Gospel Story Finder

Not long ago, while riding on an airplane, I talked with a young man who was seated beside me. We moved from one subject to another, and then came to the matter of religion. He said he had read considerably about the Mormons, had found much to admire, but that he had a definite prejudice concerning the origin of the Church and particularly Joseph Smith.

He was an active member of another religion, and when I asked where he had acquired his information about the LDS church, he indicated it had come from publications of his church. I asked what company he worked for. He proudly replied that he was a sales representative for IBM. I then asked whether he would think it fair for his customers to learn of the qualities of IBM products from a Xerox representative. He replied with a smile, “I think I get the point.”

I took from my case a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and read to him the words of the Lord expressed through Joseph Smith, words which are the source of those practices my friend had come to admire in us while disdaining the man through whom they had come. Before we parted, he agreed to read the literature I would send to him. I promised him that if he would do so prayerfully he would know the truth not only of these doctrines and practices which have interested him, but also of the man through whom they were introduced. I then gave him my testimony concerning the prophetic calling of Joseph Smith.

For example, my dad and I have gone for ice cream after every general priesthood meeting since I became a deacon. We are going again tonight. Now, ice cream isn’t absolutely necessary to enjoy priesthood meeting—but it helps. I also remember my father telling me a few weeks before I was ordained a deacon that he hoped whenever I prepared, blessed, or passed the sacrament I would always wear a white shirt and a tie. I’m sure I had heard the same advice from a Sunday School teacher or had read it in some manual, but it wasn’t until my father said it that I intended to do it. By responding to my father’s suggestion I have shown respect for the sacred ordinance of the sacrament. And that small word of advice also helped me understand that priesthood ordinances are not just work or assignments, but they are priceless privileges that I’m grateful to take part in.

And Felipe has had people telling him to stay. Many people in his extended family aren’t members of the Church. “They don’t understand that serving a mission has more value than becoming rich and famous. I just try to teach the gospel when those moments happen,” Felipe says. And one of those moments led to a powerful missionary experience.

Felipe’s cousin had recently passed away, and Felipe’s uncle was grieving his son’s death. Felipe told his uncle about the plan of salvation. Afterward his uncle hugged him and apologized for telling him not to go on a mission. “He told me that I had the gift of touching people’s hearts and that I needed to serve,” Felipe remembers. “It was a special moment for me when someone who had no idea what a mission was understood its real purpose.”

A dear friend of mine, as a young graduate student, moved with his family to a large American city to continue his education. He was immediately called to preside over the elders quorum. A little nervous about his first interview with the stake president, he was determined to go prepared. He told the stake president that he had three goals for the upcoming year: (1) 90 percent ministering, (2) a substantive gospel lesson each week, and (3) a well-planned quorum activity every month.

Smiling at my friend, this wise stake president asked, “Can you name a less-active quorum member who you could help get to the temple with his family this year?” That caught my friend by surprise. He thought carefully and came up with a name. “Write that down,” directed the stake president. Then this experienced leader asked the same question three more times—and the interview was over. This young man walked out of that interview having learned one of his greatest lessons on leadership and ministering. He went into the interview with programs, lessons, and activities. He walked out with names! Those four names subsequently became a major focus of his ministry and that of his quorum.

During World War II, on my first Sunday as a Marine, I ran into a very special missionary companion of mine at a Church service. Both of us had volunteered for the Marine Corps! When we completed boot camp, we were both assigned to the Second Marine Division.
After the battle was over on the island to which our division was assigned, we were able to obtain a tent for Church services. We made benches, a pulpit, and a sacrament table out of any pieces of lumber we could find. Under the sacrament table we placed a special green footlocker. We carried that footlocker with us from island to island as our division completed its orders. The contents of the green footlocker represented all we held dear: a wooden plate, a wooden sacrament tray, a card containing the sacrament prayers, and several boxes of small paper cups.
As President David O. McKay has reminded us, partaking of the sacrament is a renewal of the covenants we made at the time of baptism, which are that “We are willing to take upon ourselves the name of the Son. In so doing we choose him as our leader and our ideal. … We will always remember him. Not just on Sunday, but on Monday [and the other days of the week]. … We promise to ‘… keep his commandments. …’—tithing, fast offerings, the Word of Wisdom, kindness, forgiveness, love.” (Gospel Ideals, page 146.)
As we gathered each week on the Lord’s day, we opened our footlocker and used the contents to prepare, bless, and pass the sacrament. It was a spiritual and uplifting experience that renewed our faith and gave us hope for the days ahead.
Eventually our tent chapel was filled with many holes caused by shrapnel tearing through it. When frequent tropical rains made it uncomfortable to sit in a tent with so many holes in it, we determined that our meetings deserved better quarters. We finally obtained enough material to construct a chapel. Now the green footlocker was placed beneath the table in a dedicated house of worship.
When our duties on the island were completed, we boarded a ship and moved out. Our footlocker remained in the chapel for others to use. I don’t know its final destination, but that old green footlocker will always have a special place in my heart because even in one of the most trying periods of my life, I was able to receive spiritual renewal for the days ahead as I partook of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper.

The second element is further demonstrated in this entertaining piece from the chronicler Francisco Davila’s writing in 1598:
“They say that anciently the world was to be destroyed, and it happened like this: as one Indian tied up his llama in a good pasture … the llama talked to him, saying: ‘Loco, what do you know, or what do you think? Understand that I am worried, and with good reason. You should know that in less than five days the sea is going to swell and burst open until only it covers the whole earth … you must take refuge on the summit of the mountain Vilcacoto.’ Carrying his belongings on his back, and taking his llama on a leash, the Indian arrived at the summit of the indicated mountain where he found many diverse animals and birds huddled together. … The waters rose until only the summit of this Vilcacoto was not covered. … Finally the waters rose so high that some of the frightened animals were almost in it. The fox, for instance, was close to the water, waving his tail in the waves, which is the reason why the fox’s tail is black at the tip. And at the end of five days, the waters began to recede and the sea returned to its former place, even lower than it had been before, and thus the entire earth was cleansed of people except the Indian referred to.”

There’s nothing like learning from the best. That’s what 16-year-old Cassandra Johnson of Laie, Hawaii, decided when she left her home island for Houston, Texas, where the promising gymnast could study with world-renowned coach Bela Karolyi.
Cassandra lives with Church members in Texas and comes home to Hawaii for Christmas and spring break. It’s not easy, but her family is proud that she’s able to do so much missionary work among her teammates—she’s already given out 16 copies of the Book of Mormon. She’s also active in seminary and won first place in the scripture bowl.
Cassandra keeps a tough schedule. She attends seminary at 6:00 A.M., practices gymnastics from 7:00–8:30 A.M., goes to school from 9:30 to 2:30, studies, then goes back to the gym from 5:00–9:00 P.M. She would eventually like to become a gymnastics coach.

Growing up in Bunkerville, Nevada, my siblings and I had many chores to do. One of my chores was to open a headgate that allowed water to pass through to our gardens. If I didn’t do my job, the plants would die, and we wouldn’t have food from the garden. We also did housework, washed dishes by hand, and took care of pets. We were taught to work, and we thought we worked pretty hard.
When I was nine years old, my parents, who were both school teachers at the time, made a dramatic decision. They decided to leave teaching to become farmers. My family moved to a farm in Idaho.
When we moved to the farm, work took on a new meaning for us children. We had to milk the cows; clean out the sheds; take care of the pigs, chickens, and calves; and still take our turn opening the headgate for the irrigation water. All of us, even my sister, hoed sugar beets, detassled corn, planted and topped onions, and harvested onion seed.
Taking care of the farm was a family activity. We learned to work together and rely on each other. There was so much to do, and the family got it done. We learned that “family first” is not just an idea; it’s a principle of taking care of ourselves.

Topher had looked forward all year to his fifth-grade trip to the Black Hills and Badlands in South Dakota, USA. He had saved his allowance and lawn-mowing money to pay for the trip all by himself.
The morning of the trip, Topher and his family knelt by the sofa to pray. Dad said the prayer and asked Heavenly Father to watch over Topher while he was away. Then Mom drove Topher to the school to join the rest of his class.
The bus ride was fun. Everyone sang silly songs, told stories, and made plans for what they would do when they got to their campground. At lunchtime they stopped for a picnic.
“This is the best trip ever,” Topher told his friend Alex while they ate their sack lunches. “I can’t wait to see Mount Rushmore.” All school year Topher’s class had studied the places they would visit, like the Badlands, the memorial at Mount Rushmore, and even a real gold mine. They would stay at a campground, sleep in tents, and cook their food over a fire.
“Yeah,” Alex said, but he didn’t sound very happy. “My stomach feels funny,” he whispered and pressed his hand over his stomach. His face looked kind of pale.
“Want me to tell a teacher?” Topher asked.
“No. I’ll be OK.”
Topher finished his sandwich, but Alex hardly ate anything. After lunch everyone went back to the bus.
One by one, Topher’s classmates started getting sick. Even some of the teachers and parent chaperones got sick.
By the time they got to the campground, Topher felt sick too. He managed to eat some dinner, but he quickly threw it up. He wished he were home. His parents would know how to help him feel better. Mom would make soup for him, and Dad would give him a priesthood blessing.
That gave Topher an idea.
Brother Turner, from Topher’s ward, was one of the chaperones. Topher went and found him by the campfire. “Brother Turner,” Topher asked quietly, “would you give me a blessing?”
Brother Turner looked sick too, but he managed a weak smile. “I’d be happy to give you a blessing, Topher.”
Together Brother Turner and Topher found a quiet spot nearby. Brother Turner laid his hands on Topher’s head. He paused before beginning, then gave a blessing. He asked Heavenly Father to help Topher feel better.
Topher felt peaceful as Brother Turner finished the blessing. Although he was still sick, he started to feel a little better. He found Alex and offered to get him some water.
“Thanks,” Alex said.
The next morning back on the bus, everyone was quiet. Topher thought about the blessing Brother Turner had given him. Next year Topher would turn 12 and would be ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. He promised himself that he would be worthy to receive it and to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood when he was older. He wanted to be able to help others just like Brother Turner had helped him.

I was first introduced to FamilySearch indexing (see page 42) in one of my mom’s Relief Society meetings. I didn’t really understand what it was, but I thought it would be a terrific way to pass off a value project in my Personal Progress booklet. Luckily, my neighbor was able to help me get started.
At first, it was just about getting the 10 hours done. Little did I know that it would be so much more than that. It was so cool to see how old these records were and just have the feeling of helping people find their family history. Now, when I go to the temple, I get an even more powerful feeling than I did before. It makes me feel happy inside.
Indexing also affected my family. My father works in the Church’s Family History Department. When he saw me doing indexing, I could see a spark of excitement go through him. I learned more about his work, and we spent quality time together. Later, I taught my mom how to index and helped with workshops for ward members. After I had finished my 10-hour value project, I found myself still indexing. In about two and a half months, I was able to get over a thousand records done.

Because of their service in Tonga, Rebecca, David, and Nattalie had many opportunities to share the gospel. Even before the Downeys left Colorado, people became interested in their journey and, then, the Church. “Our neighbors asked for a Book of Mormon and started to read it. Friends started to take the missionary discussions and asked if they could keep writing their questions about the Church to us by e-mail,” says David.

Rebecca and Nattalie say their own testimonies grew from the experience, as well. Rebecca adds that serving in Tonga helped her realize what was truly of worth. “I have become more humble. The people there were a great example to me. I realize that people are more important than things.” To illustrate, she recounts her family taking some of their used clothing to a family devastated by a typhoon. In gratitude, the Tongan family gave the Downeys a bowl of peanuts that they had salvaged from what was left of their crop after the storm. “That represented about a month’s worth of income for them,” notes Rebecca. “We gave them our leftovers, and they gave us everything they had.”

Now back home in Colorado, the teens are readjusting to a land-locked existence and missing their friends in Tonga. But thanks to their year abroad, they think they might know what it takes to move a mountain: faith, love, and an unquenchable desire to serve. That, and a whole lot of toothbrushes.

I ran and ran, trying to get away from it. I ran up the hill by our house and sat down at the base of a giant tree.

The mountains were sucking down the purple and pink clouds and orange sun like pancake batter sucks down an egg. I stopped crying, finally. What was I going to do? Maybe I’d never see my mother again. For the first time I felt alone in the universe—like in the movies when they try to add something in the picture that doesn’t really belong. You can tell it’s fake because its edges are too black. I had black edges; I could feel them.

At the bottom of the hill was a little girl. I was close enough to see the dirt streaked on her face. Even the dirt couldn’t hide her big grin. She had an old car tire and was pushing it up the hill. It broke loose from her and rolled away, then fell over. She went back and picked it up, then started rolling it up the hill again. She couldn’t have been more than four or five. It made me sad to see her tire keep getting away. I was even sadder that she kept patiently picking it up again and rolling it up the hill. I wanted to shout to her: “Little girl, don’t do it, don’t try. It will just keep rolling down the hill. No matter how hard you try, that tire will roll and roll until you’re finally too tired to pick it up again. That’s the way life is.” I was so sad I almost bawled again. I buried my head in my arms. I couldn’t watch anymore.

When I finally looked up, there was a little boy, older than the girl, running down the hill. He reached her and picked up the tire. Both of them began to push. Maybe, I thought … maybe. Both kids just kept pushing that old tire up the hill. If it got away from one of them, the other would catch it before it rolled down the hill. Boy, I wanted those kids to get that tire up the hill! It was such a dumb thing, but right then it was the most important thing in the world. C’mon, kids, roll that tire! C’mon! They kept getting farther and farther up the hill. By the time they reached the top, I was crying again. It was stupid, but I was so glad.

I hadn’t seen the rest of them, but there were nine kids at the top of that hill, including the girl and boy. They all began running down the hill, rolling the tires with them.

“Roller-O! Roller-O! Roller-O!” They shouted again and again as they raced the tires down the hill. “Roller-OOOOOO!”

I closed my eyes and laughed. Maybe there was someone there to help when you needed it after all. I watched those kids for a long time as the gold streaked across the sky to meet the sun. I watched while the purple clouds turned blacker and blacker until it was dark.

“Roller-O!”

When it got dark, the kids’ mom called them in for the night. I got up and walked down the hill. There was a sliver of a yellow moon just rising in the sky. Millions of stars were beginning to shine. I walked into our garden and right there decided to kneel down. The ground was damp. I thought about those kids for a while, then about dad, then about Dan. I started bawling again. Boy, I was sorry I’d yelled at him.

“Dear Father, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I went to the show. I’m sorry I yelled at Dan and called him names. I’m sorry I do bad stuff. I wish I didn’t. Father, I’m sorry I said all that stuff. I don’t really hate you the most. I love you—the very most! I really do, and even if you don’t answer my prayer, I’ll wait, forever if I have to.” I started sobbing.

“Heavenly Father, I’m so, so sorry, but it’s hard. Please, God, it’s hard, so hard.” I cried, and the stars came out one by one to watch me.

Something changed. It was like a light that’s slant is bent, just a little different. It was like rays going through a prism: when they hit the right angle, they split into every color making a rainbow. Somehow, I couldn’t explain it. He knew it was hard, and he loved me. I breathed deep and sighed. The stars twinkled in the sky.

After a while I got up, brushed the dirt off my pants, and ran into the house, right past dad and into Dan’s room.

Dan was still sitting on the bed holding that basketball. I didn’t even know if he’d had supper.

I stood there in the doorway until he looked up. I probably looked awful to him, all swollen around the eyes and dirty besides.

Danny jumped up and ran toward me. Before I knew what was happening, we were hugging the breath out of each other. My lungs were bursting, and I was afraid I was cracking his ribs. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t have any tears left. I guess they were just all gone.

Dan sat me down on the bed. He really was good-looking. I loved his big brown eyes.

“Danny, are you glad, now, that we took that record back that one time?”

I knew it was dumb to ask him, but it was important to me.

He shook his head. “Am I glad? Yeah … I don’t know … I guess we’ll see.” He grinned. “Mauri, you know what? You are so weird sometimes.”

I was so glad, just so happy. I picked up Dan’s pillow off the bed and clobbered him; then I ran out the door with Dan right behind me. Boy, oh boy, was I in for trouble.

A couple of days ago, our neighbors’ dog died. That day my little brother asked me to look at a letter he had written. It was a letter to our neighbors saying how sad he was that their dog had died. On the other side there was a picture of a dog barking. He was too shy to give it to them face to face, but he left it on their doorstep and rang the bell. I used to think I could only learn from people older than me. But that day I learned a lesson from my little brother.

Hurrying from her car, Carole gripped her shoulders. The unexpected snowstorm had caught her wearing only a sweater for protection, and she dashed to feel the warmth of the old cottage. She shook the snow from her hair as she stood shivering on the porch, waiting for the door to open.
Carole’s great-aunt Naomi Sweet, nicknamed “Sweetie,” peered out the door into the cold.
“Why, Carole! Oh you dear thing, come now, get yourself out of the storm,” she said.
Carole quickly walked into the warm front room. Boughs of pine and blue spruce curled along the entryway, and a string of gingerbread men dangled from a red ribbon, ready to be cut down and taken home by visitors. Carole smiled and drank in the fragrant smell of cinnamon and ginger, spices that always reminded her of Sweetie’s home.
“My stars, it’s been ages since you’ve been to see me,” said Sweetie. “Oh, and I’ll bet you’re starving! Lucky thing I baked gingersnaps today—I nearly spent the day trimming the tree instead, but today was just the right day to stay in the kitchen and bake.”
Carole sat in the old rocker and snuggled deep into the afghan lying across its back. She felt warm and secure. She had needed to escape, and this was the best cure she could imagine. College had been difficult for her, and although she had originally planned to spend the holidays working to earn more money for school, she decided to come home.
Sweetie set a tall glass of milk and a plate of cookies beside Carole. “You remember we used to always make gingersnaps together?” Sweetie chuckled.
Carole remembered. She had always loved coming to Sweetie’s house, making gingersnaps, drinking lemonade on the porch, planting daffodils, and going on picnics in the meadow. She had missed Sweetie while she was away at college.
“Carole, I didn’t expect you back so soon,” said Sweetie. “I didn’t think you’d get to come home for Christmas this year. Land’s sake, I didn’t get a chance to get your gift yet!”
Carole had been so pressured at school that she decided to come home despite the expense. The very thought of staying away at Christmastime seemed so ridiculous now that she found it difficult to imagine why she had planned to do so in the first place.
Although Carole enjoyed school, there were some disturbing aspects of it. Her courses were intellectually stimulating, but she was required to deal with sacred texts in ways she never had before. Some of her professors discussed the Bible as being nothing more than Hebrew mythology—fairy stories. The professors were so intelligent and knew so much about such vast amounts of information, that Carole could never hold her own in any debate about religion versus history.
Regardless of her strong and intelligent stand in defense of the sacred texts, her professors always ended up winning the discussion, and she would leave class with feelings of confusion. If the Bible was a myth, she reasoned, maybe the Book of Mormon was too. Maybe Joseph Smith was a modern myth. Carole couldn’t be certain about what she felt. But she did know one thing for sure: she no longer felt a closeness with Heavenly Father.
“I just thought of the perfect gift for you, Carole!” said Sweetie, interrupting Carole’s thoughts. “’Course you’ll have to fetch it yourself—my legs not being what they used to be. You just get yourself up to the attic, and you’ll find it in the mahogany trunk. I know you’ll catch on to what it is when you look. Now, it’s not much, but you understand.”
Carole hadn’t come with the intention of getting a gift, but she climbed the stairs to the attic. As she went up, she reflected on her failing testimony. It was as if she felt guilty for being in Sweetie’s home because of her uncertainty about the gospel. She wondered if Sweetie knew of her doubts and questions.
The attic door whistled as she opened it. She felt for the small lamp that she knew was towards the right of the room. An old spinning wheel hung on the north wall, its spindle dull and tarnished. Beneath it stood an oak rolltop desk covered with a sprinkling of dust. Boxes were piled neatly along the south wall. Carole remembered helping Sweetie organize her attic clutter into those boxes.
Carole walked past the old furniture and crates and sat down on a stool beside the old mahogany trunk under the window. Gently, she unlatched the lock and lifted the lid, releasing a musty odor of wood and paper.
She picked up an old straw hat with a large yellow ribbon tied around it. Sweetie used to wear the hat when they picnicked in the sun. Beneath it was a bouquet of paper flowers that Carole had made in grade school on May Day. She laughed remembering how proud she had been of the sorry bunch of flowers. A packet of letters was tied with red string. Carole gently set the bundle aside.
Next she spotted a small navy velvet box. This must have been what Sweetie wanted her to have. Carole opened the box and saw the delicate amethyst and pearl ring that she had so often admired on Sweetie’s finger. Sweetie had worn it every day until it began to hurt her fingers. Carole had always wanted the ring, and she had often asked Sweetie if she could have it, but Sweetie always said she would save it for a special day. Carole closed the box and put it into her pocket.
Though she had found what she was looking for, Carole continued to look through the trunk, finding an old orange scarf. It had been Carole’s first attempt at knitting, and she had surprised Sweetie with it on her birthday. As Carole reached to examine her work more closely, something fell from within the scarf. She withdrew her hand for a moment, then grasped a well-worn Book of Mormon. On the cover was printed, “NAOMI STEWART SWEET.” Carole opened the book to the inside cover and read,
“To Sweetie,
“This is a copy of the book I was telling you about. I hope you’ll read it even though you think it’s all fairy tales and wishes. Daddy says that you should read it and then pray to Heavenly Father and ask him if it’s true.
“I’ve already read it with my family, and even though I don’t understand everything, I know I can understand more each time I read it. I think the stories have good messages, and I love the prophets that wrote them. I also love Jesus, and I want to be like him. I love you, and I want you to know Jesus like I know him.
“With love from Carole.”
Carole clutched the book and looked out the window at fluffy snowflakes falling in glistening crescents along the corners of the windowpanes. How could it be that she had known Jesus so much more when she was only eleven years old? Where had her love of the Savior gone? She again thumbed through the book and looked at its color-streaked pages. Sweetie had read it and read it countless times. It was not age that made the book look like an antique, but its use. Carole had brought Sweetie the gospel message, and now she felt she was letting her down by wavering in her own testimony.
Carole began reading the marked verses and the notes written in the margins. One verse marked in yellow caught her eye, “O … the foolishness of men! When they are learned they think they are wise, and they hearken not unto the counsel of God, … wherefore, their wisdom is foolishness and it profiteth them not” (2 Ne. 9:28).
Images of her professors and their accusations of the irrational nature of religion and of the Church flashed through her mind. Yet she felt triumphant that she had been defending what she knew deep inside was right. She continued to read, “But to be learned is good if they hearken unto the counsels of God” (2 Ne. 9:29).
Carole felt a flicker of hope. She was doing something good by learning at college. She just needed to keep up her study of the gospel. All at once, her guilt fled, and she realized she had a lot of work to do to get her testimony to the height it had been during her Primary days. For the first time in months, she felt happy.
Carole quickly put everything back into the trunk and came down the stairs. Sweetie was waiting with eager anticipation.
“Well, do you like it? Did you find the ring? I was sure you’d want it,” she smiled.
“Oh, Sweetie, thank you. Thank you for the best present anyone has ever given me!”
As Carole hugged Sweetie, she smelled cinnamon and ginger, and she smiled as a new feeling of hope grew inside of her.
“Come on, Sweetie,” she said. “You’ve got a tree that needs trimming.”

In the small room of the Murphys, who immigrated from Ireland, a bright wreath of holly with its shining leaves and red berries makes the walls look cheery. Colleen and her sister, Mary, help set the table, even though they have just finished their dinner. They place a loaf of bread and a pitcher of milk on the clean table, along with a large candle.
The girls’ grandmother smiles at them. “Since you have been blessed with the name Mary, you may light the candle, my dear,” she says. There is a deep hush as Mary solemnly lights the candle.
Colleen, who feels a bit left out for a moment, runs to the door to make sure that it is unlatched. The Christ Child, or any lonely wanderer, might see the Murphys’ lighted candle and know that He/he is welcome in their home for food and friendship.

When Kazue Horikami moved from her native Japan to Hawaii as a young adult, she had little need to learn English. She spoke Japanese at home, did her shopping in areas where there was a high concentration of Japanese speakers, and later worked as a guide for Japanese tourists. The only place she sometimes encountered a language barrier was at church—a scenario common to many Latter-day Saints. But even at church she got along by building friendships with the three or four other sisters who spoke her native tongue.
Then, after more than 25 years of living in Hawaii, Sister Horikami was called to be the Relief Society president in her ward, a prospect that overwhelmed her. “Most of the sisters spoke only English, and others spoke only Samoan or Tagalog,” she remembers. “By that point I could understand other languages fairly well, but I was not confident in speaking them. Even though I comprehended most of what my sisters said, I wondered how I could possibly serve them when I couldn’t even talk to them.”
Sister Horikami knew taking language classes wasn’t an option—she simply didn’t have the time. She expressed her concerns to her stake president during a temple-recommend interview. “I told him that I was afraid—not only of the responsibility but also of creating misunderstandings,” she says. The stake president paused thoughtfully and then told Sister Horikami not to worry about the language, at least not right away. “Just do your work the best you can,” he said. She promised she would.
Days later, when Sister Horikami was in the temple, the story of Peter walking on water came into her mind (see Matthew 14:22–33). “I realized that as long as I clung to my fear, I would sink,” she says. “But if I put my faith in the Savior, He would help me do the impossible.”
“The impossible” began with simple, though powerful, efforts. Sister Horikami recalls spending long periods of time looking over the Relief Society roll. “As I studied the name of an individual sister, I would recognize thoughts coming into my mind about that sister, and I would feel promptings about ways I could serve her. As I followed those promptings, I was amazed to discover how specific and personal they were.
“That’s how I started,” she continues. “Over several months those small acts turned into relationships of care and concern, not only of my caring for them but of their caring for me.”
Sister Horikami did eventually learn English, but she’s quick to assert that it was the Spirit—not proficiency in any language—that helped her serve. “I learned that the Spirit isn’t limited by language,” Sister Horikami notes. “He speaks to all of us in ways we can understand.”

Jo Dee Wilkinson laid the paper pattern on the yellow quilted cotton material. She lifted one edge to see if the pattern was straight on the fabric and pinned the edges. Carefully she cut through two thicknesses. She had picked out white lace and brown ribbon to go with the yellow. Now she was ready to sew. She was not completely at home using a sewing machine, but this project was worth the effort.
Jo Dee was making a Sharing Sock, a handcrafted item that would be filled with small gifts and given to another girl about her age in another part of the world. Then she didn’t realize that as a result of her efforts, she would begin writing encouraging letters to a young Vietnamese girl named Tran Hgoc-Chi. The young girl would tell Jo Dee about her difficult life in the refugee camp and beg Jo Dee to write her long letters about life in the United States and in the Church.
Sharing Socks were made of brocade, felt, satin, and gingham. They were trimmed with lace, appliqué, and fancy needlework, but they all had one thing in common. They were made with love by hundreds of young women from all over the world.
The Sharing Socks project was an effort to show people in refugee camps or in orphanages that others were thinking of them and wishing the best for them. To begin the project, packets with pattern pieces and instructions for the eight-inch high socks were assembled by the Young Women General Board and distributed to interested stakes. The girls were asked to sew the socks, lavishing them with care and pride. Each girl was assigned a state of the United States or a country of the world in which the Church is active. They decorated their socks to illustrate that state or country. Also, each girl was asked to include a photograph and either her testimony or a favorite scripture.
At first the socks served double duty. The finished socks were sent to the Young Women headquarters in Salt Lake City. There they were used as decorations for the large Christmas trees in the two visitors’ centers on Temple Square. After the holiday season, the socks were packed carefully in boxes and shipped to the Philippines. There the girls of the Makati Stake helped fill the socks with small toiletry items such as combs, toothbrushes, mirrors, and other useful items such as pads and pencils. From the Philippines, the socks were sent to the island of Palawan, where refugees from Vietnam and Cambodia are awaiting transfer to countries that will become their new homes. These refugees arrive with virtually no possessions, so they appreciated the small gifts and the thoughtfulness that went into the Sharing Socks.
As the Sharing Socks were handed out to the refugees in the Philippines, Sister Margaret Collipriest of the Young Women General Board, seeing the poverty of the people, said to the interpreter, “It is a small gift but sent with love.” The chairman answered, “You say it is a small gift. For them it is a big gift.”
The project continues with 500 Sharing Socks being sent to Austria to be given to children in orphanages. Another 250 socks have been completed and are on their way to Hong Kong, where the young women there will fill the socks before they are sent to refugee camps in that area.
More socks are being made with care and love and continue to be sent throughout the world. And with each one goes a message of hope from a young Latter-day Saint girl.
There have been some nice side effects for the girls involved in making the Sharing Socks. One mother told how her daughter, who had not been very active, began searching for just the right scripture to put with her sock. She became so excited about the scriptures that she has continued her study of them. Now she and her mother are sharing favorite scriptures.
In another family where the mother is active and the father is not, their young daughter decided to make a sock and before sending it in, showed and explained it to her father. Because his daughter’s handiwork would be on display, he told her that this was one year they would be sure to go to the visitors’ centers on Temple Square.
For some girls it was their first experience using a sewing machine, and as a result they developed confidence in a newfound talent. For others, making a sock was a chance to grow closer to their mothers as they worked together on the project. To make a sock and imagine where it finally will go is to help a young woman have a vision, a perspective beyond her own world.
Each Sharing Sock, made with such care, is a message from one young girl to another—a message of hope, of love, and of caring. Sometimes a correspondence is started, sometimes understanding of different ways of life is gained, but always sharing of tenderest feelings takes place.
Sharing Socks are a gift of love.

“OK, everyone, time to go!”
Michael stifled a groan as his family grabbed their scriptures and journals and headed to the car. Usually he loved spending time with his family, but sometimes he thought his parents asked too much. This weekend was a perfect example: all of his friends were hiking or camping for spring break, but Michael’s family was watching general conference.
It was now Sunday afternoon, and they were driving back to the church to watch the final session of conference. Michael slumped his shoulders and sighed.
Mom heard the sigh and turned to face him.
“What’s up, Michael? Did David eat the last sandwich or something?”
“Why do we have to watch every session of conference? Why can’t we just watch one on Sunday and read the rest in the Ensign?” he blurted. “It’s boring sitting through so many talks, especially since they’re all for grownups! It doesn’t seem like anyone ever speaks to us kids. Aren’t we important?”
“The Brethren usually speak to the grownups because we have more accountability,” Mom said. “But I believe that if you will listen with your heart as well as with your ears, you will hear a message from Heavenly Father just for you.”
Michael felt a little encouraged, and he tried harder to listen as the session opened. As he listened he heard Elder Nelson talk about avoiding contention. He did sometimes argue with his little brother—was that his personal message? Then Elder Ballard spoke about TV and how it had been invented by a Latter-day Saint. He thought that was interesting, so he wrote it down in his journal.
Suddenly Michael stiffened and stopped writing. He felt a chill run up his back, and then his whole body grew warm as he heard the prophet, President Ezra Taft Benson, start his talk.
“For my closing message at this conference, I would now like to speak to the children of the Church—yes, to you, our precious children. And as you listen, I pray that you will know that this is a personal message just for you.”
Michael’s mouth fell open, and he looked at Mom, who was looking at him too. Then he turned back to President Benson and listened, really listened, with his heart as well as with his ears.
“How I love you! How our Heavenly Father loves you! … Learn to do His will and enjoy true happiness. It will help you now and throughout your life.”
Michael settled back in his seat. The prophet had spoken to him—he had received his personal message after all.

This story happened in the USA.
Aisea ran and kicked the ball to his teammate, Timothy. He watched as Timothy swung his foot back and kicked the ball into the goal.
“Score!” Timothy shouted as the ball hit the net.
Aisea cheered. They had won the game!
As he walked off the field, he felt great! But then one of the kids on the other team, Josh, called him a mean name.
Aisea felt surprised and hurt. He didn’t know what to say. He looked down at the ground and walked slowly to his teammates.
“We did it!” Timothy said. “Great pass, Aisea.”
But Aisea didn’t feel great. Not after what Josh said to him! He felt sad and angry.
The rest of the day, Aisea felt like a heavy weight was pulling him down. He did not like Josh anymore.
That night, Aisea sat with his family during scripture time. He tried to listen to his sister read. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what Josh said.
Aisea looked through the pages of his Book of Mormon. He stopped at a scripture in 1 Nephi. It was about a time when Nephi’s brothers were unkind to him.
“And it came to pass that I did frankly forgive them,” the scripture said.*
Nephi forgave his brothers? Aisea thought. Even after they were so mean?
Aisea thought about Josh. He didn’t want to hold onto his bad feelings for Josh forever. He was only 10!
Aisea wanted to be like Nephi. He could forgive Josh, just like Nephi forgave his brothers. And if Josh said something mean again, he would just ask him not to.
He felt warm and peaceful inside. It was like the Holy Ghost was saying, “You’re doing the right thing.”
“Aisea, what did you learn from these scriptures?” Mom asked.
Aisea looked up. “Sorry, I was reading a different scripture,” he said. He told his family what happened at soccer.
Mom and Dad pulled Aisea into a hug. “I’m sorry Josh was mean to you,” Dad said. “What he said was not true. But it’s OK to feel hurt by it.”
Aisea smiled. “Thanks. For a while I was really angry. But now that I’ve read the scriptures, I don’t want to be mad at him. I want to forgive him. And I already feel better!”
“That’s wonderful!” Mom smiled too. “Forgiving isn’t always easy. But you’re right. It is worth it.”
Aisea looked down at his scriptures. They had helped him! The heavy weight from before was gone. His heart felt warm and full of peace instead.

Now I bear you my testimony, brothers and sisters, that I know this matter of tithing is a true principle and that blessings come from it. My parents taught me to pay tithing, and in the words of Enos I say, to their honor, “Blessed be the name of my God for it” (Enos 1:1).
We were refugees from Mexico. During the years that followed, father had a difficult time getting enough food to feed his family. I remember about two years after we came out of Mexico (that would be about 1914), father got a job in Oakley, Idaho, teaching in the Cassia Academy for $80 a month.
When father and his brother came out of Mexico, they both had large families. Knowing that they would have a difficult time to make a living (they brought nothing out of Mexico except what they could bring in one trunk), they joined together and pooled their earnings. After a short stay in El Paso, Texas, they went together to Los Angeles, California, where they worked as carpenters. Later they moved to Oakley, Idaho, where they could raise their families in a Latter-day Saint environment. When one of them was out of work, they divided the income of the other and thus eked out an existence for both families. My uncle got out of work one winter in Idaho. That left them the $80 that my father received for teaching with which to support about 17 people. They had to pay rent, they had to buy everything they ate, and they had to buy fuel, except that I went out on the side hill and dug the sagebrush from under the snow for fuel. I kept warm digging and mother kept warm poking it into the stove. The rest of them nearly froze.
The question came up in the family council—did father pay tithing on that $80? If he didn’t, he would have $40 a month to care for the family; if he did, it would be cut down by $4 and he would have $36 a month. I remember that council, and I remember that they decided that they would pay their tithing, and I remember that they sent me with the tithing to the bishop. It was cold, and I didn’t have warm clothes, and I wondered what really had gone wrong with father. I learned from that—the training of my parents—that there is truth in the Lord’s promises.