Gospel Story Finder

The next year a member of Kevin’s stake spoke on the importance of family history indexing. That day Kevin went straight home, created an LDS Account, and began to index. Because of his illness, Kevin had a hard time in school, and reading was a challenge. He spent hours at his computer searching for letters he could recognize. Yet, one by one, he matched the letters on the screen with the letters on the computer keyboard. He soon began to understand the importance and impact of family history work, so he made a Duty to God goal to index a number of names.
Halfway to the goal, however, his disease began to spread even more rapidly. He lost much of the mobility in his arms and couldn’t reach the computer keyboard. A hard trial? Yes. But impossible to overcome? No.
Kevin knew that if the Lord wanted him to accomplish his goal, He would again provide a way. And that’s what happened.
In December 2014, Kevin invited the youth from his stake to help him reach his goal. About 40 youth responded. Most of them had never indexed before, yet they too felt the importance of family history work and the desire to help their friend in need. So they planned a day when they could get together, bring computers, and bring in a few indexing gurus to help them take on the challenge.
When the day came to begin indexing names for Kevin’s goal, the youth from the stake video-conferenced Kevin so that he and his family could watch them from his hospital room. Kevin had never realized he had so many friends—even friends he thought he’d been unsuccessful in reaching out to joined in the effort to help.
That day the young men and young women of Kevin’s stake indexed hundreds of names. By the end of the year, they had met Kevin’s goal—and then some.

President Hunter was born November 14, 1907, in Boise, Idaho. He was not baptized at age eight. His father was not a member and felt that Howard should wait until he was older to decide about getting baptized.
President Hunter said, “I did have a testimony though. My mother had taught me to pray and to thank Heavenly Father for the beauty of the earth and for the wonderful times that I had at the ranch and by the river and with the Scouts. I also learned to ask Him for the things that I wanted or needed.” When he was twelve years old, he pleaded with his father to let him be baptized and was overjoyed when his father gave him permission.

I was twelve years old when my grandfather died. To me he was the epitome of a saint—kindly, gentle, purely good.
His death was difficult for me to believe, and it made me very sad. I had not only lost a friend but I was also convinced that somehow heaven had allowed him to die too early. In my childish (though enthusiastic) understanding of the gospel, I had been sure that he was destined to be a great leader in the Church before he left this world. He was a man of great charity, who had literally given his shoes to a beggar knocking at the door, his coat to another man who was colder than he. I was sure that his death came too early. He had too much more service to give.
As I look back now, I see that I equated service with high callings. So many of the Saints have a basic goodness, a charity that qualifies them to be disciples. But serving is not synonymous with position. Whether serving in a visible calling or in secluded corners, disciples follow the example of the Christ. A calling may formalize our work for him, but serving is a blessing available to all of us, whether officially called through the Church organization or in our daily association with others.
My grandfather tried to copy the Savior’s life. My grandfather’s life was not wasted. I was deeply affected by his life, and I’m sure many other people were also influenced by him. I will tell my own children about the patterns of goodness that emerged in his life in simple yet powerful ways. Any one of us can become a disciple by following examples of goodness as he did.

Little did I know that one day two young Mormons would actually knock on my family’s door. It happened after we had moved to southern France, while I was in high school. These Mormons didn’t look like pioneers at all. They had short hair. They shaved. They even wore suits and ties! They invited me to the English class at their meetinghouse. My parents gave me permission to attend.
I soon found out that these, too, were men to be admired, not necessarily for physical stamina, but for spiritual strength. They would occasionally visit our home, and though my parents made it clear from the start that they were interested only in “social” visits, I quizzed the elders more and more about their church, and I devoured every word of their answers.
My mother was Catholic, my father Jewish. They had always encouraged me to live a good life, to call upon God, and to believe in him. But these young men seemed to know him. I gleaned many ideas from their conversations with my parents, understanding more and more as time went on. If any of my friends laughed at the missionaries or criticized the Church, I sprang to its defense. I don’t think I fully realized it at the time, but I knew in my heart that the missionaries were telling the truth.
Many sets of missionaries visited our home during my high school years, but my parents, though always polite, were not interested in the Church. And I felt too young to take the discussions on my own. I drifted through periods of varying faith. We moved from Nice to Cannes, and I finally lost track of the elders.
Some time later, during a period of intense personal struggle, I found myself once again calling on the Lord. This time I understood that I had to rely on him totally. I felt a warm glow, a real confirmation that there was an Eternal Father watching over me who knew me personally and loved me. Not long after this experience, I was taking a letter to the post office when I saw two missionaries and rushed up to them. “You’re the elders, aren’t you?” I exclaimed, and then I told them about this marvelous feeling I had about my Father in Heaven. They understood completely. “It’s the Holy Ghost bearing testimony to you of the truth,” one of them said.
Then it hit me. I could talk to others about what had happened, I could tell them about my intellectual ideas and spiritual testimonies, and they wouldn’t understand. But the missionaries knew exactly what I was describing, experience by experience. We talked for a long time.
I was soon to leave for my military service. Nevertheless, my desire to be around the missionaries and members grew powerfully. As soon as I learned a new principle of the gospel, I put it into practice. Just before I left, one of the elders said, “You know, you live like a Mormon, but you’re trying to become perfect before you will join the Church. That’s the wrong way. It’s the Church that will help you achieve perfection.” They told me I had a testimony, but I still wasn’t sure.
In the military I had time to let my feelings grow and develop. There was lots of time to think, and I reflected deeply on my impressions of the Church. I was stationed with the mountain troops in Briançon, with no LDS branch nearby. But I guarded the things I had learned in my heart and let the seed of faith grow.
When I was released from the service, I faced a critical decision. My best friend from Normandy and I had planned for a long time to visit the United States, and I had saved my money so I could go. But his plans fell through. I had to decide whether or not to go by myself. I returned to Normandy, to walk the beaches and to think.
Anyone who could have eavesdropped on my mental conversation at that time would have known I already had a testimony. “I am well off here—I have my family and friends, I feel sure of myself, and this is the most beautiful spot on earth,” I told myself. “But what if I don’t go? I could miss an opportunity to learn even more about the gospel, to really gain a testimony of it. I could give up the trip, the dream of my young years. But to give up a chance to know more about the Lord’s church?”
In the U.S. I had the opportunity to develop many close relationships with Church members. I finally began to believe I did have a testimony—I can’t forget the wonderful feelings when, each time I’d ask myself a question, I would feel the Holy Ghost enlightening my soul, clearing away the doubt. I had had difficulty understanding why polygamy had been practiced. On a bus somewhere between Colorado and Utah, I glimpsed the vision, not a visual sight, but a spiritual insight, of the men who practiced it. And I saw how it was possible for such a thing to be pure, that it had come from God. That sort of clarification continued throughout my trip in the States.
I eventually ended up visiting some islands near Seattle, Washington. There, in a small apartment, I studied the Book of Mormon for ten days. My testimony continued to grow. The time had come to return to France, and in my heart I knew I would be baptized.
Several days after I returned home, the missionaries asked me to help them teach a lesson. The investigator was a science student, and he was struggling with some of the same questions I had confronted when I was studying the same subjects. I explained to him how I had found answers to the questions, and when we left he seemed satisfied and happy.
A few days later, the missionaries called to tell me he was joining the Church. “How about that,” I told myself. “Here I am, able to help someone else accept baptism, and not myself. This has lasted long enough!” I felt I had a testimony, but I fasted and prayed. I stayed up the whole night pleading with the Lord to seal this testimony in me. Finally, early in the morning, a sweet, peaceful calm filled my soul. I knew I had to tell the elders I was ready to be baptized.
As I rounded the last corner on my way to see the missionaries, I felt a strong force trying to keep me from going. It was like walking against a 70-mile-per-hour wind, which I had done before, only it was stronger. But this was spiritual. I was just about to give up and turn around. I knew this force wanted me to doubt everything, but I finally said, “No, no. I know there’s a God.” I felt that truth deep in the roots of my soul. I knew He would battle this force for me.
I reached the chapel door, just a normal chapel door, but I had to pull with all my might to force it open. When I entered I saw some members and felt their spirit, and the opposing force was gone, broken. I felt the sweet peace in my heart again, and felt it even more strongly several days later as I was baptized and confirmed. I still feel it to this day.

Cassidy sat on the living room floor examining all the items in her emergency backpack—granola bars, hard candy, canned tuna and crackers, a coloring book and crayons, a flashlight with batteries, a small travel game, a whistle, an emergency blanket, paper and a pencil, and other small things.
“Mom, is today an emergency day?” five-year-old Cassidy called out. “I want to use my backpack!” Cassidy and her family had gotten the emergency backpacks for Christmas from an aunt and uncle.
“No, not today,” Mom answered. “I know there are a lot of neat things you would like to use out of your backpack, but if we have an emergency you’ll be glad you’ve kept them all together.” Mom stood at the doorway. “Come on, let’s put all the backpacks on the top shelf in the hall closet. Then we’ll know where to find them in an emergency.”
Cassidy began putting things back inside her backpack. “I want to have an emergency so I can use my stuff,” she said.
Mom sat down on the floor to help Cassidy put the items back. “Do you remember hearing about the people whose homes were destroyed by a big wave called a tsunami?”
“Yes,” Cassidy answered, looking concerned.
“That was an emergency,” Mom explained as she zipped up Cassidy’s backpack. “It’s a situation that happens quickly when people are not expecting it.”
“Emergencies are bad things, aren’t they?” Cassidy asked.
“They can be very serious,” Mom replied. “But when bad things happen it can give us comfort to have something prepared—something we can grab quickly if we need to.”
“Like our backpacks?” Cassidy asked eagerly.
“Exactly,” Mom said. “You don’t need to wish for an emergency though. Let’s plan an emergency day drill. We’ll pretend there is an emergency and that we can only use the snacks and things we have in our backpacks. When we are done, we can replace the things we’ve used and plan another emergency day drill to keep us on our toes.”
“Yes!” Cassidy shouted. “That sounds fun!”
“The Lord promises us that if we are prepared we shall not fear,” Mom said.
“We should tell the rest of the family about our idea,” Cassidy said.
“Good idea. We’ll talk about it tonight at family home evening,” Mom said.
That evening just before dinner, Cassidy was reading a book in the living room. Her brother and sisters were finishing their homework in the basement. The lights flickered a few times, and then the electricity went out. The winter sky was already dark, and for a few moments it was impossible to see anything.
“Mom!” Cassidy yelled.
Mom answered from the kitchen in a calm voice, “It’s OK. Just stay where you are. I’ll come get you.”
Cassidy blinked her eyes several times to adjust to the darkness. Then her mother reached out and took her hand.
“There you are!” Mom said. “Now we need some light.”
“There’s a flashlight in my emergency backpack!” Cassidy said excitedly.
They walked carefully through the dark house toward the hall closet.
“Who turned out the lights?” Cassidy’s older brother, Adison, shouted.
“It’s dark down here!” her sister Olivia called.
“We’ll get a light for you!” Cassidy said as she held tightly to Mom’s hand.
When they reached the closet, Mom pulled down Cassidy’s backpack and got out the flashlight. “That’s better,” Mom said. She quickly pulled down everyone’s backpack, and Cassidy got out the flashlights so that everyone would have their own light.
Dad came in through the door to the garage. “Boy, it sure was dark out there. It took me a while to find the door,” he said. “Were you scared?” he asked Cassidy.
“Yes, but I knew where my flashlight was, so that made me feel better,” she answered.
Looking out the window, they saw that the electricity was out all over the neighborhood, and a thick fog had rolled in.
The family gathered in the living room with their emergency backpacks and everyone chatted excitedly. Dad searched his backpack for his emergency radio and began to listen for a weather report. After a few minutes he announced, “Well, it doesn’t appear to be a winter storm. Hopefully, the power will be back on by morning. Your mom and I have decided that we will use this opportunity to have an emergency drill. You each can use only the things you have in your backpacks. Use them wisely, just in case the power is out for longer than we expect. Now that we are all here, we will start family home evening with a prayer of thanks that we were prepared for this minor emergency.”
Cassidy pulled a granola bar out of her backpack. She leaned over to Mom and said, “It turned out to be an emergency day after all.”

I would like to share another experience of faith. The only child in his family, Elder Hermelindo Coy said good-bye to his mother and left for the first time in his life his small village in the mountains of Senahú, Guatemala. He entered the Missionary Training Center on 14 March 1991. Although he had been a member of the Church for only two years and was very timid about talking to people, his determination to serve was great. His formal education was less than five years of elementary school in his native language of Kekchí. Spanish, the official language of Guatemala, was foreign to him.
During his mission he learned to live with pain in his leg. He rarely complained. In August 1992 he noticed, in addition to the increase in the pain, something abnormal about his knee. The diagnosis was bone cancer. A more careful exam revealed cancer in the liver, lungs, and lymphatic system; in other words, his illness was terminal. He did not understand the nature of the illness or its seriousness. With the help of a translator and using examples from the farm life with which he was familiar, he came to understand he had little time to live.
He never asked, Why is this happening to me? He did not lament or express negative feelings. He was obedient to all that was required of him. He was asked if he would like to return home, but he asked to remain in the mission and serve as long as possible, even until his death.
By October he walked with difficulty, requiring the use of a cane. He could work only a few hours each day. By December he was unable to walk. For the first time he was discouraged because he could not proselyte. His worry was always who would take care of his mother after he died.
In one of his visits, the mission president asked him to teach more of the basic doctrine to his mother, who, along with mission nurses, was providing 24-hour care. When he taught the plan of salvation to his mother in his native tongue, his face radiated assurance and light. Elder Coy was understanding with power and conviction what he was teaching.
As his strength declined, he placed his complete trust in the Lord. On one occasion when the pain was very strong, he expressed in prayer, “Heavenly Father, I do not know the day or the hour that I will die, but I want to know soon from Thee about my new assignment.” He died in February 1993. His death blessed all the missionaries, leaders, members, and even nonmembers who learned of his courage to serve and endure to the end. His faith was so simple it was contagious. He never feared death. He strengthened all who knew him.

As the years go by, Thelma continues to be a source of inspiration. She handles adversity better than anybody else I know. She takes care of her wonderful son who has Down syndrome, our elderly mother, and a husband with a serious health condition. Also, if those things weren’t enough, she has health issues of her own.

A few years ago, Thelma underwent brain surgery to relieve pressure from a brain cyst. Given the needs of her loved ones, the prospect of any complications was intimidating. She prayed for help and inspiration and visited the temple. Through it all, her faith did not waver, but she had reservations about putting her life in the hands of the doctor who would perform the delicate surgery. Thelma was visiting with a dear friend during this time and confided her concerns about the surgery. Thelma’s friend asked for the doctor’s name and upon learning the name, Thelma’s friend said that the doctor was a member of her ward. She told Thelma that he was a faithful member of the Church and a worthy priesthood holder. He often played Church hymns while he performed surgeries. Although a simple piece of information, this was a tender answer to Thelma’s prayers. Thelma’s life and spiritual experiences are a source of continuous strength and testimony in my own life.

I did not fully prepare him; I surprised him, and maybe I hurt him. I could not bring myself to say it so bluntly. So I explained, “I was a new member when Dad and I met and fell in love. I had heard an interfaith marriage could be hard, but no one explained it. I had not known any active, part-member families; maybe that should have been a warning to me? Anyhow, I just thought telling people to marry in the Church was prejudice. No one told me Dad should know more about the Church and my hopes, and it never occurred to me that I would feel so lonely going to church without him. I also did not realize how I could upset him by going to church.
“You see, when you’re planning to marry, you think you are going to have everything you already have, plus everything the other has. There just is not time, energy, or room enough for everything, and sometimes one of you does not want everything the other has to offer. Compromises have to be made. It’s not easy to compromise your beliefs and way of life.
“Anyhow, after a lot of experiments, Dad and I finally came to an adjustment. As the saying goes, ‘When life hands you a lemon, add the sweetener of love and make lemonade.’”
“Yes, Dad even went so far as to let you three go to church with me—after I was reactivated. Some nonmember dads would not be so generous. You have a very fine father.”

“Did you see Elisabeth at school today?” I asked my little brother as he came into the kitchen.
“She wasn’t there,” he said. “Our teacher said she’s sick again.”
“Hmm, that’s strange,” Mom said. “She’s been sick a lot lately.”
Elisabeth was in my brother’s first-grade class. She was also in our ward. When her family first moved in, I was excited because we had almost the same name—my name is Elizabeth with a z. Even though I was a few years older, we became good friends. I always said hi to her at church, and we liked to play at ward activities. But she had been sick lately, and we didn’t know what was wrong.
My mom called Elisabeth’s mom. “I heard Elisabeth wasn’t at school again today,” Mom said. “Is she sick? Is there something we can do to help?”
As Mom listened, tears started falling down her cheeks. “Well,” she said, “let us know how we can help. We will be praying for you.”
She hung up the phone and told us, “Elisabeth has a brain tumor. She is very sick, and she will have to go to the hospital for special treatments.”
As the days passed, Mom told us more about Elisabeth’s sickness. She said the chemotherapy and radiation treatments would make Elisabeth very weak. Elisabeth would lose her hair, and she wouldn’t be able to go to school or church very often.
After Elisabeth’s first few treatments, she felt better quickly and was able to play again. But then her treatments got longer and harder, so she couldn’t play as much. She started losing her hair and had to have tubes put in her body to feed her and keep her well. She tried to be happy, but I could tell it was hard sometimes.
I wanted to help Elisabeth feel better, so my sister and I gave her a cute pink hat and a pretty red dress.
But Elisabeth didn’t get better. After a year she started to get worse. The treatments didn’t help her anymore, and she often had to stay home. It made me sad that she was so little and losing weight.
Mom said she might not survive the cancer. I had never known anyone my age who had died before. It didn’t seem possible that Elisabeth could die.
One Sunday at dinner, Dad said, “Elisabeth is not doing well today. She probably won’t live much longer. We want everyone to pray for her to not have any more pain.”
In my heart I prayed to Heavenly Father. Heavenly Father, Elisabeth is my friend. Please take away her pain.
Later that night the phone rang. My dad told us that Elisabeth had passed away.
I ran to my room and cried. I knew she would be all right and that Heavenly Father would take care of her, but I would miss her. I didn’t understand why she had to die.
Later I saw a picture Elisabeth had drawn when she was sick. It said, “Elisabeth is happy all the time.”
Even though I still cried sometimes because I missed my friend, I knew that death is not the end. In the next life, we will meet with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ again. And when we get to be with Them, we will have happiness and peace, and all our pain and sadness will be gone.
I know I will see Elisabeth again. And I know that she is happy because “Elisabeth is happy all the time.”

September 2
Dearest Sarah,
We sold some tomatoes this week, and I got $13.00. They’re easier to pick than beans, and I like the way the vines smell. I also like to stop every now and then and eat one—all juicy and warm from the sun. I wish I could send you one in the mail.
I hope that you’ll understand this part. I was in a store last week, looking for notebooks and pencils for school, when I saw this little sweatshirt just Lindsay’s size with a penguin on it. She needs school clothes. I knew it would remind her of you; she still adores the penguin you sent her. It was $9.99, and so I bought it for her. Lindsay was thrilled. She put it on and wouldn’t take it off, even for bed. But after tithing and the notebooks … well, I hope you understand.
School starts Monday.
Love,Angela the Spendthrift
P.S. I promised the Claybourne kids some pumpkins for Halloween and a watermelon.

It was 11 p.m. when I heard my father’s car door close outside. He was home a little early tonight. Dad was a college professor with a full load of night classes to teach, so his normal arrival time wavered somewhere between 11:30 p.m. and midnight. And since I left for my early-morning seminary class before sunup, I usually only saw him for a few flurried minutes each night. That is, if I saw him at all.
Tonight I was brushing my teeth when he popped his head through the bathroom doorway. “How are you?” he asked. Through a mouthful of toothpaste I mumbled a response, then asked how his day had been.
“Great,” he said boisterously. “The plane got in a few hours ago, and the bus dropped us off at the school. After that I came right home.”
Plane? Bus? Was I missing something? He must have noticed my vacant stare, because he quickly added, “I was at a conference in Indianapolis all week.”
He was? Why didn’t I know about this? I realized with a pang of shame that my father had just spent five days on the other side of the country, and I hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
As my sister and I got older, it seemed like the whole family got busier until we were, as Mom liked to say, “like ships passing in the night.” We barely had time to blurt out “good morning” before we rushed in separate directions. But even with our classes and after-school activities, my sister and I couldn’t compete with Dad at being busy. His workday was longer than anyone else’s. Even when he was home, he spent hours at the computer, writing textbooks and revising lecture outlines.
Because Dad wasn’t a member of the Church, we only saw him on Sunday mornings over our bowls of breakfast cereal. By the time the rest of the family came home after our Church meetings, he had usually disappeared to his office at the college to get more work done.
I had always thought my family was a regular busy family, and I figured that feeling out of touch with my dad was just a part of such a high-speed life. Until that night over the bathroom sink, I never really considered the idea that we might be too busy.
A few weeks later, the missionaries from our ward came to my house for dinner. Dad, of course, was missing in action, but after we had eaten, the missionaries began to ask us some questions about Dad’s feelings toward the Church. Had he ever taken the discussions? Had he read the Book of Mormon? Did he ever come to Church with us? My mother and I answered the questions as best we could. Then the elders said that they’d really like the chance to teach my father the gospel, and they wanted to enlist our help.
Although I was usually enthusiastic about thinking up ways to help share the gospel with my father, I leaned back into my chair and frowned. “What can we do?” I asked skeptically. “We hardly ever see him.” I explained to the missionaries about Dad’s overly hectic schedule, and they nodded understandingly.
Finally one of the missionaries, who also had a nonmember father, said, “My dad was the same way when I was in high school. He was such a workaholic that I felt like I never saw him, and we just drifted farther and farther apart. I got even busier after I joined the Church.
“I just decided,” he went on, “that it was important for my dad to know that I loved him, that my joining the Church didn’t make me love him less. Since I didn’t see him very often, I started leaving him notes. Nothing special. I just wrote a quick note telling him that I loved and appreciated him, and I made sure I put it where he’d find it.”
“Did it work?” I asked skeptically.
He smiled and shrugged. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
It was a challenge I couldn’t refuse. That night, after I was in my pajamas and Dad still hadn’t gotten home from work, I pulled out a pad of sticky notes and wrote a quick message: “Dear Dad: I hope you had a good day. I love you.” I signed my name at the bottom and stuck the note to his computer screen, knowing Dad almost always made a stop at his computer before he finally got to bed.
The next morning when I plodded into the bathroom still half asleep, I noticed a piece of yellow paper clinging to the mirror. “Dear Melody,” it read. “Thanks for the note. I love you too. Love, Dad.”
I smiled, something I rarely did at 5:30 in the morning.
For the rest of that year before I went away to college, I left notes for my father a few times a week. Nothing elaborate, just a few lines to tell him what was going on in my life, to wish him a good day, to tell him I loved him. He almost always responded with another note attached to my bathroom mirror or my bedroom door.
As the weeks went on and our note exchange became a regular thing, it became easier to put into words how I really felt about my dad. I realized that even though I didn’t spend as much time with him as I wanted to, I really did love him. And I realized that even though he worked a lot, he really loved me too. Having a true friendship made us more eager to do things with each other, too, like trips to museums or into the city on Saturday afternoons.
Over the years I kept a few of the sticky notes from Dad. I even taped one to the mirror in my dorm room at college just to make it feel like home. When I finally went back home for Christmas, I noticed that Dad had done the same. A piece of yellow paper with the words “Dad, I love you. Melody” was firmly attached to the top of his computer desk.
My father never joined the Church. But when he died suddenly several years ago, the yellow sticky note was still on his computer desk, right where it had been for five years. In the weeks after his death, I felt grateful that I had found a way to communicate with Dad even when we were both at our busiest. I didn’t have to wonder whether he knew that I loved him. I knew that he looked at my words every day.

I would be remiss if I did not speak of a branch president and a bishop of my youth. I became a deacon at the age of 12 in a little branch in the eastern part of the United States. The branch was so tiny that my older brother and I were its only Aaronic Priesthood holders until my father, who was the branch president, invited a middle-aged man to join the Church.

The new convert received the Aaronic Priesthood and, with it, a call to watch over the Aaronic Priesthood. I still remember as if it were yesterday. I can recall the beautiful fall leaves as that new convert accompanied my brother and me to do something for a widow. I don’t remember what the project was, but I do remember feeling that the priesthood power joined in doing what I later learned the Lord had said we must all do to have our sins forgiven and so be prepared to see Him.

As I look back now, I feel gratitude for a branch president who called a new convert to help the Lord prepare two boys who would in turn someday be bishops, charged to care for the poor and the needy and also to preside over the preparatory priesthood.

One young man, Logan G. Van Wagoner, shared the result of his plans to make scripture study more meaningful: “Duty to God has made a big change in my life. One great change is that I used to just read my scriptures. I wouldn’t pay a lot of attention and just ended up glancing through the verses so I could say I had read. But soon after I started Duty to God, it helped me realize the importance of the scriptures. I started to read each verse and mark or highlight things the Spirit made me feel were important and significant. I also started to check the cross-references to help me really understand and learn what I could. Now I feel the Spirit every time I read, telling me those things are true. It’s made a huge and positive difference in my life.”

Elder Alan and Sister Sheri Erickson, serving in the Liberia Monrovia Mission, enjoyed an inspiring “Light the World” event with the members of the Buchanan 2nd Branch.
For several weeks the sweet Relief Society president, Sister Nagbe, felt inspired to invite the sisters to participate in what she called an “outreach”. Instead of having an end-of-year social for Relief Society, she thought a better use of energy and time would be to invite others throughout the community to come and see.
Elder and Sister Erickson provided 100 “He Is Risen” pass-along cards to be handed out by the Relief Society sisters as invitations to people in the community.
On Dec. 9, one week after the branch moved into its beautiful new meetinghouse, eight sisters excitedly arrived at the church.
Aren’t these sisters beautiful standing outside the front of the new meetinghouse! Relief Society president, Sister Nagbe is in front in the yellow shirt. The sister in orange, Sarah, was baptized the previous Saturday. The sister in rust and white, Sophie, was the most eager and enthused. She is waiting to get married so she can get baptized.
They divided up the pass-along cards and wrote the location and time for Sunday services on the back of each. Then they headed out in groups of two or three to invite people. Some also carried copies of The Book of Mormon.
They had decided upon a target community, but on their way there, they couldn’t wait to start sharing the cards. Soon the idea formed to record the names and contact numbers of those they met.
A usual greeting went something like this:
“Good morning! We are from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We want to invite you to service on Sunday at our new building on God Bless You Hill, next to the auto parts. You are most welcome.”
Almost every person greeted was happy to give their name and number, resulting in a list of 77 names and about 70 numbers (some people did not have a contact number.)
Every card was passed out and a few copies of The Book of Mormon as well, all before 1 p.m. Several of the sisters decided to call those they had met to remind, encourage, and invite them again to come and see.
It was amazing! A true wonder and marvel! All the sisters who came felt so enthusiastic about sharing the gospel. They said:
“We want to do this the last Friday of every month! Soon we’ll be many branches, even a stake!”
With that kind of vision and enthusiasm we don’t doubt but that it will come true.

Bishop Burton: I can remember how frightened I was the first time I was assigned to go home teaching. My companion was a less-active Melchizedek Priesthood holder, but he was a faithful home teacher. When we went into the homes of the people, that tough, large, rather rough-appearing man was as meek and mild as anyone could be and always insisted that we kneel in prayer with the families. He was a marvelous human being who taught me—a young teacher—how to be a home teacher.

As the branch grew, the rented facilities became too small for them. So President Castañeda obtained permission for the use of this plot of land [slide shown], upon which to build a chapel. Other branches in the mission had met with extreme difficulty in obtaining such permission, but the village officials in Bermejillo were aware of the accomplishments of the branch and were pleased at the prospect of having a chapel built here.

A small, temporary, adobe chapel has been erected on the property and is now serving while the Saints raise their share of the funds for their new meeting place, which they have been authorized to build.

Much of their portion of the money is being earned through branch projects. Every Tuesday and Thursday the Relief Society sisters divide into small groups to make doughnuts and tamales. They then sell them in the parks or door-to-door. One of the sisters reported how difficult it was to sell door-to-door, but she said, “We want our chapel, and we are willing to do whatever it takes to earn enough money.”

To date they have met all their commitments, and the construction of a chapel on this site is scheduled to begin before the end of this year.

I stayed at school for the next few weekends taking midterms. The next weekend I was home, I was curious to see how Todd was doing. Mom said he still worked the fun house job and was still working in the nursery, along with Carlie Maxwell. I was amazed, especially since Jolene Sparks had moved back east in preparation for her first semester of college.

On Sunday, I peeked into the nursery just before church let out. Carlie was rocking a child who had fallen asleep. I saw Tara come up and swing her arms around Todd’s neck, planting a big wet kiss on his cheek. Todd was wearing a bunny hat and hopping around, and all the children had on paper bunny hats, too, with wildly scribbled ears.

The bell rang to dismiss classes, and parents started coming in. Paul Myerson started to cry. He wanted to stay with Todd.

Sister Jensen came in for her little boy, beaming at Todd.

“I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but keep doing it!” she said. “Tyler loves to come to nursery now. I’ve been able to get to my class and get set up to teach my lesson instead of being late all the time.”

Other moms and dads were similarly impressed.

The nursery emptied until there was just Todd, Scottie, and me.

“Wow,” I said, stunned. “You’ve done a great job with these children.” The toys were put up, and the floor and the table and tiny chairs were clean.

“This is the best calling I’ve ever had,” Todd said. “It’s a lot of work, but these little kids are worth it.” He tickled Scottie and swung him in his arms.

I was told of a conversation by a Primary teacher, who related what transpired in his class. He was teaching the eleven-year-olds. He asked the question, “Suppose the Lord asked you to build a spaceship big enough to take you and your family and provisions off this planet? Could you do it?”
Steve spoke up and said, “Yes.”
And the teacher said, “Have you ever built a spaceship?”
“No.”
“Have you ever built a model spaceship?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
Steve said, “Yes, on TV.” But then he declared, “You said the Lord told me to build it. If the Lord told me to build it, I could do it.”
I wonder how many of us as adults have that kind of faith.

Sometimes we are faced with keeping our covenants when there seems to be no logical reason to do so. I listened to a single sister tell of her experience of “coming to trust the Lord completely.” Her life had not worked out as she had expected. Sound familiar? This period of soul-searching was marked by changing jobs, new financial pressures, tugs from worldly philosophies. Now listen to what she did. She sat down with other sisters in her ward and found that they too were searching to find the peace the gospel brings. She asked for a priesthood blessing. She valiantly carried forward in her calling. She studied and tried to more fully commit her love, appreciation, and conviction to Jesus. She prayed. “I cried to the Lord,” she said, “and told Him I would do whatever He would ask of me.” She did all this despite those difficulties. And do you know what happened? No, her eternal companion did not appear on her doorstep. But peace made its way into her heart, and life got better.

It happened again when a man and his wife arrived back in town just after the dam had broken. They didn’t go to their home. They went first to find their bishop. He was covered in mud, leading his members in mucking out homes. They asked what he would have them do.
They went to work. Much later, they took a few minutes to check on their own house. It was gone. So they went back to work wherever their bishop asked them to help. They knew where to go to get the Lord’s direction for service in His Church.