Gospel Story Finder

In 2019, one of my closest friends invited me to join a discussion with the missionaries when they were teaching his little sister. I turned down the offer many times because they were learning outdoors—I didn’t want to have others see I was learning with the missionaries. My friend then said, “Today we will go inside,” to which I agreed.

During our first meeting, we discussed the first principle in the first lesson. Everything they were saying I agreed with, such as “God is your loving Heavenly Father, He knows you personally,” and other things like that. The problem came when the missionaries said, “God has a body of flesh and bone that is perfect.” My friend’s little sister agreed, but I did not. They tried to help me, but I refused to change my view. Before the lesson ended, they invited me to read, pray, and come to Church. I accepted their invitation.

They then gave me an example that, “if I were selling TVs and there is one customer that wants to come and buy a certain TV but doesn’t have money at the moment, the customer might ask if I can keep the TV till tomorrow when she would come and then be able to buy. She would always repeat the same statement every day for months without purchasing the TV. And then another customer comes with money. Will you sell the TV to the second customer?” I replied, “No, I will keep the TV for the first customer.” Later, I changed my mind and said, “I will sell it to the second customer.” The missionaries then told me that it’s just the same with them. If I do not keep the commitments, they will stop coming to me and focus on other people who are keeping commitments.

When I heard these words, my desire to learn the restored gospel was triggered. “Why do they want me to learn this gospel so much?” I asked myself. After the first meeting, my friend asked me, “Why were you making this lesson hard to understand?” He continued, “Just give them time and listen to them.”

My friend’s little sister heeded the missionaries during the lesson. I then recognized that I was not humble enough. From that day I humbled myself to the missionaries because of my good friend and his little sister.

I tried to keep the commitments. The days I still remember vividly are, first, a day I was asked to study 3 Nephi 11:1–17. In our next appointment they asked what I learned from the chapter, I then recited most of the verses I had read. Second, one day I was invited to attend a baptismal service. On the morning of the baptismal service, I was busy playing video games with my friends and when I realized that I was short on time I ran to the chapel that was about a mile away. “We thought you were not coming,” the missionaries said when they saw me. I never missed the sacrament because of the example the sister missionaries gave to me. It was a good time to learn the restored gospel with the sister missionaries.

Jana Morrell is poised and ready. She inches toward home plate with a bat resting comfortably on her shoulder. She stares down the pitcher, who in this case happens to be her older sister Jodie. At first base, another sister, Jill, is waiting. In the outfield is Jana’s father and her older brother, Jason. Waiting on deck is Jana’s mom. Dinner has been served and eaten. Now it’s time for baseball.
Jana lets the first pitch go by. “Outside,” she says. Since there’s no umpire, they all take her word. Jodie winds up and delivers the next pitch, which Jana fouls off. The count is one ball and one strike, but in this game, it doesn’t even matter. No one keeps track of the count, and there is no striking out. You bat until you hit, which Jana intends to do.
When the next pitch is delivered, Jana makes contact and sends the ball rolling toward Jodie. Jana takes off for first base, going as fast as she can. Jodie gets to the ball and throws it to a waiting Jill. Jana beats the throw and is safe. She then leans back in her specially made cart and smiles. Instead of running to first base, Jana “pedaled” with her hands to get down the baseline.
“I know when we play baseball, it makes Jana feel good knowing she can do the things we do,” says Jill, 14. “We don’t play the games for the competition.” Obviously, who wins and loses isn’t the point of the Morrells’ backyard baseball games. Playing together as a family is.

Hannah reached under the desk for her friend Ellie’s note, carefully watching to make sure the teacher wouldn’t see her. She felt a little guilty passing notes during class, but Mr. Jones had been lecturing for a while now, and she was bored.
Hannah opened the note and read it. She and Ellie had been writing back and forth about Maura, a girl in their class who they thought was stuck-up. “Maura thinks she’s so great,” Ellie had written. “I wish she would …”
Suddenly, Mr. Jones stopped talking. “A note?” he asked. He walked to Hannah’s desk and took the note out of her hands. Then to Hannah’s horror, Mr. Jones read the note to the class. He left out Maura’s name, but he read all of the mean things Ellie and Hannah had written about her.
Hannah looked helplessly at Ellie. Finally, the bell rang and Mr. Jones gave the note back to Hannah, asking to see her at lunchtime. Hannah felt terrible.
A tap on her shoulder startled her, and she turned around. It was Maura.
“That note was about me, wasn’t it?” Maura said, her eyes filling with tears. Then, without waiting for an answer, she walked down the hall.
Hannah felt sick to her stomach. She could tell that Ellie felt bad too. She went to the cafeteria and slowly ate her lunch, feeling worse all the time. She couldn’t get Maura’s sad face out of her mind.
Hannah trudged back to her classroom and sat down at her desk.
“Hannah, I shouldn’t have read that note out loud, and I’m sorry,” Mr. Jones said. “I know you think Maura is stuck-up, but I think if you got to know her, you would find out that she is a nice person. Maybe you could even become friends.”
Hannah doubted that they would become friends after what had just happened.
The next day, Hannah apologized to Maura, and the sick feeling in her stomach went away. She tried not to gossip about classmates anymore with Ellie or any of her friends. Hannah only wished that the sad look in Maura’s eyes would go away and that Maura could forgive her.
As the school year ended, Hannah and Ellie got their yearbooks and had their friends write in them. When Hannah got to Maura, she handed her the yearbook timidly, afraid that Maura would refuse it. But Maura took the book without saying anything.
When Hannah got home from school, she opened her yearbook and turned to Maura’s note.
Hannah,
I’m sorry we didn’t get along very well this year. I hope we can become better friends next year.
Love,
Maura
Hannah smiled as she read it. She was glad Maura had forgiven her, and she knew she could be a better friend.

A few days ago I was trying to read my scriptures, but I kept getting interrupted. First it was somebody coming to tell me I hadn’t done a job right. Then it was my little sisters fighting. I was about ready to explode. All I wanted was some peace and quiet. Was it asking too much just to be able to concentrate?
Finally, I lowered my head and said a silent prayer. I asked Heavenly Father to bless me that I could understand what he wanted me to learn from the scriptures. I finished my prayer and put the book down. All of a sudden, it was like all of the interruptions shut off.
I had been reading 1 Nephi 8, where it talks about Lehi’s dream about the tree of life and the iron rod. I thought about the people who get distracted and end up wandering in darkness. It occurred to me that I should not let myself get distracted by worries or noise.
Then I thought about the tree of life, and I re-read 1 Ne. 8:11–12: “And it came to pass that I did go forth and partake of the fruit thereof; and I beheld that it was most sweet, above all that I ever before tasted. …
“And as I partook of the fruit thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy.” [1 Ne. 8:11–12]
The Lord had granted me peace, the peace of understanding. I sat thinking, grateful for the quiet in the room, but even more grateful for the newfound inner calm.

I’m 16 years old and have been getting the New Era for over a year now. I never really read it until my mom read it one day and fell in love with it and told me there were neat stories in it. My mom is the president of the Young Women and encouraged all of us girls to read it.
I would like to thank Cyndi Erickson from Utah. Her letter was printed in the February 1988 Feedback section under the title “Don’t give up!” I’ve been going through some hard times, and when Mother read that letter in our Young Women meeting I got tears in my eyes. When I came home I read it again. Cyndi, I want you to know that you’ve touched someone’s heart. You’ve helped me put my life together, and I’m sure you’ve touched others too. I’m a new person now, and I love it. I love the Church, the gospel, Heavenly Father, my family, and the New Era!
Shelli BiglerWalnut, California

For Kelvin Gwala, the opportunity to serve on the Durban Temple Committee was a blessing that initially came with concern.
As a resident of Umlazi, South Africa, Brother Gwala had a round trip drive of about sixty kilometers each time he traveled to Berea for committee meetings, which were held for almost a year with increasing frequency. If it wasn’t a temple committee meeting, he needed to attend on a Sunday, he traveled to practice with one of the temple dedication choirs. He made additional mid-week trips to attend stake training meetings since he also serves as the Durban Stake clerk.
About the same time, he was asked to serve on the committee, the price of petrol began to rise dramatically, and food prices increased. Each time he needed to drive to Berea for a meeting, he would sit and wonder where he was going to get money for fuel. But, he says, somehow, someway, he would end up in Berea, the small amount of fuel he had in his car lasting longer than he thought it would.
“At first,” he says, “I felt like it was putting a strain on my budget. But at the end of the month, we would be fine. To my amazement, the Lord saw us through.”
Those first worries about his tight budget, Brother Gwala now believes, were just negative thoughts that could have stopped him from serving. Instead, he made a faithful effort and experienced what he calls “my own miracle.”
As he reflected on his experiences, he came to an important conclusion: “The Lord just wants us to start,” he says. “No matter how difficult a situation might look, if you start, then the Lord does meet you halfway. For me, those were the blessings. [We] were living on a tight budget, then you pay your fast offering and your tithing, but the Lord saw us through, and the family managed well. The Lord did bless us and continues to bless us.”

I was baptized in April 1992, the first member of my family to join the Church. As a single mother, I found that it was not always easy to face people’s negative reaction to my conversion. But my baptism was a glorious experience, and I have never regretted my decision to join the Church. It is wonderful to have the opportunity to help my four-year-old daughter develop her testimony.
I find spiritual support in a wonderful magazine, Lys over Norge (Norwegian). I read it from cover to cover. My daughter loves the children’s section. Whenever we go to our mailbox, she asks if the children’s magazine has arrived for her.
I share the magazine with my mother and sister, who are now members of the Church, and with my nonmember friends; they all enjoy it very much. I also place copies wherever I can—at my doctor’s office, on passenger ferry boats, and so on—so that others may read it.
Eldrid Helén AntonesenBergen 1st Branch, Stavanger Norway District

“Who does he think he is?”
That question seared through my mind like a hot coal and overshadowed everything else. I had just knelt down by my bed to say my nightly prayers when my new stepfather passed by my bedroom door and saw me kneeling there. He must have been deeply touched by the sight, because he felt impelled to come into my room, kneel down beside me, put his arm around me, and join me in prayer.
I wanted to rip his arm from my shoulders and shove him out the door. I didn’t consider the fact that he was just trying to be nice—making an effort to grow closer to me. At the time I felt like he was intruding on something very private. I’d thought before that he was trying to nose into my real dad’s rightful spot, and that he was coming between my Mom and me. Now it seemed he wanted to horn his way into my relationship with Heavenly Father. “Get out of here!” my mind silently shouted. I knelt there, seething in silence, unable to finish my prayer.
My feelings, although not charitable, were natural and typical of a teenager trying to adjust to a new parent. You would probably be surprised at the number of teenagers who have to make that adjustment. More than a third of the kids in the Church will likely grow up without both their natural parents in the home. They will either live in single-parent families, or will have a stepparent. And when that stepparent moves in, there are major adjustments to be made.
The New Era talked with teenagers in various parts of the United States to find out what helped them adapt to a new parent, and we’re passing that information along to you. Stepbrothers and stepsisters enter in, but for now, we’re focusing on the parent. Chances are that if you’re not currently dealing with this kind of situation, one of your friends is, and maybe this will help you help them.
“You’ve got to have a positive attitude about stepparents and not have this preconceived notion that they’re going to be mean,” says Nathan Black, 16, of Salt Lake City. “The story of Cinderella really didn’t do much for the stepparent image.”
Nancy Taylor, 15, of Richardson, Texas, agrees. “Trust in your natural parent’s judgment. If they thought their new husband or wife would be a bad influence in your home, they wouldn’t have married them. They love you. They don’t want to hurt you.”
As you can probably figure out from Nathan and Nancy’s statements, the first, and probably hardest thing to deal with when a stepparent moves in is the initial adjustment. They’re new to your family. They come from different backgrounds. They have different values, different personal styles, and they even eat different things from what you’re used to. “You don’t have a common past,” says Karis Wold, 17, of Gaithersburg, Maryland. “You don’t have the same experiences to laugh about.”
Then there’s the intrusion factor, and a little jealousy thrown in as well. Almost everyone who has a new parent move into their home feels these things to some degree. “A stepparent takes the place of the real parent in the home, and sometimes you feel resentful of that,” says Teri Black, 17, of Salt Lake City. “When one parent leaves, you become more dependent and closer to the one you’re living with. Then someone else comes along and gets most of their attention, and you feel like your stepparent is taking your real parent away from you.”
Karis and Teri both agree that patience is one of the most important factors in dealing with these initial problems. “You’ve just got to realize that everything is not going to be perfect from the very beginning,” says Karis. “Sometimes you have to put what you want aside and just wait. Perspective is important. You may have troubles now, but you have to realize that they won’t necessarily last forever. Sometimes you have to go with the flow and humor them.”
“You’ve also got to remember,” says Molly Parker, 12, of Beaverton, Oregon, “that your first impression of them is going to be different from your impression once you get to know them. You’re both trying to adjust at first. You’ve got to try to understand them, and then they’ll probably try to understand you.”
“And it’s important to watch the way you treat them,” adds Amy Rooney, 17, of Mesa, Arizona. “There’s a good chance that they’ll treat you the way you treat them. For example, one thing that a lot of stepkids say is, ‘I don’t have to do what you say—you’re not my real father!’ How would you feel if they said to you, ‘I don’t have to help you—you’re not my real kid’?”
That brings us to discipline, which is also a major cause of contention between stepparent and stepchild. You’re used to receiving a certain punishment for disobedience, and the stepparent dishes out another. You feel resentment because “that’s not the way my real dad did it.”
“Don’t compare your stepparents to your real parents, because, out of a sense of loyalty to your natural parents, the stepparent will always come up short,” says Chris Smith, 13, of Pasadena, California. He also offers this advice: “Just try to look at things from your new parent’s point of view. When they tell you to take out the trash, it’s not because they’re riding you. They just want the house to be clean.”
“At first I resented my stepdad when he disciplined my little sister,” says Nancy Taylor. “I felt he had no right to do that. But then my mom explained to me that Lindsey needs to learn what’s right and wrong—he wasn’t doing it to be mean, but to help her. That kind of applies to me, too. I had to accept the fact that he is the man of the house now, and what he says goes.”
Some of the people we talked to said their new parent was stricter than the parent they’d been living with, and others said the new parent was more lenient. But surprisingly enough, the general consensus was that kids were grateful to have set rules and set punishments for breaking them. Many times, when one parent is absent from the home, discipline breaks down, maybe because a single parent doesn’t have the support of a partner in administering it, or because single parents feel a need to ingratiate themselves with their children. Or perhaps, with a mom working again, she just doesn’t have the time. And then there’s the urge, with so many adjustments to be made, to just avoid any sort of conflict altogether. Whatever the case, most of the kids interviewed said they appreciated the discipline, and, although it took some time to get used to, it was better than having total freedom with no guidance.
Now, once the ground rules are set, there are all sorts of ways to become closer to your new parent. They’re not necessarily trying to take the place of your natural parent, but most will try to be your friend. How do you get closer to a friend? You do things together. You share things.
Joey Rossi, 16, of Dallas, Texas, shares his hobbies, like working on a computer, with his stepdad. Nathan Black likes to go to football and basketball games with his stepdad, who also goes to movies with Nathan’s sister Teri. Amy Rooney says her relationship with her stepfather grows when he helps her with softball or powderpuff football. Nathaniel Smith, 12, of Pasadena, California, got closer to his stepmother by letting her help him with his piano lessons and by listening to her etiquette tips, while his stepbrother Allen Doezie, 17, became better friends with his stepfather by going on Scouting trips with him.
In fact, the Church offers a lot of programs that can bring you closer to your stepparent. Aimee Crowther, 13, of Richardson, Texas, got a lot closer to her stepdad by going to a Daddy-Daughter party with him. Karis Wold says she really became close to her stepmother when they shared the experience of getting her patriarchal blessing.
And you know, asking a stepparent for help doesn’t hurt either. “At first it was hard for me to ask him to do things for me, like take me to the store and things like that,” says Nancy Taylor. “I didn’t want to impose on him, or make him think I was too dependent or anything. But the more I reached out to him, the better it got. The little things built up. Now I feel like I can share my problems with him, and he helps me.”
Another help that almost every person interviewed mentioned for bringing a new family close is showing physical affection. You’re not being disloyal to a natural parent by giving a stepparent a hug. You hug your friends, don’t you? “I remember one thing that really made me feel closer to my stepmom,” says Chris Smith. “I’d just gotten home from a trip, and she gave me a big hug—that made me realize she was really happy to see me. That was good.”
Being open with your stepparent, and rationally talking out your problems with them, will also held to break down barriers. Some people find it helpful to go to the natural parent, discuss the problem with them, and have them explain why your stepparent is acting the way he or she is. Many times your natural parent can help you understand.
Probably the biggest help for your family situation will come from your Heavenly Father. “I prayed a lot about it, and Heavenly Father really helped me understand what I had to do,” says Molly Parker. “He really helped me get close.”
Family problems are best kept within the walls your house, but there may come a time when it’s necessary to get outside help. In rare cases, sins like sexual or physical abuse may occur. While such matters may seem too grave for anyone to want to admit to, you don’t have to be subjected to that. In fact, it is your right not to suffer in that way. Seek help from your other parent, your bishop, your school counselor, or another family member outside of your home. You don’t have to shoulder that burden alone. You need help, and so does the person afflicting you.
In most cases, however, there are great advantages to having two parents in the home, even if one is a stepparent. “It’s great to have a Melchizedek Priesthood holder in your house,” says Allen Doezie. “Dad’s happier when he’s married,” adds Karis Wold.
And a lot can be learned from the adjustment process. Most people agree that getting used to a new person in the home helps you get used to new people outside the home better. It can also be a great aid in helping you get along with new missionary companions or a spouse, who will also have come from a different background.
Karis sums up most stepparent experiences with the following advice. “Just try to remember that they want everything to work just as much as you do. They don’t have all the answers either, but you can both try.”

As a single woman, I am used to being careful about safety. But in the weeks before my trip to the Atlanta Georgia Temple, my usual concern escalated into a recurring nightmare in which a man mugged me, getting away with my credit cards, checks, and driver’s license. My concern became so great that the day before leaving for the temple, I checked my wallet three times to make sure everything—including my temple recommend—was still there.
That same evening I went to a party with my wallet in my purse, along with a small mirror and the tube of lipstick I am never without. After parking my car and adding my keys to my purse, I started toward the church where the party was underway. I was alone in a big city, but I wasn’t afraid. Having asked for the Lord’s protection earlier that evening, I felt safe.
As I walked up a path, I sensed someone behind me and turned to see a man running at me with lightning speed. There was a sharp tug on my purse, a strong hand on my arm, and I heard, “Give me your purse!” As I struggled to free myself, my purse flew across the broad lawn, landing in the nearby bushes. I cried out, but the man ran, retrieving my purse as he left.
After calling the police, I found an empty room in the church where I could send a silent prayer up to Heavenly Father. “I don’t understand,” I thought, fighting tears. “I was going to the temple tomorrow! Now he has my temple recommend! Father, why wasn’t I protected?” Feeling helpless and hopeless, I went out to face the police officers.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Thomas. The officers didn’t find anything—not the thief, not your purse,” I was told. But as the police officers and I walked to my car, an impression came to me.
“I’m going to look in the grass to see if anything fell out of my purse, OK?” I tried not to get my hopes up, but when I saw something metallic reflecting light from the streetlamps, I scooped it up triumphantly and shouted, “My keys! My keys are here!” I said a silent prayer of thanks as we started toward my car once again.
“Wait! I want to look in the bushes too.”
Shaking his head, the officer escorting me answered with a half-grin, “Go ahead, but no one has that kind of luck.”
He was wrong. Unable to contain my tears, I shouted from the bushes, “My wallet!” Inside it, everything—including my temple recommend—was intact. The police officers were dumbfounded.
“I’ve never seen anyone so lucky,” one commented.
“It’s not luck,” I answered without thinking. “It’s protection from God.” I doubted the police officers would understand the importance of my trip to the temple, so to break the skeptical silence, I jokingly added, “The guy did get one thing of value though—my lipstick!” No one laughed.
Feeling awkward, I glanced back at the bush where I had made my last amazing find. What I saw astonished me: there, upright on the little mirror I carry in my purse, was my tube of lipstick.
Before the police arrived, I had wondered why God hadn’t protected and blessed me. But standing on that lawn next to the flabbergasted police officers, I realized He had done both. Now, whenever I have the slightest doubt that Heavenly Father is aware of my struggles, I remember the night He saved my keys, my wallet, my temple recommend, and even my tube of lipstick.

On one occasion he was home on a break from college. He was focused on upcoming finals and was not feeling right, though he didn’t feel physically ill.
“If you’re feeling well and don’t feel right,” his mother told him, “you need to go serve somebody.”
Brett threw a snow shovel in the back of the family pickup and went around shoveling the driveways of the widows in the ward. He felt much better.
“I was so focused on myself and the finals, I had forgotten that the real purpose of life is to serve others,” he says.

I prepared by trying to follow Jesus Christ’s example. I read the scriptures, prayed, and went to church. I am not 100 percent perfect, but with Heavenly Father’s help, I can be worthy.
Going to the temple for the first time was one of the most wonderful things I have done in my life. I felt Heavenly Father’s love the whole time. I went with my family and some of the youth from my ward. My dad baptized me for some of my ancestors. I liked knowing that I was helping them with something they were not able to do themselves.

As part of his redeeming power, Jesus can remove the sting of death or restore the spiritual health of a struggling soul. The scriptures are filled with examples, but a young Korean sister indelibly taught me this lesson. In early 1994, while attending a stake conference in Seoul, Korea, I met Kim Young Hee, a young woman in her 20s. I noticed her beautiful countenance as she sat in a wheelchair on the stand waiting to speak. When her turn came, a brother pushed her chair to the front of the stand but off to the side of the pulpit so she could see and be seen. He gave her a microphone and she told us her story.
As a young woman, she was healthy, had an excellent job, and was content with life. She was not a Christian. In 1987, she was in a terrible car accident that left her paralyzed from the waist down. Following her recovery in a hospital, she returned to her parents’ home wondering what life held for her. She was despondent and empty. One day a knock came at the door. Her mother answered, and two American women asked to share a message about Jesus Christ. The mother was hesitant, but the daughter heard the voices and invited them in. They were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Kim Young Hee accepted the invitation to receive the missionary lessons. She read the Book of Mormon, prayed about its truthfulness, attended church, and received a witness of the divinity of the Restoration. She was baptized.
“I know that Heavenly Father does not look on the outward appearance, but on the heart. I also know that the true miracle is the healing within, the change of heart, the loss of pride. Although my physical body may not be healed in mortality, my spirit has felt the healing power of the Holy Ghost. And in the Resurrection, a fully restored, perfect physical body will again house my spirit and I will receive a fulness of joy.”

I also learned about prayer from my mother. I grew up in the country on a cattle ranch. When I was eight or nine, my dad gave me a Shetland pony for my birthday, and I was really happy because I liked horses. A few days after I received this gift, a couple of boys asked if I wanted to go horseback riding with them. Mother said that I could go, so I rode with them for about three hours into the mountains. Suddenly, the two boys looked at me and said, “We have to go home now. We promised our mothers we would be back soon.” They had big horses. Mine was a little pony. They took off on a gallop, and my little pony couldn’t keep up with them. When they got out of sight, I stopped and I had no idea where I was. I became frightened.

Then I remembered what my mother had told me—if you get in trouble or if you need help, remember that you can pray to Heavenly Father. I got off my pony, knelt on the ground, and prayed. I don’t remember what I said, except “Please help me to get home.” After I finished my prayer, I got back on my pony. I sat there for two or three minutes holding the reins, not knowing what to do. I decided to drop the reins on the horse’s neck. After a few seconds, the horse started to walk. He walked faster and faster, and just before dark he walked into our backyard.

I learned two things from this experience. The first is that if we will pray to Heavenly Father in sincerity, He will answer our prayers. The second is that a horse knows its way home! I didn’t know that before I prayed.

Night was falling as we approached the mesa. In the failing light, six ragged figures stood out against the orange sky, scarecrowlike with painted faces. Their shredded black robes blew in the wind. Tin cans hung from them, clanging dully. They were eerie and alien in the gathering dusk.
“I think we’re in over our heads,” I said to my companion. Turning the pickup around, I drove off across the empty reaches of the Navajo Reservation. As missionaries in the Arizona Holbrook Mission, we wanted to share the gospel with everyone, but maybe that didn’t include the man who had set up these weird manlike scarecrows.
During the next week, however, we felt an urging that we should return to the hut of the old sheepherder on his remote mesa. We tracted on foot a lot that week so that we could drive out and see him without exceeding the mileage limit set by the mission.
We found him on his mesa. A wooden staff was in his hand, and he wore a long black coat. He stood by a gnarly old tree, as motionless as one of his scarecrow men. Silently, he watched us get out of our truck and approach. His hair was white. His eyes were calm. There was no expression on his wrinkled brown face.
My companion was new and couldn’t speak any Navajo. I wasn’t a lot better. I introduced us in Navajo with a phrase that means essentially, “Hi, who are you? We’re the missionaries.”
He looked at me. I think he was impressed that I knew enough Navajo to greet him. He answered me in English. “I’m Baptist. No hear you.”
His words were harsh, but we felt something else behind them—a kindness, a welcome that was louder than his words. We didn’t argue, but we went on talking with him and before long we had an appointment to come back and see him.
During the months that followed we visited the old shepherd often. He wandered far with his sheep and sometimes we had to drive atop a mesa and scan the country for miles to find him. Every visit was precious because we had to make sacrifices and do a lot of walking so we could save up the mileage to drive to see him.
We had no place to sit and talk with him because his shack was too small. At first we would just sit on the tailgate of our truck. When the weather was too cold, we would crowd inside the cab. We started out very slowly. I knew just a little Navajo, and he knew about the same amount of English. Sitting on the tailgate, I would point to a tree and say, “Tree.” He would point to the same tree and say the word in Navajo. I would point at a dog and say, “Dog.” He would point and tell me the Navajo word. We would both repeat the new word. Little by little I learned enough Navajo, and he learned enough English for us to communicate.
We gradually got to know him. We found out that his name was Peter Wolley. The name had been given to him when he served in the army during World War II. After a number of visits, we began to teach him the gospel. I felt the influence of the Spirit very strongly as we talked. My Navajo was not fluent, yet at times I felt inspired to use certain Navajo words that I didn’t think I knew. Even though I couldn’t communicate clearly, he seemed to know the truth of the things I was telling him.
He was a very traditional Navajo, and he taught us many of the Navajo ways. I learned not to be so inquisitive, because this is considered bad form in the Navajo culture. When I stopped asking questions, and when the mood suited him, he would tell us about his life. He took us out to the river and his other favorite places. He showed us foxholes and where the coyotes had been. He taught us to herd sheep. He showed us how he built the tall, black-robed figures that had ended our first visit. They were not designed to terrify sister missionaries but to frighten away coyotes that might harm his flock.
He loved his sheep and would take them miles each day in search of the best grass. He took the lambs inside with him when the nights were cold. He was a very caring man.
He knew his sheep. He knew their names and he knew each of their ways. One day when we were searching for him and his flock, we saw one of his sheep separated from the rest.
When we found the flock, I said, “Peter, one of your sheep is lost. We saw it over on the other side of the mesa.”
He seemed remarkably calm about the news and said, “Oh I know. That’s Box. He’s the old one. He doesn’t have any teeth. He’s all right.” I was amazed. He knew all about that one particular sheep even though it was out of sight. Peter saw my surprise and smiled. He didn’t have any more teeth than Box.
I knew that I had really earned his trust when he began calling me his “tall white friend.” For a Navajo to address you as “my friend,” instead of by your name is a big compliment. The “tall white” part reflected my five-foot-ten stature and light blonde hair.
One time we made him a placemat. It was a piece of paper with the four steps of prayer on it. We had it laminated, and he kept it on his little table. He loved that little placemat, and I think it was because he loved prayer. He had plenty of time to pray while he watched his sheep.
We taught Peter for seven months before I was transferred. Some Navajo elders then taught him in his own language. He asked them, “Where is my tall blonde friend?” He was receptive to their teachings and joined the Church. I am proud to have helped open the door for my good friend to receive the gospel.
Peter couldn’t go to church very often because there was no one to stay with the sheep. He lived 60 miles away from a church and had no truck. He couldn’t walk that far, and few could go the 120 miles round trip over rough country both to pick him up and to take him home. But I didn’t worry too much about him because Peter was a good man who lived a good life. I knew that his Heavenly Father knew where he was just as surely as Peter knew where to find old Box. Even alone on top of his distant mesa, he was within the fold.
I think of Peter as my teacher. He taught me most of the Navajo I know. He taught me about sheep and coyotes and patience and silence and pasture in barren places. Better still, he taught me about good shepherds who love and know each sheep, even the old one with no teeth who is seemingly lost and far from the rest of the flock.

In the spring of 1970, our priest had announced that we would be selling our school to the Mormons. “You Chileans think that the Catholic Church is the only religion,” he said.
I thought, “Of course, what else?”
Our priest continued, “All of you will write a report on The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Since the LDS mission office was only two blocks from our home, I went there to find information for my school project. When I got home, I looked at the pretty pamphlets about the Church and at the Book of Mormon. My copy of the book contained Moroni’s special promise right on the first page:
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moro. 10:4–5).
When I read that promise, I received a spiritual witness that those words were true and that the Book of Mormon was true. But I was fifteen and not ready to be “religious,” so I decided not to do anything specific about my feelings. My interest had been stirred, though, and I earned the best grade in the class with my report on the Mormons.

Leticia Molina, 12, remembers with gratitude, “Once when we lived in another town we were very poor. The day finally came when we had only 35 centavos (about 3 cents U.S.) among us. There were nine of us, so that was the same as nothing at all. It was Sunday, and we were walking down the street together wondering what to do when we saw a beggar on the corner. My father reached into his pocket and gave the 35 centavos to the beggar so that someone at least could have a little something to eat, and we walked on together without anything. A few blocks later we were crossing a street when one of us saw some bills lying in the gutter. There were 35 pesos, and that gave us enough for something to eat for a few days till my father could get some more money.”

Among the early converts in Kenya were two brothers, Benson and Nickson Kasue. When Benson was about eighteen years old, he was introduced to the gospel by the Dennis Childs family of the United States. Brother Childs was a veterinarian on a research project in Kenya and hired Benson to work for him. A warm friendship ensued, and Benson became interested in the Church. He then introduced his brother to the gospel. When the first missionaries came to Kenya, the brothers studied with them and requested baptism. But “it looked like that was never going to happen,” he says, “because the Church had been denied registration in our country. I waited for about four years. I did everything I could do, but I wasn’t baptized. I thought maybe God was testing me. I prayed and fasted, and prayed and fasted.”

Because the Church was denied official recognition, special permission was required from government authorities before anyone could be baptized. In 1985, approval was given for private baptisms in homes, and the Kasue brothers were finally baptized. In 1986 Benson and Nickson became the first Kenyans to serve full-time missions—Benson in California and Nickson in Washington, D.C.

After their missions, both Benson and Nickson married in the temple and continued sharing the gospel. Among those they introduced to the Church was their older brother, Julius. After four years of investigation, Julius joined the Church and moved back to his village of Chyulu, a rural area about 250 kilometers southeast of Nairobi, Kenya. Julius and his wife, Sabina, became the nucleus of a branch there. The experience of the Chyulu Saints is representative of the faith found among the new congregations being established throughout Africa.

My friend Cathy hadn’t been to school for several days, so I called her mom and found out that she was in the hospital being tested for mononucleosis. I went to see how she was doing and to give her a hard time about having the so-called “kissing disease.”

When I arrived at the hospital, she was sitting up in bed quietly. I asked if she had mono, and who she’d been kissing.

“I don’t have mono,” she said. “It’s leukemia.”

I was speechless. It couldn’t be true—not Cathy. I immediately tried to think of some way to make this all better. Then a thought occurred to me.

“You got your patriarchal blessing, right? Does it say that you will be married and have children?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” I concluded, “you’ll be okay.”

“I hope so,” she said. “But sometimes our blessings are for the next world as well.”

The next? I didn’t want to hear anything about the next world. She was living in this world, and I wanted it to stay that way. We hugged and cried, and finally I had to go.

Over the following several months Cathy went through chemotherapy. She lost all her hair. The lining of her mouth became so raw that it was painful for her to eat. She was nauseated all the time. Her immune system was weak, so she was susceptible to infection. Anyone who went into her room had to put on a hospital gown, gloves, and a mask.

I visited her almost every day. She was usually too sick to talk, so I just sat with her. Through all this she remained at peace with Heavenly Father. She said she had faith in His plan for her.

To me it was simple. Faith precedes the miracle. Cathy had great faith. I had faith in her faith. Her being healed was just a matter of time.

Eventually Cathy was able to come back to school. She wore a bandana and had planned to wear a wig until her hair grew back. But when her hair started to sprout, it was really itchy, and she couldn’t stand to wear a wig. A good friend of hers shaved his head as a show of support.

Cathy jumped right into her classes. She even started marching with the pep club and spending time with her friends. For me, it was a relief when things seemed back to normal. Toward the end of the school year she ran for a student body office and won.

I was so happy to have my friend back. Everything was just like it had been before the cancer. Her faith had worked, and she was healed—or so I thought.

Around Christmas, Cathy started to get sick again. She went back into the hospital for another round of chemo, but this time it was different. When I went to visit, she was weaker. Her body had already been through so much that she just didn’t have any strength. I think she knew that she didn’t have much time left on earth because she was quietly saying good-bye. I was devastated.

My friend Cathy died shortly after her 18th birthday. No one had more faith in Heavenly Father’s ability to heal than she did. So why had she died? What was faith good for if people like Cathy still died? I didn’t understand.

Slowly it dawned on me. I might not understand, but I knew that Cathy did. Her faith allowed her to have peace as she trusted in Heavenly Father’s plan for her. Sometimes we think that if only we have enough faith, our problems will be taken away. But because of Cathy I learned that faith is what helps us accept Heavenly Father’s plan. Then we can say, “Thy will be done,” and really mean it.

Two ministering brothers felt a strong prompting to visit a man who has not been regular in church. As they resisted this prompting, it became stronger until they decided to follow the impression to visit the man in his home. On getting there, they knocked for several minutes without any response from the man. They thought that the man was not home and wondered if they should leave. Thankfully, they tarried a while and decided to knock again. This brother finally decided to open the door. On entering the room, they noticed the man was considering extreme self-harm. Those thoughts were immediately negated by the brethren as they were able to share the Savior’s love with him. Because they were mindful of their fellow man, they were able to hold up the Savior’s light, as instructed in 3 Nephi 18:24: “Hold up your light that it may shine unto to world. Behold I am the light which ye shall hold up”.

This story took place in Scotland.
Shiloh finished coloring her drawing and put her crayon down on her desk. “There!”
“What’s that?” her friend Lacey asked.
“It’s the cake I’m making for the school contest.” Shiloh held up the picture for Lacey to see.
“It looks really cool!” Lacey said.
“Thanks!” Shiloh grinned. Her cake was going to be perfect. She had it all planned out. The cake would have four layers. Two layers would be blue, and two would be red—the same colors as the flag for the United Kingdom. She’d put white frosting between each layer. Finally, she would put her best homemade cookies on top! She was sure she’d get first place.
“What are you going to bake?” Shiloh asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” Lacey said. “Maybe a cake too.”
“I can’t wait to see what you make,” Shiloh said.
As soon as she got home, Shiloh was ready to start baking. She put her cake drawing on the counter so she could look at it while she worked.
Shiloh carefully measured all the ingredients. She mixed them up and poured the batter into the cake pan. Then she put the pan in the oven to bake the first cake layer.
When the timer went off, Shiloh took the cake out of the oven. She tried to take the cake out of the pan. But when she flipped it over, half of the cake was stuck to the bottom!
“Oh no!” Shiloh cried. She showed the broken cake to Mum. “My cake is ruined!”
Mum patted Shiloh’s back. “It’s OK. We can fix it.”
Mum helped Shiloh take out the rest of the cake. They carefully pushed the broken pieces together.
“There,” Mum said. “You can’t even tell it broke.”
Shiloh felt a little better. She could still make the rest of the cake look perfect. She started making the next layer. This time, Shiloh let the cake cool before taking it out of the pan. It didn’t break!
When all the layers of cake were done, Shiloh stacked them. She put frosting between each layer. Then she carefully placed a few homemade cookies on the top of the cake. Done!
But Shiloh frowned. The cake didn’t look anything like her drawing. The frosting was dripping off, the layers were crooked, and the whole cake leaned to one side. What a mess! Shiloh started to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Mum asked.
“I wanted the cake to look perfect! Now it’s all gone wrong!” Shiloh wiped a tear from her face.
Mum gave Shiloh a hug. “I think your cake looks pretty. And I bet it will taste even better!”
Shiloh shook her head. “I should just throw it away. I’m going to get last place now!”
“Would it help if I said a prayer?” Mum asked.
Shiloh nodded.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” Mum said, “I’m so grateful for Shiloh and for all her hard work to make this cake. Please help her feel happy with what she has been able to do. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Shiloh felt calmer. She looked at her cake again. Maybe it didn’t look just like her drawing, but it still looked OK. And she’d had fun making it.
The next day at school, Shiloh looked around at all the other desserts kids had made. She didn’t think she would get a prize. The other cakes looked amazing.
But when the winners were announced, Shiloh got second place! And Lacey got first place!
Lacey ran to Shiloh and gave her a hug. “We both won!”
Shiloh smiled. Even if she hadn’t won, she would be glad she had kept trying.
Illustrations by Maryssa Dennis