Gospel Story Finder

Two young women in this seminary class, both 16, are named Brigitta. “From my classmate, Seres Brigitta, I heard about the Church for the first time,” says Bozó Brigitta.
“I began attending sacrament meeting and made a lot of friends here. So when youth conference came, I naturally thought I needed to go. At the conference, I felt for the first time that I needed to belong to this Church. I was baptized a week later.” Two months after Brigitta’s own baptism, her mother and her 15-year-old brother, László, were baptized. (Her father had died six years earlier.) “Now the three of us—our whole family—are members of the Church. It is wonderful!”
“At first I thought just my friend would be baptized,” says her classmate Seres Brigitta. “I was amazed that her family also joined the Church.”

Anna sat quietly in the backseat of the van next to her older sister, Sara. It was taking a long time to get to the family reunion. Anna watched the canyon trees fly by, and every now and then she spotted a silvery mountain stream snaking its way down the hill. The sky was as blue as Anna’s eyes, and the clouds looked like white puffs of popcorn.
“Are we almost there?” she said, knowing it hadn’t been long since the last time she had asked.
Mom shook her head and pointed out the window. “We have to go over this mountain, and then you’ll see the lake. About another hour, I’d guess.”
Anna sighed. It was hard to sit still and wait when they’d been planning for months to come to the reunion. All her favorite cousins would be there, and so would dozens of others whom she didn’t know at all. Mom said there were relatives coming from New York, California, and even Hawaii! Suddenly Anna’s three-hour drive didn’t seem so long.
“There’s the lake!” Sara shouted. Anna strained her neck to look. Beautiful Bear Lake stretched out before them like a bright blue carpet. From the mountaintop, sailboats and motorboats looked like tiny toys on the surface.
“When your great-great-grandparents got married in the Logan Temple,” Dad said, “they came down this same road in a wagon. Great-Great-Grandpa looked out at Bear Lake and said, ‘Let’s take a swim before we go home.’ And even though it was early June and the water was freezing cold, they waded in at the north beach and had a nice brisk swim!”
Anna loved that story, even though Dad told it every time they came over this hill. Mom said one of the aunts was bringing 95-year-old Great-Great-Grandma to the reunion and that this might be the last time they were all together.
Finally the houses and farms started looking familiar, and Anna didn’t have to ask if they were almost there. Just past Great-Great-Grandma’s white frame farmhouse, Dad turned onto a dirt road and drove to the community center. It had once been an old church with hardwood floors and wooden benches, but now it was just a place for large groups to gather.
Anna spied Aunt Laura’s car and wriggled out of her seatbelt to go find her cousins. People were spilling out of the doors on all sides of the old church, and there were games set up on the lawn outside. Mom and Dad were already hugging people and talking excitedly. Even Sara had spotted one of her pen-pal cousins and was running to meet her.
It wasn’t long before Mom and Dad were calling Anna and Sara to “come meet someone.” Anna tried her best to smile and be polite. One after another, she shook hands with and hugged cousins, uncles, and aunts until their faces and names were a blur. Over and over again, she heard, “Why, Anna, you look just like Great-Great-Grandma! You two could be twins!”
What? Anna couldn’t believe it. Even Mom and Dad were nodding their heads in agreement. She glanced over at a shady spot under a cottonwood tree where an old, feeble, white-haired lady sat in a lawn chair—it was Great-Great-Grandma! Twins? No way!
Someone came out on the steps of the old building and began loudly ringing a handbell. “Calling all the family of Heber and Lizzie Nelson! Time for lunch! Come on in!”
Long tables and folding chairs were set up inside, along with rows and rows of food. Anna slid onto a chair beside Sara. “Sara,” she whispered, “why does everyone say I look like Great-Great-Grandma?”
Sara shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably because you look like Mom, and Mom looks like her mom, and she looks like her mom. …”
It was true. Anna did have big blue eyes and reddish-brown hair, just like Mom. But they certainly weren’t twins!
Great-Great-Grandma was walking slowly to her seat at the head of one of the tables. Mom was helping her, and Anna stared again at the old, wrinkled face and snow-white hair. “I do not look like her,” she whispered as she folded her arms for the prayer and blessing on the food.
The man who prayed thanked Heavenly Father for the wonderful legacy of Heber and Lizzie Nelson, and the blessing of having dear, sweet, Great-Great-Grandma with them at the reunion. He gave thanks for her testimony, her gentle nature, her willingness to be an example to everyone she met, and for her beautiful spirit. By the end of the prayer, most of the adults were crying. It was clear that Great-Great-Grandma was well loved in this big family.
As Anna munched her chicken and potato salad, she again heard someone say, “Did you see little Anna? She’s the mirror-image of Great-Great-Grandma!”
Mom saw Anna frown. She stood up and held out her hand. “Come here, Anna. I want to show you something special.”
Anna slowly put down her fork and followed Mom over to a large display table by the wall. On it were an old saddle and branding iron that had belonged to Great-Great-Grandpa, the lunch bell that had come across the ocean with the first Nelsons, heirloom quilts, and lots and lots of family pictures. Mom pointed to one picture in a pretty silver frame. The photo had originally been black and white, but it had been colored by a professional photographer. Anna looked at it with wide eyes. “Why is my picture here, Mom?”
Mom smiled and hugged Anna. “That’s not you, honey. That’s Great-Great-Grandma. She’s seven years old in that picture, just like you.”
Anna’s mouth dropped open. There were Anna’s blue eyes, Anna’s reddish-brown curls, even Anna’s dimples. The little girl was even missing a front tooth, just like Anna!
“Wow!” Anna exclaimed. “She really does look like me!”
Mom laughed, leaned down, and whispered, “I hope you grow up to be like her inside, too.”
Anna turned around and saw Great-Great-Grandma. She hurried past aunts, uncles, and cousins until she was standing in front of the little white-haired lady. Great-Great-Grandma smiled, and Anna saw the dimples so much like her own. “I’m glad I came to the reunion, Anna,” the lady said in a soft, gentle voice, “just so I could see you.”
“Me, too, Great-Great-Grandma,” Anna said, hugging her tightly. “Me, too.”

Elder Bangerter of the Seventy spoke about how small and simple things can make a big difference in our lives. His family goes camping each year. They hold a devotional and ask their children and grandchildren to share a message about Jesus Christ. This year, the grandchildren wrote the topics of their messages on stones. Then they buried the stones. This reminded them that following Christ creates a foundation for a happy life.

The first assignment in my sophomore English class was to bring “a signature item” the following Wednesday. “A what?” the class chorused. “A signature item,” the teacher explained, “is something that represents who you are.”
Uh oh, I thought. Something deep—what if I don’t know who I am?
Within my heart lay a desire to live a life that would matter. I wanted to make a positive impact and to know that my life was not lived in vain. Something within me told me that this was possible but did not say how. My confidence was lacking, and I was unsure how I, of all people, could do it.
Since I was originally from Utah, people often asked me if I was a Mormon. Each time, I would answer in a different way: “I don’t know.” “I was baptized, but I don’t go to church.” “No, but I should be.”
For some reason, I felt a responsibility to God to be a Mormon. But it didn’t make sense because I didn’t quite believe in God. At times, I would look out at the starry night and feel strangely alone, yet not alone. The universe filled me with a sense of longing and inexplicable familiarity. When I overheard people talk of how many wonderful blessings they had received from God, I listened with stoic nonchalance. Yet I had wonderful dreams, dreams of courage and honor.
My oldest sister, Lark, was the only active member of the Church in our family. When she moved to Seattle, Washington, with her new husband, Tim, they invited me to attend church with them in the ward they would be moving into, a half hour’s drive away. It was something she wanted me to do, and I somehow knew it was something I was supposed to do. So I decided to go.
With my life fluctuating and with the decision of who I would become hovering before me, I plunged into high school. I recognized that I had a slate wiped almost completely clean. The teachers didn’t know me. Neither did most of the students. The opportunity was excellent for me to redefine who I was, both to others and to myself. I had mixed emotions about popularity, but thought I might have an outside chance at it if I played my cards with precision. This was when the signature item was assigned.
Needless to say, I had not come up with a signature item on Monday. Nor had I come up with anything before going to the weekly Tuesday night youth activity in my sister’s ward. She made some suggestions on the way to the meetinghouse, but none of them satisfied me.
The events of the combined activity had been kept secret, so it was with curiosity that I viewed the cultural hall after my arrival. My first glance revealed tables that appeared to be set for dinner. A second look revealed that there was no food on the tables. Instead of plates containing physical food, there were copies of the Book of Mormon containing spiritual food; instead of eating utensils, there were writing utensils; and instead of napkins, there were sheets of paper. As I took a seat, my attention was captured by this riddle that had been set before me.
Two missionaries were the central speakers. Each bore his testimony of how he came to learn that the Book of Mormon was, indeed, the word of God.
When they turned our attention to a video which told the story of Christ’s visit to the righteous Nephites and Lamanites after his resurrection, an incredible feeling came over me. The way Nephi described the situation then is also an apt description of how I felt: “And it was not a harsh voice, neither was it a loud voice; nevertheless, and notwithstanding it being a small voice it did pierce them … to the center, insomuch that there was no part of their frame that it did not cause to quake; yea, it did pierce them to the very soul, and did cause their hearts to burn” (3 Ne. 11:3). Pure knowledge of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon entered my soul that night, leaving a mark that would affect me eternally.
As Lark and Tim drove me home, I mentally went through my homework checklist. First period, algebra, done. Second period … Sixth period, English, signature item—uh, oh. What could I take?
In a still, small voice, the Spirit whispered, “The Book of Mormon.” I instantly recognized that it was not my physical ears that had heard this statement. This was the first time I had felt the Spirit with such distinction and clarity.
“Cool!” I stated with outright enthusiasm.
“What?” Lark said as she looked over her shoulder.
In awe, I explained, “I think the Book of Mormon should be my signature item.”
A smile spread quickly across her face, and she said, “Oh, that sounds great, but it will be really hard.”
That realization dampened my enthusiasm considerably. There goes my clean slate, I thought ruefully. Would I be giving up popularity and the chance of making friends in my high school life? Sensing my hesitation, Lark suggested that I pray about it before going to bed. The idea appealed to me, so I agreed. I thanked her for taking me home and went inside my house.
I placed the Book of Mormon with my school books. Then kneeling, I prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, are you sure this is what you want me to do?” The answer I felt was an immediate yes, accompanied by the assurance of the Spirit. “Will you help me?” I asked. Another strong positive feeling calmed my nerves. Reassured, I went to sleep.
As my sixth-period English class approached, I grew more uncertain. The teacher gave instructions to the class. We were to state our name, what our signature item was, and why it was our signature item. The first two requirements I had down pat, but for some reason, I hadn’t thought about the third. I knew what my signature item was; I didn’t know why it was my signature item.
When the call for volunteers was made, one girl from the front row stood up and shared her signature item. Then the girl next to her stood up and took her turn. A pattern started developing in the order of volunteers. The third person on the front row stood to share her item. After that, the pattern was set. To the class, it was probably just an amusing way of alleviating the uncertainty and pressures of being called to the front of the room. But it meant that I would be the final person to share his signature item.
When my turn came, I slowly walked to the front of the room. I hadn’t written a speech or even made a mental outline of what I would say. I began with, “My name is Derek Tucker, and this is my signature item. It is the Book of Mormon.” From that time until I finished speaking, I felt the Spirit guiding my words. To this day I am not really sure what I said.
After I finished, I braced myself for a verbal assault. But to my amazement and gratitude, there was silence. What truly took me by surprise, however, were the facial expressions of the students. About one-third of the class had tears in their eyes. Others had stoic expressions. And still others were nervously looking away. Though not everyone may have felt comfortable about the subject, there seemed to be an atmosphere of respect.
I turned to walk back to my seat when suddenly my attention was turned to the teacher, whose face was streaming with tears. She whispered in a choked up voice, “That’s a strong testament.” I was stunned; time slowed as the statement penetrated my heart. I said, “Thank you,” and then walked back to my desk.
The Book of Mormon was now emblazoned upon my formerly clean slate, never to be erased. I had put my trust in the Lord, and he had helped me. I now knew who I was—a precious son of Heavenly Father. And I knew that by being his servant my life would have meaning and value.

Recently I heard of an excommunicated man who stormed out of his Church court bitter and unrepentant. Many of us, if we had participated in that court, might have said, “Well good, he’ll have time to make his peace”; and others might even have thought, “Good riddance.” But one of the high councilors present spent three evenings a week for the next several years visiting this man until, mellowed, repentant, and regenerated, he was reinstated in the Church.
“Nothing is so much calculated to lead people to forsake their sin as to take them by the hand, and watch over them with tenderness.”

Of course, we need a job and income to live, but I was beginning to feel emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausted. That’s when my bishop told me about Sister Tararaina Mana, a service missionary and career coach in our ward. He said I could meet with her if I wished. I was immediately interested. I was at a turning point and no longer knew what to do.
On Sunday, 2 June 2024, I had my first coaching session with her. That first meeting was very different from what I expected. I thought it would be like school orientation where you pick a career based on your degrees, but it was so much more! For the first time, someone asked me questions that were truly about me. Beyond my academic background, my coach focused on my needs, my expectations—simply put, on me.
We started exercises that I didn’t quite understand at first. We began with my “Whys.” Thanks to that exercise, I started thinking deeply about my goals and my life vision. I rediscovered myself. I learned to listen to myself, to know myself, to trust myself. I realized I had forgotten who I was. I had let myself be consumed by temporal needs and society’s expectations.
Society imposes a model on us: studies, diploma, great job, house, car, then family. It sounds simple, tut reality is much harsher. Fear, doubt, and anxiety about basic needs had taken over my spiritual growth.
Today, the difference between who I was then and who I am now is immense. From September 2024 to April 2025, I took various small jobs to cover basic expenses while coaching gave me motivation and taught me discipline. I wanted to create professional opportunities for myself, so I registered for three different exams: prison guard, professional tourism qualification, and a SEFI (a local employment agency) training program.
Thanks to my faith in God, my perseverance, and my coaching sessions, I now hold a professional qualification in tourism. I passed the entry exams for the prison guard role, and I’m currently enrolled in "Business Creator and Manager" training, an intensive three-month program. Opportunities are opening up for me!
On a personal level, I’m now reflecting on finding my eternal companion, someone to build my eternal family with. Putting Christ at the centre of my life has become a clear and natural choice.
Coaching has had a powerful impact on my life. Without those regular sessions, I would still be lost—trapped in fear, doubt, and lack of self-confidence. Today, I know what I want. I’m ready to move forward. And I can finally say that I’m proud of myself and the path I’ve walked, even though it’s been filled with trials.
With the Lord by my side and inspiring people like my coach, I know where I’m headed. I can’t wait to have the ideal job so I can, in turn, give back and thank those who supported me when I had nothing. That truly means a lot to me.

I was born to a good Catholic family in 1949 on the Mediterranean island of Sardinia. There, I was given a Christian education and attended church regularly.
The people of Sardinia have always been quite independent, so it is not surprising that, despite being governed by Italy, they have kept their native tongue as their only language. Consequently, as I grew up, I spoke only Sardic, a language similar to Latin, until I started school at age six.
At school, however, all of our communication was in Italian. This new language fascinated me, and I tried hard to learn it. I was disadvantaged, however, because no one in my family had any books in Italian. All I had were my school books.
Other than having this unusual interest in Italian, I was a typical boy. After school, my five friends and I would play in town. One day we went to the city dump to look for bicycle parts. When we left the dump, we showed each other our “treasures.” I had found a steering wheel, and my friend Franziskeddo wanted it. He offered me in exchange an Italian book he had found. I immediately agreed, although the book was missing the cover and some of the first pages. I was very excited. Finally I had my first book in Italian—in fact my first book ever!
When I started to read it, I discovered religious stories of men I had never heard of—Lehi, Nephi, Alma, Helaman, Moroni. Though I knew nothing of the book’s origin, I had a good and safe feeling whenever I read it. By my 16th year, I had read the book at least 10 times, still without knowing its name. Then, about this time, I left Sardinia and settled in Italy. I eventually lost the book, but the stories and teachings stayed in my memory.
Years later, sometime in the 1970s, I moved to Germany and found a job in Hagen at a sugar-machine factory. One day an engineer with the company returned from a business trip to the United States. He brought with him a book in German titled Das Buch Mormon. Knowing I was interested in religion, he loaned it to me. Unfortunately, my language skills in German were not very good, and I understood very little of what I read—though somehow it seemed familiar.
A few years later, two young men came to my door in Hagen. They introduced themselves as missionaries and asked for a little time to introduce their church—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I listened as they told the story of Joseph Smith. At the end of the hour, they gave me a book and asked me to read it. It was a copy of the Book of Mormon.
I immediately liked what I read, beginning with the first verse: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents … “I felt that the book was speaking to me, for I, too, had goodly parents.
As I continued to read, memories flooded into my mind. This was something I had read before! I marvelled at the miracle that had brought into my hands the book I had read so eagerly as a child. With the memories also came the same good, comfortable feeling I had always had while reading the book in my youth. The Lord’s hand in this situation was clear to me, and I found it easy to accept that this book was truly holy scripture and that the church of God was again on the earth. I soon became a member of his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I wonder who it was who threw that torn copy of the Book of Mormon on a trash dump in Sardinia in 1955. I would like to thank that person for introducing me to the treasures of Christ’s gospel.

Illustrations by David Curtis
When I was 16, I attended high school at a technical school in order to earn an associate’s degree in electronics. As a requirement for my degree, I had to complete a 30-day internship at a local business to show my technical skills.
My internship was with a paper goods company. My desire to serve a full-time mission had begun to grow, and this job would help me earn enough money to go. But there were three of us interns, and the company would only select one of us for a full-time position.
The company had a machine that had failed. When the machine was working properly, it could complete as much work as three similar machines. This piece of equipment hadn’t been working for quite some time, and the company had ordered replacement parts from abroad to activate it—but it still didn’t work. I accepted the challenge to try to fix it.
Day after day, I spent hours studying the machine. But it was complicated, and it wouldn’t be easy to determine in just 30 days why it had failed, especially for someone as inexperienced as I was. However, I felt I could do it. Each morning before work, I read articles from the Liahona magazine and prayed to my Father in Heaven. I also struck up a friendship with my boss, an experienced electrical engineer, who obtained permission for me to take home copies of the blueprints on the weekends. I studied them intently.
As the internship drew to an end, my two colleagues finished their assigned projects and I felt the pressure growing. But in spite of negative (and even mocking) comments around me, I never doubted. The Friday that marked the end of our internships arrived quickly. Though I had resolved some of the issues, the machine still wasn’t working. I felt confident that I was close to fixing it, so I told my boss that if I could have permission to work on Saturday, the machine would be fixed by Monday.
My words astonished my boss so much that he personally requested permission from the president of the company. My boss then informed me that the next day, all three of us—the president of the company, my boss, and I—would be working, just until noon. “All three?” I asked. He explained that the company president, an electronics engineer, was interested in my proposal because there had been so many failed efforts to repair the machine that he had given up on repairing it.
The next day, I was very intimidated to be working alongside two adult engineers. I was young and lacked expertise. However, they offered to work as my assistants; I felt uncomfortable and, at the same time, very privileged.
It was just minutes before noon when the president and my boss realized that our efforts had been a waste. I excused myself and went into the bathroom. I knelt down, praying to my Father with great fervor. I felt an unexplainable, marvelous strength. I asked Him to help me get the job because I would need it to help me pay for my mission.
I came out of the bathroom electrified; but by that time, my assistants had already closed up the circuit compartments and gathered up the tools. I opened the machine back up and looked carefully at the 15 circuit cards inside. I noticed that one simple pin among over 4,000 pins in the system was not connected to the card. I connected it, put it in place, and turned on the machine. It worked! It was a miracle.
It was an unforgettable and touching moment. My boss hugged me, and the company president shook my hand and congratulated me energetically.
I was able to work for that company for nearly two years, save up the money I needed, and leave on my long-awaited mission. When I explained the reason for my departure, the president of the company bid me farewell and said, “You already know where to come back to work after you finish your mission. I wish you much success.”
This experience showed me that nothing is impossible for God. If we do not doubt, miracles will be made manifest, but only after the trial of our faith—even at the last moment. Yes, miracles do occur.

Recently I was telephoned by a close friend who told me his father had died. I expressed my sympathy and asked when the funeral would be. When he told me I looked at my calendar and said, “I would love to be at the funeral to honor your great father and to express my love and sympathy to your mother. But I am getting ready to leave town on an assignment, and I will be extremely busy that day.” He said, “Well, we talked about that and thought that your schedule would be too busy to ask you to speak, but father had suggested if you were available you might do it.” It is interesting how suddenly everything on my calendar could be adjusted. I said, “You tell your mother I will be there.” After the funeral I received a letter. I will only share a paragraph.
“The last few months my husband knew his time was limited here on this earth. One day when we were talking about funeral arrangements, I asked him who he would like to have speak at his service. He said, ‘I surely would like to have Brother Featherstone, but I know that as busy as he is that isn’t possible.’ Then he went on to mention some other good men. When I learned of your coming to speak, I shed many tears of joy. I just couldn’t believe with all your many duties and responsibilities that you would come.”
Then I realized what this service on my part meant to her. She closed with, “I wonder how the Lord can be so good to me.”
Now you and I both understand it was not having Vaughn Featherstone speak but rather a dying husband’s wish granted that filled her with this great love for the Lord.

A son wrote a tender letter to his parents in the mission field: “Your service sets an example for our children. As a result, they are more willing to serve in their callings in the Church. It teaches us all to be more charitable as we exchange letters and send packages. When we receive letters and news from you, it strengthens our testimonies. Even though you retired from your profession and should have been happy by all the world’s standards, by going on your mission you have shown us a new way to be happy. You have found happiness money can’t buy. We have seen you overcome medical and other types of adversities and have seen you blessed for your willingness to go and leave your children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. We love you dearly!”
Another couple reports: “One of our grandsons wrote to us while we were in Thailand and told us that he hadn’t decided for sure that he wanted to fill a mission, but we had set the example for him and now he knew he wanted to serve. He is now serving a mission.”
My own father and mother served a mission in England. As I visited them one day in their small flat, I watched my mother, with a shawl wrapped snugly around her shoulders, putting shillings in the gas meter to keep warm. I asked, “Why did you come on a mission, Mother?” Mother said simply, “Because I have 11 grandsons. I want them to know that Grandma and Grandpa served.”

Carolina Caetano began coming to Young Women class when her parents returned to church after years of inactivity. Although she had enjoyed Primary as a child, Carolina had never been baptized and was now unfamiliar with the Church and its members. “When you come back, you feel really shy because you don’t know anyone anymore. So at first I didn’t go much,” she says.
But soon the missionaries and Sister Pimentel began to visit Carolina’s home to teach her the gospel. “Whenever [Sister Pimentel] prepared a lesson, she came to my house to explain it to me. And she always helped me read the Book of Mormon,” says Carolina.
Carolina also started making friends. “The thing that helped me come back the most and what helped me want to get baptized was the strong friendships I made here. The girls were always around me, always calling me to say, ‘Hey, come to the activities. Come this Sunday.’ They were always reminding me.”
“Every convert deserves a responsibility. … Of course the new convert will not know everything. He likely will make some mistakes. So what? … The important thing is the growth that will come” (Liahona, July 1999, 122).
Like Carolina, 16-year-old Katarina Echaniz quickly made friends after being introduced to the Church by a ward member. Through the missionary discussions and her friends’ example, she also quickly gained a testimony. Shortly after her baptism, she was called to the Mia Maid presidency. “I felt responsible because there were girls depending on me to do my calling,” she says. “I wanted to do everything well.” Katarina says the assignment has helped keep her strong in the gospel.
“I am making a plea for us to reach out to our brethren and sisters who have known the beauty and the wonder of this restored gospel for a brief season and then for some reason have left it. …
“If [members] respond to this challenge, I honestly believe that they will taste the sweet and wonderful feeling which comes of being an instrument in the hands of the Lord in leading someone back into activity in His Church and kingdom” (“Becoming a Better Home Teacher or Visiting Teacher,” Liahona, September 1998, 37).
From the first time she came to church, 16-year-old Moema Duberley loved it. “The girls were very receptive and tried to help me get to know everybody,” she says. “It made me feel like the Church was my second home.”
But it became difficult for Moema to come to church when her mother stopped attending a few months after their baptism. Partly because of her calling but mostly because of their friendship, Katarina began calling Moema.
“Sometimes I felt like I was bothering Moema,” says Katarina, “but I kept trying because I felt it was important, and I knew God was going to help because I was also praying.”
After months of Katarina’s and other girls’ fellowshipping, Moema returned to full activity. “I came back because I was missing everything I had been learning at church and my relationship with God and the members.”
Now Moema and Katarina share a special bond. “I’m really grateful because I needed a friend when I was less active,” says Moema. “I’m very thankful for Katarina being like this for me. When you spend time away from the Church, you begin to feel that maybe you won’t be accepted. But when people call, it feels good to know you’re not forgotten.”
As for Katarina, “I feel really happy and thankful that Moema came back,” she says. “And it worked! I prayed and it worked.”
“Every convert is a son or daughter of God. Every convert is a great and serious responsibility. It is an absolute imperative that we look after those who have become a part of us” (Liahona, July 1999, 122).
Their seminary friends helped recent converts Daniele Ramalno, age 14, and Pamela Silva, age 16, after they moved into the ward.
“When we’re around nonmembers, some guys will start making fun of us. But the boys from seminary always look after us and treat us nice,” says Daniele. “They encourage us, too.”
“They are very good friends to me,” says Pamela. “They always give us rides to seminary and to activities.”
“It is our obligation to reach out in helpfulness, not only to our own but to all others as well” (“Thanks to the Lord for His Blessings,” Liahona, July 1999, 105).
Not only are the young women of the Botafogo Ward helping each other, they also continue to reach out to others who are not yet active, as well as to members of their community. Whether they are serving in a city park or a shelter for homeless teens, whether they are writing cards to or calling less-active girls, whether they are talking with each other or standing together as they repeat the Young Women theme—there is a singular bond among these girls as they strive to be living examples of the prophet’s words.
“You young men and young women, … I plead with every one of you … to find out about the converts to the Church and put your arms around them and make friends of them. … Please, please, reach out to every convert in the Church and help him or her to become established in the faith” (meeting, Guadalajara, México, 10 March 1998).

One day at recess my friends and I were picking flowers off a tree. Some girls came up to us and told us we weren’t supposed to pick the flowers. We stopped picking the flowers and walked away. I told my friends we should tell the truth. We told a teacher that we had been picking the flowers for our teacher. The teacher said we could pick the flowers as long as we didn’t pull on the branches. I’m glad I told the truth.

Possibly the most common miracle expressed is that of inspiration. One young brother recently bore a testimony of how inspiration had blessed his family: “I was coming back from a trip to Yellowstone Park with my dad and grandpa, and we stopped at a service station to get some gas and to stretch our legs. Grandpa is getting pretty old, and his eyes are very bad. He went into the station, and when he came back he walked right through a glass door. He thought it was open. It cut a deep gash in his arm. I tried to stop the bleeding while we rushed him to the hospital.
“After we got there, Dad suggested that I ask the nurse if there were any Mormon elders around; he wanted assistance in giving Grandpa a blessing. She was telling me she didn’t know any Mormons when a man stepped up and said, ‘I’m a high priest. I can help.’
“After he and Dad had given the blessing he started to leave the hospital, but I stopped him. ‘I hope we didn’t make you miss seeing someone here,’ I said.
“‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t know anyone here.’
“‘Then why did you come in the first place?’
“‘I was driving through the neighborhood and I just got the feeling that I was needed here.’”

Then a Brother Vance rose from his seat in the congregation. A large, strong, grandfatherly man who worked well with his hands, he related his thankfulness to the Lord for the growth of some lilac bushes that were most precious to his wife.
The bushes had grown so tall they blocked the sunlight to the Vances’ tiny home. Brother Vance told his wife he had to cut the bushes back to ground level and move the roots to a new location. She vigorously protested his decision, afraid the bushes would not survive. But he felt it was necessary.
He told of the painful but loving task of pruning the bushes, preparing the soil in the new location, and, finally, digging up the roots and planting them.
He described how every day he weeded, watered, and looked for signs of new life. The lack of new growth, he said, made him worried and concerned that he had destroyed his wife’s lovely bushes. The more he thought of his love for his eternal companion, the more feeling he developed for the roots he had nurtured in the earth.
Finally, early one morning, he was relieved to find green evidence that the roots were alive and growing. He brought his wife to see her lilacs and offered a prayer of thankfulness for the growing results of his work.

For months, I had heard about a week-long conference for young men held annually in my state. This conference had been promoted in my hometown as an opportunity to learn about government, meet people from across the state, and bolster my resume. However, upon arriving at the conference, I found that the young men surrounding me were much different than the ones I knew at home. They did not share my beliefs. It was difficult to see and hear my beliefs and values questioned by everyone around me.
Part of this conference included a simulated government setting where we could introduce mock bills and debate them. During the conference, a young man introduced a bill related to a moral issue that went against my beliefs. I felt prompted to stand and express my beliefs in relation to this issue, and to argue against passing the bill. Outnumbered by others who seemed to support this piece of legislation, I have never felt more completely alone. Before I stood to speak, I offered a silent prayer: “Please, Heavenly Father, help me to speak the words Thou would have me say. Help me to be guided by Thy Spirit.” I was a single voice amid a sea of opposing opinions, and speaking out was one of the most difficult experiences of my life—but I did it. I told the other young men that I believed that the issue was morally wrong. I encouraged them to reconsider their opinions, and to vote against passing the bill.
As I sat down, one young man, a member of the Church from a town near mine, nodded in my direction. To my dismay, however, the bill passed when put to the vote. I felt sad and as if I had somehow failed. At the end of the session, though, a couple of young men came up to me, including the one who had nodded at me, and thanked me for speaking up. I felt a warmth in my heart because I knew I had done the right thing. I couldn’t control the choices the other young men made, but I could make my own and encourage them to do what I knew was right.
That week only became harder, but I was borne up by the feelings I had after I bore my testimony in that room. I hope I influenced someone for the better that week, but even if I didn’t, I learned that when things become difficult, I can rely on the Lord. I learned that I can stand up for what is right, even if I have to stand alone.

I don’t suppose many of those who were there would still recollect that event without being reminded of it. It might have slipped from my memory, too, if it hadn’t been for another incident a few years later, one that taught me something else about being out of step.
Kent and Colleen Ockey were definitely different from other families I had met while selling photography. Not only were they genuinely friendly to me, but they showed great love to each other as well. I remember how happy they seemed, how comfortable and at peace I felt in their home even though I couldn’t find an ashtray. These people seemed completely out of step with others I had encountered in my work.
On a side table in their living room, I noticed a large copy of the Book of Mormon. I had read a few chapters of it earlier in my life, and now it attracted my attention again. The Ockeys answered my questions freely, and invited me back. They introduced me to the missionaries. I began studying, praying, and searching. Twenty-three days later, I was baptized. I finally felt that I was in step, and I’ve tried to keep in step with the Lord and guidance from his appointed leaders ever since.

On a later visit to Cimezile, Richard and I found Brother Nqunqa very ill. We blessed and passed the sacrament—but not until after he had risen and dressed himself, insisting that he had to have his jacket and tie on to show proper reverence for the sacrament. He wept as he told us that he knew Richard and I would come that Sunday and that the Spirit had witnessed to him all would be well. Before we left, Richard and I blessed Brother Nqunqa through the power of the priesthood.
The next day, I went to Brother Nqunqa’s home to see how he was feeling. His wife, Judith, assured me he had been completely healed—he was down in the fields, attending to his plowing.

On Friday, Jimmy came home from school tired. He dumped his books on the floor and tossed his jacket onto the couch. But it seemed to him that the picture of Jesus was looking directly at his books on the floor. Jimmy knew that the picture couldn’t really see anything, but he remembered how he had felt before they recognized Brother Park. If Jesus were to come into his home, he wouldn’t want his books to be on the floor. So Jimmy put them away and hung his jacket in the closet. As he munched on an apple and relaxed, he was glad that his house looked neat and clean. He knew that his mom would be glad too.

Girls in the Idaho Falls Idaho East Stake, working for their Summiteer Award in the Young Women camp program, mounted horses and headed for Dead Horse Point on a riding adventure.
For most, riding horses on mountain trails with a sleeping bag tied on behind was a new experience. After receiving instructions on the care of her horse (each girl was expected to brush, saddle, bridle, feed, and hobble her assigned horse during the trip), they headed into the mountains. Past camp experience prepared them for making camp with a minimum of equipment, but long hours in the saddle had the girls discovering new, untested muscles.
After maneuvering up a steep trail to a site appropriately named Dead Horse Point, the group was treated to a spectacular view of the Teton Range from the summit.
At the end of the three days, the girls and their leaders were becoming accustomed to the skills needed to ride the mountain trails. With rain threatening, the group broke camp, loaded the horses, and headed home from an adventure that brought them closer together and left them confident of their abilities to survive and enjoy the outdoors.

While a stake president is normally found among the current leadership of the stake, there are exceptions. On one occasion we interviewed brethren into the late evening, unable to feel the confirming Spirit among the outstanding men we were meeting. Finally, after exhausting the prepared list of those to interview, we turned to respected men not currently serving in leadership positions. As we met with a Gospel Doctrine teacher at 10:00 p.m., the Lord powerfully confirmed this was His selection. Only after extending the call did we learn that he had been at his home, awaiting our phone call. Several months earlier, before any announcement of a change in the stake presidency, he and his wife were awakened in the night knowing that the calling would come to him.