Gospel Story Finder

I met Paulo on a hot day in southern Brazil. Church meetings had ended, and the meetinghouse was almost empty except for a few members sitting in the hallway. My husband, then serving as president of the Brazil Curitiba Mission, was meeting with Edson Lustoza Araújo, the district president from Guarapuava, in Paraná.
“Sister Paulsen,” said Brother Jason Sousa, who was serving as a counselor to my husband, “did you notice the brother sitting in the hallway with mud on his boots?”
Many roads in southern Brazil are made of red dirt, so mud on shoes is common.
“You mean the thin, dark-haired man in his late 20s?” I asked.
“Yes, his name is Paulo Tvuarde. He walks to church almost every Sunday, except when the mud is so thick that he can’t make it. He’s been doing that for 14 years—since he was 15.”
“How far does he walk?” I asked, unprepared for Brother Sousa’s response.
“Oh, 40 kilometers,” he said matter-of-factly. “He leaves at 3:00 a.m. to make it to church on time. It takes him eight hours.”
Quickly converting kilometers to miles, I realized that Brother Tvuarde walked 25 miles to attend church in Guarapuava!
“Why would he do that?” I asked incredulously.
“Because he believes that the Church is true.”
“Well, of course,” I said, a little embarrassed at the obvious answer. “What I meant was, why does he have to walk that far?”
Brother Sousa explained that Paulo lived in the country, taking care of the family farm so that his 74-year-old mother, who had a heart condition, could live in Guarapuava, where she received medical attention. President Lustoza was her cardiologist.
“Paulo lives by himself, plows the fields, and feeds the few animals that they have,” Brother Sousa said. “There is no electricity or running water. The farm is eight kilometers from the nearest bus stop. Worse than that, the bus doesn’t run on Saturdays or Sundays. So he walks to church.”
President Lustoza, who had entered the room with my husband, said Paulo usually attended three out of every four weeks. “He doesn’t miss unless the roads are impassible,” he said. “He stays overnight on Sundays so he can take the bus back on Monday.”
If Paulo attended church three out of every four Sundays, then he spent more than 300 hours walking nearly 1,600 kilometers (1,000 mi) each year just to attend church!

Priesthood volunteers from the Jacksonville Florida West Stake worked all weekend cleaning up a house which had been nearly submerged by the flood. The owner, a retired nonmember named Davis, was overwhelmed by the help provided. When the work was completed, the brethren asked Mr. Davis if they could bless his house. They gathered together, and the bishop pronounced a blessing on the home and on the family. Tears ran down Mr. Davis’s cheeks, and the Spirit was very strong. Each of the volunteers hugged him and told him how glad they were to have been of help. He said they had done more than they could ever know and that he didn’t know how to thank them enough.

When I was pregnant with my youngest child, Margaret Blackburn served as our ward Relief Society president. We knew each other only from the little time we shared during meetings at church.
After I delivered my baby, women brought meals that first week, including Margaret, who was older and frail. I was grateful because I had no energy or desire to plan a meal, cook, or shop for ingredients—let alone all three.
After that first week, Margaret continued to bring meals. Whether they were home-cooked meals or leftovers from a ward activity, it didn’t matter to me. It was almost as if she knew that more than I needed someone to hold my baby or clean my home, I needed the blessing of not having to think about what was for dinner.
A short while later, Margaret was released from her calling because of failing health. I didn’t know it at the time, but she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Once I learned of her diagnosis, I knew what I needed to do. I needed to serve her—not because I owed it to her or needed to repay her kindness. Rather, because of her service to me, I had grown to love her.
Margaret had taught me that through service, we truly become connected. When I thought of this incredible woman, my heart ached to think of her pushing a vacuum or sweeping her kitchen floor. So, each week I began visiting her and cleaning her home.
One day while driving home afterward, I became overwhelmed with gratitude that Heavenly Father had orchestrated these charitable opportunities. If Margaret had not served me so diligently, I probably would not have been comfortable making regular visits to her home. I came to cherish that time with her! God knew that by sending her to me in my time of need, the path would be paved for me to serve her in her time of need.
My eyes filled with tears as I realized how perfectly these inspirations and service opportunities had forever linked us.

Four “full-time missionaries” joined efforts during the Highland High School seminary’s second annual “missionary week” last fall in Salt Lake City. All four offered pleasant smiles, outstretched hands, and copies of the Book of Mormon, but only two could answer questions. The other two were seven-foot-tall statues with papier-mâché heads, hair of yarn, and bodies made of wood and chicken wire. They were designed and built by publicity chairmen Greg Goates and Heidi Nelson and were dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and striped ties.
The “giant missionaries” served as attention-getters during the special missionary week, which included proselyting; mini-classes for members and nonmembers on such subjects as temple marriage, the plan of salvation, the Second Coming, present-day prophets, and prayer; and a Sunday evening fireside with guest speaker Elder Hugh Pinnock, a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy. In addition, the students wrote their testimonies in 460 copies of the Book of Mormon, which they gave to the missionaries for use in the Utah Salt Lake City Mission.
Several students became interested in finding out more about the Church as a result of the missionary week efforts. According to Jeff Swanson, seminary instructor, “Missionary week has developed into a great tradition at Highland seminary. We hope that we can continue to follow President Kimball’s instructions to lengthen our stride by sharing the gospel.”

The Mutual-age youth of the East Liverpool Branch in Ohio were starting to get bored last summer, but instead of taking a nap, they decided to put their heads together and plan a special project. The idea they came up with was an original silent movie, complete with a hero, heroine, two villains, and a poor little fellow named Elmer who is in love with Penelope, the heroine. The Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels wrote the script and talked the Aaronic Priesthood members into joining them as performers. The result was a lot of fun, and a movie to show at a dance last fall.

After high school I joined the army reserve. My commanding officer gave me the opportunity of becoming a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army. He was very gracious but also very large and imposing. People didn’t turn him down. I asked if I could go home and think it over.
I prayed that night, and into my mind came the baptism prayer found in Doctrine and Covenants 20:73: “Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
I went back the next morning and told my commanding officer that I had decided to accept a commission—but that I would be commissioned by Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I explained that I was going to serve a mission for my church.
The feeling of having that prayer answered was wonderful, and I have felt it again and again as I have prayed about important decisions. I seem to have always known that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know me and love me. My conversion must have begun when I first attended Primary and felt the Spirit there. It continued in my Aaronic Priesthood quorums and in the mission field. It still continues today.
We are all sons and daughters of Heavenly Father. He never forgets this, but we sometimes do. So He has given us the principle of faith to help us remember. To help us develop faith in Him, Heavenly Father gives us the gift of experience. As I look back over my life, I’m grateful for the experiences that have helped increase my faith.
Enjoy the experiences that Heavenly Father will give you. Learn from them the things that He wants you to learn. Heavenly Father gives each of us experiences that will help increase our faith in Him and in His Son.
If some of your experiences are sad, please remember that you are a son or daughter of your Father in Heaven and that He loves you. This is a sure anchor that will never be removed. Ever! It is eternal and rooted in the plan of salvation. You must hold fast to it no matter what.

Two Christmases ago I went out to my car one evening to find the passenger window smashed and my briefcase stolen with everything in it—money, credit cards, all of my ID (including the passport that had taken me to 50 countries), and irreplaceable documents. I was beside myself. Hoping the thieves had stolen the money and discarded everything else, a friend and I spent all night prowling through area dumpsters, hoping to find something. But we found nothing.

The next day I began the tedious process of replacing the contents. Suffice it to say, the whole process was a pain. Then, unexpectedly, two mornings later, my phone rang at 3:00 a.m. It was a Church operator.

“Sister Dew, did you lose a briefcase?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I have a man on the line who says he found it in a dumpster behind a bar. Been to any bars lately, Sister Dew?” Laughing at her own joke, she connected me with this man whose pickup, as it turned out, had been robbed that night and who had been going through dumpsters. In one he had found a briefcase. My briefcase. When I asked how he had tracked me down, he replied, “When I looked inside the briefcase and saw that Mormon recommendation, I knew this must be important.”

He was referring, of course, to my temple recommend. He had then called the Church number, where the operator on duty knew how to reach me.

“I quietly observed the woman sitting next to me on my 7:00 a.m. flight home. She had ordered an alcoholic drink before the plane had taken off, and when she asked me if I was married, my negative judgments of her began piling up.
“‘Yes, I have four children and four grandchildren,’ I answered with some pride.
“She then told me something that changed everything. Her husband had passed away the previous day after being in a coma for five days. Though she was an emergency physician, she had been unable to save him after he collapsed while on vacation.
“I was ashamed that my quick judgments were so far off the mark. What could I say to her? As I gathered my composure, I felt Heavenly Father pour out His Spirit so I could minister to this woman and share some of the precious truths of the gospel.
“I learned that though she didn’t attend any church, she believed in Jesus Christ and read the Bible. When I asked if she knew about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, she replied that she knew very little. I shared with her a general conference message by Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) titled, ‘The Eternal Blessings of Marriage,’ and then testified of eternal families and how Heavenly Father knows and loves each of us individually. I found that she was going to Hawaii, USA, where she had grown up, and I encouraged her to visit the Laie Hawaii Temple.
“We parted in the Salt Lake City, Utah, airport. I am so grateful that the Lord was able to use me, in spite of my faults, to reach a sister in need of love and comfort.”
John Tippetts, Utah, USA

Abigail sat quietly during sacrament meeting. Today she felt sad. She was thinking about how she hadn’t been nice to a girl at school. Abigail felt even worse because she had been baptized a few weeks earlier. She remembered how good she felt on her baptism day.
“I wish I could get baptized again,” Abigail thought. “Then I could feel good again.”
She thought about one of her favorite Primary songs: “I know when I am baptized my wrongs are washed away, and I can be forgiven and improve myself each day.”*
Abigail remembered that by fixing her wrong actions and taking the sacrament, she could be clean again—as clean as she was after her baptism! Abigail planned to apologize to her classmate. She smiled and prepared to take the sacrament.

In 1994, a year before the proclamation was presented, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles discussed how society and governments were pulling away from God’s laws for family, marriage, and gender. “But that was not the end of what we saw,” President Russell M. Nelson later explained. “We could see the efforts of various communities to do away with all standards and limitations on sexual activity. We saw the confusion of genders. We could see it all coming.”
The Twelve determined to prepare a document, an official proclamation, summarizing the Church’s position on family. During that year, these Apostles, seers called of God, prepared a declaration about the family. President Dallin H. Oaks recalled they prayerfully turned to the Lord for “what [they] should say and how [they] should say it.” They presented it to the First Presidency—Presidents Howard W. Hunter, Gordon B. Hinckley, and Thomas S. Monson—for their consideration.
Just months later, in March 1995, President Hunter passed away, and President Hinckley became the 15th President of the Church. The proclamation was now in his hands. When would be the right time to make this declaration to the Church? That time came six months later.
Days before the September 23 general Relief Society meeting that preceded general conference, President Hinckley and his counselors met in counsel with the Relief Society General Presidency. The sisters, like the Apostles, had been weighing concerns about women and families. They had focused the upcoming meeting on families.
President Hinckley was scheduled to address the women at the gathering. He had been pondering the direction of his remarks. As the discussion progressed, he referred by name to the newly created but not yet public “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.” Was this women’s meeting the right setting to make the decisive declaration about family?
Relief Society General President Elaine Jack later explained: “We didn’t know what the proclamation on the family was at that time. … [W]e could tell by the title, but we felt anything on the family … would be a positive thing. … I felt very positive that we had members of the Quorum of the Twelve that were receiving revelation.”
The Relief Society meeting that Saturday was historic. President Hinckley introduced the family proclamation with these important words: “With so much of sophistry that is passed off as truth, with so much of deception concerning standards and values, with so much of allurement and enticement to take on the slow stain of the world, we have felt to warn and forewarn … of standards, doctrines, and practices relative to the family which the prophets, seers, and revelators of this church have repeatedly stated throughout its history.”
He then read the proclamation in its entirety. As the Lord has said, “Whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.”

Sitting on the steps of the weathered frame house, Pualani added a seashell to the strand she was stringing. She spoke to the dog stretched out in the shade of the trumpet vine that climbed over the porch. “This will be the most beautiful collar I’ve ever made, Kulolo.” Measuring the collar around his neck, Pualani murmured, “It fits.”
“Lani,” her father appeared in the doorway—“I’m taking a load of pineapples to the cannery.” He stopped and frowned, then grumbled, “Always wasting time on that no-good mongrel.”
“I don’t care if he’s a mongrel, Papa.” Pualani gently scratched the back of her pet’s ear.
Swinging his long tail back and forth, the dog looked up into the girl’s face.
“See, Papa!” exclaimed Pualani with delight. “His eyes talk to me, and his tail is smiling.”
Her father shrugged his strong, broad shoulders. “Once a tramp dog, always a tramp dog.”
That’s what Mama said the day I brought Kulolo home, thought Pualani. She remembered how Mama had stared at the scruffy dog.
“This is the ilio (dog) you want to keep, Lani?”
Mama’s dark eyes had narrowed as she took stock of the dog—floppy ears, long tail, spindly legs that buckled at the knobby joints when the trembling creature shifted his weight. “Auwe (oh, dear)! So skinny!”
“I want to keep him, Mama,” Pualani had pleaded, her words tumbling out. “I want him for my own. I’ll call him Kulolo, and I’ll get him a collar—leather, maybe.”
“Leather collars cost money,” her mother had declared firmly. “Papa’s wages must be spent on food and clothing. But a few scraps of food we can spare if it means so much to you. But don’t get all huhu (upset) when he wanders away. And he will, as sure as he’s a tramp dog.”
That was months ago, thought Pualani, and Kulolo has never strayed far from our house. She tied the seashells around the dog’s neck.
For a moment her father studied her in silence. “Lani”—he paused to clear his throat the way he always did when broaching an unpleasant subject—“yesterday the mayor said that there are too many stray dogs on the island. From now on every dog must have a license. Licenses cost money, Lani.”
“I’ll earn it,” Pualani said. “Everyone trusts me with their children, Papa.”
“Plantation workers can’t afford to pay you.”
“A job at the cannery, then.”
“You’re too young.” Papa’s shoulders slumped. “Try to understand, Lani.”
Pualani felt a cold numbness creeping through her body, but she forced herself to ask, “What will become of him?”
Again her father cleared his throat. “If nobody pays his fee, they’ll destroy him. Painlessly,” he added quickly.
The following morning, news of the threat to Kulolo traveled among the neighbor children. Keoni, Manuela, Satoshi, Ana, and little Joe all came, determined to save Kulolo.
Manuela said, “My father told me that a license costs five dollars. Maybe if we put our money together, we’ll have enough to buy one.”
Manuela counted their money, then shook his head glumly. “Three dollars and twenty-eight cents.”
Keoni broke the silence that settled over the group. “Maybe we could keep Kulolo from running loose until we can earn enough money. But where could we keep him?”
Ana piped up, “At the end of the island there are some caves in the cliff above the tide line. We could build a fence across the entrance to one of them and keep him there.”
Pualani nodded. “I’ve been there with Kulolo. He likes to run out on the reef and sniff the coral heads.”
“There’s no school tomorrow,” little Joe reminded them. “Let’s take Kulolo then.”
“All right,” everyone agreed, “tomorrow.”
Manuela planned aloud: “Everybody should bring something—some food for Kulolo and old pineapple crates, tools, and nails for building the fence.”
Late the following morning they started out. When they reached the seashore, they cooled their hot, tired feet in the white ruffled edges of the waves. Soon they reached the far end of the island. Trudging along the winding seaside road, little Joe pointed to the wind-lashed trees. “Why is it so blowy and so noisy?”
“There’s always a wind whistling through the trees here, and it makes the sea rough and noisy.”
Soon the children could communicate only by shouts and gestures. Clambering up the craggy rise, they followed Pualani into one of the caves.
Soon the cave echoed with the staccato beat of hammers. The children were so busy that they failed to notice Kulolo’s running back and forth between them and the edge of the cliff. Finally, when he nuzzled Pualani’s hand, looked up into her face, and whimpered, Pualani called to the others. “Kulolo’s bored. I’ll take him for a run on the reef now.”
Outside the cave Kulolo leaped down the craggy cliff and bounded toward the shore road. Then he raced back and leaped against Pualani. Turning, he again bounded toward the road. Near the shore he stopped and barked frantically. Never had Kulolo acted so strangely. As Pualani picked her way over the jagged rocks toward him, he ran along the shore road, then stopped and waited for her to follow.
When she reached the road, Pualani heard it—the tsunami (tidal wave) siren! A terrible fear gripped her. Her fear turned to horror as she remembered that the other children couldn’t hear the tsunami warning.
“Kulolo!” she cried. “Go home!”
Kulolo hesitated only an instant. Then he took off. He was still picking up speed as he rounded the bend in the road.
Stumbling, slipping, Pualani made her way back over the rough terrain and flung herself into the cave. “Tsunami!” she cried.
The children had heard tales of monstrous tidal waves that could travel over four hundred miles an hour, rise fifty feet into the air, and suck everything into the sea. Paralyzed with fear, they stared at Pualani.
Frantically Pualani roused them to action. “Manuela, you’re strong enough to carry little Joe when he tires. Come on. Let’s go.”
Too frightened to cry, the children scrambled down the cliff and made their way toward the road. Half-carrying Ana, and tugging Satoshi by the hand, Pualani urged them on. Suddenly Satoshi clutched her arm. “Why is it so spooky, Lani?”
A dead calm had settled over everything. The frothing white foam had disappeared from the lifeless sea. Only the distant wailing of the siren broke the silence.
“There’s no high ground around here,” Keoni spluttered, “and we don’t know how long the siren has been sounding.”
“We have to stay on the shore road,” Pualani said. “That’s where the searchers will look for us first.”
Pualani urged the weary band along the twisting road. Slowly she became aware of a pounding, pulsating sound. Is it the tsunami? she wondered, knowing they could not escape if it was. The noise grew closer and louder. Then the plantation truck labored into view! In front of it ran Kulolo, panting heavily.
Papa slammed on the brakes and leaped from the cab to hoist the children—and Kulolo—into the truck. Within seconds they were headed back down the road.
Pualani’s father was grimly silent as he swerved to avoid the deep ruts in the tortuous road.
Ana’s voice rose above the clatter of the truck. “Where’s the sea going?”
The sea, now dark and murky, was drawing away from the land.
Pualani’s father took one glance at the awesome sight and jammed the accelerator to the floor as he shouted, “Hang on!”
The shore road lay perilously close to the beach. They had to reach—and climb—the dirt road that wound through the pineapple fields up to the plantation.
“Almost to the dirt road!” Father shouted.
Two minutes more. One minute. With a screech the truck swung sharply from the shore road and started its climb toward safety.
A cry of relief rose from the islanders who had flocked to the plantation. While parents rushed to their children, a murmur rippled through the crowd. Trembling fingers pointed toward the horizon, where a dark strip approached. It grew into a towering, raging, thundering wall of water rushing at them.
When it struck, a shudder shook the whole island. Fierce white foam licked at the lower slopes of the plantation. With a great roar, the wave receded, carrying with it trees, shelters, boats, and docks. Again and again it struck, but with less strength each time. As the wave slowly sank into the sea, it left behind huge mounds of dredged-up sand, and torn-up plants and buildings and boats.
For a long time no one spoke. Then Pualani’s father broke the silence. “Let us thank Heavenly Father that there has been no loss of life.”
That evening Papa told Pualani, “Our neighbors have given us the money for a license for Kulolo. He isn’t a tramp dog anymore. You must make him a sturdy collar, Lani, so that he will never lose it.”
Pualani smiled. “I will, Papa,” she said.

Last October the Bountiful Utah Stake Primary encouraged children to earn money to buy copies of the Book of Mormon—but to pay for the book with their own labor—money they would earn.
Each placed his picture and testimony inside the front cover. Six hundred and twenty copies of the Book of Mormon with pictures and testimonies were sent to missions.
A few days ago one of those Primary children, little Sarah Richards, received this letter from Mrs. Earl Mock of Tucson, Arizona:
“Dear Sarah, Thank you so much for sending us the Book of Mormon with your picture on the inside. You are a very pretty girl and a very nice one. I will treasure the book and your picture and testimony always.
“I have just finished reading all of it and I too believe it is true. I enjoyed it very much and will be reading it many more times.
“Thank you again and may God bless you.”

Pray. Before the Young Women’s conference, Allison Buytendorp, 17, of the Roswell Georgia Stake, didn’t want to go. But her mother suggested she pray about it before she made up her mind. Allison prayed and felt she should go. Now she knows why. “I loved it. I felt spiritually renewed afterwards, and it made me want to go to seminary. Now I want to learn more about the scriptures. I know I was where I was supposed to be because I prayed. It just feels good to know Heavenly Father is always there for you to help you out.”

Minnie Petersen, in Kamas Valley, was just a small child when she was asked to weed a neighbor’s flower bed. Not receiving proper instruction, she simply went out and pulled up all the plants that didn’t have blossoms on them. One day her father sent her over to Brother Olsen, the blacksmith, to borrow a monkey wrench. To help her remember the name of the tool, her father told her to think of a little animal. When she asked for the wrench, she asked for a “mouse wrench.” From that time forward, she was Mouse Wrench Minnie. When she was a little older, she and other young people were instructed to clear some land for cultivation. They chopped down willows and sagebrush, picked up rocks and hauled them off, and in the evening had a big bonfire of all the brush. All the young people in the village were there. They roasted potatoes to eat with salt and hung over the fire pieces of fresh meat. They played games and exchanged ghost stories. When they went out to gather wild strawberries, currants, and gooseberries that grew along the streams, they combined it with swimming in the creeks. In most groups there was nearly always one person who played the concertina, harmonica, or violin, and so they often had accompaniment for group singing and dancing.

Some missionaries struggled with the changes. Elder Ejodamen, from Nigeria, was called to serve in the Sierra Leone Freetown Mission. “I was supposed to report to the MTC May 24, 2020, and that was the period that COVID-19 really hit very hard. So, we were told we would attend the online MTC. It was literally like my dream has been shattered. I have heard wonderful experiences about the MTC. So, I was not going to the MTC. It was a very hard time.”
Ejodamen said, “The online experience with MTC, one thing that stands out for me is the experience I had to meet different people. It was something really very wonderful because we put our minds together, we studied together, we discussed together. But though it was not in physical contact, it was really wonderful. They were really nice people that I saw on the screen. We talked. We laughed, and they were cool MTC instructors that really helped us. My attending online MTC and someone attending real MTC is the same thing.”

On another occasion, I met a young man 14 years of age who was a superb tennis player. He had won all of the tennis tournaments in his class in an area that included several states. He had reached the semifinals of a very important tournament that was to take place in a distant city. As he arrived there, he found that he was scheduled to participate on Sunday. He went to the officials and told them he didn’t play tennis on Sunday; whereupon he was informed that if he wanted to play in this tournament, he would play on Sunday. He again indicated he would not play on Sunday, knowing that not to do so would mean he would forfeit the match. As it happened, the matches were rained out on Sunday. He played on Monday and won.
He then went by bus with the other finalists to another major city to compete in the championship matches that covered the entire Atlantic coastal region of the United States. They arrived on Sunday. The coach instructed the contestants to get out on the tennis courts and practice immediately upon arrival. This young man did not go to the tennis courts. The coach asked him why he wasn’t practicing. He said, “I don’t play tennis on Sunday.” The coach asked him why. His response was, “I am a Mormon.”
I suppose he wanted to win the championship for his age group more than anything else, and yet he himself had made the decision that keeping the Sabbath day holy was more important than being a champion in tennis. You see, he had found himself and had the courage and integrity to live his life according to the principles he had been taught, and he had made his decision regardless of social pressures.

It was February 12 and much too cold to play outside. It was so cold that Tommy had gone past wishing for snow to wondering if it would ever come.
Tommy’s teacher, Miss Peters, had declared Friday afternoon craft time. Soon the students’ desks were covered with red, pink, and white construction paper and white paste. Most were working on valentines for their moms, dads, grandparents, and friends. Some were even making cards for their brothers and sisters.
Tommy wasn’t making a valentine for his mother. And he didn’t have any brothers or sisters. His best friend, Mike, probably wouldn’t get too choked up about receiving a valentine from him. But Tommy’s valentine was very, very special, and he was taking great care in making it.
First, he painstakingly cut out a large red heart. He frowned because it was a little uneven, then decided that was OK since it was so big. He chewed on his bottom lip as he struggled to get some crinkly paper on just right. It went all around the edges of the big valentine. When he was finished, he was proud to see that his valentine looked just right.
Just then, Jimmy walked past Tommy’s desk, looked at the valentine, and shouted, “Hey! It’s a mushy valentine! Tommy’s making a mushy valentine!”
Most of the class turned and craned their necks to get a peek at Tommy’s valentine. He wished a hole would open up and swallow him and his card. Then he wished one would open up and swallow Jimmy.
Jimmy leaned over the valentine, as if trying to see it better. “Is it for a girl friend?” He asked in a syrupy-sweet voice. There were giggles from the girls and outright laughs from the guys.
“No,” Tommy almost shouted, “it isn’t. Leave me alone, Jimmy.”
But Jimmy was having fun. “Ah, come on—who is it for?”
“Jimmy, stop that teasing right now and return to your desk.” Miss Peters scolded. A hush fell over the room as she came down the aisle. “I believe you should be working at your own desk.”
Unabashed, Jimmy sat down at his desk with a smirk on his face.
Miss Peters turned to Tommy, and said, “That really is a lovely valentine, Tommy. Is it for your mother?”
Tommy almost lied and said yes, but he knew that that would be wrong. “No, ma’am.”
“Oh. Well, I bet it’s for someone very special,”
Tommy nodded, then quickly looked down when someone made kissing noises.
“Class!” Miss Peters said sharply. There was silence. “Well, Tommy, I’m sure whoever it’s for will love it.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
She looked sharply at the rest of the class. “Do we want to work on valentines or math?” Twenty-six heads quickly bent back over pink and red construction paper.
Tommy didn’t feel like working on his special valentine anymore. He cleaned up the scraps of construction paper that had fallen from his desk, put his glue and scissors on the tray inside his desk, and stared for a moment at his valentine. Then he quickly hid it in his backpack. It was a silly old lopsided heart, anyway.
When the bell rang, he went miserably and silently to get his coat, trying to ignore the kissing sounds and giggles that came his way.
His feet felt like lead as he started toward the care center. What does Jimmy know, anyway? he asked himself. All the kids are just mean. Tommy kicked a rock. He paused at the intersection of Brook and Eastside. He wanted to go home, but his mother and Mrs. Elderberry were expecting him.
He paused when he got to the care center and thought again of the valentine he had made. Oh well, Mrs. Elderberry won’t be expecting a valentine, anyway. Racing up the steps, he dashed through the front door.
After he checked in with his mother, who was working the late shift, he waved hello to Mrs. Smith and shadowboxed with Mr. Barnes. Tommy had a lot of friends there. When his mother had to work late, he came and ate supper with her, then spent the rest of the evening listening to stories told by Mrs. Thompson and old Frank, or playing checkers with Mr. Barnes. He usually got a lot of help with his homework, too.
Yes, he had a lot of friends here, but Mrs. Elderberry was very, very special. Tommy knocked on her door.
The gray-haired lady’s face lit up when she saw him. “Come in, Thomas, come in.” She motioned toward a blue chair near the curtained window. “Please sit down.”
He waited until she had sat down—Mrs. Elderberry was big on politeness—then, after dropping his backpack on the floor, happily snuggled into the comfortable velvet chair that had come from her home. “It’s going to snow tonight,” he announced.
She looked out the window and up at the heavy, grayish-white clouds that hung overhead. “Why, I believe you are right.” She smiled. “How was school today, Thomas?”
“Fine,” he answered with a shrug. Immediately he felt all tied up inside. Mrs. Elderberry was the one he told everything to. She was the one who knew all his secrets, even the one about when he had accidently let his pet snake loose in the apartment and managed to find it only seconds before his mother had walked in the door.
Mrs. Elderberry was also the one he could talk to about his father dying and how sad it still made him feel. He couldn’t talk to his mother about it because she always started crying, and that just made him feel worse. So he talked to Mrs. Elderberry, who listened and never ever told him that he was too big to cry. But he couldn’t tell Mrs. Elderberry about the teasing that had led to a crumpled valentine.
They drank cocoa, played checkers, and talked about the possibility of snow. The room was warm and the cocoa was hot and Tommy was happy. He told Mrs. Elderberry about the football game his uncle had taken him to, and she told him a funny story about old Mrs. Lipton losing her teeth again. He was glad that she had heard from her daughter, but upset along with her because it had been three weeks since she had heard from her son. Before Tommy knew it, two hours had passed and the dinner gong was sounding.
“After you finish your homework, come back, and we’ll watch TV,” she told him as he picked up his backpack.
“Sure.” Tommy hurried out into the hallway. His stomach was suddenly telling him just how hungry he was.
Outside Mrs. Elderberry’s room, he paused. The valentine was giving him a guilty conscience. He pulled it out of his backpack and stared thoughtfully at it. Slowly he walked back to her door and slipped the valentine underneath it.
He was her friend and she was his friend, and that was all that mattered.

Most days my bus arrived right on time, but one day—11 October 1993—it was late. I was a young university student in Caen, France, and I needed to get to class. Looking around, I noticed I was not the only one waiting for the bus. Two young men standing nearby caught my eye. They looked different. Each had a name tag. Who were they? They were obviously not high school students. But anxious about getting to class on time, I quickly turned my thoughts back to worrying about the late bus.
Then, unexpectedly, I heard a voice behind me, saying, “May I ask you a question?”
I turned and found myself facing one of the young men. He spoke French with an unusual accent. “Do you believe in God?” he asked.
I was surprised and hesitated to reply. I had asked myself that very question many times. I had finally decided I was an atheist. There was no reason to continue talking with these young men, but something about their demeanor was so remarkable I found myself wanting to continue our conversation. They radiated a feeling of peace and, surprisingly, an outpouring of love and intelligence. Their name tags said they were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
The three of us conversed for about 10 minutes. I knew nothing about their church, and I was amazed when they said they were prepared to teach me everything I needed to know about God, including the meaning of life. Before my bus arrived—15 minutes late—we set an appointment to meet.
During our discussions, the two elders introduced me to the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ, and they taught me about the restored gospel. Little by little, I learned the principles of the gospel and came to believe they are true.
My entire life began to change. My parents were the first to notice the difference. Communication with my family improved, and my relationships with everyone became happier. I made friends more easily than ever before. I attended church and saw no pretense there, only expressions of love and acceptance unlike anything I had experienced before. The members seemed to know the difference between what was true and what was false. It was a place of wonderful opportunities.
But before joining the Church, I wanted to be absolutely certain it was the right thing to do. I took my time making up my mind. The missionary discussions helped me come to the conviction that I would not be making a mistake, that I had indeed found the truth. I was baptized on 24 July 1994.
It was the best decision I have ever made. Since then, I have enjoyed the blessings of the gospel and the fellowship of wonderful ward members. I have received the priesthood. I have taught Sunday School and participated in the conversion of others. Life has taken on new meaning.
Thanks to the elders, I found the answers to my questions and the solutions to my problems. Meeting them was the most fortunate encounter of my life. When people ask me how I came to join the Church, I grin and tell them, “The bus was late—thank heavens!”

Church history and the experiences of our ancestors illustrate this reality. My great-grandfather Henry Eyring prayed fervently to know what he should do when he heard the restored gospel taught in 1855. The answer came in a dream.
He dreamed that he was seated at a table with Elder Erastus Snow of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and with an elder named William Brown. Elder Snow taught the principles of the gospel for what seemed to be an hour. Then Elder Snow said, “In the name of Jesus Christ I command you to be baptized and this man [Elder Brown] … shall baptize you.”1 My family is grateful that Henry Eyring had the faith and humility to be baptized at 7:30 in the morning in a pool of rainwater in St. Louis, Missouri, USA, by Elder Brown.
The answer to his prayer did not come in an audible voice from the Lord. It came in a vision and dream in the night, as it did with Lehi (see 1 Nephi 8:2).

We better get back to class.
Hang on. I think I found something.
Whoa! Josh, come here! Mike found 10 pounds!
A “pound” is what money in England is called.
Brilliant!
So what are we gonna do with it?
Maybe we could buy some sweets.
What are you talking about? It’s not ours.
Of course it is! Finders keepers.
No way. I’m gonna turn it in to the office.
Josh and Anthony: What?!
At least split it with me and Anthony. You can turn in the rest.
It’s not right to keep it. You can’t change my mind.
I found this in the courtyard. I thought someone might come looking for it.
Oh, thank you!
You’re such a goody-goody.
I can’t believe you wouldn’t share.
I know I did the right thing.
Label: A few weeks later
The headmistress wants to see you in her office.
Am I in trouble?
Come in, Mike! I just wanted to thank you for turning this in. Not many people would have. You’re a good example.
Oh! Thank you.
We held it in case someone came looking for it. But no one did. I thought you should keep it.
Wow, thank you!
Even if I hadn’t gotten the money back, I’m glad I was honest.