Gospel Story Finder

I don’t look anything like my mother. I am short, muscular, and athletic, with my father’s dark eyes and curly hair. She is tall and thin, with long wispy hair, full lips and round eyes. She is the type of woman with color-coordinated fingernail polish. I never wear fingernail polish. First thing, the smell gives me a headache. Second thing, I also have my father’s hands: short and stubby and masculine. Polish just makes them look silly and fake, and I feel like I’m my 12-year-old sister, who tries way too hard to look chic by wearing blue eyeshadow. Besides, my left hand got slammed in a van door when I was 12 years old—at my first Mutual activity, in fact—and now my ring finger and my pinkie are permanently crooked. So, as you can see, fingernail polish has never really been my thing. Neither have Mutual activities.
Today I tried to slip out the door and get to school before my mom could catch me. I knew if she caught me, she’d make me go. And going to the annual youth canyon fireside was the last thing I wanted to do. Even though my mom says she only wants what’s best for me, and honestly thinks she’s trying to help, she just doesn’t understand how hard these things can be. Testimony meetings are the hardest, everyone breathing and shuffling around in silence, wondering what, if anything, I’ll say.
My mom was called to be the Young Women president in my ward last year, so when I skip meetings, it’s pretty glaringly obvious. When I was 13, I could get away with not going to Mutual because I would just conveniently forget to tell my mom about things, but now she knows everything. Everything. And so does everybody else. I can imagine the Young Women presidency discussing the less-active girls, all of them avoiding my mom’s eyes when they come to my name. I know that people talk. I also know that many of them think I don’t care what they say, but I do.
So today I walked extra carefully down the stairs, skipping the one that squeaked. And right as I put my hand on the doorknob and almost felt safe enough to breathe, I sensed her behind me.
“Leslie,” she said, and she put her hand on my shoulder. She was wearing dusty rose polish, and I could still smell it fresh on her fingertips.
“Leslie, honey, I really feel you should come tonight. You don’t want to miss this. I promise.”
I shouldn’t have glanced up at her face, because that’s when I saw the look. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it before. I see it almost every Sunday when I decide I want to stay asleep, those weekend nights when I come in late and she is wrapped up in the old blue blanket, waiting. I see it all the time. But at that moment, I looked up at my mom, and it struck me hard that she was a little bit scared. Of me. Of what I’d say. And you know, most teenagers like me would have thought they were powerful, making their moms look that way, but I didn’t like it at all. It must have really thrown me off, because somehow my mouth popped open and the words, “Okay. Okay, I’ll go,” came out.
I kicked myself throughout the school day for saying okay because now I was stuck—really stuck. I kept seeing the relief on my mom’s face when I said okay. I knew that I wasn’t terrible enough to change my mind on her, and the knowledge that I had gotten myself into something that I couldn’t get out of sat and simmered at the bottom of my stomach all day long.
As my mom and I drove to the activity, she hummed to the radio and tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. She kept looking at me and smiling, just barely, like she was excited but didn’t want to be too excited in case she’d scare me off. It was a look I remember from when I was a little girl and we went camping and she got a squirrel to eat out of her hand. She talked to it softly, smiled quietly, and tried to stay as still as possible so she wouldn’t break the spell. I remember the squirrel snatched the food from my mother’s hand but didn’t run away. His curious eyes were fixed on hers as they stood inches apart, his hands tucked up against his chest. I remember reaching out my hand to pet him, but when I moved, he scampered away. “They have to trust you quite a bit before you can touch them,” I remember my mother telling me.
When we stepped out of the car onto the gravel parking lot of the campsite, I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and studied the ground, avoiding all the eyes that I knew would be staring my direction. Then I heard my name being called. “Leslie!” “Hey, Leslie, it’s great you came!” “Leslie, long time no see!” Six or seven girls came toward me, waving their arms, smiling and squinting into the dusky sunlight. I remembered all the lessons—fellowship the less active. Let them know you care. When they came close enough for me to see their eyes, I searched them for the insincerity I knew I would find. Maybe it was the setting sun casting shadows across their faces, but I studied their expressions, and their smiles seemed genuine.
Megan and Natalie grabbed me by the wrists, pulled me over to the refreshment table, and started loading me up with chips and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and orange slush. They were my friends once, before I hit my “stage.” (That’s what my dad calls it, my stage.) As a matter of fact, they were the ones that took care of my hand when I slammed it in the van door. I still saw them at school, and they always said hi, but I was never sure if they meant it or if I was just another “service project.” I wasn’t sure now, either. In many ways, I wanted to sense they were being false. I remembered the countless Sunday mornings complaining to my father, “I know they don’t like me, Dad. Nobody likes me there.” I had used that justification so often that I had begun to believe it. But here they were, talking with me, laughing, like there wasn’t one thing wrong with me and never had been. Amazingly, I found myself laughing right along with their jokes, almost feeling like I belonged, a little bit afraid that I’d have to come up with a new excuse for my dad on Sunday mornings.
Night fell quickly, and the leaders managed to get everyone in a circle around the fire. Already huge and bright and hot, the flames cast themselves on everyone’s faces, lighting up their eyes. Shining in the glow of the fire, our faces seemed transformed, like we weren’t the teenagers who just 20 minutes before had been getting in water fights and toilet papering the bishop’s car. The dark and silent forest surrounded the circle of people, and all we could see or hear was each other.
For the first few minutes everyone was quiet and shifted in their seats, just like I’d expected. I sat as still as possible, staring at my hands in my lap, listening as the fire popped and crackled and everyone breathed. Then I heard a rustle, and someone stood up. I didn’t look to see who it was. But once I heard his voice, I knew. It was John Caldwell, the star football player. Big John, scary John, John who had been gone all summer so he could work out some problems and had just come home.
He cleared his throat. I could hear his feet shuffle nervously in the dirt.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I’m not too good with words, really. But I have something to say that you all need to hear.
“The last year of my life has been really rough. One night I felt really bad. So bad I didn’t think I wanted to see the morning. That feeling scared me a lot, so much that I did something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid. I got down on my knees.
“I was scared to pray, almost too scared to even try. I wasn’t sure if there was a God, and if there was, I didn’t know why He’d want to listen to me. But I needed to do something. Anything.”
I lifted up my head and looked up at John. He was staring straight out into the fire, and his face was lit up and shining. For the first time, I looked at his eyes. Dancing and sparkling, they reflected the light from the fire, and he looked more alive than I had ever seen him.
“I don’t know how to explain it, really,” he said. “I don’t know what to say except that it felt like a blanket. I didn’t even have to try to say the right words. I just got down on my knees, and I could feel Him, and He was all around me. Right then, I knew everything would be okay. Somebody loved me, even if I didn’t even like myself, and for the first time I felt like I had the strength to go on.
“Now I want to make something out of my life. I still have a long way to go, but there’s one thing I can say without a doubt. I know there’s a God. He watched over me that night, and He’s been with me ever since.”
John sat down and it was quiet again, but not the quiet like before. It was something more than silence. It was a hush. I felt a peacefulness surround my body that I hadn’t felt for a long time—a peacefulness I had forgotten how much I missed.
The rest of the night passed, and people stood up and bore their testimonies. I couldn’t stop thinking about John. I kept seeing the light in his eyes, the way he looked so powerful and so sure when he said, “I know there’s a God.” I was shocked to see what I had been trying to find for so long—real faith and conviction—embodied by a humble football star who learned how to pray.
At the end of the meeting, we all sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” I even remembered the words. As I sang, I looked across the fire at my mom. She looked around the circle at everyone, smiling, and I sensed how much she loved us all. I was glad for the chance just to watch her, to see her as a person on the outside would. She was so beautiful, and so happy, and for the first time in much too long, I was proud to claim her as my mother.
The drive home was dark and quiet. There was no radio. No sound, really, but the hum of the tires along the pavement. Then we turned up the hill that led to our street. I saw the light coming from the windows of my home, and I knew I had to say it. I hadn’t felt the love and peace and power of that night for so long, and I didn’t want to let those feelings go again. By saying four simple words I’d kept locked inside me for so long, I knew I’d soon find myself on the path I never should have left.
I laid my hand on top of my mother’s.
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
She was silent for a moment, and then I saw her smile.
“I know,” she said. Then she took my hand in hers and squeezed it, tight, and neither one of us tried to let go.

Another true story: Ashley had been at college and away from home for a month. As she sat in her dorm room, feeling lonely, her roommate brought in the mail and tossed Ashley a package. In it was a hand-written note and Ashley’s favorite candy bar. The note, from Ashley’s younger sister, said, “I hope you will enjoy your present. This is a short letter, but I miss you. Love, Maria.” (See Ashley Eggers, “Love, Anonymous,” New Era, Feb. 2001, 26.)
That gift helped Ashley realize that even though she was far from home, her family loved and remembered her. It made Ashley’s day because her sister wasn’t embarrassed to express her love.

I live in Canberra, Australia. My dad and mum gave me my first journal as a present when I was about eight years old. I wrote in it for a couple of months; then I gave it up. A few years later when I was 12, I got it back out and read it one day. I decided I’d better start writing again, because by then I had received three other journals as presents!
About this time, a seminary teacher in our branch challenged me to write in my journal every day for 20 days. She said if I did, it would become a habit. I decided to try it.
Writing was hard at first, but it got easier. I found that by writing my feelings and thoughts, spiritual things got included too. I made my record fun by trying to include information I thought my children might be interested in someday, like how much things cost. I figured it would be interesting for them to see what it was like for me when I was a kid.
I found that a journal is a good way to express your feelings. Things you may not want to share with anyone else you can write in your journal. For example, I find it hard to bear my testimony in sacrament meeting (even though I do it sometimes). But I bear it all the time in my journal.
I really like to write on Sundays, when I’m thinking about spiritual things. And I like to go back and read what I wrote before. I can see how much I have changed; I can see that parts of my journal are much more spiritual than others. It helps me analyze my life and see what the Lord does to help me. It relaxes me and gets my mind off the world.
I received my 20-day challenge five years ago. I’m still writing in my journal every night. I get it out before I go to bed. I read my scriptures; then I write in my journal. It’s automatic. I haven’t missed an entry in five years.

In 1952 the majority of the families in the Rose Park Third Ward were members whose fathers or husbands held only the Aaronic Priesthood, rather than the Melchizedek Priesthood. Brother L. Brent Goates was called to serve as the bishop. He invited a less-active brother in the ward, Ernest Skinner, to assist in activating the 29 adult brethren in the ward who held the office of teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood and to help these men and their families get to the temple. As a less-active member himself, Brother Skinner was reluctant at first but finally indicated he would do what he could. He began personally visiting with the less-active adult teachers, trying to help them see their role as priesthood leaders in their homes and as husbands and fathers to their families. He soon enlisted some of the less-active brethren to assist him in his assignment. One by one they became fully active again and took their families to the temple.
One day the ward clerk came out of a grocery checking line to greet the last of the group to go to the temple. Commenting on his position as the last, the man said: “I stood by and watched as all of that group became active in our ward and went to the temple. If only I had been able to imagine how beautiful it was in the temple, and how it would change my life forever, I never would have been the last of 29 to be sealed in the temple.”

When Todd Budge was a young boy, his parents taught him how to seek the Lord’s will. Throughout his life, he has tried to apply that practice in every decision.
Years later, after he and his wife had settled into a home with five children, he felt spiritual impressions to leave his career in banking and finance. The change would require significant sacrifice for him to become established in a new career.
After much effort and preparation to change careers, Elder Budge met someone uniquely qualified to give him advice. This individual suggested that Elder Budge stay with his banking career, reminding him that he would have many opportunities to counsel and help people. “We need people with integrity in business,” the person told him.
Elder Budge considered that encounter to be a tender mercy from the Lord. “I think He wanted to know where my heart was,” he says. “Once the Lord knew my heart, He did not require the sacrifice, and I trusted that He could use me for His purposes without a career change.”
His career did allow him to be an influence for good in the business world, even to open doors to share the gospel in Japan.

Little did Petre realize all this festival day would bring, when he carefully laid out his dance costume on his bed that morning. First, he would be allowed to herd the family sheep to the meadows in the Romanian highlands by himself and bring them back again. Getting ready for the Shepherd’s Dance meant that the men needed to stay in town, so the task of grazing the sheep today was left to the children.
Since this was a holiday, the children were to bring the sheep back early in the afternoon so that the youngsters could join in the festivities. As Petre moved the flock from the pen, the bell on the lead ram tinkled pleasantly. Petre’s fervent dream was to have his own flock one day.
“Don’t forget, Petre,” called his friend Josif as he moved his own family’s sheep onto the road, “we bring back the sheep at one o’clock. I heard that the tourists at Sibiu are going to come over to watch the dancing.” Then with a grin he gibed, “I’m going to dance your legs off!” Josif always acted as though dancing was a contest.
Petre, who danced because he loved to, retorted, “Go ahead and try!”
Ana led her family’s sheep out after Josif’s. She didn’t have any brothers, and she claimed to be the first shepherdess in the area.
One by one the three flocks ambled down the dusty road. The blessings of spring had filled the meadows with blades of tender grass. The scent of wild flowers filled the air, and the creek sparkled with clear mountain water.
Soon the flocks reached the meadows. As they grazed, Petre sat under an oak tree and thought about the festival. The women of the village had already spent many hours preparing the special festival food. The men were now setting up long tables under a grape arbor to hold the delicacies. They were also decorating the cobblestone streets with ribbons and lanterns. During the festivities the women would wear elaborately embroidered costumes; the men would wear belted white trousers, embroidered tunics, and leggings with bells that jingled. The dancers’ shoes would be of soft leather, and the captivating Romanian folk tunes would be played by shepherds on their flutes. The dancers would cry out, slap their ankles and thighs, and leap gracefully into the air as they followed the intricate figures of the dance.
“Will one o’clock ever get here?” Petre sighed. Glancing at his flock, he noticed that a sheep had strayed. He whistled, and his dog, Tofan, quickly brought the ewe back to the group.
In Petre’s village, sons had followed their fathers as shepherds for many, many generations. As each boy was ready for the responsibility, he was given three sheep to start a flock of his own.
Petre recalled his father saying, “Son, there is more to tending sheep than watching them eat grass. You must watch for ailing sheep and recognize what caused the sickness. Ewes need special care when they are lambing. Fleece must be sheared without injury to the animal. Always know the exact number of sheep in your flock and where they are. Most of all, Son, you must realize that sheep are a gift from God and that they are only one of His many wondrous creations. Earthly rewards will never cease as long as you respect all living things as part of one large family.”
Petre was glad when the sun passed its highest point and was starting its downward track. He whistled, and Tofan started the flock toward home. From the dust cloud ahead on the road, Petre knew Josif and Ana were ahead of him. As he neared the village sheepyard, he could hear Ana insisting, “I still think I’m missing a sheep.”
“You could have miscounted,” suggested Josif.
“No, I’ve counted twice. We can’t leave one out there. Anything can happen to it.”
“We already looked for it once,” complained Josif. “We’ll have time to check again after the dance. It will still be daylight. Come on,” he urged, “or we’ll miss the dancing.”
Petre watched them run toward the village green. The music from the shepherds’ flutes was melodic and clear. Its rhythmic beat touched every muscle in his body, and he wanted to spring into a dance. But he couldn’t go and enjoy the festivities knowing that there might be a lost sheep somewhere.
“Come, Tofan,” Petre called. “Let’s see if there is a sheep out there. If we hurry, we can get back before all the dancing is over.”
The boy and the dog ran down the dusty road toward the meadows, with Tofan sniffing along the way. After searching for some time, Petre declared, “Tofan, we haven’t found it, but somehow I’m sure there is a sheep out here somewhere.”
The dog seemed to understand and went with Petre to search in the foothills. Finally, in a shallow gully hidden by tall grass, they found a ewe that had just given birth.
“We can’t go home yet, Tofan,” Petre said as he sat down by the sheep. “We must wait until they are strong enough to go.”
The dog wagged his tail, then waited patiently beside the boy.
The ewe seemed comforted by their presence. Petre was glad he had come, even though he was aching to dance. He knew he could not get back in time now.
The ewe went on licking her newborn. Finally she nudged the lamb to its feet. A kind of joy swept over Petre as he cradled the lamb in his arms. “Come, Tofan,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
The dog guided the ewe in the right direction.
Not far from the village Petre saw the three fathers coming toward him. He knew that they had been at the pen to check their sheep and had realized that one was missing.
“I’m proud of you, Son,” his father greeted him.
Ana’s father stepped forward. “Petre,” he said, taking the lamb, “because of what you did, I am going to give this lamb to you as soon as it is weaned.”
Petre swallowed hard. His heart was beating so hard that it felt as though it might leap out of his chest.
“And I,” said Josif’s father, “will give you the next ewe born in my flock.”
Petre could hardly believe what he was hearing. He expected to wake up and find it was all a dream.
His father spoke up then. “And I will give you a baby ram.”
“Oh, Papa!” cried Petre. “My very own flock!”
“Come, Son,” said his father, “run on ahead of us and put on your costume. There’s still time for some dancing.”
The shepherds’ flutes were never more melodious. With the bells on his leggings jingling to his favorite Romanian tune, Petre danced until his legs ached.
That night Petre put his costume carefully away. In the morning he would wake up and remember that he soon would have a flock of his own. His dream was coming true!

Some time ago, I met with a husband and wife having severe marital problems. When they came in for counseling, the wife described their problems in detail, but the husband said nothing. I tried to get him to talk, but he was sullen and answered every question with only one or two words. His wife always jumped in to give more complete answers.
Finally, I invited her to leave the room, then spoke with him alone. At first, he said very little. But when he found that I gave him time to formulate his answers and that I didn’t interrupt, criticize, or judge him, he began to speak freely.
From that point on, I said little. As the interview came to an end, he seemed relieved. With real feeling he said, “Thanks for listening to me. I have wanted to tell my wife these things for years, but she never wants to hear what I have to say.”
The man had a difficult time formulating and expressing his thoughts, but he showed deep feeling. And he was clearly relieved to finally be able to put those feelings into words. Fortunately, this couple was able to rediscover that they loved each other dearly. Both wanted to build a strong, supportive marriage, and both wanted to do their part.
The husband in our opening example clearly needed someone to listen to him, not someone with whom to discuss his problem. When a person is frustrated by not being heard, the remedy is for someone to listen, not to talk.

Several years ago, a student disclosed a problem to me that they felt should be addressed with their bishop. However, they said that they needed to get the problem resolved first before they met with him. This noble student was trying to take responsibility for their problem (which is admirable), but they got it backwards. Seeking help before the problem is fixed is much more noble and effective than hoping we can fix it on our own and not sharing our burden. I encourage you to test this principle by picking a problem you have and asking for help in solving it. See what happens.

What is the record of Church service of Joseph Smith, Sr.? When he accepted the restored gospel, he found himself. Although previously skeptical of all organized religion, he believed at once in his son’s visions. He physically protected the Prophet during the translation of the plates and became a witness of the Book of Mormon after seeing and handling the plates. He then brought people into the Church as a missionary to the northeastern United States and to his family. In 1833 he was called as Patriarch to the Church. There were other offices: member of the first high council in 1834 and even counselor in the First Presidency for a short time in 1836. But Mormon diaries show that his greatest impact on his fellow Church members was through the blessings given as Patriarch. Many of those blessings were prophetic for Church members who came west. A young college student who attended blessing meetings in Kirtland, Ohio, was Lorenzo Snow, then a nonmember and later president of the Church. His sister, Eliza R. Snow, had induced him to come from Oberlin College to study with the competent Hebrew instructor employed by the Church for the missionaries. She had hoped that he would be exposed to Mormonism while studying Hebrew, and it was Joseph Smith, Sr., who impressed him most toward conversion. For Lorenzo felt his strong inspiration and discerned the appropriateness of instruction given to different people. In recalling his first impressions, Lorenzo Snow later said: “I looked at Father Smith and silently asked myself the question: Can that man be a deceiver? His every appearance answered in the negative. … I had never seen age so prepossessing.”11 His strong convictions attracted strong men to the Church. The most influential Smith of the second generation in Utah was George A., cousin of the Prophet and counselor to Brigham Young. His Uncle Joseph, the Patriarch, visited northern New York to meet initial ridicule of the Book of Mormon even from his family, most of whom were later converted. George A. Smith, then a bright and brash teenager, began to read the Book of Mormon but with the purpose of gathering devastating objections against it. The sequel was not as he expected. In his own words: “On the return of my Uncle Joseph, I undertook to argue with him upon the subject, but he so successfully removed my objections and enlightened my mind, that I have never since ceased to advocate its divine authority.”12 Other converts left records that show the unquestionable sincerity and deep convictions of Joseph Smith, Sr. His total loyalty to the restored church is itself a strong argument for the authenticity of the prophetic mission of his son.

Nick Robinson knew the deal. Go with his all-star team, the Children’s Mercy Hospital 76ers, to Orlando, Florida, for the Junior Boys’ National Amateur Athletic Union Championship and let college coaches drool over him. In addition, with Disney World hosting the event, it wouldn’t be difficult to have fun when he wasn’t playing basketball.
After all, this was the national high school boys’ tournament. In high school basketball circles, anybody who is anybody plays in this.
And what’s not to like? You play hoops all day against the country’s best high school players, many who will eventually play the game for a living. Meanwhile, sitting in the bleachers are college coaches—famous guys you’ve watched on TV—who have contacted you about possibly playing for them. They’re there to watch you.
Heady times for 16-, 17-, and 18-year-old kids.
Especially for Nick Robinson from Liberty, Missouri, who can shoot, post up, and create his shot off the dribble. His 76ers, a team made up of the Kansas City area’s best high school players, earned a spot in the prestigious tourney with their second-place finish in the local AAU tournament. Now it was time to see how they measured up against the nation’s best players and teams—all expenses paid.
As Nick sat in the chartered bus as it rolled along, he was excited. He was with his friends, the weather was beautiful, school was out. Life was good. As the bus came to a stop, Nick unfolded his 6-foot-5 frame from his seat and stepped from the bus with the rest of the kids, happy to be in … Nauvoo, Illinois?
You don’t have to be Rand or McNally to know that Nauvoo is a long way from Orlando. Nauvoo does not have any amusement parks, and when you think of Nauvoo, basketball doesn’t usually leap to mind.
Ah, but Nauvoo had one thing Orlando didn’t: the Liberty Missouri Stake’s youth conference.
“I knew the team would go to Orlando sometime in July and I was excited. For a couple of weeks I didn’t realize youth conference was at the same time as the tournament,” recalls Nick. “All of a sudden I was saying, ‘Mom, both things are on the same date.’”
To complicate matters, following the Orlando tourney, the 76ers planned to play in additional tournaments in Augusta, Georgia, and Las Vegas, Nevada. It would be three straight weeks of basketball. It was then that Nick realized Especially For Youth, scheduled at the University of Kansas in Lawrence, would conflict with the other two hoop tournaments.
“I knew if I were to go to Orlando I’d be traveling for three weeks. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to spend three weeks traveling all over the country. I didn’t want to be away from my family that long,” he says. Nick’s six younger sisters felt the same way.
“So I thought about it, I talked with Mom and I talked with Dad, then I prayed about it. I decided that it would be better if I went to youth conference and EFY instead.”
Some people might call his decision a gamble. After all, this was a college scholarship he was talking about. Orlando was where coaches evaluated players. How players played at this tournament often determined if a scholarship would be offered. Nick knew he was a good player. But he also knew getting a scholarship was no slam dunk.
Nick, though, thought about how his coach concluded practice each day. He’d ask his players questions then answer them. “What’s the number-one important thing? God. Number two? Family. Number three? School. Number four? You.”
“That’s the order his list went in,” Nick explains. “He knew if I needed to do something for Heavenly Father, then that was more important than playing basketball. My teammates understood my decision. And I knew I had to be patient and realize that even if I wasn’t seen by college recruiters, Heavenly Father would bless me.”
Once he decided to attend youth conference, Nick didn’t look back on what he was missing in Florida. Not until after he returned did he find out how the 76ers had done. He had other things on his mind. At youth conference in Nauvoo, Nick and the rest of the young men and women separated into “families” of two “parents” and five or six “children” for the different activities, which included a devotional near Parley Street, a visit to the temple site, and a fireside. In Nick’s “family,” he was one of the “sons.”
“You felt the Spirit there. It was wonderful and I had a great time. It was good just to talk and be with my friends in the stake,” he says.
The following day the group went to Carthage, Illinois, and toured the jail where the Prophet Joseph and Hyrum Smith were martyred. The following week at EFY, Nick roomed with his buddy Matt Nielsen. “It was the last time we would be able to go, so we wanted to go together. It was a wonderful time,” he says.
After his two weeks of Church-related activities, Nick thought about his choice. “I was glad to be there with my church friends. And after I made the decision, there wasn’t much thought about Orlando.”
A month after youth conference, Nick began his senior year at Liberty High. A few weeks later basketball practice began.
A year earlier when Nick was a junior, Liberty had begun the season winning 21 consecutive games before losing three of its last five and dropping its first game in the state tournament. It was a major disappointment. Nick didn’t want history to repeat itself.
It didn’t. By the time the season was over, the Blue Jays had a 31–0 record, they were the Missouri 4A champions, and Nick had a choice of colleges he could attend to play basketball. He eventually signed with Stanford.
Nick’s been out of high school for about a year now. But instead of enrolling immediately at Stanford and learning the system of a perennial top-20 team while playing alongside all-Americans and appearing on TV, he deferred his scholarship for a couple of years. Today you can find Nick serving in the Brazil Maceio Mission.
Figures.

This story happened in Zimbabwe.
The sun was shining, and Lynn ran outside to play. The other children in the village were playing kickball. They had made their own ball by crunching up papers and wrapping them tightly with plastic bags.
Lynn hurried to join them. But then something made her stop.
Sitting under a nearby tree was a girl named Awesome. Some other children pointed at her and laughed. But Awesome didn’t laugh. Instead, she covered her face with her hands. Big tears rolled down her cheeks.
Soon the others joined the kickball game and left Awesome alone.
Lynn looked at the children having fun. Then she looked at Awesome. She wanted to do what Jesus Christ would do.
“Are you OK?” Lynn asked. She smiled at Awesome.
Awesome wiped her tears and nodded.
Lynn picked up two small sticks and handed one to Awesome. “Want to draw with me?”
“Sure.” Awesome took the stick and drew a circle in the dirt.
“That looks like a sun,” said Lynn. “The sun always makes me happy.” The girls giggled as they drew more pictures. Lynn liked Awesome.
Then Lynn had an idea. “Would you like to come to church with me tomorrow? We’ll sing songs and learn about Jesus Christ. It’s really fun.”
“OK,” said Awesome. “Let me ask my mother.”
As Awesome ran to find her mother, Lynn felt a little nervous. She knew some people in their area had bad feelings about the Church.
But soon Awesome came running back. “My mother said yes!” She gave Lynn a big hug. “I told her you are my best friend ever!”
The next morning, Lynn and Awesome went to church. It was a long walk. Lynn taught Awesome some Primary songs as they walked.
On the way, they saw other children walking with their families to church. Some of them were the ones who had been mean to Awesome.
“Are they coming to church too?” asked Awesome nervously.
“Don’t worry,” Lynn said. “It will be OK.” Lynn said a little prayer in her heart that the others would be nice to her new friend.
When they walked into Primary, the other children smiled at Lynn. But when they saw Awesome, some of their smiles faded. They seemed a bit worried and nervous too.
Sister Moyo read a scripture. “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in Heaven.”* She looked up. “We can share our light by showing love to others. Can anyone share how you helped someone feel loved?”
No one spoke. Some of the children shuffled their feet under their chairs.
At last, one of the boys said, “Uh, Awesome, we were not very kind to you. We are sorry we made you cry. Can you forgive us?”
Lynn looked at Awesome. What would she say?
Awesome nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I forgive you.”
Sister Moyo smiled. “That was brave and kind of both of you. I know you’ve made the Savior very happy.”
The next day, Lynn and Awesome sat under the tree and sang songs they learned in Primary. Soon the other children heard them singing and joined them. Music filled the air they all sang.
Lynn felt like sun was shining in her heart. She was grateful she had shared Jesus Christ’s love with her friend.
Awesome kept going to church with Lynn. Later, she was baptized!
Illustrations by Katie Rewse

We couldn’t help being a little nervous. Mrs. Hall was one of our strongest investigators. She already knew the Church was true, even though she was not a member. Other missionaries had initially contacted her, and as she had received the standard lessons and read the Book of Mormon, her inclination to believe had grown into a strong testimony. My companion and I had encouraged her continued study of the gospel.
But now her sister, Joan McArthur, was coming to visit. Mrs. Hall’s husband and all the relatives on both sides of the family were devoted to other churches, and she did not want to be baptized until her husband (who was, at least, friendly with the missionaries) would embrace the gospel with her. She was also concerned about antagonizing other family members, particularly her parents, by joining the Church before they fully understood what she was doing and why.
It was easy to imagine that Mrs. Hall’s sister was being sent to check up on her and to warn her to quit associating with Mormons. Still Joan was only 20, and it would be her first time away from home. She must have been as full of apprehension during her journey to Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, as we were waiting for her to arrive.
Mrs. Hall, however, seemed unruffled. She simply invited us to dinner a few days later when Joan had had time to get settled. I think Joan was surprised when her sister greeted us at the door and ushered us into the living room. Maybe she had suspected that “missionaries” had to be middle-aged men or raving fanatics. We were happy and yet earnest; she, in turn, seemed at ease chatting with two young ladies approximately her own age. Following the meal, we showed a filmstrip. She had plenty of questions, and we promised to return.
At the next appointment, Joan came dressed almost in armor. Every argument and falsehood she had ever heard about Mormons bristled. But she didn’t fling them at us. Rather, she laid them on the table and asked for an explanation. As she described her apprehensions, we responded as best we could. Our answers seemed to satisfy her. She knew her Bible well and referred to scripture after scripture. She seemed genuinely interested in the passages we quoted, and all of us looked them up and discussed them. From that day on, I was impressed with her deep spiritual insight. At the end of the conversation we all felt a little more at ease. We explained why we were called “sisters,” talked about our homes and families, and shared the convictions that had led us to our 18-month calls of service to the Lord. She told us about the excitement of her first cross-country train trip.
The next lesson was about the Apostasy. Joan desperately fought it, finally asking us to leave and not come back. She said she didn’t want to hear any more. She was upset; we were disappointed and frustrated. She later wrote in a letter, “I remember that after you left that evening, I cried bitterly because of the words in the Joseph Smith tract that said all of the other churches were ‘an abomination in my sight.’ That really hurt because my church meant something very special to me. I had believed all my life what my parents had taught me, and a statement like that dashed my whole world. How could Joseph Smith say something like that? But he had said the Lord had said it. That was the big difficulty.
“Jessie (Mrs. Hall) didn’t force me to continue studying, but she did encourage me. I don’t think I would have continued without her. But there was too much love between us as family members for me not to.
“I was angry and felt indignant, feelings I marvel at now. I wonder how I remained teachable, but the Lord was kind to me and patient. My problem was, I thought I could believe everything the sisters were teaching me and still remain a member of my church. I clung to that idea.”
But Joan was a truth-seeker. After a week of prayer and soul-struggle, she called us back. She had changed her mind. When could we come teach her more?
I noticed as we presented the next discussion, about the restoration of the gospel, that a change came over her. She stopped resisting. She seemed to be thirsting eagerly asking questions as though the answers wouldn’t come quickly enough. She was understanding that Christ’s visit to Joseph Smith was an act of love; that the truth is on earth in its fulness not for those who want to find fault, but for those yearning to fill in missing pieces.
The same spirit prevailed at the next lesson. Topic: the plan of salvation. I knew my companion and I weren’t alone doing the teaching. Words flowed freely. Scriptures were located without trouble. Spirit communed with spirit. Overcome with excitement, Joan exclaimed, “Now, I see why Jessie wants to be baptized!”
Despite all her declaration that she would never join the Church, Joan was a different person than she had been when she first arrived to visit her sister. As we left the house, I felt inspired to turn to my companion and say, “I know that someday she will join the Church.”
We spent a few more visits with her, teaching a strong gospel lesson each time. Then I was transferred to another area in the mission. I heard no more about this sincere young lady, or about the Hall family, until after I returned home from my mission.
Then one day a letter with Canadian stamps was waiting in my mailbox. It had taken them a long time to track down my address and to write to me, the letter said, but Joan and Sister Hall wanted me to know that they had both been baptized two years before in a cold lake just outside the city!
It was the start of a string of surprise letters. Two years later one told me that Joan was on a mission in South Africa and that Sister Hall’s husband, Barry, though still not interested in studying about the Church, loved the missionaries and members as he always had and was taking the family to Sunday School. Later I received a wedding announcement from Joan. She was being married in the Salt Lake Temple to a returned missionary. Later that same year Sister Hall wrote that her husband had been baptized and loved working in the Church. The next year they brought their children with them to be sealed as a family in the Salt Lake Temple.
Since then Brother Hall has been a branch president, a member of a stake presidency, and is now a member of a stake high council. Joan’s husband, Dale J. Laub, became a bishop. Both sisters are active in their callings and have done genealogy that has allowed them to accomplish temple ordinances for several hundred ancestors.
As a young lady just out of her teens, Joan McArthur had come to Victoria determined that she would change her sister’s mind if necessary. Instead, she had the courage to change her own. Her sincerity in calling upon the Lord would not allow her to do otherwise. Her sister Jessie was wise enough to be patient while explaining the gospel, allowing the Lord’s Spirit to do the persuading.
Both of them learned to listen to their hearts, and many others will be eternally grateful that they did. Joan McArthur not only changed her opinion about the Church, she changed her life.

To a child of seven, the phrase “a judge in Israel” seemed much too profound a term to understand. In my teenage years, however, I learned that this was a phrase used to describe a bishop. I couldn’t imagine myself being a bishop, but I knew that if I was going to be one, I’d better live worthily. I charted a course that included honesty, high standards, and living a moral life. (And eventually, I was called to be a bishop, by men who did not know of that patriarchal promise.)

When Elder Backman was twelve years old, his father was called to be president of the South African Mission. “That mission was one of the highlights of my boyhood!” Elder Backman recalled. “We were so excited when Mother told us that we were going to Cape Town, South Africa, that my brother, two sisters, and I danced around the front room. Africa seemed like such an exotic place with all its wild animals.
“It was a very spiritual experience,” Elder Backman continued. “My father was permitted to have only twenty-five missionaries, and they became very close to us. We lived in the same home with them, and they ate every meal with us. I was absolutely immersed in the mission. All those missionaries were my big brothers. They still are. We still get together once a month. I have always tried to follow in their footsteps.
“Our church meetings were held in a room that had been added to the mission home for that purpose. Upstairs was the dormitory for the missionaries. The building also had a baptismal font. I was the only deacon in the branch, and I felt pretty important. As old as I am now, I think that those experiences in South Africa at that tender age are the most vivid that I have had in my entire life.
“When I was young, our family took a number of trips. The most memorable one was when we left South Africa and traveled by ship for two months and stopped at twenty-four ports. We sailed up the east coast of Africa, through the Mediterranean Sea, and ended our trip in Hamburg, Germany. Tangiers, Algiers, Zanzibar, Dar es Salaam, Cairo, and Port Said, were only a few of the exotic cities that we visited.
“When President Gordon B. Hinckley invited me to attend the dedication of the temple in South Africa a few years ago, I had the choice experience of greeting many of the Saints there whom I had known as a boy. I love those people, and I love that country.”
Even before going to South Africa, Elder Backman had great admiration for missionaries. “When I was a boy, a lot of missionaries went out from our ward,” he recollected. “They were permitted then to print missionary farewell programs with their pictures on them, and I would save those programs, fold them, and stand them up on my dresser. Those missionaries were my heroes. I never wavered in my desire to go on a mission because of the example that those men had set for me. As a boy, I was shy and didn’t do anything to call attention to myself. But serving a mission helped me to overcome my shyness.
“My message to young people is that they should prepare to serve a mission. Preparing to serve a mission means that you must keep the commandments, be active in the Church, take part in Primary classes and Sunday School, gain the Aaronic Priesthood if you are a boy, and if you are a girl, be active in the Young Women organization. Serving a mission is the greatest preparation for life that I know.”

When I was in grade school, I learned about Christopher Columbus. My teacher had the class memorize "In fourteen hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue." I imagined how bold and daring he was to sail into the unknown and I wondered how he could have been so brave.
Many years later I learned Columbus did not show the most fearlessness when the Pinta, Nina, and Santa Maria set sail. His courage had been tested daily during the previous six years. He had spent those years trying to convince the kings of Portugal, Spain and England to provide the needed money and ships. Finally in 1486, he returned to the Spanish court of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella trying to convince their educated advisors that he could succeed. These learned men didn't just tell him he was wrong; they laughed, mocked, scorned, and ridiculed him.[1] Finally, he was able to convince the king and queen to provide the money and ships.
Why didn't Columbus give up after three, four, or five years? The obvious answer for us might be that God had a foreordained mission for him. We know this from the Book of Mormon. I would like to suggest an additional reason given by Columbus himself: he recognized and responded to the prompting and knowledge given to him by the Holy Ghost. In a letter to the king and queen of Spain, he wrote, "Our Lord unlocked my mind, sent me upon the sea, and gave me fire for the deed. Those who heard of my emprise[enterprise] called it foolish, mocked me, and laughed. But who can doubt the Holy Ghost inspired me?"[2]
Then in his diary, Columbus added:
It was the Lord who put it into my mind (I could feel His hand upon me) the fact that it would be possible to sail from here to the Indies. All who heard of my project rejected it with laughter, ridiculing me. There is no question that the inspiration was from the Holy Spirit because He comforted me. . .[3]
This is a further testimony that even though the veil is drawn, Columbus was inspired to fulfill his foreordained mission and he knew the knowledge that he would succeed came from the Holy Ghost. This awareness gave him the perseverance and determination to keep trying--he called the "fire for the deed".

Several years ago I had the opportunity of playing quarterback in the National Football League. Over a seven-year period I played for the Pittsburgh Steelers, the St. Louis Cardinals, and the Atlanta Falcons.
The first of the two thrills took place one day when I was playing with the Steelers against the Philadelphia Eagles. On the first play of the game from scrimmage, I faked to the halfback and dropped back into the pocket. I threw a long pass down the sideline, and my receiver, who was racing down the sideline as fast as he could go, reached out with one hand, caught the ball, pulled it in, and went all the way for a touchdown.
That touchdown pass was a great thrill for me. It was really exciting with 80,000 people cheering. Not many people will have that particular thrill during their lifetime.
The second thrill happened after I retired from professional football. A young man became interested in the gospel through some discussions we had. I invited him to my home. He brought his girl friend with him, and the full-time missionaries taught them the gospel. They were converted. I had the opportunity of baptizing these two young people. A year later they came to Salt Lake City, and I had the privilege of going through the Salt Lake Temple with them when they were sealed for time and eternity.
The experience of seeing those beautiful young people accept the gospel and be united forever was a great thrill. It was a different kind of thrill than the touchdown pass. There were only a few people present in the “sacred silence,” but it was still very exciting.
When I compare the thrill of the touchdown pass with the thrill of those baptisms, there is absolutely no comparison. The baptisms were far more exciting! That may sound phony at first, because now we “see through a glass darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12), but I testify that the greatest thrills in this life come from serving the Lord.
It’s perfectly logical when we think about it. Who is going to remember that touchdown pass? Just two people—myself and the fellow who caught the ball. No one else will feel the impact or even remember the play. Just try to remember who played in the Super Bowl two years ago.
In contrast, contemplate all those who will remember the baptisms: this young couple’s children, grandchildren, and many generations to come, not to mention those this couple have brought into the Church.
At the day of judgment, the books will be opened, and those baptisms will be noted. We will be able to see that record, and angels will look upon it. Many will feel the impact of this thrill throughout eternity. “And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me” (D&C 18:16). And while few of us may experience the thrill of a touchdown pass, every young man and woman in the Church can know the greater thrill of sharing the gospel!
There are many exciting thrills in life, but we will enjoy the greatest of them through the gospel by learning and growing, by teaching, by sharing, by serving as a friend and a missionary. If we can learn to love the things that God loves, we will comprehend the true meaning of life, and we will seek after the joy of the gospel with all our heart, might, mind, and strength.

I am embarrassed to admit it, but there was a time when I thought home teachers were more of a nuisance than a blessing. At such times I would find ways to absent myself from their visits so I could get my work done.
That’s why when Lincoln became our home teacher, I was especially annoyed. He never missed a visit. He always had a lesson prepared, and he faithfully carried out his home teaching duties. I appreciated his efforts but not enough to give him and his companion my undivided attention when they came for their monthly visit. Lincoln was always cordial; I was always a little rude.
One year during the early spring, I was out working in the yard. The day was clear and warm. Usually I find gardening therapeutic, but on this day I was distraught. My husband had just undergone debilitating back surgery, and as a family we faced some tough decisions.
Needing answers, I found myself kneeling in the garden. Tears flowed as I prayed fervently for direction from the Lord. If I could only feel some peace. If I could only have some assurance that our future would not be as dismal as it seemed at the moment. I prayed earnestly, speaking aloud at times, begging the Lord for hope but most of all for peace.
When I returned to the house after pleading with the Lord, I was spent. I was glad no one was home so I could get myself together. But no sooner had I taken off my work shoes when the doorbell rang. Lincoln was the last person on my mind, but when I opened the door, there he stood with his wife, minus lesson materials.
For the first time, I actually found myself happy to see him. I invited them in. We chatted, and Lincoln asked about my husband’s work, our five daughters, and other family matters. They didn’t stay long, but as they got up to go, Lincoln asked if he could leave a blessing on our home. I was grateful, wondering how he knew a prayer would be so welcome. We knelt, and as I listened to his words of comfort, he specifically asked for a blessing of peace on our home.
During that moment I felt a wave of comfort fill my soul. I knew then that the Lord was in charge and that everything was going to work out.
My prayers had been answered with clarity and assurance through Lincoln, our faithful home teacher. In honoring his stewardship and following the promptings of the Holy Ghost, he left me with a testimony of his sacred calling.

When Jane Seppings, of Victoria, Australia, discovered that Cardinia Shire was calling for cloth face masks for refugee and migrant residents, the busy mother and youth leader with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, set to work with her sewing machine.
She made 22 cloth face masks of varying sizes.
“I’m grateful that the gospel of Jesus Christ encourages us to love and serve others,” she said.
As a nurse and midwife, Jane says she values her health and the health of her family and her patients.
“This was a way I could further contribute to other families in the community by doing something as simple as making masks for those that don’t have access to them,” Jane explained. “It is always nice to help out where I can.”
The masks were acknowledged gratefully by the Shire’s cultural diversity facilitator, Glenda George.

Mark Johnson is a young man striving to fulfill his duties as a deacon. But at times, it’s a struggle. Seven years ago doctors discovered that Mark had muscular dystrophy; Mark was given just two years of mobility. But he set a high goal for himself—he wanted to pass the sacrament when he was ordained a deacon. It seemed impossible, especially after Mark was forced into a wheelchair. But because of his undying desire to render service, Mark has found a way to fulfill his duties. His father, Lee Johnson, carries Mark in his arms every Sunday as Mark passes the bread and water.
In addition to deacon’s duties, Mark is earnestly pursuing the Eagle Scout rank. As a member of Troop 101 of the Ventura First Ward in California, he is a Life Scout and is working on the two remaining merit badges left to fill the Eagle requirements. Some of the badges have not come easy; take, for example, hiking, camping, swimming. But he claims his hardest merit badge was music.
Mark’s troop helps him every chance they get. They alternate backpacking with car camping so Mark can participate. He has a special friend in Ricky Johnson who pushes the wheelchair up the trail and through the streambeds on the walk-in camps.
Mark lives close to the Lord, and his diligence is an inspiration to others. He has been helped by many, but when asked how he has achieved his goals, his answer is, “My dad and I do it together.”

It would never happen, you might say, but Kelli Pay of Glendale, Arizona, knows better. When she was on her mission in Ecuador, she really did have only five minutes to get ready to give a sacrament meeting talk.
“My heart pounded and my mind raced, but I was calmed with the fact that I had done this before,” says Kelli.
Remember Kelli and Brook? Kelli excelled in the public speaking competition—something that came in handy on her mission.