Gospel Story Finder

I remember as a child looking at my grandmother’s wrinkled cheeks. Lines creased the corners of her eyes, and tiny lines graced her upper lip. I asked her how I could keep from getting wrinkles.
“Don’t smile,” she said. “And don’t cry.”
I followed her advice—for one day. Then I gave up. How could anyone live without smiling or crying? I decided I’d rather have a face that shows the lines of laughter and tears.

A week passed and he had been able to keep his secret. But now he was in the Lutheran church, last on a bench, seated with others his age. His mother and father were also there, sitting on the front row in the middle of the church, a place of honor reserved for parents on confirmation day. At 14, members of the Lutheran Church are considered ready for full membership. On confirmation day they appear before a congregation and answer questions on the Lutheran catechism asked by the pastor.
The new tunic Christian was wearing, as bright and clean as new snow, felt rough on his skin. His mother had given it to him that morning. There was tightness in his stomach; his heart was pulsing hard and strong, and his tongue was dry and rough in his mouth. Christian knew he couldn’t lie about his beliefs; he had to tell the truth.
At last it was his turn. He stood up from the bench and walked toward the pastor. His father was smiling with pride. Christian’s legs felt weak and his mind clouded with confusion. The church was full, and he felt everyone’s eyes upon him.
The pastor’s voice, high and loud, echoed in the church.
“Do you believe in God?” it chanted.
“Yes,” Christian’s voice was small. He whispered a prayer.
“Can you describe God?” The voice asked.
There was a vast silence in the great building. Christian felt as if the world were watching and listening. Then, a clearness and strength came into him from some unseen deep well. His voice was strong and clear.
“God is not a being without body, parts, or passions; and he does not sit on the top of a topless throne. God is a good, kind, Heavenly Father, who hears and answers prayers, and man is made in the image of God.”
For the first time in the service the pastor looked up, his eyes wide and questioning. Christian turned and looked at his father. He saw a face that was stone hard.
The pastor continued the questioning, and Christian answered according to his new beliefs.
The pastor finished the chanted catechism questions, looked solemnly at Christian, and in a hiss of voice said, “You answer as if you were a Mormon.”
“And if I do, I’m proud of it,” Christian replied.
Christian’s father, Hans Monson, stood, his face red and his eyes fierce under heavy brows. He glared angrily at Christian, slammed the tip of his oak cane heavily against the wood floor, turned, and walked from the building, his cane cracking loudly with each step.
That night Christian received the beating from his father that he had expected for days. After that, with the help of his mother, he was able to avoid his father for several days. Then one evening while he was bringing wood into the house and stacking it near the fireplace, his father came into the room.
Christian felt his heart race and blood flush his cheeks. There was a moment of terrible silence. Hans Monson, a thick-chested man, a woodcutter by trade, suddenly struck at the boy with his cane. Christian avoided most of the blows that followed, but whenever the cane reached him, it caused a painful welt on his flesh.
Out of breath Hans Monson stopped, his muscles tense and his blonde hair wet with perspiration. Christian, feeling faint, stood. His face was pale.
“Father, I know it’s wrong for me to disobey you. I’m sorry for that, but I’m not sorry for what I did. I know it was right, and I’m not afraid to be beaten for the gospel, for truth.”
Breathing heavily Hans grabbed a large piece of wood from the fireplace stack and threw it. He threw wood at Christian until the stack was gone; then he opened the door and told Christian to get out.
“There’s no room here for a Mormon devil,” he shouted as Christian left. The door slammed. That was the last Christian would see of his father.
The night air was biting cold. Christian felt weak, overpowered by pain, confusion, and a terrible sense of loss. He still felt love and respect for his father. He staggered to the barn and fell on a pile of oat straw.
Later in the night Christian felt a soft hand touch his shoulder. His mother sat next to him on the straw.
“Why? Why did you have to do it, Christian?” she asked. Her voice was full of tears.
“I studied it, and I prayed about it. I know it’s true,” he answered, feeling strength in his own words. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. I cannot deny what I know to be true. It would be like denying Christ, our Savior. I could never do that, no matter how much it hurt.”
In the cold, musty darkness of the barn, they talked until the pearl-gray light of dawn came. Christian felt the warmth of a bond between him and his mother tighten stronger than it had ever been; it grew into something he would remember all of his life, a memory that would warm him and give him strength. In the gray, sullen light he saw a bright tear roll down her face. She held him tight and warm knowing she would never see her son again, at least not in this life.

“Vperiod!” Brother Brigham shouts. “Forward!” He raises his hand high and points straight ahead. The pioneers grab their handcart, grimace at the effort of pulling it, and continue past a row of apartment buildings.
Wait a minute! That’s not how the Saints got to Utah!
Not to worry. This is Vyborg, Russia. The man playing the role of President Brigham Young is actually Aleksandr B. Tomak, a district president. And the pioneers, who have only a single handcart among them, are Russians from the St. Petersburg area, gathered at a youth conference to celebrate their heritage.
That’s why, as the handcart they are now pulling has journeyed from Siberia on the east to Vyborg on Russia’s western border, the “Mormons” in each location have not only pulled it through forests and mountains but also through the streets and parks of the cities where they live. They are celebrating, not only the pioneers that were, but also the pioneers they are—young people eager to live the truth and to share it with anyone willing to listen.
As the youth walk and walk and walk, they sing. Someone strums a guitar, and everyone joins in folk songs. At other moments, silence reigns. And every once in a while, it just seems right to sing a hymn. “Come, Come, Ye Saints” is most popular, and those who sing it sometimes cry.
The Vyborg-St. Petersburg handcart company reaches the end of the trail at the shore of a lake in the forest. Here, workshops will be held and lunch served for those who have “safely completed the journey to Zion,” as President Tomak proclaims.
“Vot eto mesto!” he says, in his best Brother Brigham voice. “This is the place!”
It’s a phrase that was true 150 years ago in the valley of the Great Salt Lake. It is now a phrase that is equally true from Siberia to Vyborg, all across a vast country where modern pioneers are embracing the restored gospel today.

Here I am, I thought, three months away from my mission, and I don’t even know how to feel the Spirit.
The truth was that I had been a member of the Church for my entire life, and I could never recall a time when I was certain that I had felt the Spirit. I had a firm testimony of the Savior and the prophet, but somehow I didn’t know what the Spirit felt like.
So there I sat in Brother Durrant’s missionary preparation class, as confused as ever. “It’s the Spirit that counts,” he quoted President Ezra Taft Benson. Brother Durrant then began to speak of great missionaries like Alma and Ammon, who were successful in their work because they followed the Spirit.
How can I be a great missionary? I thought. I don’t even understand the Spirit. I continued to listen intently, desperately hoping that Brother Durrant could answer my question. I silently prayed that he could relate to me just one important piece of wisdom—how the Spirit felt.
Then my answer came, and not just from the teacher. It didn’t come like an electric shock, and it didn’t come like fire. But my answer did come, with its own gentle feeling only the Lord was capable of giving me. It came when my teacher stopped speaking about Alma and said softly, “I feel the Spirit so much. It makes me so happy. That’s when I know I feel the Spirit—when I’m happy and I know God loves me.”
As I thought about those simple words, I felt all of the confusion settle into a sense of understanding. My chest didn’t roar with fire and vigor, and my limbs didn’t sink without strength. Instead, I felt a calm peace, and I realized that whenever I had felt warm inside while singing a hymn in church, I had felt the Spirit. Whenever I felt good after a service project, I had felt the Spirit. And when I had walked out of a Church class feeling peaceful and happy, I had felt the Spirit. The feelings that I was searching for were often there, but I just didn’t know what they were. I had expected the Lord to present to me, in grand spectacle, an instant testimony of his power. Instead, he was gently guiding me to find out for myself.
I have learned that I must make an effort to understand the Spirit and invite that influence into my life. I do not doubt the stories of Alma the Younger or King Lamoni. I believe the Spirit had a dramatic influence on them. But I’ve learned that the Spirit manifests itself in many different ways. The feelings of the Spirit are always there if I am trying to live worthily and if I truly seek them.

The family of Mary Goble Pay, who was 13 years of age, owned an ox team and wagon but promised to stay with two handcart companies. Though a handcart could usually travel faster than an ox wagon, the ox team could have forged ahead as the pioneers’ strength began to fail when early snow storms engulfed the group. But “we had orders not to pass the handcart companies,” Mary wrote. “We had to keep close to them to help if we could.” Gospel covenants made them “willing to bear one another’s burdens” (see Mosiah 18:8–10).
At great sacrifice, they honored their covenant and stayed with the handcarts. Mary’s sister, brother, and mother died from exposure, illness, and lack of nourishment (“Autobiography of Mary Goble Pay,” in A Believing People: Literature of the Latter-day Saints [1974], 143–45).

My heart leapt on 7 November 1981 as I received my mission call to serve in the Chile Concepción Mission. When I opened that letter, my world froze in place, and all I could think of was my mission.
I had almost everything ready. Again and again I reviewed the list of things I needed. I made a little mark on the list as I put each item in my suitcase. But even with my careful planning, I completely forgot one essential thing.
It wasn’t until two hours before I was to depart that I realized I needed some money to travel from my home in Quilpué to the Missionary Training Center in Santiago, Chile, which was about two hours away. I had already used all my savings and the funds my parents had given me.
My bishop wasn’t home when I ran to see if he could lend me the money. I didn’t need very much, but at that moment it seemed like a fortune.
I knelt down in my room in anguish and told my Heavenly Father what was happening, although I knew He already knew. When I got up from my knees, I was confident that He was going to help me solve my problem. I was a faithful tithe payer, and I knew the Lord would open the windows of heaven and pour out blessings upon me until there was no room to receive them (see Mal. 3:10).
My mother called to me and asked me to go through my closet and decide which things I wanted to leave there and which my sister could use. While I was sorting my clothes, I found a little purse so small it fit in the palm of my hand. I remembered that I had received it many years ago and that in it I had hidden my first savings.
I opened it and—what a blessing! Tucked neatly inside was some money I had put there many years earlier. It would be enough to pay for two fares to Santiago. I invited my father, who is not a member of the Church, to accompany me to the Missionary Training Center.
The years have passed, but I still remember this answer to my prayer. It has helped me remember how great are the power and mercy of our Father in Heaven.

Standing as a witness of truth takes on new meaning when everything at your high school is connected to religion—a religion other than your own. Not only does it mean being an example of how Latter-day Saints believe and act, but it also means respecting the beliefs of others and rejoicing in the truths you share.
For Lara Wolford, 18, Cameron Cabe, 18, and his younger sister, Jenna Cabe, 16, standing up for the truth they know is part of daily life. They attend Lehman High School in Sidney, Ohio, where the curriculum is Catholic, as are most of the students and faculty. Lara, Cameron, and Jenna, who are members of the Sidney Ward, Dayton Ohio East Stake, join their fellow students for weekly mass (worship services) and daily religion classes where the Bible is the textbook.
While being “different” has its difficulties, at a school where religion is a major focus, these teens have learned that having all eyes on you is a great way to teach by example.
“A lot of my friends and some of my teachers have told me that they respect how I stand up for what I believe in,” says Lara. “They know how I live and that I won’t lower my standards.”
That attention can sometimes lead to interesting opportunities to share the gospel. “I have one friend in particular who asks a lot of questions about the Church, so I gave him a Book of Mormon and a Finding Faith in Christ video for Christmas,” says Lara. But it didn’t end there. “When my other friends found out about that, they all wanted one!” Lara happily provided copies of the Book of Mormon to anyone who asked.
“They kept them in their lockers or book bags, and would pull them out and read them if they had some free time. One friend pulled his out in religion class one day to answer a question about Mormons.”
Cameron and Jenna’s mother, Darla, witnessed the result of Lara’s missionary work. She says, “One day I walked in the front door of the school to pick up Cameron from an after-school activity. Three non-LDS students who were waiting in the lobby for their rides were sitting there reading the Book of Mormon! When I asked them about it, they said that they had some questions and had decided to read it for themselves.”
Cameron used another student’s question about his beliefs as an opportunity to gain a sure testimony for himself. In his freshman year someone asked how he could believe that Joseph Smith really saw what he claimed to have seen. Cameron studied the history of the Church and began reading the scriptures every night. He explains what happened a little while later when that student asked him the same question again:
“He said, ‘Don’t you think that’s silly that something like that happened so close to the present time?’ And I said, ‘No, I don’t think it’s silly. I think it’s great.’ Later on, he told me that he ended up having more respect for me and other LDS students because of that.”
Lara has also had frequent opportunities to bear her testimony as she explains her beliefs to friends. “I share my testimony a lot, because when I am answering questions about why we do this or why we believe this, my testimony just comes out. It’s the best way to answer!”
Besides bearing her testimony, Jenna likes to be prepared. “I always have a copy of the Book of Mormon, a For the Strength of Youth pamphlet, and a copy of the Articles of Faith in my backpack so that if anyone ever asks questions, I can show it to them.”
Lara, Cameron, and Jenna have had many opportunities to share what they know, but attending a Catholic high school has also given them the chance to learn more about the beliefs of others.
Since Lara also attended a Catholic elementary school, she and her classmates have had plenty of time to get to know one another’s beliefs. “Over the 11 years that I’ve gone to Catholic school, there has always been a mutual respect between me and my classmates. We enjoy our similarities and respect our differences. I think the greatest form of respect is showing a sincere love for each other.”
Cameron, Lara, and Jenna try to show respect for their classmates’ religion by praying when they do at mealtime and by joining them in prayer before classes. They have also participated in Catholic mass as part of the school’s choir and orchestra. Jenna says of the weekly mass held each Friday at the school, “We don’t say the [Catholic] prayers with them, but we respect them. We stand when they stand and are reverent.”
And their classmates have returned the favor. Lara says, “They have prayed for my family during their school masses. When my brother was on his mission, they prayed for him that he would have a successful mission.”
While some of their beliefs are different, Cameron, Lara, and Jenna have appreciated seeing the truth observed by other faithful people and in the process have learned more about their own religion.
Cameron says answering difficult questions about the Church has made him pay more attention in seminary so that he has answers ready. “It makes me ask a lot of questions so that I understand it. It’s a learning experience for me, also.”
Seeing his friend’s reactions when he tells them he’s a priest has also made him appreciate the priesthood he holds. “They think it’s interesting that someone my age can be a priest,” he says. “It’s more of a responsibility, but it’s good because it makes me want to be on my best behavior even more.”
For the LDS students at Lehman High School, sharing the gospel and respecting their friends of other religions go hand in hand. Lara says, “I have a strong respect for anyone who lives their religion, and it gives me an opportunity to see what my friends believe and an opportunity to share what I believe.”
While attending a parochial (private religious) high school is a unique experience, Lara believes that when it comes to standing for truth, what really matters is inside your heart, not your high school.
“It doesn’t matter whether you go to parochial or public school,” she says. “It is easy to be LDS in high school anywhere if you have your own testimony.”
Editor’s note: Cameron Cabe is now serving as a full-time missionary in the Utah Ogden Mission.

I think of two women, once the closest of friends. The one, through an accident of which she was innocent, became in effect a party to the death of a child of the other. It is difficult to say which of those women suffered the most over the death of that child. The one who was not the mother, but who was involved in the accident that led to the fatality, has grieved and wept these many years, not only for the child who was lost and for her part in the tragic situation, but perhaps even more over the unforgiving spirit of the mother who lost the child. It is understandable why the bereft mother, mourning over the loss of her baby, felt bitter. But long since there should have been a realization on her part that her friend was innocent, that she too has wept, and that there should have been an outpouring of love toward her rather than recrimination. An absence of charity has cankered the soul of that woman, destroyed her happiness, brought only misery to her days and sorrow to her nights.

Three weeks ago I stepped into Yesterday. In that moment I rediscovered Today. And it is about Today that I wish to speak.
A Church assignment had carried me across the vast reaches of the Pacific to the land of Vietnam. For me, this was more than a flight over an ocean. It was a step back in time. More than 40 years ago, I had served on the battlefields of that land as an infantry officer. Etched in my mind over those intervening decades were memories of that place, its people, and my comrades in arms with whom I had served. Jacob once wrote, “Our lives passed away like … unto us a dream” (Jacob 7:26). So it had been for me. And now I was returning from my hall of memories to that place of memory after a near half century. My Church business concluded, I determined to once again visit those fields of desperate struggle. Accompanied by my dear wife, I made the pilgrimage.
I am not quite sure what I expected to find after so many years. What I did find was most unexpected. Instead of a war-ravaged people, I found a youthful, vibrant population. Instead of a countryside pockmarked by shell fire, I found peaceful, verdant fields. Even the jungle growth was new. I guess that I had half expected to find Yesterday, but what I found was Today and the promise of a bright Tomorrow. I was reminded that “weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5).
My pilgrimage back in time completed, I looked around upon those peaceful fields of Today and saw in their fertility the promise of Tomorrow. I thought of my friend Sergeant Arthur Cyrus Morris. I thought of that fateful Palm Sunday of Yesterday. And I was profoundly grateful for the Redeemer of Easter morning, who grants us life, whose descent below all things makes possible our rising above all things—Tomorrow, if we but seize Today. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Alisa helped her younger sister, Mikki, comb her long black hair. Then they hurried downstairs and ate breakfast. Tomorrow was Father’s Day, and the two girls were going shopping today for the ingredients to make a cake for their father. It was not going to be an ordinary cake—it would be filled with surprises!
As soon as they came home from the store, they took their aprons from the closet and helped each other tie them. Next they got all the ingredients out for the surprise cake and put them on the table. While Mikki greased and floured the cake pans, Alisa turned on the oven. Then, carefully measuring and stirring, the girls soon had the batter ready. Alisa spooned it into the cake pans while Mikki watched to see that both pans had the same amount.
At last the pans were in the oven, and the best part of making the cake batter had arrived. Alisa and Mikki each got a spoon and sat at the table and scraped the bowl.
Soon the cake layers were cooling on racks and the dishes were done. The girls ran up to their room to make the “surprise” part of the cake.
First they cut a piece of paper into several narrow strips. Then on each strip they wrote one thing that was special about their dad. Next they folded the strips and went back downstairs and wrapped each one in aluminum foil. With a knife Alisa carefully made little slits in the cake, and Mikki poked a wrapped strip into each slit.
Mother frosted the cake for them. She made pretty swirls around the edges and wrote “Happy Father’s Day” in the middle.
The next day after church they had a Father’s Day party. They sang Father’s favorite songs and played some games. When Mother cut the cake, she gave everyone a big piece. Father, of course, got the biggest one.
"What’s shining in my piece of cake?" he asked.
Alisa and Mikki looked at each other and grinned.
"That’s our surprise for you!" Alisa said.
"Yes," Mikki told him. "You’re supposed to unwrap the foil and read the note out loud. Then we’ll take turns reading ours."
Each person found and excitedly unwrapped the foil-covered surprises that had been hidden in the cake. Father’s face beamed as he read the first strip. It said, "We love you because you read stories to us."
Mikki opened the next one and read, "We love you because you take care of us."
Mother’s strip said, "We love you because you do things with us."
Alisa had two surprise strips in her piece of cake. "We love you because you laugh a lot" was on the first one.
Alisa, Mikki, and Mother read the last one together: "We love you because you love us."
"I really do," Father said. "Thank you for a wonderful Father’s Day."
(If you would like to make a surprise cake for someone, just follow the directions for "Chocolate Surprise Cake" in Kitchen Krafts.)

This is the story of Patrick and Elizabeth Appianti:
Sister Appianti: “One Saturday afternoon, I met missionaries teaching my mum as I visited her. They invited me to join the lesson, but I declined. I met them many times as I kept visiting my mum, but I always turned down the invitation to join the discussion. One Sunday as I was going to the usual church I had been attending, I got a prompting when the vehicle got to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I alighted and entered the premises. The warmth of the members and the missionaries as they welcomed me informed my decision to start meeting with the missionaries. They introduced the Book of Mormon and taught of the Restoration. After studying the testimonies of the Three and the Eight Witnesses, I was touched as it reminded me of the Lord’s mercies, and I made a decision to be baptized.”

Jeremy didn’t like walking to school by himself. He looked down the sidewalk to see if Russell was outside. Russell was in the driveway, tinkering with his bike, so Jeremy quickly crossed the street.
Russell saw Jeremy and rode across the street on his bike. “Hey, Squirt, what’s the password?”
“Leave me alone, Russell,” said Jeremy, walking on.
Russell rode right behind him, the wheel of his bike nipping at Jeremy’s heels. When Jeremy stumbled and dropped his books, Russell rode away, laughing.
I’d like to punch him good, thought Jeremy as he picked up his books.
That afternoon when Jeremy got home from school, he saw new people moving into the house across the street. Jeremy sat on his front steps and watched. Maybe they have a big boy I can walk to school with, he thought.
But all that they had was a scrawny little girl. Her name was Olivia. Jeremy’s mother made him walk to school with her.
Olivia jumped over cracks in the sidewalk. “My Grandma Fenton says that it’s bad luck to step on cracks,” said Olivia. Then, “Did you know that a queen termite can lay a thousand eggs a day?”
“No,” said Jeremy. Why couldn’t she have been a boy? he wondered.
“I like to use my brain. See, I have big feet. That means that I’m smart. Grandma Fenton says so.”
When they reached Russell’s house, he was tinkering with his bike, as usual. He jumped onto it and rode it in front of them. “Hey, who’s the new kid?”
“Olivia Fenton,” said Olivia. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Ho, ho, O Liver!” Russell mocked, blocking the sidewalk.
“Hey! You can’t do that!” yelled Olivia.
“Says who?”
“Says me, Olivia Fenton. I’m a citizen. I have rights!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
It took quite a while to get around Russell. Olivia was still screaming about her rights. Russell was laughing and calling her “O Liver.” Finally Olivia and Jeremy got away.
“Is he always like that?” Olivia asked.
“Every single day.”
“He’s a bully. I don’t like bullies,” said Olivia.
The next morning Olivia was wearing a knitted cap with a red pom-pom on top. “Grandma Fenton made this cap for me,” said Olivia.
“It looks like trouble to me,” said Jeremy.
Russell was polishing his bike. When he saw Olivia’s cap, he started laughing and pointing. He snatched the cap off her head and put it on.
“Give me that!” screamed Olivia.
She grabbed the cap.
They both pulled. Suddenly Olivia was holding the cap, and Russell was holding the pom-pom. He tied the pom-pom to his handlebars and rode away.
“You can’t do that! Come back!” Olivia screeched.
But Russell just rode away, laughing.
“That does it!” sputtered Olivia. “I’m going to figure out a way to make Russell stop bothering us.”
“The only way to stop Russell is to beat him up. A pip-squeak like you doesn’t have a chance.”
“There has to be another way. Grandma Fenton always says that there’s more than one way to catch a skunk in a pumpkin patch.”
At recess that morning Jeremy saw Olivia hanging upside down from the bars. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m letting the blood run to my head.” She hopped down. “I’ve thought of a plan. Tomorrow we are going to ride our bikes to school.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see,” Olivia replied.
“I don’t understand,” said Jeremy, “but I hope it works.”
The next morning Jeremy rode his bike across the street to meet Olivia. Olivia was walking her bike.
“Aren’t you going to ride?”
“No,” said Olivia. “My bike’s broken.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“You’ll see,” said Olivia.
Jeremy rode slowly so that Olivia could keep up with him.
Russell was waiting for them. “Hey, O Liver, why aren’t you riding your bike?” he yelled.
“It’s broken,” said Olivia.
“Let me look at it,” said Russell.
“Well …”
“Come on. I can fix it!” Russell said eagerly.
“OK, but be careful. Don’t make it worse.” Olivia handed over her bike.
Russell took it into his garage and got out his tools. He wiggled and adjusted and tightened. He looked very happy. “There. It’s fixed!”
Olivia got on her bike and rode down the driveway. “It is fixed—and you did it, Russell!”
Russell grinned. “I’d better ride along with you just to make sure it’s all right,” he said.
When they got to school, Olivia told everyone how Russell had fixed her bicycle. After that, Russell became the official bike repairman of Cherry Street. He was always busy working on someone’s bike. And every morning he rode to school with Jeremy and Olivia.
“How did you know that he could fix it?” Jeremy asked Olivia later.
“I just loosened a few nuts,” said Olivia. “Since he was always working on his bike, I figured that he would be able to fix it.”
“Pretty clever,” said Jeremy.
Olivia grinned. “Grandma Fenton says that you can catch more files with honey than with vinegar.”

Brother John William Orth, 78, shines the light of the gospel despite his struggles with Parkinson’s disease. John has been a faithful member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints all his life, serving in various callings, including as a bishop. Almost five years ago, after a long struggle with the illness, it became necessary for John to take up residence at Lutheran Homes in Glynde, South Australia, an aged care facility run by the Lutheran church.
Despite his health issues, John remains positive and is actively involved in his Lutheran Homes community, which provides church services and classes overseen by a full-time pastor. Soon after moving into the facility, John learned that the pastor would be away for a while and suggested that in his absence, the classes could be led by other residents — John was happy to lead one himself, if needed. The pastor took him up on his offer and John has since taught dozens of classes, which include a weekly broadcast (as his health permits) over an internal TV channel aired to hundreds of residents in the facility and its surrounding village.
Even as he grapples with physical limitations, John spends numerous hours a week preparing his lessons, sensitively referencing videos and other learning material from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Initially, the pastor reviewed each lesson before it was presented, but he now has no concerns about John’s teachings. In fact, John’s messages have seen several copies of the Book of Mormon placed with residents, many of whom have asked him to cover specific topics. He speaks fondly of one such request, which resulted in a 5-week course of instruction on grace.

“Can’t we go any faster?” I asked anxiously as we rode along the graveled highway in our newly purchased secondhand pickup.
Mama smiled. “Why the big hurry?” she teased as if she didn’t know.
“I can hardly wait to buy the shoes,” I answered. I was so excited, for it had been nearly a year since I was 11 1/4 and had been taken to the store to buy new shoes. I had thought lately that they would never wear out, and I knew they wouldn’t be replaced until they did. But at last Mama had spoken the long-awaited words.
“I think it’s time to buy you another pair of shoes,” she said. “There is certainly no more wear in those.”
The town with the big country store was four long miles away, and it seemed like forever before we finally arrived.
As soon as we were parked, I jumped out of the pickup and ran into the building. I hurried past the canned goods, down through the hardwares, and wasn’t quite to the shoe department when suddenly I saw them. There on a middle shelf that was tilted up a little was a pair of bright red shoes sitting on a silver stand. I stopped short and caught my breath in awe at the beauty of their color and the daintiness of their sandal-type straps. Printed on a cardboard in the background were the words, “Newest 1940 Fashion in Footwear.” For a long time I stood and looked.
Mama came up behind me, and I led her directly to the shelf.
“May I have these?” I asked hopefully. Mama studied the shoes for a long moment.
“They aren’t very practical,” she said finally, “and you know they will have to last a long time. I think we should buy something more sturdy.”
“I’ll be ever so careful with them,” I coaxed. “Please.”
The clerk came up and measured my foot.
“The red shoes are a half size too small,” she said, “and it is the only pair we have left. However,” she added when she saw the disappointed look on my face, “sometimes sandal-type slippers run a little larger than the average shoe. Would you like to try them on and see?”
Mama reasoned with me, telling me my feet needed room to grow even if the shoes did fit now.
“But maybe there is a little extra room,” I said. “May I at least try them on and see?” I put my whole being into the pleading expression of my eyes.
“Well,” Mama puckered her forehead into a sort of deep-thought furrow for a moment before she answered, “all right.” I had the feeling that she sensed how important this was to me.
The shoes, with a built-in toe and heel, felt tight, but nevertheless I succeeded without too much effort in getting them both on, and I stood and looked down in admiration.
“May I have them?” I asked, feeling, without doubt, that I could stretch the tiny straps in a short period of time to fit comfortably.
The shoes didn’t look too small, but Mama seemed certain that there wasn’t enough room for my feet to grow.
“They will be getting more of this style in next summer,” she said. “Perhaps it would be better to wait and buy a pair then.”
My hopes declined. I was sure there would never be another pair of shoes as beautiful as these, but I said nothing. Mama focused her forehead into another deep-thought wrinkle as she walked over and picked up a pair of brown oxfords in the size I needed.
“Why don’t you try these on,” she said, “then you can make the decision yourself.”
I was elated. Even though I had made decisions before, I had never made one as important as this. I felt that Mama considered me sort of an adult, and I knew that she understood about 12-year-olds and growing up.
As I slipped one of the brown shoes on and tied the lace, it felt good in comparison to the red one on my other foot. I pondered silently as I tried to decide fairly, considering the good and bad points of each pair of shoes. The oxfords would last longer, and they were more comfortable, but they were so brown and plain, sort of ordinary looking really, and besides, they were the kind I had always worn. The red shoes were beautiful, and I wanted something different. If I was careful, they could last a long time. Admittedly, they did squeeze, but I could suffer for a day or two if need be, for I was very sure that I could stretch them in that length of time. Yes, I would take the red ones.
Mama didn’t say anything as she paid the clerk. After all, she had told me the decision was mine.
I strutted toward the door and was so preoccupied with how much older the shoes made me look that I knocked over a small display of cooking utensils and bumped into the candy counter on my way out. I was so happy over my purchase that I didn’t ask Mama what she had in the other package she was carrying when she got in the pickup.
The next two days I wore the pretty shoes in misery. Then a blister appeared on each of my big toes, and the misery turned to agony. Furthermore, I was becoming discouraged, for the tiny straps weren’t stretching at all as I had felt so sure they would.
If Mama saw me wrap small white strips of cloth around my toes to protect the blisters, she made no mention of it. I went outdoors as often as I could and slipped the shoes off. The cool air felt good on my hot feet, and each time I stayed out as long as I dared.
Slowly, out of desperation and pain, I became more brave, and the shoes lay forgotten on the floor of my closet as I went barefoot both inside the house and out. Mama, I am very sure, was aware of my bare feet, but as she didn’t question me, I hoped she supposed that I was trying to be careful of the shoes and make them last as long as the brown ones would have.
With Sunday came the sudden realization that I couldn’t possibly go barefoot to church. I put off the dreaded task of wearing the shoes until the last minute, and it wasn’t until everyone was ready to go that I carefully started the insertion of my foot into one of the slippers. As it entered the enclosure at the end of the shoe, my big toe rebelled hotly, and I pulled it quickly out. Several times I tried to put on the shoe, but each time my foot resented the tight squeeze and throbbed the resentment painfully.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. With tears close to my eyes and the red shoes held firmly in my hands, I went to Mama. My lip quivered, but I was determined not to cry. After all, I was 13 years old, in ten months, that is. I stood for a minute trying to gain my composure and to think of something sort of, well, mature to say.
“They pinch and they hurt,” I blurted out honestly.
Her answer came as such a surprise that all I could do was stand with my mouth open saying nothing.
“We do not always make the right decisions,” Mama said as she went to a drawer and took out a package containing the brown shoes. As she handed them to me she added softly, “And sometimes it takes a pinch of hurt to help us be more wise the next time we have something important to decide.”

On August 15, 2007, Peru suffered a massive earthquake that all but destroyed the coastal cities of Pisco and Chincha. Like many other Church leaders and members, Wenceslao Conde, the president of the Balconcito Branch of the Church in Chincha, immediately set about helping others whose homes were damaged.
Four days after the earthquake, Elder Marcus B. Nash of the Seventy was in Chincha helping to coordinate the Church’s relief efforts there and met President Conde. As they talked about the destruction that had occurred and what was being done to help the victims, President Conde’s wife, Pamela, approached carrying one of her small children. Elder Nash asked Sister Conde how her children were. With a smile, she replied that through the goodness of God they were all safe and well. He asked about the Condes’ home.
“It’s gone,” she said simply.
“What about your belongings?” he inquired.
“Everything was buried in the rubble of our home,” Sister Conde replied.
“And yet,” Elder Nash noted, “you are smiling as we talk.”
“Yes,” she said, “I have prayed and I am at peace. We have all we need. We have each other, we have our children, we are sealed in the temple, we have this marvelous Church, and we have the Lord. We can build again with the Lord’s help.”

When I was 15, my father and I took a walk one Sunday evening. Suddenly, my father stopped and suggested that we go to the Mormon Church. I was surprised, but out of curiosity I went with him. The choir was singing a beautiful hymn. I had never heard anything so touching.
After the song, a missionary stood up and gave a talk about the Godhead. He later talked to my father and me for a few minutes.
I didn’t go back to church until one year later when I went to learn English from the missionaries. When each English class ended, we drifted into religious discussions. The missionaries taught me about the gospel and how to pray to God the Father in the name of Jesus Christ. They told me about the Restoration of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith, the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, and many other gospel principles.
All this was so new to me, yet it had a familiar sound. I studied the scriptures intently and prayed sincerely for enlightenment, which was given to me.
My father noticed a change in me. But when he realized that I was getting serious about the Church, he became angry and forbade me to go to church. I went anyway. Frequently he sent my brother to bring me home in the middle of Church meetings.
When I turned 17, my father asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted his approval to be baptized. He pounded his fist on the table and shouted, “Never!”
By this time my parents had joined a different church. My father sent the church’s minister and others to talk to me, but I was firm in my testimony of the gospel. Father told me I was a disgrace to the family, and I was forced to leave home. I stayed at the home of a Relief Society sister for about a week. During that time my father’s heart was softened, and he allowed me to come home.
Within several months my father realized that nothing could take away the testimony I had of the gospel, so he gave his consent for me to be baptized. My joy and happiness were so great that they made a deep impression on my father. He even wanted to go with me to Oslo to attend my baptism.
All through this time, my mother didn’t say very much, but I could tell that she believed the gospel was true. We spent many hours talking about the gospel together.
However, the struggle was not over at home. My father wouldn’t listen to me. I put pamphlets on his nightstand, as he always read long into the night. I invited the missionaries to our home often, and they talked to my father, but nothing seemed to help.
One day my father asked me, “Do you ever pray?” I told him that I prayed every day that his eyes would be opened to the truthfulness of the gospel. He responded that it was all from the devil but then said, “Let’s pray together.”
I said, “All right, you pray to your God, and I will pray to my God, and we will see which answers first.” So we did.
Soon after that I started noticing that he was reading the pamphlets and the Book of Mormon. He went to church several times with me but would never talk about it or show me any change in his beliefs. Still, there was rarely a day when we didn’t discuss different principles of the gospel.
One day, after three years of this, he told me he was going to Oslo and wanted me to go with him. When we arrived at the station, one of the local elders was there. I asked him where he was going.
The elder said, “Don’t you know? I’m going to baptize your father.”
I cried and laughed! One month later my mother and youngest brother were also baptized. My sister and her husband joined the Church a short time later, as did three of my brothers.
Sara Elvira Eriksen’s faithful posterity in the Church now numbers in the hundreds. This account from her personal history was submitted by her children, Rose Anderson, Betty Farley, Aksel Tanner, and Janet Bylund.

Another friend of mine, whom I will call Frank, reached out to me in my role with the Alzheimer’s Association a few years ago while he was serving as a bishop. He was concerned about several members of his ward who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and suspected that others had some form of undiagnosed dementia. Frank was anxious to meet the needs of these ward members and support other members serving as caregivers. Unaware of any resources, he turned to me out of desperation with a plea for help.
We arranged for a presentation to his ward’s empty-nester home evening group. Normally about 25 people attended this monthly activity. After it was announced that the presentation would be about Alzheimer’s disease, more than 100 people attended. Many were concerned about getting Alzheimer’s disease but weren’t sure what it is or how they might be able to reduce their risk.
During this meeting, I shared a wide variety of tools available through the Alzheimer’s Association and from other community sources.
As I shared these resources with Frank’s ward council, other members, and caregivers, he observed increased support for and engagement with those members affected by Alzheimer’s and other dementias in his ward and stronger support for caregivers. Increased knowledge can make all the difference!

Kathy and I first met Beatrice Magré in France 30 years ago. Beatrice recently told me of an experience that impacted her spiritual life shortly after her baptism as a teenager. Here are her words:
“The youth of our branch had traveled with their leaders to Lacanau Beach, an hour and a half from Bordeaux.
“Before returning home, one of the leaders decided to take a last swim and dove into the waves with his glasses. When he resurfaced, his glasses had disappeared. … They were lost in the ocean.
“The loss of his glasses would prevent him from driving his car. We would be stranded far from home.
“A sister filled with faith suggested that we pray.
“I murmured that praying would avail us absolutely nothing, and I uneasily joined the group to pray publicly as we stood waist-deep in the murky water.
“Once the prayer was over, I stretched my arms to splash everyone. As I was sweeping the ocean’s surface, his pair of glasses rested in my hand. A powerful feeling pierced my soul that God does actually hear and answer our prayers.”
Forty-five years later, she recalled it as if it had happened yesterday. Beatrice had been blessed, and she knew that God knew that she knew that she had been blessed.

Recently, the young men and women of the Yap District (Micronesia Guam Mission) got together for a “One-Day Mission,” under the direction of the mission and district presidents.
They started the day by reciting by memory 1 Nephi 3:7 [1 Ne. 3:7] (“I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded …”). Then they sang “Called to Serve,” were divided into companionships, and received training. Two by two, they went out to preach the gospel, carrying copies of the Book of Mormon with them.
They found some opposition—it rained throughout the day, and some people they met were unpleasant or threatening. But nothing stopped them.
As a result, 49 copies of the Book of Mormon were distributed on this tiny island. And the youth brought back many referrals for the full-time missionaries. Already some convert baptisms have resulted from these referrals.
The day ended with a testimony meeting.

“Can we visit Heavenly Father?” Tara asked Dad as she got ready for bed.
“Probably not for a long time,” Dad answered.
“Last summer we flew on an airplane to visit Grandma Hill. We could fly on an airplane,” Tara said.
“We can’t get there on an airplane,” Dad said.
“At Christmas, we went by train to see Grandpa and Grandma Flowers. Maybe we could go by train,” Tara said hopefully.
“I’m afraid a train can’t take us there, either,” Dad said.
“Sometimes we drive in our car to visit friends,” Tara told father. “Let’s go by car. Or, I know, we can go by boat.” Tara was remembering the boat ride they had taken across the river.
“I’m sorry,” Dad said. “Not even a car or a boat can take us to Heavenly Father.”
Tara felt sad. She wanted to visit Heavenly Father. Daddy pulled her onto his lap and kissed her forehead. “We can’t visit Heavenly Father, but you can talk to him,” Dad said.
“You mean I can call him on the telephone or send him a letter?”
“No, but there’s something else you can do. Think about it.”
As she got ready for bed, Tara wondered how she could talk to Heavenly Father. She still couldn’t figure out what Dad had meant.
When Dad came into her room to listen to her say her prayers, she knelt, then jumped up and hugged Dad. “I know—I can talk to Heavenly Father by saying my prayers!”
“That’s right,” Dad said, hugging her. “And he will always listen.”