Gospel Story Finder

Illustrated by Mike Eagle
Elder David O. McKay had many pets, including a boar named Caesar.
Son: Father, you must really love animals to care for an ugly creature like that!
One day as Elder McKay was leaving to catch a train, he noticed that Caesar had broken out of his pen and was wandering away.
David: No, you don’t! We’ll keep you in the chicken coop for now. I’ll have to repair the pen when I get back.
But Elder McKay forgot to tell the rest of the family where Caesar was, so no one could feed or water him.
At 2:00 a.m., the telephone rang at the McKay house.
Operator: There’s a telegram for Mr. Lawrence McKay.
Lawrence: This is Lawrence. Please read the telegram.
Son: At this hour it can mean only bad news! I hope Father is all right.
Elder McKay’s son Lawrence scribbled down the words as the operator read them: “Caesar in chicken coop! Water him!”
Lawrence thanked the operator and hung up. Relieved, everyone laughed.
Son: That’s all the telegram said? Father must really love that ugly old boar!

Work had begun on the temple on June 5, 1833. For the next three years the Saints endured many trials and hardships in order to build a house for the Lord.
Most of the people had few possessions and little money. But every able man worked one day each week on the temple. They worked in the quarry, cutting sandstone to form the walls of the temple. They worked as carpenters, painters, teamsters, and in many other jobs. Sometimes as many as a hundred men worked on the temple at a time. The women spun, knitted, wove, and sewed to make draperies and carpets. They also made clothing and food for the construction workers.
Everyone was busy, but it was not just the Saints’ time and talents that the Lord required. The large three-story building cost between $40,000 and $60,000, an enormous amount of money at a time when the average worker earned only around two or three dollars a day. Many of the Saints gave almost everything they had to build the temple.
Some people in the area opposed its construction. Mobs came at night to destroy work done and to steal tools and supplies. It became necessary for men to stand guard each night.
When the temple was completed, it was the most beautiful building for miles around. Inside were two curved stairways and beautiful wood moldings and railings. But it will be remembered forever not for its beauty but for the marvelous events that happened there.
On Sunday, March 27, 1836, hundreds of Latter-day Saints came to Kirtland for the dedication. The doors opened at 8:00 A.M., and one thousand people entered. Hundreds more were left outside. They had also worked and sacrificed for the building of the temple. Seeing their disappointment, Joseph Smith decided to repeat the dedication on Thursday.
The choir opened the meeting, then President Sidney Rigdon spoke for two and a half hours. After a brief intermission, the officers of the Church were sustained. Then the Prophet offered the dedicatory prayer, given to him by revelation. This prayer is now section 109 of the Doctrine and Covenants [D&C 109]. After the prayer, the choir sang “The Spirit of God,” which had been written specifically for the dedication.
The congregation ended the seven-hour service by standing and giving the sacred Hosanna Shout. Sister Eliza R. Snow said that it was given “with such power as seemed almost sufficient to raise the roof from the building.”
That evening over four hundred priesthood bearers again met in the temple, and while George A. Smith was speaking, “a noise was heard like the sound of a rushing mighty wind which filled the temple, and all the congregation simultaneously arose, being moved upon by an invisible power.” Many men began to speak in tongues and to prophesy. Others saw glorious visions, including angels who filled the temple.
People living nearby heard the sound, too, and ran to see what was happening. As they approached, they beheld a pillar of fire resting upon the temple, saw angels hovering over the temple, and heard heavenly singing.
Many other spiritual manifestations took place in the temple that year. Prescindia Huntington described how a little girl came to her door during one meeting and called out in excitement, “The meeting is on top of the meeting house!” Prescindia looked outside and saw angels walking back and forth on the temple. Many children in Kirtland saw the angels and remembered the glorious sight the rest of their lives.
One week after that first dedication, on Easter Sunday, April 3, 1836, Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery stood in the pulpit area of the temple and dropped the veils around the pulpit so they could be alone to pray. After their prayer, they saw the Lord standing upon the pulpit. “His eyes were as a flame of fire; the hair of his head was white like the pure snow; his countenance shone above the brightness of the sun; and his voice was as the sound of the rushing of great waters” (D&C 110:3). Jesus told Joseph and Oliver that He accepted the temple and that in that house He would “appear unto my servants, and speak unto them with mine own voice, if my people will keep my commandments, and do not pollute this holy house” (D&C 110:8).
After this vision, Moses, Elias, and Elijah appeared and gave to Joseph and Oliver the keys necessary to continue the Lord’s work upon the earth. Among these keys was the sealing power that seals husbands to wives and children to parents for all eternity.
This was a time of rich blessings. Even though the temple was used only for a few years before the Saints were driven out of Kirtland, it was worth every dollar spent, every minute worked, and every hardship endured, because the Lord had indeed manifested Himself to His people.

“I always loved playing baseball. I’m grateful to my parents who let me turn the backyard into a practice baseball diamond every summer. I would line it off, make base pads, and really work hard at bettering my skills. In those days there were no organized Little League ball teams. One neighborhood played another neighborhood. The competition was keen. A dirt lot was cleared, and excitement ran high.
“I recall an experience involving a baseball mitt when I was about nine or ten years old. I was playing baseball with great diligence, and I had an old mitt that was coming apart and just wouldn’t do anymore. The kind of mitt I wanted cost $4.50—a lot of money then. I kept wondering how I could get my father to buy it for me.
“Every day when Dad came home from work, he would sit in a rocking chair or swing on the porch while he waited for dinner. He worked long, hard days, and it was during the depression when times were difficult. I knew that my approach and my timing were vital. One night after Mother had fixed Dad’s favorite dinner, I decided it was the right time. ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘you always taught us that when we do something, we should do it right. Is that correct?’
“‘Yes, that’s right,’ he agreed.
“‘You taught us that if we’re going to do something, it ought to be done with quality. Is that right?’
“‘That’s right,’ he agreed again.
“I said, ‘I’m assigned to pitch a critical game this weekend, and my baseball glove is worn-out. You’d want me to go out there with a high-quality, first-class mitt, wouldn’t you?’
“I brought the old glove out from behind my back, and Dad said, ‘That’s a terrible-looking glove!’
“I said, ‘I need $4.50 to get a new one, and I’ve already picked it out.’
“Dad stopped the porch swing, took out his little note pad and pencil, and started writing.
“I knew I’d lost with my sales pitch.
“‘Well,’ Dad said, ‘let’s see how long it would take you to earn it. At ten cents an hour, that would be forty-five hours of work.’ He then mapped out jobs for me that would require forty-five hours of work.
“Of course you know the end of the story. I didn’t get the mitt that week—but I did a couple of weeks later. I still have that glove. It is priceless to me. It taught me the value of work.”

I was serving in the mission office of the El Salvador San Salvador Mission when the mission president transferred me to an area that had been closed for many years. The leaders of the branch there had not only prayed and fasted that missionaries would return, but they had also prepared for that day.
When I arrived, every family in the branch had friends who were ready to receive the missionaries. One member introduced us to a lady named Ana Oviedo, who sold fruit and homemade food on one of the busiest street corners in the city. While she was there selling food one Saturday morning, we asked if we could visit her at her home and share a message about Jesus Christ. She accepted.
When we arrived that night, Ana and her four children were waiting for us. We introduced ourselves and started teaching them. We felt inspired to teach about the blessings of keeping the Sabbath day holy. We also taught the family about tithing and the promises made by the prophet Malachi (see Malachi 3:10–12).
In response, Ana told us that she had already prepared to sell food the next day—Sunday—just as she always did. We then offered a prayer, asking Heavenly Father to bless this poor family, which needed the mother’s income.
The following day we were surprised to see her come to church with her children. We welcomed them and asked her what had happened with the food she had prepared to sell.
“Elders, I spent last night pondering God’s promises,” she said. “He will bless me.” Then she added, “Elders, where do I pay my tithing?”
We were moved by her show of faith, and we prayed that the Lord would answer our prayers for this family.
The next evening we went by her house again. She was crying tears of gratitude because God had blessed her so greatly that day. She said she had been selling food on that corner her whole life—Monday through Sunday, 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.—and that she always had leftover items that didn’t sell. But that Monday she had sold all of her food by 1:00 p.m.
Heavenly Father had answered our prayers. The Lord continued to bless Ana, and she no longer needed to sell food on the Sabbath. Her children were soon baptized, but Ana’s husband would not consent to her baptism. Nevertheless, she remained faithful to the gospel and attended church until the day she died.
I know Heavenly Father keeps His promises when we obey His commandments with all our heart.

Marin Watt was a direct descendant of George D. Watt, the first member of the British Isles to be baptized. He visited from his home in the USA and met the cast member playing his ancestor in the show. He commented, “It truly was an experience of a lifetime for me personally. Having been told of the event of George D. Watt and the race to the River Ribble and his being the first person baptized has always had a special place in my heart. But, now I have been there. I have walked the footsteps of my Great Great Grandfather. I have been at the Temple which is there because of baptisms over 186 years ago involving my ancestors. I heard and witnessed how the people of the British Isles know of that baptism and what it still means to them today. I was able to watch the pageant, in England, of those events surrounding the introduction of The Gospel of Jesus Christ in my ancestral land and so much more.”

by Marco Holbrook
Everything was ready. Balloons and bunting were up; booths for the fair waited for the crowd. We, the 65 Mia Maids, Laurels, teachers, and priests from the Torrance California North Stake, focused our attention on the parking lot where our special guests would soon be arriving. It was almost noon.
Earlier, before breakfast at the stake center, each of us had signed our name next to a number on a list. The number represented one of the guests who would be coming. Following the meal, Mrs. Dori Livingston of the Southwest Association for the Mentally Retarded briefed us on what to expect. She showed a film of last year’s regional Special Olympics. She explained how these children, each a victim of a developmental disability, responded to the challenge of competing with others with similar handicaps.
The film was full of happy faces of kids of all ages. Some had noticeable problems, but most of them looked perfectly normal. It was their smiles, however, that caught our attention. There was something very special about those winning smiles as contestants crossed finish lines.
Mrs. Livingston explained some possible problems we might have to deal with and told us what to do in a matter-of-fact way. I’m sure some of us looked a little worried. She also explained that the parents of the children who were coming might be a little nervous, too, and therefore overprotective—after all, none of us had ever done this before, and they certainly didn’t want their children put in an unhappy situation. Somehow that reassured us, because our parents wouldn’t want that to happen to us, either.
We were bused to El Nido Park in Redondo Beach and spent the morning putting up booths, blowing up helium balloons, and tacking up signs. Now we sat wondering if we really could handle the service project we’d taken on for the afternoon.
As the first carloads started to arrive, it was quiet at the check-in stand. Each guest was paired up with a guide for the day. The guests, for the most part, were less shy than the guides. Hot dogs, punch, potato chips, and cupcakes quickly bridged the communication gap, and soon new friends were piling trash in barrels and heading for the games, including a fishing booth, a ring toss, pie-eating contests, and make-up artists painting clown faces on anyone who asked. At the ball toss, everyone won a prize. And everyone got a kick out of winning, though the prizes were nothing special. The smiles, those same winning smiles, radiated on the faces of our guests. After everyone had done everything at least three times, there was a ball game on the south diamond and a game of tag nearby. Even the parents relaxed and got acquainted with each other as they watched their children mingle. By 3:00 everyone was tired and ready to go home.

A Scout council was accustomed to arranging its summer camp schedule so that the Scouts were moving to the camp on one Sabbath and returning home from camp on the next Sabbath. Latter-day Saint youth were being deprived of religious activities for two successive Sundays. A friendly suggestion to the council authorities brought about a change, so that the camp period ran from Friday to Friday. The Sunday in between was planned so that there were religious services offered for the boys who were in the camp.

I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine named Ekaette, my neighbor for two and a half years. She lives in a tropical rain forest in Nigeria, the most densely populated country in Africa. During the rainy season, Ekaette’s home is surrounded by lush green undergrowth. Palm trees decorate the horizons, and the sun shining through the clouds creates gorgeous sunsets. During the hot, dry season, winds from the Sahara desert bring a haze of fine dust that filters the harsh rays of the sun.
Ekaette is two years older than I. She was a young schoolgirl when her marriage to Akpan, ten years her senior, was arranged. Their first child was born when Ekaette was only fourteen or fifteen years old. Ekaette has had eight children. Five have survived. Her family joined the Church a few years ago.
Akpan is unemployed, but he works at miscellaneous jobs and repairs things for other people. He is a proud and industrious man, a good husband and father.
Ekaette has a nice home made of reddish clay packed between bamboo poles. A thatch roof protects her family from the heavy tropical storms. Inside, the home has a hardpacked earth floor and is divided into four rooms. A covered cooking area is separate from the house.
As with many other places in the world, there is no electricity in Ekaette’s area of the country. Ekaette cooks over a fire, washes clothes in the stream, and irons them with an iron filled with hot coals.
Ekaette’s day begins very early. She and her children must carry all the water they will need for the day from a stream not far from their home. Several times a week they must make a trip into the forest to cut the firewood they need. They carry the wood home in bundles on their heads.
Most of the food for Ekaette’s family comes from several small farm plots outside their village. Ekaette grows cassava, yams, bananas, plantain, pineapple, hot red peppers, and several kinds of greens used in different soups.
Ekaette and her family are happy. They have a good life.
I met Ekaette while I was directing a village health program for the Thrasher Research Fund, which sponsors research projects on child health in third-world countries. My colleagues and I organized health classes and trained volunteer teachers in dozens of villages to teach basic health principles like nutrition, sanitation, personal hygiene, and home health care. The teachers then taught similar classes in their own language in homes, schools, churches, and village council halls.
I remember one hot, sultry evening sitting under a generator-operated ceiling fan looking through some of the latest editions of a newspaper which I had just received. I paused at a page filled with suggestions of practical things to do in our homes to save money. Ideas included turning off lights and water when they are not being used, buying food in bulk and then freezing it in small containers, using cloth diapers instead of disposable ones, sending letters to cut down on long-distance telephone bills, and not shopping for food when you are hungry. These suggestions are certainly practical, but they belonged in a world other than the one I was in at the time.
But in spite of the differences between my world and Ekaette’s, there was something that united us: the gospel of Jesus Christ—Christianity.
Christianity is absolute. It should not be affected by our environment or circumstances, even though they determine how we practice our beliefs. Christianity should not be affected by skin color or race, by how we earn a living, or by what we buy at the market. It should not be determined by climate or geographical location.
I returned from Africa with a simpler definition of Christianity than I once had. To me, Christianity is love, or charity—the highest, noblest, strongest kind of love—the pure love of Christ. It may prompt alms or benevolent deeds, but it is not the same thing as charitable works.
In other words, Christianity is not so much what I do, but how I love; it’s the process of learning to love as Christ loves. Churches are institutions where we can learn about Christ and practice being Christians. But attending church will not make me a Christian any more than sitting in a library will make me a scholar. It simply gives me the means and opportunity of learning to become a Christian. Christianity teaches me about my relationship to God and to those around me. Understanding that relationship helps my heart change, increasing my capacity to love.
Principles such as love, sacrifice, faith, repentance, self-reliance, and consecration are universal. Working in Africa taught me how much more important principles like these are than programs. The Western world provides many programs for third-world countries. Schools are built, clinics are established, medicine is dispensed, tractors are imported, and food is distributed. The programs help meet immediate needs, but often, the principles behind the practices are overlooked. I don’t think I could do much good for Ekaette if I concentrated on programs like food storage or family history, worthy though they are. But Ekaette and I share a broad basis of belief in such eternal principles as faith, love, and self-reliance. In practicing these principles, we learned from each other.
I realized the importance of teaching principles after I attended a Relief Society lesson at the local branch. The lesson, taken from the manual, was on keeping our homes neat and clean. An illustration in the lesson manual showed an American home that was neatly arranged and obviously well kept. Our instructor was so unfamiliar with Western-style homes that she held the picture upside down when she showed it to the class.
Later that week, I went to Ekaette’s house and found her covered from head to toe with mud. She was beaming. Inspired by the lesson, Ekaette was cleaning her home. She had taken every single item out of the house (there wasn’t much), and she was smearing new clay mud on the walls and floor. She excitedly showed me how she had decorated the front of the house by using a darker mud along the bottom for a nice trim. It looked beautiful. Ekaette had learned the principle, then implemented it in a way that was practical for her.
Her example prompted me to think about my own efforts to apply the principles of Christianity. It occurred to me that perhaps the first and most important principle to practice is self-examination. For example, many times I think, “That’s a good idea, but I don’t have the means to do anything about it.” Money and material things become issues that prevent Christian service. But what things does it take to be a Christian—a rug to kneel on, or a warm loaf of bread to share with a neighbor? Must I be financially established before I can share my means? Must I go to Africa to find children who need help? I believe the Lord is pleased when we serve with whatever resources we have available to us.
A second principle I learned is that it is important that I serve wherever I am. My experiences in Africa was very special to me, but I do not feel that it is better to love someone far away than those near at hand. The Savior showed by example whom I should love. He didn’t leave his own country and travel far away to another place and people. He went among his own people, and he associated with a variety of people—the wealthy and the poor; the politicians; the sick, the lame, and the blind; tax collectors; the hungry, the tired, and the lonely; and even those considered unworthy.
When I was in Africa, it was clear to me that Africa was the best place for me to practice being a Christian. Now that I am home, the most practical place for me to be a Christian is here, among my own people. This is challenging for me. It often seems easier to send some money to a “save-the-world” organization than make room in my busy schedule to take time with a brother, sister, neighbor, or friend.
A third lesson I have learned is that I should prepare myself to serve in a wide variety of settings. I had many experience that helped me understand Ekaette and her family better. But because I could not understand all she had experienced, it was hard for me to know how to help in the best and most practical ways. I don’t know how it feels to have three of my own children die in my arms because no medical help is available. I don’t know how it feels to wonder where my next meal is coming from. I don’t know how it feels to mold the walls of my home into shape with my own hands. I don’t know what has brought Ekaette her greatest joys. As hard as I try, I am not able to relate to many of her problems and challenges.
And yet, I’ve learned that the more variety I can experience, the more people I will understand. Choosing to associate only with a select group of individuals who think and act the same way I do will seriously limit my opportunities for Christian service. I can choose to increase the variety of my experience and my capacity to love. The more people I understand, the more like Christ I can become.
As I have tried to practice being a Christian, I’ve discovered that many of my motives are often reflected in the actions of the people around me. As my colleagues in Africa and I associated with hundreds of people from dozens of villages, we observed many reasons for their participation in our program. Some came because they believed that white health workers would provide free services, medicine, or employment. Others were curious about the novelty of white faces in their villages. Some came because they were concerned with their family’s health; they were frightened of illness and feared that a child might die. Others wanted to learn more about health for their families’ sake. Some came because their neighbors came. Still others came because there was love in their hearts and a desire to know how to improve their lives and the lives of those around them.
It was fascinating to see the different responses to our project. The people who came hoping to get something free dropped out very quickly. The curious got used to our white faces and also left. Those who needed to solve family health problems usually did well; they not only received some answers to meet their current needs, but they also stored up information against future needs. Those who were motivated by love not only stayed, but went a step further in offering what they had learned to those around them.
Ekaette was one of these people. She told me once, “If you had given me money—no matter how much or how little—it would all be gone now. But you have given me knowledge, and no one can ever take it away from me!” In the last year or so, Ekaette, on her own with very little help from us, trained teachers to instruct several groups of women in different villages.
In Ekaette’s life, I have seen Christianity—or love—at work. Guided by gospel principles, she has found practical solutions to her daily challenges. And so can we. I am convinced that the gospel of Jesus Christ has the answers to all of the world’s problems.
I have spent nearly half of the last decade living outside of my homeland. During this time, I have seen and experienced much contrast, and I have looked into the eyes of many who have great challenges in their lives. I believe what President Spencer W. Kimball said to be true—that in the gospel of love taught and exemplified by the Savior, we can find the answers to all our problems. With that kind of love in my heart, I can be a practical Christian, whether here or in Ekaette’s world.

Kimberly Seyboldt of Oregon, USA, tells the story of seeking inspiration and giving gifts to show love:
“When I find life is getting me down, I get up and make zucchini bread, usually about eight loaves. My special ingredient is the silent prayer I offer as I bake to know who needs those loaves of bread. I have been able to better know my surrounding neighbors as the warm zucchini bread has been my invite into their homes and lives.
“One warm summer day, I pulled up alongside a family selling pints of blackberries on the side of the road. I didn’t need more blackberries, but the young, thin boy at the stand was excited to see me, thinking I was his next customer. I bought some blackberries, but I also had a gift for him. I gave the boy two loaves of bread. He turned to his father for approval, then said, ‘Look, Dad, now we have something to eat today.’ I was filled with gratitude for this opportunity to show love in a simple way.”

Robert Muhile joined the Church while working and studying in Cairo, Egypt. After being ordained an elder, he returned to his home village in Tanzania, Africa, so he could share the gospel with his family. Unfortunately, he was more than 960 kilometers (a three-day bus ride) from the nearest branch of the Church, in Dar es Salaam. He was completely isolated from other Church members. After six months without partaking of the sacrament, he sought permission from his mission president to administer the sacrament to himself each Sunday. His request was granted.
Each Sunday Robert invited his family to join him for worship service, but they chose to attend their own church. So he held his own service—alone. He said: “I prepared water and bread and more water to clean my hands, and a small towel. I sang a song to myself out loud. I had my hymn book. After that, I offered an opening prayer. Because I was alone I didn’t have any business to do, so I sang the sacrament hymn and prepared the sacrament. Then I knelt and blessed and took it. After the sacrament, I covered it, as we respect it always. I offered myself a talk—my testimony. Then I sang as in Sunday School and then read from Gospel Principles. I finished with a prayer. I then attended priesthood [meeting]. After singing a hymn, I’d have a prayer, then read from the priesthood manual the lesson I had chosen for that day. After that, I finished by singing and then offered the closing prayer” (quoted in E. Dale LeBaron, “Gospel Pioneers in Africa,” Tambuli, May 1994, 42–44).

Julia Nompi Nqubeni was born 20 December 1917, the youngest of five children. Her father, a school teacher, died when she was four. Her mother struggled to make a living as a school teacher and washer woman. In spite of poverty and other major obstacles, Julia pursued an education and began a teaching career. She eventually became one of the first black women in South Africa to become a school principal.

Matthew tugged on his boots, put on his mittens, and headed for the clearing on the far side of the cottage. Everything looked different from the way he remembered it. The tall pine trees were now covered with snow. The apple tree he’d climbed last summer looked dark and bare against the winter landscape. Even the pond was frozen over, and Matthew wondered how the frogs and turtles were doing. But the worst difference was the terrible silence that Grandpa’s happy laugh should have filled.
Matthew had never been to the cottage during the winter. But Grandma had wanted to come now. Mom said that it made Grandma happy just remembering how much Grandpa had enjoyed it here.
But being here didn’t make Matthew feel happy. And remembering that Grandpa had died only made him feel worse.
He trudged through the snow to the old work shed and peered through a frosty window. The birdhouse he’d been helping Grandpa build last summer sat unfinished on top of the workbench. The rough edges needed to be sanded smooth before purple martins could move in, in the spring. Now it wouldn’t get done. Matthew walked away feeling even sadder.
He followed a path through the pines to the creek that ran through the woods. In summer the muddy bank held the tracks of all the animals that came out of the woods for a cool drink. Grandpa had taught Matthew how to recognize the tracks of the raccoons, rabbits, deer, and other animals that lived nearby. “All of God’s creatures have their own distinct footprints,” Grandpa had told him.
The only tracks visible in the snow now were those of a lone deer. In the hope of catching a glimpse of it, Matthew decided to follow its trail into the woods. He walked for quite a distance as the tracks zigzagged between the trees. The afternoon sun began to fade, and Matthew’s toes began to tingle from the cold.
Then he spotted not just one deer but a small herd. They were munching peacefully on the sweet bark and small twigs of a cherry birch tree. Holding his breath, Matthew took a few steps forward to get a closer look.
Oh-oh! One noticed him. The herd darted into the woods in every direction.
Matthew sighed deeply. “Oh, well,” he said to himself, “it’s time to go back, anyway.”
But when he looked around, he saw dozens of deer tracks in the snow. He wasn’t sure which set would lead him back to the cottage. He began to feel a little frightened as he realized it would be dark soon and that he was lost in the woods.
If only Grandpa were here! Matthew thought sadly. He’d know what to do.
Then he remembered what Grandpa had told him: “All of God’s creatures have their own distinct footprints.” Matthew looked around to find the familiar shape of his own boots pressed clearly in the snow.
It felt as though Grandpa was walking with him as he followed his own footprints back through the pines, along the creek, and into the clearing. The familiar outline of the cottage ahead filled him with happiness.
As he passed the work shed, he took another look through the window at the birdhouse. There was no reason why he couldn’t finish the sanding himself, he decided. And in the spring he would hang the birdhouse next to the apple tree in the clearing. Then every time he saw it, he would remember Grandpa and all that they had done together. Grandpa would like that.

Before each game at BYU the captains of the two teams meet at the center circle with the referees and go through a meaningless ritual where nothing of real significance is said. But on the day we played Notre Dame, a referee friend of mine said something during that meeting that really hit home with me. He said, “Men, we referees are going to work hard tonight. We’re going to make some mistakes, but you work hard too.”
I remembered his words, and the game began. During the last few minutes, I went up for a rebound, and a bigger Notre Dame player knocked me to the floor. As I lay there, I looked up, and the referee pointed down and indicated that the foul was on me. Surprised at his decision. I got up off the floor. I smiled at the referee and said, “You know, you were right in what you said before the game.”
He looked at me with a puzzled expression. I continued, “You said you were going to make some mistakes tonight, and you just made a big one.” We looked at each other, and we both had a good laugh and continued to play.

Many years ago I worked for a railroad in the central offices in Denver. I was in charge of what is called head-end traffic. That was in the days when nearly everyone rode passenger trains. One morning I received a call from my counterpart in Newark, New Jersey. He said, “Train number such-and-such has arrived, but it has no baggage car. Somewhere, 300 passengers have lost their baggage, and they are mad.”

I went immediately to work to find out where it may have gone. I found it had been properly loaded and properly trained in Oakland, California. It had been moved to our railroad in Salt Lake City, been carried to Denver, down to Pueblo, put on another line, and moved to St. Louis. There it was to be handled by another railroad which would take it to Newark, New Jersey. But some thoughtless switchman in the St. Louis yards moved a small piece of steel just 7.5 centimeters, a switch point, then pulled the lever to uncouple the car. We discovered that a baggage car that belonged in Newark, New Jersey, was in fact in New Orleans, Louisiana—2,400 kilometers from its destination. Just the 7.5-centimeter movement of the switch in the St. Louis yard by a careless employee had started it on the wrong track, and the distance from its true destination increased dramatically. That is the way it is with our lives. Instead of following a steady course, we are pulled by some mistaken idea in another direction. The movement away from our original destination may be ever so small, but, if continued, that very small movement becomes a great gap and we find ourselves far from where we intended to go.

When my friend and I were caught stealing, we both knew what big trouble we were in. I also knew that what I had tried to take was worth practically nothing, but I had still broken one of the Ten Commandments. Nobody could know how ashamed and sorry I was. I had the longest prayer with my Heavenly Father that I have ever had. When I went to see my bishop, I picked up the February 1996 copy of the New Era with the Mormonad about repentance. The funny thing is that of all the times I have looked through the magazine, I never noticed the Mormonad until then. When I saw it I just cried. This whole experience has taught me the true importance of repentance.
Name WithheldCalifornia

Four years later Joseph was finally ready. Obstacles to translating the plates, however, were immense. Newly married, Joseph needed to work to provide for Emma and himself, as well as for his extended family members, who still relied heavily on his contribution. Perhaps even more distracting, Joseph faced sweeping community opposition and avarice that threatened exposure and loss of the plates.

When a Palmyra mob demanded that Joseph show them the plates or be tarred and feathered, he knew he had to leave.4 So, in late 1827, Joseph placed the plates in a barrel of beans, packed up some belongings, borrowed $50 from his friend and early believer Martin Harris, and took his pregnant wife more than 100 miles (161 km) south to Harmony, Pennsylvania, to live with Emma’s parents. He hoped the change would ease their daily labors and free them of the cauldron of greed and animosity that gripped Palmyra.

Conditions improved enough that winter that Joseph was able to translate a few Book of Mormon characters. In April, Martin Harris moved to Harmony to assist Joseph as scribe, and the work of translation began in earnest. By the middle of June—roughly five years since the fateful day Joseph had first been directed to the Hill Cumorah to obtain the plates—they had produced 116 manuscript pages of translation.5

I was born a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I went to my meetings every Sunday and tried to keep the commandments. I went to seminary all four years and did as much missionary work as I could. But it wasn’t until I went away to college that I decided I really wanted to gain a testimony of my own.
I had already read the Book of Mormon several times, both with my family and on my own. Every time I read it, I would pray to know if the words I received were true. I never felt like I received a firm answer to those prayers, and over time I grew more and more discouraged. I was afraid that not receiving that witness meant that the Church wasn’t true.
But I was determined to try again. I began reading the Book of Mormon again, studying and pondering it as I had never done before. Near the end of the fall semester at college, I finished the Book of Mormon. I sat on my bed and thought a lot about how I should go about asking again. Tears flowed down my cheeks as the fear of not being answered crept over me. I prayed to Heavenly Father and told Him how I was on my own now and needed a witness that the Book of Mormon was true. At the end of my prayer I waited and waited, but once again, no answer came. I felt a deep weakening in my heart, and I cried because once again my prayers seemed to have failed.
The next morning I attended my religion class. My teacher began to talk about prayer. In the course of his lecture he said, “Don’t ask the Lord a question you already know the answer to.” I immediately felt the Spirit, and three words entered my mind, “You already know.” I realized that I already knew that the Church and the Book of Mormon were true. My mind filled with thoughts of how I knew it was true. I thought about the joy the gospel had brought into my life. I thought of the peace and happiness that I always felt when I was living the commandments. I thought of the many times I had felt the Spirit.
Now if I get discouraged as I work to build a testimony of my own, I remember the joy the gospel has brought me throughout my life. I remember the times I have felt the Spirit. And I don’t discount the subtle reassurances I have felt of the gospel’s truth.

First settling in Perth, a major city on the Indian Ocean shoreline of western Australia, Sister Lawson encountered Latter-day Saints in a local theater group. When she took on the job of stage manager, both the manager of the group and the leading male actor were Latter-day Saints.
Every time the group started or finished rehearsals, the manager called them together for prayer, Sister Lawson recalls. “Even though the rest of us were not members, it gave me a very warm feeling—I always used to quietly pray before I went on stage, and this seemed right, somehow.”
An invitation to attend Church meetings followed, and Sister Lawson was soon baptized. Naturally cheerful and enthusiastic, she served as ward and stake drama director in Perth and became thoroughly involved in the Church.

Colly Creek Ward
The Colly Creek Ward, Topeka Kansas Stake, challenged the Primary children to bring their scriptures every Sunday. They placed an anchor on the bulletin board and started making a paper chain connected to the anchor. The name of each child who brought his or her scriptures was written on a paper link every Sunday. Soon the chain grew to reach the back of the Primary room! This activity reminded the Primary to be “anchored” in the scriptures.

Rambo, who adopted her unique English name several years ago, also credits her sister’s influence in her own conversion. “Belle has been a great example to me in my life,” she explains.
Because Rambo is the youngest Wong daughter, her parents were hesitant at first to allow her to join the Church. “When I was younger, I began going to church each Sunday even though I hadn’t been baptized,” she recalls. “At first, my parents didn’t want me to join the Church. So I would go with Belle every Sunday, but I wouldn’t take the sacrament.”
This is where the story takes on an ironic twist.
“A lot of members of the ward would look at me and think I was a member,” she continues. “They would ask me to be a fellowshipper for the missionaries’ investigators even though I was still an investigator myself. As I got older, my testimony began to develop and I learned more about the Church.”
When Rambo was finally baptized in 1990, she joined Belle in teaching gospel principles to older sisters Mandy, May, Angela, and Agnes, as well as to Simon. She also continued “officially” fellowshipping other investigators at church each Sunday. “When I was a kid, I liked to play and have fun. But when I got older, I received a testimony—a true testimony—and I wanted to share it,” Rambo says.