Gospel Story Finder

Because my mother and father each belonged to different churches, they decided when they married that their children would not be forced into one faith or another. Instead, they would be sent to the nearest church and allowed to make up their own minds about religion once they knew the choices available. I had attended four different churches by my early teen years, and had occasionally attended my relatives’ church when they were visiting.
However, one of my friend’s mother died when I was fourteen, and I began to wonder about our existence here on earth. My mind wandered back to the days I had spent at church, and I decided to use all the knowledge I had to search for the true church on the earth—should there really be one.
I went back to the church into which I had been christened. I enjoyed the worship, but each time I asked questions, I was told just to attend—we didn’t need those answers. To me, if there was a God, a loving Father, I would view him much like my own earthly father—someone who wanted me to grow and search out the truth. I could not believe that a God who wished to keep me in ignorance would be my Heavenly Father.
I went back to other churches I had attended, then studied Judaism and Islam, as well as Christian denominations I had never before explored. Although these religions included many fine teachings, I felt the complete truth was still missing.
My parents had always encouraged me to search for myself. Once I had begun my examination of a particular faith, they would not take me to church. They made me find my own way, feeling that only if I struggled for something would I then hold it dear.
One afternoon as our family drove out of town, we passed a chapel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Jokingly, my father said, “You’ve not tried there yet.” I asked what kind of church it was, and he said it was the Mormon church. I remarked that the name on the front of the Church didn’t say that, and he responded, “Mormon is only their nickname; but don’t try them. They’re an odd lot.”
Since the church building was some four miles from my home, I decided to write and ask about their beliefs. The following week, a letter arrived for me from the branch president, inviting me to attend their meetings. I felt excited, yet nervous, as I read it—something I had never felt before while investigating a church. I decided it was time for me to ask my Heavenly Father about this.
I wasn’t quite sure what to say, since the Lord’s Prayer was the only one I had said before. However, as I finished a simple prayer asking the Lord to show me the way, I heard my mother call me. I went downstairs to find two men sitting in the front room. They had come to our door to see if our family would like to know more about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My mother had asked them if they had come in answer to my letter, but they said they had never heard of me.
I sat silently while the three spoke together, and for the first time in my life all that my mother said seemed confusing, yet these two men made everything so clear. That night I thanked the Lord for sending the truth to me.
The next Sunday I set off on my bicycle to find the LDS meetinghouse. I arrived, but, too nervous to go in alone, I waited for someone else and asked if I could walk in with them. Once I was inside the church, a warm feeling came over me. The missionaries soon spotted me.
As weeks went by, the missionaries taught me the gospel and challenged me to be baptized. I quickly accepted, but my parents had other ideas. I was only sixteen and they didn’t think I was really serious. But they told me that if I still wanted to join the Church when I was eighteen, they would give their permission.
The morning of my eighteenth birthday was beautiful. I opened my birthday gifts and left for college classes knowing that the best part of the day would be at 7:30 that evening, when I would be baptized.
My family met me for lunch. Shortly after eating, I became ill and began to have great pain. My mother suggested I go home, where she put me to bed. I couldn’t sleep. The pain was so great that I got out of bed and knelt in prayer. As I pleaded for the Lord to take away the pain so I could go through with my long-awaited baptism, a great darkness filled the room. Frightened, I cried for help to see me through this terror. When I opened my eyes, it was three hours later and my older sister stood beside me. She asked how I was and suggested I get ready for the baptism. I looked out of the window and saw the sun was shining brightly. I thanked my Father in Heaven for my answered prayer, and my family and I went to the church.
My baptism was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. I renewed the promise I had made to my Father in Heaven two years earlier to serve him as a missionary. After my baptism, I started taking my younger sister to church. She was later baptized after I returned from my mission. Although my parents are still not members of the Church, I am grateful for the way they taught me and the desire they gave me to search for the truth.

I love him for other things, for other places walking in his footsteps has taken me. I love him for a phone call from Idaho. A young couple had just had twins prematurely. One of them was doing fairly well, but the other was brought into the University of Utah Medical Center, weighing just a little over a pound and a quarter. Think of five cubes of butter, if you would, and you’re talking about the size of this little soul. I received a call from Idaho: “He has been administered to, but would you mind going to the hospital and giving him a blessing?” I found that about the only hour available that particular day was at 5:00 A.M. I went up to the medical center, went into the room, and found the oxygen canopy. I put my fingers—all that would fit—on the forehead of this little soul, gave a blessing, and had the impression from God that one day this boy—182 cm. tall, ninety-one kilograms—would be a young ambassador for the Lord.

There are other experiences. Once as I was leaving a conference, a sweet family stopped me. They knew a nonmember man who was having severe problems, and they wondered if we would give him a blessing. We went to his apartment. In the living room were two pieces of furniture, a bean bag chair and a stereo set—and nothing else. A little girl, nine years old was taking care of her father because the mother, when she heard her husband had cancer, had abandoned him and the girl and her younger brother. The girl took us down the hallway into his room, and there on the bottom of two bunk beds we saw this man, 182 cm. tall, thirty point four kg. We administered to him, feeling he would not live. But we felt impressed to bless him with the thing that would be of most worth to him: that his son and daughter would be protected, that angels would walk through this life with them, that they would be protected when he wasn’t there to do it any longer. You can’t buy those kinds of experiences with all the money in the world.

Seeking to walk in the Lord’s footsteps recently brought me in contact with a young man and his father. The young man and a friend were up hiking in the lower foothills near Cody, Wyoming. The friend jumped across a high-power line that was down, but the young man got tangled in it and was electrocuted. The friend turned and ran all the way back down to where the father lived—and it wasn’t a short distance—and told the father that his son had been electrocuted and that he was dead. The father, who was not a young man, ran all the way back up, taking about fifteen minutes. When he got up to where the boy was lying across the wires, he somehow removed the boy from the wires with a board or a large branch. Then he picked his son up in his arms and held him, saying, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power and authority of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I command you to live.” The dead boy opened up his eyes in his father’s arms and was taken to the University of Utah Medical Center, where he recovered.

In 1998 my family moved to the Netherlands. My siblings and I attended the American School of The Hague. My mom couldn’t drive us in the mornings, so we rode the bus and train to get to school. My older sisters attended early-morning seminary and left an hour earlier than my younger brother, Shaun, and I. We made it to school easily for the first half of the year, but then the bus routes changed because of construction.
One day we were waiting for our bus when I saw one with a different number but the same destination. I thought the number didn’t matter much, so we got on the bus. After about 20 minutes, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Shaun and I noticed we were nowhere near our school, and we both felt very lost and afraid.
We got off the bus, and I said a prayer in my heart, asking Heavenly Father for comfort and help. I had been learning Dutch in school and realized I could ask someone for help. I asked around until I found a lady who spoke a little English. She gave us directions to catch the right bus to school. Soon we were headed in the right direction and feeling much better.
I will never forget the lost feeling I felt when I realized I was on the wrong bus. I know that the Lord helped me get back on track as He does constantly in our lives—not only physically, but spiritually. We all will feel lost in life’s decisions if we are not on the right track, but the Lord will always give direction and a way for us to get back on the path toward the right destination.

I love to play soccer, but because I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I didn’t want to play on Sundays. It was hard for me to tell my coach that I wouldn’t be able to practice on Sunday, but when I explained that I attend church, he still let me join the team.
Since I missed Sunday practices, my teammates wouldn’t always trust my skill level. I prayed that I would be focused and play well during practice, since I didn’t have as much practice time as the rest of the team. When the final tournament came around, I was invited to participate in the game. I know God helped me to achieve that goal.

“I’ve swum twenty laps already, and I just can’t go another one.” Susan shouted to her swimming coach, who was standing near the edge of the pool.
“Yes, you can!” Coach Andersen encouraged confidently. “You’re good for at least four more laps.”
Susan looked up at the tall thin man and wondered why he expected so much of her.
“Four more!” the coach shouted. “And watch that kick. Your rhythm is off.”
Susan pushed off from the bank feeling discouraged and wanting to cry. Carefully she cupped her hands and pulled at the water.
“One, two, three, four, five, six,” she counted over and over to herself as she kicked and then rhythmically fit her windmill-like arms into the pattern. Slowly but smoothly she glided over the water. Her arms and legs ached and her lungs gasped for air as her head turned in and out of the water.
Susan touched the edge and then sprung backward and began the backstroke. Once more she glided gracefully over the water.
As she neared the edge, she wished she could stop, but even in the water she could hear Coach Andersen’s voice calling from the deck, “Two more laps. You’re looking good, but don’t get lazy with those arms. Pull, pull!”
Susan turned on her stomach again and did one more lap freestyle and then tried another lap on her back. Her muscles were so tired she wondered how she could make it.
“The last lap! This is the last lap!” she kept telling herself as she moved through the water. She felt a smile cross her lips as she finished.
“That was pretty good,” Coach Andersen said without smiling. “We’ll have a short workout tomorrow, and then you’ll be ready for the swimming meet on Saturday. Remember what you can eat and what you can’t, and get to bed early tonight and tomorrow night.”
Slowly Susan crawled out of the pool. For a while she sat on the edge dangling her feet in the water and breathing fast to catch her breath.
Is all this worth it? she wondered. Or am I going to all this trouble and work for nothing?
Then she looked down at the pool and her thoughts changed. “This time I’m going to win!” she whispered. “Every time I practice and every time I lose, I learn something. I can’t give up now. I’m going to win!”
She grabbed her towel and sweatshirt and went in the dressing room to change her clothes.
Within fifteen minutes she was on the bus going home. By now her tired muscles were beginning to feel better.
At the first stop a girl about her age got on the bus. Susan watched as the girl walked down the aisle and then stopped next to her seat.
“Hi,” the girl said. “May I sit here?”
“Sure,” Susan replied.
“My name is Rachel Ann Moyle,” the girl said as she sat down.
“I’m Susan Thomas,” Susan replied.
“I’m going to visit my grandmother,” Rachel Ann said. Then she opened a small sack and pulled out two chocolate bars. “Would you like some candy?” she asked.
Susan looked longingly at the candy. She loved chocolate, but the coach’s rules kept ringing in her ears, “Don’t eat empty calories. Eat high protein foods.”
She looked once more at the candy bar and her mouth began to water. “I’d better not,” Susan finally said reluctantly, “but thanks anyway.”
“Come on,” Rachel Ann urged. “I’ll feel silly eating if you don’t.”
Susan looked once more at the candy. Then she remembered her tired muscles and all the work she had done so she could win.
“No, thank you,” she said very firmly. “I really wouldn’t care for any. But you go ahead. I don’t mind.”
During the next two days Susan’s thoughts alternated between discouragement and excitement. But as she climbed onto the starting block Saturday afternoon, she felt only a determination to win.
The starter’s voice called out, “Judges ready?”
Eight hands at the ends of the pool signaled readiness, and the voice instructed, “Swimmers, take your mark.”
Susan stepped up and curled her toes around the edge of the starting block.
“Get set,” the starter shouted.
Susan poised herself to make the starting dive.
Bang! The gun rang out and the eight swimmers flew off the blocks.
One girl led the way, with Susan a little behind her and a girl in the next lane just a little farther back.
Susan pulled and kicked down the first lap. As she made the turn, the girl in the next lane caught up with her so Susan let go with all her strength. Halfway down the lap she started gaining on the leader. The two girls swam neck and neck.
When Susan could tell she was starting to fall behind, she pushed herself even more. She felt as if she would burst, but the extra push was just enough. She finished two-tenths of a second before the other girl!
Coach Andersen ran over to help Susan out of the pool. His face was one big smile.
“Congratulations!” he said. “I knew you had what it takes.”
Susan gasped for breath. Her muscles ached, but she had never felt so good.
“Thanks, coach,” she whispered between breaths. “I owe it all to you.”
“No, you don’t,” he said. “You’re the only one who can win. I’ve helped a little, but you’re the swimmer!”
While Susan was getting dressed, she thought about what Coach Andersen had said. Lots of people are willing to help me, but it’s up to me to help myself too, she decided with a smile.

I had been on my mission for 13 months when I received a phone call from my mission president informing me of the death of my dear sister Solange. This news broke my heart, and I shed tears of sadness as I remembered the beautiful moments we had spent together throughout her life of nearly 20 years. My pain over losing her was very deep.
As we approached the weekend, I realized that we were coming up on general conference. And in spite of my sorrow and pain, my companion and I went to watch the conference broadcast at the chapel.
Who would have known, but in his talk entitled “Confide in God Unwaveringly,” Elder Ulisses Soares recounted an experience that exactly described my situation. He said, “Years ago while serving as a mission president, I received a phone call from the parents of one of our beloved missionaries informing me of the death of his sister. I remember, in the tenderness of that moment, that missionary and I discussed God’s marvelous plan of salvation for His children and how this knowledge would comfort him.
“Although he was stunned and saddened by that adversity, this missionary—through his tears and with faith in God—rejoiced in his sister’s life. He expressed unwavering confidence in the tender mercies of the Lord. Resolutely, he told me that he would continue to serve his mission with all faith and diligence in order to be worthy of the promises that God had for him and his family. In this time of need, that faithful missionary turned his heart to God, placed all of his trust in Him, and renewed his commitment to serve the Lord with faith and with all diligence” (Liahona, May 2017, 35).
Dear brothers and sisters, I felt that every word, every sentence of this talk was addressed directly to me—and what a source of comfort! I testify that God speaks to us every six months through the mouths of His servants in general conference.

The rickety bus slowed just enough to let us swing out the open back door. Lurching forward once again, it careened around the corner and was gone in an instant. We stood alone on the highway, Ciudad de Dios on one side and Urbanización San Juan on the other. It seemed a forsaken place to me that December day in Lima, Peru, three days before Christmas. A humid wind blew the sand into grainy little whirlwinds, and the ever-present Lima overcast was still with us although it was nearly summer. It was my first Christmas away from home, and I felt empty and alone. I had been singing carols to myself for days trying to catch the mood but to no avail. I missed the snow and the crisp Utah winter air. Lima’s mugginess didn’t help at all.
We trudged along past row after row of cement tract houses, all in various stages of construction but occupied nonetheless. Dogs barked at us from their rooftop guard stations, and children tagged along at our sides. Arriving at the Manco home, we knocked on the door and Sister Manco answered.
A three-foot bramble bush stood ridiculously in the middle of the bare cement floor in the living room. We oohed and aahed appropriately. I smiled slightly, remembering the beautiful firs and pinion pines at home, but had to appreciate Sister Manco’s good intentions. Her home would be happy this Christmas Eve. But just down the street where the Nostadez family lived, it would be a different matter.
Brother Nostadez was a trolley conductor who had been out of work since July when his union struck. The government had settled the issue by tearing up the tracks, and Brother Nostadez had been without a job ever since. We had baptized the entire family, except two underage daughters, only the night before. Although I knew they were glad to be in the Church, I also realized that it would be a meager Christmas for them this year.
All at once I knew what had to be done. If I couldn’t celebrate the kind of Christmas I so longed for, at least the Nostadez family would have a good one. My companion Elder Slack agreed, and we enlisted the aid of a member friend, Estrella Costa, to buy things she thought the family might enjoy. We involved the Manco family by asking them to deliver the gifts at just the right moment on Christmas Eve, hoping to teach them something about caring for others at the same time. Estrella had brought the gifts she chose to our apartment.
Still, as I surveyed the fare, I wasn’t completely satisfied. The silly little useless toys, the oranges, apples, and fun surprises that are so much a part of holiday giving were missing.
Hurriedly I set out with Elder Slack in tow to explore the open market across the highway in Ciudad de Dios. Although appallingly filthy, Ciudad de Dios was vibrantly alive. The rhythm of humanity literally pulsated through its streets. A thousand vendors sought to sell their wares. Here was fruit fresh from the jungle: papayas the size of cantaloupes, watermelons, pineapples, figs, several kinds of bananas, mangos, and oranges of every size and variety. We bartered for a dozen of the latter. Huge sides of beef, lamb, and pork were scattered among hogs’ heads and cows’ stomachs, all hanging from enormous hooks for better view. Fresh fish from the famous Peruvian fisheries gaped at us with mouths opened wide. Live animals were sold to be taken home and raised for later butchering. Turkeys, chicks, ducklings, and baby guinea pigs scampered nervously in their pens. Next came sundries. Black market shampoo, soaps, and razor blades were spread on blankets on the ground or in the now-familiar make-shift stalls. There was a section with shoes and clothes of every description. At last came the toys.
I don’t remember what we bought, and it’s really not very important. I do know that we had a marvelous time trying everything before deciding. The vendor waited patiently, enjoying our enthusiasm. I vaguely recall marbles and combs. Yes, we bought combs for all, and a large basket to put everything in.
The shoppers in the marketplace that day carried off their business in a more lighthearted manner than usual. The bartering that is so much a part of Latin life was good-natured and friendly. One usually sees a number of heated arguments among those driving hard bargains, but not today. Shoppers and vendors alike seemed genuinely pleased to do business together. Negotiations were concluded with large smiles and holiday greetings. Everyone in “City of God” was happy that day. They had little and yet they were happy, anticipating the celebration of the birth of Him who was their Savior also. That strange, bustling marketplace made me feel the spirit of Christmas for the first time that holiday season. At last I understood why this tenement was called “City of God,” and no other name could have been more appropriate.
The Latin people celebrate this holiday like none other. Nearly everyone attends midnight mass. After that the fun begins. Fireworks burst everywhere, not just overhead. Rockets zip up and down streets, sidewalks, between one’s legs, and out of windows. Firecrackers of every caliber roar a mass salute that would rival a squadron of 747’s taking off in formation. The next morning a pungent haze overcasts the city, a smokey memorial to the Yuletide celebration, a mushroom cloud Latin style.
Time was short. We quickly bought wrapping paper and dashed back to the Mancos where mother and children helped ready the presents for delivery. I carefully instructed young Paco in the finer points of subbing for “Papa Noël.” “Leave the basket on the front porch, knock loudly, and run. Hide nearby to make sure the basket is taken in before returning home.” They mustn’t discover any connection between the gifts and their new-found faith. We wished the Mancos a “Feliz Navidad” and rushed home to prepare for our own festivities.
We made four or five calls on wonderful families that night, all of whom implored us to share their midnight feast. A carefully planned schedule brought us to the home of a convert employed by a U.S. airline where we observed a sort of Anglo-Latin Christmas culminating in an enormous banquet. After exchanging gifts, we finally dragged back to our apartment.
During the course of the evening I often mused on the events transpiring out in San Juan. I imagined Paco stealing up to the door, leaving the basket with great commotion, and escaping to the safety of nearby shadows. Brother Nostadez answers the door and, finding nothing, shakes his head in disgust at such an annoying prank on Christmas Eve. It is little Teresa who spies the basket on the porch and dashes through her father’s legs, hoping for a glimpse of Papa Noël. Hearing the disturbance, the rest of the family rushes to the door. Sister Nostadez whisks the basket into the house with her excited children in hot pursuit.
Across the street, Paco flattens himself in the sand, stifling uncontrollable laughter at Brother Nostadez who is suspiciously scanning the neighborhood for the perpetrator of the deed. He makes one more careful sweep and then backs through the door, slamming it behind him. As if loosed by a starter’s pistol, Paco is up and sprinting for home to report the success of his adventure.
Inside the house, little girls squeal with delight when dolls emerge from the basket. Ten-year-old Hilario is quietly enraptured with his first pocket knife. And Brother and Sister Nostadez contemplate the happy scenario, amazed at this unexpected answer to Christmas prayers uttered for the first time.
Each Christmas Eve for 12 Christmases my thoughts have returned to that singular event in my life. I know that it’s possible that the outcome was not at all as I envisioned it. And it is that uncertainty that keeps the experience so alive and vibrant in my memory. For the imaginings of that night’s events by far transcend any actuality I might have experienced in person. And so on each Christmas Eve I think, and ponder, and dream of miracles that I never witnessed but that I know to have transpired.
It was my first Christmas away from home and family—a young missionary in a strange land among strange people with strange customs. It was a time of learning and teaching and giving in secret. It was the time I first learned of, felt, and understood the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.

As part of their Young Women celebration, the girls of the New York Manhattan Stake participated in a family history open house. The people of the metropolitan area were invited to learn more about family history and the resources of the Church. The Young Women participated by putting up displays about their own projects. During refreshment breaks, those attending the open house were able to talk with the girls about some of the treasured items of their families as well as photos and written histories.
For the display, Alaira Fleming, 13, brought a figurine that was precious to her mother and grandmother. The porcelain figurine was one that Alaira’s mother had given as a Mother’s Day gift to her mother. After her grandmother’s death, Alaira was given the figurine to cherish as a representation of the love between mothers and daughters in their family.
Alaira was also taught and encouraged by her mother to keep a journal. “It makes me feel good that someday my children can read it and know what my life was like and the troubles I went through and the happiness that I’ve enjoyed.”

Years ago, when I informed my colleagues and senior leaders at work that I would be leaving the company for three years to serve as a mission president in Brazil, I received a variety of reactions.

I first broke the news over dinner in San Francisco to a senior leader in the company. I put it this way: “You’re Catholic, right?”

“I am.”

“If the Pope ever came into your office and asked you to leave the company for a specific assignment, would you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the Pope of my church has asked me to serve as president of a mission in Brazil for three years.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“Yes, beginning this July.”

He nodded, and said, “OK, but give me a call in a few months if it doesn’t work out.”

I simply smiled and said, “It’s going to work out. I’ll call you in three years.”

And I did!

But my decision did not ride on the response or opinions of others. Some thought I was crazy. Some called it a career killer. I was told that in terms of opportunity cost, accepting a call to serve was a terrible business decision. And the math was simple. Monetarily speaking, it was a terrible business decision!

But Jesus taught: “Wherefore, seek not the things of this world but seek ye first to build up the kingdom of God, and to establish his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.” [10]

Participating in the building up of the kingdom of God is an absolutely priceless experience and an investment in eternity. It is an exercise of faith. As I prepared to leave for Brazil, my boss approached me and said, “Corey, this blows me away and makes me want to re-examine my own faith.” This also became a great check for him.

The youth of the Utah Weber Heights Stake were treated to an out-of-the-ordinary Mutual activity. You could say it was something special. They got to spend a food-and-fun-filled Saturday with a special-needs Mutual group in a neighboring stake. Each member of the special Mutual had two friends from the Weber Heights Stake to spend the day with them.
The youth admitted a little apprehension about the activity at first, but Ami Houston, 13, said that all it takes to get along is “being friends like you are to all your other friends.”

My big brother and I were sealed to our parents in the Provo Utah Temple. We drove for a long time to get there. When we went into the temple, Grandma Lee, who serves at the temple, and another nice lady took my brother and me to a special room. We listened to stories, had cookies and punch, and watched a movie about temples. Then we dressed in white clothes—I even wore a little white tie. The nice lady took us to the room where our parents and other family members were. When we were sealed to each other there, I felt happy. I know that our family will be together forever if we keep the commandments.

At last I am alone. The crowd of students, their parents and Church leaders have finally filtered into the cool darkness after the dedication ceremony. It’s November 19, 1995, and we have a new seminary building. I am the senior seminary president.
I loosen my tie, slump into a desk in the corner of the classroom, and admire the strength and splendor of the new structure: the high-arching ceiling, the state-of-the-art audio/video system, the oak shelves for our scriptures, the red brick walls, and the double-paned windows.
My mind travels back to the seminary burning two years earlier and the transformation that followed. After the fire, my testimony of seminary’s importance blossomed. It wasn’t until I went without seminary for two months that I realized the powerful impact those daily lessons had on me. While the Church members spent several weeks cleaning up the old building and searching for a temporary replacement, I wasted my vacant seventh periods shooting pool at a friend’s house. That was fun at first, but over time, I felt that something was missing. That missing something was the spiritual nourishment of seminary. I missed that. The warm, comforting feeling that embraced my soul when I entered the seminary building—I missed that too.
When we finally received a temporary trailer and seminary classes resumed, the lessons had new meaning for me, and my appreciation for seminary continues to grow.
I rise from my desk and quietly slip out of the dim building. As I shuffle through the front door, I glance up at the New Era poster hanging overhead. With a simple picture of a baby chick cracking through its shell, the poster proclaims, “Adversity can make you strong.”

“During December 1987, I had some Church assignments in Bolivia, a beautiful South American country where the Church is growing rapidly. The Regional Representative at that time, Elder Philip Kradolfer, accompanied me, and he had a large suitcase full of toys. Just before Christmas each year, his children give some of their best toys to less fortunate children living in the Altiplano of Bolivia. It was wonderful to see the children’s faces as they received a doll, a game, a book, or a purse. Jesus taught that it is better to give than to receive, and I am sure that you have felt the same happiness when you have been a secret helper.”

First settling in Perth, a major city on the Indian Ocean shoreline of western Australia, Sister Lawson encountered Latter-day Saints in a local theater group. When she took on the job of stage manager, both the manager of the group and the leading male actor were Latter-day Saints.
Every time the group started or finished rehearsals, the manager called them together for prayer, Sister Lawson recalls. “Even though the rest of us were not members, it gave me a very warm feeling—I always used to quietly pray before I went on stage, and this seemed right, somehow.”
An invitation to attend Church meetings followed, and Sister Lawson was soon baptized. Naturally cheerful and enthusiastic, she served as ward and stake drama director in Perth and became thoroughly involved in the Church.

The Thomas J. Pappas Elementary School in Phoenix, Arizona, isn’t a typical school. At the end of the day, students don’t go home, because they don’t have homes. After school, the buses drop them off at various homeless shelters, old hotels, or even under bridges.
When the stake youth committee of the Mesa Central Stake learned about this school, they wanted to do something for the students. They wanted to give them a day of fun and activities, so they planned a carnival with games, sports, and food. But the youth of the stake found that they gained much more than they gave.
On the morning of the activity, anticipation was high. What would students from a homeless school be like? What would they talk about? How would they act?
The youth from the stake were each partnered with a student from the school as a “buddy,” or mentor, for the day. After eating breakfast with their new friends, everyone was divided into groups to rotate through the different activities.
Most of the youth who participated in this activity had the same observation—in their efforts to give, they had received. They came away from the activity more grateful for their blessings. In their efforts to provide a day of entertainment for homeless children, they learned a valuable lesson in gratitude.

Each month, my mom, sisters, and I take treats to the children who are in the hospital. One day while we were visiting, we stopped to toss coins into a water fountain. I noticed a little boy sitting in a wheelchair. He only had one leg and he looked very sad. I asked my mom if I could give my coins to the boy. She said yes, and I walked over and handed all of my coins to him. He smiled as he tossed them into the water. It made me feel very happy. I know Jesus wants me to be kind to others.

One day when I was 14 years old, a loud sound from the street caught my attention. I hurried to investigate and found a truck with huge sacks of seeds lumbering up the road. One of the sacks had tumbled off the truck and burst open.
The recently paved street was covered with tar and fresh gravel. This caused an enormous mess as thousands of seeds mixed with the road material. After the driver stopped and examined the situation, he expressed his frustration and drove away angry. He didn’t think the seeds were worth the hassle of picking them up out of the tar and gravel.
For me, though, those discarded seeds were a treasure I couldn’t pass up. I lived on a farm. Even though I had no idea what type of seeds they were, I knew they could grow into something useful. So I grabbed a five-gallon bucket and scooped up as many as I could, gravel and all.
I ran home to show my family my newfound treasure. Though we’d never planted string beans before, my dad recognized the seeds for what they were. He walked me to a back corner of our farm. “This is your area now,” he said. “Plant those seeds and help them grow.”
I was excited! I’d never had my own area of the farm to work before. That year my little corner was better watered and better weeded than any other part of our entire farm. While the rest of my farm chores still felt like work, taking care of my own corner with the string beans each day felt like fun.
The plants grew and grew. We ended up with so many string beans that we had enough to freeze and eat all year long.
The best part was that I used only a tiny portion of the seeds from my bucket. I had enough seeds in there to keep me going for years. Every year I planted more string beans and every year our family enjoyed a good harvest.
When I was about to leave on my mission, I looked at my bucket of seeds. The seeds were still mixed in with tar and gravel, but they were still as valuable as ever.
Every seed still had potential. It didn’t matter if the seeds were surrounded by tar and gravel or if they were grimy on the outside. The harvest was the same with these seeds as with any other string bean seed. They only needed somebody to see their worth.
Looking down into my bucket, I realized that those seeds were like Heavenly Father’s children. Sometimes people “fall off the truck” into rough places and nobody seems to want them. But we all have the same divine potential, no matter our circumstances. We all need to recognize that potential in others and help nurture it along.
Many years later I was reading in Jacob 5 about the allegory of the tame and wild olive trees when I remembered this experience from my youth. In the allegory, the master had a place in “the nethermost part of the vineyard” (Jacob 5:19) that was poorer than the rest.
His servant wondered why they would even want to spend time in that part of the vineyard (see Jacob 5:21), yet the master of the vineyard saw its potential and chose to labor there. These efforts ultimately yielded a great harvest.
Back when I was 14, my corner of the farm also happened to be the poorest on our property. And yet this corner still yielded a great harvest as a result of the time and effort I spent there working with the abandoned seeds.

As a mission leader in India, I recall asking a young branch president about some of his goals for the coming year: “How many men will you prepare to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood?” His immediate response was “Seven!”

I wondered from where in the ether he had conjured up that very specific number! Before I could respond, he produced a piece of paper with the numbers one through seven written down the side. The first five lines had names on them—real people that he and his elders quorum were going to invite and encourage to have the blessing of the priesthood in their lives. Of course, I had to ask about the empty lines six and seven. “Oh, President,” he said, shaking his head sympathetically, “surely we will baptize at least two men in the first of the year who could have the priesthood by the end of the year.” This superb leader understood the principle of counting and accounting.

Just prior to my first husband’s death, he spoke in a ward conference. He told of a couple who had been coming to him as patients for twenty-five years. In the early years one would drop the other at the office and then run errands while the eye examination took place.

As years passed, each spouse would wait while the other was being examined. As more years passed, he noticed the wife was the driver, and she would assist her husband as he came into the office. Then they started coming to the examining room together. In time the wife started coming to the office alone. My husband inquired about her husband’s health. She explained that she wasn’t able to lift or care for him alone anymore and he was living in a rest home. She said, “I go every day, but I don’t believe he even knows me. This morning I said, ‘Clarence, do you know who I am?’” He studied her face carefully and then said, “No, but I know you’re someone who loves me.” Perhaps that is all that really matters. Are you recognized as one who loves others?

After dinner they had a special family night. Dad showed them a black-and-white picture.
“This is Joseph Francis, your great-great-great grandpa,” Dad said. “He came to the United States with his family when he was 13 years old.”
Dad talked about how Joseph sailed from England and then worked in a factory to earn money to cross the plains. Benjamin couldn’t believe a boy who was just older than he was had done so many hard things.
Then Mom shared a story from her family history. “My mother, your grandma Hunsaker, met the missionaries when she was 13 years old. When she prayed to know if their message was true, she felt the Holy Ghost tell her to be baptized. Because of her decision, I grew up knowing about the gospel. My mother is a pioneer because she set a righteous example for others to follow.”
Benjamin liked that. Maybe there were ways he could be a pioneer! He was still thinking about it when Dad said it was time for the closing song and prayer.
“Now we can have the treat!” Sammy said. Mom handed everyone a cookie, some candies, and a few other yummy things. She showed them how to make wagons with marshmallows like white canvases on top.
“These wagons sure taste good,” Sammy said as he took a big bite. “I’m glad the pioneers went to Utah.”
Go to “Family Night Fun” to see how to make your own wagons!
“And I’m glad we don’t always have to make our own butter!” Benjamin said with a laugh. His life was different from the early pioneers, but he knew they all had one thing in common: they all believed in the gospel of Jesus Christ!