Gospel Story Finder

I had been preparing to be a Buddhist nun. But everything changed in December 1985, when I was converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ and was baptized a member of the Church.
I began working as a delivery driver for a catering company. Such a routine job may sound boring, but I enjoyed the opportunity it gave me to share the gospel and make new friends.
Strangely, it seemed that almost every customer had something to say about religion at one time or another. But I never told them I was a Latter-day Saint unless they asked about my church. Once in a while I made arrangements to visit with customers after work to tell them more about the Church.
Most of my customers were at home when I made my deliveries. But if no one was there, I left a note with the deliveries. One customer who was never home when I called was Mrs. Ueki. She began to respond to my notes, and I looked forward to receiving her heartwarming message every day. Although I had never seen her, I gave her the nickname of “Ducky.” She responded by nicknaming me “Rooster.”
About this time, I was preparing for my mission call to Hokkaido, Japan. In the middle of March, I wrote Ducky to tell her I was going out of town, but I didn’t tell her why. I didn’t want her to feel I had become her friend just to baptize her. I sincerely wished to continue our friendship.
But after many humble prayers, I finally decided to write Ducky and tell her I was a Latter-day Saint. I wanted her to know why I had joined the Church and why I was going to Hokkaido for eighteen months. The next day, I left her the letter along with two missionary brochures, The Purpose of Life and The Testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Two weeks after I arrived at Asahikawa, Hokkaido, I received a letter from Ducky. As soon as I opened it, I recognized the beautiful, familiar handwriting: “Dear Rooster, How have you been? How is life treating you? Are the people there nice to you? I hope you are not having any trouble. Do you eat well? I am concerned about your well being.”
My eyes filled with tears.
Following her opening greetings there was a space of a few lines, and then she began a new letter. This time she addressed me, surprisingly, as “Sister Iwasaki.”
“You left me the brochures on your last delivery. I had always told my friends that I was looking for the true church. After I finished your letter, I browsed through the brochures, and my heart became full. I asked myself, ‘Is this what I have been searching for?’
“I also wanted to know why you chose this church, so on the same day, I called the Osaka Mission Home in Hirakata. We set a date for my first appointment with the missionaries on April 9, which was followed by more visits on April 12 and 16 and on May 2.”
I was elated!
We corresponded with each other for six months, and I could sense her testimony growing over that time. On November 13, when I walked into the chapel, a member told me that there was a package for me. On the package was written “For Your Birthday.” It was from Ducky. Inside was a letter in which she wrote:
“Dear Rooster, I’m sorry I haven’t written to you earlier. Last Friday, my oldest son, Junya, who is eight years old, finished the last missionary discussion. Yesterday he was interviewed for baptism. Guess when the date of our baptismal service is? We could have set it earlier, but we planned it for November 27. Do you know why? Because it’s your birthday!”
That was the best birthday ever—knowing that Ducky and Junya were being baptized. My friends back home attended the baptismal service in my behalf.
I thank God for using me as his tool to help lead Sister Ueki and her family to the gospel.

True conversion changes lives. One young woman wrote how unhappy her home life had been when she was a little girl. She wrote, “I felt it keenly when my mother and younger brothers and sisters suffered from the savage temper of a drunken father.” When she was 14, someone told her that one of God’s commandments was to honor her parents. In pondering how she could do this, she was impressed to study, to become a good student, and to be the best daughter in town.

Nothing much changed in the home, but she still felt to continue with her objectives and at age 18 left home to undertake some special studies. Three weeks later she went home to visit, and she recalled:

“My mother met me crying. I thought something terrible had happened, but she hugged me and said, ‘Since you went away to study, your father hasn’t had anything to drink.’

“… My mother said that the night I left, some Mormon missionaries had come. …

“My father became like a little child. I could see repentance and humility in his eyes. He had changed completely. He had given up smoking and drinking all at once, and tried to keep the commandments the missionaries taught him. He treated me like a queen, and he treated my mother and my brothers and sisters like royalty.

“… Our whole family was baptized. … My father, at age 40, became the best father in the world.”

I remember the time when I was a young teenager living in Frankfurt, Germany, and praying for a miracle for our family. My dad was terribly ill and about to die. How much I hoped that something would happen to turn our life into a happier path. Despite my heartfelt prayers, he died—way too young we felt. Now we were a one-parent family, a widowed mother with two daughters, 12 and 9 years old. The situation looked bleak and hopeless for us. Even our Lutheran religion was of no great help.

But then one day, a miracle happened, and all things changed to the positive, almost overnight. Two young missionaries rang the doorbell at our apartment. Reluctantly, we let them in. They brought us the Book of Mormon. They taught us the plan of salvation and what it could mean for our lives. They helped us to develop a love for the holy temple, despite the fact that there was actually no temple in Europe at that time. A few years after our baptism, we were sealed in the first temple outside the U.S., the Swiss temple, for time and all eternity. We became an eternal family, including my father, even across the gate of death. All this came about because two young people wanted to serve a mission, serve God and His children. This modern-day miracle happened because these young people loved God and His children and were willing to sacrifice some of their conveniences for this great cause.

In 2015, a three-year-old Arwen Villapando from Quezon City went to their neighborhood store to buy something. While waiting to be served, she was standing on a muddy sidewalk and noticed what looked like a large coin covered in petrified mud. Thinking it was money, she brought it home.
Her father Ireneo was newly-baptized member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and her mother Maribel was being taught by missionaries. They got curious about the muddy coin their youngest daughter brought home so they cleaned it up. It took days to get it clean, and they even had to use a steel brush. As they scraped off the mud, the words “Aaronic Priesthood” appeared and after a while images of the temple and three personages became visible. The familiar engravings prompted them to clean the medallion and keep it as a souvenir. They never told anyone about it until September 2017 during a Stake Family Discovery Day.
A booth Arwen’s mother visited had a small box wherein a familiar coin was displayed. She was astonished to see that it was similar to their coin! Upon asking, she learned that it was a medallion awarded to young men who successfully finished the Duty to God program.
The Villapando family finally shared the story of how they found the medallion. The members wanted to help them find the owner of the medallion but they had no leads. For the family, the medallion was a reminder from heavenly Father for them to stay true to the covenants they made as members of the Church.
Through the years, the medallion was a reminder to Brother Ireneo to magnify his priesthood and lead his family in living the gospel. To Sister Maribel, it was a lesson that material wealth or money is not the most important thing in the world: it’s having a happy and healthy family and staying united in serving the Lord. To Arwen, the medallion teaches her that she is a child of God, and that her potential for eternal growth is limitless.
To this day, the Villapando family keeps the medallion as a reminder that they made the right decision when they joined the Church, and they will do everything to stay on the covenant path.

King Hussein (that's his name) is a convert to the church and the CEO of Span Construction Company; in fact, his firm built the Gordon B. Hinckley Building on the BYU Provo campus. He said his company contracted to build a new COSTCO warehouse. COSTCO has the policy that once a construction pad is in place, the company wants the store up and running in 120 days. At this one location there were some weather issues and building supply shortages that were delaying this project so the Vice President of COSTCO called a meeting of the contractor and sub-contractors. He explained the problem with the delays and said that they would have to work on Sundays to complete the building on time. As the VP went around the room to see what concessions each sub-contractor would make, Brother Hussein calmly said: "I don't work my crews on Sundays." The Vice-president said: "Well, you'll have to this time because we are way behind." He calmly responded: "Sir, I don't work my crews on Sundays, but I think we can meet the deadline." The vice-president got up and came around the desk (in front of all the sub-contractors) and: thumped him on the chest and said: "You mean to tell me that you would lose this contract just to keep your crews from working on Sunday?"

He said he gulped - this was one of those moments in life where you have to decide what you really believe. "Yes, I would," he said." But I think we can complete the job on time."

They did finish the job on time and guess who builds COSTCO stores in the Western part of the United States? Span Construction Company. COSTCO : and the Lord learned--that they could depend on this Latter Day Saint to keep his word.

Always dealing honorably with others is part of loving mercy. Consider a conversation I overheard decades ago in the emergency department of Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland, in the United States. A patient, Mr. Jackson, was a courteous, pleasant man who was well known to the hospital staff. He had previously been hospitalized multiple times for the treatment of alcohol-related diseases. On this occasion, Mr. Jackson returned to the hospital for symptoms that would be diagnosed as inflammation of the pancreas caused by alcohol consumption.

Toward the end of his shift, Dr. Cohen, a hardworking and admired physician, evaluated Mr. Jackson and determined that hospitalization was warranted. Dr. Cohen assigned Dr. Jones, the physician next up in rotation, to admit Mr. Jackson and oversee his treatment.

Dr. Jones had attended a prestigious medical school and was just beginning her postgraduate studies. This grueling training was often associated with sleep deprivation, which likely contributed to Dr. Jones’s negative response. Confronted with her fifth admission of the night, she complained loudly to Dr. Cohen. She felt it was unfair that she would have to spend many hours caring for Mr. Jackson, because his predicament was, after all, self-inflicted.

Dr. Cohen’s emphatic response was spoken in almost a whisper. He said, “Dr. Jones, you became a physician to care for people and work to heal them. You didn’t become a physician to judge them. If you don’t understand the difference, you have no right to train at this institution.” Following this correction, Dr. Jones diligently cared for Mr. Jackson during the hospitalization.

Mr. Jackson has since died. Both Dr. Jones and Dr. Cohen have had stellar careers. But at a critical moment in her training, Dr. Jones needed to be reminded to do justly, to love mercy, and to care for Mr. Jackson without being judgmental.

It was one of those warm summer afternoons, the kind of day that seems to envelop the mind in daydreams and push out thoughts of work or study. While I’d been on my mission, this had been the hardest kind of day to keep my mind on the work. Now it was the same way with school. Since before noon I’d been up in the foothills east of campus collecting root samples. My lab partner and I had been collecting them for a botany project. It had taken us about twice as long as it should have, because we spent as much time chasing butterflies as we did collecting plants. After we had finally completed our collection, my lab partner had given me a ride in his car back to civilization, and I’d got on a bus to go home. It was Friday afternoon, and with the quiet influence of the early summer day still in my mind, I decided as I rode along to dedicate Saturday to sunny beaches and cool water.
I was beginning to imagine the day in a little finer detail when the air brakes gave a familiar hiss and I noticed a small Chicano boy getting on at the front of the bus. The bus was about half full. There were several empty seats between the front of the bus and where I was sitting so I paid little attention. Gazing back out the window, I let my mind drift again to my imaginary weekend.
But just as I was getting back to my daydreams, I saw that boy again out of the corner of my eye. He had passed two empty seats and seemed to be coming straight for the one next to me.
He was about nine or ten, dressed in well-faded but clean pants and a red-checkered shirt. The shirt seemed a little too big, it probably used to belong to his elder brother. As he approached, I stared determinedly out the window, hoping he’d pass by my seat and sit in one of the empty ones behind. But he didn’t.
“Hi, mister,” he said, sitting down next to me. He had a smile so big it seemed about a size and a half too wide for his face. I didn’t want to smile back, but his grin was too contagious; I couldn’t help smiling back at him.
“Hello,” I answered, trying to regain my stern composure.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “it is a nice day.” This time I managed not to smile, and I looked back out of the window hoping that would end the conversation. It was a day too well suited for daydreaming to waste talking to some little boy about the weather. There was silence for a moment, and I began to relax again. I began to imagine playing volleyball on the beach.
“Hey, mister, are you married?”
“What?” I asked, turning back to the boy. His smile, if possible, seemed even a little wider than before.
“Are you married?”
“No,” I answered coldly, hoping he’d realize I didn’t want to talk to him.
“Oh,” he said, looking down disappointed, his smile disappearing. I seemed to have momentarily surprised him. He was thinking. Then in an instant he looked up again, his eyes brighter than ever. “But you’re going to get married, right?”
I tried not to smile, but his eyes and that row of teeth made it impossible. “Yes,” I said smiling back. “I guess I will.”
“And when you get married, mister, are you going to love your wife?”
Now he had surprised me. The question seemed out of place coming from someone so young. I felt like he was leading up to something, but I wasn’t sure what. “Of course,” I answered cautiously, “of course I will.”
“And when you love somebody, you always want to be with them, don’t you, mister, even after you die?”
Suddenly I realized what he was doing. He was asking me a Golden Question. He was a Mormon. I sat there looking at him. I didn’t answer; I didn’t know what to say. How many times had I asked almost that same question? How many times on the buses and streets of Brazil while I was on my mission? But that was my mission; that was then, not now. It seemed inconceivable that those same words were being repeated to me here, at home, by a ten-year-old boy. The bus was slowing rapidly and the boy stood up, taking something from his pocket and giving it to me.
“Hey, mister, I have to get off here. Take this. It’s got the name of two of my friends on it. If you want to know more, give them a call. Good-bye, mister.” And he was gone.
I sat staring at the pamphlet he had given me. It was folded in half and a little tattered at the corners. I unfolded it and read the title, “The Plan of Salvation.”
I’d come home from my mission almost two years ago. I’d brought home my missionary journal, color slides, souvenirs, and a lot of memories. But I’d left my mission behind. How many people had I told about the Church in the time I’d been home? How many Golden Questions had I asked? How many nonmembers did I know who might be interested if only I’d bring up the subject? I’d just been taught a lesson about missionaries that I hadn’t learned in the whole time I’d been on a mission, and it had been taught to me by a young boy with nothing but a testimony and a smile.
The bus was filling up with people now. We were near the center of town and it was almost 5:00. A young man in a business suit sat down next to me. Self-consciously I stuffed the pamphlet in my shirt pocket and looked down at my feet. I was still thinking about that boy; as young as he was, he was still more of a missionary than I’d ever been. I glanced up again. The man next to me was looking out the window, probably daydreaming.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” I said without thinking.
“Yes,” he smiled back, “a very pretty day.”
I sat for a moment, touching the pamphlet in my pocket. Then, with my biggest smile, I asked, “Are you married?”

I’m not even a Mormon, and yet I look forward to and enjoy my monthly edition of the New Era. Your magazine helps me to see and reinforce values, standards, and morals that I never learned in my years of growing up as an orphan. My good friends the Wilsons, who live on a beautiful little ranch in John Day, Oregon, were kind enough to give me a subscription to the New Era and also show me the wealth of a strong family unit in a society where everyone is struggling for an identity. Before I met the Wilsons, I had a very stereotyped misconception of Mormon people. But the Wilsons showed me with their generosity, care, and sincerity what wonderful people Mormons are, and my monthly edition of the New Era only helps to enhance these impressions.
Yvonne Mary PepinJohn Day, Oregon

Christlike love was shown not long ago in a Houston, Texas, branch. When one woman’s husband died, she could not stop crying. No one was able to calm her. Then a friend came to brush her hair, willingly offering her love. As a result of this simple act of caring, the bereaved sister’s uncontrollable sobbing eased, and she was comforted. She became composed and was able to visit with the sisters who came to help clean her house and bring her food. She found peace in her friend’s loving touch—and then, in the calm that followed, she found gratitude for the loving service of the other sisters.

Tara listened as her mother talked excitedly on the phone.
“That’s wonderful, Kevin,” Mom said. Kevin was Tara’s older brother. “We’re so happy for you!” Mom continued. She was crying and laughing at the same time.

Mom hung up the phone and turned to Tara. “Kevin and Chrissy got a call from their social worker. He said that Family Services has a baby girl for them.”

Kevin and his wife, Chrissy, had not been able to have children. LDS Family Services was helping them to adopt a child.

“Will Kevin and Chrissy take the baby to the temple?” Tara asked.

Her mother nodded. “After the adoption is final, Kevin and Chrissy will have her sealed to them, just like you were sealed to us.”

Tara thought of something. “I’m going to be an aunt!”

“That’s right,” her mother said. “Aunt Tara.”

Tara grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

My family is a very special family because we came about in an unusual way.
When I was two years old, my real father and mother were divorced. My father took the three oldest children and moved to another state. I never saw or heard of them again. We three younger children were placed in different foster homes, where we remained for two years.
The next ten years of my life were filled with hurt and sadness. During this time I had two alcoholic stepfathers and as a result, we experienced a great deal of unhappiness. Our family was not a family. We merely existed together with everyone going his own way.
As a result of my situation at home I began to strike out and to seek attention in other ways. I became involved with the wrong crowd and began sluffing school.
I had learned of the Mormon church through a friend of mine, and when I was 13 years old I was baptized. One of the main reasons I was attracted to the Church was the love and concern I felt from the members of my ward.
I had become quite close to a family in my ward—the Fishers. I was their babysitter. They were my friends, and I grew to love them very much. I loved to babysit for them, and they accepted me for the person I was. I knew they cared about me, and I felt secure when I was with them.
To make a long story short, in the next few months I ran away from home twice. The Fishers went to Social Services and requested that I come live with them. I was surprised but thrilled! After several court trials, I was placed in their home as a foster child. I was 14 years old.
That was eight years ago. As I look back over the years, there are many memories. But perhaps the greatest memory I have is being legally adopted and going to the St. George Temple to be sealed to my parents. My whole family was present, grandparents and all, and it was a peaceful, beautiful, and glorious day.
My parents have worked very hard with me. They encouraged me to go back to school, and I graduated from Brigham Young University. It was a great day, and my parents helped me to make it possible.
There are so many other things my parents have done for me, I could never name them all. However, the most important thing they did was to take me into their home and to love me. My parents helped me to learn to love others. They taught me about the gospel. They answered my questions. They had faith. And they were and still are my examples. My parents gave me the opportunity to have a family and to experience the security of belonging.
When I first went to my foster home I was bitter and felt sorry for myself. I often asked myself, why me? It all seemed so unfair. Fortunately, I have since learned that the experiences I had during my first 14 years of life were meant to be. Those experiences have made me into the person I am today. Those experiences were to teach me. Yes, I had to learn to have compassion for others who may be hurting. I have promised myself to never forget how it hurts to be lonely and frightened.
There is no doubt in my mind that my parents were to be mine. My patriarchal blessing tells me so. We just all came together in a different way. I want to repay my parents for their love, help, and understanding, and I know I can do this by living a good life, helping others, and remaining faithful to the gospel. This is what they would want me to do. I know because it is what they have done in their lives.

Eight-year-old Sarawuth Buttho’s eyes lit up as he looked into the package of clothes. He turned and darted up the stairs into the living area of his “home on stilts” in the Ubon Branch in Thailand. After a few minutes, he called to his father, “Dad, I’ve never seen clothes like this. Come and show me how to put them on.”
Sarawuth’s sister, Oranut, and her friend, Chanchira Thondee, clasped their bags of treasure and ran next door to Chanchira’s house, where they tried on their new clothing. Seeing Oranut’s smile, watching Chanchira whirl in her ruffled lavender dress, or catching a glimpse of Sarawuth in his first-ever white shirt and tie would have been more than enough to thank the children in Bangkok for their wonderful gift.
The Primary children in the English-speaking branch in Bangkok, Thailand, had heard about their brothers and sisters in the Issan region of Thailand. They knew that they were very poor and that they had very few clothes to wear. In fact, they learned that the only change of clothing these children had was their school uniform, which they wore to school every day. They did not have any special clothes for Sunday.
Encouraged to begin to serve their fellowman in any way they could, the Primary children in Bangkok began a project to share what clothing they could spare with the children in the Issan region. They brought the clothing they wanted to donate to Primary, where the leaders made sure everything was clean, pressed, and mended. Clothing for about twenty children was then placed in plastic bags and tagged to show the size and age of the boy or girl who would receive it.
After missionaries serving in the region distributed the parcels of love, they reported some wonderful stories of gratitude:
Uthaiwan Arkomkong, age three, lives with her father and mother in a small room at the side of an equipment yard where her father works as a mechanic. Normally very shy, little Uthaiwan laughed and danced around the room when she put on the yellow ruffled dress that was in her package.
In the Srisaket Branch, two eight-year-old girls received dresses on the very day they were to be interviewed for baptism. They were happy to have their pictures taken in their new dresses on this special day.
When a pair of shoes was put aside by a teenager because they “squeezed her toes,” they were taken to Sister Pongsuwan, mother of three young daughters. “Do you want to be Cinderella?” asked Brother Dang as he knelt before her and slipped the shoes on her tiny feet. The shoes fit perfectly. Sister Pongsuwan danced and twirled with happiness, telling everyone that she had never had a pair of shoes before!
The love of the Primary children in Bangkok for their young brothers and sisters in the Issan region was returned many times with bright smiles and warm “thank yous” as gifts of the heart were exchanged—children to children.

Recently my husband and I made an unannounced visit to the home of a young couple with four small sons. They were all around the kitchen table, decorating cookies to give secretly to neighbors. The mother replenished the cookies and frosting and supplied a wide variety of leftover candy and sprinkles from past birthday parties and baking projects. The father sat with his sons—frosting, decorating, and being creative—sharing the fun and excitement over each treat. The love between them was strong. They enjoyed each other’s company. They were best friends. This wasn’t anything fancy, expensive, or complicated. It was simple. It was plain. It wasn’t terribly unusual, and I’m sure that they have done many of these kinds projects together before. But it worked. Such simple things build family unity, trust, and love.

Several years ago, I met a friend for lunch. We hadn't seen each other for many years. During my high-school and early-college days, he had been one of my closest friends. We did everything together. We knew each other very well. He was one of the strongest and most committed young men I knew. We attended seminary together, played sports together, and prepared for missions together. We attended the University of Utah, and we left for missions a few months apart. He married a very talented and wonderful woman from my stake.
As the years passed, our lives took different courses. We moved to different cities. But, as is often the case, we eventually lost touch with one another (this was before Facebook). I still remember how stunned I was to hear that he and his wife had left the Church. Of all those I knew in my youth, he was the very last one I would ever have thought would leave the Church. But there we were, sitting in a small café having lunch.
We reminisced over the friendship that had meant so much to both of us. We laughed again at some of the crazy experiences of earlier days. We talked about our families and tried to close the gap of time. Finally, I asked the obvious question: "Tim," I said, "what happened? You were so deeply converted and committed! Why did you leave the Church? What caused you to walk away from your temple covenants? Have you also left the Savior? We promised one another that we would be true and faithful to the end of our lives! What happened?"
"Kevin," he replied, "I simply see things differently now. My view of the Church and its teachings has changed. I don't hate the Church--I just don't need it anymore."
As we concluded our visit, I expressed my love and gratitude for a friendship I still value. Then, with deep feeling, I expressed my testimony. "Tim, I know these things are true. And you know they're true too. You have always known. You've simply lost the clarity you once had. But you can regain the light and understanding of the Holy Ghost you once had again. Please come back." As we embraced, he whispered, "I admire your conviction and passion. But how can you be so sure?" As I walked away, I reflected deeply on the impact of the choices we had made on our own lives and the lives of our children and grandchildren.

True ministering is illustrated by an older sister in Africa who was assigned to seek out a sister who had not attended Church meetings for a long time. When she went to the sister’s home, she found that the woman had been beaten and robbed, had very little to eat, and possessed no clothes that she felt were appropriate for Sunday Church meetings. The woman assigned to minister to her brought a listening ear, produce from her garden, scriptures to read, and friendship. The “missing” sister soon came back to church and now holds a calling because she knows she is loved and valued.

When President Russell M. Nelson spoke about using the correct name of the Church, his message was very clear to me: “It is the command of the Lord. … To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan” (“The Correct Name of the Church,” Oct. 2018 general conference [Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 87, 88]).
Committed to using the Church’s full name, I waited for the next opportunity to claim my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sure enough, that opportunity came. “You Mormons are such kind people,” someone told me.
“Well, thank you,” I answered. “As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe we’re all brothers and sisters.” Then the conversation continued with him and everyone else talking about the kindness of “Mormons.”
Although I had done my part in saying the full name of the Church, my friends and associates still viewed me as part of the “Mormon Church” and not necessarily as a follower of Christ, let alone as a member of Christ’s restored Church.
Over the next several interactions about my faith, I found it awkward to say the full name of the Church multiple times in the same conversation. Everyone I spoke to seemed to give me odd expressions. And they continued to use the term “Mormons.”
I wanted to make my interactions feel more natural. But this turned out to be more difficult than I expected, particularly with individuals I didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to be embarrassed or lazy about living my faith, but I also didn’t want to come across as harsh, since many of these people had previously called me “Mormon,” with me accepting it. I also heard many members of the Church still calling members of the Church “Mormons.”
I found myself asking whether using the full name of the Church was really that important in the grand scheme of things. The “Mormon” brand, after all, is quite positive in the minds of many people—being a “Mormon” had often been an asset to me. But in revisiting President Nelson’s talk, I was impressed that this really is that important, even if it did cause some awkwardness in conversation. So I recommitted myself.
One day I was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Someone came up to me and with a bright smile asked if I was a Mormon. “Yes, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I said.
He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: “Does the Mormon Church believe … ?”
And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: “In the restored Church of Jesus Christ, we believe …”
This banter went back and forth several times. When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title “Mormon,” he asked me point-blank, “Are you not Mormon?”
So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet, a historian, and a military general in the ancient Americas. I am honored to be associated with a man who was so dedicated to the service of God and others.
“But,” I continued, “Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. He is my Redeemer. And it is by His name that I want to be known at the last day, and it’s by His name that I hope to be known today.”
I felt the assurance of the Spirit supporting me in this short testimony to my new acquaintance. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “So, you’re a Christian?”
“Yes, I’m a Christian,” I responded, “and a member of Christ’s restored Church.”
Seeking to follow the instruction of the prophet seemed simple, but it turned out to take more effort than I expected. I’m still not perfect at following everything I’m asked to do, but I make sure to use the full name of the Church.
I’m grateful for the Spirit that I feel when I get to testify to others about my Savior and my membership in His Church.

Lily S. of Utah, USA, had a busy ninth grade year. As a cheerleader, she participated in parades, football games, basketball games, and cheer camps and clinics. But the path to Lily’s cheerleading career was not an easy one.
As soon as Lily found out about her junior high school’s cheerleading tryouts, she knew she wanted to be a part of the team. For three weeks, Lily practiced with a former cheerleader to learn cheers and dance routines. She also spent hours making up her own cheer. After weeks of practice and a tough audition process, Lily made the team—and the Young Women Personal Progress program had helped.
Because of Personal Progress, Lily has participated in many activities where she learned to set goals and work hard to achieve them—skills that definitely helped her reach her cheerleading goals.

My wife and I were recently blessed to serve as mission leaders to labor with the outstanding missionaries in Uruguay. I would say that these were the best missionaries in the world, and I trust that every mission leader feels that way. These disciples taught us every day about following the Savior.

During regular interviews one of our great sister missionaries walked into the office. She was a successful missionary, an excellent trainer, and a dedicated leader. She was looked up to by her companions and loved by the people. She was obedient, humble, and confident. Our previous visits focused on her area and the people she was teaching. This visit was different. As I asked her how she was doing, I could tell she was troubled. She said, “President Olsen, I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I will ever be good enough. I don’t know if I can be the missionary that the Lord needs me to be.”

She was a remarkable missionary. Excellent in every way. A mission president’s dream. I had never worried about her abilities as a missionary.

As I listened to her, I struggled to know what to say. I silently prayed: “Heavenly Father, this is an outstanding missionary. She is Yours. She is doing everything right. I don’t want to mess this up. Please help me know what to say.”

The words came to me. I said, “Hermana, I am so sorry you are feeling this way. Let me ask you a question. If you had a friend you were teaching who felt this way, what would you say?”

She looked at me and smiled. With that unmistakable missionary spirit and conviction, she said, “President, that is easy. I would tell her that the Savior knows her perfectly. I would tell her that He lives. He loves you. You are good enough, and you’ve got this!”

With a little chuckle she said, “I guess if that applies to our friends, then it also applies to me.”

I recently resumed my university studies. When the impression came to return to school, I worried about how I could provide for my family. Two days a week I would be in the classroom, not at work. How was my family going to make it?
Again, my wife and I made this challenge a matter of prayer, and the Lord responded. I began receiving permanent contracts, which have made it easier for me to make up workdays I miss while at school.

Brothers and sisters, it is important for us to remember that we are personally responsible for our spiritual and temporal welfare. We cannot push that on the Church. As we become self-reliant, we will also become a happier people. I remember while serving as a stake president, I was approached by a faithful brother who felt that his bishop was not doing enough to help him and his family with welfare assistance. His wife had a health challenge and needed to see a private doctor for consultation, which was quite expensive. To help solve the issue, I approached the stake Relief Society president, seeking her direction in how best the Church could assist this faithful family. She reassured me that she would look into it and give me feedback. In about a week or two, she helped identify a specialist who was able to assist the wife of this good brother without their needing to approach the Church for financial assistance. This was a lesson not only for the family themselves, but for me as their leader at the time.