Gospel Story Finder

I have observed throughout my life that the great men of the world, especially the great Saints, are always thinking—about the Lord, about others, about how they can serve. Their minds are fertile fields for the seeds of inspiration, and their thoughts naturally spawn actions. This principle is illustrated in a simple story of love that I read recently: An elderly widow gathered some windfall apples, prepared and bottled applesauce, and then presented twelve quarts of applesauce to a young single mother who was depressed because of her struggles. The elderly widow said simply, “I’ve been thinking about you.” The effect on the young single sister was dramatic and miraculous. This act of kindness helped her conquer her depression (see Kathy England, “Quarts of Love,” Ensign, July 1991, p. 40).

When an LDS classmate invited Horváth Attila, 16, to sacrament meeting, Attila liked what he saw. “Then, when my friend told me that the Church was very family-centered, I became even more interested.” Within weeks, Attila was baptized.
Three months later, his father asked to hear the discussions. “I knew enough about the Church by that time,” says Attila, “that I could help my father learn about it. The knowledge I had received in seminary helped me explain the scriptures to him. But since he smoked and drank coffee a lot, I didn’t have the faith that he would be baptized. I was amazed when I saw how—with the help of our Heavenly Father—he was able to rid those things from his life. Two months later, I baptized my father!
“Then, when my mother saw how happy my father and I were in the Church, she also started to be interested. I baptized her three months after baptizing my father! The next day, my whole family came to Church and bore their testimonies. It’s not possible to say what kind of feeling it was for me.”

The youth of the Dublin (California) Ward and the Pleasanton Second Ward had to move quickly. With just three days’ notice from Children’s Hospital in Oakland, California, they pulled together a group to put on a party for all the cardiology patients and their families.
The youth manned refreshment tables, a popcorn machine, face-painting booths, and the check-in table. They also gave instruction in ’50s style dancing.
“It was so fun to watch the kids learn that dance,” says Jessica Cooper. “Every single one of them was smiling. It really made me feel good.”
“I’m not sure who had more fun,” says Beth Patterson, “us or the kids!”

“Maddie! Come upstairs! Brother Eldredge is here to teach you how to find a name!”
I groaned. Ever since our ward made a goal for all of the youth to find a name to take to the temple, I was trying to stay under the radar. I trudged upstairs. Brother Eldredge helped me log in and showed me how FamilySearch worked. As he showed me how simple it was to search and find names, a thought came to me that maybe doing FamilySearch wasn’t all that bad. Brother Eldredge finished helping me and then left.
I kept going through the steps, and within 15 minutes I had found and reserved a family name. At that moment, a feeling of comfort washed over me, and I felt as though I had been given a big hug. But I didn’t stop there. I wanted to find more, so I did. Within the next hour, I had found 20 names. With every name I found, I felt the presence of someone new. That night, as I said my prayers, I knew that I was doing a great work.
The next day was a holiday from school, and I was bored. A little thought came into my mind that I should start using FamilySearch. With that thought in mind, I said a prayer and then searched for names for a good three hours. By the end of the day, I had 130 names. Over the course of the next few weeks, I took an hour here and there to find names. It became a habit. After about two months, I had a little over 400 names. It wasn’t something I wanted to make a big deal about. I did it because I felt like I was doing something good and something for my ancestors. Doing family history became a blessing. I think everyone should do it.

Huldah, her parents (Gardenar and Delecta Farrar Clark), and her five sisters were converted to the Church in New York. Driven from their homes by mobs, they joined the Saints migrating to the Salt Lake Valley. While traveling with the wagon train, Huldah met a young Scot, Richard Ballantyne, one of the officers of the pioneer company. Huldah and Richard grew to love each other. In Winter Quarters, Nebraska, on February 18, 1847, they were married by Heber C. Kimball.
The couple’s first home was a shack on the east bank of the Missouri River. When winter passed, the wagon train continued west. Huldah gave birth to their first child, Richard Alando, in their covered wagon on June 1, 1848.
Life was hard in the Great Salt Lake Valley. While Richard struggled in the fields to raise crops, Huldah worked inside, trying to stretch their meager supplies into enough food for their family. She learned to use sego lily roots, thistles, and weeds in preparing meals. Potatoes were mixed with flour to make bread.
Huldah and Richard fought storms, grasshoppers, and drought. Despite their constant work, they experienced repeated crop failures. Although they had barely enough to live on, Richard was inspired to start a Sunday School for the children of the valley. With Huldah’s help, he cleared land and built an adobe house. When he grew weary, Huldah quietly encouraged him and worked beside him. She helped him select music and lessons for the Sunday School. For over a year Sunday School was held every week in the Ballantyne home.
At a special conference held in Great Salt Lake City on August 28 and 29, 1852, Richard was called to serve a mission in Hindoostan (Hindustan), India. For four years the Ballantynes had been hungry. Their clothing was inadequate to protect them against the harsh winters; they had no money and little food. With Richard gone, life would be even harder. Yet Huldah did not hesitate in supporting her husband in this call. She immediately began to prepare clothing for Richard, darning his socks and scrubbing and mending his white shirts. When she discovered that his one suit was totally threadbare, she ripped out the seams of her best homespun skirt, made from material that she had woven and dyed herself. She took Richard’s measurements and carefully tailored a suit for him. That suit was to last him throughout his mission.
Richard was gone for three years. By herself, Huldah cared for their three small children, tilled the land, and made all of the family’s daily necessities. She carded wool and extracted dyes from roots, leaves, bark, vegetable peelings, and cochineal bugs. From beef and mutton tallow, she fashioned her own candles. Scraps of fat, rind, and meat trimmings were saved to make into soap. After soaking and drying potatoes, she grated them to use as starch.
Throughout her life, Huldah quietly loved and took care of her family. She did not serve a mission or even travel far from her own home after she settled in Utah. Yet her influence was deeply felt in the lives of her husband and nine children.

Finding the local meetinghouse was the last thing on my mind.
Things like the hot weather, high humidity, and learning Cantonese were much more important.
I was a discouraged, homesick missionary who had just arrived in Hong Kong and I found myself thanking a man for giving me an address I already knew and really didn’t need. And all this because I couldn’t learn Cantonese.
I hadn’t meant for things to happen that way. The missionaries in my district were doing a street display near Hong Kong’s Star Ferry boat just when the commuters were coming home from work. I wanted to get referrals and talk with people—and I tried to—but I was having little success.
My inexperience in speaking Cantonese—the second-most common Chinese dialect was painfully obvious. Speaking to Chinese people seemed impossible, and understanding what people said to me seemed about as easy as walking on water. And because I could neither speak nor understand, I began to think that I was of little worth to the Lord.
I saw Mr. Wong just as he was coming down the steps off of the ferry. He looked like such a nice man. He wore a blue suit and black shoes. His eyeglasses were slipping down his nose. His tie was still tight around his neck—something that looked very out of place in the humid air.
I got up as much self-confidence as I could in the few seconds I had. And I tried to feel confident. With a quick prayer in my heart and a deep breath, I started toward him.
The instructors at the Missionary Training Center had prepared me well for situations like this. I had practiced asking golden questions and getting referrals dozens of times. But all the preparation in the world couldn’t have taught me what I was about to learn.
“Neih hou ma?” I asked. “Good,” he replied in a language I knew was Chinese but bore little resemblance to what I had learned in the MTC.
“I’m a representative of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints. Have you ever heard of this church before?”
Mr. Wong gave his reply, but—as usual—I couldn’t understand.
“My name is Gong Jeung-louh,” I said. “May I ask your honorable name?”
I didn’t understand much of what he said back to me, but I did understand his last name was Wong. He drew the Chinese Wong character on his hand and raised it to my eyes. His drawings meant nothing to me, but I pretended they did.
“May I tell you a little about our church?” I asked.
“I don’t understand,” he said. That was one of the few things I could understand. I had used that phrase myself several times during the past three weeks.
I showed Mr. Wong my name tag so he could read the name of the Church in Chinese.
“Oh—a church!” he said.
I smiled. “Yes—I am a missionary from this church,” I said, pointing to my name tag. “May I tell you a little about it?”
His reply was long and difficult for a new missionary to understand.
“What is your address?” I asked. I decided I might as well do everything I could and try to get a referral.
“Address? You want address?” he asked.
“Yes. What is your address?” I got my pen and notebook ready to write—or at least to ask him to write—the address down.
“You wait here. I will return in a few minutes,” he said. I barely understood what he was trying to tell me, thanks to his hand gestures.
“You stay right here,” he insisted.
“I will,” I assured him. Off he went, leaving me with no idea of where he was going or why he wanted me to wait.
Mr. Wong reappeared from among the sea of Chinese commuters a full 15 minutes later. He walked briskly—almost at a trot—with a paper in his hand.
He smiled and waved as he approached. I walked to meet him.
“Here,” he said. He handed me a page of an English phone book. The address of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints was circled.
“Here is your church’s address,” he said.
Now I understood. Mr. Wong had thought I was a lost foreigner looking for my church. I lost my confidence as I thanked him for his trouble.
Mr. Wong offered his hand with a smile of pride and friendliness.
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“No problem,” he replied, and began to walk away.
“See you later,” I said. And then, as an afterthought, “May I give you this?”
I reached into my suit pocket and handed him a Joseph Smith pamphlet. I gave it to him with two hands, and he accepted the gift in the same manner, a Chinese custom.
“At least I learned something in the MTC,” I thought to myself, remembering our classes on cultural customs. Mr. Wong disappeared into the crowd.
I went to sleep that night praying for strength and success. I wanted to preach the gospel with all my heart, but I felt great frustration in learning to speak the language.
The months passed, and as they passed my confidence grew. I was soon transferred out of that area, and new investigators, new companions, new street displays occupied my mind.
A year later I was a zone leader in another part of Hong Kong. One Sunday I was back in my first area taking care of some mission business. Being in that first meetinghouse brought back many good memories. I rejoiced in seeing my old friends from the local ward.
As the meetings ended and people started leaving the building, I watched, hoping to see more of my former friends. Soon my companion and I were the only ones in the foyer.
As we were about to leave, a classroom door opened. My eyes widened as I saw Mr. Wong—the commuter at Star Ferry—emerge from the dark hall!
“Mr. Wong! How are you?” I asked with excitement.
“I’m Brother Wong now, Elder Call,” he said in perfect Mandarin.
“You speak Mandarin? No wonder I couldn’t understand you at the ferry!”
“And you were speaking Cantonese—that is why I couldn’t understand you,” he said.
We sat and talked for several minutes. Brother Wong explained to me that after our encounter at the ferry a year before, he went home and read the Joseph Smith pamphlet. He said he read it out of curiosity more than anything else. The Spirit touched his soul. He telephoned the mission home to ask for more information and two sisters began teaching him the gospel. He gained a testimony and was baptized.
Our reunion was sweet and joyous, even though we had seen each other only once before. My heart was touched and the Spirit bore record to me of the true meaning of Paul’s words to the Corinthians:
“I have planted, Apollos watered; but God gave the increase” (1 Cor. 3:6).

After I was baptized and confirmed, I attended the little Matsumoto Branch of 12 to 15 active members. I made friends, and it was fun to attend every week. About a year later I graduated from high school and moved to Yokohama to attend the university. The nearest branch was the Tokyo Central Branch, which had more than 150 active members. When I attended this new branch, I felt like a country boy in the big city. I had a hard time making friends. One Sunday I stayed home from church. Soon I stopped attending altogether. I began making friends with my nonmember classmates, and the Church drifted further and further from my mind.
This continued for several months. Then one day I received a letter from a sister in the Matsumoto Branch. “I heard you have stopped attending church,” she said. I was surprised. Apparently someone from my new branch had told her I was not attending church anymore! The sister continued her letter by quoting Doctrine and Covenants 121:34: “Behold, there are many called, but few are chosen.” Then she wrote, “Koichi, you have been baptized a member of the Church. You have been called, but you are no longer among the chosen.”
As I read these words, I was filled with regret. I knew I needed to change somehow. I realized that I did not have a strong testimony. I wasn’t sure if God lived, and I didn’t know if Jesus Christ was my Savior. For several days I grew anxious as I thought about the message in the letter. I didn’t know what to do. Then one morning I remembered something the missionaries had taught me. They had asked me to read Moroni 10:3–5, promising that I could know the truth for myself. I decided that I must pray. If I felt nothing, I could completely forget about the Church and the commandments, and I would never go again. However, if I did receive an answer, as Moroni promised, I would have to repent, embrace the gospel with all my heart, go back to church, and do all I could to follow the commandments.
As I knelt and prayed that morning, I pleaded with Heavenly Father to answer me. “If Thou live—if Thou are real,” I prayed, “please let me know.” I prayed to know if Jesus Christ was my Savior and if the Church was true. As I finished, I suddenly felt something. I was surrounded by a warm feeling, and my heart was filled with joy. I understood the truth: God does live, and Jesus is my Savior. The Lord’s Church was truly restored by the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Book of Mormon is the word of God.
Needless to say, I prayed for forgiveness that very day and resolved to follow the commandments. I returned to church and promised the Lord that I would do whatever it took to remain faithful.

Now, referring to the statement about “convincing them of my word which shall have already gone forth among them,” I want to tell you of a little experience I had when I was in Holland. I had an invitation from some businessmen to attend one of their Bible classes. They met every week in one of the homes. We met that week in the home of a prominent furniture dealer. There were about 20 men there, and the only woman was the daughter of the man of the house. They gave me an hour and a half to discuss universal salvation, which includes our doctrine of preaching the gospel in the eternal worlds to the spirits that were disobedient here upon the earth and the doctrine of baptism of the living for the dead. So after I had discussed that matter, I just gave them chapter and verse and let them read it in their own copies of the Bible. I figured that they would believe it more if they read it in their Bible; otherwise, they would think that I had a different Bible. When I was through, I laid my Bible on the table and folded my arms and waited for a comment.
The first comment came from the daughter of the man of the house. She said, “Father, I just can’t understand it. I have never attended one of these Bible classes in my life when you haven’t had the last word to say on everything, and tonight you haven’t said a word.”
He shook his head and said, “My daughter, there isn’t anything to say. This man has been teaching us things we have never heard of, and he’s been teaching them to us out of our own Bible.” That’s what the Lord meant when he said that the prophet of this dispensation would not only bring forth his words, but would convince people of his words that had already gone forth among them.

I remember having a particularly difficult time at one point during my mission to Cleveland, Ohio. I wondered why I wasn’t seeing the same tangible success other missionaries in my area seemed to be having. My own weakness was foremost in my mind as I pondered the dilemma. I couldn’t help but think that I was doing something wrong, though I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. I counseled with the Lord many times about the situation and also turned to the scriptures. One morning in my study of the Book of Mormon, I came across a verse that was the answer to my prayers and added strength to my testimony.
“Wherefore, I, Nephi, did strive to keep the commandments of the Lord, and I did exhort my brethren to faithfulness and diligence” (1 Nephi 17:15).
I had always thought of Nephi as a great prophet who never made any mistakes. I admired Nephi, but I felt I would never be as great as he was. However, when I read this verse written by Nephi, I realized that he was mortal and imperfect also. He didn’t write, “I, Nephi, kept all the commandments perfectly all the time.” Rather, he wrote that he “did strive to keep the commandments of the Lord.”
That simple verse touched me. Suddenly I realized that I am no different from Nephi or any other great prophet or missionary. We’ve been given the same commandments, and they will be judged on how well they improved their time on earth just as I will be. I don’t have to be perfect; I only have to strive to keep the commandments and do the very best I can with the abilities I have been given. In the end, when I come up short of perfection, it will be the Lord’s grace that will make up for the rest. Through this otherwise simple verse, I gained a greater testimony of the scriptures as communication from Heavenly Father.

Remember, it isn’t sufficient to assume that when you teach, the boy is listening to what you say. Let me illustrate:
In what we call the west boardroom of the Church Administration Building, there hangs a lovely painting rendered by the artist Harry Anderson. The painting depicts Jesus sitting on a small stone wall with numerous children gathered around, knowing they are the object of His love. Each time I gaze at that painting, I think of the passage of scripture, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”
On one occasion I had given a priesthood blessing in that room to a small lad who was soon to undergo major surgery. I directed his attention and that of his parents to the painting of Jesus and the children. I then made a few remarks concerning the Savior and His never-failing love. I asked the boy if he had any questions. “Yes,” he replied seriously. “Brother Monson, how does a boy go about getting a little goat and a leash for it like that one in the painting?”
For a moment I was stunned by the unanticipated question, a little deflated concerning my teaching ability, but then I responded: “Jesus gives to you and me gifts far more important than a goat on a leash. He provides a road map to heaven. His teachings, His example, His love are far greater gifts than that offered by the world.”
“Come, follow me,” He invited. And we are wise when we follow Him!

Exactly one year ago this week—January 15, 2009—US Airways Flight 1549 took off from LaGuardia Airport in New York City and lifted quickly into the sky on what was expected to be an uneventful trip to Charlotte, North Carolina, along the eastern coast of the United States. The airplane captain was Captain Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger. He had more than 19,000 hours of flying behind him, and he expected the next hour and a half would be very routine.

As the Airbus A320 climbed to 3,000 feet, the unexpected was suddenly right in front of him. A flock of mammoth Canadian geese with six-foot wingspans was directly in the path of the airplane. The large birds hit the plane. Worse still, the giant engines on the two wings, drawing air into their turbines with enormous force, drew in as well the geese in the path of the plane. There was a terrible grinding sound as the birds were sucked into the engines. Then, a deafening silence—the engines had stopped.

Captain Sullenberger immediately began determining how he could safely land the plane. He first considered returning to the airport, and then to a different airport not far away. The dangers and risks were enormous. He did not know how long he could glide the plane without engine power. He had only a moment to decide. Captain Sullenberger determined his best chance was to land the plane in the Hudson River, a river that runs close to New York City. In those few seconds all his training as an airline captain, all his judgment, his instincts, and his talents were brought to bear on the emergency landing ahead of him.

With skyscrapers outside the windows, the plane dropped quickly, flying only 900 feet above the George Washington Bridge. Then, with the plane flying as slowly as possible and with the wings perfectly straight across the water, he pulled the nose up and glided the belly of the plane onto the water. The plane, weighing 120 tons, skipped across the water and then safely stopped fully intact.

Winter weather was well below freezing, and the captain knew the plane would begin sinking. The passengers were quickly assisted out the emergency exits onto the wings. The plane’s life rafts were inflated, and boats from the shore moved quickly to rescue the passengers. The news was almost unbelievable. While a $60-million plane had been lost, Captain Sullenberger had landed safely, and all of the 154 passengers and crew were safe, as well as Captain Sullenberger.

Daniel loved to visit Grandma. He liked to help Grandma. She asked Daniel if he would set the table. Daniel put the plates on the table. Then Daniel put forks and spoons and knives on the table. “You forgot something,” Grandma said. “I forgot the glasses,” Daniel said. Daniel put the glasses on the table. “You forgot something,” Grandma said again. “I forgot the napkins,” Daniel said. He put the napkins on the table. “You forgot something else,” Grandma said. Daniel looked at the table. He had remembered plates, forks, spoons, knives, glasses, and napkins. “What did I forget?” Daniel asked. Grandma smiled. “You forgot to turn the chairs around for family prayer.” Daniel smiled too. He turned the chairs around so his family could kneel around the table for prayer. “How could I forget?” Daniel asked. “I love family prayer at Grandma’s house.”

I remember being a student at this ­university. I came from a great home and was raised by incredible parents who shared their ­testimonies through word and deed. I felt confident as I entered BYU that I had a solid footing in the Church. However, it was during my college life that I started to experience small struggles that began to test my testimony and my commitment to our Savior.
It started with having to make my own ­decisions to go to church, say my prayers, and read my scriptures. And then came the self-doubt, the struggle of suddenly being average, the loneliness, and the experience of my first C grade being thrown at me. Next came the curveball of dating and breaking up combined with a “small” amount of pressure to get married, all while I was ­living with roommates who did not do the dishes and also while no one was liking my Instagram posts—well, at least back then I didn’t have to worry about Instagram or Facebook.
It was at a particularly low moment in college that I came across the hymn “Master, the Tempest Is Raging” (Hymns, 2002, no. 105). The second verse described perfectly how I was feeling at that moment:
Master, with anguish of spirit I bow in my grief today. The depths of my sad heart are troubled. Oh, waken and save, I pray!
Torrents of sin and of anguish Sweep o’er my sinking soul, And I perish! I perish! dear Master. Oh, hasten and take control!
However, it is the question in the first verse—“Carest thou not that we perish?”—that continues to come to the surface when I am struggling.
It is the follow-up question in that first verse—“How canst thou lie asleep?”—that took me many years to understand. Then why does He sleep when the tempest rages all around me? Why does He not still this storm, or why would He let me suffer?
During these moments it is easy to think the Savior is oblivious to our trials, when in fact the reverse is true; it is we who need to be awakened. It is we who need to turn and find Him. It is we who need to continue to follow His teachings. And it is we who need to ask, “Am I all the way in?”
I found that when life became challenging, my first reaction was to turn away from my Savior. I would abandon the foundational habits of prayer, scripture study, and hope. That reaction was a choice; it was a choice that I made. The Savior didn’t abandon me; instead, I turned from the Savior because I wasn’t all the way in.

When Aaron and his family got home from church, the seven-year-old boy asked his mom if he could go down the street and see his friend Toby’s new remote-controlled race car. Mom knelt to his level, looked deep into his eyes, and smiled affectionately. “Whose day is this, honey?”
“Well,” Aaron replied after giving her question some study, “I guess it’s the Lord’s day.”
“That’s right,” Mom answered. “What do you think the Savior would do today if He were here?”
Aaron wrinkled up his face as if trying to squeeze out the right answer. It worked. “He’d help people? Maybe visit someone who was sick … or lonely … or sad?”
Mom’s smile widened, but Aaron sighed unhappily. “I don’t know anybody like that, Mom.”
“I bet Heavenly Father does, honey. Why don’t you ask Him?”
Aaron spoke softly to himself, but his mother heard the words as he drifted toward the living room. “I’m just a little kid, anyway. How can I help anybody?”
When Aaron stepped into the living room he spied their dog, Nick, lying on the floor asleep. Aaron knelt beside the big dog, resting his head on Nick’s slowly rising and falling side. He closed his eyes and prayed, asking Heavenly Father to help him figure out who he could serve. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at a picture of his Grandma McKillop hanging on the wall in a little patch of window light. Her husband, Grandpa Eugene, had died just a few months before, and Aaron’s father had told him that she was very lonely. “I wish we could go visit her today, Nick,” Aaron informed the sleeping dog. “But she lives far away from here, clear over in California.”
His eyes brightened. “I know,” he said, “maybe I could write her a letter.” And with Mom’s help, he did.
Dear Grandma,
Do the raccoons still bang on your sliding-glass door with their fists if you don’t put food out for them by five o’clock? I caught a big bug last week, Grandma. I let him go, and watched him walk down into the turnips. He walked kind of like a wind-up toy. I miss you, Grandma. I love you. And I even like your broccoli. Heavenly Father loves you too. Be happy, Grandma, and good luck with the raccoons. God will bless you for loving His creatures. As Dad says, “We’re all in this together.”
Love, Aaron
One afternoon about two weeks later, when Aaron returned home from school, his mother announced that he had received a letter from Grandma McKillop. Aaron beamed with surprise. “Grandma wrote me a letter?”
His mother laughed. “Unless there’s another Aaron at this address!”
“Can we read it together, Mom?” Aaron asked excitedly, setting his lunchbox on the kitchen table. “Just in case there are any words bigger than I am?”
Mom smiled and nodded, and they sat down together at the table. Aaron opened the letter and began reading, carefully sounding out the words.
My dear, precious grandson Aaron,
Your letter came unexpectedly on a day that was especially difficult for me. You see, I miss your grandpa so. Your heartfelt words lifted my spirits and gave me cause for joy. They were like a warm spray of sunlight on a dark, bleak afternoon. Your letter made my day. You’ll never know what a big difference it made. And yes, I am surviving the raccoons. We are the best of friends, you know. And they also like my broccoli!
All my love, Grandma McKillop
Aaron’s eyes lifted to his mother’s, shining with wonder and delight. “She said my letter made her day!”
Mom’s eyes shone back, and her chin quivered with emotion. “You see,” she said, her voice as shaky as her chin, “a child can help others and do good on the Sabbath day.”

All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to muster up enough courage to direct the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.

A few years ago, a friend of mine was diagnosed with cancer. I wanted to do something to help, so I decided to grow out my hair and hold a sponsored haircut. My dad helped me arrange a free haircut and get the newspaper involved. I raised money for the children’s cancer ward at a local hospital and donated my hair to be made into a wig for a girl with cancer.
It felt great to do something for other children, especially something that would help a child feel more comfortable with a new wig.
I love serving people, and I think whenever we serve, we follow our Savior’s example and feel closer to Him.
Milla T., England

The Kuang Kuang Hao, a special express train, sped through the countryside in Taiwan, passing scenes of quiet rivers, hills dotted with Chinese burial mounds, scattered villages, and endless waves of rice fields. As I stepped off the train in Miao Li, the cold winter wind hit me in the face.
Despite the cold, missionary routine in my new area soon became settled. I enjoyed being a senior companion and had a good junior companion. I was comfortable giving the missionary lessons and interacting with the people.
In our branch I met a member named Hu Chin Hsi, who looked like a scarecrow with wild, straggly hair. His eyes were bright but sunken, and his body was thin and straight. He talked with enthusiasm but stopped often to wheeze and cough because he had a chronic lung and respiratory disease. Despite his struggles, Brother Hu was a faithful member and the branch clerk.
One cold winter night we rode our bikes to visit Brother Hu. He lived on a hillside, where the winter wind blew. His home made of loosely nailed planks with a dirt floor was just large enough for one man to lie down and store a few things in. Brother Hu explained he was poor because the money he made as a tax assessor was spent on medicine to keep him alive, and any leftover money was spent on food.
As the rainy season became more severe, we knew Brother Hu needed more help to survive until spring. We collected two extra comforters, some clothing, and some money for food. Brother Hu was grateful for the gifts, and with tears in his eyes, he thanked us over and over.
Everything seemed fine until we noticed he had nothing to keep his hands warm. I thought we could buy him a pair of cloth gloves, but I knew these gloves didn’t last long and often came apart. Brother Hu needed something dependable, long-lasting, and warm.
I had a pair of leather, fur-lined gloves that were given to me by a companion who had completed his mission the previous summer. He told me the gloves were rare and that it would be impossible to find or buy such gloves in Taiwan. The moist, cold tropical air of Miao Li proved how valuable a gift those gloves were, and I guarded them everywhere I went. But now someone else needed them.
When Brother Hu needed blankets, clothes, and money for food, we shared. Now he needed gloves, and I was more than willing to buy him some cloth gloves but not give him mine. I rationalized that I had two more winters as a missionary on this island and needed warm gloves. I even bought a pair of cloth gloves to give Brother Hu, but I was uneasy and unhappy.
I contemplated my behavior and realized I was being selfish. If it didn’t cause me any hardship or sacrifice, I was willing to give. But a rare possession like my gloves was a harder test.
Though it seemed like such a sacrifice at the time, I gave Brother Hu my leather, fur-lined gloves. I took the cloth gloves, which caught on my bike and totally unraveled two days later. What lasted, though, is my memory of Hu Chin Hsi with his cough and wheeze and what I learned from giving to him.

In all likelihood, he was going to finish dead last.
Michael Edwards was the first person in history to represent Great Britain as an Olympic ski jumper. He was taller and heavier than his competitors (a disadvantage in ski jumping). He had such bad eyesight that he needed to wear thick glasses while jumping—glasses that fogged up at high altitude. He was entirely self-funded and as a result used mostly borrowed ski gear as opposed to the top-notch equipment provided to other skiers by their sponsors.
The odds were stacked against him. And yet, during the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, Michael Edwards had a perpetual smile on his face. He was already achieving the goal he’d had for many years: to compete as an Olympic athlete. He didn’t care when people told him he’d never win. He didn’t mind that other competitors would be better than him. And he never expected to take home the gold. His goal was to make it to the Olympics, and that’s just what he did.
He had wanted to inspire people, and inspire them he did. The crowds quickly started cheering him on. They loved rooting for a guy who did his very best and chased his goals, even though Michael’s prospects of winning seemed slim to none. As the games continued and he indeed placed last in every event, his popularity only grew. Nicknamed “Eddie the Eagle,” Michael Edwards had people across the globe rooting for him.
His Olympic story shows that there’s a lot to be said for setting goals, doing your personal best, and not worrying so much about those around you.

“The rector’s not too pleased,” Mr. Crofton added and smiled. “It seems this preacher is baptizing just about everybody in these parts.”
“You don’t say.”
“Rector sent a constable to arrest the preacher right there at the Benbows’. When Mr. Woodruff stood up to preach, the constable stopped him. Told him he was under arrest for preaching.”
Mr. Weston leaned forward to hear the rest.
“Woodruff looked him calmly in the eye and said that he had a license to preach, same as the rector. But he promised to talk to the constable about it after he’d finished his sermon.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Father said and nodded.
“The constable sat down beside him. Then Mr. Woodruff began to preach a sermon like I’ve never heard before. He taught about Jesus Christ like he really knew him. He taught faith, repentance, and baptism. He taught about the Holy Ghost and laying on of hands to receive that gift. It was powerful!”
Father shifted in his chair and studied his friend. “You sound like you believed this preacher.”
“Let me finish my story,” Mr. Crofton replied, “and you’ll see. Well, at the end of the meeting, he invited anyone who desired it to come and be baptized, and four United Brethren preachers walked up and asked to be baptized. Then the constable stood up and everyone quieted down.
“‘Mr. Woodruff,’ he said, ‘I would like to be baptized.’ Well, you could have heard a pin drop! Now, Mr. Woodruff wasted no time. He took the constable down to a pond right then and there at the Benbows’ and baptized him with the others. He baptized seven people that night.”
Charity counted up in her head. If there were four preachers and the constable, then who else had joined this new religion?
Her father stood up and poked the fire. Then he turned to his friend and softly asked, “You were one of those seven, weren’t you?”
Mr. Weston nodded. “I surely was. I want you to come hear him, Benjamin. He preaches a good sermon, and I could just feel the spirit of truth testifying to what he said.”

On a recent trip to Illinois I took along the September New Era. It proved to be a good companion while I was waiting for planes. But it was on the return trip that it showed its true worth.
I met a woman from Missouri who had heard of our church from some missionaries but had told them she was satisfied with her religion. After talking for an hour I showed her the New Era and explained a little about our youth programs. She asked to read it, and she turned right to the story of Gary Sheide’s conversion. She read it, asking questions all the while. I prayed that in some way she would be touched by what she read. Three and a half hours later I said goodbye to her as we landed in Salt Lake City. I left the plane with a four-dollar check for a subscription to the New Era, her address, and high hopes. She is interested now, and I’d just like to say thanks to Gary Sheide, Elaine McKay, and the New Era for helping me talk about the gospel. It was a beautiful and new experience.
Laurie A. McCauslandPleasant Grove, Utah