Gospel Story Finder

The missionaries held up a photo. “What do you see?” they asked.
“A happy family,” I answered.
“Are all families happy?”
I shook my head no. “You’ve seen my family,” I explained.
I was a 16-year-old living in Brazil, where I had lived all my life. The missionaries had been teaching me for several weeks, but nobody else in my family wanted to listen. During that time, the missionaries had often seen my family fight and argue. My family and the grinning family in the photo had nothing in common.
One of the elders said, “Well, maybe your current family isn’t this way. But you can build your future family differently.”
When we ended the visit, they asked me again to pray about what we’d been studying. As always, I didn’t exactly promise to do so. I enjoyed how I felt when the missionaries visited, and the gospel made sense to me. But I was afraid of the answer I might receive. If the gospel was true, I would have to make a lot of changes.
After the elders left, I couldn’t stop thinking about happy families. Ours wasn’t even close. My dad wasn’t in my life. My relationship with my mom wasn’t great. Grandma was the one who took care of us, but none of us behaved like a family the way the missionaries taught. None of us expressed love to each other or even spent much time together.
All my life I promised myself I would be a good dad someday. I would be the parent I never had. Yet as the missionaries taught me, I started realizing that I was doing the same things my parents did at my age. I stayed out late, did whatever I wanted, and lived like a rebel. Without meaning to, I was repeating the same story.
It was time to ask God.
When I finally prayed, I received
the answer I had expected all along. The Church is true! Now it was time to make a choice.
My grandmother had to give permission before I could be baptized. She was against it, but I persisted.
“Grandma, which Leonardo do you prefer?” I asked. “The one who was out drinking and smoking and coming home late? Or do you prefer who I am now? These changes are because of the gospel.”
Grandma finally agreed, and I was baptized and confirmed. From that moment, something interesting began to happen in my family—something I didn’t realize fully until a few years later.
Right before I left for my mission to southern Brazil, Grandma attended stake conference with me. Afterward we held a small testimony meeting with family and friends. To my surprise, Grandma wanted to say something.
“Ever since Leonardo joined your church, my family started becoming a real family,” she said. She then listed ways our entire family had grown closer: We now spent time together. We started saying “I love you” to each other, when we never had before. The fighting and arguing stopped. Real friendships developed among all of us. We had more to eat and were blessed with abundance in other areas.
I had noticed these changes too, but I hadn’t realized the timing could be linked back to when I was baptized.
“I may not be a member of your church,” she said, “but I am a friend of your church. And I know our family has been blessed because of Leonardo’s choice.”
I could hardly believe it! And yet, as Grandma spoke of how our family had grown closer, I suddenly remembered the photo the missionaries had shown me years before. Back then, I thought my only way to have a happy family was with my future family.
But I was wrong. My current family was happy! We had grown to love each other.
Maybe none of my family members will join the Church in this lifetime. But even if they don’t, I know that God has already blessed us in so many ways. The gospel of Jesus Christ shows us how to improve our families, no matter what our family situation looks like.

As I grew up, I heard the testimonies of many members and especially of my mother. I asked my mother how I could gain my own testimony, and she encouraged me to read the scriptures and the Tambuli (now Liahona).
From then on, I tried my best to read the scriptures and the Church magazines. Doing so has helped me to have faith and doubt no more. Also, I now desire to go on a mission when I reach the age of 21.
Carpio Dhareen,Placer Branch, Philippines Cagayan de Oro Mission

“I hope they call me on a mission when I have grown a foot or two …”
Jay was standing and singing to the congregation with the other Primary children. He liked to sing that song because when he was old enough, he wanted to go on a mission.
When the song was over, the children sat down, and it was brother Davis’s turn to speak. “I want to thank the children for their beautiful song,” he said. “It reminds me of the words of one of our prophets who said that each one of us should be a missionary, no matter how old we are.”
Jay didn’t listen to the rest of the talk very well. He was busy thinking about what Brother Davis had just said. If Brother Davis is right, I could be a missionary right now. I won’t have to wait until I’m older. But how can I be a missionary? he wondered.
On the way home from church with his family, Jay was still thinking about being a missionary. “Dad,” he asked, “how can each one of us be a missionary?”
“We can help other people to understand the gospel, and we can be good Latter-day Saints so that perhaps they will want to learn more about our Church,” Dad replied.
“Which people?” Jay wanted to know.
“People who don’t belong to our church.”
“I know lots of people like that. But it will take a long time to tell all of them.”
Dad laughed. “Yes, that would take a long time. Why don’t you choose one person who is special to you and try to help him?”
“Who?”
“Whom do you really care about?”
Jay thought for a moment. “I love you and Mom and my brothers and sisters. And I love Grandpa. He isn’t a member. I’m going to talk to him about the Church.”
Dad was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Maybe you should, Jay. I’ve tried for a long time to interest him in the Church, but I haven’t had much success. Maybe you can reach him.”
The more Jay thought about telling his grandfather about the gospel, the more excited he became. Since Grandpa was coming to live with them soon, Jay knew he would have many opportunities to talk with him.
The day Mom and Dad went to get Grandpa was exciting. It seemed like forever until Dad drove the car back into the driveway. When he finally did, Jay ran out of the house with his brothers and sisters to hug Grandpa and welcome him. Grandpa seemed glad to see them, but he looked very tired.
“Careful, children. Grandpa isn’t completely well yet,” Mother cautioned. “You can talk to him later, when he’s resting on the couch.”
They all hurried to carry Grandpa’s things to the room prepared for him. There were suitcases and boxes and an old leather-covered trunk. When Jay asked about the trunk, Dad explained that people used to carry their clothes in trunks instead of suitcases but that not many people used trunks anymore.
It was fun having Grandpa living with the family. He couldn’t run and play hide-and-seek anymore, but he could still tell funny stories. And he always listened when anyone had a problem or a secret. Often at night before going to bed, Jay and one or two of the other children would sit on Grandpa’s trunk to listen to his stories. Sometimes they laughed so hard they almost fell off the trunk.
The best times for Jay, however, were when Grandpa took his daily walks. The doctor had said that slow walks would be good for Grandpa’s heart. Since Jay was the oldest and could help support Grandpa, it was his job to walk with him. Jay had Grandpa to himself then, and they talked about all kinds of things.
But there was one thing that Grandpa would not talk about, and that was religion. Jay learned that if he said anything about the Church, Grandpa would quickly change the subject. Each day Jay became a little more discouraged. Boy, what kind of a missionary am I? he thought. I can’t even get someone who loves me to listen to what I have to say. Then a grin started to curl the corners of Jay’s mouth. That’s it! he thought. Grandpa loves me.
The next Sunday when Jay’s Primary teacher asked for a volunteer to give a talk the following week, Jay said that he would do it. He knew just what he wanted to talk about—and whom he wanted to invite!
Jay worked hard on his talk, and he practiced saying it again and again. He was pleased that he had written it himself.
On Saturday when Jay and Grandpa were taking their walk, Jay said, “I’m going to give a talk, and I wrote it myself.”
“That’s fine, Jay,” Grandpa said. “I’m proud of you. When are you going to give it?”
“Tomorrow in church. Would you like to come and hear me?”
Grandpa didn’t answer right away, and for a while Jay thought Grandpa was going to change the subject the way he usually did. Then to his surprise Grandpa answered, “I guess so.”
Jay skipped ahead. He turned around and grinned at Grandpa. “Good. It will make me feel better to know that you’re there.”
When Jay stood up to give his talk on Sunday, he was scared. He looked at the back of the room where his parents sat. With them was Grandpa. He smiled at Grandpa, and Grandpa smiled back.
“I am thankful for many things,” Jay said. “I am thankful for the food I eat and the clothes I wear. I am thankful for my parents and for my grandpa who has come to live with us. I am thankful that I can live with them now, and I am especially thankful that it is possible for me to live with them forever.
“When I was little, the missionaries came to our house and taught us what Heavenly Father wanted us to do. My parents were baptized. Then our family went to Heavenly Father’s house, the temple, and we were promised that we would be together forever if we obeyed His commandments. That is called being sealed. When I grow up, I want to be a missionary so that I can help other families be together forever.”
When Jay went back to his chair, he saw that his parents were smiling at him—but Grandpa was staring at the floor.
After church Grandpa wasn’t there. Dad explained that Grandpa had asked to be taken home right after Jay’s talk. Jay felt a lump in his throat. Grandpa didn’t like my talk, he thought sadly.
When Jay got home, he went to Grandpa’s room. The door was closed, so he knocked.
“Come in,” said Grandpa.
Jay opened the door and stopped in surprise. Grandpa’s usually neat room was a terrible mess, and what was even more amazing was that Grandpa was sitting next to his trunk taking things out of it. Jay had never seen the trunk open before. Now he could see that it had been filled with things that were very old.
“Look,” said Grandpa as he held up a photograph. “This was taken when your father was little. And this is the necklace I gave your grandmother on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
“Were all these things in the trunk?” asked Jay.
“Yes,” Grandpa answered, “but I haven’t looked at them since I put them here when your grandmother died. It hurt too much to look at them because I thought I would never see her again. I kept the hurt locked up inside of me just like I kept these things locked up in the trunk.”
“Why are you getting them out now?”
“It’s because of your talk, Jay, because of what you said about the promise in the temple. I never let anyone tell me about your church before, but now I think that maybe I ought to learn more about it. I’m sure your grandmother would want me to. Do you think your father would mind asking the missionaries to come and teach me?”
Jay hugged his grandfather. “I don’t think he’d mind at all!”

My story begins with a loss that shaped my destiny. My father, Mr. Kofi Donkor Adane, died just a week before I was born. My mother, deep in her grief, held me for the first time with tears streaming down her cheeks. In my culture, there is a belief that a mother’s profound sorrow can cause a newborn’s spirit to “go back”—to return to the spirit world. Fearful of this, my aunt, Mrs. Faustina Boahin, came for me. She persuaded my mother that it would be safer if I stayed with her. And so, as a tiny baby, I left my mother’s arms and went to live with my aunt and uncle, growing up believing they were my true parents and that my cousins were my siblings.
My aunt was a strict disciplinarian. While my uncle was kind, my aunt believed in corporal punishment to “put me in line.” I was kept indoors, often watching the neighborhood children play football from behind the louvers of our window, shouting instructions as if I were their coach but never allowed to join. This isolation made school my sanctuary, a place where I could finally engage with friends, join clubs for acrobatics and drama, and feel a sense of belonging. Coming home late from these precious hours of play always meant a beating, but to me the fleeting freedom was worth the price.
The foundation of my life was shattered when my cousin, Kwesi, revealed the truth. “Is Faustina really your mom?” he’d tease, until one day he stated plainly, “No, she’s not. Auntie Mina is your mother.” I was stunned. Auntie Mina was the woman who visited often, always bringing a special gift just for me—a donut, an orange, a sweet—a fact for which my aunt had often scolded her. The pieces began to fall into place. I noticed the differences in treatment: I had more chores, I was denied meat at meals, and the punishments were more severe. The truth, once seen, could not be unseen.
I eventually moved in with my biological mother, Fatima Wilhelmina, and entered a new world: a Muslim household. My mother had been raised Muslim by her father, and she had remarried a Muslim man. I embraced this new identity with the fervor of a child seeking belonging. I learned to pray in Arabic, fasted during Ramadan, and perfected the ablutions. I even joined a wazi team, Muslim evangelists who would set up in town. My role was to read from the Bible, drawing parallels to the Qur’an, while others demonstrated Islamic prayer. I didn’t see it as outreach then; it was simply the faith I was living. For a time, it was my entire world.

One illustration of the difficulty of translation that might be appropriate occurred in a non-Church setting, but I think you can appreciate this. It was a meeting in Vienna, Austria, between Krushchev and President Kennedy. During the course of this meeting, through interpreters, President Kennedy was stressing the fact that Mr. Krushchev of Russia should not miscalculate the American will. As President Kennedy would stress, “Don’t miscalculate our will,” Mr. Khrushchev would flush and would respond rather negatively. At the end of the conference, President Kennedy was not satisfied with the progress that had been made, and so they went back through the interpretation script to find out what might have happened. It occurred to them, as they reviewed what had occurred, that the person who had done the interpreting from English into Russian had interpreted the term miscalculate as “You dumbbell, you could not add two and two and get four.”

We must be very careful not to translate just word to word, but it must be feeling to feeling.

Receiving my mission call was one of the most profound and glorious moments of my life. I had thought about a mission many times since gaining a testimony of the gospel at age 18. I remember when I received my call to serve in the Taiwan Taichung Mission, I knew that it was right, and I was so excited to serve.
I read my scriptures daily, attended my missionary and temple preparation classes, and even attempted to learn Mandarin Chinese on my own. As the only child in my family, I knew that my mission would bring honor not only to myself but also to my parents and my Heavenly Father. The day I entered the missionary training center (MTC), I felt as if nothing could ever go wrong during the next 18 months. I was excited about everything from seeing baptisms to trying the Taiwanese cooking I had heard so much about. Little did I know when I entered the MTC that my mission would be very different from what I had expected.
About four months into my mission, I began to experience pain—not only during physical activities like riding my bike or morning exercise but also when I was sleeping or doing personal study. I began rapidly losing weight. Even drinking water made me sick. Doctors’ tests could not determine what was wrong. I had no parasites or viruses. My mission president, my missionary companion, and I were all confused by my deteriorating health.
During the month that followed, I maintained faith that surprised even me. Although I felt frustrated, I was convinced that if I kept working harder, biking faster, and speaking my broken Chinese to everyone I saw, that God would miraculously heal me. I believed the stories of Christ’s healing the sick and raising the dead, and I believed wholeheartedly that He would do the same for me—a weak but enthusiastic missionary. Then one Sunday while my companion and I were biking to the Church meetinghouse to meet an investigator, the pain and convulsions throughout my body became unbearable. When we arrived at the meetinghouse, I asked the elders to give me a blessing, which helped. As the days passed, priesthood blessings became more frequent and so did prayers for healing.
It was the darkest day of my mission when I awoke one morning in the fiery Taiwanese heat and realized that I could not even move my body enough to get out of bed. At that moment I knew that I would not be able to be a missionary for much longer. My mission president came to visit me, and we counseled together. We talked of all the possibilities, and after much prayer and many tears, the Spirit confirmed that I needed to return home and focus on getting well.
Instead of coming home to balloons and “Welcome Home” signs, I was wheeled off the plane to my frightened parents, who immediately took me to the hospital emergency room. Months of testing began, but the doctors could not find what was wrong with me. In addition, well-intentioned people around me said things like, “When are you going back out?” “Are you going to stay home?” “Maybe you were supposed to get married.” “Maybe you were wrong to go at all.”
I felt ashamed and confused. Was I worthy of God’s love? Why was this happening when I had served so diligently? Wasn’t I a good missionary? Was God listening to me? Would my peers accept my “flawed” missionary service?
Over the next six months, I struggled with my testimony, which I felt guilty about. I wondered if I had fallen from grace and if Heavenly Father really loved me. Though I gradually began to feel a little better, I didn’t feel like I had before my mission. And I still found myself avoiding moving on with my life.
Then one evening my good friend and I were talking. He too had experienced the pain and sorrow of coming home early from his mission because of illness and was working toward returning to the mission field. I remember that night was the first time in six months I had felt true peace. The voice of the Spirit whispered to me, “You need to go back.” I was so relieved to finally know in which direction to move. I went to see my bishop the following day. Then I wrote a fervent letter to the Missionary Department asking if I could return to the mission field. My request was granted, and one month later I was again wearing my name tag.
Six months later, however, I began experiencing the same health problems over again. I remember lying in a hospital bed, delirious from hours of tests and injections. I couldn’t believe this was happening. This time I knew my mission was over. With tears of disappointment and regret streaming down my face, I listened to my wise mission president say: “Sister Romanello, you loved the Lord two times as much, because you came back.” I felt so much comfort from his words. This time as I boarded the plane home, I promised my Heavenly Father I would remain faithful even if I didn’t receive answers.
It has now been a little more than two years since I returned home. I still have lingering problems, and my stamina and energy have not been the same since before I served my mission. The doctors have never figured out what is wrong with me. It has not been easy for me to be a returned missionary who did not get to serve the full length of my mission. Nevertheless, I still love every one of my sweet converts. It has taken time for me to feel validated and know that my shortened missionary service had value just as 18- or 24-month missions have value to other missionaries.
The Lord has given me many opportunities to talk to others who have faced the trauma of returning home unexpectedly. I know Heavenly Father has led me to them to share my testimony and help them realize that returning home early because of health problems is not a flaw to be kept a secret but an experience to be discussed.
The first time I returned home, I experienced how it felt to neglect my faith, but the second time I returned, I experienced what it was like to stay true. I kept to the basics: studying the scriptures, attending institute, participating in church, and fulfilling my callings. I prayed many times to know why everything happened the way it did. I stopped blaming myself, and I stopped blaming Heavenly Father. As I look at my life since returning home and my visits with my Chinese brothers and sisters who live in my home city, I maintain the firm position that there has been an eternal purpose to it all.
I love the words in Mosiah 5:15: “Therefore, I would that ye should be steadfast and immovable, always abounding in good works, that Christ, the Lord God Omnipotent, may seal you his, that you may be brought to heaven, that ye may have everlasting salvation and eternal life, through the wisdom, and power, and justice, and mercy of him who created all things, in heaven and in earth, who is God above all.”
I believe that if I continue living my life in dedication to the Lord, I will be forever blessed. In that way, I know I was healed through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, for although my body could not be 100 percent healed physically, my heart has never been more whole or ready to serve the cause of the Master.

Susan tossed a newspaper onto the Clarks’ front porch. As she started to walk to the Arnolds’, she heard an odd squishing noise and quickly turned around. Her little brother, Harold, was standing in the Clarks’ flower bed. Harold’s yellow boots were deep in the mud.
“I’m stuck!” he cried plaintively.
Susan set down her newspaper bag, put her arms around Harold’s middle, and pulled hard. Squoosh! The yellow boots rose from the mud. Harold and Susan fell backward.
When Susan stood up, she scraped the mud off her pants. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
Harold picked up the newspaper bag, but it was too heavy. Newspapers spilled into the mud. “I wanted to help you,” he mumbled.
“You’re too little to help. Go home,” ordered Susan.
“Let me walk with you, please,” Harold pleaded.
“You’re too slow.”
“I want to come! I can hurry.” Harold stomped his feet. Mud spattered off his boots and landed on Susan’s jacket.
“Go home!” roared Susan. She bent to pick up the muddy papers. When she stood up, Harold was gone.
At dinner that night Harold said nothing and ate very little. He went to bed early. Susan wanted to play checkers, but she had no one to play with. Dad was shining his shoes, Mother was doing the dishes, and Harold was in bed.
Susan sighed. Teaching Harold to play checkers last summer had been fun. She had enjoyed showing him how to rake the autumn leaves too. And they had had a great time last winter building his first snow fort. Now it was spring, and Susan decided that since she had nothing to do, she would think of something new to teach Harold. A few minutes later Susan had an idea and raced into the kitchen to tell her parents about it.
“What a fine idea!” exclaimed Mother.
Dad patted her shoulder and said, “Good luck, Susan.”
At breakfast the next morning, Susan said, “Harold, I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday. Meet me here after school. I have a surprise for you.”
As soon as Harold got home that afternoon, he asked, “Where’s the surprise?”
“Come with me,” Susan answered. “I’ll show you.”
They walked to the Clarks’. Susan handed Harold a newspaper and said, “Put this on the Clarks’ porch.”
“OK,” Harold replied. He carefully put the newspaper inside the screen door.
Susan smiled at him.
They walked to three more houses. At each house Susan gave her brother a newspaper to deliver.
“This is fun,” said Harold.
Susan grinned and asked, “Do you want a job?”
Harold looked at Susan. “A job? Me? What kind of job?”
Susan gave Harold another newspaper. “This kind of job.”
Harold’s mouth fell open. “You mean your job?”
“Well, part of it. You can bring newspapers to these five houses every day. These houses are close to our house. Do you want to do it?”
Harold clapped his hands and shouted, “Yes!”
“Good,” said Susan. “Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to fold the newspapers. I’ll teach you other things too. I’ll show you how to put the papers in little plastic bags on wet days.”
“I can learn to do those things,” Harold assured his sister.
“There’s one more important thing to remember,” Susan told him.
“What’s that?”
“Stay out of the mud!”
They laughed together; then Harold raced home to tell his parents about his new job.

As the years go by, Thelma continues to be a source of inspiration. She handles adversity better than anybody else I know. She takes care of her wonderful son who has Down syndrome, our elderly mother, and a husband with a serious health condition. Also, if those things weren’t enough, she has health issues of her own.

A few years ago, Thelma underwent brain surgery to relieve pressure from a brain cyst. Given the needs of her loved ones, the prospect of any complications was intimidating. She prayed for help and inspiration and visited the temple. Through it all, her faith did not waver, but she had reservations about putting her life in the hands of the doctor who would perform the delicate surgery. Thelma was visiting with a dear friend during this time and confided her concerns about the surgery. Thelma’s friend asked for the doctor’s name and upon learning the name, Thelma’s friend said that the doctor was a member of her ward. She told Thelma that he was a faithful member of the Church and a worthy priesthood holder. He often played Church hymns while he performed surgeries. Although a simple piece of information, this was a tender answer to Thelma’s prayers. Thelma’s life and spiritual experiences are a source of continuous strength and testimony in my own life.

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.

Allow me to share a story to demonstrate this. Four missionaries, a senior couple, and two elders serving in Micronesia walked into the only attorney’s office on the tiny island on which they were serving. They had a problem: they needed an amendment to a birth certificate for a membership record of a girl in their branch.

Previously the municipal office had had no sympathy for their request. They had said it would be too hard, and it didn’t matter anyway since “we all know her and know when she was born!” So the city had turned down the missionaries’ request. It was suggested that the missionaries go to the only attorney’s office on the island, where they met a highly educated and deeply respected man.

The missionaries sat across from him at his desk and described their plight, to which he replied that within thirty days he would get an amended birth certificate.

At this point he stood up and walked around his desk, closed the door to his office, walked back around his desk, opened his desk drawer, and placed a worn-out Book of Mormon on his desk. Much to their surprise, he then stated, “I have been reading your book for more than twenty years, and I know it is true. It was given to me by a fellow student when I was studying in the United States.”

He handed the book to the missionaries. They each marveled at the marked-up book.

“I can’t join your church because I smoke two to three packs of cigarettes a day, my family would be devastated, and I would likely lose my job.”

The missionaries replied, “We can help.” And they did. The teaching was easy because he already had a testimony of the Book of Mormon. With some time and help, he overcame his smoking habit, which was much harder for him. And although his family was upset, especially his wife, he was baptized just months later on Christmas Day.

He began to share stories from the Book of Mormon and hymns of the Restoration with his wife. She too gained a testimony, and two months later she was baptized. Since then, most of their children have also been baptized, and this attorney has served as a leader in the branch.

The Book of Mormon is a miracle, and it brings forth miracles that lead to happiness and lasting joy.

“You hide your horses in this grove of trees by the tracks. The train will be coming up the grade out of the canyon. Mike, you flag it down. The rest of you board the train. I’ll be up in front here and shoot anything that moves. All right, let’s go!”
That wasn’t Butch Cassidy talking. That was me, and that day I shot horses, people, trains, a guy carrying a canoe, and a bird watchers club by mistake. I shot them with a super-8 movie camera as part of one of the greatest, most colossal spectacles ever to hit the silver screen—at least we thought so: “The Great Train Robbery” (we titled it) produced by the Edgemont Fourth Ward Aaronic Priesthood MIA and featuring a cast of dozens (including some we hadn’t planned on).
If you’re looking for a different activity for your Aaronic Priesthood MIA, maybe a movie spectacular is the answer. A movie is a large undertaking, but it’s fun, and you may excite some previously unexcited kids. We did. Don’t worry too much about the technical aspects of movie making. Enthusiasm covers a multitude of blunders, and humility covers the rest. There is almost always a willing expert in the ward or neighborhood or down at the camera shop.
We started out like this:
“Let’s make a movie,” said the members of the bishops youth committee.
“Great idea,” said the ever-enthusiastic drama specialist. “Uh … which end of the camera do you point?”
Fortunately today’s automatic camera equipment is designed with a medium I.Q. in mind. You don’t have to be Stanley Kramer to come out with something on the film. Speaking of equipment, snoop around the ward a little. Especially after Christmas. You can probably unearth both a camera and cameraman. If worse comes to absolute worst, you can usually rent equipment from a camera store.
You will probably want your colossal extravaganza to run more than three minutes (that’s the length of a roll of film), so you’ll need a film editing machine and some adhesive splicing tabs to stick the films together—also available at the camera store. Anybody who finds film editing exciting has lived a very uneventful life. Also, the handy-dandy splicing tapes require the finger dexterity of a professional pickpocket. But it has to be done, so stick with it (pun intended). It is satisfying when you’ve finished. Film and development are the biggest costs, of course. We spent $105.00 for a 25-minute epic. Writing the script isn’t hard; just remember to put in plenty of action, plenty of people, plenty of outdoors. Look around for any unusual settings for action scenes. Is there a park with an old airplane, or an outdoor museum? Are there stores, houses, or barns with unusual exteriors? If nothing else, is there an open space where you can stage an indian raid or a medieval jousting tournament?
We decided on a train robbery because we had the elements close at hand. The Heber Creeper is an old-time steam engine that carries sightseers between Heber, Utah, and lower Provo Canyon. The owners were happy to participate in the robbery and even showed us the best spot to pull off the job.
Our ward had enough riding enthusiasts to get the outlaw band more or less mounted. We had purebred stallions, ancient hay burners, a Shetland pony, and one reluctant donkey. He was the only member of the cast who didn’t think it was a good idea. We first noticed this lack of enthusiasm when we had to drag him stiff-legged down the road behind my Volkswagen to load him on a truck. If you’ve got 53 horsepower on one end of the rope and one donkey power on the other, you’ve got a toss-up contest that could go either way. But we finally won.
We loaded him and the rest of the horses and outlaws and headed for the hills.
The train route winds through Provo Canyon, then hugs the hillside around Deer Creek reservoir, and cuts through the fields and pastures of Heber Valley. We set up near a grove of trees and waited.
“Here she comes!” shouted the lookout.
I hollered, “Lights! Action! Roll ’em!” (Whatever that means.)
Lights and roll ’em we didn’t get, but action we did. One blast of the engine whistle and every horse sponsored his own Kentucky Derby in his own direction. Only the donkey was left. He was too ornery to be scared. He just stood stiff-legged by the tracks and sang two-part harmony with the train as it thundered by.
The Creeper was a white puff of smoke in the distance by the time we rounded up the last of the horses, so we dubbed in the train scene later. Speaking of dubbing in, try as much as possible to shoot the scenes in order. Rehearse them while looking through the camera; then try to get it right the first take. It will save film costs and editing time later.
Our script called for a brawl scene climaxed by a pie in the face. For this scene we got the bishop’s permission, because he got the pie in the face. Blueberry cream. It was a beautiful scene and performed with excellent taste, the bishop said.
Close-ups and reaction-to-the-action shots help pace the action. And also try to frame your characters as large as practical in the shot unless it’s a deliberate long shot or scenery shot. Mount your camera on a tripod whenever possible. Even though your cameraman lives the Word of Wisdom, he’s got shaky hands.
You can get synchronized sound with some super-8 movie cameras, but this was more trouble and expense than we wanted. We used a silent screen format with printed titles to show the dialogue and credits. You can type these and photograph them with a close-up attachment on the movie camera. Here, especially, use the tripod, We recorded a rinky-tink piano background (put thumbtacks in the piano hammers to get the “tink”). We play the tape whenever we show the movie.
Showing the movie is, of course, the climax, particularly the premiere showing. We staged a variety show titled “Salute to the Silver Screen.” The whole ward was invited (and came), and the kids did songs, dances, and skits based on great movies of the past. (Unfortunately most of the great movies are in the past.) Then we honored the cast and showed the movie. “The Great Train Robbery” will never get an Oscar, but it was a “ward winning” movie.

Very few of my ancestors left any written records of their lives, but two did, my maternal and fraternal great grandfathers. Both were converts to the Church.

In 1861, a new plant was completed for the production of paper made from old rags. Brigham Young called my great grandfather, George Goddard, on a three year rag mission for the purpose of gathering whatever could be converted into printing paper. He recorded in his journal, "This calling was a severe blow to my native pride.... after being known in the community for years as a merchant and auctioneer, and then to be seen on the streets going from door to door with a basket on one arm and an empty sack on the other, enquiring for rags at every house. Oh, what a change in the aspect of affairs....When President Young first made the proposition, the humiliating prospect almost stunned me, but a few moments' reflection reminded me that I came to these valleys of the mountains from my native country, England, for the purpose of doing the will of my Heavenly Father, my time and means must be at His disposal. I therefore answered President Young in the affirmative, and for over three years, from Franklin, Idaho, in the north, and Sanpete in the south, my labors extended, not only visiting hundreds of houses during the week days, but preaching rag sermons on Sunday. The first time I ever spoke in the Tabernacle....was a rag discourse, and President Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball backed it up with their testimony and enlarged upon it.."

"At the end of ten months, Goddard had collected 20,000 pounds of rags, and by the end of his three-year mission, he had collected more than 100,000 pounds of rags for the paper."[8]

At the conclusion of his rag mission, Brother Goddard recorded, "Many years have passed away since that rag mission was performed. I have never regretted it, and instead of its having been humiliatory in its influence among the community, it only increased their respect and confidence toward me....I therefore beg of all my young friends to hold themselves in readiness for any kind of mission they may be called upon to fill, and never say no....No matter what kind of labor any man holding the priesthood may be called to perform by the servants of the Lord, let it be done by a cheerful response, and God will sincerely bless you. Cultivate a humble and self-denying spirit, and I will promise you the yoke of Christ shall sit easy and his burden light upon you."[9]

A few years ago Sister Packer and I were in Washington, D.C., to represent the Church at an awards banquet held in the reception hall of the Department of State. The elegant and stately surroundings, with a priceless collection of antiques and memorabilia, were impressive. Here, for instance, hangs the painting of George Washington by Gilbert Stuart and other priceless works of art. Both the occasion and the setting were ideal to make reference to the spiritual heritage of our country. And what was the program? A large brass section from one of the service bands played at great length, and with deafening volume, music from Jesus Christ, Superstar.

I sat next to a lovely, dignified woman, the wife of an officer of the government. When the crescendo weakened for a moment I was able to ask, by raising my voice a bit, if she was able to hear them all right. Her obvious amusement at the question soon changed to serious disappointment, as she asked in return, “What would Jesus think?”

Joseph set a date to be baptized one week after final exams. I stayed at the apartment of a friend in Salt Lake while I awaited the baptism. I was there all alone all day long. I was reading the Miracle Of Forgiveness by President Kimball...and you know what that means....Guilt trip time!

I wanted to be completely clean and pure when I stood in the circle to help confirm Joseph a member of the church. When the words
"Receive the Holy Ghost" were spoken, I wanted to be sure I was an open conduit for the spirit.

Now lest you think I was some evil, corrupt kid, let me assure you....I lived the word of wisdom. I lived the law of chastity. But there returned to my remembrance a terrible habit I had in junior High and part of High School. I was the only guy who was a completely active member of the Church in my grade. The guys I hung out with had the filthiest language imaginable, and unfortunately, I picked it up. It was a Jekyll and Hyde thing. Never cussed at home, and of course, never at church. I even managed to play church ball without letting too many bad words slip. But at school....it was time for Mr. Hyde. Especially at Basketball games. I sat in the crowd with my friends and let loose the most terrible stream of profanity whenever I disagreed with a referee call. Now I had overcome that bad habit when I became truly converted to the gospel toward the end of my junior year. ( OK, my wife will tell you I still disagree with the referee from time to time, but It's always with clean language!) By the time I was a senior, I had totally eliminated swearing from my vocabulary.

I remember one of the cheerleaders was in the cast "the Fantastiks" with me - a Broadway musical that we did at our High School. During the curtain call on closing night, she turned to me and gave me a little peck on the cheek (Boy, for a guy who was the geek of the week, that put me on cloud nine!)

Then she said, "I can't believe you are the same guy who used to yell those ugly, horrible words at the basketball games...I hope you'll never change" It was like a kick in the stomach. And that scene came back to me as I read the Miracle of Forgiveness. I realized I had never fully repented of the sin of profanity. I had changed my behavior, but had not been healed from the spiritual wounds.

I thought of all the people in the crowd at the basketball games who may have known I was LDS....how could I represent the Lord on a mission having uttered such foul things? I began to ache terribly, and for hours I pled with the Lord for forgiveness. I truly understood what Alma meant when he said in Alma 36:21..."there could be nothing so exquisite and so bitter as were my pains."

But as I wrestled with the Lord, there came to me several things I could and must do to be healed. I won't take the time to explain them all, but it had something to do with some sins of omission, some service, and a few heart to heart talks with some of my old high school classmates that the Lord told me I needed to ask for forgiveness... even those very friends I used to hang around. I began to feel hope....and I cried out those same words that I had memorized as a freshman in seminary.... "O Jesus, thou Son of God, have mercy on me, who am in the gall of bitterness, and am encircled about by the everlasting chains of death."

And you know what? Like Alma...I could remember my pains no more! My soul was filled with joy as exquisite as was my pain. I understood why the angels cry "Hosanna" - for I floated about the room crying out, Praise the Lord! And Thank You, Sweet Jesus!"

With His stripes, I was healed. The chastisement of MY peace was upon Him. I will always remember that feeling. When I find myself feeling empty inside, it motivates me to seek the healing power once again

During the era of the Great Depression, BYU, like many areas of the United States, was impacted by this part of history. In a BYU Magazine article several years ago, the following was published about this time:
The university wrestled with its own financial challenges—including a 22.5 percent pay cut for faculty and the recurrent threat of closure. Yet, partly because most Church junior colleges had closed by 1933, BYU enrollments increased 50 percent during the 1930s. By using federal grant money to fund hundreds of campus jobs, and by reaching out in other ways, faculty and administrators did what they could to help students who struggled. [“Stories of the Century,” comp. Mary Lynn Bahr, BYU Magazine, Winter 1999–2000, 24]
The BYU Magazine article also quoted Wilford Lee’s memories of his early experiences when he registered at BYU in 1931:
The school was struggling. . . . They were still accepting gallon jugs of blackstrap molasses from the Dixie [Southern Utah] students as part payment on the student’s tuition. . . .
I will always remember the Y as the poor man’s school; and since I was one of the poorest of the poor, I will always remember those days as a real struggle for existence. [Wilford Lee to James R. Clark, 23 January 1974, BYU Centennial History Faculty Survey Papers, L. Tom Perry Special Collections, Harold B. Lee Library, BYU; quoted in Ernest L. Wilkinson, ed., Brigham Young University: The First One Hundred Years, 4 vols. (Provo: BYU Press, 1975–76), 2:258]
Now I am guessing none of you paid for your tuition this year with molasses, but my hope is that this story gives you a glimpse of the impressive history of this university and the sacrifices made by students, faculty, and administration to keep it thriving.

Ricardo’s testimony was strengthened that day, but before he was 11, he didn’t even know what a testimony was. Then one day a friend invited him to church. He enjoyed it so much he kept coming back.
His mother didn’t like him going. And she didn’t want him joining the Church when he asked to be baptized. “But the missionaries talked to my mother, and she liked them, so she finally gave permission,” he says.
Ever since then Ricardo has been a devoted and energetic disciple of Christ. He currently holds the priesthood office of priest in the Barueri Ward, Barueri Brazil Stake. Ricardo is usually the first one at church, even though he must walk two and a half miles (4 km) to get there. He says he wants to come to every meeting, even those not on Sunday.
Although he is the only Church member in his family, he still does all he can to build the Lord’s kingdom. That’s what you want to do when you have a testimony, he says. He is even learning to play the piano so he can accompany the singing in priesthood meeting.
“What is important is eternity,” he says. “Now that I’m a member of the Church, I see everything in an eternal light.”
Does heaven’s light shine for anyone who seeks the Lord? Even for those who consider themselves the least in the kingdom? Indeed it does. Ask Ricardo. He knows.

In the vicinity where I once lived and served, the Church operated a poultry project, staffed primarily by volunteers from the local wards. Most of the time it was an efficiently operated project, supplying to the bishops’ storehouse thousands of fresh eggs and hundreds of pounds of dressed poultry. On a few occasions, however, being volunteer city farmers meant not only blisters on the hands but also frustration of heart and mind.
For instance, I shall ever remember the time we gathered the Aaronic Priesthood young men to give the project a spring-cleaning. Our enthusiastic and energetic throng assembled at the project and in a speedy fashion uprooted, gathered, and burned large quantities of weeds and debris. By the light of the glowing bonfires, we ate hot dogs and congratulated ourselves on a job well done.
However, there was just one disastrous problem. The noise and the fires so disturbed the fragile population of 5,000 laying hens that most of them went into a sudden molt and ceased laying. Thereafter we tolerated a few weeds so that we might produce more eggs.

One day a dear little woman named Mary Bezjian came in with her granddaughter. She had written a simple version of her personal history. Modest and unassuming, she could not believe that anyone besides her family would be interested in her. Let me tell you her story.

The Bezjians were Christian Armenians living in Turkey. Then near the beginning of the twentieth century they heard the message of the restored gospel and joined the Church. A horrible episode occurred called the Armenian Massacres. Thousands of Armenians were killed. The Bezjians were persecuted because they were Armenians. They were also persecuted by other Armenians because they were Mormons. In order to save their lives, they gathered the few belonging they could carry and fled across the border into Syria.

In Syria they established a rug-making business. Their contact with the Church was irregular. Sometimes a traveling missionary would call on them. Sometimes a church magazine would come in the mail. One of the rugs made by this Armenian family living in Syria is now on display at the Church Museum of History and Art. It is decorated with pictures of temples and prophets, all taken from the magazines.

After World War II life became precarious in Syria. Once again, under cover of night, they crossed the border, this time into Lebanon. From Lebanon they wanted to emigrate to the United States, where they had relatives and could worship according to the dictates of their conscience. But the paperwork seemed overwhelming, funds were scarce, and it proved impossible to go where they wanted to go.

Somehow they managed to move to Switzerland. There they pulled themselves together and arranged the necessary financial support. Finally, they moved to Salt Lake City and were adjusting to the new environment.

This, I thought, is an epic story! It could be made into a movie. It can inspire others. At the very least it deserves to be preserved. Sister Bezjian is no longer alive. I am very glad to have helped preserve her story.I learned that there are people in the Church today whose lives are full of drama and courage and inspiration.

The fact that Apii is alive is part of the reason her family joined the Church. When she was eight years old, she was desperately ill with asthma. Missionaries gave her a blessing, and she was healed literally moments later. “I was really weak,” says Apii. “I couldn’t do anything. I hadn’t been able to eat or drink. As soon as the missionaries said amen, I was all right. I opened my eyes and asked for something to drink. Everybody sort of laughed because they were so relieved. I concentrated on the blessing. I knew it would make me better. I was about nine years old when we joined the Church.”

He found that his life experiences had also prepared him in ways he couldn’t foresee. President Kaumaitotoya had a very difficult childhood. As a young teenager, he climbed a hill one day to pray and to ask God why he had to go through such hard things.
He recalled, “I was really angry with God. I couldn’t understand why the Lord would let me go through such hard things. I was asking Him why?”
Kaumaitotoya didn’t understand, at first, the answer that came on the hill that day: “For your experience.”
As he served, he made sense of what “for your experience” meant, when a teary congregant walked into his office to seek his ecclesiastical counsel about a similar family situation. Afterwards, it dawned on Kaumaitotoya what the answer to his boyhood prayer meant. His path and his challenges had prepared him to minister to and serve people with understanding and love.