Gospel Story Finder

Matte had been baptized in the fjord just two months before. She planned to share that day’s special memories with her cousin while they were swimming there. She wanted to introduce Jenny to this most important part of her life—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Matte and Mormor had started talking to the missionaries after Christmas. The missionaries had taught them about Jesus Christ and the Prophet Joseph Smith. They learned that Joseph Smith was a prophet to people all over the world and that he’d translated a very important book, the Book of Mormon.
The book fascinated Matte. In school they sometimes studied about the American Indians, and she loved learning about these people who were so proud of their race and heritage. So when she’d heard that the Book of Mormon was about them, she was eager to read it.
She and Mormor had read it aloud to each other during the long winter evenings. When they finished the last sweet words of Moroni, they prayed about what they read. A calm assurance that it was true helped them decide to be baptized.

Min-Yo and the Moon Dragon In this modern Chinese fairy tale about a time almost before time, the moon is about to crash into the earth. The moon dragon might help, but the gossamer ladder to it will only support the lightest person. Min-Yo is that person. She gets to the moon and finds the dragon, which agrees to help—but how? The solution to the problem creates serendipity (a happy, unexpected side effect).Elizabeth Hillman6–9 years

I was sitting in my seminary class only half-listening to my teacher discuss the trials that Joseph Smith and the early Saints endured.
We were studying Church history, and although I had an excellent teacher, I was not interested in being there that day. I was feeling sorry for myself. I had taken my seat without so much as offering a smile to Brother Anderson, who always had a cheerful word for everyone. He didn’t say much, but I could tell he knew something was wrong.
Well, why shouldn’t there be something wrong? I had every right to feel this way, I thought. I was tired of everything in my life. I was tired of school, tired of my teachers, and tired of living in a small town with nothing exciting to do.
In the midst of my depression, something I heard in class seemed to reach out to me. Brother Anderson was telling about a time Joseph Smith and some of his friends were locked up once again for crimes they hadn’t committed. In desperation, Joseph pleaded with the Lord for deliverance, asking him why they were being allowed to suffer when they had been so faithful. Then Brother Anderson read to us Doctrine and Covenants 122:7–8 [D&C 122:7–8], the Lord’s answer to the Prophet Joseph Smith:
“And if thou shouldst be cast into the pit, or into the hands of murderers, and the sentence of death passed upon thee; if thou be cast into the deep; if the billowing surge conspire against thee; if fierce winds become thing enemy; if the heavens gather blackness, and all the elements combine to hedge up the way; and above all, if the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.
“The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?”
He emphasized every word in the last sentence, and the room was completely silent as we pondered those words. I felt like I had been hit over the head with a hammer.
“Wow,” I muttered.
Brother Anderson looked at me and smiled. “Yes, wow,” he said. Who was I to complain? What right did I have to tell the Lord that my life wasn’t fair? How could I have been so ungrateful?
I have never forgotten that day or the way I felt. That scripture seems to be constantly in the back of my mind, and as soon as I want to ask, “Why me, Lord?” I hear Brother Anderson’s deep, smooth voice saying quietly and slowly, “The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?”
I will always be grateful to the Lord for this experience. How my attitude has changed. My outlook on life was turned around, and I can keep my trials in perspective now. Nephi said, “For I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Ne. 3:7). I, too, know this to be true. I probably have not yet experienced even half of my life’s trials, but I will forever remember that day in seminary when I was so effectively humbled and brought to a full realization of the sacrifice suffered by our Savior, Jesus Christ, so that we might have eternal life.

Writing and directing the New Westminster Ward roadshow was his last big venture. The Vancouver British Columbia Stake produced the combined roadshows from all the wards. When the judges came back with their verdict, Stephen’s roadshow had won “Best All-Round Entertainment.”
As the applause died down, the stake MC approached the microphone. “Stephen Farrance, writer and assistant director of the winning roadshow, died this morning. We’ve kept this sad news until now we didn’t want to influence the judges. We’d like to congratulate the cast and crew for going on tonight, with special mention to Stephen’s family, who did such a fine job. We dedicate the roadshows to Stephen.”
“How could his family be here tonight?” someone asked, and the reply was, “After living with Stephen, what else could they do?”

During his early youth, however, ill health and ill fortune seemed to pursue the family. The good father tried farming in several localities but couldn’t quite succeed in any of them. When young Joseph was seven years old, he and his brothers and sisters were stricken with typhus fever. The others recovered readily, but Joseph was left with a painful sore on his leg, a sore which would not heal. The doctors, doing the best they could under the conditions of the time, treated him—and yet the sore persisted. Finally the doctors were afraid they were going to have to amputate his leg.
We can imagine the grief and the sorrow that would come to parents who were told that the leg of their young son must be removed. Thankfully, however, one day the doctors came unexpectedly to the home, and they told the family that they were going to try a new operation to remove a piece of the bone, hoping that this would permit the sore to heal. They had brought with them some cord and planned to tie Joseph to the bed because they had no anesthetic, nothing to dull the pain, when they cut into his leg to remove the piece of bone.
Young Joseph, however, responded, “I will not be bound, for I can bear the operation much better if I have my liberty.”
The doctors then said, “Will you take some wine? … You must take something, or you can never endure the severe operation.”
Again the boy prophet said, “No, … but I will tell you what I will do—I will have my father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms, and then I will do whatever is necessary in order to have the bone taken out.”
So Joseph Smith, Sr., held the boy in his arms, and the doctors opened the leg and removed the diseased piece of bone. Although he was lame for some time afterward, Joseph was healed.4 At seven years of age, the Prophet Joseph Smith taught us courage—by example.

Such ward activities not only built positive relationships among members of the Church but also built positive relationships with everyone in the community.

“I remember one woman, not a member of the Church, who was new to the area,” David says. “She had been reduced to burning wood paneling from her home to keep warm. Once we learned about her plight, we made sure she had enough firewood to get through the winter. She was so thankful she could barely speak.”

Ministering efforts in Fredonia ensured that everyone stayed safe and warm through the winter.

Soon the travelers were aboard a train going to Nebraska, where the railroad ended. Then their belongings were loaded onto ox-drawn wagons for the long trek across the plains to Utah.
The route lay along the Platte River that had to be forded several times. On one such occasion, someone took Albertina from her tired mother and set her on one of the loaded wagons being drawn through the water by oxen. All went well until the animals tried clambering up the slipper bank and the load shifted, throwing the little girl into the river.
“Mother! Mother!” Albertina cried as she struggled to keep her head above water.
Anna plunged into the cold water and was immediately caught in the strong current. She managed to catch hold of Albertina, but she was unable to swim as her heavy, sodden skirt wrapped around her, pinning her arms and legs. She struggled vainly to reach the shore as the current dragged them into deeper water.
The captain saw Anna’s plight but stood by helplessly. Suddenly, as though in answer to Anna’s silent prayer, her feet brushed against a submerged sandbar. Still clutching Albertina, Anna’s floundering subsided, and she gained a temporary footing on the sand just below the surface of the swirling water. A moment later a rope was thrown to them and, after a short struggle in the cold water, friendly hands reached out and helped the two to safety.
That evening as they sat by the campfire drying their wet clothes, Albertina looked up at her mother and said, “Mama, I was afraid when I fell in. Weren’t you afraid too?”
“Yes,” replied Anna. “But when those you love are in danger, you don’t let fear keep you from trying with all your might to save them. And remember, Albertina, our Savior is always near to hear our prayers for help.”

I was driving a herd of sheep across the desert near the Nevada-Utah border. Several ranchers had put their herds together for the drive. It was summer, and there is a stretch of trail we were taking of nearly a hundred miles where there was no water. My father had not been able to make the trip with us, but he had given instructions on where to find a spring about halfway across. “It’s ten miles out of your way, but if you spend a day there you can make the crossing no problem. Don’t let them talk you into trying to push straight through.”
It was hot, and the sheep were already hanging their tongues when we reached the place that my father had told us was the turnoff point to the spring.
Tom Larson, a tall thin man, pulled his horse up next to me.
“We’d better push on through,” he said. “Your father’s a good man, but I never heard of a spring, and if there is it’s gotta’ be dry as a horned toad’s back.”
He looked out toward gray, lifeless hills to emphasize his point.
“You’ll be losin’ your entire herd. If you push through, maybe a lamb or two.”
But there was no choice. Back up a canyon a few miles from where we were, my father said there would be water, and I believed him.
“You’ll be lucky if you get yourselves out alive,” Tom yelled as we turned my herd out from the rest.
I thought about my father up there in Montana, 700 miles from home, sending his last few dollars to Bishop Anderson. There really was no choice then either. I thought about it as we moved silently up the terribly dry wash of canyon with only the sound of sheep’s hooves on the stones and the cicada hum. Bedbugs with green paint on their back—the people in that hotel, instead of keeping the place up, had tried to just paint over things. It looked good on the outside, but when you got inside it wasn’t. My father knew who he was and what he believed in, and he wasn’t about to become anything less. From him I learned to decipher the light from the shadows. The summer we’d spent in Montana had been a hard summer, but it had also been a good one.
The sheep were too thirsty to make much noise, and the herders with me weren’t talking. I knew they thought I was crazy. They didn’t know my father like I did.
We found the spring late in the afternoon about two miles up the canyon. It came from under a great granite ledge, cold and pure, and flowed down for a hundred feet and then disappeared into the gravel of the dry wash. My father had called it the spring in the shadows.

A family home evening doesn’t need to be at home to be memorable. Lyubov Salimova of the Donetsk Ukraine District shares a special family home evening she experienced while vacationing at the seashore. Her sister, who lived nearby, had invited her to family home evening at 8:00 p.m. “Much to my surprise, however, long before the appointed hour, my sister met me at the seashore. ‘It won’t work out at home,’ she explained. She tried to smile, but the smile came out wry and forced. I felt that she was doing her best not to start crying. She was having problems at home. Her suggestion to have family home evening right there on the seashore was surprising in its absurdity. All around, people were walking, sitting, sunbathing, and laughing. Nevertheless, I agreed.
“We placed our towels across from each other and lay down on them. We bowed our heads and prayed. My sister had the July 2002 Liahona, in which general conference talks were published. She began reading a talk by President Gordon B. Hinckley. It seemed that each of his words explained to us how to conduct ourselves in relation to other family members. As we read the words of our living prophet, I saw that my sister had grown calm, having found support in the Holy Ghost, which was liberally poured out on us. We felt like beloved daughters of God, able to go farther in order to fight for good. Our souls were at peace.”

After the Dortmund conference, while most of the group returned to the United States, President Kimball, President Tanner, and their wives, and a few others traveled to Bern, Switzerland. Here the two members of the First Presidency were busy for an additional day and a half in the Swiss Temple. They had been traveling now for 14 days while participating in the five area conferences. They had been going unceasingly when we boarded a bus at Bern to go to Zurich where we were to catch our flight to New York and then on to Salt Lake. I saw President Kimball’s exceptional enthusiasm in action again.
There had been 14 days of going, going, going, and in the 30 hours ahead, there would be no opportunity for the prophet to go to bed or really relax. On the bus, most of us leaned back in our seats and began to nap. I was seated behind President Kimball and expected that he would use the next hour for some well-deserved rest. We had not quite reached the autobahn when President Kimball stood up and made his way up the aisle to a jump seat next to the bus driver. As I sat in my seat feeling almost exhausted, our prophet, who had reason to be more tired than anyone else, couldn’t rest because there was a person on that bus who hadn’t been taught the gospel of Jesus Christ.
As I watched what happened, I had a feeling of guilt—I had been content to sit back and relax, but the prophet, realizing the transcending importance of missionary work, didn’t let weariness dampen his burning desire to share the gospel with others.
I wondered how he was going to talk with the bus driver who seemed to speak little English. President Kimball doesn’t speak German. Initially, there was some difficulty as they tried to speak to one another. After only a few minutes, however, the two of them were obviously quite able to understand each other. Now my worry was transferred from how they would communicate with each other to whether the bus driver, while glancing frequently at President Kimball, would be able to keep the bus on the road. It was clear that he understood and was interested in President Kimball’s sincere message. Their conversation continued until we reached the outskirts of Zurich when President Kimball returned to his seat.
When the bus pulled up at the Zurich airport, President Gary E. O’Brian, president of the Zurich Switzerland Mission, was waiting on the curb. President Kimball went to the door of the bus as it opened. He asked President O’Brian to step on the bus, and while shaking hands with him, said, “President O’Brian, this is Mr. _____. Will you promise me you will teach him the gospel?” President O’Brian said, “Yes, President.” And then President Kimball said, “Mr. _____, this is one of our mission presidents. Will you let him teach you the gospel of Jesus Christ?” The bus driver nodded his head and said he would.
This experience really taught me the importance of sharing the gospel. Our prophet is in close communication with our Heavenly Father and sees beyond the veil much more clearly than I do. He puts this degree of urgency on missionary work. Even when he has every reason to be tired, when sitting back and resting would seem to be a valid excuse for passing up a missionary opportunity, President Kimball continues to be a vigorous missionary. How can you or I do less than share the gospel with our families, our neighbors, our friends, and everyone else we meet?

One of the great influences in my life was to work closely for many years with Belle S. Spafford, general president of the Relief Society, surely one of the greatest women of this dispensation.

One day she told me that as a young woman she explained to her bishop that she was willing to serve but preferred a call to teach. The following week she was called as a counselor to the ward Relief Society president. “I did not relish the call,” she said. “The bishop had misunderstood.” She told him bluntly Relief Society was for old women. Except for the counsel of her husband, she would have refused the call.

Several times she asked to be released. Each time the bishop said he would pray about it.

One night she was seriously injured in an automobile accident. After some time in the hospital, she was recovering at home. A terrible laceration on her face became infected. The worried doctor told her, “We can’t touch this surgically; it’s too close to the main nerve in your face.”

That Sunday night, as the doctor left the Spafford home, the bishop, returning from a late meeting, saw the lights on and stopped in.

Sister Spafford later told me, “In that pathetic condition I tearfully said, ‘Bishop, now will you release me?’”

Again he said, “I will pray about it.”

When the answer came, it was, “Sister Spafford, I still can’t get the feeling that you should be released from Relief Society.”

Belle S. Spafford served for 46 years in the Relief Society, nearly 30 as general president. She was an influence for good in the Church and was respected by women leaders worldwide.

At a meeting of the World Council of Women in Suriname, citing age and failing health, she submitted a letter of resignation as an officer. She showed me their letter of refusal—they needed her wisdom, her strength of character.

She often spoke of being tested in her calling. Perhaps the greatest test came when, as a young woman, she learned to respect the power and authority inherent in the priesthood and that an ordinary man serving as bishop can receive direction from the Lord in calling members to serve.

I learned patience as I sat beside the elderly and infirm, listening to them talk of their challenges. With tears streaming down her face, one dear sister in her 80s told me how she no longer felt like knitting or crocheting. Every part of her body hurt, and the days and nights were long and sad.
A year later I sat by her hospital bed, holding her withered hand and stroking her thin arm. As she labored for every breath, I pleaded with Heavenly Father to release her from her terrible suffering if that was his will. Many sisters in the ward had helped her feel loved as cancer ravaged her body; we all longed for her to be at peace.
Forty-eight hours later, she breathed her last breath, and we all wept together. We could envision her joy as she entered into a new life of freedom from earthly cares.
As I sat with her that last night, I knew that even in her terrible physical condition, there was still purpose in her life—not only for her personally but also for us. How could we learn to give of our time and love if there were no needy souls?

When Roger awoke he remembered it was a special day. He had circled March 20 on the big calendar in the kitchen and today was that day. Daddy had told him the small blue letters beside the number read, “First day of spring.”
Roger loved spring. He liked the warm sun on his cheeks. He liked the easy wind that didn’t blow up his sleeves and send shivers down his back. And he liked the soft, cool air that didn’t sting the inside of his nose.
Roger put on his slippers, raced down the stairs, and flung open the back door. Then he stopped suddenly; the air was frosty and cold. Snow covered the ground, and an icy wind whistled around the corner of the house and blew his pajamas against his legs. Roger shut the door.
“Today is the first day of spring,” Roger said to his mother who was working in the kitchen, “and it’s cold. Why is there still snow outside?”
Mother smiled and explained, “The calendar keeps track of the time it takes for the earth to tilt on its axis far enough toward the sun so that spring can begin. But it doesn’t happen overnight just because of a date on a calendar. Spring comes slowly.”
“Oh,” said Roger, disappointed.
Then Mother said, “Every day when you go out to play you can look for signs that tell us spring is coming, OK?”
“Even today?” asked Roger.
“Even today,” answered Mother, smiling.
After breakfast, when Roger was bundled up in his snowsuit, cap, boots, scarf, and mittens, he went outside to play. He rode his tricycle on the driveway, making tire tracks in the snow. Then he ran around in the backyard, making footprints in the snow. Just before he went into the house, he ran around to the front yard. Underneath the evergreens that grew in front of his house he spied bits of green poking up out of the ground. He bent down and with a mittened hand pushed the snow away. Bravely sprouting in the frozen ground were the crocuses he and his father had planted last autumn.
“Mother! Mother!” he shouted. “I found it! I found it!”
“Found what?” asked his mother, who had hurried out the front door, wiping her hands on a towel.
“The first sign of spring!” said Roger, pointing to the crocuses.
As the days became warmer Roger found more signs of spring. The crocuses blossomed, skunk cabbages bloomed down by the creek, there were raccoon tracks in the mud along the creek bank, and the pussy willow catkins pushed out of their hard brown hulls. There were even some days when the sun and air were warm and Roger wore only a lightweight jacket and cap outdoors. The robins returned and built a nest in the evergreen tree by the mailbox.
One day it rained and rained, and Roger had to stay inside the house. He pressed his nose against the window and watched the rain streaming down the glass. It rattled in the rain gutters and ran in little streams along the ground.
The next day was warm and sunny, and Roger found brown, pointed spring mushrooms growing under the trees in the backyard. The shrubs around the house were dressed in bright pink and yellow flowers, and the branches of the flowering quince tree were frosted with blooms. Roger reported each new sign of spring to his mother, for she enjoyed this magic season too.
One morning Roger woke up and saw the sun shining in a blue cloudless sky. He put on his warm sweater and baseball cap and went downstairs.
He ran out the back door, down the steps, and through the trees at the end of his backyard. Suddenly he stopped. A cottontail rabbit was hopping off through the trees. A spot on the ground in front of him moved ever so slightly. He bent down and rolled back a soft covering of fur and matted grass. In a small, saucer-shaped nest dug in the ground were four wriggling, lightly furred baby cottontails. Roger stared with wonder at the tiny babies, their eyes still tightly closed and softly whimpering as they tried to crawl under each other. Then he gently replaced the soft covering and walked slowly back to the house.
“Mother!” cried Roger, “I just found the best-of-all sign of spring. A nest of baby rabbits! The mother rabbit put her little babies in the ground so she knows it won’t get cold again. And that means spring is finally here!”

I once conversed with a fine young man who was not of our faith, although he had attended most of our worship services for more than a year. I asked why he had not joined the Church. He replied, “Because I do not know whether it is true. I think it may well be true, but I cannot stand and testify, as you do, ‘I actually know it is true.’”
I inquired, “Have you read the Book of Mormon?” He answered that he had read in the book.
I asked whether he had prayed about the book. He answered, “I have mentioned it in my prayers.”
I told my friend that as long as he casually read and prayed, he never would find out, worlds without end. But when he set aside a period for fasting and pleading, the truth would be burned into his heart, and he would know that he knew. He said nothing more to me but told his wife the next morning that he would be fasting. The following Saturday he was baptized.

By lunchtime, the last group of Richmond Ward youth are putting finishing touches on a wall at Svetlana Iskiyayev’s Village Shoe Shop. They have spent the morning tidying and painting the back room of the shop.
Svetlana and her husband left careers as a doctor and a lawyer when they came to Virginia from Russia several years ago. Now they are building their dreams here. And Helen Capehart, age 16, is happy she can help them. She has invited two nonmember friends to help her today and hopes that they, as well as the Iskiyayevs, will see the light of the gospel through her service.
After all, examples of service are what drew Helen herself to the gospel just a short time ago. She says: “I’m so grateful that the Lord led me to this Church and for the awesome examples my friends here have been to me. My biggest example now is Jesus Christ, and I find so much joy in serving him. I hope I always have this feeling in me.”
Most likely, that feeling will stay with Helen because she has found an important key to sharing the gospel—service.

“It’s snowing! It’s snowing!” Heather called to her mother, who looked up from feeding her little sister Beth. When Peter comes home, maybe I can go out and play in the snow with him, Heather thought.
Heather remembered last year when everyone told her she was too little to help build a snowman. But not this year! she decided. Heather eagerly looked out the window, waiting for her brother to come home.
Seeing him coming down the driveway, she opened the door. “Let’s build a snowman,” she shouted as he ran inside.
“Sounds great to me,” said Peter with a smile. “Go get your coat and boots on.”
Peter’s friends Sharon and David came over to help, but they didn’t let Heather join the fun. Even when she tried to stick a piece of coal on the head for the snowman’s eyes, Peter said, “No, Heather, you can’t reach. Let me do it.”
Dad brought Beth outside to see the snowman. “Dad, they won’t let me help,” complained Heather.
“Well, I’m sorry, dear, but it looks like the snowman’s finished.”
After supper Dad tried to explain to Peter that Heather was growing bigger every year and that he needed to include her in doing some things. And he tried to explain to Heather that other people forget sometimes when little brothers or sisters are getting old enough to play with older ones.
Heather went to bed right after supper. She listened to the wind blowing outside and watched the snowflakes swirl through the air wherever the wind took them. Soon she was fast asleep.
The next morning, Heather and Peter went to join their friends outside. They soon discovered that during the night the wind had blown the snowman’s hat away!
“Every snowman needs a hat,” Sharon said. “It’s just not a snowman without a hat.”
The children looked everywhere for the hat, but it was not in sight. “We’ll have to spread out,” said Peter. “Each one take a different direction.”
Heather thought about the snowflakes she had watched last night. Although they had made circles of all sizes as they swirled up and around, they seemed to blow mostly in one direction, toward David’s house. She headed that way. I have to find that hat! she decided. If I do, maybe Peter will see how big I am.
Heather walked for a long time. She even went past David’s house, before she saw Mr. Snowman’s hat hanging high on a limb in the oak tree.
How can I get it down? she wondered. Then she had an idea. A snowball!
Heather made a snowball and threw it at the hat. After four tries the hat fell. Heather picked it up and ran to find Peter.
Peter, Sharon, and David were back at the snowman. They were looking sad. “Maybe we could get another hat or something,” suggested David.
“We don’t have to,” Heather called as she held the hat up for them to see.
Sharon started to take the hat from Heather, but Peter stopped her. “If Heather’s big enough to find the hat, she’s big enough to put it on.”
And that’s exactly what she did!

After I finished school and before I went on a mission, I completed mandatory military service. While I was in the military, I picked up a habit that I’ve kept to this day: to pray always.
Obviously, the environment in the military wasn’t always very spiritual—the lockers, the pictures, the talk, the movies people watched at night. But I knew I was going to go on a mission. I wanted to stay strong. I didn’t want to fall. I didn’t want to give in to peer pressure. So I developed a habit of praying in my heart all the time.
Walking from building to building, going up and down hills in the forests, lying in the foxholes, playing war games—wherever I was, I would engage with Heavenly Father in prayer whenever I could, filling minutes and sometimes hours by communing or talking with Heavenly Father in order to draw close to Him and stay strong. Mostly, I would just give thanks.
This habit is still with me. When I’m driving somewhere or sitting in a bus or walking someplace, it has become natural for me to always have a prayer in my heart or to “pray always” as the scriptures say (see, for instance, 2 Nephi 32:9). That’s a good habit to develop at an early age.

In 2008, Charlotte was invited to interview for a position at Brigham Young University–Idaho. In the Rexburg Idaho Temple, she felt the Lord’s prompting to bring her family to the United States.

The decision to leave France was very difficult. Coming into a new culture in Rexburg was also challenging. While most people welcomed and helped the Passe family, at times Charlotte felt that some did not understand why she was working at the university rather than being home with her children.

When their daughter Amélie hesitated to attend Church, Charlotte told her: “Amélie, I go to church to take the sacrament and remember my covenants. Those [who do not understand our situation] do not affect my testimony.”

Charlotte taught her children the important distinction between the Church (with a capital C) and the church (with a small c). She said, “The Church is the Lord’s institution with His prophets and apostles. It will never fail us. The church is the members, and none of us is perfect.”

Her family could have chosen to stop attending because of these challenges, but Charlotte knew that being part of a covenant people means being a covenant person—someone who is faithful to the covenants she has made with the Lord.

While doing her best to be a full-time mom, Charlotte helped with homework and homeschooling as Laurent advanced in his English proficiency. In one journal entry, she wrote, “There is too much work, and trying to take care of my house and my family at the same time makes it a great burden.”

But she moved forward, writing that the Spirit had told her in her prayers: “You must continue working. It will not stop right away. Make the most of the good income you receive to prepare yourself and your home … for what is coming.”

President Heber J. Grant called Harold B. Lee into his office one morning.
President Grant: Tomorrow you will be sustained as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Harold: But, President Grant, do you really think that I am worthy of this call?
President Grant: My boy, if I didn’t think so, you would never be called to this position.
That night Harold couldn’t sleep. All he could think about was the foolish mistakes he had made in his life and about all the people he might have offended. He knelt to pray.
Harold: Heavenly Father, I will love and forgive every soul that has walked the earth. I pray that Thou wilt forgive me in return and make me worthy to be Thy servant.
The next day, he nervously went to the temple and was ushered into the room where the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles meet with the First Presidency.
President Grant: Take a seat here, Elder Lee.
Elder Lee: Imagine all the great men who have sat in this room, in these chairs!
After the ordination, one of the Apostles gave Elder Lee an assignment.
Apostle: Now, you know that after having been ordained, you are a special witness of the Lord Jesus Christ. We want you to give the Easter talk on the radio next Sunday night.
Elder Lee went into a room in the Church Office Building to read Bible accounts of Jesus’ life. As he read, he realized that he was having a new experience.
Elder Lee: I can almost see the events as if they are happening right now!
Elder Lee learned that every Apostle receives a special personal witness of Jesus Christ. When Easter Sunday came, he was ready to speak.
Elder Lee: I am now the least of all my brethren and want to witness to you that I know, as I have never known before this call came, that Jesus is the Savior of this world. He lives, and He died for us.

Taylor loved Elder Turley and Elder Junker (Yewn-kur), the missionaries assigned to her ward. She especially loved having them over for dinner.
Elder Turley was tall and slender. His head almost touched the ceiling in Taylor’s living room, and he had to duck when he came through the front door. He had a Book of Mormon with colorful sticker pictures in it. He would flip through the pages, telling Taylor the stories that each picture illustrated.
Elder Junker was short and round. He was always laughing, and Taylor loved his accent. He told Taylor stories about his large family back home. He was the oldest of eight children. He had a brother who was her age and a sister who was just a little younger. Taylor was always glad to see his happy face.
One Sunday, Taylor saw Elder Turley and Elder Junker in church as usual, but she could tell that something was not quite right with Elder Junker. His beautiful smile was missing. And even though he turned up the corners of his mouth when he shook her hand and said hello, it was not the same jolly smile that she was used to.
“Mommy, why did Elder Junker look so sad?” Taylor asked after church.
“Well,” Mommy said, “Elder Junker comes from a faraway country called Germany. His entire family is there, and I think he is homesick.”
“What does homesick mean?”
“When you’re homesick, you miss the people and things of your home,” Daddy told her. “In Germany, the people speak differently. They eat different foods too. Even the sounds and smells are different.”
“Couldn’t we do something to help?” Taylor asked.
“Well, I suppose we could ask the elders to dinner,” Mommy said, “but I don’t know if that would help much.”
“Yes it will,” Taylor practically shouted, “if we eat food from Germany!”
Mommy laughed. “Of course—an authentic German dinner. The Guenters are from Germany. Sister Guenter could give me one of her mother’s recipes. What do you think, Daddy?”
“I think it’s a great idea. and I’ll get a German phrase book so we can learn to say something nice in his native language.”
“Hurray!” Taylor cheered, growing more and more excited. “I know exactly what I’ll do too.”
The next day, Taylor and Mommy went to Brother and Sister Guenter’s house. While Mommy explained to Sister Guenter what she wanted and why, Taylor went to the work shed out back to find Brother Guenter.
She watched him for a few moments until he looked up from his workbench.
“Oh, my goodness,” he said, “I wasn’t aware that I had a visitor. Come in, come in.”
“I’ve come to ask a favor.”
Brother Guenter patted the seat next to him. “Sit here,” he said, “and we will discuss it.”
Taylor told Brother Guenter her idea, and he agreed to help her. All that week she went to his house after school and stayed for an hour or so, learning to sing a special song in German.
On the night of the dinner, Taylor’s house was filled with exciting new smells.
When the elders arrived, a strange look came over Elder Junker’s face. He sniffed the air and smiled. “I smell bratwurst! And sauerkraut!”
Daddy bowed. “Wilkommen zu Hause (welcome to our home). Taylor thought an ‘evening in Germany’ might help you feel less homesick.”
“Oh, Taylor,” Elder Junker exclaimed, “how thoughtful of you! I have been feeling homesick lately. Thank you very much.”
“Bitte schön (you’re welcome),” Taylor said, beaming. “Möchten Sie ein Lied zuhören (Would you like to hear a song)?”
“Ja, bitte (Yes, please),” Elder Junker told her.
“Ich bin ein Kind von Gott (I am a child of God),” Taylor sang in a clear voice. She finished without a mistake while Elder Junker wiped happy tears from his eyes.
Later, he told Mother that the bratwurst and sauerkraut tasted just like his mother’s, and he asked Taylor for an encore of “Ich bin ein Kind von Gott.”
When the missionaries left, the jolly smile had returned to Elder Junker’s face.