Gospel Story Finder

On the evening of December 25, 2004, members of the Chennai First Branch on the east coast of India were enjoying a Christmas activity. Little did they know that the next morning a massive earthquake would occur in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Sumatra. The force of the quake radiated out across the ocean, propelling towering walls of seawater toward land. Mountainous waves crashed into towns and villages in India, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, Malaysia, and Thailand, flooding streets and leveling homes and buildings. An unknown number of people were missing or dead.
When Elders Alwyn Kilbert and Revanth Nelaballe, missionaries serving in Chennai, arrived at church later that morning, they sensed that something was wrong. At the beach, police officers had set up barricades to keep onlookers back and were patrolling the area on horseback. Along the beach, people were pulling bodies out of the water. The missionaries could see that the water and destruction had reached more than a half a mile (0.8 km) inland from the beach.
That night the Church sent truckloads of supplies from a town nearly 400 miles (640 km) away for the Saints to distribute to those in need in Chennai. In the morning, members and missionaries gathered at the Chennai First Branch meetinghouse to help with a service project organized by the city’s two branches. For the next two days, they assembled and sorted relief kits containing clothing, bedding, hygiene items, and eating utensils.
Photograph courtesy of Church News
Since the tsunami hit, Latter-day Saints in the country had been distributing Church-provided goods among the victims. After loading trucks with hundreds of hygiene kits and other supplies, the missionaries and others traveled with President Brent Bonham of the India Bangalore Mission to deliver them to an Indian Red Cross station.
At the station, the man who greeted them recognized their name tags. “Oh, you’re from the Church,” he said. “What did you bring?”
They replied that they had lanterns, hygiene kits, and several tons of clothing. The official was thrilled with the donations and told them to drive the trucks into the facility.
Inside they found people crowding around huge piles of clothing. People from different religions and organizations were also dropping off supplies, and the missionaries spent several hours unloading the trucks and moving the supplies to where they were needed.
As Elder Kilbert looked at the people from different groups, he was struck by how they all worked together out of love for their neighbors. “There are good people everywhere,” he thought.

A missionary assignment to Great Britain late last year allowed me to reflect on the precious spiritual events that were foundational to my decision to serve as a missionary. When I was 15 years old, my beloved older brother, Joe, was 20—the age of eligibility then to serve a mission. In the United States, because of the Korean conflict, very few were allowed to serve. Only one could be called from each ward per year. It was a surprise when our bishop asked Joe to explore this possibility with our father. Joe had been preparing applications for medical school. Our father, who was not active in the Church, had made financial preparations to help him and was not in favor of Joe going on a mission. Dad suggested that Joe could do more good by going to medical school. This was a huge issue in our family.
In a remarkable discussion with my wise and exemplary older brother, we concluded that his decision on whether to serve a mission and delay his education depended on three questions: (1) Is Jesus Christ divine? (2) Is the Book of Mormon the word of God? and (3) Is Joseph Smith the Prophet of the Restoration? If the answer to these questions was yes, it was clear that Joe could do more good taking the gospel of Jesus Christ to the world than becoming a doctor at an earlier date.
That night I prayed fervently and with real intent. The Spirit, in an undeniably powerful way, confirmed to me that the answer to all three of these questions was yes. This was a seminal event for me. I realized that every decision I would make for the rest of my life would be influenced by these truths. I also knew that I would serve a mission if given the opportunity. Over a lifetime of service and spiritual experiences, I have come to understand that true conversion is the result of the conscious acceptance of the will of God and that we can be guided in our actions by the Holy Ghost.
I already had a testimony of the divinity of Jesus Christ as Savior of the world. That night I received a spiritual testimony of the Book of Mormon and the Prophet Joseph Smith.

The first time I heard about the restriction on black men holding the priesthood, I was on my mission. I was baptized in 1984, after the restriction had already ended. Two years later I was called to serve in the South Africa Johannesburg Mission.
While assigned to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, my companion, Elder Francis Jack, and I visited a less-active sister. Her husband was a theological professor from another church. He asked us why the priesthood had been withheld from men of black African descent. He said many things that bothered me—things I had never heard before. When I walked out of that room, I felt very low and very discouraged.
Elder Jack and I rode our bikes back to our apartment without speaking. When we got there, he looked at me and said, “Elder Dube, what is wrong with you? You seem very disturbed.”
“Didn’t you hear what he said?” I responded. “How could this happen?”
“Elder, do you believe that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to the boy Joseph?”
“Yes,” I said. “But what does that have to do with this?”
“It has everything to do with it,” Elder Jack replied. “We believe in revelation, don’t we?”
I thought about his words and what the professor had said. That night I woke up in the middle of the night. I felt happy and at peace.
The answer to every gospel question ties back to what happened in 1820. Knowing that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to Joseph Smith means that he was a prophet and that this is the Lord’s Church. If Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to the boy Joseph, then all gospel principles and questions fall into place. This is a church of revelation, and the Lord reveals certain processes at certain times to His servants, the prophets, and that is what brought peace to me.
I started jumping up and down and woke my companion shouting, “Yes, yes! You are right, Elder Jack! Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to the boy Joseph! This is the Lord’s Church!”

One year the young women in my ward participated in an interesting experiment related to dressing modestly. Here’s an account of one young woman who learned about this gospel principle and applied it to her life.
Anna Larsen* was excited that her turn to shop for clothes had finally come. Sister Jensen, her Laurel adviser, had taken each girl in the class shopping to learn a modesty lesson. Anna wasn’t sure what to expect.
When they arrived at the store, Sister Jensen asked Anna to pick out three outfits. As they walked to the dressing room, Sister Jensen said, “After you’ve put on an outfit, come out. Be prepared to have your eyes opened.”
Intrigued by her leader’s directions, Anna put on the sleeveless button-down shirt and hip-hugging skirt. When she walked out, Sister Jensen motioned her to the mirrors. “Now we’re going to play a game.”
“I doubt the clerks would be happy with me playing in their clothes before I’ve bought them,” Anna said.
Sister Jensen laughed and shook her head. “We’re going to play ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.’”
Anna looked skeptical.
“I’m serious,” Sister Jensen said. “Let’s start with your head.”
Anna put her hands on her head and saw her shirt pull up, baring her skin. “Oops,” she gasped, tugging it back down.
Sister Jensen put Anna’s hands back up. “That’s part of the game. You see how much your shirt lifts up? Now try shoulders,” Sister Jensen said.
When Anna dropped her hands to her shoulders she noticed even more showing inside the armholes. She also saw the shirt straining at the buttons.
“Now bend over and touch your knees and toes,” Sister Jensen advised.
Between her shirt and skirt was a two-inch gap. “Wow,” Anna said.
“I know,” Sister Jensen said. “Now, go try on the next outfit.”
After repeating the game twice more, Anna’s mood dimmed. None of her outfits had completely passed the “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” test.
“Don’t worry,” Sister Jensen said. “There’s hope. You just have to know how to put things together.” For the next hour Sister Jensen showed Anna how to layer different clothes to make them modest and stylish. She then challenged Anna to look through her closet and see if any changes needed to be made.
Later that night Anna looked at the mess on her bed. It had been overwhelming trying everything on to see what was modest or immodest. With a sigh she picked up one particular pile and carried it to her mom.
“Mom, I was wondering if I could donate these clothes.”
“Sure, honey. Why?” her mom replied.
Anna smiled. “Have you ever played ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes’?”

In addition to this Church work, Joseph Fielding Smith diligently assumed the responsibilities of husband and father. In April 1898, when he was twenty-two years old, he married Louie Emyla Shurtliff. After being married for only a year, he was ordained a seventy by his father on 12 May 1899, and left the next day for the mission field. Surely, making such a personal sacrifice was no easier for Elder Smith to do then than it would be for us to do now. He accepted his call, labored in the Nottingham Conference for two years, and returned home in June 1901.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for my brother who saved my life. I can remember that terrible day as if it were yesterday. I love my brother and would do anything to pay him back. I was quite young at the time, but the impact that this experience had on my life will be eternal.
It was a bright, sunny Saturday early in June. We lived in the city in a neighborhood that was very typical—a lot of kids and a lot of cars. That morning while my brother was mowing the lawn, I was playing in the driveway with my friend Jeff, who lived two houses down. Jeff was my best friend, and we were having a great time seeing who could hit the baseball past the other person. Jay, my older brother, was like no other brother in the whole world. He watched after me and was always willing to help me, even with little problems that seemed important to me. He was my example of true brotherly love. He took me everywhere; we were inseparable. Even though he was many years older than I was, I could tell he was as proud of me as I was of him. I loved my big brother, and I know he loved me.
Jeff and I were still playing hard as Jay finished mowing the lawn directly in front of the house and began to mow the small patch of grass that separated the sidewalk from the street. I admired the way Jay worked, especially when he worked hard. He was my example of what I wanted to be. Suddenly the lawn mower stopped. I guessed he hit a rock with the blade and it caused the motor to stall. I turned to see if he needed help to restart it. As I turned to Jay, Jeff let go with a throw that made me look silly. The ball zoomed out into the street, and I sped after it, not noticing the speeding truck that was coming right for me. Evidently Jay saw the truck and came running into the street after me. I never did see the truck but felt a powerful push causing me to be hurled to the other side of the street. As I fell to the ground, I could hear the sound of screeching brakes and a thud accompanied by a painful groan. My heart sank into my stomach as I picked myself up off the ground and ran over to Jay, who was lying halfway under the truck that had hit him. With tears in my eyes I sat down next to him and put my arms tightly around him in a way that only a little brother can.
“Jay, please wake up! Jay, please wake up!” I pleaded with all my heart through the tears. “Jay, please wake up!” I loved my big brother.
Soon Mom came running out of the house to see what had happened. Seeing her son on the ground, she burst into tears. She slowly bent down and put her arms around Jay, and together in the middle of the street we shared tears over the one we loved. I could hear sirens in the distance; they were going to take my big brother away. That only made me tighten my arms and cry harder. Jay was limp and becoming cold. I was scared and didn’t want to leave my brother. Dad got home from work just as the ambulance arrived, and Mom got up and ran to him. Dad came running over to Jay with tears in his eyes. He motioned me to let go so that they could lift Jay into the ambulance. As I got up, I leaned over and whispered in Jay’s ear, “I love you, Jay. Please come home.”
The drivers closed the back doors of the ambulance after Dad got in with Jay, and they began to drive off down the street. The siren was so loud and seemed to hurt as Mom picked me up in her arms. Crying together we went into the house. Mom set me down and went up to her room to be alone. She was crying harder than I’d ever seen her cry before. I, too, cried and cried hard. Even as I went to my room and kneeled down to pray, the tears still streamed down my face. I took a deep breath and began to pray through the gasps of tears, “Father in Heaven, please help Jay be well. Don’t let him die. I love Jay. Please don’t let him die!”
My tears still flowed as Mom came downstairs and slowly opened my door. She was trying hard not to cry. There was a moment of silence while she looked at me with greater love and greater sorrow than ever before. A moment passed, and then she ran over to me, picked me up in her arms, and through newly formed tears she whispered in my ear, “Kirk, I love you.” We cried together for hours.
Dad didn’t come home that night; neither did Jay. I never saw my big brother again after I held him in my arms as he lay cold and limp on the street. I was alive and Jay was dead. What had I done to deserve to live? His life was so much better than mine. My brother died for me! He died so that I could live. He saved my life.
Many years have passed since Jay pushed me out of the way of that truck. My life was changed in a matter of minutes, and I have taken it upon myself to tell the world what my brother did to save my life. I have tried to live my life in a way that will in part pay my older brother back for his sacrifice. My life was saved because someone loved me enough to suffer his life to be taken.

On June 6, 1994, the day after Howard W. Hunter (1907–1995) was set apart as President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, he extended two invitations to the members of the Church. Speaking with a tone of gentle encouragement, he said: “First of all, I would invite all members of the Church to live with ever more attention to the life and example of the Lord Jesus Christ, especially the love and hope and compassion He displayed. …
“I also invite the members of the Church to establish the temple of the Lord as the great symbol of their membership and the supernal setting for their most sacred covenants. It would be the deepest desire of my heart to have every member of the Church be temple worthy.”1
From that moment on, all my thoughts turned to the house of the Lord. At that time, I had been in the Church for three years and it was the first time to watch a living prophet on television. This event has remained engraved in me to this day. Fifteen years later, in 2009, I entered the temple for the first time with my wife for our endowment and sealing. It was then that I had a deeper testimony of the truthfulness of the Church of the Lord Jesus Christ—for Joseph Smith the Prophet could not have devised all of this when he himself was a man with very little formal education. Rather, that there is a Supreme Being who revealed to him all these things.

There is a power in goodness that is often learned in families. There is a void when it is lacking. I know one family that left what they described as “the good life” in a desire to do good. They agreed on a noble purpose that would take them to the Philippines for a year. The mother of this family reported, “We were flabbergasted it was so hard.” Without the normal routine and conveniences of home, she said, “We were just the same old ornery people.” Then they set a new routine—exercise at 5:30 a.m., 6:30 scripture study, then breakfast and school. Each afternoon they visited orphanages to play with the children.
Gradually the family started to notice a change—new levels of patience, gratitude, and respect. They started to talk to each other—to really talk and to really listen. The mother stated, “I will never forget the learning that took place for me and my family the day they brought a five-month-old baby into the orphanage whose tongue had been cut and an eye poked out.” When they learned the mother, a beggar, had injured her own child, it gave a new dimension to the social studies lesson they had discussed at home. A new level of compassion started to develop—greater reverence for the sanctity of life. This family put their “trust in that Spirit which leadeth to do good” (D&C 11:12), and gradually they started to experience the power to become changed.

Another of the great missionaries of the Church, who later became an apostle, was Parley P. Pratt. In 1830 Parley was twenty-three and serving as a missionary in Ohio. While in the course of his travels he was arrested falsely and taken to court. Ordered to pay a heavy fine, he had no money, so the judge committed him to prison. It was late at night, and there was not time enough to travel to the prison, which was several miles away, so Parley was taken by an officer to a hotel to spend the night. After the night’s rest and breakfast, he was taken to the public square by the escorting officer, Mr. Peabody, ready to be taken to prison. Here is the episode as Parley told it:
“Said I, ‘Mr. Peabody, are you good at a race?’ ‘No,’ said he, ‘but my big bulldog is, and he has been trained to assist me in my office these several years; he will take any man down at my bidding.’ ‘Well, Mr. Peabody, you compelled me to go a mile. I have gone with you two miles. You have given me an opportunity to preach, sing, and have also entertained me with lodging and breakfast. I must now go on my journey; if you are good at a race you can accompany me. I thank you for all your kindness—good day, sir.’”
Parley then took off on a dead run. By the time Mr. Peabody had gotten over his astonishment and was able to stir himself to action, Parley had covered 200 yards, leaped a fence, and was running through a field to the forest. The officer came hallooing after him and sent his huge dog to seize him. The dog overtook Parley in due time and was about to grab him, when Parley, in a moment of inspiration, reached out his arm and pointed in the direction of the forest, all the while imitating the officer by yelling “Stu-Boy.”
“The dog hastened past me with redoubled speed towards the forest; being urged by the officer and myself, and both of us running in the same direction. Gaining the forest, I soon lost sight of the officer and dog, and have not seen them since.”6
No one could have warned Parley Pratt of the danger his mission might place him in, but once there he didn’t fail to see the humor of his situation and turn what could have been a “cost” into a “benefit” in an experience to be enjoyed in retrospect.

My mom was raised on a dry farm in Squirrel, Idaho. (This was before she went to Chile to marry my dad.) Her dad would buy grease in five-gallon buckets. Once emptied, the buckets served multiple purposes. Grandpa often carried his tools around in these buckets. Sometimes they would hold chopped barley to feed the pigs and chickens. One summer Mom found a bucket placed outside the house under a faucet--not sure why. Having caught the summer-day boredoms, she decided to use the bucket as a fishing pond. She found a stick and a piece of string to which she tied one of Grandma's sewing pins. The pin made a perfect fish hook. That first day she fished for a couple of hours. She didn't catch anything. As the summer passed, she and her siblings spent several more hours fishing out of the would-be fish pond. She said to me, "By the end of summer, none of us had ever caught a fish." Now that she looks back on her fishing days with a bit more life experience, she realizes with a smile that there were no fish in that bucket.

Years ago when my children were small, I took them with me to go shopping. While out, we found several inexpensive Nativity sets, one of them in a small box. This Nativity was crudely made, probably of ceramic, and had only five pieces—Mary, Joseph, a shepherd, a Wise Man, and a baby Jesus.
As my son opened the box, a piece popped out and fell to the floor, breaking into two. After consoling my son for his mistake, I thought to myself, “Well, I guess I’m going to buy that ugly Nativity set.” It was not a Nativity I would normally have displayed in my home, but because my son broke it, I bought it and took it home.
Once the children were in bed, I pulled out the little Nativity set and considered throwing it away. It was small and ugly in my eyes. The piece that had broken, however, was the baby Jesus. I couldn’t just throw baby Jesus away! So, I glued the piece together and made a little spot in our home each year afterward for that small Nativity.
Last year, as I was placing the Nativity pieces into bits of paper to protect them, I glanced again at the baby Jesus. Then I glanced at the box as I placed that piece inside it. I noticed that I had never removed the price tag: $1.25. That was the price I had paid to redeem my son’s mistake.
That thought made me stop and ponder on our Savior. Thoughts about Jesus Christ flooded my mind, and I thought of the price He had paid to redeem me from my sins. What a small price I had paid for my son’s mistake in comparison to His sacrifice for my sins. I paid the price of the Nativity for my son because I love him, and the Savior paid the price for us because He loves us (see 1 Corinthians 6:19–20).
Just as I had repaired the broken baby Jesus, He can repair our broken lives. I thought of the gratitude I have for Jesus Christ’s Atonement for me and for each of God’s children, and for the hope we can have in our Savior. That ugly Nativity isn’t so ugly to me anymore.

And, finally, be a good influence on others. When I was a sophomore in high school, some of my friends started drinking and smoking. They knew I didn’t drink or smoke, but they began to pressure me to join their parties anyway. The more they pressured me, the more uncomfortable I felt, until finally I stopped hanging around them. I figured that if they were really my friends, they wouldn’t push me to do things I didn’t want to do. Real friends would never ask you to do something you shouldn’t.

I’ve never forgotten the sacrament talk of an Englishman who had spent four years in a Japanese prison camp. Two missionaries had found and baptized him just before the capture of Singapore. He lost all his possessions save a photograph of the two missionaries. And that he kept hidden from his captors. He survived, he said, largely by finding moments, sometimes hidden under a blanket, when he could look at the picture and imagine himself talking to the elders again. So vivid is that evening sacrament meeting to me that I remember now, thirty-five years later, that he finished his testimony and sang “The Holy City.”

I adored my big brother, Jeremiah. I followed him everywhere. He was an older, wiser six-year-old to my four-and-a-half-year-old self. He knew all sorts of things, like the best place to find bugs and where the water was just right for playing in. If he went over to his friend’s house I tagged along. He didn’t mind most of the time.
Then one day Phillip, our next-door neighbor, invited Jeremiah over to play. A fence separated our yards, and when we played together we just climbed over it instead of going around. Jeremiah climbed over, and I started to follow.
“Only you can come this time,” Phillip told Jeremiah. “I don’t want your sister to play with us.”
My face went bright red. I looked down and tried to dig a hole in the ground with the toe of my shoe. What would I do while they were playing together? Why didn’t Phillip want me to play too?
“Well, if my sister can’t play then I can’t either,” Jeremiah said. Just like that, he climbed back over the fence. “Nobody is mean to my little sister. Come on, Naomi, let’s go find some frogs by the creek.”
Jeremiah put his arm around my shoulder and smiled at me. I smiled back. We spent the day playing near the creek behind our house. Jeremiah never mentioned not going over to Phillip’s house to play. It was like it never happened. The next day when Phillip invited Jeremiah over, he included me too.

Ellen sniffed the moist sea air as she leaned over the bow of the great sailing vessel. The Hudson had sailed away from the coast of England just weeks before. Ellen had cried that day as she waved farewell to some of her friends and family in the cheering crowd. But they were tears of joy. Finally, after years of working and praying, her family’s prayers had been answered. They were going to the land of their dreams—America, the land of Zion!
Ellen enjoyed the sea. During the few times she was able to slip away from taking care of her younger brothers and sisters, Ellen liked to lean over the bow of the ship and let her hair blow wild while she searched for dolphins and other sea creatures.
Ellen’s heart sank as she heard a voice behind her. “Ellen! You must come. It’s time for breakfast prayers.”
“Coming,” Ellen grumbled. Stepping back from the ship’s railing, she tried her best to straighten her hair. “More prayers,” Ellen thought as she hurried toward the hatch that led to the lower part of the ship where her family and all of the Saints ate and slept. Prayers in the morning, prayers at night, prayers by herself, prayers over meals, prayers with the Saints, and prayers with her family. Ellen bit her lip. She didn’t want to be ungrateful for the miracle of sailing to America. But was there such a thing as too many prayers?
As Ellen approached her family, who were already kneeling, she wondered if her mother could tell what she was thinking. Ellen knelt down and looked at her mother’s tired face. Life on the ship had not been easy for her mother. She, and many of the other passengers, had experienced terrible seasickness during the recent storm that had rocked the ship for days.
Guiltily, Ellen bowed her head when the leader of their company asked her father to bless the food. She thought of her mother as he asked for a special blessing upon those who were sick. Then he thanked the Lord for the food and asked Him to protect the Saints that day.
After breakfast, Ellen was assigned to care for her younger sisters on the deck. She took them to a place that was out of the way so they could watch the sailors rushing around shouting orders at each other. Ellen noticed the captain near the bow of the ship. He was searching the horizon with his looking glass. She wondered what it would be like to be the captain of a great ship. Suddenly, the captain’s face grew pale, and he began to pace back and forth, stopping every few steps to look through his telescope.
“What could have upset the captain so much?” Ellen wondered. “Let’s go look at the ocean,” she whispered to her sisters, taking their hands in hers. At the bow of the ship, Ellen shaded her eyes and scanned the ocean. At first, all she could see was a small black dot on the horizon. But soon she saw what had made the captain’s face grow so pale.
A large ship was sailing straight toward them at a fast clip. “Pirates!” whispered a man beside her. She could hear the fear in his voice. Panic ensued as parents began calling to each other to find family members and to take the children below. Ellen stood frozen, watching the men scramble around in search of anything that could be used as a weapon.
“Get those children away from the bow,” yelled a crew member.
Ellen shook herself out of her frozen state and led her sisters down the hatch, but as soon as the children were with her mother, she rushed back up to the deck. She was worried about her father. He’d never fought anyone in his life, let alone pirates. She wondered what she could do to help.
The passengers on the Hudson grew silent as the pirate ship sailed closer. Ellen stood next to her father and gasped as the ship came so close she could see the color of the pirates’ hair! She looked up at her father and saw his lips moving in a silent prayer. Feeling frightened, she began her own silent prayer, asking Heavenly Father to forgive her for her bad attitude that morning.
The two ships sailed side by side for what seemed like an hour. The pirates and the passengers on the Hudson gazed at each other in silence.
“What are they doing?” Ellen whispered to her father.
“They’re probably wondering if our ship is worth robbing,” her father whispered.
They waited in silence until suddenly there was a shout from the pirate ship. Ellen could feel her father’s body tense. Then, to Ellen’s surprise, the pirate ship slowly turned around and began sailing away from the Hudson.
Ellen let out the breath she had been holding. Silently, she offered up a prayer of thanks, remembering her father’s prayer for safety that morning.
“The Lord was surely watching over us this day,” her father said, laying a hand on Ellen’s shoulder and watching the pirate ship sail away.
“He surely was,” Ellen thought, and then she smiled, realizing she now knew that there was no such thing as too many prayers.

The troops gathered early on a spring morning, just as the sun was breaking over the Montana hills. Mostly young men, they came in small clusters at first, a patrol here, another there, marshaling in the city park until their ranks were full. The ribbons and badges on their uniforms caught the fire of the dawning light.
You could tell by looking in their eyes that this was serious business. They came prepared for action, dressed in orange vests and hunting caps, wearing leather gloves. And they came heavily armed.
With trash bags.
For these were Scout troops, joined by Cub Scouts, some Girl Scouts, and a few other service groups. And their battle was an all-out war against litter.
This gathering of 289 in Missoula and others like it throughout the state would form an army of 7, 000. Dispersed in groups of four youth and two leaders per mile, they would clean Highway 93 from the Canadian border to Idaho. They would spruce up parts of Interstate 15. And working west from the North Dakota border, they would tidy significant stretches of Highway 2, Interstates 90 and 94, Highway 87, and other major thoroughfares.
By midday they would collect more than three million pounds of trash, including 2,000 pounds of recyclable glass and thousands of recyclable aluminum cans.
And they’d be home in time for lunch.
This one-day cleanup has been an annual affair for five years now. It started small, when LDS Scouts in northwest Montana decided to do something about trash on Highway 93. Their good example spread to district level, where “Project 93” drew 1,100 participants the first year, 2,000 the next, then went statewide as “Project Good Turn.”
Now people throughout the state are recognizing the contribution.
“The best part is when people honk and wave,” said Seth Tollefson, 12, of the Missoula Fourth Ward. “I think a lot of people are happy about what we’re doing.”
Indeed. One man traveling south out of Canada was so moved by the sight of mile after mile of volunteers, that he found their Scoutmaster and gave him $40. “Take your troop to lunch,” he said. Bakery trucks have stopped to hand out snacks. Soda pop truck drivers have spontaneously donated free drinks.
Community organizations have also chipped in. Amateur radio operators provide statewide communication. The highway department provides the trash bags and picks them up when they’re full. Radio and television stations air public service announcements advising motorists to slow down. The highway patrol cruises the areas being cleaned.
“A lot of the community knows that most of the Scouts are in on this, and that the Church sponsors a lot of the Scout troops around here,” said Cannon Flake, 16, of the Frenchtown Branch. “So they get a good impression of the Church when they see us out working.”
The younger boys eagerly tally what’s been gathered besides trash: keys, golf balls, tennis balls, a volleyball, an unexpired charge card (returned to the owner), a set of wrenches, cassette tapes, a warped record album, coins, a $10,000 cashier’s check (returned to the owner), a $10 bill (donated to the troop fund), a $50 bill (donated to the pack), and other souvenirs.
And leaders talk about increased camaraderie, since adults, priests, teachers, deacons, and Primary-age Cub Scouts all work together on the same project; and about how in ten years, there won’t be so much litter because Project Good Turn is making the youth aware of what a problem litter can be.
And, of course, there’s a noticeable improvement in the appearance of the highways. “One place we worked on looked like the city dump, but when we got done, it looked like somebody’s lawn,” said Scoutmaster Jim Bartmess of the Missoula Fourth Ward, Missoula Montana Stake.
But perhaps the greatest benefit of the Montana cleanup has been what it has done for the young men themselves. “It gave you a sense of accomplishment, like you’d done something instead of sitting around all day,” said Seth Shearer, 13, of the First Ward.
“Most people would call it a boring day,” said Joe Diesen, 15, of the same ward. “And it was tiring. But I didn’t feel really tired, because I knew that I was doing something that was right.”
Mark Fallentine, 17, of Frenchtown, had planned on sleeping in, then spending the day getting ready for a school dance. “Friday night, I got two calls from the priests quorum about the cleanup. Then Saturday morning I got a call from the branch president. So I went. But after we got out and started working, I felt really good about it. And now, just driving by the highway and looking at it, I can say, ‘Hey, I worked on this, and it looks real nice.’ It taught me that I ought to participate even when at first I don’t want to.”
“One of the coordinators caught our troop just as we were finishing our first stretch of highway,” said Brent Chipman, 13, of the Fourth Ward. “He said there was another place that needed to be done, and asked if we could help. We did two more sections, so we went the extra two miles!”
Dave Speer, 12, of the Second Ward, told a similar story. “We did a mile. Then they told us to go ahead and do another mile, because someone didn’t show up. So we went back and did another mile. It was cloudless almost, and it was so hot out there. After a while, we sat down on one of the railings by the side of the road, and as the semi trucks came by they would blow wind on you and cool you down. You knew you’d worked hard, but it felt good.”

The year we were baptized a friend bought a building lot for his family and ours by loaning us part of the money. We began to dream of having our own house. Eventually the Spirit prompted us, and we started calculating the cost of labor and materials. We felt that we would somehow manage to build a house where we could raise our children in the gospel, do missionary work, and receive visits from members.
After some time I got better acquainted with Brother Joel, a recently baptized member of our ward. His faith was amazing. Once when we were doing a service project, Brother Joel said to me, “José Luis, we can build your house.” I was on the verge of tears, but I contained myself until I told my wife. It was the answer to our prayers.
A few days later the friend who had purchased the land for his family and ours told me I could have the entire plot and pay for it later. Still I did not have the kind of job that would allow me to buy building materials, but I knew the Lord would provide a way. Several weeks later I was invited to work for a large company. Thus, our goal to begin building a house soon became a reality.
What a labor of love was Brother Joel’s. He did more than build a house for my family. He was ready to help us in any way. We worked only on Saturdays. It took 10 months, and it did not interfere with our Church work. Other Church members also helped us. My father came to help several times, which allowed him to get to know members of the Church better. He especially got to know Brother Joel, who had become our home teacher.
One Saturday my father praised Brother Joel for the way he worked.
I said, “Dad, do you know how much I have paid for his services?”
He said, “No.”
“I haven’t paid him a cent,” I said. “He has done this service because he loves my family. He is a good man.”
I realized my father was choked up, and he didn’t say anything. I felt he was probably remembering how he had treated the bishop and the missionaries and was embarrassed. He saw that the members of the Church had always treated us well.
On the day we finished the house, 16 men, most of them members of the Church, were there. My relatives and friends who were not members certainly learned a lot that day.

As a young boy, I was deeply touched by the story of the boy Samuel, who heard the Lord calling and was taught to answer, “Speak, Lord; for thy servant heareth.” [2] I remember thinking, “If God knows a boy like Samuel, then He must know me, too.”

But then questions began to grow in my heart: If God called prophets back then, where are His prophets today? Does God still speak? These questions led me to search earnestly for a God who speaks to His children.

In that search, I spent hours and hours with different religious leaders. I spent many days arguing and trying to prove them wrong. At the time, I thought faith was something you won with words. I was driven by a desire to win, to outsmart people with my Bible-bashing. Even though I won a number of those arguments, I always walked away feeling empty inside.

So when someone warned me not to meet with the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, it sounded like an invitation to seek them out. And I did. When I found them, I was prepared to debate. They were young and not very experienced in the Bible, and I thought, “This is going to be easy!”

I asked them the same question I had asked many in the past: “Do you believe in a God who speaks—like He spoke to Adam, to Moses, to Isaiah, to Elijah—and to my favorite prophet, Samuel?”

They began to share the story of a young boy who went into a grove of trees to pray. And as they described what happened in answer to his prayer, my heart burned within me. They shared Joseph Smith’s words:

“I saw a pillar of light exactly over my head, above the brightness of the sun, which descended gradually until it fell upon me. … When the light rested upon me I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!” [3]

As they shared that story, something happened inside of me. My heart was touched in a way I could not argue or reason away. I had no desire to debate. All that was left was simple and sincere to know: Does God still speak?

I knew then—and I know now—that God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, appeared to the boy Joseph Smith and called him to be a prophet.

It was a settled, confident, and personal witness. Joseph describes that kind of witness from God this way: “I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it.” [4]

Moroni’s promise became real to me:

“[God] will manifest the truth … unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost. … And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.” [5]

I learned that God is not silent. Revelation is real.

That is how my testimony of the Restoration began.

In closing may I share with you an example of one who determined early in life what his goals would be. I speak of Brother Clayton M. Christensen, a member of the Church who is a professor of business administration in the business school at Harvard University.
When he was 16 years old, Brother Christensen decided, among other things, that he would not play sports on Sunday. Years later, when he attended Oxford University in England, he played center on the basketball team. That year they had an undefeated season and went through to the British equivalent of what in the United States would be the NCAA basketball tournament.
They won their games fairly easily in the tournament, making it to the final four. It was then that Brother Christensen looked at the schedule and, to his absolute horror, saw that the final basketball game was scheduled to be played on a Sunday. He and the team had worked so hard to get where they were, and he was the starting center. He went to his coach with his dilemma. His coach was unsympathetic and told Brother Christensen he expected him to play in the game.
Prior to the final game, however, there was a semifinal game. Unfortunately, the backup center dislocated his shoulder, which increased the pressure on Brother Christensen to play in the final game. He went to his hotel room. He knelt down. He asked his Heavenly Father if it would be all right, just this once, if he played that game on Sunday. He said that before he had finished praying, he received the answer: “Clayton, what are you even asking me for? You know the answer.”
He went to his coach, telling him how sorry he was that he wouldn’t be playing in the final game. Then he went to the Sunday meetings in the local ward while his team played without him. He prayed mightily for their success. They did win.
That fateful, difficult decision was made more than 30 years ago. Brother Christensen has said that as time has passed, he considers it one of the most important decisions he ever made. It would have been very easy to have said, “You know, in general, keeping the Sabbath day holy is the right commandment, but in my particular extenuating circumstance, it’s okay, just this once, if I don’t do it.” However, he says his entire life has turned out to be an unending stream of extenuating circumstances, and had he crossed the line just that once, then the next time something came up that was so demanding and critical, it would have been so much easier to cross the line again. The lesson he learned is that it is easier to keep the commandments 100 percent of the time than it is 98 percent of the time.

The donkeys and carts were becoming more numerous along the roadside now as the bus approached their ancient family village. Yung Fai looked across the aisle at Wai Fung sitting in her mother’s lap next to the window. In her excitement, she was squeezing the window railing with her bony fingers.
Yung Fai pondered to himself, I’ve never been inside her church again since that night of the typhoon. But it’s not because she hasn’t tried. She’s even taught me some of her songs. Why does she think more of me than I think of myself?
When Lily knocked at the low brick building Yung Fai vaguely remembered as his home, a gray-haired man opened the door. His mouth opened in a toothless grin. He greeted each family member in the usual reserved Chinese manner, taking their hands warmly in his. But, when Wai Fung was placed in his arms, he held her tight and tears came to his eyes.
“Do you remember the songs you used to sing for me?” he asked.
“Oh yes, Papa,” exclaimed Wai Fung.
After she had sung many of his favorite Chinese melodies, her father was silent. Yung Fai watched him fumble under the bed and pull out a big book. “I’ve been reading the Bible. You wrote and told me you had joined a Christian church, so I decided to find out what was in their book. Are there Christian songs you can sing?”
Wai Fung smiled exuberantly. Then Yung Fai saw her motioning to him with her eyes. “Papa,” she said, “I also taught Yung Fai to sing with me. Maybe we could both sing for you.”
At first, Yung Fai looked down shyly. Then the words of the song came more strongly to his lips, “O my Father, thou that dwellest …”
When the last note had faded, their father was nodding serenely. Yung Fai felt himself nodding too. The words the old man now spoke seemed to be coming from his own mouth. “Your words are good. They are true.”
Suddenly, Yung Fai felt as if he and his father were someplace else. Dressed in white, they were standing in a pool of water.
Yung Fai’s mind returned to the little room where his gray-haired father sat on a stool before him and Wai Fung sat close beside him. He groped for his sister’s hand, wanting to open her eyes to his experience. But, when he gazed down at her dark, tranquil eyes, he sensed she had seen his vision long ago and was now only sharing it with him.