Gospel Story Finder

I remember when I was young, I had a stutter and had difficulty reading and writing, but my mother always expressed confidence in my ability to overcome these challenges. Her belief in me led me to enter a speech contest for youth held at church. To my surprise, I came in first place among the boys and second overall out of 14 youth in the contest. To this day, I still remember that speech. I was able to do this because I felt the confidence of my mother and leaders to do what was hard for me. I never would have imagined that I would be where I am today, speaking at conferences or writing articles for Church magazines. Our youth need us to believe in their ability to do difficult things as they turn to God and live in a higher and holier way.

In the village where my wife grew up, her parents, who were good churchgoing people, embraced the gospel as a young married couple with my wife as their two-year-old daughter and only child at that time. Their decision to become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had a great impact on their lives as they were shunned by the villagers and by their family. It took many years, loving notes to family members, and service to the community before they were finally accepted.

Not long ago I learned of the passing of James Womack, the patriarch of the Shreveport Louisiana Stake. He had served long and had blessed ever so many lives. Years before, President Spencer W. Kimball shared with President Gordon B. Hinckley, Elder Bruce R. McConkie, and me an experience he had in the appointment of a patriarch for the Shreveport Louisiana Stake of the Church. President Kimball described how he interviewed, how he searched, and how he prayed, that he might learn the Lord’s will concerning the selection. For some reason, none of the suggested candidates was the man for this assignment at this particular time.
The day wore on; the evening meetings began. Suddenly President Kimball turned to the stake president and asked him to identify a particular man seated perhaps two-thirds of the way back from the front of the chapel. The stake president replied that the individual was James Womack, whereupon President Kimball said: “He is the man the Lord has selected to be your stake patriarch. Please have him meet with me in the high council room following the meeting.”
Stake president Charles Cagle was startled, for James Womack did not wear the label of a typical man. He had sustained terrible injuries while in combat during World War II. He lost both hands and part of an arm, as well as most of his eyesight and part of his hearing. Nobody had wanted to let him into law school when he returned, yet he finished third in his class at Louisiana State University.
That evening as President Kimball met with Brother Womack and informed him that the Lord had designated him to be the patriarch, there was a protracted silence in the room. Then Brother Womack said: “Brother Kimball, it is my understanding that a patriarch is to place his hands on the head of the person he blesses. As you can see, I have no hands to place on the head of anyone.”
Brother Kimball, in his kind and patient manner, invited Brother Womack to stand behind the chair on which Brother Kimball was seated. He then said, “Now, Brother Womack, lean forward and see if the stumps of your arms will reach the top of my head.” To Brother Womack’s joy, they touched Brother Kimball’s head, and the exclamation came forth, “I can reach you! I can reach you!”
“Of course you can reach me,” responded Brother Kimball. “And if you can reach me, you can reach any whom you bless. I will probably be the shortest person you will ever have seated before you.”
President Kimball reported to us that when the name of James Womack was presented to the stake conference, “the hands of the members shot heavenward in an enthusiastic vote of approval.”
Remembered were the words of the Lord to the prophet Samuel at the time David was designated to be a future king of Israel: “Man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”

Illustration by Jessica Parker
I was six when I had to leave my birth family. It was very sad and scary. A few months after this happened, I first heard about Jesus Christ.
I started visiting a family who became my foster family. They had lots of kids who were kind to me and loved the Savior. My new family let me go to church with them, and I felt safe and happy there.
It took a few years of going to church and reading scriptures before I understood what the gospel was, and I wanted to get baptized very badly. I was 12 years old when I was finally adopted by my foster family, and I was allowed to be baptized if I wanted to!
At my baptism, I bore my testimony and felt God’s love surround me with a great strength.
Reading the Book of Mormon and learning about Jesus has helped me know I’m not alone and that I’m a child of God. Even when things don’t go how I want, He will always be there for me.
Violet B., Hawaii, USA

When my grandpa became sick, I travelled to Antsirabe to be with him. The missionaries visited his home several times. Grandpa and I were not members of the Church, but he liked visiting with the missionaries. One night, they gave grandpa a blessing, and after a family home evening, they handed us the Book of Mormon.
“Please read this book and ask God if it is true,” they said.
When I returned to Sarodroa, I didn’t want to read the Book of Mormon because I thought it was not true. Then, one day I became so sick that I was stuck in my house for several days. As I looked for something to do, I found the Book of Mormon and started to read.
Later, I returned to Antsirabe and met the missionaries. They taught me more about the Book of Mormon and about the Prophet Joseph Smith. I told them that we didn’t need prophets and that there was no prophet today. The missionaries asked me to pray to God and ask if there is a prophet now. They promised that God would answer me. I prayed and felt that what the missionaries said was true.

As a young man having just finished my first year of college and needing to earn money for a desired mission, I spent the summer working at the new Jackson Lake Lodge in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
One co-worker was Jill, a young woman from San Francisco, California. Feeling that a young woman from a big city might be a little bit naive about her new environment, a few friends and I felt it our obligation to teach her about the ways of the real West. We decided to take her on a “snipe hunt.” For those of you who may not be familiar with a snipe hunt, it is a practical joke. The tools necessary for a snipe hunt are a stick and a cloth bag. The “hunter” is told to go through the brush, beating the bushes with a stick while calling the snipe in a high-pitched, ridiculous voice. The nonexistent snipes are thus to be driven into the cloth bag.
We gave Jill her cloth bag and a stick and an area to hunt across the hill. The plan was to return to our starting point in about 15 minutes, at which time we would supposedly count our snipes.
When she did not return at the appointed time, we gloated and took delight in the seriousness with which she took her hunt. After about 30 minutes, we felt it was time to rescue her, explain the joke, have a good laugh, and all go to dinner. However, it became apparent that she had taken her snipe hunt more seriously than we had expected—she was not to be found in her assigned area. After searching rather extensively and still finding no evidence of her, we began moving into the woods, calling for her at the top of our voices, but to no avail.
Hoping she might have gone back to her dormitory, we returned and asked some young women to search for her there, but this also was to no avail. It was now turning dark, and our concern heightened. We enlisted all the young men we could from the boys’ dormitory, and with flashlights continued the search deep into the woods. Well into the darkness of night—frightened, concerned, and hoarse from calling—we decided it was now time to report our ridiculous deed to the park rangers. While we were standing in front of the dorms, trying to determine which brave soul would have the privilege of reporting her disappearance, Jill suddenly appeared—not from her dormitory, but rather from that of a friend, with whom she had enjoyed dinner (which we incidentally missed) and a comfortable evening with her friends. Her first words to us as she approached said it all: “How do you fellows like hunting snipe hunters?”
The joke was on us, and I have never had a desire for any more snipe hunting.

Tuesday I drove to the airport again to watch the big planes take off and to meet a new companion. I got to see one huge 707 heading for the U.S. It was beautiful. I thought I was going to die of thrills when the engines shook the terminal as the plane took off. My heart went crazy as the “big deliverer” streaked east. Beautiful. Fantastic. Only 30 1/2 days left. I took a deep breath, held it, closed my eyes, and smiled, then slowly let the air out. I looked down at the mission president’s letter. Jensen. I was to meet Jensen. Jensen was 19, two years younger than Ernstein. I watched him enter between the palms, and I couldn’t believe he was so young.
“Good afternoon, Elder Clemens.”
He thrust out his hand, grabbed mine, and crushed it. I smiled and yanked my hand out while it was still mine.
“Hello,” I answered. His smile broadened with my response. I guess he was relieved to know his new companion was human. My hand knew it! He trotted toward the baggage claim. I ran after him. He reached the baggage clerk before I could. He grabbed the wiry man’s hand, crushed it, and with a large smile on display proclaimed that he was Elder Jensen and how did you do and had his luggage arrived. The thin man pushed up a smile and rubbed his hand.
“Right, mate. How are you? Your bag’ll be right in. Ta.” He turned and walked to his desk by the revolving baggage claim table. He sat down and peered over his horse racing paper, the Daily Mirror.
I grabbed Jensen and asked him if he had seen his baggage yet.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, “here it comes. The large blue Samsonite fortnighter is mine. It weighs exactly 44 pounds. The rest of my clothes are in my overcoat. That’s why it’s so heavy. You were probably wondering why.” He smiled down at me as he finished his speech. For the first time I realized he was four inches taller than I was.
I forced a smile back.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Elder Clemens, will you grab that flight bag? It’s light. Thanks.”
I picked up the Pan Am flight bag beside Jensen. The bag was empty except for one thick paperback. It was the Book of Mormon.
“I feel bad about you seeing that, Elder Clemens.” He said my name like it was a novelty that he was anxiously trying to get used too. I still haven’t gotten used to the elder bit. I envied Ernstein. Jensen went on.
“The bag was full. It holds 15 books. My family and relatives in Salt Lake gave me this bag with copies of the Book of Mormon in it at the airport. I sold them all on the plane, all but this one.” He picked it out of the bag, rolled it over in his hands, and put it back. “I must have been meant to keep it.”
I yawned, grabbed the bag, and told him to follow me to the car. I started in the lead, but after four steps I was running after him.
He talked all the way to the flat.
That night I learned that he had been the fattest baby born, vice-president of his high school, and president of his seminary classes all four years. He had memorized 60 scriptures and all of the missionary lessons. He also promised his parents that he would baptize 24 people in his two years. He asked me who we would baptize this week. He frowned when I told him no one. I then told him we were going to bed. He agreed, finally.
Wednesday morning he volunteered to cook breakfast. We went to knock on doors at 9:00 A.M. Outside it was 90 degrees with 80 percent humidity. I was used to it by then, but my tall, thin, blonde companion was shocked by the heat. He winced as we stepped out of our cool basement apartment into the hot Brisbane air. As usual the sky was blue—no clouds, no breeze. We walked four blocks to a new street. It hadn’t been tracted for nearly two years. I was the last missionary to knock on its doors. It had been my first street. It had been awful. All old people and not interested. Everyone of them poor. The street was a waste, just like this area. And they stick me back here again with only one month until I’m out. I was a greenhorn the first time, but now I had a greeny to take care of. And in Brisbane. I hate Brisbane.
Jensen talked all the way to the first home. When we were walking up to the door, I sprung my trap.
“Jensen, this is your door. Go to it,” I announced. He looked at me slightly dazed. His eyes squinted in the bright sun. The perspiration had already soaked his white shirt under his arms. He carried a Book of Mormon in his right hand.
“Do you have any pamphlets?” was all he asked as he looked back down at me. I told him yes—one “Joseph Smith’s Testimony,” three “The Word of Wisdom,” and seven “Why Mormons Build Temples.” People liked them.
“How about a ‘Which Church Is Right’ pamphlet?” he queried.
“I never bring them. Puts people off. Makes them think we are pushing religion.” I settled that question.
He shrugged his shoulders and arrogantly walked up the final steps to the door. He twisted the knob of the doorbell. Australians have cheap doorbells. They are like our bicycle bells.
The door was pulled open, and an old man with a pipe looked down at us.
“Yes, sirs, can I help you boys?” he drawled in his Australian accent. Jensen quickly answered the inquiry.
“Yes, sir, you may.” The big smile was all over his face. I stood patiently by his left side.
“My companion, Elder Clemens, and I are talking to the good folks on this street, and we wonder if we might chat with you today?” His tone was sweet and phony. I could tell I was going to have to change him. That’s how Ernstein had helped me.
The old man stared back without a smile.
“What do you want to chat with me about, mate?”
“Well, sir,” Jensen flowed on, “we are representatives of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and …”
The door slammed. I turned to go.
“Wait, Elder Clemens,” he stated. He turned and rang the bell again. I quickly turned to run. He grabbed my arm. “One more chance, Elder.” He didn’t even say it like a question.
“Look, Elder,” I pleaded, “don’t bother the old guy.” I tried to talk sense to him. “He doesn’t want to hear. Let him alone.” My tone now was firm.
I was interrupted when the door suddenly opened. The old man was framed in the doorway like Quasimodo. Jensen began acting again. I could tell it was all an act.
“Sir, I am sorry if you think we are bothering you, but if you will only let us explain why we are here. Have you heard of the Mormons?” His tone got softer as he spoke.
“Leave me alone, son.” His voice was deep, and I knew we had really annoyed him.
“I will, sir, but not until I tell you I care about you.”
I couldn’t believe it. The old man couldn’t either. He went quiet and looked unbelieving. He then bowed his head. I started to speak to avoid a further catastrophe.
“I am sorry, sir, and we will be going …”
Jensen cut me off.
“I mean that, sir. You see, sir, we believe you are our brother, since we are all children of God.”
He paused on “God” and waited for the old man to respond. The old man’s head was still bowed. He began to raise his head at the sudden silence, but Jensen continued.
“We feel it our duty and responsibility to tell you our message. It is a message of love and happiness. Please let us share it with you. Please, sir.” He was straining now. I put my finger through the back belt loop of his new pants. He didn’t respond.
By now the old man’s head was turning back and forth and his pipe was in his left hand. A cane in his right hand held him up. He was taking deep breaths, so I knew he was furious. I thought he was going to have a stroke right there. I pulled on the belt loop twice. Jensen turned his head around slowly. I did an instant double take as I saw his face. There were tears in his eyes. He turned his head away as I began to twitch the left side of my lips in disbelief and disgust. What a phony he is. I wanted to yank him off the porch that second, sit him down, and set him straight. The old man stopped me. He looked up. He was barely able to say what he said.
“You,” he paused and then continued in a deep voice, “you mean that?”
Jensen stared back.
“Yes, sir, I do.” He stood a little taller and went on. “I know our message will only bring you happiness. I know it’s true.” His tone was soft, but emphatic. He paused for a second, maybe two, and then fed him the same line we always use. “You see, sir, we come to Australia on our own time and at our own expense for two years. I couldn’t bear to tell a lie, especially for two years.” He sounded very convincing, but he wasn’t. He continued, “We only want to make you happy. If you want us to leave and let you alone, we will respect your wishes.”
“Yes,” whispered the old man. “Please leave me alone.” His head was bent again. Only the soft bald top of his head was showing. I knew it—he wanted us to leave. We were wasting his time. I pulled on Jensen’s arm. He turned around and grabbed the Joseph Smith pamphlet out of my pocket.
“Okay, sir, but will you read this?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It is short. It contains part of the message we have.” He waited for a reaction from the old man, but ended up breaking the silence himself. “Our phone number is on the back. If you want to hear more, please call us. We won’t keep you any longer.”
The old man took the pamphlet between his pipe and fingers, and we left.
When we were past the gate, the door to the house shut. I turned on Jensen. I let it flow.
“What were you trying to prove back there?” I snapped at him. “He wasn’t interested; he told you so. Not only that, you wasted our only Joseph Smith pamphlet on an old man. He’ll just throw it away. He can’t even read.”
Jensen’s head was now bowed and his shoulders were slouched. He apologized and followed me to the next door. I showed him how to do it on the next door, but they weren’t interested.
Jensen was quiet for the next three days. I think he was homesick. But today we got a phone call. That old man wants to talk to us.

“Later my father also served as the Oakley First Ward bishop. Even though he died when I was eight years old, I remember him well. He was the local banker. I used to like to go downtown and walk into the bank and see my father talking with someone at his desk. I grew up with the image of my father helping people. He understood that service is an inherent part of the gospel.

Looking forward to the reestablishment of the true Church, Joseph completed translation of the Book of Mormon July 1, 1829. The translation was finished at the Peter Whitmer, Sr., home in Fayette, New York. The small group of believers lending their support to the Prophet’s work was beginning to grow. Three of these supporters, Oliver Cowdery, Martin Harris, and David Whitmer, were shown the plates by an angel and became witnesses of their existence. Eight others, friends and family members, added their joint testimony after having handled the plates, and both statements were printed with the Book of Mormon. Joseph Smith secured a copyright on June 11, 1829, and made arrangements in August to have Egbert B. Grandin, of Palmyra, print the new scripture. Martin Harris contracted to pay $3,000 for the first edition of 5,000. copies, and eventually had to sell a portion of his farm to obtain the money. Late in March 1830 the first bound copies of the Book of Mormon were distributed.

Later: Adventures. I dearly love adventures! Whenever I find myself getting stale or just feeling downright blah, I decide I must have an adventure. My best are those that test the powers of observation. I pick a street I know well and find something new there. I have never yet been disappointed.

Whenever a prayer is offered on a date, whether kneeling in your home or in the mountains, the important thing is to have faith and be in tune so that after your prayer is offered you are prepared to listen for and expect an answer. This is beautifully illustrated by the testimony of a young girl who attended summer camp. During her camping experience it was suggested by one of the leaders that the girls might want to find a private spot in nature where they could be by themselves and talk with God. Some weeks later in a fast and testimony meeting, Becky stood up and told about how she had found a private spot, knelt down in a quiet, wooded area surrounded by tall pines and a few quaking aspens, and offered a simple prayer: “Father in heaven, do you know I’m here?” She went on to tell how she waited and waited, and as a breeze fluttered the leaves, she opened her eyes to see the rays of sun filter through the trees. She said a feeling came over her, and with deep emotion these were her words, “You may not think it was anything, but I knew He knew I was there.”

As you seek earnestly for direction you will want to remember the admonition given in the Doctrine and Covenants: “Be thou humble; and the Lord thy God shall lead thee by the hand, and give thee answer to thy prayers.” (D&C 112:10.) And finally, in paraphrasing the words of Becky’s testimony regarding prayer, “There may be some who will not think it is anything, but you will know that He knows that you are there.”

In recognition of its welfare contributions in Madagascar, LDS Humanitarian Services received the Chevalier de L’Ordre Nationale Madagascar award in June 2008 from the country’s Ministry of Health. In 2007 and 2008, the Church provided equipment for dentists treating patients in remote areas and for doctors to perform cataract surgery. The Church has also donated 500 wheelchairs and completed clean water projects for 17 communities.

“No, bishop, I don’t think I’m going on a mission.”
These were my words as I declined every invitation from my bishop to consider going on a mission. When my family became members of the Church, there were many things we had to learn and unlearn. Being first-generation Church members, in our family going on a mission was something we neither discussed nor considered. It seemed like a big sacrifice.
Still, I was an active member of the Church. I would attend all my meetings and accept responsibilities as they were extended. I was in my second year of studying accounting when the bishop called me to be the financial clerk.
One Wednesday, I was faced with trying to find an error in the records. I felt helpless as I labored to find the three centavos’ difference between the Church’s and the bank’s records. The report was due the next day and that compounded my problem. The only sensible thing to do was to ask for help.
I approached my bishop and explained my predicament. It surprised me that instead of immediately reviewing the report, he invited me to kneel and pray with him as we explained our problem to the Lord. When we got up from our knees, the bishop asked to see the report. Almost immediately and without using a calculator, he pointed to a column and said, “This is where your problem is.”
I totaled the numbers, and, sure enough, he was right. I felt overwhelmed. It seemed I had just witnessed a miracle. My young and feeble testimony of the Church was strengthened. I gained a stronger conviction that this was the true Church.
While I was still wrapped up in this experience, the bishop asked, “Now are you going on a mission?”
This time, I said yes.
As I left the meetinghouse that night, I had with me all the missionary papers I needed to fill out. Within a few months from when my bishop submitted my missionary recommendation form, I was called to serve a full-time mission in the Philippines Baguio Mission.
It has been many years since that night. After completing a two-year mission, I returned to school and obtained my college degree, four years behind the normal age. If I had to do it over again I would still choose to serve.
I’m thankful for a bishop who obeyed a prompting to ask the right question at the right time. I’m also thankful to Heavenly Father who not only helped me find the three centavos to reconcile my report but who also led me to a wealth of missionary experiences without price.

I’ve just received my first issue of the New Era and I love it. I’m a new member of the Church. I’m 16 and I joined the Church in November. One of my in-laws signed me up for the New Era as a gift. I sat down the very first day I received it and read the entire book. I don’t often read magazines. All of the stories are touching and captivating. I love reading the New Era and look forward to future issues.
Melba JenkinsBrooksville, Florida

Hanging Christmas stockings is another tradition that children down under share with other countries. But the Munro family in Auckland, New Zealand, have made a nice twist to personalize the family tradition. “We fill our parents’ stockings,” said Rachel Munro. “They hang their stockings along with ours,” added her brother, John, “and the children are in charge of filling them.”

“Bookworm! Bookworm!”
Katie pretended she didn’t hear Brian and Matt yelling. She hugged her books to her chest and walked faster, but the taunts still rang down the hall. “Bookworm! Bookworm!”
She felt her face getting hot, and she wanted to turn around and scream at them. Instead she half ran, half walked the rest of the way to the school library door, pulled it open, and slipped inside. She could still hear Brian and Matt laughing.
“Hi, Katie,” said Mrs. Reid. Katie thought it was funny for the librarian to be named Mrs. Reid.
“Hi,” said Katie softly, looking at the floor.
“What’s the matter, Katie?”
“Oh, just Brian and Matt. They were being mean again and calling me dumb names like ‘bookworm.’”
Mrs. Reid began to laugh. Katie looked up at her in surprise, and a sick feeling started in her stomach. “It isn’t funny!”
“Sure it is,” said Mrs. Reid, trying to stop her laughter. “I thought a bookworm was a squiggly bug that eats novels. And I have never ever seen you with your mouth full of pages!”
Katie looked down at the books in her arms and started to smile a little as she thought, What would those boys think if they saw me chewing up books and spitting out the covers? Aloud she said, “Mrs. Reid, you are the silliest grown-up I’ve ever met!”
“Sure,” said Mrs. Reid. “That’s one reason you like me. Now, can I show you my favorite book for this week? Or are you still reading the Black Stallion?”
“No, I finished it. It was as good as you said it would be!”
While Mrs. Reid went to get the book she had saved, Katie sat by one of the desks and looked at the new bulletin board. It said, BE KIND TO YOUR BOOKS.
Just last week Katie’s dad had said almost the same thing. Katie’s brother, Sam, had dropped his scriptures on the lawn after church. Dad had put his hands on his hips and said, “Samuel Jacob Rotheree, please take better care of my favorite books!”
Katie knew why they were Dad’s favorite books, even though they didn’t have shiny pictures on the covers like Mrs. Reid’s did. It was because they told about Jesus.
Mrs. Reid came back waving a new novel. “Wait until you read this, Katie!”
While Mrs. Reid was checking out the new book, Katie leaned against the desk. “Mrs. Reid,” she asked, “do you know about Jesus?”
Mrs. Reid looked surprised. “Well, sure. But I don’t think about Him much. Why?”
“Oh,” said Katie. “I just wondered.” She took the book and left the library. How could anyone not think about Jesus much?
That night when Katie was ready for bed, Dad came in to hear her say her prayers and tuck her in.
“Dad, Mrs. Reid says she doesn’t think about Jesus very much.”
Dad sat down on the edge of her bed. “Who is Mrs. Reid?”
“The school librarian. She’s really nice. She always saves her favorite books for me, and they’re good ones too. But she said she doesn’t think about Jesus. I thought everyone thought about Him.”
“Do you think about Jesus?”
“Yes.” Katie looked at the picture of Jesus she had hung on the wall. “I love Him because He is so kind.”
Dad squeezed her hand and smiled. “Why else do you love Jesus?”
Katie squinted her eyes and thought. “Well,” she said slowly, “because I like to read stories about Him—like when He went to see the Nephites and blessed all the little children.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Reid knows that story.”
Suddenly Katie felt excited. She sat straight up in bed. “Yeah, Dad! What if she doesn’t know that story? Can I take her a Book of Mormon?”
Dad was really smiling now. “Sure—that’s a good idea. I’ll tell you what, Katie. I have a brand new copy of the Book of Mormon that you can give her. I’ll get it for you.” In a few minutes he came back with a blue Book of Mormon that had a picture of the Angel Moroni on the cover. He suggested that Katie write her testimony in the front of it.
For a long time Katie chewed on the end of her pencil and tried to think of what to write. Finally she carefully wrote:
Dear Mrs. Reid,
This is my favorite book because it tells about Jesus. Jesus is Heavenly Father’s Son, and I love Him. I hope you love Him too. I love you, Mrs. Reid.
Your friend, Katie Rotheree.
When she finished writing, she felt warm, happy, and sleepy. Dad hugged her tight and said, “I’ll wrap it for you.”
The next morning Katie walked slowly to the library. She wondered if Mrs. Reid would like her present. Katie was so nervous that she almost didn’t want to give it to her anymore.
Brian and Matt came around the corner and saw her. “Hey! It’s the bookworm!” Matt sang out.
Katie ran to the library. Taking a deep breath, she walked right up to Mrs. Reid and held out the Book of Mormon.
“Good morning, Katie,” said Mrs. Reid. “What’s this?”
“My favorite book,” said Katie. “I want to give it to you so you can read it too.”
The librarian unwrapped the package, opened the book, and read what Katie had written. Then she closed the book and looked into Katie’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’ll read it. And, Katie, I love you too.”
The warm feeling Katie had had the night before came back, only stronger. She felt as if she could hug the whole world.
The warning bell was ringing as Katie waved good-bye to Mrs. Reid and went back out into the hall.
“Hi, bookworm,” said Brian as he and Matt walked past her.
Katie felt so good that she just giggled. Brian and Matt looked surprised. “I am a bookworm!” she said. “Do you want to see me eat books?”
Brian and Matt looked at her, then at each other. Suddenly all three of them were laughing and hurrying together down the hall to class.

Several months after my baptism, my younger brother, Oswaldo, joined another church and actively participated in its congregation. But I wanted Oswaldo to know what I knew to be true. In particular, I wanted him to connect with the words of the prophets.
Each month, when I received the Liahona magazine, I would share it with Oswaldo. I suggested that some of the topics in the magazine could help him prepare for meetings in his church. I was pleased when he accepted my suggestion. Many years went by, however, and I was saddened to see that my brother would not accept the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
One morning, Oswaldo told our family that he was planning to leave our home in Ecuador and travel to Switzerland. He accepted a blessing from me the day he departed. It was an emotional moment for me because the Spirit whispered to my heart that this journey would bring Oswaldo closer to the Savior and to His Church.
In Switzerland, Oswaldo met the missionaries and eventually invited them to his home. Over time he established a close friendship with them. But he told me that if the missionaries brought up the topic of baptism, he would no longer receive them. Imagine my surprise and joy when I received an email from him telling me that he was getting baptized. I had joined the Church in 1981. Oswaldo was baptized 20 years later, in May 2001. He received his endowment in July 2002, and he was sealed to his wife in February 2003.
When Oswaldo returned to Ecuador, he bore his testimony in a sacrament meeting. With tears in his eyes, he said, “My brother shared the words of the prophets with me. These words inspired me as I prepared for meetings in the church I attended before, and many people were edified this way. The words of the prophets changed my life. Through them, I came to know that the gospel of Jesus Christ is again upon the earth in its fulness, with power and authority.”
In February 2011, Oswaldo and I were sealed to our parents in the Guayaquil Ecuador Temple. The words of prophets have blessed our family for eternity.

Consider the sister, just recently baptized, who accepted a calling to teach a Relief Society lesson. When she could not arrange transportation one Sunday morning, she walked the eleven miles to the meetinghouse and gave her lesson in order to honor her commitment.

The next day Tanner went shopping with his mom. While they stood in line, a little boy in front of them was crying.
Tanner knew he could help. He did his happy dance for the unhappy boy. The boy was soon smiling and laughing. “Thank you,” the boy’s mom said.

Recently I worked up the courage to look through my old poems. I found two very fat files—one labeled “Poems, Very Bad,” and the other labeled “Poems, Almost As Bad.”
Very privately, I read a few and skimmed a lot. They dated through my high school and college days, and most were still sticky with honest adolescent suffering.
I was interested, however, to see the forms I had been using back then. There were lots of sonnets, quatrains, a triplet or two, varying degrees of free verse, and hundreds of nondescript pieces. But one form that I rediscovered with much affection—and found I had used more than fifty times—is the haiku.