Gospel Story Finder

My first encounter with a Latter-day Saint bishop occurred before I was a member of the Church. I was 17 years old and was facing the confusion, doubt, and stress that many high school seniors confront. One Saturday morning I was complaining to my best friend about my woes. Even though he had good intentions, he provided me with few answers. But he did offer what turned out to be a profound suggestion. “Sometimes when I don’t know what to do,” he said, “I talk to my bishop.”
“Your bishop? Who is he?” I asked.
“He is the head of my ward,” my friend replied.
I now recognize my next question to be a distinct prompting from the Spirit, but at the time it was the most out-of-character question I could imagine coming from my 17-year-old mouth. “Do you think he’d meet with me?” I asked.
My friend said he’d call his bishop and call me right back. An appointment was quickly made for later that morning at the bishop’s house.
I didn’t know what to expect. As I pulled up in front of the modest rambler home, I was a bit surprised at its normalcy—bikes in the driveway, nicely mowed lawn. I was even further surprised by the man in the nice, casual shirt who greeted me at the door. He smiled and said, “Hi, you must be Joe. I’m Bishop Maxwell. Please come in.” As we walked to his small, in-home office, my mind was trying to justify it all. “Shouldn’t the bishop’s home be somehow different?” I asked myself. “Shouldn’t he dress in a formal robe or something?”
During the next 45 minutes, what I found was a compassionate man, someone who took a sincere interest in my struggles; an inspired man willing to spend some of his precious time on a Saturday morning to help someone, anyone, of his faith or not, make decisions and draw conclusions.
More than 25 years have passed since that meeting. I don’t recall any of the specific advice the bishop imparted that morning, but I still vividly remember the amazing clarity and lightened burden I felt as I left his home. Not until many years later would I realize that meeting was one of my first experiences in feeling the Spirit.
I joined the Church later that year. My friend Bill, who had referred me to Bishop Maxwell, baptized me. Bishop Maxwell was at the baptism. I later served a mission, married a beautiful young woman in the temple with Bishop Maxwell serving as a witness, and am now raising five wonderful children.

Prior to the handover ceremony, 132 members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints congregations joined with other members of the community to clean the health center and prepare the building for new medical equipment.

The building had been abandoned many years ago. During the four-month renovation project, skilled laborers volunteered their time to the project. Electricians, carpenters, bricklayers, aluminum fabricators, painters, plumbers, and masons all served to ensure the completion of the project. The community youth participated by clearing debris and cutting the grass.

The coordinator of the project, Clement Okoye, was excited that months of hard work and sacrifice had come to fruition. “The community has been needing a functional health Center for a very long time,” said Okoye. “This is a dream come true. The mortality rate here is very high due to lack of medical amenities. Daily life is a risk where we live. We are grateful that LDS Charities came to our rescue.”

Ezeigwe Peter, president of the Onitsha Nigeria Stake, stated that he was overwhelmed by the support and appreciation shown by the community and was impressed by the commitment of individuals. He charged them to maintain the facility and ensure they use the donated equipment judiciously.

I remember a critical time in my life when a still small voice gave me direction to make an important decision. My family lived in Boston, Massachusetts, at the time. I had been with a retail firm for a number of years. To expand the business, we merged with a larger firm. Within a matter of months, I found myself in a very difficult situation. The new owners wanted me to violate a trust. I felt that I just could not do it. They continued to insist, and I continued to refuse. Finally, in order to solve the disagreement, I agreed to leave the company. The timing for me was devastating. I had a wife who was seriously ill and required a lot of medical attention, a daughter away at college, and a son on a mission. I spent the next year getting just enough consulting work to pay our expenses.
After struggling for about one year, a company called me from California and invited me to come out and talk to them about working for them. I went and was delighted with the opportunity. I told them that I had to return home and discuss it with my family before I could give them an answer. I returned home and convinced my family that it was the right thing to do. As I was calling the firm to accept the offer, a voice just as strong and powerful as I have ever heard came to me and said, “Say no to the offer.” I could not ignore the voice, so I turned the offer down, but I couldn’t understand why I had been told to do such a thing. I went upstairs to my bedroom, sat on the bed, and opened the scriptures. They fell open to the Doctrine and Covenants, section 111. These words in verses 5 and 7 jumped out from the page and met my eye: “Concern not yourselves about your debts, for I will give you power to pay them. …
“Tarry in this place, and in the regions round about.”
A great peace came to my soul. Within just a few days, I was offered a fine position there in Boston. A few months later, I had the great privilege of hosting a conference in which President Harold B. Lee, then First Counselor in the First Presidency, was the featured speaker. The following July, President Joseph Fielding Smith passed away and President Lee became the prophet. Three months later I was asked to come to Salt Lake, where I received a call to become a General Authority.

“Hurry and finish breakfast, Tom,” David cried impatiently. “If the farm trucks go by, we won’t have a ride out to the strawberry fields and we’ll miss work today.”
Tom moaned as he stood up and reached for his straw hat. He was so stiff and sore from squatting and crawling along the rows that he only wished the delicious berries grew on trees instead of slithering along so low on the ground. At first Tom had been enthusiastic about his job, but he hadn’t realized what hard work it would be. He was from the city and was visiting his aunt and uncle. His cousin, David, was used to farm work, but Tom certainly wasn’t.
Tom thought about his friend, Mike, whom he had met yesterday while picking berries. Mike had to work hard every day. His whole family were migrant farm workers who traveled all over the country to harvest crops when they were ripe. Even their small children helped in the fields. They were very poor and lived in tents or whatever shelter was provided by the people they were working for. The family moved from job to job in an old pickup truck. The children were seldom in one place long enough to go to school, and that was the only thing he had heard Mike complain about.
Tom and David climbed onto the back of a big truck that stopped for them. It was already crammed with pickers so they sat on the tailgate. Most of the workers were boys but there were also a few women and girls, all eager to earn extra money during the short picking season.
The area around the packing shed was crowded but Tom searched until he found Mike. He wanted to work beside him again today. Each worker was given a flat carrier with eight empty strawberry boxes. Tom envied Mike’s speed. His nimble fingers finished a tray of boxes while Tom was still filling his third box. Mike’s younger sisters were fast workers too. They often laughed and teased each other, but they never stopped working.
Tom stood up and groaned as he straightened his aching back. Mike had gone for more empty boxes when Tom heard a strange sound and glanced down at his feet. He froze. A large rattlesnake was coiled between the rows, head raised, only a few inches from his tray! Afraid to move, Tom stood still, his heart pounding with fear.
“What’s wrong, Tom? What is it?” Mike shouted. He had started back from the end of the row when he noticed Tom’s white face.
“A rattler! A big one!” Tom called back tensely, still standing perfectly still. Perspiration was trickling down his forehead and stinging his eyes but he was afraid to move and wipe it away.
Mike dropped the boxes and grabbed a heavy stick, then raced toward his frightened friend. He leaped into the next row and warily approached the snake. After Mike had killed the snake, he lifted it with the stick and carried it to the edge of the berry patch. Tom sagged down and wiped his face with his sleeve. His breath came in ragged sighs and he was ashamed of his trembling. He had never been so afraid.
When Mike returned, he could see that Tom was embarrassed about being so frightened. To put him at ease, Mike said, “You did just right, not making any sudden moves, Tom. That snake was in striking position. I’m used to them and I wouldn’t want to kill a ‘good’ one because they eat grain-stealing mice and other pests, but I’m deathly afraid of rattlers and any other poisonous snakes.”
Tom appreciated his new friend’s tactfulness. Someone else might have laughed and made jokes about his fear. I owe Mike my life! he thought, shuddering.
He and Mike worked side by side for two weeks. After work they sometimes went to the large fenced area where the big geese were kept. Tom had been surprised when Mike told him that the big birds saved the growers a lot of work. They ate the weeds but would not bother the berry plants.
Tom’s muscles gradually adjusted to all the stooping and duck-walking between the long rows. He also became much better and faster at the work. His sunburn had peeled and now his face, arms, and legs were nearly as tanned as Mike’s.
Besides the physical benefits gained from his first job, Tom had learned a lot about people, not only about Mike and his family but about the other migrant workers as well. He had learned respect for the hardworking, nomadic people and had gained a new appreciation for his permanent home and the opportunity he had of going to school regularly. He had never really thought of these blessings before meeting Mike.
“I have enough money for my new bicycle, for the county fair, and some for my savings account,” David said on payday, proud that he had earned it himself. “How much do you have, Tom?”
“None,” Tom said softly. He had been staring out their bedroom window. He knew Mike and the other pickers had moved on north during the night. He would never see his friend again.
David was surprised. “How could you work for two whole weeks without getting paid?”
“I didn’t collect any pay,” Tom mumbled awkwardly.
“Why not?” David persisted. “You earned it and it was hard work. We’d better go over to see Mr. Grant and collect while he still has your work record.”
“He doesn’t owe me any money,” Tom said. “I didn’t want to tell anyone, but I gave it all to Mike. You see, his family is trying to buy a house where his grandmother lives so he and his sisters can stay in school. They hope to have enough money by this fall. Mike saved my life and I wanted to help them. I told Mr. Grant to give his parents all my pay.”
David looked down at the bills and change scattered across his bed. He was silent for a minute, thinking of all the hard work Tom’s money represented. Then he said thoughtfully, “I guess I could have given them some of mine too. I hope you won’t be sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” Tom said cheerfully. “I’ve never felt so happy about anything in my whole life. It’s the first time I’ve ever helped anyone all by myself and that’s a good feeling.”

When I was 14, my school was across from a Latter-day Saint chapel. I watched men in white shirts going in and out of that big building. I wondered what they were doing inside.
One day my friends and I wanted to play soccer, but there was no more room on our school grounds. Someone said, “Let’s play at the church. They have a nice place outside to play.” That was my first contact with the Church—outside the building.
Two years later one of my brother’s friends invited my sister to go to the LDS Church, and I went along with her. I was excited to finally find out what they were doing inside that church.
When we got there, we saw some members playing a simple game. They looked so happy, and that got my attention. “Why are they so happy?” I wondered.
I found out when I took the missionary discussions and was baptized. Happiness comes from inside. My conversion changed my life, the life of my children, and generations ahead and behind.
Whatever you do outside the teachings of the Church will not bring you happiness. Maybe it will bring you a laugh or a small moment of excitement, but real happiness is within the gospel.
Even if your friends sometimes make fun of you, they will admire you for standing by your principles.
Your parents love you. Whatever they ask you to do is not because they are being hard on you; it is because they want to protect you.
Always be grateful for your parents and for the gospel and the happiness it brings into your life.

More than 300 adults from across India gathered in Hyderabad on January 17 to 19 to learn how to become more self-reliant, both temporally and spiritually.
“Our goal with this conference,” said John Gutty, manager of Welfare and Self-Reliance Services, “was to teach young people the principles of self-reliance, to encourage them to take charge of their lives, and to put themselves in a position to provide for themselves and to help others.”
Activities on Thursday and Friday were held at the Marigold Hotel and included personality assessment and development, resume writing, interviewing skills, managing personal finances, and setting and reaching educational goals. Saturday was devoted to workshops on spiritual development.
The group was diverse with as many dreams and challenges as attendees. Nagaraj Govindhraj, Naga Sai Kiran Gubbala, and Madan Govindraj all traveled from Chennai to the conference. Each found something that addressed their particular situation.
Nagaraj, 18, whose parents work as cooks, wants to go to college and plans on serving a mission. “We need to be self-reliant, to support ourselves and our families,” he said, “I earn money for my mission working as a cashier and bell boy in a hotel.”
Nagaraj found the workshop on budgeting especially helpful. “At the conference,” he said, “they taught us how to manage money, to think about what we need and how much we spend, and how to live within our means.” He added, “We also learned about how faith in Jesus Christ and obedience to His commandments can create happiness and stability in our lives.”
Gubbala, 27, is a returned missionary and works as a senior process assistant in a call center. He is thinking about looking for a new job. “I realized that I need to update my resume,” he said. “I also learned what to expect in an interview and how to present myself.” Gubbala also liked learning about the spiritual aspects of self-reliance, like finding the right partner to establish a strong and stable marriage.
Madan, aged 24, is working in Bangalore. He has a diploma in computer engineering and has been doing marketing for a nongovernmental organization while studying through BYU-Pathway Worldwide, an online certificate and degree program offered through Brigham Young University-Idaho. He hopes to eventually earn a master’s degree.
“At the conference, I learned how to go for a better job while studying and how to find jobs in sectors related to my field,” he said. “I also learned how to handle the stress of working and going to school at the same time, which was very helpful.”
Saturday’s sessions were held at the Hyderabad stake center and included presentations about missionary work, family history, institute, and choosing an eternal companion. Anjali Barunal from Delhi said, “I felt the Holy Spirit testify to me that I can do my family history and provide temple ordinances for my ancestors.” Her favorite workshop was the one on eternal marriage where she learned how important it is to date and marry a worthy priesthood holder.
Participants also learned that living a self-reliant life includes serving others. The conference ended with a blood donation drive organized in conjunction with the Indian Red Cross Society. Priya, aged 20, felt that this was a perfect way to conclude her experience in Hyderabad. “Donating blood is the best gift one can give,” she said. “I am happy to share the blessing of my good health with those in need.”

“Hey, look!” Kate picked up a crumpled paper doll from the floor in the store. “Here, put it in your pocket.”
“You want me to take it?” Maddy asked.
“The store can’t sell it anyway,” Kate said. “They’d just throw it in the trash. This is a rescue mission. We’re saving this doll!”
Kate smiled at Maddy. Maddy smiled back.
“OK.” Maddy slipped the paper doll into her pocket. It felt special to be on a rescue mission!
Still, as they walked out of the store, the paper doll felt like a heavy rock in her pocket. Is that what a rescue mission was supposed to feel like?
When they got back to Maddy’s house, Kate carefully taped and flattened the paper doll the best she could.
“What kind of clothes should I make for her?” she asked, picking up a crayon. “How about a beautiful ball gown?”
Maddy nodded eagerly. “Then we can show my mom!”
“No! We can’t tell anyone,” Kate said. “Not ever. It’s our secret, OK? Promise me you won’t tell.”
“Oh … OK. I promise,” Maddy said. “But why can’t we tell?”
“If you tell, your mom would get mad, and she might not let us play together anymore.”
“Why would she be mad?” Maddy asked. Her stomach felt fluttery and nervous.
Kate put down her crayon. “If you don’t tell, I’ll let you keep the doll and all the outfits I draw for her.”
Now Maddy knew why she felt so nervous. “We … we stole it, didn’t we?” she whispered.
“Hey, you’re the one who stuffed it in your pocket and sneaked it out of the store.”
“Because you told me to!”
“I did not!” Kate said. “I’m going home before you get me in trouble.” She stood up and ran out the door.
Just then Mom came into the room. “Why did Kate leave in such a hurry?” She saw the paper doll in Maddy’s hands. “And where did that come from?”
Maddy bit her lip. She didn’t feel good about keeping a secret from Mom. But what if Kate was right and Mom got mad?
The nervous feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away. She took a deep breath and blurted out the whole story.
“Kate told me to promise to keep it a secret,” she said. “But it felt wrong.”
Mom sat beside her on the bed. “Most secrets are wrong. Especially if you’re told to never tell anyone. On the other hand, a surprise, like a gift or party, can be a good thing. It’s meant to be fun for everyone.”
Maddy nodded. “Thanks for not getting mad at me,” she said. “Kate said you would.”
Mom hugged her tight. “I’m really proud of you for listening to the Holy Ghost and telling me the truth.”
“Will you drive me back to the store to return the doll?” Maddy asked.
“Of course!” Mom smiled. “And when we get back, you can help me make a cake to surprise Dad.”
Maddy laughed. “Now that’s something I can feel good about!”

Young Women in the Shoreline Ward, Richland Washington Stake, found an unusual way to learn about genealogy research. They pieced together a history of a six-day-old baby that had been buried in their city’s cemetery in 1909.
Not much was known about the baby’s family, and the grave didn’t have a headstone. Starting with the name “Baby Boy Lair” and a few fragments of information about the baby’s life, the girls and their adviser, Maureen Hales, found living family members (a nephew and his children and grandchildren), got information for a small headstone, and made arrangements for a short graveside service. The service was open to the public and all the youth in the stake were invited. The youth say that doing the project has changed their ideas about doing genealogy.
“At first, the baby seemed like a story from a book. Finding some of the details about the baby’s family and learning about his short life made it more realistic. There were no pictures of the baby, and I wonder what he looked like,” says Laurel Mindy Lee. “I’m now working on learning about my own ancestors, especially my great-grandmother.”

As we reach out in service to Father in Heaven’s sons and daughters, our faith will increase. I know of a young man named Gofaone Lebang who joined the church when he was about 16 years old. There was something unique about this young man; he was born with a physical disability, which meant that he was wheelchair bound ever since he was a baby. Brother Lebang has always been a very vibrant and faith-filled disciple of the Lord Jesus Christ. At the age of twenty he made the decision to serve a service mission. He was called to the Johannesburg South Africa Mission. One could not ask for a more positive individual. He always had something uplifting to say to all he came in contact with. I later had the opportunity to serve with him in the same elders quorum presidency and then on the high council. Through the years, I never once heard him complain or murmur about his physical disability but instead have always watched him move forward with faith. His willingness to serve increased the faith of all who served with and around him. Many years later he is still the same; he reaches out and ministers to others in different ways.

Cotton puffs and red and blue ribbons outlined the wooden counter where Julianna Rees, 14, of the Westwood Second Ward, delivered crusty, powdered sugar-coated Scandinavian dessert rosettes to her customers. She explained how the cookies are made by dipping an iron into batter, then into hot oil. “I got the recipe from my grandmother,” she said.
Her friend Margaret Stohl, 13, from the Westwood First Ward, grinned and said, “I learned how to make them from my grandmother, too. Scandinavian grandmothers and cookies—they go together. When I was making my cookies, I was talking to my grandmother and she said she got her cookie iron for Christmas when she was seven years old. That was neat for me because I just got my cookie iron for Christmas, too.”

In January 2018, we laid to rest a giant of a man, a prophet of God—President Thomas S. Monson. No words can do justice to the magnitude and magnificence of his life. I will forever cherish our friendship with gratitude for what he taught me. Now, we must look forward to the future with complete faith in our Lord, Jesus Christ, whose Church this is.
On January 14, all of the living Apostles met in the upper room of the Salt Lake Temple. There, they made a unanimous decision, first, to reorganize the First Presidency now; and second, that I serve as President of the Church. Words are inadequate to tell you what it felt like to have my Brethren—Brethren who hold all the priesthood keys restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith in this dispensation—place their hands upon my head to ordain and set me apart as President of the Church. It was a sacred and humbling experience.
It then became my responsibility to discern whom the Lord had prepared to be my counselors. How could I choose only two of the twelve other Apostles, each of whom I love so dearly? I’m deeply grateful to the Lord for answering my fervent prayers. I am very thankful that President Dallin Harris Oaks and President Henry Bennion Eyring are willing to serve with me as First and Second Counselors, respectively.

Let me share one of our family secrets, found in this family photo taken some years ago, before the advent of social media. Were this taken today, it likely would be posted, presenting a family of four lovely, color-coordinated, well-behaved boys enjoying a harmonious family photo opportunity together. Would you like the real story?

I still remember the phone call from my wife. “Gary, where are you? We’re here at the photographer’s outdoor studio. We’re all ready to shoot. It hasn’t been easy getting the boys all dressed, coordinated, and ready. Are you nearly here?”

Well, I had forgotten and hadn’t left the office yet! I was half an hour late, and things had not gone so well in my absence, bordering on chaos.

What had happened? Well, my oldest son had been running through the yard and had found an apple tree, picked some apples, and begun throwing them at the other boys. He hit our third son in the back with an apple and made him fall down, and so he started to cry.

Meanwhile, as that was happening, my second son sat down and his pants went up a little bit. The other kids saw that his socks were white athletic socks, not the church socks his mother had laid out for him to wear. She asked him, “Why didn’t you wear your church socks?”

He said, “Well, I don’t like them. They’re scratchy.”

And while she’s talking to him, our two-year-old son was running through the yard, tripped on something, fell down, and bloodied his nose. Now there is blood dripping onto his white turtleneck shirt, and it’s stained. This is when I showed up. The only way to salvage the picture was to reverse the turtleneck and put it on backward, hiding the blood stains from the camera.

As it turns out, while our oldest son was running around and throwing apples, he fell down and got a large grass stain on his knee. So, in the picture, his arm is strategically placed, covering up the grass stains.

As for our third son, we had to wait for 20 minutes so his eyes were no longer red from crying.

And, of course, the bloodstains are now on the back of our youngest son’s shirt.

Now, our second son has his hands placed strategically over the top of his white athletic socks so that everything matches.

As for me, I am now in the “doghouse” because it was my late arrival that was the trigger for all of this.

So, when you see this beautiful picture of our family and lament, “Why can’t we get things together and be a picture-perfect family like theirs?” you all know better!

I grew up in Mexico with my siblings, my mother, and my grandmother. Every day after doing homework and chores, I played soccer. I loved soccer! I would pretend that my right leg was one team and my left leg was the other team.
One day when I was playing soccer, I suddenly couldn’t breathe very well. I rested for a few minutes, but I still had trouble breathing. I became so sick that I had to go to the hospital.
The hospital room had many other children in it, but I missed my family and felt very alone. Although I was not a member of the Church yet, I believed in God. Every day I prayed to be healed, but instead I got worse and worse. The doctors thought I might not live.
The doctors finally sent me home from the hospital, but I had to spend the next year in bed. I took many pills and had two shots every day. And I still had a prayer in my mind and heart. I told Heavenly Father that if I got well, I would serve Him all the rest of my life.
Then one day when I was reading in bed, I accidentally dropped my book on the floor. When I leaned down to pick it up, I realized that I was breathing normally. I dropped the book again. Again I could pick it up without any problem!
I got out of bed. At first I was dizzy because I had not walked by myself in such a long time. I looked in the mirror and saw that I was smiling. I knew that I had received an answer from Heavenly Father.
Every day since then, I have tried to do something to express my gratitude to Heavenly Father. When I grew up, I became a doctor to help answer the prayers of other children. And now I am trying to serve Heavenly Father with my calling in the Church.

Brethren, during my Aaronic Priesthood years I was a swineherd! Way back then, by means of a 4-H Club project involving purebred Duroc pigs, I became familiar with work! As proof that what follows is not merely swollen memory, may I, with Elder Nelson’s help, display very briefly this blanket of nearly 100 ribbons won by my prize pigs at various fairs over several years.
Up near Elder Nelson’s hand is a pink ribbon, won 60 years ago. It was the very first ribbon I ever won. I think the judge had a tender eye, and the pig wasn’t really so choice, but he knew I needed encouragement and hence the fourth prize. The purple ribbons were for champions that were exhibited later on!
Thank you, Elder Nelson.
Brethren, I learned the hard way about the need to watch shifting pork prices at the local meat-packing plant. Careful records of profits and losses were kept with the help of my bookkeeper father. As in all things, my parents, so supportive, even ended up doing some of the perspiring themselves, including a special mother born 95 years ago today. She showed me how to work, and she loved me enough to correct me.
In order to obtain low-cost pig feed, I regularly bought dozens and dozens of three-day-old loaves of bread at a bakery for a mere penny a loaf. Additionally, if present at the right time at a local dairy, I could get about 70 gallons of skim milk free! Now I pay $2.50 a gallon—an amusing irony. By saving in these ways, I could buy the needed grain for the pigs with the little hard cash that I had.
There were many times when a pregnant sow would give birth to her litter after midnight. The resultant weariness of attending to all that, and more, was real. Yet through it all, there was a sense of some accomplishment, including contributing to our family menus. Most young men my age did similar work. Back then, brethren, we were all poor together, and we didn’t know it. Work was a given. Today, for some, receiving is a given.
However, there were real social downsides to raising pigs. Already shy, I remember vividly the principal of the junior high school coming into my class once and saying aloud in front of everybody: “Neal, your mother just called. Your pigs are out!” I felt like crawling under my desk but instead ran home to help round up the pigs.
My father was loving but exacting. He noted that while I worked hard, my work was often not carefully done. I was a stranger to excellence. One summer day I determined to please Dad by putting in a number of needed fence posts, firmly implanted and fully aligned. I worked hard all that day and then expectantly scanned the lane down which my father would walk home. When he arrived, I watched anxiously as he carefully inspected the fence posts, even checking them with a level bar before pronouncing them to be fully satisfactory. Then came his praise. My sweat of the brow had earned Dad’s commendation, which, in turn, melted my heart.
Please forgive this brief autobiographical note, which I have used to express my deep appreciation for learning to work at an early age. Even so, brethren, I certainly did not always put my shoulder to the wheel with “a heart full of song” (Hymns, no. 252), but I did learn about shoulders and wheels, which helped later in life when the wheels grew larger. Some of today’s otherwise good young men mistakenly think that putting their shoulders to the wheel is the same thing as putting their hands on a steering wheel!

“We have a distant relative in Warsaw and so we informed him of the choir’s coming,” said Charlene VanWagenen Gale. “After the concert, with a picture of him in hand, I looked for him until I found him. At his home that evening, we talked of the gospel—modern revelation, the Restoration, the Word of Wisdom. On occasion, tears would stream down his wife’s face. After we discussed Apostles and prophets, in the midst of our conversation, he asked, ‘Are you an Apostle?’ ‘No, I’m a disciple,’ I said, and explained the difference. ‘But you speak with such conviction,’ he said. ‘I only speak what I know,’ I replied. He said, ‘I want to know why I feel the way I feel when you speak.’ I talked to him about the Holy Ghost and then asked him, ‘Would you like to visit the missionaries to learn more?’ The answer was yes.”

In 1993, I was married and had one child. One day at work, a secretary took a Book of Mormon to the office, placed it near a glass, and left it. She did not tell me what the book was about, but I was curious. I decided to keep the book. Around the same time, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints started visiting my mother. One day, while visiting her house, the missionaries knocked on her door, and I happened to answer it. As we visited, they asked if they could see my family too. My spouse and I agreed.
At our first meeting, I was surprised to learn that this religion had a book called the Book of Mormon. It contained over a thousand years of history and told the story of Jesus Christ coming to the Americas, paralleling the time period of the Bible. I read the entire book in four days and felt immense joy. I knew with certainty that it was the book I longed for, that God and Jesus Christ loved everyone, even those of us who live in the Americas.

When Janice found herself feeling guilty and frustrated at her inability to meet the expectations she had placed on herself and those she felt others placed on her, she sought Heavenly Father’s help. “Gradually as I drew closer to him,” she said, “I realized how superficial many of my expectations had been, and that I simply did not need to be perfect in every talent and every area that others excelled in. Drawing closer to him led me to an uncluttered perception of what was expected of me and an awareness of my intrinsic worth and potential as his daughter. My frustrations dissipated into a feeling of peace and harmony.”

In a village in South America a group of visitors observed descendants of the Incas using pieces of broken glass and tin can lids to shear their sheep. The visitors invited some of the local leaders to join with them in the center of the village for a demonstration of metal shears. The villagers discovered with interest that with the new tool they could shear ten times as many sheep in the same amount of time. They bartered for some of these shears and have used them since. Effective teaching brought significant changes.

I was sitting on the curb of some dirt road on the edge of town—somewhere in the middle of Argentina. I was a missionary, and this was my first area. My companion was doing an interview, and rather than waste my time I figured I would sit down and study the missionary discussions.
Just as I opened the fifth discussion, I noticed a little boy running playfully across the street like he was being chased. What was he running from? I wondered. What could be so terrible? Then I spotted the dreaded assailant coming from behind. It was a girl. He must have been considering the dreadful things that might happen if she ever caught up with him. Yuck!
Just in the nick of time, the boy saw me. Surely she wouldn’t dare follow him over by an American in a suit. He was right. Pretty soon it was just me, an empty street, and a ten-year-old boy hiding behind my coat.
Suddenly we were in the middle of a gospel discussion as he snatched the fifth discussion out of my hands and read the title. “Living a Christlike life,” he said. I’m not sure what he said after that, but I could see the wheels turning inside. I imagined his question was something like, “Who are you guys, anyway?”
I tried to brush him off with some shallow explanation of what a missionary is, only to be humbled by his profound response. In an attempt to summarize everything I had said, he replied, “¿Ustedes son amigos de Jesucristo?” or “You are friends of Jesus Christ?”
“Yes,” I answered as he ran off to play, unaware of the effect he had had on me.
I couldn’t get his voice out of my head. “¿Ustedes son amigos de Jesucristo?” There was something about the way he said it in Spanish. Did he mean it as a mere statement of fact or an actual question?
Am I a friend of Jesus Christ? I thought. What is a friend of Jesus Christ? A friend to Christ? A friend like Christ?
One morning I stumbled across a passage in the Doctrine and Covenants where the Prophet Joseph Smith records the salutation to be read in the School of the Prophets:
“Art thou a brother or brethren? I salute you in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, in token or remembrance of the everlasting covenant, in which covenant I receive you to fellowship, in a determination that is fixed, immovable, and unchangeable, to be your friend and brother through the grace of God in the bonds of love, to walk in all the commandments of God blameless, in thanksgiving, forever and ever. Amen” (D&C 88:133).
I’ve never found a better definition of what a friend should be. These were brethren who had a determination to be friends, and this prayer explained what that meant. Some of the qualities that impressed me are determined, fixed, immovable, unchangeable, loving, obedient, blameless. I realized that if these were the requirements to be a friend of Jesus Christ, then I wasn’t qualified.
Christ set the perfect example of what it means to be a friend. He asks us to qualify as his friends and receive the blessings that he has made possible. In John 15:14 he said, “Ye are my friends, if ye do whatsoever I command you.” The preceding verse reads, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13).
This is no ordinary friend.
“You are friends of Jesus Christ?” was what the young boy said. All of us need to decide in our own lives if those words are a statement of fact or a probing question.

Another faithful missionary was Carl A. Carlquist, born near Vänersborg in 1857. At age 17, he felt a strong desire to preach the gospel and was called to distribute Church tracts around Jönköping. He was poor, so members of his branch, seven widows and their children, obtained a suit coat and boots for him. Carl didn’t own an overcoat when the winter season came, but he was allowed to borrow one a few hours every day from some of the members when they didn’t need theirs.5

Carl later emigrated to Utah and married Hulda Östergren, a Swedish immigrant. He returned to Sweden two more times on missions, including as mission president of the Scandinavian Mission. Much of his last mission was spent correcting false reports published about the Church by Reverend P. E. Åslev, a pastor who had lived in Salt Lake City and was hired to promote anti-Mormon sentiment in Sweden. For instance, in 1912, Åslev wrote an article in the newspaper Svenska Dagbladet in which he claimed that Brother Carlquist was a polygamist.6 Carl’s efforts included meeting with King Gustaf V and refuting Åslev’s claims in public meetings.7