Gospel Story Finder

Elder McBride thought little of this promise upon his arrival in Samoa. He worked diligently to master the Samoan language. In his mission journal he wrote, “Fasted all day and prayed to the Lord in secret to help me learn the language. … I study very hard to get the language, but it is slow work.” Then, as he began to feel more sure of the language, he started to offer prayers and to bear his testimony at meetings and to teach in the Church-organized schools. He even helped in translating the Bible into Samoan.

Elder McBride encountered prejudice and opposition from the ministers of other churches on the islands. He wrote, “In looking around I find the field is by no means clear and prejudice staring me in the face as the Teachers have forbidden anyone attending our meetings.”

He learned to enjoy the unaccustomed food delicacies of the Samoan people and mentions feasting on roasted bat, ula (breadfruit), and palela (a kind of sea worm). He also grew to appreciate their sincere friendliness and hospitality.

Elder McBride and his companion were called to travel to the island of Savaii to prepare for a conference to be held there. As they drew near the island in a boat, a fierce inland wind suddenly forced them back out to sea. Having no compass, they knew that they would be lost if they didn’t keep the island in sight. They and the Samoan men with them took turns rowing until all were exhausted, their hands blistered and raw.

Suddenly Elder McBride remembered the blessing that had been given to him. He arose at once and stretched forth his hands. In the name of Jesus Christ he commanded the winds and the waves to be still. Immediately the winds subsided, and the terrifying waves became peaceful, astonishing the frightened natives. Although the men were now far out to sea, they turned their boat toward the island and rowed to it safely.

Don Carlos McBride served two missions to the Samoan Islands, spending a total of nearly seven years there. In 1910, during his second mission, he was called to be the mission president. Despite the hardships and sacrifice involved, he served with obedience and love.

Rebecca B., 15, of Leicestershire, England, played the role of Mary Alice Cannon, a young woman who was converted to the gospel and traveled to America with her family in the early history of the Church. During her time acting in the pageant, Rebecca had many chances to share the gospel. After one performance, Rebecca saw a young woman who was standing alone and decided to talk with her. “I discovered that she was not a Church member and that she came to the pageant because her friend was in it,” Rebecca said. Rebecca talked with her more and found out that she was attending some Church activities.
“A couple days later, I was able to get a Book of Mormon for her,” Rebecca said. “I wrote a note in it and then gave it to her friend to give to her. That was the first Book of Mormon I’ve given away, and the experience has helped me know that Heavenly Father will prepare a way for all of His children to receive the truth of the gospel someday.”

Jude Okekearu was baptised on 28 September 2024. He is from the Ibo tribe in southeastern Nigeria, who are renowned for being educated and hard-working. Jude worked in a bank, but was made redundant when it downsized its workforce. He then gained employment as a hotel manager, but at greatly reduced wages. The opportunity presented itself to come to the United Kingdom doing care work. It was a chance for a new start. He now lives in Kirkcaldy, Scotland, sharing a flat with other Nigerians.

It was a Tuesday afternoon in June while I was on internship with a civil engineering company in Lomé. I lived with my uncle and went to work every day, but one day I stayed at home because there was no work on that day. Whiles I was in the kitchen preparing a meal for myself at noon, I heard someone ring the doorbell, but I could not leave my omelette on the gas cooker because I might come back to find it burnt; the person rang the bell a couple more times, and then I assumed whoever it was had left. Five minutes later, it rang again, and I went to open it.
I saw two brothers neatly dressed in white shirts, ties, and name tags. I welcomed them into the house and apologized for the delay. They offered to help with the task I was engaged in. I usually do not welcome preachers, but that day, after opening the door, my mind was at ease.
The young missionaries introduced themselves, shared their message, and left me a booklet on the Restoration and a Book of Mormon, encouraging me to read it, meditate, and pray over it. They also shared their testimonies. After their departure, I locked myself up in my room and did exactly what they told me to, not knowing what was driving me. I spent all day reading and at about 6:00 p.m. that day, I called to book an appointment.
The next day, I had several questions for them to answer but after offering the prayer, my heart was at peace. I quit my internship to listen to their message three times a week for three weeks, and I was baptized in a new branch in my neighborhood.

by Debbie Jones
“Yes, it is a gold wedding band.” As the young men and women of my ward gathered around to admire the band, all sorts of questions arose. “Whose could it be? Where did you find it? I wonder how long it has been buried in the flower garden?”
While my friends had been mowing, power raking, and shoveling in the widow’s yard, I had been weeding her flowerbed. Sister Kelly and I were digging out a big clump of grass and shaking the dirt off the roots when the precious ring fell out.
It’s always fun to find buried treasure, but that one unanswered question still remained: To whom did the ring belong? I thought how sorry the owner must have felt when he lost it and how much it would mean to him if he could get it back.
That night as I said my prayers, I asked the Lord to help me find the rightful owner. I knew I would need His help because the house had been rented to many couples over the years.
You can imagine my surprise when just two days later, the doorbell rang and at the door stood Brother Huff, asking me if I had his wedding band. He explained that he and his wife were spending some time in Salt Lake City. They were waiting in a restaurant for breakfast when their good friends, Brother and Sister Thatcher, walked by. They invited the couple to join them. In conversation, Sister Thatcher, my Young Women leader, mentioned the ring we had found. How excited they all were when Brother and Sister Huff discovered that the ring was found at the house where they lived 14 years ago! He had lost his wedding ring while raking leaves.
Brother Huff had since purchased another band, but he was thrilled to find his original wedding ring again. He offered me 20 dollars in appreciation, but I refused. I knew it was the Lord who really deserved the thanks. And besides, I was as happy as he was.
A short time later, the doorbell rang again, and there stood the florist with a beautiful arrangement of flowers. I opened the card and read the words, “Thanks again. Brother Huff.” The next day I took the bouquet to church to share with the Payson Utah Third Ward and all who were involved in that service project.
From this experience I received much more than flowers. I now have a stronger testimony of church service and prayer. Don’t miss your next project, because you never know what service surprises await you!

Lots of things fall in autumn. Leaves fall. Apples fall. And sometimes teeth fall.
Andrea wanted her tooth to fall out. Her friend Jason had a tooth fall out at school. And her sister Janine had one fall out that morning at breakfast. It fell right into her grapefruit.
“My tooth is loose, too,” Andrea said. She opened her mouth wide. “See?”
Janine pushed it with her finger. “It’s not loose. You’re fibbing.”
No one at school believed Andrea either.
There was one person who would understand about an almost-loose tooth. Andrea stopped by the baker-lady’s apartment after school.
“My tooth is loose,” she said when the door opened.
The baker-lady had silver glasses that sat on the end of her nose. She looked at Andrea’s mouth carefully. “It’s going to come out one of these days for sure,” she said with a nod.
“But I want it to come out now,” Andrea said.
The baker-lady nodded again. “Waiting is hard. I hate waiting too.”
Andrea looked at the baker-lady’s mouth. “Your baby teeth already came out. What are you waiting for?”
The baker-lady leaned over. “I’ll tell you a secret. I’m waiting for a snowflake.”
Andrea giggled. That was a funny thing to wait for. You couldn’t put a snowflake under your pillow. It would melt. “Why are you waiting for a snowflake?”
“Because snowflakes mean it’s wintertime—time to visit my family in Michigan for Christmas. I have six grandchildren there.”
“Do they have loose teeth?” asked Andrea.
“Well, now,” the baker-lady said, “I don’t really know for sure. I haven’t seen them since last Christmas.” She brought out some crayons and a sewing box. “When I get tired of waiting for snowflakes, I make things. Right now I’m making gingerbread boys.”
“Like you made at the bakery before you retired?” asked Andrea.
“No. These are made out of cloth.” She showed Andrea a little brown corduroy gingerbread boy with white rickrack, button eyes, and a loop on his head.
“He’s a Christmas tree ornament!” Andrea cried, delighted.
“Yes. I’m making one for each of my grandchildren. Doing things for other people makes the waiting go faster.”
Andrea started coloring. She made a picture of the tooth fairy with a long white dress. The white crayon didn’t show on the paper unless she pushed down hard, and that made the tip break. She started to throw it away. Then she looked at it more closely. It looked like a tooth, small and round and hard.
Andrea stood up. “I’d better go home now,” she told the baker-lady. “I think my tooth is so loose that it will come out tonight.” She said it extra loud, in case the tooth fairy was nearby.
That night Andrea’s sister put her tooth under her pillow. “I guess I’ll have some money in the morning,” Janine said.
Andrea put her crayon tip under her pillow. “I guess I’ll have some money in the morning, too,” she said just loud enough for the tooth fairy to hear.
In the morning Janine found a new quarter under her pillow.
In the morning Andrea’s crayon tip was still under her pillow. She hadn’t fooled the tooth fairy at all. She put the crayon tip into her pocket and tried to wiggle her tooth on the way to school.
The baker-lady was outside planting tulip bulbs when Andrea passed her apartment. “Did that tooth come out last night?” she asked.
Andrea looked down at the sidewalk. “I guess it wasn’t ready after all.”
“Waiting is hard,” said the baker-lady. She got up with a little grunt. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I have something for you.”
She came back holding a brown corduroy gingerbread boy. He had a tiny pocket in front. “The pocket is for a tooth,” said the baker-lady. “He’s a tooth pillow. He’s for you while you wait for your tooth to fall out.”
Andrea held him tightly all the way to school. She loved his brown corduroy body. She loved his white rickrack. But most of all, she loved his tiny pocket in front. A tooth pocket.
At school she started to put the crayon tooth into his little pocket, just to see if it really was tooth-size. Then she decided that the gingerbread boy was for a real tooth. He would help her to wait for it.
Andrea looked at her crayon tip again. She had an idea. Maybe she could help the baker-lady to wait …
She rubbed the little white tip onto a piece of blue paper until there was no more crayon. Then she folded the paper into a tiny square. With her scissors she made little cuts in the folds. When she opened it up, there was a snowflake! It was the most beautiful snowflake she’d ever made.
After school she ran all the way to the baker-lady’s apartment, shoved the snowflake under her door, and ran. The baker-lady would know right away that it was a waiting snowflake and that Andrea had given it to her to help her wait to see her family in Michigan.
Andrea was happy and excited as she ran home. Doing things for other people did make the waiting go faster.

Three years later, in 1823, Joseph was no longer so sure. He no longer felt as righteous as he once had. Part of Joseph’s uncertainty may have been because he was just seventeen and still figuring things out. Part of it may have been because he felt like he was hanging out with the wrong crowd. In fairness, three years earlier the Lord had commanded Joseph not to attend any of the then-existing churches. Consequently, Joseph mingled with “all kinds of society” and was left to “all kinds of temptations.” He felt condemned for his weaknesses and imperfections and worried that he was now “offensive in the sight of God.”
One night, 200 years ago last Thursday, Joseph decided to pray before going to bed. He wanted to be forgiven of his sins. He wanted to know that God still approved of him. Because his first prayer had been answered so dramatically with a visit from God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ, Joseph had complete confidence that he would be visited by them again. Instead, something unexpected happened. The little room that Joseph shared with his brothers got brighter and brighter until Joseph could see the figure of an angelic man floating near him in the air. The man introduced himself as Moroni, a long-dead prophet who had buried a gospel record engraved on gold plates. He said Joseph would translate this record, and by doing so would bring about the restoration of the priesthood in fulfillment of biblical prophecy.
Now this strikes me as far more than Joseph asked for. I think he wanted something like the revelation he received earlier: “Joseph, thy sins are forgiven thee.” Instead, he got three separate visitations by a previously unheard-of angel with instructions about digging up an ancient record, prophecies about his name being had for good and evil among all nations, and warnings about the wicked burning as stubble. To me, this doesn’t sound like a very comforting message.
Joseph couldn’t have known then what millions of readers know now: The Book of Mormon that he was about to translate would answer the very questions he prayed about. Could he be forgiven of his sins? How can we know that God approves of us? Is it possible to become better people? Who gets to be saved? How does that happen?

Of course, informal, friendly visits are often the most effective. “Three Sundays ago, my wife and I visited a family,” says Milton F. Marin president of the San Jose Costa Rica Stake. “‘I’ve known you for years,’ I said. ‘You’re special to me. I want you to return, and the Lord wants you to return. He loves you.’ I challenged them to come the next Sunday. They did, and have come every Sunday since. They’re coming to our home for a picnic!”

KAYLENE: When I was younger, I went through some experiences that will affect me the rest of my life. There was a moment in the temple last semester when I was really caught up in my thoughts. I was prompted to turn to a scripture in Matthew 9:22 that states, “Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole.” All those feelings of guilt, shame, and heartache faded away and I knew that I had received His mercy and He would remember them no more. That moment helped me to realize how important temples are and it renewed my faith in the future. His mercy is full of love and hope.

The temple is a place that I can truly talk one-on-one with my Savior. A few years ago, my uncle passed away and my dad was diagnosed with cancer. I was angry with God even though I didn't know it. After a few months, I went to the temple and talked with God about my struggles. The Lord whispered sweet words of comfort to me and that he has a plan for me and for all of His children.

In these experiences, I felt God’s mercy and love when I needed Him the most.

In January 1962, when I was six years old, missionaries arrived at my father’s jewelry store looking to replace a tie clip one of them had lost. While there, they heard someone playing the guitar. When they asked about it, my father invited them to come in and meet his friend.
During their conversation, my father and his friend asked the missionaries if they played guitar. One elder said he played a little. My father’s friend passed his guitar to him and asked him to play. He began to play some songs while his companion sang.
The missionaries’ simple search for a tie clip led to my family’s introduction to the gospel of Jesus Christ. We became good friends with the missionaries and began listening to the lessons. The gospel seed was planted, and it began to grow, first in my mother, Elsa, and my sisters, Ana and Stella, and then in me.
Since that day, a love for missionary work has grown in my family. I served a mission, my sons have served missions, and now our grandchildren are beginning to prepare for and serve missions, creating a third generation of missionaries.

Third, while you must exercise your agency and bear the responsibility for your decisions, you need not face temptation alone. Just two weeks ago at a stake conference, Elder Charles “Tiny” Grant, one of our fine regional representatives, shared an experience with us. He said that some years ago while he was the football coach at Ricks College, he met a man named Hal Barton, who was famous for his love of fishing. He was warned, however, that “although Hal knows where to find the big fish, he often goes into strong waters to find them.”

Their first opportunity to go fishing together was in February as the ice was breaking up. As they walked together up the river, Hal pointed to an island about fifty yards away and said, “Coach, that is where we will find the big ones.” The day was cold, and now they had to cross a dangerous part of the river. The coach soon discovered that the rocks were round and slick, and the water was only inches from the top of his waders. Since he is six feet five inches tall, that meant it was deep. He was about to tell Hal that he was afraid he couldn’t cross the water, but realized that the football coach could not admit that he was afraid.

Just then Hal said, “Coach, this is how we are going to cross the water. You take a step and get a firm footing while I hold your hand and arm steady. Then I will take a step while you stand firmly and furnish the support. We will work our way through this roiling, swift water over these slippery rocks.” With this mutual support, they crossed the river safely and caught the big ones.

Newark, New Jersey, isn’t a bad place, I guess, especially for a city that’s been around since 1666. A lot of neat people live there, and there are some beautiful parks and buildings. Branch Brook has lots of Japanese cherry trees. In front of the county courthouse there’s a famous statue of Abraham Lincoln by Gutzon Borglum. Downtown, Military Park offers an oasis amid the shopping centers and offices. Its grass is as green as when colonial troops drilled there during the Revolutionary War.
But Newark’s not in great shape financially. The population is declining. A lot of people and a lot of businesses have left for the suburbs. A lot of the housing has fallen into disrepair. A Congressional Budget Office study ranked Newark as the neediest of 39 needy cities in the entire United States.
In short, Newark’s an interesting place to go tracting. Especially with Elder Michaelson. I don’t mean to complain about my senior companion, understand. But you’d think by the time somebody’s a senior, he’d at least know which train to catch to get home. Elder Michaelson was always taking the wrong train. Other than that we got along okay, but he could never remember street names either.
“After you’ve been out as long as I have, elder,” he would say, “you’ll discover that it’s people that are important, not street names.”
You get the picture. I just nodded my head and wrote down the names of the streets in my notebook. If people are that important, I figured we’d better know how to find them again.
There was one neighborhood, though, that Elder Michaelson knew very well. It was filled with orange brick apartments, rows and rows and rows of them. How he ever found his way around in there I’ll never know. But he knew that a member family lived there, and every time we were in the area, he’d look at their window and wave hello. One day when we were knocking on doors there, we even stopped by to say hi.
“Oh, how are you, elders? Come in, come in,” Sister Baichman chimed.
“We can’t stay,” Elder Michaelson said. “Just stopped by to see how you’re doing.”
Wait! I mumbled to myself. We can afford to stay a minute or two. My feet hurt. I’m tired of having doors closed in my face.
“How’s Becki?” Elder Michaelson asked. “How’s Tom?”
“They’re fine,” Sister Baichman said. “Becki’s going to have a birthday!”
A shy little four-year-old with dark hair and a beautiful smile hid behind her mother, just a little nervous as she chewed on her finger.
“Is that right? How old are you going to be, Becki?”
She didn’t say anything. But she stuck out her hand, all five fingers extended.
“I guess that means you’ll be going to school soon,” Elder Michaelson said. “What are you going to do for your birthday?”
“Nothin’,” Becki said.
“Nothing?”
“We can’t afford it right now,” her mother cut in. “We’ll sing a song and maybe I can get a cake. Ever since her father left …” Her voice trailed away.
“I understand,” Elder Michaelson said. “Well, Becki, you’ll have a good birthday anyway, won’t you? Oh, I almost forgot, this is my new companion, Elder Urrutia. Tell him hello, Becki.”
She hid behind her mother’s skirt. After a minute she looked up again.
“Do you have any other children?” I asked.
“Just one. He’s a boy. He’ll be home from school in an hour.”
“And his name is?”
“Tom.”
“Oh, that’s right. That’s who Elder Michaelson was asking about just a minute ago. It’s nice to get acquainted with all of you.”
We excused ourselves and left. It hadn’t been much of a break from tracting, but it was nice to know somebody behind a door knew how to smile.
“You know, elder,” my companion said a few minutes later, “it’s too bad about Sister Baichman. She and her husband had been married ten years. Then one day he just left.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. She says he was a good man. Maybe the pressures just got to him. Trying to keep up with the bills is hard when you’ve got a wife and two kids. Anyway, a few months later she joined the Church. She’s got a brother in Short Hills. Maybe you’ll meet him at stake conference. He joined the Church first and got her interested. Now he’s lost his job, and they’re both hurting. The branch members here have been real good to her. I don’t know what she’d have done without the Church. And that little Becki. Isn’t she cute? You know, it’s my birthday in a few days, too. Everybody likes to be remembered on their birthday. I’ll probably get something from home.”
“That would be good,” I said. “I hope it’s something to eat.”
We continued tracting.
Two days later the package came. It was huge.
“What’s inside?” I asked, as he ripped open the paper.
“My family sent me a care package,” he said. “Oh, wow! Look at all this!”
Inside, rolled up, was a big banner that read, “Happy Birthday, Elder!” There was a cake. There were party favors, horns, shiny little hats, balloons, candles, plastic forks and spoons, and matching paper plates, napkins, cups, and a tablecloth.
“Now that’s what I call a care package!” I said.
“All the way from Wyoming,” he said. “My family loves me a lot, and we always made a big deal out of birthdays back home. What will we ever do with all this stuff?”
“We could invite the district leaders over to celebrate,” I suggested.
“I think I’ve got a better idea.”
The next evening, accompanied by some of the branch members, we walked past the orange buildings once again. This time at least I knew some of the directions: third building on the right, fourth floor, apartment 36.
I kept the children distracted while Elder Michaelson took Sister Baichman aside and whispered to her. She nodded her head, then ordered the children to go to their room and wait. Puzzled but obedient, they complied.
As soon as they were gone, the members joined us as we opened the paper sacks we had carried with us. First the banner. We had trimmed the word elder away. Now it just said, “Happy Birthday.” We spread the tablecloth on the card table, the only table in the apartment. We blew up balloons and taped them to the wall. We arranged all of the decorations.
Then we called Becki and Tom.
When they entered the room, they squeeled with delight. We lit the candles and sang “Happy Birthday.” Becki blew out the candles and made a wish. Tom hugged Becki and told her that he loved her, in front of everybody.
And we all got a piece of chocolate cake.
I never cried at a birthday party before. We were only at the Baichman’s apartment for 15 minutes. But by the time we left, I could really feel the tears.
We could have saved Elder Michaelson’s birthday package until preparation day and invited the district over to hold a party in his honor. But Elder Michaelson did have a better idea. Those kids will always remember that the members and missionaries were kind to them. Their mother, a recent convert, will know that the members and the missionaries helped her when she needed help the most. And I learned—well, I learned that even a companion who always takes the wrong train can be right.

Last year was a scary time for me. I had just entered Young Women, and I was going to attend a new ward. I worried that I wouldn’t make any friends, and since I was a new member of the Church, I didn’t understand much about Young Women.
I remember the first day I went to Young Women in my new ward. I went to opening exercises and sat down by myself because I didn’t know anyone. This made me feel uneasy and alone. Then I looked up, and there was a young woman standing in front of me. She said, “Hello, Cecilia” and sat down next to me. This made me feel great, and I wasn’t scared anymore.
It was from her example that I learned what fellowshipping is all about. This has helped me to reach out to other new or lonely people who need their spirits lifted.

May I share with you a letter from a young man which reflects the spirit of love and which helped to make firm a testimony of the gospel:
“Dear President Monson:
“Thank you for speaking to us at the National Scouting Jamboree held at Fort A. P. Hill, Virginia. On the tour that we took we saw a lot of famous places like Niagara Falls, the Statue of Liberty, the Liberty Bell, and many other places. The one I enjoyed the most was the Sacred Grove. Our parents had written us all letters to read by ourselves while in the grove. After I had finished the letter my parents had written to me, I knelt in prayer. I asked if the Church was really true and if Joseph Smith really did see a vision and is a true prophet of God, and also if President Hinckley is a true prophet of God. Right after I was done praying I felt this feeling of the Spirit that these things were indeed true. I had prayed before about the same things but never received such a powerful answer. There was no way that I could deny that this Church is true or that President Hinckley is a prophet of God.
“I feel so blessed to be a member of this Church. Thanks again for attending the Jamboree.
“Sincerely,
“Chad D. Olson
“P. S. We gave our tour guide and our bus driver a copy of the Book of Mormon with our testimonies in it. They are the greatest! I want to be a missionary.”
Like Joseph Smith, this young man had retired to a sacred grove and prayed for answers to questions phrased by his inquiring mind. Once more a prayer was answered and a confirmation of the truth was gained.

President Nathan Eldon Tanner told us a story in the temple one day. He was just a young lad, and his father left him to tend their cow. He did not come from a wealthy family, and the cow was the most prized possession they had. It gave them sustenance and food. Father Tanner was going into town and asked Nathan Eldon if he’d take care of the cow. Nathan Eldon had all of his friends over and they proceeded to have a rodeo. They rode that cow and kicked it (I can see smiles on the faces of many young men from Idaho.) Fortunately, his father came back early. There’d been no time to milk the cow, time for the second milking was approaching, and things were getting serious for that animal. Father didn’t yell at Nathan Eldon; he didn’t strike him, but sat him on a fencepost and said, “Nathan Eldon, remember who you are. You’re a Tanner.” He then proceeded to give him a little bit of his heritage and told him what he expected of him and reminded him that he was a priesthood holder. Then he told the boy what President Tanner repeatedly tells us, “Remember who you are and act accordingly.”

Tonight was their third practice game. Elder Condie looked at the bleachers. The stands were already filling up! He could see lots of Church members and people the missionaries were teaching. He spotted one girl who brought pom-poms and cheered at every game. She always shared her testimony with anyone who would listen. After each game, Elder Condie and his teammates did the same. They shared pamphlets and read scriptures with people who wanted to know more about the Church.
One of the other missionaries tapped Elder Condie on the shoulder. “Tonight we’re playing the French Olympic team,” he said. “They’re really good.”
Elder Condie shrugged. “But we’re not so bad.”
It was true. As they ran plays and drills with national teams, the Mormon Yankees had gotten better and better.
That night, thousands of people came to see the French team play against the Mormons. Throughout the game, the score was close. Near the end, it was tied, 59 to 59. Cheers erupted: “Blue, white, blue white. Mormon Yankees, fight, fight!” With seconds to go, Elder Condie caught a pass from his teammate Elder Hull. Elder Condie shot the ball. It dropped into the net just as the buzzer sounded. The missionaries had won, 61 to 59!
The cheers were still ringing in Elder Condie’s ears when he wrote to his family. “We won some games and lost others,” he said. “But it’s not about basketball. I think people are wanting to learn more about the Church because we’ve shown them that we’re people, just like they are. We’re helping the Church to grow, one shot at a time.”

It reminds me of two trees that were close to my home when I was growing up. The one was a Russian olive and grew right in our yard. It was watered every time the lawn was watered, and in that kind of protected environment it grew to be a beautiful tree. Yet one night a tremendous wind came up. Trees all over town were blown down, and with them went our Russian olive. We had watered it so well that the roots did not have to reach down into the soil; and because they were so close to the surface, the tree toppled over.
The second tree withstood the gale. It was a tremendous cottonwood, which still stands in the lane just half a block from where I was born. This tree was in the fullness of its growth when I was a child. It has always stood by itself, completely exposed to the elements, with nothing but a ditch running by, which most of the time is dry. It is gnarled and tough, and its roots have had to sink deep in order to drink of the water of life; but because its roots were forced downward, it lives. I was out home the other day and noticed that most of the trees around this cottonwood are gone. But in all of its power and majesty, it still hangs on.

Photo illustrations by David Stoker
I had the opportunity to serve as a missionary in Catania, Italy. At one point, we hit a rough spot in the work. We’d had a whole week of pretty much everything going wrong, and each day was a test of whether or not we would retain good spirits, keep a smile on, and continue trying hard.
One evening, we were determined to change the flow of things. We went around talking to people in a park near our house, and we saw this guy sitting on a bench with his head down and a cigarette in his mouth. He was dressed in black from head to toe and wore the hood of his big puffy jacket over his head. He did not look like a very pleasant man to talk to. I looked at him, my companion looked at him, we looked at each other, and back at him.
Elder Farley asked me, “Have we talked with him before?”
“I think we have, because I really think I know him,” I responded.
“Yeah, me too,” Elder Farley said.
So we started walking toward him. Part of me was scared because he was just not a person I would normally talk to, but another part really wanted to talk to him.
“Good evening, how are you?” we asked.
He looked up with darkened eyes, as if to say, “Who disturbs my slumber!?” Then very softly he said, “Good evening.” We introduced ourselves as missionaries, and he quickly told us that he was atheist and didn’t believe in anything. We asked him why, which I think caught him by surprise.
“Well, because I lost my mom, dad, sister, and niece all in the same month, and I’ve lived a terrible, lonely life because of it. Religion didn’t do anything but make it worse for me.”
We asked him if he knew where his loved ones were.
“In Catania cemetery, where they have been for a long time,” he responded.
We explained to him the spirit world and the Resurrection. We told him that right now we are each a spirit and a body, and that death is merely a temporary separation between the spirit and the body. We told him that his family members were just waiting for him until they could all be reunited with their bodies and live together for eternity.
He looked at us, confused, and said, “I didn’t understand any of that. Could you repeat everything?”
So we repeated everything. Then he raised an eyebrow in confusion and said, “Wait, I’m a spirit and a body? And my family is just waiting for me and learning right now?”
We read him several scriptures from Alma 40 and other chapters, and he looked at us and asked, “So why have I never heard this before?”
I don’t think I had ever met a more truly humble person in my life. This man had been so lost for such a long time, so confused, so lonely. He took in everything we said, telling us that he understood very little of it because it was all stuff he had never heard before, but he liked everything.
We taught him about how we can get answers through prayer. He hadn’t prayed in over 30 years, and the last time had been a recited prayer in church when he was a child. After we talked about answers from the Spirit, he asked us what the Spirit feels like. Since it can be different for everyone, we both shared what it feels like for us. I told him that to me it feels like getting a hug from your mom after you haven’t seen her for a long time. I felt impressed to promise him that he could and would feel that same thing, a feeling like a hug from his mom who had been missing from his life for a long, long time.
We asked him if we could pray with him. He was really confused and asked, “Now? Here, in the park?”
“We can pray whenever, wherever we want,” I told him. “God wants to hear from us, and He is especially anxious to hear from you because He hasn’t heard from you in a long time.”
He had never heard a prayer before that wasn’t a memorized prayer to a saint, so he was pretty eager to see how it worked. We bowed our heads, and my companion said the prayer for our new friend, Alfio, and asked for blessings, help, and comfort for him. He asked for Alfio to feel an answer that his family was all right and that God really exists. We finished our prayer, and Alfio looked at us with gigantic eyes.
“I must tell you something,” he said. “I am not a person who lies, especially about something like this. I feel like I just got a huge hug from my mother. I haven’t gotten a hug from anyone in a long, long time. That felt so good. I want to know how I can feel that again, because I want more hugs like that.”
The next day we met again. Alfio sat down next to us on the same bench and said, “Elders, my entire life I have walked with my hood up and my head down, staring at the ground. I have never, ever walked with my head up. Ever since that prayer, I have walked around with my head up, and I look at everything. This world is beautiful.”
Needless to say, we continued working with Alfio to bring more hugs, more light, and more looking up into his life. The scary man on the bench who looked like he would hate us was really a soul crying out, begging to feel his Heavenly Father’s love again.

While serving a full-time mission in the Philippines, my husband, Robert, and I traveled to Cagayan de Oro to set up a Family History Center in the Cagayan de Oro East Stake Center and to do some training. We also invited members from the Malaybalay district to join us. Non-Filipinos are not allowed to go into some parts of the region, and Malaybalay was an area where we could not go. For almost a year, the Malaybalay district had had the equipment for a Family History Center; all they needed was some training to be able to set it up.
We contacted the Malaybalay district president, Leandro Miole, and asked him if he and the Saints in Malaybalay could come to the Cagayan de Oro East Stake Center for our seminar. President Miole responded that they would be happy to come, even though it meant a drive of more than two hours on mountain roads. My husband wrote a letter to President Miole confirming the date, place, and time of our training session.
On the day of the seminar as I was doing my portion of the training, a man walked in and started talking with my husband. The man drew a letter from his pocket and opened it for my husband to read. I could see the conversation was quite serious.
At the end of our training session, my husband informed me that the man was President Miole from the Malaybalay district and that he and 10 members of his district had been waiting at the Cagayan de Oro Stake Center since 8:00 A.M. President Miole had shown my husband the letter stating the details of the training. To my husband’s chagrin, he realized he had forgotten to identify the place as the east stake center. We felt bad that these faithful Saints had waited hours for training that had never come, and we happily agreed to go to the Cagayan de Oro Stake Center to conduct the training session.
The Saints were happy to see us when we arrived. We opened with a prayer and a hymn, then launched into the training.
As I began demonstrating how to use the microfilm reader, I noticed that a film had been left in the reader. So instead of using the film I had brought for the demonstration, I used the film already in the reader. As my husband turned the crank and I showed where to look on the film for names, I heard someone crying softly. Looking up, I realized President Miole was in tears. I quickly asked if I had said something to distress him.
Through his tears he quietly said, “I found them!” Pointing to the names on the screen of the microfilm reader, he told us he had searched and prayed to find these names—the names of his ancestors—for more than three years. And now, there they were—on a microfilm reader he should not have been looking at, in a building he should not have been in.
That day we were reminded that “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).

The air was biting cold and damp. The pungent odor of smoke from coal fires stung our nostrils as we breathed. The fog and the darkness of the evening made it difficult to see. It was a typical winter night in England.
I was a new missionary of two months. My companion and I were hurriedly riding our bicycles to a nearby town to meet the lady missionaries. On the telephone the sisters seemed anxious and concerned. A member in their area needed help.
Arriving as quickly as we could after the phone call, we accompanied the sisters to the member’s home. We knocked at the door and a woman answered, inviting us into a very small room with a fireplace at one end. In the dim light I could see the woman’s face. She had puffy cheeks and sad, tired, reddened eyes. Her eyelashes were wet and matted. More tears streaked her face as she gestured toward a small crib near the fireplace. Sobbing, the mother said, “My baby is sick. She can’t breathe and the doctor says she will die.” Bronchitis and pneumonia kill many babies during the harsh British winters.
The mother asked us to administer to the tiny, three-week-old baby. Tenderly she lifted the baby from its crib and held it gently and protectively in her arms. Tears fell from her eyes onto the clean linen in which the baby was wrapped. There was hardly enough room on the tiny head for my two comparatively large hands. As I placed my hands on her soft little head, I could feel the delicate tufts of hair.
It was the first time in my life that I had administered to a sick person. Somehow I managed the correct words. “Sonja Holbert, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood …” At that moment I could feel a surge of power within me. It was something unique and unusual. I knew without a doubt that I was acting as an instrument in the hands of Almighty God himself to heal that little baby.
This experience merged into others as the time went by until the memory of it was dimmed. Almost two years later near the end of my mission, I was assigned to work in the town where the mother and the little girl lived. As we tracted down a street, one of our contacts told us that a member of our church lived around the corner. We found the house and knocked at the door. English row houses look much the same, and I was not immediately aware that this was the same house I had visited nearly two years before. The woman invited us in. As we entered the same small room, a pair of bright, blue eyes stared up at me. I sat down in a chair, and a beautiful little girl climbed into my lap. As I patted the blond ringlets on her head, a flood of memories returned to me—the dreary night, the tearful mother, the infant gasping for every breath, and the unmistakable power of the priesthood. “Thank you, Father,” I murmured silently, “for the privilege of using that power to help this little girl.”
I was strengthened by this experience. I knew then the reality of what it meant to say, “I know that the priesthood has been restored in this day, and I bear testimony that God lives and loves us. I know great blessings can come to pass through righteous exercise of his priesthood.”