?”
Damien pointed to the worker. He stood near the carousel holding out a ring. As they rode by on the carousel, the children tried to put their stick through the ring to catch it. Each time they caught a ring, the worker held out a new one.
Adele clapped her hands. “I want to catch all the rings!” she said.
At last they reached the front of the line. But there was only one more horse left on the carousel.
“Damien,” Grand-mère said, “why don’t we let Adele take this last spot since she’s never ridden it before? You can ride on the next turn.”
“All right,” Damien muttered. He watched the worker help Adele onto the shiny brown pony. Then the worker handed Adele a stick to catch rings.
The music began, and the carousel started to turn. Damien watched Adele from the side with Grand-mère. But Adele was holding the stick backwards! Instead of holding the stick by the big handle, she held it by the long, skinny end used to catch the rings.
“Adele, turn your stick around!” he yelled. But Adele didn’t seem to hear him over the noise. When she passed the ring, her stick tapped it. But the handle was too big to fit inside the ring.
“Adele, your stick!” Damien tried again. “You won’t be able to catch rings if you hold it like that!”
But Adele didn’t hear him. She just smiled and laughed as the carousel spun. Her stick tapped the ring again and again. She didn’t catch a single one.
Damien groaned. Adele was wasting her turn! If he were on the carousel, he would catch all the rings.
When the ride ended, he ran up to Adele.
“I told you how to hold the stick!” he shouted. “Why didn’t you listen to me? You did it all wrong!”
Adele didn’t yell back at Damien. She didn’t cry. She just stood there and looked small, small, small.
Damien’s heart pounded, and his face felt hot. It made him angry to watch Adele miss all those rings! But it was only her first time. Besides, she’d looked like she was having fun. Until now.
Damien felt terrible. He wished he hadn’t yelled at Adele.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “That wasn’t nice of me.”
Adele looked up.
“How about if I give you some tips for catching rings?” Damien said. “I’ll sit next to you on the carousel and help you.”
Adele nodded her head.
Then Damien turned to Grand-mère. “May we have two tickets so Adele can try again?”
Grand-mère smiled. “Of course.”
This story took place in France.
Illustrations by Violet Lemay

The Kingston Ward, Albany New York Stake, really has learned to go the extra mile to succeed. With no gym in which to practice in their meetinghouse, many of the young women have to drive more than half an hour to basketball practices. But for the second year in a row, they have taken the regional championship.
The girls basketball team demonstrated not only their skill but good sportsmanship and love for each other. When they were congratulated by the stake, it was said of them, “You displayed fine sportsmanship and team effort. The team well represented the stake, and we are proud of you.”

As a child, I woke up early during the week, and Sunday was the only day my mother would let me sleep in—that is, until the Christian congregation next door woke me up with their loud singing, preaching, and even crying at times. It’s silly, but because of my annoyance at being woken up every week, I thought Christians were a bit obnoxious.
I later learned that many members of Christian congregations donated their time and even money to their church. I just couldn’t understand why.
Because of these two observations about the Christian churches in my town in India—combined with the fact that my family and I were not Christian—I had little interest in learning more about Christianity.
During my final year of university, my friend invited me to attend his church with him. I was hesitant but eventually agreed.
As I sat in the meeting, singing hymns and listening to messages about Jesus Christ, I felt something different—I felt peace. I attended for a few more weeks and felt the same way each time. But of course, I was just visiting; I wasn’t interested in actually joining.
Some time after I stopped attending church with my friend, I began feeling like I was lacking something in my life. I missed the peace that I’d felt at church with my friend. I had a strong feeling that I should learn more about Jesus Christ, so I decided to meet with the missionaries from my friend’s church. I didn’t even consider what my family might think.
When I met with the missionaries, my life began to change. I learned about the Restoration and the Book of Mormon, and the missionaries helped answer my many questions.
One day I encountered a scripture that said, “Whatsoever thing ye shall ask in faith, … ye shall receive it” (Enos 1:15), and I knew that I wasn’t alone. I felt like God understood my situation and wanted to comfort me. As I came to recognize God’s love for me, I wanted to become a better person. I wanted to become like the Savior and become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
But as my testimony grew, I also encountered obstacles. When my mother found out I was considering baptism, she told me that I would need to leave the house and cut off contact with her. And when I shared truths about the Savior on social media, many friends and members of my extended family blocked my messages and stopped talking to me.
I felt like I was being asked to choose between my family and the gospel—a decision that felt impossible. I was sacrificing so much of what I loved to join the Church. But I knew that if anyone understood sacrifice, it was Jesus Christ (see Alma 34:8–16).
And so I kept trying to draw closer to the Savior. I would even leave home in the middle of the night to pray and read the Book of Mormon so I could avoid my family’s disapproval. Through prayer and faith, I eventually decided that no matter what happened, I would choose the gospel. The joy and purpose I found in the gospel was worth everything to me.
Joining the Church has been a huge sacrifice for me. Serving in my callings, paying tithing, and trying to maintain relationships have been challenging at times. But like those Christian congregations in my town who freely gave to their faith, I know that my sacrifices are about so much more than what I give up.
Bishop L. Todd Budge, Second Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric, explained: “When our sacrifices on behalf of others are viewed from the perspective of ‘giving up,’ we may see them as a burden and become discouraged when our sacrifices are not recognized or rewarded. However, when viewed from the perspective of ‘giving to’ the Lord, our sacrifices on behalf of others become gifts, and the joy of generously giving becomes its own reward.”1
Heavenly Father recognizes and blesses us for the sacrifices we make for Him. I have seen this in my life as I’ve gained the love and support of my ward members, felt peace and comfort from the Spirit, and experienced miracles in my life. One miracle is how my parents’ hearts have softened toward me and we have been able to maintain a good relationship.
I now know who Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are and how much They love each of us. I can feel myself becoming more like the Savior, who is our ultimate example, as I make sacrifices to keep my covenants. As we strive to serve Them in whatever capacity we can, I know we will be guided and experience the many beautiful blessings They have in store for us.

Suzy gripped my arm and dragged me into an empty classroom.
“Debbie, I think I’m going to die.”
“Now look, Suzy,” I said, loosening her fingers from my arm, “I don’t think you can die from giving a talk.”
“But my heart is pounding and I feel sick,” she said. “Maybe I’m going to have a heart attack.”
“Calm down and tell me what I can do to help,” I suggested. Suzy is my best friend. She and I and the other 12-year-olds who were advancing to Young Women had been asked to give talks at a program. It was starting in only a few minutes.
“Maybe you could help me run away,” Suzy said hopefully.
“Suzy, you’re the bishop’s daughter. Everyone expects you to be there. I think they would notice if you were gone.”
“There must be something I can do,” Suzy said as she paced between the door and wall.
“What exactly is the problem?” I asked.
“I didn’t prepare my talk the way I usually do and I don’t have any notes.” She stopped and turned to face me. “My dad said I’m old enough to give a talk from my heart. Now I’m terrified and I won’t remember anything.”
“Can’t you talk to him again?” I asked.
“It’s too late. He said whatever I said would be fine. But I’m afraid I’m going to make a fool of myself. I think the only solution is to run away.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. I knew there must be a better solution to Suzy’s problem. Suddenly a thought came to me. “Come on,” I said, pulling Suzy with me. We went down the hall away from the Primary room toward the chapel. “Let’s go in here and say a prayer,” I said softly. “Then things will be all right.” I opened the heavy door and we peeked inside. The room was empty and a little light shone from somewhere up front.
Suzy and I tiptoed into the chapel and dropped to our knees. I told her I would pray. I asked Heavenly Father to bless Suzy to be able to give her talk, and to bless her with the Spirit so she would be calm and know that He loved her. I don’t remember what else I said. What I do remember is the warm feeling that surrounded me as we knelt in the chapel. I knew without a doubt that Heavenly Father loved Suzy and would help her, and I knew that Heavenly Father loved me too.
After a few moments we got up from our knees and headed to the Primary room to give our talks. Suzy did fine without notes. I will never forget the feeling of complete love that surrounded me as we knelt in the darkened chapel to ask Heavenly Father for help.

Finally, let me share with you one more experience among the Saints of the Pacific that remains deeply and spiritually rooted in my soul. Some years ago I was a young counselor to a bishop in a new ward in American Samoa. We had 99 members, consisting of subsistence farmers, cannery workers, government employees, and their families. When the First Presidency announced in 1977 that a temple was going to be constructed in Samoa, there was joy and thanksgiving expressed by all of us. Going to the temple from American Samoa at that time required traveling either to Hawaii or New Zealand. This was a costly journey that was beyond the reach of many faithful Church members.

During this period of time members were encouraged to donate to a building fund to assist in the construction of temples. In this spirit, our bishopric asked the ward members to prayerfully consider what they could give. A date was set for families to gather to offer their donations. Later, as these donations were opened in private, our bishopric was humbled and touched by the faith and generosity of our wonderful ward members.

Knowing each family and their circumstances, I felt a deep and abiding sense of awe, respect, and humility. These were, in every way, modern-day widow’s mites given freely from their “want,” with a joy in the promised blessing of the construction of a holy temple of the Lord in Samoa. These families had consecrated all that they could to the Lord, with the faith that they would not be left wanting. Their gift manifested their widow’s hearts. All who gave did so willingly and joyfully because the widow’s heart within them could see with the eye of faith the great crowning blessings in store for their families and for all of the people of Samoa and American Samoa for generations to come. I know that their consecrated offerings, their widow’s mites, were known and accepted by the Lord.

Like you, I have felt what King Benjamin meant when he said that we could become like a little child before God. I have prayed, as you have, to know what to do when choices that I faced would have eternal consequences. Over many years I have seen a recurring pattern in the times when the answers to such a prayer have come most clearly.
Once, for instance, I prayed through the night to know what I was to choose to do in the morning. I knew that no other choice could have had a greater effect on the lives of others and on my own. I knew what choice looked most comfortable to me. I knew what outcome I wanted. But I could not see the future. I could not see which choice would lead to which outcome. So the risk of being wrong seemed too great to me.
I prayed, but for hours there seemed to be no answer. Just before dawn, a feeling came over me. More than at any time since I had been a child, I felt like one. My heart and my mind seemed to grow very quiet. There was a peace in that inner stillness.
Somewhat to my surprise, I found myself praying, “Heavenly Father, it doesn’t matter what I want. I don’t care anymore what I want. I only want that Thy will be done. That is all that I want. Please tell me what to do.”
In that moment I felt as quiet inside as I had ever felt. And the message came, and I was sure who it was from. It was clear what I was to do. I received no promise of the outcome. There was only the assurance that I was a child who had been told what path led to whatever He wanted for me.
I learned from that experience and countless repetitions that the description of the Holy Ghost as a still, small voice is real. It is poetic, but it is not poetry. Only when my heart has been still and quiet, in submission like a little child, has the Spirit been clearly audible to my heart and mind.

I thought that after I was baptized everything would be perfect and I would like Church meetings even more. However, it did not happen that way. Sometimes I didn’t want to go to church, and I started to miss meetings. One Sunday my mom, who is not a member, asked me why I wasn’t going, and I told her I found the meetings boring. The next week, she asked me to go to church. Even after I got there, I thought about returning home, but then I thought of sacrament meeting, partaking of the sacrament, and all the other good things I would miss out on if I left. I decided to stay.
I am glad my mom talked to me about going to church and encouraged me to attend.

Worried that her pregnancy might end her schooling, Ellis prayed all one night to the Lord that she might have the strength to finish her classes before the baby was born. Ellis did not miss a single class! On May 25, 1877, the day after she passed her exams, she gave birth to a baby girl. Ellis was delighted to have a daughter, and she wrote in her diary: “It is to me the crowning joy of a woman’s life to be a mother.”

One sentence in my patriarchal blessing thrilled me: “You will be called to preach the gospel in the world.” I had a lifelong desire to serve a mission, and so when I heard that sentence, I felt that I would have that opportunity.

When it was time for me to serve a mission, the United States was involved in a war and only a few young men were actually allowed to serve missions. The rest were expected to serve their country in the war if they were drafted.

At that time, all prospective missionaries were interviewed by General Authorities as well as by their local Church leaders. I went through the interview process and, because of that sentence in my patriarchal blessing, thought that I would be called on a mission. I was terribly disappointed when I was notified that I was required to serve my country, instead.

I often thought about that sentence in my patriarchal blessing. When and how will I be called to preach the gospel? I asked myself. Today, of course, as a General Authority, I am preaching the gospel all over the world. I can see now how that promise is being fulfilled. But when I was younger, I often wondered.

“Stephen became friends with people because he took time to notice them. I remember one day at the shopping center he said to me, ‘Hey, Mom, let’s go over there, I want to speak to that guy.’ He went over, and he congratulated the man on his promotion and asked what his new duties entailed. The man explained, and they chatted away. Later, I asked Stephen how he knew the man had had a promotion. ‘If you look at the sleeves of their uniforms, you’ll see they have some gold braid on the cuffs. That guy only had one stripe on last week, and this week he has two, so I figured it must mean a promotion.’”

But even though Janick is often a whirlpool of activity, there are times when he quietly thinks about the gospel. One day his father was giving Natalie a father’s blessing because she had a difficult test coming up at school. Janick also asked for a blessing. He was very serious about it. In the blessing he was told that he should always remember to pray. And he does. “We should pray because it is a commandment. We should ask for Heavenly Father’s protection and thank Him,” Janick explained.

I was a new missionary about to leave the missionary training center, and I didn’t know if the Book of Mormon was true.

I believed it was true. I had read it many times and prayed about it repeatedly, just as Moroni directs (see Moroni 10:3–5). But I had never received an answer! Without that knowledge, how would I be able to teach and testify to the people of Romania? I needed to know for myself, and I needed to know now.

During one evening of quiet study time in our MTC classroom, I gripped my scriptures and bowed my head.

“Heavenly Father,” I prayed silently, “I have read this book many times. If I am going to continue as a missionary, I need to know: Is it true?”

With my eyes still closed, I flipped open the book.

My finger landed on Mosiah 1:6: “O my sons, I would that ye should remember that these sayings are true, and also that these records are true. And behold, also the plates of Nephi, which contain the records and the sayings of our fathers from the time they left Jerusalem until now, and they are true; and we can know of their surety because we have them before our eyes.”

Those words struck me as no passage of scripture ever had before or since. Every instance of the word true leaped off the page. As Joseph Smith said about his own experience, the words “seemed to enter with great force into every feeling of my heart” (Joseph Smith—History 1:12). I felt suddenly full of peace and purpose instead of fear or worry.

In an instant, I knew that the Book of Mormon was the word of God and that Heavenly Father was sending me that message. It was like He was telling me, You already know. Now get to work.
And I did.

During my last semester of college, I felt that I should start looking for a job in my field of study, which was education. I planned to work part-time as an elementary school teacher. By then, my children had already grown up.
To prepare to enter the workforce, I enrolled in one of the Church’s self-reliance courses to help me find a job. When I arrived for my first class, I was the only student there. The teacher was a gentleman with an American accent eager to serve others. During our lessons, he explained principles of the gospel that would help me develop faith in the Lord and act in faith.
It took me two hours to travel to the Church’s self-reliance center in São Paulo, but I showed up for class on time every week. I took the course seriously because it was important to me.
At the end of the course, however, I couldn’t find a teaching job. Nevertheless, I told my instructor that I was confident the Lord would bless me and that it wouldn’t take me long to find work. I studied for the tests I needed to take in order to compete for a schoolteacher position, and I started attending a self-reliance course on how to start a business.
Immediately after I took the tests, I hurried to my stake self-reliance class. I told everyone there how prepared I had felt for the tests—thanks to my studies and my self-reliance courses.
Finally, I got the job I wanted. I felt immense happiness, and I was grateful to be able to pay tithing and offerings to the Lord. During my second self-reliance course, the Spirit prompted me to take EnglishConnect 2 and begin postgraduate work.
I felt greatly blessed by this guidance from the Lord in making such important decisions in my life. I know He keeps His promises and that if we keep His commandments, He will bless us temporally and spiritually with the things we need to prosper (see Mosiah 2:41).

Shortly before the April 2020 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson invited my wife, Kalleen, and me into his office, where he called me to be the General Young Men President. As our heads were spinning over this totally unexpected turn of events, he stood and said: “This is an important time for the youth of the Church because it’s an important time for the Church. The youth will play a critical role in this wondrous time.” He added, “You know, I have invited them into the Lord’s battalions.”
“Yes, President Nelson,” I said. “I know you have, and I know they are listening.”
“Well, it’s important that they do, because they are needed.”
I am paraphrasing only a little here, but he then went on to talk with great energy about the long-prophesied gathering that is taking place and the important work the Lord has for our youth to do. He spoke with a sense of urgency and great immediacy that they have been specifically sent to prepare for the Savior’s return.

Representing the First Presidency of the Church, Elder W. Don Ladd, Regional Representative of the Twelve, and Brother Thomas E. Daniels, of the Genealogical Department of the Church, made a special presentation to United States President Jimmy Carter in May 1977.
They gave him a two-inch-thick, leather-bound volume of his genealogy. The record reaches back 12 generations into the early 1600s when Thomas Carter, Sr., was born somewhere in England. Thomas traveled to Virginia in 1632, long before there was a President of the United States.
The genealogical information about the President’s ancestors was gathered from census records, wills, land and probate records, birth and death certificates, and other vital statistics. The work was researched in Salt Lake City where the microfilming work done by the Church in the United States and numerous other countries has resulted in a file of vital statistics amounting to the equivalent of more than 4 1/3 million printed volumes of 300 pages each.
Included with the volume given the President was an 18-by-24-inch, framed family tree, with names of Mr. Carter’s family as far back as could be documented and a letter from the First Presidency. The letter read:
“Daniel Webster said, ‘There is a moral and philosophical respect for our ancestors which elevates the character and improves the heart.’ As you know, we as a people feel a deep reverence and gratitude for our ancestors, which in turn gives us a greater sense of responsibility to our posterity.
“In the spirit of respect and friendship, we present you with this documented genealogy of your family. May you feel a warm satisfaction as you study this record of the people who produced a president.”

Gray dawn had come. Pacha, a mountain boy of Peru, went out from his thatched hut to the place where the llamas rested at night. His whistle was low, his voice gentle, “Come, llamas!”
The six long-necked, woolly animals rose slowly to their feet while Pacha explained the new day. “When the sun comes,” he told them, “we will go with Papá down the mountain—to the market fair in the valley.”
The llamas made no sound, but Pacha felt sure that they understood. As they marched in stately line from the stone-enclosed corral, he stroked their thick fur, calling each by name. “Ocle … Astro … Yana …” They were brown llamas with patches of yellowish white—all but Nubi, the smallest and youngest. Nubi was pure black.
Pacha loved them all. They were his friends, his companions. But he couldn’t help wishing that one of them was his very own. He wished it more than anything else.
A boy living farther up the mountain owned a llama. It had been given to him the day he brought his father’s string of llamas safely around a dangerous mountain landslide.
Ever since, Pacha had tried hard to think of something he might do—a deed so big and important that he would deserve a llama of his own. “I would choose you,” he whispered into the velvety ear of Nubi, the last to leave the corral. And Nubi’s small head gently nudged Pacha’s shoulder.
Outside the corral, the llamas formed a circle with their heads turned inward, waiting patiently for the loads to be tied to their backs. First Pacha and his father folded into a bunch the long, coarse hair that grew on each animal’s back. This made a soft padding for their loads, which today would be lighter. Instead of the usual dried corn and hard mountain potatoes, the woven carrying bags were filled with llama fleece.
“It is good wool. We can trade it for many things we need,” said Papá as he tied the last bag in place. Only Nubi carried no load. She was still too young.
The man and the boy now turned their faces toward the eastern sky, waiting for the sun. The wind was strong and cold! Shivering under his red and blue poncho, Pacha pulled the earflaps of his tasseled cap closer.
At last a rosy glow came up from behind the farthest snow peak. “It is time,” said Papá.
Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas.”
Ocli had been chosen leader because he could pick the best way. The golden bell on his neck tinkled. Although the trail winding down the mountain was rocky and very steep, the padded hoofs of the llamas never stumbled. Pacha stayed close behind Nubi, the last in line. Papá followed.
As they descended into the valley, the air grew warmer. Wildflowers bloomed purple and yellow and crimson. Then they saw the red roofs of the town in the valley, and soon they were making their way along a narrow, turning street. Their sandals slap-slapped on the worn cobblestones, and the hoofs of the llamas swish-swished.
An automobile, its horn blaring, crowded them. But the llamas strode on in perfect order, their heads high. Even Nubi stepped with pride and dignity all the way to the market fair in the center of town.
Pacha sniffed. “Mmmm!” How good the fresh bread smelled! “Mmmm!” How delicious it tasted when his father, smiling at Pacha’s eagerness, sold some wool, then bought a loaf.
Their next stop was a fruit stall, where they bought big, yellow-orange papayas. Farther on, they added sugar cane and rock salt to their purchases, also a shepherd’s knife for shearing the llamas and a round clay cooking pot.
Now they had only enough time to get the clothing they needed: white trousers and new caps—a red one for Pacha, a white one for his father.
“We will take the rest of the wool to our friend Don Jacinto,” said Papá, “then buy our clothes at the indoor market.” He led the way down another street to a building with arches and pillars before it.
After taking as many bundles of wool as he could carry, Papá carried them into the store, saying, “Stay with the llamas, my son.”
The llamas quietly folded their legs beneath them and lay down to rest. Pacha was about to do the same, when a boy in town clothes hurried up. “Haven’t you heard?” he cried. “Foot races! They start over there!” He pointed to a nearby fountain.
The first race was for boys their size, he quickly explained, and it would start soon. As he ran off in the direction of the fountain, he called back, “The winner gets a prize! A fine prize!”
Pacha’s thoughts were awhirl! He had never run a race, but he knew that his legs were strong from climbing mountains. To win a race and a fine prize would be something big and important for him to do. At last his chance had come!
Pacha’s heart thumped with excitement. He started running to catch up with the boy.
Then suddenly he stopped. The llamas! They wouldn’t understand being left alone. Something might happen to them. He couldn’t run this race, after all. A lump too big to swallow came into his throat. He started to run again, this time back to the llamas.
All six animals stared at him with dark, sad eyes that were full of questions. Pacha spoke soothingly. “Of course I wouldn’t leave you, llamas.”
He stooped and put his arms around black Nubi. He hugged and patted each woolly animal. Even when he heard the loud boom that signaled the boys’ race, he stayed with them. The llamas, comforted, softly hummed.
A man’s deep voice spoke. “Ah, Pacha, why are you not running with the others?” It was Don Jacinto. He had come with Papá from the indoor market.
Before Pacha could explain, his father spoke. “Pacha was left in charge of the llamas. He could not leave them, not even to run a race.” To Pacha’s amazement, Papá seemed very pleased that his son wasn’t trying to win a race. Pacha’s heart felt light again.
Don Jacinto had turned to look at the wool still tied to the llamas’ backs. His eyes fell on Nubi. “A fine black one!” he exclaimed. “When you have fleece from this llama, I will pay extra.”
Pacha’s father was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “The black one now belongs to Pacha. Her fleece will be his.”
At first, Pacha couldn’t believe what his ears had heard. Nubi his? A llama of his own?
Papá turned to Pacha. “Our llamas serve us well. In return, we must take good care of them, my son. Now that I’m sure you understand this, I give you Nubi.”
It took Pacha a while to find his voice. “Gracias, Papá. Oh, gracias!” he exclaimed. He looked up at Don Jacinto and said, “When Nubi is sheared, I will bring the black fleece to you.”
It was time to start the homeward march. The sun, warm now, would set quickly. The stinging chill of the wind would return. The travelers needed to reach their mountain home before the trail darkened. Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas!”
Ocli’s golden bell tinkled. The carrying bags, repacked with new possessions, swayed lightly on the animals’ backs.
Pacha, staying close to Nubi, thought over the happenings of the day. It had been a wonderful market fair, and he had learned something he would always remember: Small deeds can be as important as big ones.

Another mother was concerned one day that her 16-year-old daughter was not home at the usual hour. When the girl finally arrived, her mother quizzed her with some frustration about where she had been. The 16-year-old almost sheepishly replied that she had taken a flower to a widow who lived nearby. She had noticed the older sister looking lonely and felt prompted to visit her. With her mother’s complete approval, the young woman continued to visit the elderly woman. They became good friends, and their sweet association continued for years.

I recall a few years ago I was supervising the missions in western Europe. We needed a mission president with a certain language proficiency. Several names were brought forward, but none of them seemed to be right. Then one of the Brethren remembered that he had met a man—I think it was in Korea—several years before. He was a member of the church who was in the customs service. Somehow just the mention of that name and the Spirit confirmed it. He was called, because of the time pressures, by telephone to preside over the mission. I visited him a few weeks later. He was living in Washington D.C. He was within reach of the number one office in his category. His lifetime had been spent progressing through the ranks, thinking that perhaps one day he would stand at the head of that division. His senior officer had indicated that because of a health problem he would retire early and that this man was being recommended for that position. It was just at that time that the telephone call came.

I wanted to get acquainted with him and was invited to stay overnight. He brought me a message from his superior. The message was this: “Tell that Brother Packer of yours that you’re no missionary; I’ve worked with you for 30 years, and you haven’t converted me. Tell them they’re making a mistake. And you’re making a mistake. You’re a fool.” (I’m leaving out one word.) “If you will give up your retirement and all that you’ve worked for—why? Why would you do it?”
Simple answer: He’d been called. We live to know, in this church, that the response to a call does not depend on the testimony and witness of the one who delivers the call. It depends, rather, on the testimony and witness of the one who receives it.

It was very interesting. We were looking for a man who spoke French. It was not until after he was in the mission field, and we had some opportunities and responsibilities relating to some of the problems of some members we had in Spain, that we discovered that he wrote and spoke Spanish fluently. I suppose if we’d searched through the Church for a man who spoke French, spoke Spanish, and had some diplomatic experience, particularly as it related to customs work, we would have gone afar in the world and not found him. Yet, it was through the “chance” memory of one of the Brethren that he’d met a man a few years before in Korea who spoke French that found him.