Gospel Story Finder

Jared walked home from church in the hot sunshine with Mom and Dad. He thought about his Primary lesson. Since he couldn’t hear very well, Jared had to pay close attention to the pictures his teacher showed and the words she wrote on the board.
That day they had learned that Jesus asked the disciples to be missionaries. Jared wondered what he could do to share the gospel, like Jesus asked. He knew he couldn’t serve a mission yet. Then he had a great idea. Maybe he could start saving money for it!
When he got home, Jared ran right past Umber, his pet goat, and into the house. He got a big plastic jar and carefully cut a hole in the top. He wrote “Mission Fund” on the side. Then he went to his room and got his money from under his bed. One by one he dropped in each coin. But all his coins barely covered the bottom of the jar. How could he earn more money?
Jared thought and thought. He looked out the window at the bright sun. It was so hot in the Philippines. Jared and his friends ate coconut ice candy almost every afternoon after school. “That’s it!” he thought. Maybe he could make ice candy and sell it to other people who wanted to cool down.
Jared ran to find Mom. “Can you show me how to make ice candy?” Jared signed. They used sign language, a language where you talk with your hands. Mom smiled and nodded.
The next day, Jared and Mom walked to the big outdoor market and bought all the supplies. When they got home, Jared took out a big bowl and mixed coconut milk, condensed milk, vanilla, and shredded coconut. Mom and Jared used a funnel to pour the mix into small bags. They put all the bags in the freezer. “Great job!” Mom signed.
The ice candy took a long time to freeze. But the next day after school, it was finally ready! Jared climbed on a chair and got the white cooler off the top of the fridge. He put some towels in the bottom of the cooler and layered the ice candy on top. He couldn’t wait to sell it.
Jared ran outside into the dusty street. His friends were playing with homemade kites and throwing their flip-flops at a tin can to knock it over.
At the side of the road, he set up a table with a big sign that said, “Ice Candy, 5 pesos.” His friend Jhonell ran over and pointed at the cooler. He gave Jared a five-peso coin, and Jared gave him some ice candy. They high-fived.
Soon more of Jared’s friends came to buy ice candy too. A few hours later when Mom called Jared for dinner, there were only a few ice candies left.
Jared picked up the almost-empty cooler and the coins. In one of his pockets, he put some of the coins for his tithing. He put the rest of the coins into his other pocket. He couldn’t wait to see his mission-fund bank fill up.
At home he dropped his mission-fund coins onto the pile at the bottom of the jar. There was still so much more space! But Jared felt warm inside as he thought about serving a mission someday. He decided that he would sell ice candy every day until his jar was full. It felt so good to earn money so he could be a missionary as Jesus asked him to do.

My friend Julyette and I were chatting online when she told me she was looking for a church that had a living prophet who spoke with God face-to-face. I thought God had stopped speaking to men here upon the earth because we have a Bible, and I thought that was sufficient for our salvation.
But she said, “If God no longer called a prophet here upon the earth, He would be a liar, for He promised he would never do anything without calling prophets” (see Amos 3:7).
I asked her, “Where is this living prophet?” She did not know.
I began to reflect about how we could discover the right church. I knew that there were many different Christian churches with different doctrines. I thought, “Well, the Internet has a lot of sources,” so I searched for “the true persecuted church.” I don’t know why I typed it in that way, but several lists of churches appeared, including The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. There are many Christian churches in Brazil, but I had never heard of this church.
Upon entering the Web site, I read the story of a 14-year-old boy who had seen God and Jesus Christ face-to-face and had translated the Book of Mormon by the power of God. I had never heard anything about Joseph Smith or the Book of Mormon before, and I thought it was interesting. But what caught my attention was that the Book of Mormon told of Jesus Christ appearing to the ancient inhabitants of the American continent.
I had a great desire to read this book, so I requested a copy. I told Julyette about the site, and after she read the story of Joseph Smith, she was certain this church was the Church of Jesus Christ. She said I had been prepared by the Lord to find the Church for her.
I was impressed with her conviction and wanted to know for myself. I asked my mother if she knew about the Book of Mormon. She told me my sister had a blue book from two missionaries. I borrowed the book and read it from cover to cover in one week; I wasn’t interested in anything else. What a feeling of peace I had! I remembered a promise that everyone who read the book should ask God if it were true, and He would respond (see Moroni 10:3–4).
Early in the morning I went to my room to offer a prayer. I placed my trust in God and asked Him if the book was true, and I felt a burning inside. I did not know what the feeling was, but I felt joy. That night I had a dream in which a Book of Mormon prophet appeared. I asked him if the book was true, and he said it was. When I woke up I thought, “The Book of Mormon really is true.”
I asked around until I found someone who knew the directions to the church. One Friday I rode my bicycle to the chapel, but no one was there. I prayed for help to know when meetings were held. I went again the following week. When I arrived, an elderly lady told me that Church meetings were on Sunday mornings. I returned home happy and excited with my heart beating rapidly.
When I arrived on Sunday morning, I was well received by the members. I was impressed with the organization of the Church. I felt peace and joy in my heart during the meetings, and I asked the missionaries to come to my house to teach me. I returned home and told my mother that I had found the right religion.
The missionaries taught me about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I already knew the story of Joseph Smith, so when they invited me to pray to learn the truth, I told them I had already received an answer and told them about my experience. They were impressed with my testimony and suggested a date, May 15, 2004, for my baptism. In the meantime, my friend Julyette was also baptized. My baptism was the greatest joy of my life, and my friend and I are very happy we found the true Church of Jesus Christ.

When I read the article “Darrell, His Mission, and Me” (May 1993), it made me do a lot of thinking. My brother left to go on his mission to North Carolina on July 28. I’ve never really gotten along with him because we’re five years apart. But I started writing him letters, and I feel a lot better about our relationship because he knows a lot more about my feelings. I’m really grateful for the article.
Becky BeldenColumbia, Tennessee

Dear Reed or Elder May,
I miss you. I miss you very much! I miss you very, very much! Do I have to call you Elder May, or can I still call you Reed? I’m glad that you got out of the empty sea. I was worried about you drowning or something. When I asked her, Mom laughed and said that you were fine there, but I was still worried.
I have something that I want to tell you. But maybe I’d better not tell you.
Please write a letter just to me.
Love,Brad
Dear Buddy,
I miss you, too—very much! When I think of how much you will grow and change in two years, sometimes it makes me a little sad that I can’t be there with you. But I know that I’m doing the right thing by going on a mission. Besides, the elders here who are almost ready to go home all say that two years zoom by so fast that you can hardly believe it.
To answer your question, yes, you can still call me Reed instead of Elder May. But do I have to start calling you Brad now, or can I still call you Buddy?
Buddy, I have to admit that I was puzzled for a long time about what you meant by the “empty sea.” Then yesterday I told Elder Watts, my companion, that you were worried about me in the empty sea, and all of a sudden it came to me! Where I was, was not the empty sea, but the MTC. That stands for Missionary Training Center. That’s where I learned about being a missionary and how to teach people the gospel.
The MTC was a good experience, but I’m glad to be in the mission field now. The members here are friendly, and some of them help us a lot. We are teaching some great families. Elder Watts is a hard worker, and we spend a lot of hours trying to find people who want to learn about the restoration of the gospel and the Church.
Write to me again soon. I want to keep in touch and know everything that happens to you, kind of like our talks in the dark across the bedroom as we were going to sleep. Only now we will have our talks by writing letters.
And remember, you can tell me anything, just like always.
Love,Reed

I didn’t know as much about fasting when I was seven as I do now that I’m eight. Oh, I knew what fasting was, but I didn’t really understand what it meant until one day when my parents called a family meeting.
“Grandma will be having surgery, and she needs our help,” Mom explained. “Your aunts and uncles and all of your cousins who are old enough will join us in a special fast.”
“A fast!” I gasped.
I love Grandma and really wanted to help her, but I’m a growing boy. Eating is one of my favorite things to do. It’s hard for me to go without food for two minutes, so I didn’t know if I could go without two whole meals! Couldn’t I send Grandma a get-well card or visit her at the hospital? I would even weed her garden. That would be as good as fasting, wouldn’t it?
“Who would like to join our fast?” Mom asked.
Both of my sisters raised their hands. “Sure,” I thought, “it’s easier for them. They have more practice.” Of course Mom and Dad would fast, too. They’ve been fasting for so long they’re practically experts. My brother wouldn’t have to fast because he’s only two.
“When would we start?” I asked.
“Tomorrow night,” Dad replied. “Grandma’s surgery is scheduled for the next morning. We’ll close our fast at dinner that night.”
I thought carefully. Watching all my classmates go to lunch without me would be tough.
Then I remembered some of the great things Grandma does for me. She always gives me treats from her cookie jar. She gives the best hugs, and she prays for me. Swallowing hard, I raised my hand.
“Good,” Mom said with a smile. “I’m glad you’re all willing.”
Before we started our fast the next evening, my family gathered for prayer and asked Heavenly Father to bless Grandma.
For a while after dinner I was fine, especially if I didn’t look at the food in our pantry. But after a couple of hours, my stomach started to grumble. I grumbled, too.
“Dad, I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow to eat,” I moaned.
Dad is pretty smart. He says things in a way I can understand.
“Son, I know it’s difficult for a boy like you to fast,” Dad said. “But Heavenly Father has told us that fasting is a good way to receive extra help. We hope that if we show faith in Him by fasting and praying, He’ll bless Grandma to have a successful surgery and get well. Do you think you can try something for me?”
“If I have the strength,” I mumbled.
“Whenever you feel hungry, think of the reasons you’re fasting. Remember Grandma. If you do, I believe you’ll be able to make it to the end of the fast.”
The next day I tried what Dad said. Every time my stomach growled, I thought about Grandma and how much I wanted Heavenly Father to bless her. It wasn’t easy, but I made it all the way to the end, just like my dad said. Even though I was hungry, I felt good inside.
Everything worked out OK. Grandma is better, and she still has treats for me in her cookie jar. After her surgery, people did lots of things to help her get better, like bringing her dinner and stopping by to visit. I even made her a get-well card. But in my heart I know that nothing helped as much as fasting for Grandma.

My name is Avery, and I am 13 years old. Even though I am still too young to go to seminary, my friends and I have found a fun way to prepare for it.
Every weekday morning, I wake up and get ready for school. Then I walk across the street to my friend’s house, and I meet up with two of my friends. Next we walk a little up the street to my Young Women leader’s house. We meet up with a few other friends, and we begin our walk over to the bus stop.
“OK,” I say, “today is my turn.” I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket and read it out loud. On it is a scripture I copied down the night before. I read it and ask my friends what they think it means. We talk about it until we reach the bus stop. We each take a turn during the week looking up a scripture or a quote.
I enjoy doing this every morning because it helps me in many ways: (1) I learn more about the terms and meanings in the scriptures, (2) I learn to ponder about the things I have read, and (3) I am able to use the things I learn every day.
We also challenge each other to read the Book of Mormon and to learn about the lives of the prophets. Even if you don’t go to seminary yet, there are still many ways to start your day off with the Spirit.

I assumed our new ward in the East of England was a regular ward of the Church. It is full of good people, striving to do their best, ready to bring a casserole over when someone is sick, or lift boxes for an hour when a family needs moving. But at the same time, very busy with their lives.
So, when our family of seven unexpectedly had to move houses within the ward boundaries, I decided to do it all by myself. A few people offered to help, but I was sure that their offering was simply out of a sense of obligation, and I dislike inconveniencing people.
The moving day had nearly arrived. The moving van was booked, boxes packed, and two days off work arranged. The day before the move was a Sunday, so we thought attending sacrament meeting would be a respite before undertaking the arduous task of moving all our household belongings. The chapel was full that beautiful winter’s morning. A single row of chairs could not accommodate our entire family, so our eldest child, 14-year-old Preston, sat two rows in front of us on an aisle seat.
A few minutes into a talk by our high councillor, Preston slumped over and fell into the aisle and laid there for a few moments before the onset of a full-body seizure. The scene that followed was traumatic for all in attendance. The ensuing days and weeks in hospital, while Preston was intubated, was a time of great uncertainty.
But there was one special thing—the love and service offered by our ward members. The entire ward was mobilised to a degree I never would have imagined was possible. Sisters of the ward tended our children, not for hours but for days, to allow Preston’s mother and me to be by his side. Meals were provided; children were taken to and from school, and a kind sister with five children of her own drove five hours to pick up my mother from the airport.
And if that was not enough, other members worked until 1 a.m. to move our entire household and then clean the old home spotlessly. These and other labours of love were performed while my wife and I were far away at the regional medical facility with our son.
The hours spent in service to our family were incalculable and remarkably synchronised. How the bishopric and Relief Society presidency organised help was astounding. It took the notion of ward coordination to an entirely new level.
The spiritual encouragement of the loving bishop of the Huntingdon Ward, and the wisdom offered by the caring stake president of the Northampton Stake, were significant.
When all hope seemed lost, our children’s seminary teacher was called upon to provide a priesthood blessing of healing in an intensive care unit. That blessing appeared to shake the hospital’s foundation and replaced despair by faith in the hearts of Preston’s parents.
We learned many lessons from that harrowing experience. But chief among them is that, given the opportunity, members of the Church can marshal and serve with awe-inspiring intensity. There is no obligation, and no one waits for thanks. Members of the Church are disciples of Christ and invariably respond to the challenge, whether providing a casserole or moving an entire household.
In the end, it turns out we do belong to a regular ward of the Church. And we thank Heavenly Father every day for that fact.

The woodland was under a heavy shroud of cloud cover that weekend. Rain filtered through the air, and the cameramen waited patiently to expose their film. It rained, and they prayed. And it rained some more. If the filmmakers were unable to complete filming in that one week during the spring of 1975, the project would have to wait a year until the surroundings were right again. The season would soon change, and to add to the problems, the lead actor had to leave the following Friday. On Monday morning the crew awoke before dawn and and began to set up all their equipment, thinking somehow they could compensate for the weather. But suddenly it stopped raining. When the sun came up, they beheld the loveliest mist they had ever seen. The tall, wet grasses sparkled, and the birds burst forth in song, and they knew they had been blessed with a beauty they could never have produced themselves.
That morning the Brigham Young University Department of Film Production began filming scenes for the First Vision. Stewart Petersen, who played the Prophet Joseph, walked through those tall grasses with thoughts of that other “beautiful, clear day, early in the spring of eighteen hundred and twenty” (JS—H 1:14) when Joseph Smith humbly prayed for an answer to his question, “Which of all the churches should I join?”

After finishing his service in the Brazil São Paulo North Mission in 2002, Ricardo Aurélio da Silva Fiusa used a PEF loan to earn a four-year degree in business administration.
“The fund has helped me grow up, prepare for work and marriage, and serve better in the Church,” says Ricardo. Like many PEF recipients, he was offered employment before he even finished his degree. “The fund has been a blessing in my life. I’m grateful to make monthly payments on my loan so that other people can use the fund as well.”
On his mission Ricardo learned to talk to people, study hard, and obey—qualities that have made him a good student and employee.
“A lot of my professors said there was something different about me that they couldn’t explain,” says Ricardo, who works in logistics for a company at Port Suape, south of Recife. “I told them it was because of my religious principles.” That answer has led to opportunities for Ricardo to talk with his professors and others about the Church.

For eight years he served in the cabinet of the president of the United States. Before the first Cabinet meeting, then-Secretary Benson suggested to President-elect Eisenhower that they commence with prayer. President Eisenhower spoke of the weight of responsibility on the new administration and the need for divine guidance, then called on the Secretary of Agriculture to open the meeting with prayer. That practice continued throughout the Eisenhower administration.

When I was a teenager, I struggled, as many young people do, with feelings of confusion and anxiety about the future. And like many teens, I didn’t want to approach my parents about my concerns. I felt they were too old. How could they possibly understand my problems? I’m sure my parents were concerned, but I avoided their attempts to talk to me.
One night my father came home from work with a sack of groceries. He had stopped at the corner store and picked up a few items, one of which was a large bag of roasted peanuts. Finding our red porcelain bowl, he emptied the bag into the bowl. Then, in a voice barely concealing his apprehension, he asked me if I’d like to “snap a few” with him. He said he had a lot on his mind and that he needed someone to talk to. I reluctantly agreed.
By the time the peanuts were half gone, we had warmed to each other, and for the first time in several years we really began to communicate. In his quiet, confident, roundabout way, he began to reestablish the truths he had taught me from the time I was a little boy.
He talked with me not only as a father, but also as a friend—a much older and wiser friend. To my astonishment, I found a wealth of information and experiences in my father I hadn’t known existed. We didn’t talk much about the political and moral issues of the day; instead, I learned from the mistakes and successes of a man 35 years my senior.
That was the first of many “peanut sessions.” When I left home to go on my mission not many years later, I embraced my father and felt his strength and love in the bear hug he gave me. I will always be grateful to him for reaching out to me during a difficult time in my life and sharing unchanging truths with me—truths that have guided my life ever since. His sincere friendship and nonthreatening approach gave me an anchor during a time of instability and provided an example of the way I want to rear my own children.

In our family, we have been immeasurably blessed as two decades ago, a young 16-year-old learned that she was expecting a child. She and the baby’s father were not married, and they could see no way forward together. The young woman believed the life she was carrying was precious. She gave birth to a baby girl and allowed a righteous family to adopt her as their own. For Bryce and Jolinne, she was an answer to their prayers. They named her Emily and taught her to trust in her Heavenly Father and in His Son, Jesus Christ.
Emily grew up. How grateful we are that Emily and our grandson, Christian, fell in love and were married in the house of the Lord. Emily and Christian now have their own little girl.
Emily recently wrote: “Throughout these last nine months of pregnancy, I had time to reflect on the events [of] my own birth. I thought of my birth mother, who was just 16 years old. As I experienced the aches and changes that pregnancy brings, I couldn’t help but imagine how difficult it would have been at the young age of 16. … The tears flow even now as I think of my birth mother, who knew she couldn’t give me the life [she desired for me and unselfishly placed] me for adoption. I can’t fathom what she might have gone through in those nine months—being watched with judging eyes as her body changed, the teen experiences she missed, knowing that at the end of this labor of motherly love, she would place her child into the arms of another. I am so thankful for her selfless choice, that she did not choose to use her agency in a way that would take away my own.” Emily concludes, “I’m so thankful for Heavenly Father’s divine plan, for my incredible parents who [loved and cared for] me, and for temples where we can be sealed to our families for eternity.”

Brent ran downstairs, his little sister, Lindsey, following close behind. “Mom!” Brent cried. “Lindsey won’t leave us alone!”
Brent’s best friend, Clint, had come over to play. The boys were playing with Brent’s fire truck and putting out the fires in the skyscrapers they had built out of blocks. “Lindsey always wants to do what we’re doing,” Brent said. “Why can’t she go away?”
“Brent, please be nice to your sister. She just wants to spend time with you,” Mom said.
“But, Mom, she always wants to tag along. Can’t she do something else for a while?”
“How about if we color together, Lindsey?” Mom asked. Lindsey nodded.
“Thanks, Mom,” Brent said as he started back up the stairs.
“Don’t forget, Brent,” Mom called after him. “You and Clint have practice for the Christmas program in less than an hour.”
“OK, Mom,” Brent replied.
“Mommy, why doesn’t Brent like me?” Lindsey asked, tears forming in her eyes.
“He does like you,” Mom said. “But sometimes he just wants to be with his friends. Brent loves you very much, even if he doesn’t always show it.”
A little while later, Mom took Brent and Clint to the church to practice for the Christmas program. Brent was excited. He was going to play Joseph this year. Before, he’d always been a sheep or a shepherd or a Wise Man. That was neat, but this year would be the best ever.
“OK, we’re going to practice the scene at the inns,” Brother Mitchell said. “Joseph and Mary, take your places. Innkeepers, it’s time.”
The Primary children hurried to their places onstage as Joseph and Mary approached the first inn.
“Please, do you have a room that we could stay in for the night?” Brent asked. “My wife is going to have a baby very soon, and she needs a place to rest.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no room,” the innkeeper said.
“Come on, Mary. Let’s try another place,” Brent said. They walked to the next innkeeper. “Hello, sir. We’ve come a long way, and my wife is going to have a baby very soon. Do you have a place where we can stay?”
“No, we’re all full. There’s no room.”
Brent went to the next innkeeper and knocked on the door, then the next, and then the next. The answer was always the same.
“There’s no room.”
“No room.”
“No room.”
“I’m so sorry, Mary,” Brent said. “Let’s try this one last place.” He turned and knocked on the door. “Sir, please, we’re very far from home, we have no place to go, and my wife is going to have a baby very soon. We’ve tried every inn in town. Do you have anywhere that we could stay?”
“I’m sorry. We’re all full.”
Joseph and Mary turned away slowly, looking sad. “I’m sorry, Mary,” Brent began. “I don’t know what—”
“Wait! Wait just a moment,” the innkeeper called after them. “Maybe I have a place after all. Come with me.” The innkeeper led them to the stable with cows, sheep, and other animals. “It’s not much, but you can stay here if you like.”
“This is wonderful,” Brent said gratefully. “Thank you very, very much.”
A few days later, Clint was at Brent’s house again. They were playing in a big box, pretending it was a fort that protected them from invaders. But Lindsey kept bothering them, asking if she could come inside too.
“Lindsey, why don’t you go do something else? Can’t you see that there’s no room for—” Brent stopped mid-sentence. He thought of the words that he’d heard just a few days before: “No room, no room, no room.” He thought of Joseph and Mary and the baby Jesus, who meant so much to all of them. Then he looked at his little sister.
“I’m sorry, Lindsey. Of course there’s room for you. There’s always room for three.”

As I walked into my routine doctor appointment, I was filled with excitement and hope. By ultrasound I had already seen my tiny baby’s heartbeat, but now, several weeks later, the tiny one inside me would be even bigger. Having experienced the miracle of pregnancy three times already, I never ceased to be amazed.
Ten minutes later I was crying alone in my car—the image of a still baby with no heartbeat forever imprinted in my mind.
During the days that followed, I was in a dazed stupor. I felt empty and alone. My husband had to go back to work, and our three children ran around the house as I half-heartedly fed them and tried to keep the house clean. But I was not really there. When I came home from running errands, the first thing I would do was check to see if I had any missed calls. None. I would check my email every hour. Nothing. I started wondering if my friends and neighbors cared about me. Were they even my friends at all? I didn’t notice how Satan was working on me.
I was sharing my feelings with my husband one night, and he immediately saw what was happening. He shared 1 Nephi 21:15–16 with me:
“I [will] not forget thee, O house of Israel.
“Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.”
I had learned about and studied the Atonement before. I thought I knew what it was. But I had failed to appropriately apply it to my life. Jesus had already suffered all of my sorrows. He knew exactly how I felt.
“His most exemplary act, the Atonement, required Jesus to descend ‘below all things’ (D&C 88:6) and suffer ‘the pains of all men’ (2 Nephi 9:21). Thus we understand the Atonement has broader purpose than providing a means to overcome sin. This greatest of all earthly accomplishments gives the Savior the power to fulfill this promise: ‘If ye will turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart, … he will … deliver you’ (Mosiah 7:33).”1
What better friend could I have during this tragic time than one who could surely sympathize with me? I realized I needed my Savior to help me overcome my sorrow. As I turned to the Lord, I immediately saw His love for me. I felt calm and peaceful, and I felt that Jesus understood me as I had never thought possible. He is exactly the kind of friend I was longing for in those days after my miscarriage—the kind of friend I needed most.
I know I can always turn to my Savior, not only when I need to repent of my sins but also when I need a shoulder to cry on. He is always there. When we are searching for someone to understand our pains and sorrows, let us not forget our truest friend, Jesus Christ.

Zina’s father, William Huntington, a well-to-do farmer, was not happy with the church that the family attended, so he decided to study the Bible and join the church that had the same organization as the one Christ organized during His mortal ministry. William discovered, however, that none of the churches had the same organization as the early Church; there were no prophets, apostles, or demonstrations of spiritual gifts.
Soon after William had heard a rumor about a prophet who had found a “new and golden Bible,” two missionaries, Hyrum Smith, Joseph Smith’s brother, and David Whitmer, one of the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon, came to the Huntington home. When Zina returned there from school, she saw the “new Bible” lying on the windowsill. Immediately the Spirit whispered to her that the book was the word of God. She picked it up and clasped it to her, saying, “This is the truth, truth, truth!”
Zina, her parents, sister, and all but one brother were baptized and moved to Kirtland, Ohio, to join the Saints there.

One day, after we had reached the Coppermine River, we were paddling on the river during a blizzard. It was the end of July and the snow was flying! The current was powerful, but the head-wind was so strong we were struggling for progress. Bob said, “Dad, look at the shore.” I did … We were standing still. And when we stopped paddling, the wind blew us upstream! So we stopped and pulled over to the shore and gathered what wood we could for a fire to warm our hands.

Another time we were stuck on a boulder in a bad set of rapids, and it seemed as though we might stay there forever. But after a prayer and a quick maneuvering of the boat, we broke free.

Once we reached the river, we were determined to regain our lost time. We didn’t mind moving, because when we’d stop we’d start to chill. Even at night we slept cold. The ground was ice, and the wind was cold. We had some small containers of fuel, but just enough to warm our food. And so we paddled and rushed on. Our worst day on the river we traveled 5 kilometers. Our best day we traveled 80 kilometers, and we went over the falls and flooded our canoe at the last set of rapids out of eight we covered that day. The map showed eight sets of rapids, and we decided, because of our haste, to run them without studying them first, a foolish thing to do.

We slowly regained our lost time, and by the end of the trip, arrived in the small Eskimo village at the mouth of the river right on schedule. We had one half of a meal left. Our canoe was so badly damaged we had to abandon it (after notifying Canadian officials). We had sailed over every set of rapids on the river but one (whether we were tired or afraid of the one we carried our equipment around I’m not sure), so we didn’t claim any records. But Bob had been lost and now was found. The day after we returned home, he went to see the bishop and expressed his desire to serve the Lord. He is now serving in the Illinois Chicago Mission.

To any father who is trying to help his son decide to go on a mission, I would say that the most important thing is to know your son. Not everyone needs to go on a trip down the Coppermine River. The same kind of building experiences can take place at home, working in the garage together, playing a game of tennis, maybe just going for a walk where the two of you can be alone. I wouldn’t have gone on the Coppermine River if I hadn’t felt inspired to do so.

And to you young men who know you should be going on a mission, I would remind you that for every person there will be wilderness areas, Gethsemanes, Sacred Groves—places where we learn to rely on the Lord completely and call on him in fervent prayer. Don’t try to tempt the Lord by placing yourself in a dangerous situation, but be prepared to follow the promptings of his Spirit, wherever they may lead you.

“I thought the church I used to belong to was the only church around,” says David Falentino Benod. “But I wasn’t really satisfied with it. At school, when the rest of the class went to chapel, I used to hide in the bathroom. I’d seen the missionaries in the streets before, and one day my father invited them in to teach us. On Sunday we went to church and then to a baptism, and we felt wonderful. We set a date right there for the baptism of our family of nine.
Of course, joining the Church is not always an easy step. Many times it means leaving old friends behind, and often parents and brothers and sisters don’t understand. “The hardest thing to do,” says Llissel Ventura, “is to explain to our friends why we follow the Word of Wisdom. Many here smoke and drink and take drugs. They often tease us. But I just drink my jugo de china (orange juice), and I’m fine.”
Luis Espinal has found an interesting solution to this kind of peer pressure. “I know people who have vices and they would really like to get over them, but they don’t think they have anyone to help them. I try to be a good friend to them, and I bring them all to church. Some leave, but some continue coming, and some become members.”
All over the Dominican Republic you’ll find teens with this longing to reach out to others. In fact, when asked what they wanted the rest of the world’s youth to know about them, the Dominican teens replied:
“Tell them we love them. We want to meet them someday. We may not be very elegant, but we’re very nice and always happy.”
“Tell them we’re all a team.”
“Tell them we think it’s “bien chevere” (really cool) to be members of this church.”
“Tell them that the Church is very important in our lives. We may be different from them in some ways, but we all have the same goals and dreams.”
“Tell them we know the Church is true and that God loves us all. Christ did a very marvelous thing for us—he paid for our sins. He has given us light, and we’re trying to let our lights shine so those around us can see too.”
The light of the gospel. That’s it. That’s what enables the Dominican seminary students to “see” even when the electricity goes out. That’s what enables them to recognize the truth when it comes knocking on their doors. That’s what makes them so eager to serve missions and help their friends. It’s the light of the gospel that fuels their fires and helps them forge a republic of faith.

Jared walked home from church in the hot sunshine with Mom and Dad. He thought about his Primary lesson. Since he couldn’t hear very well, Jared had to pay close attention to the pictures his teacher showed and the words she wrote on the board.
That day they had learned that Jesus asked the disciples to be missionaries. Jared wondered what he could do to share the gospel, like Jesus asked. He knew he couldn’t serve a mission yet. Then he had a great idea. Maybe he could start saving money for it!
When he got home, Jared ran right past Umber, his pet goat, and into the house. He got a big plastic jar and carefully cut a hole in the top. He wrote “Mission Fund” on the side. Then he went to his room and got his money from under his bed. One by one he dropped in each coin. But all his coins barely covered the bottom of the jar. How could he earn more money?
Jared thought and thought. He looked out the window at the bright sun. It was so hot in the Philippines. Jared and his friends ate coconut ice candy almost every afternoon after school. That’s it! he thought. Maybe he could make ice candy and sell it to other people who wanted to cool off.
Jared ran to find Mom. “Can you show me how to make ice candy?” Jared signed. They used sign language, a language where you talk with your hands. Mom smiled and nodded.
The next day, Jared and Mom walked to the big outdoor market and bought all the supplies. When they got home, Jared took out a big bowl and mixed coconut milk, condensed milk, vanilla, and shredded coconut. Mom and Jared used a funnel to pour the mix into small bags. They put all the bags in the freezer. “Great job!” Mom signed.
The ice candy took a long time to freeze. But the next day after school, it was finally ready! Jared climbed on a chair and got the white cooler off the top of the fridge. He put some towels in the bottom of the cooler and layered the ice candy on top. He couldn’t wait to sell it.
Jared ran outside into the dusty street. His friends were playing with homemade kites and throwing their flip-flops at a tin can to knock it over.
At the side of the road, he set up a table with a big sign that said, “Ice Candy, 5 pesos.” His friend Angelo ran over and pointed at the cooler. He gave Jared a five-peso coin, and Jared gave him some ice candy. They high-fived.
Soon more of Jared’s friends came to buy ice candy too. A few hours later when Mom called Jared for dinner, there were only a few ice candies left.
Jared picked up the cooler and the coins. In one of his pockets, he put some of the coins for his tithing. He put the rest of the coins into his other pocket. He couldn’t wait to see his mission-fund bank fill up.
At home he dropped his mission-fund coins onto the pile at the bottom of the jar. There was still so much more space! But Jared felt warm inside as he thought about serving a mission someday. He decided that he would keep selling ice candy until his jar was full. And in the meantime, he could find other ways to get ready to be a missionary, like Jesus asked him to do.

Gbenga Onalaja is the only Mormon at his Catholic school in Ibadan, Nigeria, and he is a little bit shy. So when a visiting archbishop asked a question at a school assembly of more than 1,000 people, Gbenga hesitated more than a minute before he answered the question.

“After his remarks, the archbishop asked the question ‘Who was Saint Martha?’” says Gbenga.
The Catholic designation of “Saint” threw Gbenga off a little bit, so he didn’t raise his hand. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, however, it appeared that no one knew the answer. Gbenga knew what he had to do.
“I raised my hand and the archbishop called me up to the front of the assembly. I was nervous and my leg was shaking, but I managed to answer that Martha was the sister of Mary and Lazarus.
“He then asked me to explain, so I told him what I knew. It was easy because I had learned it all in church.”
The archbishop was so pleased with Gbenga’s answer, he rewarded him with a scholarship for his last year at the school. Gbenga was also able to tell the archbishop about the Church.
Gbenga, who is a deacon in the Ibadan Third Branch, says, “Since that day, I have been referred to as ‘scholarship boy.’ Every time I hear that phrase, it brings back good memories and reminds me to listen to the promptings of the Spirit.”

Listening to the rapid, incomprehensible buzz of Spanish that permeated the hot, stuffy confines of the Tres Estrellas bus, Elder Terry Richards gulped and stared straight ahead, straining to visualize his first city. All he knew of Guaymas, Sonora, Mexico, was that the bus depot was across the street from the city jail; therefore, when the bus entered a strange city and made a routine stop in front of a large baleful structure resembling a medieval stone fortress, he knew he had arrived.
He shuddered as he stepped from the bus into the sweltering Guaymas heat. All he had as security was the address of the elders’ quarters scribbled on a scrap of paper clutched in the sweating palm of his hand. His bags were piled at his feet, his scriptures tucked under his arm, and his face pinched with indecision and trepidation.
Suddenly a man approached and accosted him with a barrage of Spanish. The words were so unlike anything Elder Richards had ever heard that all he was capable of doing was to stare mutely and nod his head.
The man snatched his bags and began carrying them off. Panic stricken, Elder Richards tried to call out, but nothing in the Mission Training Center had prepared him to halt a robbery. “Hey, wait!” he finally managed to gasp. The man didn’t stop. “They’re mine!” He shook his head in frustration. “I mean,” he called hoarsely, “Estos … son … míos.”
The man grinned, nodded his head, and began cramming the bags into the trunk of a dent-covered car. Only then did it occur to Elder Richards that this was a Mexican taxi. He fumbled with the scrap of paper in his hand and thrust it toward the man. He wanted to say something—anything—but his mind was a perplexing blank.
The driver rambled while he drove. Elder Richards struggled to snatch a familiar word here and there, but most of the driver’s monologue was a verbal blur. Finally out of utter exhaustion he stopped listening altogether, dazed by this language, this seeming babble of tongues. Plagued by a terrible uncertainty, he asked himself, “What will I ever be able to do? What good will I be?”
The taxi left him on a narrow side street in front of an old two-story building, cracked, pocked, and sandwiched between a bakery and a small drugstore. He had hoped the elders would be there waiting, but it was Saturday afternoon. The doors were locked; the building, deserted. All he could do was huddle in a narrow bar of shade and wait. He sank down on his bags, exhausted and confused.
“Elder!” a voice called enthusiastically. He looked up into the smiling face of an older man. The man grabbed his hand and began pumping his arm furiously, at the same time pulling him toward the front door where he escorted him inside.
Hermano Marcos, who had come to prepare the building for the Sunday meetings, introduced Elder Richards to his new home. The building doubled as the branch casa de oración and the elders’ quarters. Two large rooms on the ground floor served as the chapel. They were filled from wall to wall with gray folding chairs, all of them facing two small tables, one obviously the podium and the other the sacrament table. The only other furniture was an old battered and scarred piano.
After Hermano Marcos’s short welcome and tour, he turned to his work, sweeping and mopping the floors and wiping the dust from the chairs and tables. While Hermano Marcos worked, Elder Richards wandered about, trying to imagine holding a church meeting in such humble circumstances, so unlike anything he had ever experienced. A flood of loneliness swept over him, leaving him groping for something to lend him stability. The only thing in these strange surroundings that had any semblance of the familiar was the old battered piano standing forlornly against the wall.
Now in Guaymas, lonely and somewhat dejected, he gently ran his fingers along the chipped and broken keyboard. A wan smile touched his lips. “It would take more than a pianist to get music out of you,” he whispered. He began to walk his fingers across the keys, listening to the sharp ping of the falling notes.
A worn hymnbook lay on one of the folding chairs. He reached for it and turned to “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” It was the first hymn he had ever learned to play. He studied the notes for a moment. When he was convinced he could, he sat down and began to play. His fingers were terribly awkward. The piano needed tuning, and several keys were broken. At times it was difficult to determine whether he or the piano was making the mistakes. But he labored through the hymn, once, twice. He played until the music, if not entirely melodious, was at least recognizable.
It was late when Elder Becket, Elder Richards’s new companion, and Elder Cole found him upstairs lying on their cot asleep.
The next morning as Elder Cole was preparing the sacrament and Elder Becket filled out a mission report, Elder Richards strolled to the old piano. “Who plays this old box?” he asked with a grin.
Elder Becket looked up and laughed. “That, Elder, isn’t just an old box. To the members here, it’s the most precious thing in Guaymas.”
“This?” Elder Richards asked with surprise. Elder Becket nodded. “Why? Did Cortez bring it over from Spain or something?”
“It’s a piano. There are a few of them in town, but you certainly don’t find them in every house for the kids to climb on and kick around. Some of the newer members haven’t even heard this one played, and none of the members have heard it played very well. An Elder Fisher, who could play a few hymns with one hand, was here about a year ago, a few months after they bought it. The members almost made him a saint. They made him play his hymns every Sunday. Finally he jokingly told the mission president he was going home if he had to play those hymns another time.”
“It’s seen better days,” Elder Richards commented. “It could sure use a tuning job.”
“You play?” Elder Becket asked.
Elder Richards laughed and shook his head. “I can make noise, pretty bad noise at that, but I don’t play. My mother thought I had musical talents, but after five years of lessons and no noticeable improvement, even she gave up.”
“If you had lessons for five years …”
“I didn’t learn anything.”
“If you played that long, you can play as well as Elder Fisher.”
Just then President Perales and his family arrived and the piano was temporarily forgotten, but just before sacrament meeting, President Perales approached Elder Richards with a hymnbook and spoke, pointing to the piano. Grinning and shaking his head, Elder Richards said shyly, “No, no puedo … tocar.”
President Perales motioned for Elder Becket to come over. “Hermano Marcos said he heard you playing yesterday,” Elder Becket said.
“Yesterday?” he gasped. “I was just fooling around. I can’t play.”
“You sure impressed Hermano Marcos.”
“Elder, I haven’t played for over three years. Yesterday was the first time—I mean the very first time—I’ve even sat down to a piano for over three years. I was just …”
“Play what you were playing yesterday.”
“I can’t,” he insisted, but the protest was to no avail. With his face burning with embarrassment, Elder Richards retreated to the piano. Never had he played in front of a group. At home when the bishop had asked him to play in priesthood, he had adamantly refused.
When it came time for the first hymn, he huddled morosely on the piano chair and braced himself for the shame. Even had the piano been a good one, he would have battled to coax music from it. With his fingers trembling and his eyes frantically searching the keyboard, he began to grope through “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” He managed to get through all three verses, but it was torture for him. Later he played the sacrament hymn, and at the conclusion of the meeting he played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”
Sensing that all eyes were on him, he couldn’t bring himself to raise his head. He wanted to race from the building and hide himself, and the thing that was so utterly frustrating was that he was forced to endure his shame in silence. There was absolutely no way he could explain in Spanish that it had been years since he had last played, that he had never learned properly in the first place, that this whole thing was a terrible mistake.
As soon as the benediction was said, he stood, planning to sneak from the room and hide from the members’ questioning stares, but before he took three steps a sister had him by the arm and was speaking to him, tears glistening in her eyes. The only words that had any meaning for him were her often repeated, “Muchisimas gracias!” Two more sisters approached and then a brother. Soon it seemed as though the entire branch crowded around him, many with tears in their eyes, each trying to shake his hand.
He saw Elder Becket and searched his face for an explanation. Elder Becket smiled and called, “They loved it. If the Church sainted people, you would be the first Mormon saint in Guaymas.”
“For what?” he asked, completely bewildered.
“For playing their piano.”
“That wasn’t playing. That wasn’t music.”
“You’ll have a hard time convincing them. They want you to play again.”
“Now?”
“But I can’t. It’s been …”
“That might have worked back home, but not here. Look at them, Elder. They’re all but begging.”
Elder Richards was touched. He felt a twinge of shame, a gnawing guilt. Suddenly he wished he could play like his mother had always dreamed of him playing. He offered a silent prayer, pleading for help, not to shelter him from shame and embarrassment but to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands so that through his neglected talent he might give these special people the joy and satisfaction they sought.
It was almost an hour later before the last of the members left the building and Elder Richards made his way with his companions up to their room. “I can’t believe they could even listen to that, let alone enjoy it,” Elder Richards commented.
For a long while Elder Becket didn’t reply; then he shook his head and asked, “Where are you from, Elder?”
“Logan, Utah.”
“Have you ever been to a chapel that didn’t have a piano?” Elder Richards shook his head. “Well, most of these people have never heard the hymns played on a piano. The elders have taught them the melodies. Before today, when they sang “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning,” it was the way the elders had taught it. Not more than a handful of them have ever sung that hymn accompanied by a piano. “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” is a hymn that many of them have wanted to sing accompanied by a piano, but they’ve hardly dared hope that it was really possible.”
“I’m no musician,” Elder Richards said, “but I can hear the difference between noise and music.”
“Maybe two years ago I would have felt the same, but this morning that sounded pretty good, even to me.”
“Where did they get the old box anyway?”
“In Logan,” Elder Becket chided, “that’s an old box. Here it’s a treasure. They bought it from the Baptists. They had a special dinner to raise the money. Everybody donated food and then paid outlandish prices to eat it. All the money went for the piano. Someday, when the chapel’s built, they’ll have a new one, but right now they have to make do with that. The members are proud of their piano. Even though no one can play it and even though it might be out of tune, that’s one of the most important things in this whole building.”
“If it’s so important to them, why don’t they tune it?”
“No money. Right now they’re trying to raise money so they can start building their chapel. Every extra peso goes for that.”
The rest of the day, as Elder Richards followed his two companions, he couldn’t forget the old piano. When they returned to the building that night, it was late and Elder Richards was tired, but before going to bed he went down to the old piano and played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” The timing was off, and the notes didn’t come through as smoothly as they did when his sisters or mother played, but for the first time in his life he really tried to make music and not merely put in time.
The next day he wrote a short note to his mother: “Mom, I would appreciate it if you would sell my stereo and send me the money. Ted Roberts said he’d buy it if I ever wanted to sell. There’s this piano here that needs tuning, and the members don’t have the money to get the job done. I’d like to help them out. I figure I owe them something after wasting all those piano lessons. And, mom, thanks for making me practice the piano.”
When the letter was addressed and sealed, Elder Richards stood and started down the stairs to the chapel below. “Where are you going?” Elder Becket asked.
“Oh, I think I’ll go down and beat on that old box. I mean, I figure that as long as I’m going to be the new branch pianist, I should give the members something they can be proud of, not just a lot of noise.”