Gospel Story Finder

“When I think of Dad, I think of the word dependability. He has repeated the story many times about when he was a boy and his father left him home to take care of the chores. For some reason, Dad did not do the assigned tasks and when his father returned, he disappointedly remarked, ‘I thought I could depend on you, son.’ Dad recalls that if he had been whipped on that occasion he would have felt no worse. He vowed then and there that neither the Lord nor anyone on earth would ever again have reason to question his dependability. He has spent all of his life since then being where he said he would be at the time he said he would be there and being fully prepared to do what he has been asked to do.”

She stood suddenly and walked into the house. Christian picked up the bundle of food she had brought him and began walking toward the city of Drammen. The elders had told him there were other Mormons there. Light, powder flakes of snow were falling silently on the road.
After several weeks on the road, Christian had used all his money, and he was forced to beg for food. At night he slept against fallen trees in the woods, curled up, pulling his coat tight against the cold. He felt more alone and cold than he ever had in his life. The loneliness bit at his insides even more than his hunger did.
At last he reached Drammen, but he found no success, no work, and no one knew of any Mormons or they were unwilling to help him find them. For days he wandered, knocking on doors, asking for work and direction. A blackness of despair grew inside him.
While he was looking for shelter against a growing snow storm one evening, he saw a small cottage on the edge of the woods just outside of Drammen. He decided to knock on one more door. He told the woman who answered that he was looking for work. She smiled and told Christian that her husband was not home at the moment and that Christian should come back later and talk to him. She offered him slices of bread and cheese. He took them, thanked her, turned, and walked back into the woods. In the fading daylight he found a snow-covered brush pile with a hollow inside and crawled into it. His nose and fingers were numb with the cold, and inside he felt lost, without hope. A complete lassitude came over him.
The woman reminded him of his own mother, and he longed to be home. He remembered how, on cold nights like this one, his father would sit next to the fire, smoking a long-stemmed pipe, telling stories of the old days when Odin and Thor thundered in the heavens and brave men fought the demons of the mist. His thoughts became unclear and dreamy as a drowsiness came over him. He knew it was the cold and that if he went to sleep he would freeze. For a while he accepted the hopelessness and began drifting into a comfortable, warm sleep.
Then he remembered his grandfather’s words.
“There are steps in life that can change your entire future and the future of entire generations. Take those steps carefully, Christian, in the direction you believe to be right, no matter how difficult they appear to be, and God will be with you.”
Christian crawled from under the shelter. The snow was falling heavily.
“Surely,” Christian said aloud, “if God is my Father, he can help me. I know he will.”
Christian knelt in the fresh snow and began praying.
In the darkness a short distance away, a figure watched and listened. When Christian stood from his prayers, the figure approached him.
A tall man, Moen Hotvedtvien, stood looking at the slender boy.
He extended his hand. A tear fell on his rough, carved face and mixed with moisture from melting snowflakes.
“I am Brother Hotvedtvien, and I am also a Mormon,” he said. He led Christian back to the house where the woman had given Christian bread and cheese. The house was warm.
The Hotvedtviens had no children of their own, and they took Christian in as their son. Moen was a carpenter and cabinetmaker; he taught Christian his trade.

The thoughtfulness of a Laurel class recently helped an 18-year-old New York girl face the trauma of being hospitalized with serious injuries far away from home and family.

Nancy Shannahan and her friends were returning to New York after a vacation out west when they were involved in an automobile accident. Nancy was hospitalized in Burley, Idaho, and was unable to return home with her friends.

The Oakley First Ward Laurels learned of Nancy’s predicament from their adviser, Betty Jane Fairchild, whose son was hospitalized with football injuries. The girls decided to befriend Nancy and make her a friendship quilt to take home with her to New York.

The girls donated scraps of material, and Sister Fairchild pieced them together. The quilt top was then passed from home to home so the girls could embroider the names of class members on it, with Nancy’s name in the center. The full-sized quilt was tied one evening, and a couple of Aaronic Priesthood youths even got into the spirit of things by helping to cut and tie the yarn.

Nancy has since returned home and recently wrote to the Laurels thanking them for their love and kindness. She expressed hopes of being able to get to know these girls better in the future.

Anisberto meant to be careful cutting the sugarcane, but somehow his big machete slipped. When the Perez family saw their nine-year-old son’s wound, they were frightened and took him to the missionaries for help.
The tip of Anisberto’s finger was almost cut off, and Elder McClellan and his companion struggled for more than three hours before they could stop the bleeding. The missionaries knew that Anisberto needed a doctor, but there was no medical help on the small island in the Caribbean Sea.
At first, flying to the mainland seemed a frightening experience to Anisberto. But when Elder McClellan said he would go too, the boy was no longer afraid.
Early the next morning a dugout canoe took the Indian boy and his missionary friend to meet the plane. Before leaving the island, they offered a special prayer and asked our Father in heaven to protect them as they traveled.
The plane was crowded when it arrived on the island, so Elder McClellan held Anisberto on his lap.
The sandy landing strip was soft from the night’s rain, making it difficult to reach takeoff speed. At the end of the runway the pilot lifted the plane sharply, but the slow speed dragged it back down. Windows shattered as the aircraft crashed into the ocean!
A wing near Anisberto collapsed. Water, broken glass, and panic filled the cabin as Anisberto wiggled free from the seat belt and swam out the opposite side. Elder McClellan was forced underwater, but finally he too was able to swim out through a broken window. He found Anisberto treading water.
Sensing that the plane could not stay afloat much longer, Elder McClellan took hold of Anisberto and started to swim back to the island, calling to the other passengers to follow. Just as the plane sunk out of sight, boats arrived and picked up the tired swimmers. Soon everyone was safely back on shore.
Anisberto’s family greeted the two travelers calmly. “We knew the Lord would save you,” they explained.
They also knew Anisberto still needed to see a doctor. So a boat was found and hours later, after a chilly ride, the elder and the boy reached the mainland, where a doctor treated the wound.
Afterward Anisberto wondered about flying back to the island. He kept his courage, however, and agreed to fly if Elder McClellan was with him. The trip home was without accident.
Before long Anisberto was taken back to the mainland hospital, because the doctor found that his finger was not healing. A few days later Elder McClellan was also hospitalized with bronchial pneumonia. Now the two friends were together again and together they became well.
Anisberto’s experience showed him and his family that our Heavenly Father loves His children everywhere in the world.
Remembering his Indian friend, Elder McClellan says, “I still marvel at the courage and trust of young Anisberto.”

The Taylorsville Utah West Stake presented an original musical for their Heritage Arts Festival. For weeks a 60-voice chorus practiced diligently, while Scouts whooped it up square dancing. Backstage the set designer sloshed paint on canvas and the makeup committee practiced mass-production mascara application. “The Heritage of Our Future” played two nights to packed audiences. The drama dealt with the influence a young girl’s heritage has on her decision to not marry a nonmember and how that decision affects her future.

As I walked through the door of the Relief Society room, I avoided meeting the gaze of any of the sisters by pretending to look intently at a fly resting on the piano. Glancing up to see how far back I could sit, I spied a seat on the last row, deep in the corner. I sat down and began to thumb through my scriptures, hoping my studious appearance would help me avoid making eye contact. My mother had been my Young Women leader for four years and was still in Young Women as I, now 18, moved on to Relief Society. Suddenly my peers changed from Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels to ladies my mother’s age.
As women filed through the door, I recognized all their faces, yet they seemed unfamiliar in this setting. Sister Pratt had taught me in seminary; Sister Caton used to teach my Sunday School class; I often babysat Sister Bent’s children. How could I ever relate to these women who had so much more life experience than I did?
The chatter began to die down as the clock ticked closer to the start of the meeting. Nobody sat by me. The empty seats surrounding me began to feel like a force field that was keeping me from joining the fellowship and camaraderie the others seemed to share.
I began shifting in my chair, wishing I could go back to the Young Women room to girls with whom I shared interests, friends, experiences, and the same decade of birth. Suddenly my “force field” was penetrated by a whisper in front of me.
“Heidi,” Sister Pratt said.
I looked up to see her beckoning me to sit by her.
“Come sit with us.”
I smiled as a rush of relief swept over me. Although I had chosen to sit alone, I was now grateful for the invitation to be included.
“Don’t ever try to sit on the back row again,” she said with a wink, as I sat down beside her.
Each week this wonderful warmth was repeated over and over again as other caring sisters invited me to sit with them until I felt truly loved by these sisters. It wasn’t long before I didn’t need to wait for an invitation.
I began to reach out to these sisters, just as they had reached out to me. I let their love engulf me and penetrate the wall I had built. I no longer felt a sense of dread as I entered the Relief Society room. These women with whom I had felt nothing in common soon became more than just sisters; they became my friends. I felt a part of the fold.

David’s heart thumped loudly in his chest, and he sat straight up in bed. Faint moonlight streamed through the bedroom window, leaving gray shadows on the walls. The only sound came from his brother Thomas’s heavy breathing as he lay asleep.
It had been only a dream. Two Indians had come into the yard. When David saw them, he ran to the house for protection. One of them drew an arrow from his quiver and shot at David, hitting him in the back. Then they entered his home, sneering at his mother and frightening her.
Although it had been a dream, it seemed real. David rubbed his back where the arrow had hit him in the dream. He had felt the blow.
After that David became very afraid at night. Thoughts of people trying to hurt his mother and younger brothers and sisters seemed real to him.
One day David found his father packing a satchel. “Why are you packing, Papa?” David asked.
“I’ll be gone with the cattle for a few days,” his father answered. “Don’t worry. It won’t be long. I’ll just be moving them to some fresh pasture.”
“I don’t want you to go,” David said.
“Everything will be all right,” his father replied. “I’ll be back in a few days.”
David watched sadly as his father took his satchel to the front gate where his horse was tied. After waving good-bye to the family, he rode off after the cattle. David felt sick inside. He tried not to worry, hoping everything would be all right like his father had said. But as evening drew near and the sun went down, his worries grew.
After supper the family prepared for bed. When they had all knelt down at their bedsides and said their prayers, they snuggled under the covers to go to sleep. But David couldn’t sleep. His heart pounded, and his mind raced. Through the open doorway of his bedroom, he could see his mother going to her bedroom.
At last his mother blew out the candle and went to sleep. But David still couldn’t close his eyes. He thought he heard noises around the house. His brother Thomas slept soundly, but the fear in David’s heart grew. What could he do? Tears trickled onto his pillow. The palms of his hands were sweaty, and he could still hear the noises around the house.
David decided to pray as his parents had taught him. He was sure the Lord would help him, but he had one problem: kneeling by the side of his bed. How could he leave the safety of his bed to kneel and pray? What if someone was hiding beneath his bed?
David knew that the only way he would be able to sleep was if he prayed to the Lord for help. At last he slowly climbed out of bed onto his knees. He asked the Lord to protect his mother and his family. All the noises died away, and a calm feeling entered David’s heart. A voice spoke clearly to him, saying, “Don’t be afraid. Nothing will hurt you.” David felt the sweet assurance that he would be safe in bed at night.
Snuggling under his covers, David fell asleep. He didn’t worry at night anymore. Even though it had been a difficult test for him to get out of bed and kneel to pray, he had prayed the way he knew he should. And the Lord answered his prayer.

Let me offer an example of a powerful woman who played a key role in the Restoration, who trusted in the Lord, and who leaned not unto her own understanding.
Shortly after the Church was organized in Palmyra, New York, Joseph Smith’s mother, Lucy Mack Smith, remained in Waterloo, New York, with a large group of Saints while her husband, Joseph Sr., and some of their sons, including Joseph Jr., departed before her for Kirtland, Ohio. Her responsibility was to bring this group to Ohio when she received word from her son, the Prophet.
Word came in early spring 1831. Lucy, with the help of some of the brethren, began to move the group to Buffalo, New York, with the intention of making passage to Ohio by ship on Lake Erie. She said: “When the brethren considered the spring sufficiently open for traveling on the water, we all began to prepare for our removal to Kirtland. We hired a boat … ; and … we numbered eighty souls.”
Then, as they pushed off into the Erie Canal and headed to Buffalo, she said: “I then called the brethren and sisters together, and reminded them that we were traveling by the commandment of the Lord, as much as Father Lehi was, when he left Jerusalem; and, if faithful, we had the same reasons to expect the blessings of God. I then desired them to be solemn, and to lift their hearts to God continually in prayer, that we might be prospered.”
About halfway to Buffalo from Waterloo, passage along the canal became impossible. Conditions for the 80 Saints were uncomfortable, and murmuring began almost immediately. Lucy, relying on the Lord, had to unite their faith. She told them: “No, no, … you will not starve, brethren, nor anything of that sort; only do be patient and stop your murmuring. I have no doubt but the hand of the Lord is over us.”
When they arrived in Buffalo on the fifth day after leaving Waterloo, the harbor leading to Lake Erie was frozen. They took passage on a ship with Captain Blake, a man acquainted with Lucy Smith and her family.
After a couple of days, although conditions on the ship were not conducive for all of them to stay while awaiting notice of departure, Lucy reported, “Captain Blake requested the passengers to remain on board, as he wished, from that time, to be ready to start at a moment’s warning; at the same time he sent out a man to measure the depth of the ice, who, when he returned, reported that it was piled up to the height of twenty feet [6 m], and that it was his opinion that we would remain in the harbor at least two weeks longer.”
This was devastating news to the group. Supplies were low and conditions were difficult. Lucy Mack Smith further recorded her admonition to the Saints: “You profess to put your trust in God, then how can you feel to murmur and complain as you do! You are even more unreasonable than the children of Israel were; for here are my sisters pining for their rocking chairs, and brethren from whom I expected firmness and energy, declare that they positively believe they shall starve to death before they get to the end of their journey. And why is it so? Have any of you lacked? … Where is your faith? Where is your confidence in God? Can you not realize that all things were made by him, and that he rules over the works of his own hands? And suppose that all the Saints here should lift their hearts in prayer to God, that the way might be opened before us, how easy it would be for him to cause the ice to break away, so that in a moment we could be on our journey!”
Now, please observe here the great faith of Mother Smith—how she chose to trust in the Lord and how she asked that the Saints with her not lean unto their own understanding:
“‘Now, brethren and sisters, if you will all of you raise your desires to heaven, that the ice may be broken up, and we be set at liberty, as sure as the Lord lives, it will be done.’ At that instant a noise was heard, like bursting thunder. The captain cried, ‘Every man to his post.’ The ice parted, leaving barely a passage for the boat, and so narrow that as the boat passed through[,] the buckets of the waterwheel were torn off with a crash, which, joined to the word of command from the captain, the hoarse answering of the sailors, the noise of the ice, and the cries and confusion of the spectators, presented a scene truly terrible. We had barely passed through the avenue when the ice closed together again, and the Colesville brethren were left in Buffalo, unable to follow us.
“As we were leaving the harbor, one of the bystanders exclaimed, ‘There goes the “Mormon” company! That boat is sunk in the water nine inches deeper than ever it was before, and, mark it, she will sink—there is nothing surer.’ In fact, they were so sure of it that they went straight to the [news] office and had it published that we were sunk, so that when we arrived at Fairport we read in the papers the news of our own death.”3

When he was a boy, President George Albert Smith was taught this principle by Karl G. Maeser. Years later he told a seminary graduating class, “A thirteen-year-old boy, whose thoughts galloped around as mine did couldn’t understand why I should be held accountable for my thoughts. I was sure Dr. Maeser was a truthful man; but I couldn’t understand how I could be charged for my thoughts because I couldn’t control them.” President Smith fretted over this idea, which stuck to him “like a burr” until one day it came to him “like a flash from the sky … of course you will be held accountable for your thoughts.” He explained, “When your life is complete in mortality, it will be the sum of your thoughts” (George Albert Smith Collection, Univ. of Utah, ms 36, Scrapbook 1, p. 256; ChurchNews, 16 Feb. 1946, p. 1).

In His love for us, God has decreed that any worthy man, regardless of wealth, education, color, cultural background, or language, may hold His priesthood. Thus, any properly ordained man who is clean in hand, heart, and mind can connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood. I learned this lesson well as a young missionary years ago in the South Pacific.

My first assignment was to a small island hundreds of miles from headquarters, where no one spoke English, and I was the only white man. I was given a local companion named Feki who was then serving a building mission and was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood.

After eight seasick days and nights on a small, smelly boat, we arrived at Niuatoputapu. I struggled with the heat, the mosquitoes, the strange food, culture, and language, as well as homesickness. One afternoon we heard cries of anguish and saw a family bringing the limp, seemingly lifeless body of their eight-year-old son to us. They wailed out that he had fallen from a mango tree and would not respond to anything. The faithful father and mother put him in my arms and said, “You have the Melchizedek Priesthood; bring him back to us whole and well.”

Though my knowledge of the language was still limited, I understood what they wanted, and I was scared. I wanted to run away, but the expressions of love and faith that shone from the eyes of the parents and brothers and sisters kept me glued to the spot.

I looked expectantly at my companion. He shrugged and said, “I don’t have the proper authority. You and the branch president hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.” Grasping at that straw, I said, “Then this is the duty of the branch president.”

No sooner had I said this than the branch president walked up. He had heard the commotion and returned from his garden. He was sweaty and covered with dirt and mud. I turned and explained what had happened and tried to give the young boy to him. He stepped back and said, “I will go and wash and put on clean clothes; then we will bless him and see what God has to say.”

In near panic, I cried, “Can’t you see? He needs help now!”

He calmly replied: “I know he needs a blessing. When I have washed myself and put on clean clothes, I will bring consecrated oil, and we will approach God and see what His will is. I cannot—I will not—approach God with dirty hands and muddy clothes.” He turned and left me holding the boy. I was speechless.

Finally he returned, clean in body and dress and, I sensed, in heart as well. “Now,” he said, “I am clean, so we will approach the throne of God.”

That marvelous Tongan branch president, with clean hands and a pure heart, gave a beautiful and powerful priesthood blessing. I felt more like a witness than a participant. The words of the Psalmist came to my mind: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? …

“He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart.” On that tiny island a worthy priesthood holder ascended into the hill of the Lord, and the power of the priesthood came down from heaven and authorized a young boy’s life to continue.

With the fire of faith glowing from his eyes, the branch president told me what to do. Much additional faith and effort was required, but on the third day that little eight-year-old boy, full of life, was reunited with his family.

I hope you understand and feel these truths. This was a tiny island in the midst of a huge ocean—with no electricity, no hospital, no doctors—but none of that mattered. For in addition to great love and faith, there was a branch president who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, who understood the importance of cleanliness of hand and heart and its outward expression in cleanliness of body and dress, who exercised the priesthood in righteousness and purity according to the will of God. That day his individual power in the priesthood was sufficient to connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood over earthly life.

When I look into the heavens at night and contemplate the endless galaxies therein, I am amazed at what a tiny dot our little earth is and how infinitesimally small I am. Yet I do not feel afraid, alone, insignificant, or distant from God. For I have witnessed His priesthood power connecting with clean hands and pure hearts on a tiny island in a vast ocean.

Eighteen-year-old Brandy Smith of Decatur also loves music. She has been playing piano for eight years and recently won a music scholarship for college. “I love music and I love the words that are written to the Church hymns,” she says. “I love to play the hymns and to have people sing while I play. It increases my testimony.”
That love of the hymns took on an even deeper meaning when, for a three-month period, the Young Women organization in her ward provided weekly visits to Nell Whitt, an older sister who was dying of cancer.
“We would clean her house and spend time talking with her,” Brandy says. “Then we would sing hymns with her. She loved Church songs.” The hymns were sweet to Sister Whitt. They made her feel at home.
Finding peace. Feeling at home. Whether you live in Huntsville, Alabama, or anywhere else in the Church, those are things the gospel can provide.
The LDS youth in the Huntsville stake know their region has been through centuries of history. They also know they can cope with the present and be ready for whatever comes in the future. Not only are these teenagers at home where they live; they’re at home praying to their Heavenly Father, at home giving service, developing talents, and following the Spirit. And they’re confident that, whatever the future might bring, faith in the Lord Jesus Christ will see them through.
“Ask people what they think of when they think of Huntsville, and it would most likely be the space program,” says Chris Carlson, 14, of the Madison Ward. “That’s a big thing here. But I just think of Huntsville as my home. Besides,” he adds, “with the Church and with the gospel, anywhere you go can feel like home.”
And that can make Alabama, or any other place, a home that’s sweet indeed.

Senior Classman Kevin Scott was assigned to preside over a dining table of ten freshmen midshipmen at the United States Naval Academy. Seniors at the Naval Academy at Annapolis assist in training new midshipmen not only in tactics, but also in courtesy and discipline.
During the dinner Senior Scott requested that each midshipman give his full name, his hometown, and his state.
One of the freshmen answered, “Midshipman Ernest Ward Sax, sir, from Salt Lake City, Utah.”
Senior Scott said, “Are you a Mormon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does that mean you do not smoke or drink liquor or coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have a copy of the Book of Mormon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you read it?” was the next question.
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you loan it to me?” requested Scott.
“Yes, sir.”
An unusual but friendly relationship developed, with an exchange of books and pamphlets between young Midshipman Sax of Salt Lake City and Senior Classman Scott of North Carolina.
Annapolis graduate Kevin Scott is now a Marine lieutenant in flight training in Florida. Newly baptized Kevin Scott is the ward mission leader, the “spark plug” of the ward missionary effort. He is now testifying to others about the restoration of the gospel and enthusiastically encouraging our members to spread the message.
Midshipman Ward Sax, now in his second year at Annapolis, is the son of a caring Mormon family, a young man who honored his priesthood responsibility.

My sister, Sandy, and I were playing in the cornfield on Saturday morning, pulling up dried cornstalks and piling them up for a fort, when I saw something white sticking out of the weeds by the road. I ran to see what it was. “Sandy!” I yelled, running back toward her.
“What’s wrong, Jamie? Did you see a snake?”
“It’s a horse!” I panted excitedly. “It’s white with a gold and orange and blue saddle. There’s a gold tassel on its head.”
We quickly ran back to the spot where I had discovered the horse. “See!” I shouted.
“Wow! I wonder where it came from.”
“It must be from a carousel,” I said.
“But how did it get here?”
“I don’t know. Who cares? It’s ours—finders, keepers! Help me carry it.”
“Carry it where?”
“Let’s put it in the old stable,” I said. “Dad never goes in there anymore since he bought the tractor and sold old Jake. It’ll be our secret. Just wait until we get the dirt washed off!” I rattled on excitedly, hardly stopping to get my breath.
Sandy and I managed to drag the horse into the old stable.
“Jamie, I just want you to tell me one thing,” said Sandy. “How are we going to ride this horse? It won’t stand up.”
“If we had a pole like the one on a carousel, we could stick it in the ground,” I said thoughtfully.
“But that wouldn’t be any fun,” Sandy objected. “It wouldn’t move.”
I sat on a bale of hay with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hand, trying to figure out what to do. Then I gazed up at the roof. “Do you think that if we got some ropes, we could hang the horse from that rafter so that it would swing back and forth?”
“That’s a great idea!” Sandy squealed. “Let’s try it. I’ll look for some rope, and you get a ladder.”
Sandy held the stable door open while I pulled the ladder in. She had found one rope hanging on the wall of the stable, but it wasn’t long enough.
“Let’s take the tire swing rope off the oak tree,” she suggested. “I’d rather swing on a horse than an old tire any day.”
The tire swing came down quickly. With two pieces of rope, we were on our way.
I held on to the ladder to keep it from slipping while Sandy climbed to the rafter. She locked her legs around the rafter and inched her way along with the rope held between her teeth. Then she hung the first rope over the rafter. “OK, bring me the other one,” she said.
With the second rope in place, we carefully made our way back down. One rope we tied around the horse’s neck, the other under its tail.
“I get the first ride,” I claimed, climbing onto the horse.
Sandy gave me a push.
“Hi yo, Silver!” I yelled as I sailed back and forth.
The next morning, between spoonfuls of oatmeal, Sandy and I grinned across the table at each other while Mom insisted that we hurry and get dressed for church.
My Primary lesson was about the Ten Commandments. When we got to “Thou shalt not steal,” I asked the teacher, “Is finding something and keeping it the same as stealing?”
She answered, “It’s wrong to keep something that belongs to someone else unless you honestly can’t find the rightful owner.”
After dinner the next day, Dad turned on the television to watch the local news. A reporter told about a missing carousel horse that had apparently fallen off the back of a truck. “If anyone knows anything about this horse,” he announced, “please call the police or the television station as soon as possible. It is not only a favorite mount on the carousel but also a valuable piece of equipment.”
I left the room, wandered slowly out to the stable, and stood looking at our horse. It must be the same horse, I thought. Then, But maybe it isn’t.
The rest of the day, I kept thinking about the horse and the fun that we were having. But it wasn’t as much fun, and I didn’t feel right when I tried to say my prayers that night. I had trouble falling asleep too.
When we got off the school bus the next day, we raced to the stable. Sandy got to the horse first and started to swing.
“What are we going to do?” Sandy asked.
“I don’t know, but I liked it better when I thought it was really ours. I’m going to call the TV station,” I said.
A couple of hours later, a truck pulled up in front of the house. The driver got out and said, “I’m looking for Jamie Thomas.”
“That’s me,” I answered gloomily.
“I understand that you found a carousel horse.”
“Yes sir.” I led him down to the stable. The horse was still hanging there. Sandy stood in the shadows, frowning at me.
“I know how hard this is for you,” the man said as he untied the ropes.
“Swinging on that horse must have been real fun.” He handed me an envelope. “You come to the fair this weekend, and you can have all the free rides that you want.”
After he left with the horse, I held the envelope out to Sandy. “It’s full of tickets,” I said.
“You’re kidding!” She looked inside. “You’re not kidding!”
We both grinned from ear to ear. And I felt a whole lot better.

“What?” I said incredulously. “I’m doing what? Dad, how could you?”
My dad just shook his head and waved me off, “Well, I thought you’d like to go on a rafting trip. You weren’t here to say, so I said yes.”
I stomped off angrily. My dad had accepted an invitation from the bishop for me to go on a weeklong rafting trip down the Colorado River with a bunch of kids from church. I had just spent over two weeks waterskiing with some of my real friends. I never expected to come home to the news that I was leaving the very next day to go rafting with the “church people.”
We had gone to church when I was younger, and I was baptized when I was eight. But shortly after that we moved from our old neighborhood to a new development. We slipped into inactivity, and no one seemed to notice. Now I was 16 and thought I was happy with my life. Even though my parents still raised me with high moral expectations like other Mormon kids, I still avoided people from church.
The next morning my parents dropped me at the Scoutmaster’s house. I recognized a few of the faces. I had gone to church with some of these guys when I was a kid. Some of them even went to my school.
As we started the long drive to the starting point of the trip, I was nervous about how things would be with the other boys. But everyone was cool. No one treated me like the “less-active kid.” It didn’t take long to feel like I was just part of the group.
I ended up having a great time. I liked these people. I listened to these boys and their leaders pray, and I felt something. Another boy, Todd, and I had become good friends. One day as we were waiting for dinner, we went for a walk. We found a set of train tracks and started walking along them.
We were goofing off and tossing rocks around when Todd suddenly said, “You know, you should come to church.”
I picked up another rock. “Yeah, maybe.” He didn’t say anything else about church then, but I remembered his invitation.
The whole experience was so different from the two weeks I had spent waterskiing. The adults on the skiing trip were always drunk, swearing at each other, and saying inappropriate things. The adults on the rafting trip were respectful toward us and one another. I was impressed, and I respected them for it.
After I returned home, the next Sunday I got up and got dressed for church. I knew enough to know that I should wear my best. As I came downstairs my mom and sisters were doing the dishes. “Hey, Gary, where are you going?” Mom asked.
“Uh,” I paused. “Church.” My mother seemed surprised (as did my sisters), but she just nodded. I went to church and sat in the back. For several weeks I went by myself.
Then one Saturday night my sister Patti said that she would go to church with me. Even though we liked the kids at church, we realized that going to church wasn’t about fitting in or having friends—church was about how we felt when we were there.
One day Patti and I were getting ready for church when we heard a call from downstairs, “Patti! Gary! We’re going to be late.” I went jogging down the stairs and saw my parents dressed and standing by the door. Our family was beginning to change.
I believe my bishop was inspired to invite me on that trip, and I believe my father was inspired to accept for me. The scriptures say, “Now ye may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).
One small invitation led a family back to church. I earned my Eagle Scout Award and went on a mission. Patti and I each got married in the temple to returned missionaries. We’re now raising our own families in the gospel.
If you invite a less-active person to an activity, it may or may not impact their lives. But if you don’t invite them, it definitely won’t.

Being a member of the Church for the past 13 years, I love visiting less-active members to see how they are doing and to share with them the love of Jesus Christ for His children. I remember one Saturday, kneeling down and praying to Heavenly Father to help me to reach those who need my comfort and to understand Christ’s love for them. When I finished my prayer, I felt a prompting of the Spirit to visit one of the less-active sisters. She hadn’t been to church for a long time. When I gave her a call, she told me she was in the hospital and was diagnosed with a serious illness. Although I am blind, I decided to go by myself to visit the sister, even though I didn’t get anyone to go with me to the hospital.
When she saw me, she was filled with joy and said, “You are the first person who visited me”. I shared with her the story of Lazarus, and how, because of his faith, Christ raised him from the dead (see John 11:1–44).
A few weeks later, this sister came to church and gave her testimony about her first visit by a member of the Church. She shared how it strengthened her testimony and gave her a new hope in life to understand our Heavenly Father’s plan for His children.

Youth in the Short Hills Ward, Caldwell New Jersey Stake, got their “mission calls” a few years early, when a group of missionaries in their area planned “the ultimate missionary Saturday” for them at the local meetinghouse.
The youth were instructed in advance to wear missionary clothing, bring their scriptures, and keep an arm’s length from the opposite sex. Once they arrived, they got a mini-MTC experience, then went tracting through the building, where members were staged and gave them both rejection experiences and discussion-teaching experiences.
By the end of the day, some were reluctant to be “released.” Others decided they would try to carry the missionary spirit they’d gained that day with them for the rest of their lives.

One day while I was ironing, one-year-old Claire began to cry in her crib. It was naptime, and I knew that if I could quickly give her a pacifier, she would fall back to sleep. Three-year-old Lucy was playing in the room where I was ironing. I debated for a moment and then decided to keep the iron on, knowing I’d be out of the room for only a few moments. “Lucy, do you see that iron on my tall table?” I asked. “It’s VERY hot. I need to give Claire her pacifier. Please don’t touch the iron while I’m gone, or it will hurt you.”
I was sure Lucy understood, so I quickly slipped out of the room. I returned a moment later, and I heard a whimper from behind a chair.
“Lucy?” I asked. “Where are you?”
She didn’t reply.
“Are you OK? Why are you hiding?”
I walked over behind the chair and sat on the floor. Her face was buried in her hands. After a few refusals to tell me what happened, she finally said, “Mommy, I touched your iron.”
At first I was confused that she hadn’t heeded my warning. Then I felt heartbroken that she would hide from me after making a small mistake, afraid she had lost my love and confidence. I knew she was powerless to take the pain away, and only I could help her burned finger feel better. I comforted Lucy, and as I rushed her to the bathroom sink to ease the pain, the Spirit whispered to my heart: “This is how Heavenly Father feels when His children fail to heed His warnings and won’t allow Him to ease their pain when they need it most.” In that moment I felt such joy at this knowledge and a confidence in the Lord’s willingness to teach me.

George Albert also learned a great lesson at the knee of Brigham Young. When he was only five years old, his mother dressed him in his black velvet suit and sent him to see Brigham Young. He carried a letter asking for help in buying some railroad tickets to go to Ogden. George Albert’s father was serving a mission in Great Britain, and his mother needed some assistance.
George Albert walked the two blocks to President Young’s office and pushed open the huge timber gate in the wall that then surrounded the headquarters of the Church. He found himself face to face with a large security guard named John Smith, who demanded of the boy, “What do you want?” Frightened, George answered, “I want to see President Young,” to which the man bellowed back, “President Young has no time for the likes of you.” According to President Smith’s own account, he was by now nearly ready to faint, but just then the door of the office opened and President Young walked out and asked: “‘What’s wanted, John?’
“John replied, ‘Here is a little fellow wants to see President Young,’ and then he roared with laughter. He thought it was a good joke. But with all the dignity in the world, President Young said to him, ‘John, show him in.’
“There was nothing else the guard could do then but to let me in and he took me up to the porch where President Young was standing. …
“President Young took me by the hand and led me into his office, sat down at his desk and lifted me up on his knee and put his arm around me. In the kindest way one could imagine, he said, ‘What do you want of President Young?’
“Just think of it! He was President of a great Church and Governor of a Territory, and with all the duties he had to perform, yet I as a little boy was received with as much dignity, and kindness as if I had come as a governor from an adjoining state.”
George Albert never forgot that lesson in courtesy, and he always tried to be sensitive to other people’s feelings, regardless of their station in life.

“One time my friends were going somewhere to smoke,” says Norelia, “and I said, ‘Remember what my religion is? I don’t do those things.’ Some of them have come to understand that smoking is a dirty habit and have tried to stop. They call me ‘the perfect one’ and always ask me for advice. I tell them I’m not perfect but I try to live the standards of my church. They respect my beliefs, and I think I have sown a few seeds that may be a source of strength to them someday.”

When I was a full-time student in England from 1948–1950 at the University of Nottingham, I did not have the good fortune to be a Latter-day Saint. I did not have the understanding of my purpose in life, and of the pattern of progress and effort required to fulfill my purpose. Academically, athletically, and socially, I did reasonably well. Spiritually, I was somewhat lacking, for I had a form of religion without real substance. I had been active in my church all my life, but could not have answered basic doctrinal questions if challenged to do so.
My real progress commenced when I was almost twenty-four years old. I had just graduated with honors in economics and law, and had started my career in industry as a management trainee with a large textiles, chemicals, and plastics company.
Within weeks, Mormon missionaries were led—and I repeat were led—to our door. As a matter of fact, the Lord sent three missionaries to our door. (He knew it might be tough.) Furthermore, my wife informed me they all had the same first name—Elder.
Everyone who has seen the excellent filmstrip in which President Kimball shows us how to be member missionaries knows there are certain circumstances which make friendshipping easier. We were an excellent example of changed circumstances making us more receptive to the gospel message. Not only had I just commenced my first civilian employment, but we had moved into a new home and, to top it all, our second baby had just arrived.
Yes, many of our circumstances in life had changed; but through the missionaries, our whole outlook on life subsequently changed. We were taught the plan of salvation, God’s plan for our eternal progression—God’s plan to help us reach full development, which is true maturity.
Our values changed, and therefore our standards of measurement changed, as we realized the truthfulness of the message the missionaries taught. Our lives started to become fuller and more purposeful, to ripen and mature. That message I declare to you in all solemnity and power. Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of the Eternal Father, is our personal Savior and Redeemer. He has restored his church and gospel as was prophesied and has once again spoken through holy prophets, beginning with the Prophet Joseph Smith.