Gospel Story Finder

During my school’s values-education month, our teacher asked us to write an essay titled “Why am I here?” It had to be a 10-paragraph essay on the topic of our purpose in life. As I read the topic on the board, my heart was filled with comfort and happiness. As a member of the Church, I had known my purpose as a daughter of God for many years. But as I looked at my other classmates’ faces, my heart was filled with sadness. Why? Because they started to murmur regarding the difficulty of the topic. They didn’t have the same knowledge I did.
When I turned in my essay, I realized how blessed I am to be a member of the one true Church. From that day on, my desire to serve a mission and share my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ was strengthened.
I know that Heavenly Father loves me and wants me to be with Him someday. I also know that it is my purpose to serve others.
Jaymee A., Philippines

In 1956 Lee Wing Foon and his wife, Lee Kan Shui Tao, joined the Church. “I felt like an entirely new person when I was baptized,” Brother Lee remembers. At the time, however, meetings were held quite far from his home, and money was tight. The English Book of Mormon Brother Lee bought cost two days’ wages, and transportation to meetings proved costly. Gradually the Lees stopped attending.
“But I kept my English Book of Mormon,” says Brother Lee, who at the time was working as a civilian driver in the British Army. “It was a prized possession.”
Through the years missionaries occasionally visited, and three years ago two sisters issued a challenge. “They asked me to start reading the Book of Mormon,” he says. “They even came and read it with me once a week.”
However, attending Church was difficult. Eight years ago, Sister Lee had a stroke. She is unable to walk, and Brother Lee, now retired, spends much of his time caring for her. “It’s difficult for me to leave her alone,” he explains.
Missionaries continued to visit the Lees to read scriptures. And in September 1995, Brother Lee had a wonderful surprise. Jerry Wheat, the missionary who had baptized him four decades earlier, walked into his home with the elders. “I am serving as a public affairs missionary in Hong Kong,” Elder Wheat explained. “I had wondered what happened to Brother Lee, and when I asked and found out the missionaries were visiting him, I was thrilled to accompany them.”
The first time the two met, they hugged like old friends and caught up on each other’s lives. Elder Wheat returned again to the Lee home, this time to talk about the temple. “I challenged him to prepare himself to be sealed to his wife,” Elder Wheat explains. “He accepted.”
Since then, Brother Lee has made arrangements for neighbors or ward members to watch his wife while he attends church. With the assistance of ward members, he and his wife attended the ceremony celebrating the statue of the angel Moroni being placed on the top of the temple. They were sealed together in the Hong Kong Temple within the first few days of its opening.
“Being sealed is a great blessing, one that not everyone has,” Brother Lee says. “I am so grateful for the missionaries—those first elders that taught me, the sisters who showed such great compassion and love by reading the scriptures with me, and the missionaries who continue to visit me now. The gospel is true, and the Book of Mormon is proof of that.”

After winning a silver medal in the 1960 Olympic 400-meter hurdles in Rome, Cliff Sushman fell in the 1964 Olympic trials and missed a chance to go to Tokyo. Several fans in his hometown wrote to Cliff expressing sympathy. His reply:
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for some of you.
“In a split second all the many years of training, pain, sweat, blisters, and agony of running were simply and irrevocably wiped out. But I tried. I would much rather fall knowing I had put forth an honest effort than never to have tried at all … Each of you is capable of trying to make your own personal Olympic team, whether it be a school football team, the singing club, the List of students who receive high grades in school, or whatever your role may be. Unless you strive to achieve more than is readily available to you, how can you be sure what you can attain?
“… Certainly I was disappointed in falling flat on my face. However, there is nothing I can do about it now but get up, pick the cinders from my wounds, and take one more step, followed by one more and one more, until the steps turn into kilometers and the kilometers turn into success.
“I know that I may never reach my goal. The odds are against me, but I have something in my favor—desire and faith.
“Some of you have never known the satisfaction of doing your best in sports, the joy of excelling in class, the wonderful feeling of completing the job and looking back on it knowing you have done your best.
“… There is plenty of room at the top, but no room for anyone to sit down.”

Dad had a busy life, but he still made time for his family. When I was a Boy Scout, our troop planned to go down the Rogue River in Oregon, USA, in kayaks we had built ourselves. Dad volunteered to go with us even though he was not the camping, sleeping-on-the-ground kind. We spent hours in the garage working together building our two-man kayak.
Before long, we were on the river. I took the pivot position in front, and Dad took the back. As we progressed down the river, we soon headed into particularly dangerous falls.
The nose of our kayak went deep into the water at the bottom of the falls and turned over, tossing us both through the splashguard into the river. I came up and looked for Dad but couldn’t see him. He eventually bobbed up, sputtering, and we managed to right the kayak and get back in. Before we could make it to shore to assess what happened, the river swept us into the next set of rapids. We didn’t have time to get the kayak lined up again when an eddy spun us around, and we shot through a long set of rapids backwards and out of control.
We eventually made it back to camp that evening along with the other Scouts. Dad told us in some detail the story of Job. From the day’s events and the account of Job, we learned that life is not always easy. The next morning, rather than return home, Dad climbed back into our little boat and off we went. This experience taught me what a great man does when he values his family.

Some years ago, I was with President Marion G. Romney, meeting with mission presidents and their wives in Geneva, Switzerland. He told them that 50 years before, as a missionary boy in Australia, late one afternoon he had gone to a library to study. When he walked out, it was night. He looked up into the starry sky, and it happened. The Spirit touched him, and a certain witness was born in his soul.
He told those mission presidents that he did not know any more surely then as a member of the First Presidency that God the Father lives; that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, the Only Begotten of the Father; and that the fulness of the gospel had been restored than he did as a missionary boy 50 years before in Australia. He said that his testimony had changed in that it was much easier to get an answer from the Lord. The Lord’s presence was nearer, and he knew the Lord much better than he had 50 years before.

A friend of mine told the following story:
“There was a little crippled boy who ran a small newsstand in a crowded railroad station. He must have been about twelve years old. Every day he would sell papers, candy, gum, and magazines to the thousands of commuters passing through the terminal.
“One night two men were rushing through the crowded station to catch a train. One was fifteen or twenty yards in front of the other. It was Christmas eve. Their train was scheduled to depart in a matter of minutes.
“The first man turned a corner and in his haste to get home to a Christmas cocktail party plowed right into the little crippled boy. He knocked him off his stool, and candy, newspapers, and gum were scattered everywhere. Without so much as stopping, he cursed the little fellow for being there and rushed on to catch the train that would take him to celebrate Christmas in the way he had chosen for himself.
“It was only a matter of seconds before the second commuter arrived on the scene. He stopped, knelt, and gently picked up the boy. After making sure the child was unhurt, the man gathered up the scattered newspapers, sweets, and magazines. Then he took his wallet and gave the boy a five dollar bill. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘I think this will take care of what was lost or soiled. Merry Christmas!’
“Without waiting for a reply the commuter now picked up his briefcase and started to hurry away. As he did, the little crippled boy cupped his hands together and called out, ‘Mister, Mister!’
“The man stopped as the boy asked, ‘Are you Jesus Christ?’
“By the look on his face, it was obvious the commuter was embarrassed by the question. But he smiled and said, ‘No, son. I am not Jesus Christ, but I am trying hard to do what He would do if He were here’” (American Opinion, Dec. 1971, pp. 13–14).

An elders quorum presidency decided that to truly bless the lives of the quorum members, active and less-­active alike, they needed to know which saving ordinances were missing in the lives of their quorum members. They then shared this sensitive but important information with the ministering brothers for their ministering families. With this information, the assigned ministering brothers were able to help many to prepare to receive these missing saving ordinances. How great was their joy to see their brothers return to and follow the “covenant path.”

With those two extremes in mind, I would now like to give some examples which might help us attain that elusive balance between the spiritual and intellectual faculties. About seven years ago I was working as the new managing director of the Welfare Services Department of the Church. We were at a critical stage in the history of welfare. It was time to go through an agonizing reappraisal of the program in light of current world conditions. I was greatly worried and concerned.
After praying for a solution, I had a terrific thought. I decided I would ask to meet with some of the General Authorities. When I met with them, I poured out my concerns and added my feeling that we were at a stage where further revelation on the subject was necessary. Then I sat back with my note pad and waited for their inspired answers.
None of them just gave me the answers. Instead, each gave me the same counsel: “Brother Pace, you are absolutely right, we do need revelation. Now, go get it!” I had to study and research and meditate to formulate some recommendations that I could then take back to the Brethren.
Although study and thought are essential in discerning the Lord’s will for us, there is an avenue to truth greater than intellect and more certain than the five senses. The most glorious of all avenues to truth is direct revelation from heaven.

I remember once in 1957, while I was acting as a new president of a branch in Argentina, I decided to interview the members with respect to the importance of paying tithing. I found myself talking with one good brother of the branch whose name was Jose, who had difficulty paying his tithing. I asked him bluntly, “Brother Jose, why don’t you pay your tithing?” I’m sure Jose didn’t expect me to be so direct.
After a moment of silence he responded: “As you know, President, I have two children. The wage of a laborer is very low. This month I have to buy my children shoes to go to school; and, mathematically, I just don’t have enough money.”
In an instant response, I said, “Jose, I promise you that if you pay your tithing faithfully, your children will have their shoes to go to school, and you will be able to pay for all the needs of your home. I don’t know how he will do it, but the Lord always keeps his promises. Besides that,” I added, “If you still find that you don’t have enough money, I will give you back what you paid in tithing from my own pocket.”
On the way home, I wondered if what I had done was the right thing. Here I was, recently married, just getting started in my career, and faced with my own economic problems. I began to worry about my own shoes, let alone those of Jose’s family! Even though when I got home my dear wife wholeheartedly supported me and reassured me that everything would be all right, I must say that that night nobody prayed harder for Brother Jose’s economic welfare than I did.
One month later, I once again sat down with Jose. Though the tears in his eyes almost made it impossible for him to speak, he said: “President, it is incredible. I paid my tithing; I was able to meet all of my obligations, and I even purchased the new shoes for my children, all without an increase in my wage. I know that the Lord keeps his promises!”
Jose remains to this day a faithful tithe payer.

Recently I observed such a mighty change in a man whom I first met about 10 years ago. He had come to a stake conference at which his son was sustained as a member of the new stake presidency. This father was not a member of the Church. After his son had been set apart, I put my arms around this father and praised him for having such a wonderful son. Then I boldly declared: “The day will come when you will want to have this son sealed to you and your wife in a holy temple. And when that day comes, I would be honored to perform that sealing for you.”

During the subsequent decade, I did not see this man. Six weeks ago he and his wife came to my office. He greeted me warmly and recounted how startled he was with my earlier invitation. He didn’t do much about it until later, when his hearing began to fail. Then he awakened to the realization that his body was changing and that his time on earth was indeed limited. In due course he ultimately lost his hearing. At the same time, he became converted and joined the Church.

During our visit he summarized his total transformation: “I had to lose my hearing before I could heed the great importance of your message. Then I realized how much I wanted my loved ones to be sealed to me. I am now worthy and prepared. Will you please perform that sealing?” This I did with a deep sense of gratitude to God.

“Are you crazy?” Erroll Bennett’s father raged when he heard of his son’s intention to join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Have you gone mad? You’ll have to give up everything—everything you’ve worked for. You can’t possibly know what you’re doing!”
Waving aside his son’s protestations, he insisted: “If you do this, I don’t want to know you. Take everything in this house that belongs to you and don’t ever set foot across this door again.”
Driving with his wife to his parents’ home that evening in 1977, pondering how he would break the news, Erroll reflected on the recent events that had begun to change his life so dramatically.
Yet none of this pressure had been as difficult to cope with as the prospect of facing his own father, whom he loved and respected deeply, and who was passionately proud of his son’s sporting accomplishments.
To hear Brother Bennett recreate the scene today is to recognize that the experience touched him deeply. He had always been close to his parents, but now his father was adamant. “You have erected a wall between us. I want no more to do with you.” And, he added, he would not want to see his son’s third child—the baby his wife was then expecting.
Erroll and his wife left his parents’ home that evening in tears, desperately unhappy, yet knowing they could not reject the gospel. The depth of their conviction would now have to prove equal to whatever pressures were brought to bear.
Erroll’s first action, though he still was not a member, was to seek out his friend, Bishop Terooatea, for counsel. The footballer fondly recalls how the bishop listened, then urged Erroll to make the first step in reconciliation, to put aside the question of baptism until he had made this final attempt. He then explained the principle of priesthood blessings and of how priesthood authority could be used to help him.
That evening, Erroll received a priesthood blessing for the first time, with longtime LDS friend and fellow soccer enthusiast Noel Tarati acting as voice. Brother Tarati quietly promised Erroll that the difficult problem would be resolved, and that his father would receive him if he returned, even though some strong things had been said.
The next day, Erroll again drove out to his father’s home. As he approached the house, he could see his father standing by the gate to the front garden. There were tears in his eyes. “I want you to forgive me, Erroll,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about it. If you hadn’t come here first, I would have come to you.”
Then he continued: “You know that thousands of people will be disappointed in you. It will mean the end of your career if you won’t play on Sundays. You know that Napoléon Spitz isn’t going to change the entire football league schedule just to accommodate you. Still, this is your decision. All I ask is that you don’t raise the subject again. It’s closed.”

Thank you for the article “Praying Our Way to Church” (June 2010). When we are out of town on vacation my family rarely attends church. Recently I spent two weeks at a summer writing program and didn’t plan on attending church while I was away. During the plane ride I came across the article and read it with great interest. I prayed to find a way to go to church that next Sunday. I found out that I had to have a permission slip to be released from the campus, but after a little persistence I was able to attend Sunday meetings.
Samantha F.

A stirring example of their powerful desire to live the gospel is the story of Peter Vidmar, gold medalist in gymnastics at the 1984 Olympic Games.
As a boy of 11, Peter joined the Culver City Gym Club.
“And nobody after that could ever fault him for his drive, or his desire, or his purpose. Six days a week he worked out at the club, three to four hours a day and 10 on Saturday.
“Peter’s coaches, the widely respected Sakamoto brothers, Makato and Isamu, were suitably impressed. Not only was this kid willing to put forth the effort, he had potential.
“With more hard work they told him he could be world-class. And that would mean working out on Sunday as well.
“End of career. Or so it seemed.
“A teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood at the time in the Westchester 2nd Ward, Inglewood California Stake, Peter didn’t need to go to his bishop to ask what he should do. Even though that would have been easy since his father, John Vidmar, was the bishop.
“He told the Sakamotos he couldn’t train on Sunday for religious reasons.
“They kicked him out of the club.
“In their rigid training regimen, the Sakamotos looked at disobeying a coach as anathema. They had asked an athlete to follow an order and he had rebelled. In their minds they had no choice.
“Neither did Peter, who accepted the consequences and began searching for an alternate program. He couldn’t find a suitable replacement and began working out at nearby Venice High School, mainly on his own. It was not a happy time for a 15-year-old boy whose road to the Olympic Games had hit upon a detour.
“Happily, the impasse didn’t last. After four weeks, the Sakamotos came to Peter. They were now convinced it was a strong religious principle he was honoring—his persistence in staying away proved that—and they said he could be reinstated.
“From there it was nothing more complicated than work and success and then more work and more success, six days a week.
“When it came time to choose a college, Vidmar chose nearby UCLA since Makato Sakamoto would be his coach there as well. Through four years together they produced four NCAA all-around titles. Naturally, they moved on in tandem to the Olympic Games, which would be held not only in their home town, but in their college gym.
“When Vidmar finally got to the top of the Olympic parastyle, gold draped around his neck, nobody on earth knew better what he had gone through than Makato Sakamoto, who stood just off to the side and gestured with joy himself.
“Not only had he taught Peter how to get to the top, he had learned a lesson from his pupil in the process: You can get there without working out on Sunday. In fact, Sakamoto no longer coaches on Sunday, reserving that time for his family at home.
“‘He found out he needed that time away from the gym, and changed his thinking,’ says John Vidmar, Peter’s dad and former bishop.
“Brother Vidmar recalls that dilemma that threatened his son’s career when he was not quite 15 years of age.
“‘He was devastated about getting kicked out of the club. He loved gymnastics,’ he related. ‘But he never wavered. He didn’t ask me what he should do. He just told me, ‘No way, Dad, I won’t work on Sunday’” (Church News, 12 Aug. 1984, pp. 7, 11).

One night a grandfather was reading a story to his four-year-old granddaughter when she looked up and said, “Grandpa, look at the stars!” The older man smiled kindly and said, “We’re indoors, honey. There are no stars here.” But the child insisted, “You have stars in your room! Look!”
The grandfather looked up and, to his surprise, noticed that the ceiling was peppered with a metallic glitter. It was invisible most of the time, but when the light struck the glitter a certain way, it did indeed look like a field of stars. It took the eyes of a child to see them, but there they were. And from that moment on, when the grandfather walked into this room and looked up, he could see what he had not been able to see before.

By December 1827 there had been several attempts to steal the plates, so Joseph decided to move with Emma to the home of her parents in Harmony Township, Pennsylvania.

When Joseph and Emma arrived, Joseph allowed Isaac Hale, Emma’s father, to heft the plates in a box. Isaac later stated, “I was allowed to feel the weight of the box, and they gave me to understand, that the book of plates was then in the box.” Yet he was unconvinced and dissatisfied with the situation. He told Joseph to either show him the plates or remove them from his house. Joseph hid the plates in the nearby woods until he and Emma moved into their own home on the Hale property.10

Michael Morgan, 14, and his mom, Cheri, also played the bagpipes at Nauvoo. They both learned how to play four years ago as a tribute to Michael’s grandfather, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer. “He really liked the bagpipes,” explains Michael. “So my mom thought, why not let him listen to them before he dies and not just have them played at his funeral.” After hearing the bagpiper play at his grandfather’s bedside, Michael and his mom decided to take lessons together. Now they are part of a bagpipe band that tours the country. “Developing a talent together as a family is great,” says Sister Morgan. “When you spend so much time together, you can’t help but communicate; you are close because you are together.” Michael agrees and adds, “It’s fun to be unique.”

A dramatic change occurred in the life of Howard W. Hunter on 9 October 1959. He and Claire had gone to Salt Lake City to attend the October general conference, and Howard received a note saying President David O. McKay would like to visit with him. President McKay informed him: “Tomorrow you’re going to be sustained as a member of the Council of the Twelve.”

After his name had been presented in general conference and he had been sustained, President Clark invited him to take his place with the Twelve on the stand. He recalled, “My heart increased its pounding as I climbed the steps. Elder Hugh B. Brown moved over to make room for me and I took my place as the twelfth member of the Quorum. I felt the eyes of everyone fastened upon me as well as the weight of the world on my shoulders. As the conference proceeded I was most uncomfortable and wondered if I could ever feel that this was my proper place.”

This calling came, of course, as a great surprise, and it brought great changes into the lives of Elder Hunter and his wife, Claire. After twenty-five years in Los Angeles, they left their business associates, Church members, and cherished friends in California. But the decision itself was easy because Elder Hunter had long ago established a hierarchy of values upon which his personal, professional, and spiritual decisions were based. Service to God ranked highest of all on his list of priorities.

Dan’s thoughts turned to a story a favorite bishop had told him, something which had happened on another Christmas Eve many years ago. His bishop had been a soldier in basic training. It had looked as though there might be no Christmas leave—had looked as though Private Benjamin Clark would have to spend Christmas far from his friends and loved ones.
And then at the last minute had come the welcome orders: Seven days’ Christmas leave, effective immediately.
It had been too late for Ben to make plane reservations—too late to catch a bus out of Monterey. It had been too late to ride home with other Church members from the camp—too late to do anything but walk to the highway and try to get a ride from passing motorists.
A truckdriver named “Red” with a load of California produce had picked up Ben and carried him east into Nevada. He had joined his baritone voice with Red’s Irish tenor, and they had sung up all the Christmas songs either of them had known.
And then in Nevada he had stood in the cold for so long, waiting for a ride north and home. There never was much traffic on that stretch of road—and on a late Christmas Eve night, well …
But at last a car, headlights shining through the dark, had appeared, had slowed, had pulled to a stop, had picked him up. Thank goodness they had been going his way and said they could take him almost all the way to his home town.
Dan recalled how the bishop had described what came next: It was not until he and his army bag were in the back seat and the car had been moving that the young soldier realized the three young men in the front seat were drunk—and getting drunker. They had offered Ben a drink from their bottle and had been offended when he declined.
The young soldier in the back seat had become alarmed. The driver had been much too drunk; the car had been going much too fast; the car radio had been much too loud. A feeling of darkness, of foreboding had filled Ben’s mind as he considered his situation.
Finally, he had said it: “Please! Stop the car! I want to get out!”
The reply had been loud laughter from the front seat. “You hang on, soldier boy, because we’re not stopping for nobody and nothing.”
For several fearful kilometers Ben had listened to the sound of the tires on the highway, the loud music on the radio, the reckless talk and the loud laughter from the front seat. He had endured the strong smell of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey all around him.
With each kilometer, he had feared more for his life. In his fear, he had turned to prayer. “Heavenly Father, I’m in bad trouble, and I don’t see how I can get out of it. Please help me. Please protect me and preserve my life. Heavenly Father, I’m afraid, and I really need thy help. …”
Dan could recall his bishop’s very words: “And then had come a very quiet, very peaceful prompting telling me to get down on the floor of the car and put my heavy army bag over me.”
He had done so immediately. In the narrow space between the front seat and the back, Ben had hunched down, had wedged himself in tightly, had pulled the weight of the bag over onto his back. Then he had put his forehead on the floor and his hands over his head.
A few minutes later seemed like the end of the world. There had been the sound of screaming tires, the wild swerving of the car out of control—and the jolting, jarring, impact of two high-speed vehicles coming together.
Much later, the young Latter-day Saint soldier had regained consciousness. He had found himself in a black world where he could move neither arms nor legs nor head. There had seemed to be no up nor down, no left nor right, nothing to help orient him. Nothing had stirred within the dead car—except for the smells of gasoline and of vomited whiskey—of sudden death in what had been a front seat.
Perhaps an hour had passed before a big truck had pulled to a stop at the remote accident site. Two truckers had radioed the police for help, surmised that no one in either car could have survived such total destruction.
But the police had discovered otherwise. Along with the dead couple in one car and the three dead teenage boys in the other, they had found and then rescued Private Benjamin Clark.
“Young man,” one trooper had said, “you aren’t too good at picking folks to ride with, but I suspect someone is looking over you and protecting you. I hope you do something good with your life, because you owe Him one. Only God could have brought you through this night with not one scratch on your body.”

It was one of those warm summer afternoons, the kind of soft and lazy day that seems to envelop the mind in daydreams and push out thoughts of work or study. While I’d been on my mission, this had been the hardest kind of day to keep my mind on the work. Now it was the same way with school. Since before noon I’d been up in the foothills east of campus collecting root samples. My lab partner and I had been collecting them for a botany project. It had taken us about twice as long as it should have, because we spent as much time chasing butterflies as we did collecting plants. After we had finally completed our collection, my lab partner had given me a lift back to civilization, and I’d caught a bus for home. It was Friday afternoon, and with the quiet spell of the early summer day still tugging at my brain, I decided as I rode along to dedicate Saturday to sunny beaches and cool water.
I was beginning to envision the day in a little finer detail when the air brakes gave a familiar hiss and I noticed a small Chicano boy getting on at the front of the bus. The bus was only about half full. There were several empty seats between the front and myself, so I paid little attention. Gazing back out the window, I let my mind drift again to my imaginary weekend.
But just as I was getting back to my daydream, I caught sight of that boy again out of the corner of my eye. He had passed two empty seats and seemed headed straight for the one next to me. He was about nine or ten, dressed in well-faded but clean jeans and a red-checkered shirt. The shirt seemed a little too big, probably a hand-me-down. As he approached, I stared determinedly out the window, hoping he’d pass by my seat in favor of one of the empty ones behind. No such luck.
“Hi, mister,” he said, plopping down next to me. He had a smile so big it seemed about a size and a half too wide for his face. I didn’t want to smile back, but his grin was too contagious; I couldn’t help myself.
“Hello,” I answered, trying to regain my stern composure.
“Nice day, huh?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “nice day.” This time I managed not to smile, and I looked back out the window hoping that would end the conversation. It was a day too well suited for daydreaming to waste talking to some little kid about the weather. There was silence for a moment, and I began to relax again, conjuring up visions of playing volleyball on the beach.
“Hey, mister, you married?”
“What?” I asked, turning back to the boy. His smile, if possible, seemed even a little wider than before.
“You married?”
“No.” I answered coldly, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Oh,” he said, looking down disappointed, his smile fading. I seemed to have momentarily caught him off-guard. He was thinking. Then in an instant he looked up again, his eyes brighter than ever. “But you’re going to get married, right?”
I tried not to smile, but his eyes and that row of teeth made it impossible. “Yes,” I said smiling back, “I guess I will.”
“And when you get married, mister, are you going to love your wife?”
Now he had caught me off-guard. The question seemed out of place coming from someone so young. I felt like he was leading up to something, but I wasn’t sure what. “Of course,” I answered cautiously, “of course I will.”
“And when you love somebody, you always want to be with them, don’t you, mister, even after you die?”
Suddenly it hit me! He was asking me a Golden Question. He was a Mormon. I sat there looking at him. I didn’t answer; I didn’t know what to say. How many times had I asked almost that same question? How many times on the buses and streets of Brazil while I was on my mission? But that was my mission; that was then, not now. It seemed inconceivable that those same words were being repeated to me here, at home, by a ten-year-old boy. The bus was slowing rapidly and the boy stood up, taking something from his back pocket and handing it to me.
“Hey, mister, I got to get off here. Take this. It’s got the name of two of my friends on it. If you want to know more, give them a call. Good-bye, mister.” And he was gone.
I sat staring at the pamphlet he had given me. It was folded in half and a little tattered at the corners. I unfolded it and read the title, “The Plan of Salvation.”
I’d come home from my mission almost two years ago. I’d brought home my missionary journal, color slides, souvenirs, and a lot of memories. But I’d left my mission behind. How many people had I told about the Church in the time I’d been home? How many Golden Questions had I asked? How many nonmembers did I know who might be interested if only I’d bring up the subject? I’d just been taught a lesson about missionaries that I hadn’t learned in the whole time I’d been on a mission, and it had been taught to me by a young boy with nothing but a testimony and a smile.
The bus was filling up with people now. We were near the center of town and it was almost 5:00. A young man in a business suit sat down next to me. Self-consciously I stuffed the pamphlet in my shirt pocket and looked down at my feet. I was still thinking about that boy; as young as he was, he was still more of a missionary than I’d ever been. I glanced up again. The man next to me was looking out the window, probably daydreaming.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” I said without thinking.
“Yes,” he smiled back, “a very pretty day.”
I sat for a moment, fingering the pamphlet in my pocket. Then, mustering my biggest smile, I asked, “Say, are you married?”

Tamton and Taake feel they have been richly blessed by the Lord. Several years ago, Tamton wanted to build a large fish trap to support his family. But to build one, he needed to take thousands of rocks out into the ocean. The task seemed impossible. He had only a small canoe and just his sons to help.
“I prayed hard about the problem,” he says. “The next day I saw a float [a tangle of debris] beached on my land. In the float were some large pieces of styrofoam. With them, I built a raft, and with the raft, my sons and I built our fish trap. In fact, we built two.” The traps have been valuable family assets. When the traps catch more fish than the family can use, they sell the extra.