Gospel Story Finder

A young man was preparing to serve a mission. His parents agreed to pay for his mission as long as he would keep the mission rules and work hard. He agreed.
After entering the mission field, he found missionary work much harder than he thought it would be. Learning a new language, adjusting to a different culture, and facing rejection discouraged him. His companion and mission president tried to encourage him, but he still felt like giving up.
He told his mission president he wanted to go home. His mission president called the young man’s father and gave him permission to call his son.
The missionary told his father about his discouragement. His father said, “For years your mother and I have looked forward to the day when you would serve a full-time mission. We know how important it is to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ to those who don’t have it.”
The son replied, “Dad, I didn’t realize that a mission meant so much to you.”
“It means everything to me,” the father declared. “All my life I have worked, built up my business, and saved with one person in mind: you. My goal has been to provide you an abundant inheritance.”
“But, Dad,” the son interjected, “that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t enjoy …”
The father interrupted, “How can I trust my business to your care if you can’t prove yourself by serving the Lord for two short years?”
There was a pause as the son pondered the father’s question.
Then the father said, “My son, if you will be faithful in this calling and prove yourself worthy, all that I possess will be yours.”
Touched by this promise, the son courageously told his father, “I will stay.”
The son did stay, and he served faithfully. He followed the mission rules and worked hard. And yes, sometime after his mission, he received from his father the promised inheritance, even all that his father had to share.

Eighteen-year-old Shaun Larsen isn’t exactly small. He stands six feet, four inches tall and weighs more than 250 pounds. He spent most of last summer lifting weights and running to get in shape for football. It seems incredible that anybody would refer to Shaun as a “mini” anything.

But in the Oregon Portland Mission office one morning, that’s the way Shaun was describing himself.

“I’m a minimissionary,” he said. “But I give it everything I’ve got.”

He smiled as he explained. “My dad’s the mission president,” Shaun said. “He’s been asking the teenagers in the mission to help the missionaries. One of the most successful programs has been assigning the young men who are 16 or older to accompany the full-time missionaries for a short period of time—a few days, a week, or a month. So when I finished high school and came up here to live with my parents, I got invited to serve a minimission too.”

When Shaun wasn’t working with the elders full-time, he spent an evening with them now and then on “splits” (where a missionary companionship divides with members) or shared his testimony when the elders were teaching. “For a whole summer, I was learning that there are ways for each of us to share the gospel. It really opened my eyes,” Shaun said.

Shaun doesn’t live in Portland anymore. He’s attending Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho, and just received a call to serve in the Ecuador Guayaquil Mission. “Working with the missionaries in Portland was good preparation for me,” Shaun said. “I know some of the challenges I’ll probably face, and I’ve seen some of the rewards. How can you not get excited about seeing somebody baptized?”

Then, shortly before school was to begin, I was playing “see-who-can-leap-over-the-most-stairs” on the front porch with Polly and Philip, my ten-year-old brother. I took a wild jump and landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, my sparkly pink glasses shattered at my side.

But the real tragedy occurred when I went shopping for replacement glasses with my father and Philip. They had about as much fashion savvy as my mother in the second-hand store. And even if I’d had a little savvy of my own, it wouldn’t have made much difference because I couldn’t see without my glasses.

I only knew I was tired of sparkly pink frames. This year I would wear sophisticated black. The frames I selected had wings curving elegantly upward on both sides. Cocking my head to achieve an air of mystery, I glanced at my fuzzy reflection in the mirror.

“How do you like them, Daddy?”

“How much do they cost?”

“On sale this week,” the saleslady said.

“In that case, they look terrific.”

Two weeks later we returned to pick up my cosmopolitan frames. I was trembling with anticipation. But as my face appeared in sharp focus in the optician’s mirror, I stared in horror. The longer I stared, the sicker I felt. The curving black wings that had seemed so sophisticated in my hands looked garish on my thin face. They threatened to leave me and fly around the room. I wished they would.

Mom gave Dad a hard look when we got home but told me I looked nice. Nobody else said anything until Polly came flying down the stairs.

She stopped abruptly and gaped.

“You look like Catwoman on the Batman show!” (For the next two years, I was Catwoman.)

Finally, school started. I had dreamed about the new friends I would meet. But I spent the first few weeks of junior high curiously surveying the school and waiting for classmates to befriend me. The other seventh-grade girls seemed so much older and superior. They wore nylons, earrings, makeup. Some of the rowdy ones smoked and had boyfriends.

Weeks went by, then months. A few kids said hi and asked what it was like to live in Hawaii, but no one seemed interested in being my friend. I was puzzled. Was it my clothing or my personality? In Hawaii we had always been friendly to the new kids.

Still, life was such an adventure that I didn’t have time to feel sad. Each day after school I’d explore the house and the yard. On weekends, my parents packed all of us into our cream-colored station wagon and took us on journeys of discovery.

One weekend we visited the Ford plant and watched cars being assembled. Another weekend we discovered the Kellogg’s cereal factory in Battle Creek and saw them make Fruit Loops and Corn Flakes. Another time we had a picnic in Kalamazoo.

On Saturdays when we had to stay home, we thought up excuses to walk to Bolgos Drugstore a mile down the road, where we would squander our allowance on candy.

And of course there were other adventures all week long. With the heavier chills, our stately trees turned breathtaking crimson, yellow, and orange, just like they did in the books. It was a fascinating contrast to the perpetual green of the islands. No other home possessed such enthusiastic rakers. Naturally I tried jumping into the fresh piles, but all I did was hurt myself and get dead leaves stuck inside my clothes. The books had glamorized the experience.

And I woke up early to wander the brightly colored farmers’ market. Father could never get enough fresh produce. Bushels of Golden Delicious apples, orange pumpkins, and shiny gourds spilled from the booths. Bananas, coconuts, and guavas paled in the face of this display.

It was in the farmers’ market that I tasted my first pat of maple sugar. Wrapped in cellophane, the sugar was molded into fancy leaf and star shapes. I nibbled it slowly, reveling in its smooth texture and the way it melted in my mouth.

On some afternoons, we’d help my mother put up pears. The shimmering jars, pink from the tiny red cinnamon candies Mom dropped into each bottle, were beautiful.

Then one day it was cold enough to show off our winter clothing at school. The thrill was short-lived when I saw the other girls in their snappy, thigh-length coats and knee boots. Skinny, with the weirdest eyeglasses east of the Mississippi, I looked like somebody’s eccentric grandmother. Transparent galoshes and a bag lady coat didn’t enhance the image. Polly in her fuzzy red and I in our plaid were undoubtedly the misfits of Forsythe Junior High. We stared at each other in disgust, yet clung to each other for support.

Lunch period was the worst. Polly and I ate at different times, so we had to eat alone. It was also embarrassing to have to bring a sack lunch. Every day I sat by myself, reading a book so I didn’t have to look up.

One day a girl from one of the tough groups sauntered over on a dare from her friends. Her heavily made-up eyes jeered at me.

“Whatcha readin’?” she said.

I could hear the laughter of her friends. My heart pounded. Maybe if I kept reading she would just leave.

“Is it good?” she tried again, turning to look at her friends. Loud laughter. I kept reading.

“Man, are you dumb,” she said as she walked away.

I was too embarrassed to mention the incident to my parents. I don’t think they ever realized I had no friends at school. I don’t know if it was just the clothes we wore or that we didn’t know exactly what to say or do to be like everyone else, but we never did feel like we fit in.

I wrote in my journal, “I don’t know what to wear. White socks and shoes are out in the winter, and I have the wrong kind of coat and boots. Styles are so different here!”

Church and home were the only two places where I felt accepted. The kids at church didn’t seem to care about my eerie eyewear or my outdated clothing. I loved activity nights. An industrious seamstress, I modeled several of my creations in an MIA fashion show. Another time I participated in an impromptu speech contest and did terribly, but no one seemed to mind. Virginia Webb became a good friend, but she attended a different junior high.

I began to live for weekends and the hours after school spent playing with my brothers and sisters. In Hawaii we had had scores of friends and rarely played together. But here my brothers and sisters became my closest friends. They were there when that long-awaited snow finally fell. We frolicked in it like kittens in catnip. We held our mouths open as it fell. Each flake was a miracle, every snowball another excuse to giggle.

Eventually it dawned on us that we were the biggest kids on the sledding hill across from our home. In Michigan sledding was only for kids. But Alan didn’t care. At age 16, he was six feet, five inches tall, and he loved sledding. Every day after school, he went sledding alongside the grade schoolers. They gawked at him, but since he was so much bigger, no one ever said a word.

The rest of us, still trying to fit in, bought used ice skates. I’d been a good roller skater in Hawaii and ice skating came easy. With all the ponds and lakes in Michigan, we never had to settle for endless circling in a stale old rink. I loved the exhilaration of skating hard and fast across a frozen lake.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

I wish I could say that there was some magic turning point, that we discovered a key that made us popular, that we found friends at our school, and that we became leaders and trendsetters ourselves. Of course we didn’t. In a year the sabbatical was over, and we returned to Hawaii, our scores of friends, our waves and mountain fruit, our mild weather and perpetually green foliage. Never was I happier than when we returned to our beloved island.

And yet now, 20 years later, when I think of Michigan, I smile. With fondness I recall Alan running barefoot in the snow. I grin at the memory of Philip and me raking autumn leaves. My heart soars when I remember skimming across a frozen lake with Polly or strolling through the farmer’s market with my father. Tears come to my eyes when I think about the whole family piling into our cream-colored station wagon, off for a picnic in Kalamazoo.

It isn’t easy to move when you’re in junior high school. It’s even tougher when you’re poor and you’re exchanging a provincial paradise for a bustling college town. There were times when I was sure I would never make it.

But now, given some time and distance, I know what the secret was. I leaned on my family. And because of them I survived.

“Oh, I’m chock-full of tales about my sister,” he said. “I remember her first date with your Grandpa.”
Date? It had never occurred to me that someone would actually remember Grandma going on a date.
“To be honest, I remember her second date better. It was almost the last. Her first date was kind of normal. She came home with this goofy smile on her face and walked past me like I didn’t exist. But on her second date, she came home scratching like a hen in the barnyard. I thought she must have fleas. She kept yelling, ‘I can’t stand it,’ all the while yanking at her clothes and peeling down her socks. Come to find out, Harry’s old Plymouth also served as a truck. He’d forgotten to take the chicken feed sacks out in time for his date. Harry and Annie got covered with chicken mites. They were scratching like a couple of dogs all night and didn’t dare say a word to each other. Luckily, chicken mites would rather be on chickens than people, so Annie got over it quick. But it took a few weeks for her and Harry to get back together.”
Uncle Al and my dad were laughing so hard tears were running down their cheeks.

“On the Fourth of July we camped for the day, not entirely to celebrate, but to wash and do mending and various other things that were necessary. We camped in a pretty place near a creek. I was to wash with Phebe’s help. She was only twelve but very energetic. We selected a place quite secluded, close to the creek where we could have plenty of water. Well, we were making the suds foam when a dapper young gentleman from New York, a nephew of our captain, who was on his way to California, discovered us and brought a drink and a large piece of delicious fruitcake which was made to celebrate the Fourth on the plains. A rather embarrassing position, to accept this compliment in the midst of soiled linen and soapsuds. I had not been introduced to him before. However, I accepted the cake and drink with great patriotism, and from that time he often called at our wagon—that is, our wagon yard. Everyone was supposed to honor all the land that was occupied by ox yokes, camp kettles, and everything that goes to make an outfit for traveling. So when any of the young folks called I was as much at home sitting on an ox yoke as if I were sitting in an easy chair in a parlor. Such is life on the plains.”

"I grew up in a big city, in Los Angeles, which gave me the opportunity to meet early on people from different walks of life. I had interactions and connections with people that helped me learn about their lives as they learned about my life.

"I had an experience at a bus stop where I was running late to work. And, in my frustration, I turned around and I noticed an older lady who was going about digging in the trash. Her hair was very damp; she was missing a lot of teeth, but she smiled at me. It made me forget that I was running late.

"Who is going to help her? Who is willing to give her something to make her have a better day? I don’t know. But in that moment, it made me realize that’s me. I know I’ve been in different phases of my life where I’ve needed help and I’ve prayed for someone to offer something in my life, mostly love or a sense of belonging. And that made me think about Jesus Christ and how He loves me and how He does give me a sense of belonging. That motivated me to offer her my apple.

"We started interacting, and I couldn’t help but want to offer her my whole lunch. I would have offered her everything if I had even more. I’ll never have everything that I wish I could have to offer someone. But that is why Jesus Christ is the great Mediator, because He can. He can offer and duplicate what I can’t by infinity.

"When I think about Jesus Christ and how He fed the five thousand or the four thousand, it wasn’t about loaves and bread. Of course, feeding them provided a very temporary nourishment. But when you read carefully behind that, it really is about His mercy. It really is about His grace. It really is about His love.

"Those people, those individuals that He would help that were considered the outcasts, the people who were marginalized—which in today’s world might be the refugee, the immigrant—sometimes we see people different because of their skin color, because they’re from a different religion.

"Because of these experiences that I’ve had and as I realized what God has done for me, how could I not want to help someone out of the love and the mercy and the grace that God has for me?" [5]

I was leaving junior high school, embarking on a new adventure riddled with unknown possibilities and, of course, filled with fun. Little did I know that the first few months of high school would feel disastrous and ultimately change my life.
It all started normally enough for a freshman. I felt small at this new, big school. Everything seemed twice as big, but it was nice knowing I was going through this with my friends. When we checked our class schedules, we saw that I didn’t have any classes with my friends. As the weeks passed, we drifted apart. Instead of the close relationship we’d once shared, I would be lucky to see the backs of their heads as they walked in another direction.
My lunch hour was miserable. I tried to make myself look busy, like making several unneeded trips to my locker to retrieve books I didn’t need, tying my shoes, or pretending to look for someone who would never be found. I guess I wasn’t very good at pretending, because my older brother, Shawn, noticed.
Since my childhood, Shawn was always there, whether it was teasing me incessantly or putting his arm around me after a bad day. He never really asked me what was wrong; he just knew. He started inviting me to eat lunch with him and his friends. When I was with him, he never ignored me. I remember him yelling, “Hey, Sis!” and walking over to put his arm around me.
Slowly I became stronger, and I became comfortable in my own skin. I realized I didn’t need my old friends to define who I was. I had my brother, my friend.

Misanya Sharon–17: I was afraid of leaving home to go and attend FSY. It was my first time, and I did not want to leave my family because it is the place that I feel loved and safe, so going to FSY for five days really scared me. But during FSY is when I developed great self-confidence. I can now stand firm in a large crowd and share my insight with others. FSY was like home—I felt loved by everyone. I was safe. I observed the young leaders during FSY having fun, teaching by example, and serving us with love and patience.

“When I was 12,” says Loukia, “I went to church for the first time and was so happy, but then I realized that I was the only one my age. Now, two years later, we have so many young women that for the first time we were able to have Young Women Camp.” As they met together, she says, “I realized what it means to be a Latter-day Saint. When we live the gospel, a light surrounds us.”
...
“Loukia C., 15, bore her testimony for the first time at Young Women camp and was later baptized.”

In 2019, one of my closest friends invited me to join a discussion with the missionaries when they were teaching his little sister. I turned down the offer many times because they were learning outdoors—I didn’t want to have others see I was learning with the missionaries. My friend then said, “Today we will go inside,” to which I agreed.

During our first meeting, we discussed the first principle in the first lesson. Everything they were saying I agreed with, such as “God is your loving Heavenly Father, He knows you personally,” and other things like that. The problem came when the missionaries said, “God has a body of flesh and bone that is perfect.” My friend’s little sister agreed, but I did not. They tried to help me, but I refused to change my view. Before the lesson ended, they invited me to read, pray, and come to Church. I accepted their invitation.

They then gave me an example that, “if I were selling TVs and there is one customer that wants to come and buy a certain TV but doesn’t have money at the moment, the customer might ask if I can keep the TV till tomorrow when she would come and then be able to buy. She would always repeat the same statement every day for months without purchasing the TV. And then another customer comes with money. Will you sell the TV to the second customer?” I replied, “No, I will keep the TV for the first customer.” Later, I changed my mind and said, “I will sell it to the second customer.” The missionaries then told me that it’s just the same with them. If I do not keep the commitments, they will stop coming to me and focus on other people who are keeping commitments.

When I heard these words, my desire to learn the restored gospel was triggered. “Why do they want me to learn this gospel so much?” I asked myself. After the first meeting, my friend asked me, “Why were you making this lesson hard to understand?” He continued, “Just give them time and listen to them.”

My friend’s little sister heeded the missionaries during the lesson. I then recognized that I was not humble enough. From that day I humbled myself to the missionaries because of my good friend and his little sister.

I tried to keep the commitments. The days I still remember vividly are, first, a day I was asked to study 3 Nephi 11:1–17. In our next appointment they asked what I learned from the chapter, I then recited most of the verses I had read. Second, one day I was invited to attend a baptismal service. On the morning of the baptismal service, I was busy playing video games with my friends and when I realized that I was short on time I ran to the chapel that was about a mile away. “We thought you were not coming,” the missionaries said when they saw me. I never missed the sacrament because of the example the sister missionaries gave to me. It was a good time to learn the restored gospel with the sister missionaries.

Somehow, Sage hung on to life, and two days later the doctors felt she was strong enough to receive the first of what would eventually be eight skin grafts. Then she developed pneumonia.
“All we did those first ten days was cry and pray,” says Michael.
Denise learned of the accident while teaching her kindergarten class. “A deputy sheriff called me. I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming. When I finally saw Sage, I would not have known she was my daughter if someone hadn’t told me.”
Both Michael and Denise credit Sage’s survival to the skill of the medical staff who attended her and to the faith and prayers of the members of their new church.
“We found out immediately what the Church was all about,” Michael says. “The ward held some special fasts, although we didn’t even know what a fast was at the time. And many people came to give their support. Sage received many priesthood blessings.”
One of the first blessings was given by Robert DeBuck. Robert with his wife, Ruth, had introduced the Volkmans to the Church. “When Robert blessed Sage,” Ruth recalls, “he told her to go where it was safe—into Heavenly Father’s arms. We lived for a long time on faith in that blessing. We believe that’s where she was.”

“My brother Brady and I didn’t have a bad relationship. The problem was, we didn’t have a relationship at all. Involvement in school and with my friends meant everything. I never spent any time with him. When I heard about the experiment, I immediately thought of Brady, and after praying about it I was sure he was the one. At first it was a chore; then it became a little easier; then I realized he is fun! I just had to make the first move. Now he comes to invite me to do things with him.”—Brittany Brammer

I want to share my testimony about prayer. When I was around thirteen years old back in Brazil, on a Sunday morning I went to church and went to my Sunday School class. My Sunday School teacher invited us to pray for 30 minutes that day. When he made that invitation, at first I thought, "Oh, we don't need to be timing, counting the minutes of our prayers. The prayers, it doesn't matter if it's five or twenty minutes; it needs to be made with our heart." But at the same moment, I had a big, a huge desire to accept his invitation.
So I went back home, and later in the afternoon that Sunday, I decided to go to my room, close the door, look at the clock, and then get on my knees and start to pray. Since I had a long time to pray, I started first by saying to Heavenly Father all the things that I was grateful for. Then I started to talk to Heavenly Father about my feelings, my desires, my fears, and who I want to become.
I felt during that prayer that my prayer made it to heaven. It was the first time in my life that I felt that. While the Spirit was so strong, after I finished my prayer, I looked at the clock and saw that I went over thirty minutes. After that day, I never again counted the minutes of my prayers, but I knew after that day, and I know, that our prayers can make it to heaven.

Orla Rode Nielsen, baptized in 1956, served as branch president twice in Århus before that unit became a ward. Kirsten Bokhonko, another longtime member, says that Brother Nielsen and his wife, Esther (now deceased), are the kind of people who made it a habit to do good for others quietly, in the background. When the Nielsens discovered a love of family history, they devoted much of their own free time to helping more than 30 other members compile their family history. Brother Nielsen still goes to the city archives almost every day to gather information. “I love it. When you get started, you can’t stop.” From the time he joined the Church, he has felt that way about the gospel. On the day he was baptized, he sang all the way home for happiness. “Since my baptism I have never doubted.”

It was a cold December day in 1988 in San Luis Obispo, California. Stricken with a rare disorder, I struggled with rigid muscles in my abdomen and legs. The cold aggravated my symptoms, making walking difficult and painful.
After our children left for school, I hobbled out to the mailbox to send some letters. In the box I found a damp, crumpled envelope. I glanced at the address.
To my surprise, scrawled across the front was “To Santa, From Sarah.” Sarah, our nine-year-old daughter, was a sensitive and loving child who cared deeply for those around her.
The thought occurred to me that this might be my chance to discover what she really wanted for Christmas. I opened her envelope and read: “Dear Santa, I am nine years old and all I want is this. My mother has been very sick and has not been able to walk, and I am hoping you can get her better for Christmas. That’s all I want. Love, Sarah.”
Icy raindrops blended with the tears on my cheeks. I thought my heart would break, for there was nothing I could do to give Sarah what she wanted for Christmas, and I regretted that her belief in a generous Santa would have to be shattered on Christmas morning.
As I prayed about what to do, I realized I had never prayed to be made well. I had let hopelessness seep into my soul, and despair had replaced my faith.
After a great deal of prayer, I composed a letter from Santa to be delivered to Sarah on Christmas morning. I explained that Heavenly Father has reasons for why things happen as they do and that if she would just believe in Him and keep on praying and doing what she could, things would work out for the best.
Sarah learned that Christmas in 1988 that Santa could not make her mother well but that Heavenly Father could one day, if it was His will. Our daughter quietly transferred her belief in Santa to faith in a loving Heavenly Father.
During the following years, Sarah never ceased praying that I would be made well. After more than six years, a breakthrough in medical technology placed me soundly back on my feet and eliminated my need for either a cane or a wheelchair. Sarah knelt in prayer to express her deep gratitude to Heavenly Father.
Years ago as I opened Sarah’s letter to Santa, I thought I was going to deepen her belief in a fun Christmas tradition. Instead, her selfless request taught me to have childlike faith in a kind Heavenly Father, and that lesson turned out to be my most precious gift of all.

Soon after, Bengt Erlandsson, interior designer for the Palmyra New York Temple, asked Tom for a sketch of the First Vision. Again, Tom turned to the Lord.
“I was overwhelmed about doing this window for the Lord’s temple right there on the land where the First Vision actually happened,” says Tom. “I went to the Mount Timpanogos Utah Temple for inspiration, and while praying, my mind was flooded with a vision of all 108 windows. I wanted to portray that wonderful light the Prophet Joseph felt in the Sacred Grove.”
Tom sketched the artwork and remembers going to the Church Office Building thinking, What am I doing? I’m just a young man with all these ideas for windows they didn’t even ask for. I must be crazy. But he felt the Spirit prompting him.
Miraculously, Tom’s sketches were approved. With tears in their eyes, Tom and his wife, Gayle, knelt and thanked the Lord for allowing them such a privilege.
With less than four months to complete the 17,000-piece project, Tom worked feverishly, involving youth from his area. “I hired 16- to 19-year-olds who had an open mind and would ask for God’s help,” he says.
On April 6, 2000, Tom and Gayle entered the celestial room for the Palmyra temple dedication. “Everyone was telling me how beautiful the windows were, but the Spirit whispering, ‘I am pleased with the work,’ was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life,” he says.

When Daeyoon was fourteen, it was announced that the first all-Korea Church conference would be held in Seoul, the nation’s capital. The prophet, President Spencer W. Kimball, was coming from America!
Daeyoon eagerly sought permission from his nonmember parents to attend. Concerned about his making the seven-hour bus ride from Chinhae to Seoul, they were initially reluctant. But Daeyoon would be able to stay with relatives in Seoul, and his parents eventually consented to let him go.
The day of the conference came, and Daeyoon thrilled as he listened to the wonderful words of President Kimball and the other General Authorities. But since his seat was at the back of the auditorium, he could hear the Brethren better than he could see them. It was disappointing to him to be so near and yet so far. With the innocent faith of youth, he bowed his head and prayed that some day he would be able to personally meet President Kimball and other General Authorities.
The next morning he boarded the bus for the seven-hour ride back home. At one point, the bus made a service stop, and Daeyoon got off to buy an ice cream cone in the nearby cafeteria. As he walked from the bus, he noticed an American car with a bumper sticker that read Families Are Forever.
With melting ice cream dripping from the cone, he strolled through the cafeteria, hoping he might meet some American Mormons.
Suddenly, his heart leaped. His prayer of the day before was to be answered not years from now, but today! There, across the room, stood President Kimball. Full of confidence from his positive experiences with many missionaries, Daeyoon quickly strode across the cafeteria, thrust out his hand, and introduced himself in simple English. “Hi! I’m Daeyoon Kim. I’m a Mormon.”
President Kimball, who knew how to make everyone feel important, enthusiastically grasped Daeyoon’s sticky hand and invited him to sit at his table. President Kimball pulled out his handkerchief and smilingly wiped the ice cream off the boy’s face. “Are your parents Mormons?” he asked.
“No,” the boy replied with a downward glance.
“Good!” was the president’s immediate response. “You can help convert them. Where are you from, Brother Kim?”
“Chinhae, seven hours southeast of Seoul. I’ve just been to the conference to hear you speak.”
“I’m surely proud of you for your devotion in traveling such a distance!” said President Kimball. “Meet my wife and the General Authorities traveling with us.” And he formally introduced Daeyoon to the other visitors.
Within moments, the bus was ready to leave, and Daeyoon had to say good-bye. President Kimball took the youth by the hand, looked him in the eye, and said, “The Church needs you to build the kingdom in Korea, Brother Kim. Will you serve a mission? Will you help build the kingdom of God?” With fervor, Daeyoon promised he would.
Then President Kimball put his arms around the young man, hugged him close, and whispered in his ear, “Wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful!”
As the years passed, Daeyoon became absorbed in his high school and university studies, and he was sometimes tempted to stay home from church. Then “Wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful!” would ring in his ears and in his heart. He truly wanted to be worthy of the glorious blessings of that acceptance, that honor from the president of the Church. Faithfully he attended church, even when he was under pressure not to from his parents and peers.

“For me, an eating disorder is as physical as it is mental. When I was in the middle of my eating disorder, food seemed to have lost its savor. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to eat, but I physically couldn’t get myself to eat. There was a constant lump in my throat that prevented me from indulging in anything.
“I felt alone and trapped, like nobody could possibly understand why I couldn’t eat an adequate amount of food—it was just me and my eating disorder. In the end, I realized that this was how I was coping with various things in my life. I felt the only thing I was able to control in my life was what I did (or in this case didn’t) put in my body.”

“I had a friend who must have been moved by the Spirit to talk to me. One day as we were chatting, she told me that she had noticed my peculiar eating habits—small bites, skipping meals, etc. Even though that conversation didn’t cause me at that moment to get the help I needed, it opened a door that allowed me to finally accept the fact that I had an eating disorder and needed to get help.
“I started exercising regularly and praying more intently, and I told my closest family members about my eating disorder. The exercise helped me clear my head, and the honest conversations I was having helped me address the underlying issues. It was a process, but I can finally say my favorite food is pizza again!”

Linahei not only uses her voice for music and prayer, but she also speaks up about helping family members on the other side of the veil.

“I had a dream one night where I saw hundreds of people, but none of them could communicate with each other,” she says. “I thought I recognized them, but I wasn’t sure.”

Linahei didn’t know what to make of the dream at first. Then she had an exciting thought: “Before the COVID-19 lockdown, I had performed over 100 baptisms for my ancestors—these people in my dream could represent those family members!”

Feeling more excited about family history than ever, Linahei did all she could to help move those names along in the temple to receive their additional ordinances. Soon after, Linahei and her mom were called as family history consultants in their ward.

“We helped a woman in our ward access her FamilySearch account. When she saw her family tree, she was so happy—it was the first time she had seen all of her ancestors!”

“I used to feel nervous going up to people in my ward,” Linahei admits. “But now that I have my mom with me, I feel more confidence teaching people about family history.”

Now Linahei looks forward to helping people learn about their ancestors. “I love seeing how happy people are when they do their family history. And I think our ancestors are happy that we’re interested in them and in performing their ordinances.”

In her calling as a family history consultant, she recently organized an activity for her ward’s young women. Not only did she help them find family names to take to the temple, but she also helped Primary children set up accounts so that they can participate.

“We are going to the temple soon,” she says.

“I like the joy that comes when you do family history.”

Want to be as cool as Linahei? Don’t worry, it’s definitely possible. “Young people can advance the errand of God by using technology,” Linahei says. “Anything that helps us think of our ancestors is wonderful. I know doing family history will bring everyone more joy in their lives. Family history has brought me closer to my ancestors and to Christ at the same time.”

With all the work she’s doing for her ancestors, one thing’s for sure: Linahei’s family is definitely not just history!

When my baptism and confirmation was only a day or two away, I had a fever and was not feeling very well. I did not want to postpone my baptism. I felt I should go ahead on the appointed day. Many relatives and friends, some of whom are not members of the Church, came to my baptism. When I was baptized, my fever went down right away, and I felt a lot better. That day I felt the Holy Ghost very strongly. I am grateful that I could be baptized and receive the Holy Ghost.
Sara M., age 8, Spain