Gospel Story Finder

It’s easy to survive the loss of some things—pencils, telephone numbers, even umbrellas—but when a name is accidentally left off a guest list, there’s only one thing to do—hurry over and make amends.
That’s why Lee Ann and Gloria were standing in front of Brother and Sister Facer’s doorway, knocking on the door. When the Facers answered, the two young women eagerly explained why they had come. “Our stake Mutual is having a Thanksgiving dinner for all the senior citizens in our stake, and we hope you will be able to come!”
“We’d love to!” exclaimed the older couple. “We haven’t had our children with us during the holidays in such a long time. What a special treat to be remembered by you young people. We’ll be there!”
As the two girls from the Taylorsville Utah First Ward, Taylorsville Utah Stake, walked back toward their homes, they breathed sighs of relief, knowing that at last all details were being taken care of.

Not long ago, my wife and I decided that we should more fully experience the beauty of an area close to our home in northwest Montana. We determined to take our bicycles to the Hiawatha Trail, a converted rail line that crosses the beautiful Rocky Mountains between Montana and Idaho. We anticipated a fun day with good friends, enjoying the natural beauty of the area.
We knew our ride along the magnificent 15-mile (24 km) trail would include trestles stretching over deep canyons and long tunnels penetrating rugged mountains. So we prepared ourselves with lights strapped to our helmets and bicycles.
Those who had gone before warned us that the tunnels were dark and that we needed really strong lights. As we gathered in front of the massive stone opening of the Taft Tunnel, a caretaker explained some of the dangers of the trail, including deep ditches along the edges, rough walls, and complete darkness. Impatiently, we pushed forward into the tunnel. After we had ridden only a few minutes, the predicted darkness engulfed us. The lights I brought proved inadequate, and the darkness soon overwhelmed them. Suddenly, I began to feel anxious, confused, and disoriented.
I was embarrassed to admit my anxieties to my friends and family. Although an experienced cyclist, I now felt as though I had never ridden a bicycle. I struggled to stay upright as my confusion increased. Finally, after I did express my discomfort to those around me, I was able to draw closer to the more powerful light of a friend. In fact, everyone in the group began to form a tight circle around him. By staying close to him and relying for a time on his light and the collective light of the group, we pushed deeper into the darkness of the tunnel.
After what seemed like hours, I saw a pinpoint of light. Almost immediately, I began to feel reassured that all would be well. I continued to press forward, relying on both the light of my friends and the growing pinpoint of light. My confidence gradually returned as the light grew in size and intensity. Long before reaching the end of the tunnel, I no longer needed the assistance of my friends. All anxiety disappeared as we pedaled quickly toward the light. I felt calm and reassured even before we rode into the morning full of warmth and splendor.

What would the city fathers think if on a given day I showed up on one of the runways of the Idaho Falls airport or the middle of one of the grassy fields in Freeman Park with a backhoe and started digging large holes? When they asked me what I was doing, I would respond that I wanted to dig up the old garbage that I had made over the years.
I suspect they would tell me that there was no way to identify my personal garbage, that it had been reclaimed and buried long ago. I’m sure that they would tell me that I had no right to dig up the garbage and that I was destroying something very beautiful and useful that they had made out of my garbage. In short, I don’t think they would be very pleased with me. I suppose that they would wonder why anyone would want to destroy something so beautiful and useful in an attempt to dig up old garbage.

When Joseph Smith was seven, a bone in his leg had to be cut out. The doctor offered Joseph liquor. Joseph would not drink it. The doctor wanted to tie Joseph to the bed. Again Joseph refused. His father held him tightly in his arms during the operation.

“I used to go hunting sometimes with my father. After he died I went alone, but quickly realized that I hadn’t enjoyed hunting much—what I had really enjoyed was being with him. Dad was the kind of father, who, when his two sons were hoeing weeds and knew they were going to die if they didn’t stop to get a drink, would say, ‘One more row, boys.’ And when we made ice cream he’d encourage, ‘Only ten more cranks, son.’ He taught me self-discipline and to go to bed early and get up early. He always helped me ‘stretch’ my efforts.

I was helping my mom look through a pile of Ensigns when I found a stack of New Eras that dated all the way back to the early 1970s. I was only born in 1971! I started flipping through them, and I am now addicted to this magazine. I have always been the “sweet” one of the family, but I have recently started taking wrong paths that would eventually lead me away from Heavenly Father. Nothing really serious like moral problems or drugs, but I was using bad language and thinking bad thoughts.
I now realize that I have done wrong. I prayed for help very earnestly, and I didn’t doubt the Lord, but I wasn’t sure it was enough. A couple of days later I found these magazines and their very spiritual articles, and I am fasting now. I have never fasted before in my lifetime. I am fasting with a happy countenance because I am thanking the Lord for all he has done for me. You will never know how special this experience is for me.
Lizabeth BartlettRalston, Nebraska

For the Saints leaving New York, their first place of refuge was Kirtland, Ohio. When they arrived, they found many people ready to receive the restored gospel.

Among those who had been prepared were Newel K. Whitney and his wife, Elizabeth Ann. The two embraced the gospel in 1830 after missionaries brought the Book of Mormon to their home. Over the next two decades, the Whitneys moved with the Saints from Kirtland to Missouri to Illinois, sacrificing time, talents, family relationships, and prosperity to help build up the Church.

Active in Church leadership, Newel was often away from Elizabeth Ann. “During all these absences and separations from my husband,” she wrote, “I never felt to murmur or complain in the least. … I was more than satisfied to have him give all, time, talents and ability into the service of the Kingdom of God; and the change in our circumstances and associations which were consequent upon our embracing the Gospel, never caused me a moment’s sorrow” (“A Leaf from an Autobiography,” Woman’s Exponent, 1 October 1878, 71).

Julia’s heart pounded as she peeked into the empty room. The Primary classroom, with its half circle of folding chairs and dusty chalkboard, looked exactly like hers at home. But Julia’s stomach flip-flopped as she walked through the door. Things might look the same, but Julia knew they weren’t. Today she was a visitor.
Julia sank into the chair farthest from the door. She loved everything about her family’s summer visits to see cousins and grandparents, except for being a visitor in a different ward. Singing Primary songs and learning about the Savior was nice, but she didn’t like sitting by herself and not knowing anyone.
Julia also didn’t like listening to the other kids talk and laugh together while no one even looked at her. To her, it felt like no one cared if she came or not. It was like being invisible—Julia, the amazing invisible visitor!
Julia twirled her long blonde braids and wished she were back home with her own Primary teacher, Sister Johansson, and her best friend, Hanna. “Maybe this time will be different,” she told herself as she adjusted her glasses and smoothed her skirt one more time. “Maybe if I try really hard, I can make it different.”
Julia jumped as the door opened. Three girls stepped into the room, talking excitedly. Two boys followed. Julia took a quick breath and forced her mouth into a smile.
“Hi!” she burst out. Suddenly everyone’s eyes were on her. Julia’s face got hot.
“Uh, hi,” mumbled one of the girls.
“Are you new?” another girl asked.
Julia cleared her throat. “No, I’m just visiting my grandma.”
“Oh.”
Everyone chose a seat. Julia’s smile faded when she realized that each chair was taken except the one next to her. No one said a word to Julia. She stared at her hands. “The amazing invisible visitor strikes again,” she thought. A tear slid down her cheek.
A week later Julia’s heart seemed to float as she hurried down the hallway at church. It was so good to be home! When she walked into her classroom, Hanna was already there.
“Hi, Julia! I’m so glad you’re back!” Hanna said.
Julia sat down next to Hanna. Soon they were laughing and talking. Julia had just started to tell Hanna all about her week with Grandma when a tall, slender girl with reddish-gold hair appeared in the doorway. Julia watched the girl slip into the chair farthest from the door and sit by herself.
“She must be a visitor,” Julia thought. “Boy, am I glad it’s not me this time!” The girl raised her eyes to look around and then stared down at her hands. Julia’s heart twisted as no one said a word to the visitor. “I wish being the visitor didn’t have to be so hard,” she thought. “It should be different!” Last Sunday flashed through her mind for a moment as she remembered being the sad, invisible visitor. She blinked. Wait a minute—she could make it different this time!
Julia stood up. “Hi,” she said with a smile. She crossed the room and sat down in the chair next to the girl. “Are you visiting today?”
The girl looked up with wide eyes, and then her face lit up. “Yes, I’m visiting my aunt. Are you visiting too?”
Julia shook her head. “No, but I know how it is,” she explained. “I’m Julia. What’s your name?”
“Ella.”
“Want to come over and sit with Hanna and me?”
Ella grinned and nodded. As the two girls moved back across the room, Julia felt warm inside. “No invisible visitors allowed!” she thought. “Not if I can help it!”

I am grateful that my parents and grandparents provided such traditions of learning for our family. My father wrote this account of how his parents taught their children:
“[The] musical, cheerful voice [of my mother] called, ‘Come, children, it is the singing and story hour.’ … She seated herself in a well-used rocking chair, admonished us to listen carefully, to sing well, and to ask questions. …
“… We learned the words of the song by rote, and the meaning or story of each song was made clear to us. ‘Joseph Smith’s First Prayer’ brought to us the story of the restoration of the gospel and the story of his life was made most impressive. ‘Come, Come, Ye Saints’ opened the door to the richness of pioneer achievement, faith, and loyalty. …
“… A testimony of Joseph Smith’s divine calling, of the authenticity of the Book of Mormon, and above all, the reality of our Heavenly Father and his Son, Jesus Christ, were the blessings derived from the family song and story hour.” My father further wrote: “My heart is filled with gratitude to my angel mother for … teaching me the doctrines of repentance, faith, baptism, and the gift of the Holy Ghost. She taught me the power and blessing of prayer, of the actual existence of the Father and the Son, and that Joseph Smith saw and talked to them when a boy fourteen years of age. We knew from her teaching that our Prophet saw other heavenly messengers … , and that through them the Church of Jesus Christ was restored to the earth.”

When I was 16, I moved into a Taiwanese ward. Ken, a 13-year-old, had recently been baptized. But shortly after his baptism, Ken almost never attended church. I had a great desire to help Ken come back to church.
I invited him to come to several Church activities. Ken played basketball at Mutual and joined the youth choir. He and his sister, Linda, also began to attend the free English classes taught by my family and the missionaries. Soon Linda began to attend youth activities as well. I could see God’s hand helping us.
Ken’s family wondered why my family tried to help Ken and Linda. We told them that the gospel had brought us great joy, and we really wanted others to find the same joy and peace from the Savior. Later, Linda and Ken accepted our invitation to go to church. Linda came and had an awesome experience. However, Ken was ill, and when I prayed about what I could do to help him, I felt impressed that we should bring him the sacrament. With the bishop’s permission, our family went over to his house, and my brother and I helped administer the sacrament to him. We also visited with his family. I felt peaceful.
Our family has prayed for Ken, and all of us feel love for Ken and his family. The youth and adults in the ward and stake continue to fellowship Ken and Linda. The members’ combined efforts to minister are helping Ken and Linda feel the love of the Savior. This experience of trying to minister like the Savior has brought great joy to my life. Ministering is the Lord’s work, and because it is His work, His hand will guide our ministering efforts.

Recently I took my three-year-old granddaughter to a sacrament meeting where a young man was speaking prior to leaving for a mission. I had brought the usual books and things to encourage her to be reverent, but she’s a bright and energetic little girl, so at one point I stood her beside me on the bench so she could see the missionary who was speaking. Then I whispered in her ear, “This young man is going on a mission, and that means he is going to live far away from home and go around telling people all about Jesus.” She looked all around the chapel filled with people and said, “Well, where is Jesus anyway?” She had seen His picture in Primary, but she could not find Him in the audience.
I cannot tell you how glad I was that I could tell her where Jesus is. As she can understand, I will tell her who He is, what He has done for her and for me, and what He can mean in her life. I was reminded on that occasion what a great opportunity we as women have to influence the lives of those around us. I love my children and my grandchildren, and I desire to keep them safe. Sometimes this world is a frightening place to be. I believe, however, that women have unique opportunities and special gifts and talents to protect, nurture, and influence others. We can create places of security where marriages, children, and families can thrive and avoid the evil of the world.

The sky is still black when 15-year-old Jossie Comandao and her father, Domingo L. Comandao, awaken. They get up every school day at about 4 A.M. “When the alarm rings,” Brother Comandao explains. “I have to use an alarm clock.”
The Comandaos live in Tatalon, one of several relocation areas in Manila, capital of the Philippines. “We don’t have any running water,” Brother Comandao explains. “So after breakfast I must go fetch water so Jossie can take a bath.” Jossie wants to be bright and fresh for her seminary class. As soon as she’s ready, she and her father begin the one-and-a-half mile walk to the stake center.
Jossie’s regular school classes don’t begin until 7 A.M., and her father doesn’t have to be to work until 8 o’clock. “So we have plenty of time to walk,” Jossie says. “And I enjoy talking to my father.” They both carry their scriptures with them, and gospel discussions are common.
Friends smile and wave as the Comandaos arrive at the church. While Jossie visits with her friends, her father rests for a moment before turning to walk back home.
“I am very grateful for the seminary program,” he says. “It has been most worthwhile for my daughter. Seminary has helped her to be more industrious and to learn to prepare assignments on time. It has also helped her to make many good, strong friends. It has also helped us as a family.”
He pauses. “My wife is not yet a member, but perhaps as she sees Jossie grow in the knowledge of the gospel, she will realize how important the Church is to all of us.”
Inside the classroom, Jossie and her fellow students are eager to share their own appreciation for early-morning seminary.
“I enjoy seminary because I feel myself and the members of this church being blessed through it,” Jossie says. “I know that if we prepare ourselves and become worthy people, we will receive great blessings at the Second Coming of Christ.”
The lesson ends all too soon. Following a closing prayer, Jossie and the other students walk out to the parking lot and linger for a moment, talking and savoring seminary’s happy spirit. The gospel light is rising, like the sun that is now greeting the radiant morning. A moment later, Jossie is running to catch a bus that will take her to school. It’s a direct route—she doesn’t even have to transfer.

The children learn to read and write Finnish and usually learn Swedish as a second language. Not many years ago they would have learned only Swedish. Their own language was dying out and was not spoken. Then in the early 1800’s a young Finn named Elias Lonnrot began traveling about Finland collecting legends, folk songs, and riddles. To do this, he had to learn Finnish, as he had been taught only Swedish in school. Mr. Lonnrot wanted Finnish people to speak and write their own language and to be proud of their heritage. He published all the old legends and folk songs he had gathered and had them printed in the Finnish language. Through the efforts of Lonnrot and other literary patriots, Finnish has become the country’s major language.

Lisa loved to dance. Twice a week she went to Mrs. Joule’s ballet school for lessons. But no matter how hard she worked, Lisa felt she would never be as good as Susan or Jody, the best students in the class. The proof was in the mirrors that covered one whole wall of the huge ballet practice room.
Oh, those knees! thought Lisa as she stared at her reflection. Why do they have to stick out when everyone else’s are straight? Lisa worried because her toes didn’t point as gracefully or her legs kick as high as the rest of the girls’. She also believed that she was the only one who ever fell down while doing ballet turns across the room. Lisa wanted to be in the first line, where all the best dancers were, instead of the second or third line. If she became good enough, Mrs. Joule would move her up, but that seemed impossible.
One afternoon when Lisa reached into her bag for her pink ballet slippers, they weren’t there. She had left them at home. “Mrs. Joule,” she called, “may I borrow a pair of slippers?”
“Of course,” her teacher replied, and she brought in a big box full of slippers that she kept for such an emergency. Each pair was folded neatly and held together with a rubber band.
After sorting through a few pairs with Mrs. Joule, Lisa found a nearly new pair of pink slippers that were held with satin ribbons instead of strips of elastic as her own were. They were exactly her size! “How about these?” she asked.
“Fine,” Mrs. Joule responded, adding, “I remember these shoes. They belonged to Eileen Webster, who’s with a big ballet company now. I’m proud to say she is one of their best dancers.”
Lisa slipped the shoes on and tied the smooth satin ribbons around her ankles. How comfortable they were. In fact, Eileen Webster’s shoes felt wonderfully special. And so did Lisa. She daydreamed about being a great ballerina until someone shook her shoulder. “It’s time for class,” Susan said.
That afternoon Lisa danced better than usual. She did every step the best that she could. She wanted to be another Eileen Webster, and the shoes were helping her. The mirrors reflected a new Lisa. Mrs. Joule even called on her to demonstrate a particular dance step. For once, Susan and Jody were following her, and Lisa was careful not to make any mistakes.
After class Lisa went up to Mrs. Joule and asked, “If I give you my old shoes, do you think I could keep this pair?”
“If you’d like,” replied Mrs. Joule. “Do they feel all right?”
“They’re perfect!” said Lisa.
The next time Lisa went to class she exchanged her own worn slippers for Eileen Webster’s almost new ones. As time passed she started coming early so that she could practice before class. Sometimes she stayed later with Susan and Jody to work on different kinds of ballet steps and turns. And she was soon moved to the front line. She was also the first student to do two turns in place instead of just one.
“That was really good!” Susan said sincerely.
“Thanks,” said Lisa. She couldn’t tell Susan that it was the shoes that made her dance so well. That had to be a secret. There wasn’t another pair like them. They helped her leap higher, land more softly, arch her feet more gracefully, and twirl around like a toy top.
As dance recital time drew near when all the students in the class would present what they had learned before an audience of parents and friends, Lisa’s class met more often to rehearse their dances. Lisa noticed that her shoes were showing signs of wear. The once-smooth leather looked wrinkled, and the soft pink color was not so pink any more. The ribbons became unstitched and were resewed again and again. But because the shoes were so important to Lisa, Mrs. Joule did not insist that she get new ones for the recital. “Clean them up the best you can,” she said.
Shortly before the show was to start on the first night, Lisa was practicing her solo when she felt the bare floor against her foot. The sole of her shoes had torn, leaving a big hole! She had to find Mrs. Joule.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Mrs. Joule. “It’s a good thing I brought the box of extra shoes. You certainly can’t wear these. Not only do they look terrible, but this torn one is dangerous. Lisa, these shoes are worn out.”
“Mrs. Joule,” cried Lisa, her eyes wide with panic, “I have to wear them! Oh, please try to fix them. I’ll never be able to dance without them!”
Lisa felt sick to her stomach. Without those slippers, I’ll dance like the old Lisa. I’ll make mistakes and embarrass everybody. She shivered at the thoughts going through her head.
“All right, Lisa,” said Mrs. Joule. “I’ll see what can be done. Now go get dressed. I’ll bring your shoes to you.”
Lisa went to the dressing room. Nervously she touched her hair. Where, she wondered, is Mrs. Joule? She did several fast turns to see if her hair would stay in place. It was fine. What’s keeping Mrs. Joule? Her classmates were talking and helping each other with their costumes and makeup. Lisa put on her dance dress and checked around for her teacher.
“Don’t worry, Lisa,” said Susan. “She’ll be here.”
A few minutes before show time Mrs. Joule hurried down the hall. “Here are your shoes, Lisa,” she said breathlessly. “Now hurry! You girls are dancing first.”
Lisa put the slippers on quickly. “Oh, thank you,” she said, and gave her teacher a big embrace. “Everything will be fine now.”
Lisa hurried into the dance line between Susan and Jody, and one by one they danced out onto the brightly lit stage as the audience clapped.
The whole show went smoothly. Lisa’s class received extra applause for some of the more difficult dance steps that they did. Lisa had never danced better. She knew her family was proud of her.
When it was all over, Lisa and her parents went to say good night to Mrs. Joule.
“Thank you again for repairing my shoes,” said Lisa. “I couldn’t have done well without them.”
“But you did,” said Mrs. Joule as she held up Eileen Webster’s tattered shoes. “I couldn’t tell you before because you were so sure it was the shoes that made you dance well. Now you see it wasn’t the shoes at all. It was your own hard work, and you made me very proud tonight.”
Lisa stared at Eileen Webster’s worn shoes.
Mrs. Joule continued, “You may keep her shoes if you like, but please, from now on, wear your own. I just sewed ribbons on them for you to use tonight.”
Lisa pulled the ballet slippers she had been wearing out of her bag and saw her initials printed on the inside of each one. They’re the very same pair that I exchanged for those of the ballet star! she said to herself in amazement.
“Did you hear that?” she asked her mother. “It wasn’t the shoes. It was me all the time, and I didn’t even know it? Just wait until tomorrow night. I’ll do even better!”
And she did.

There was not a prophet on the earth when Joseph Smith prayed to find out which church to join. He became God’s prophet and restored the true Church of Jesus Christ. Joseph Smith taught the people what they needed to do to obtain God’s promises and blessings.

When the war was almost over, the four other trainers and I received orders to go to Berlin. Hitler was there at that time, and it was the last phase of the war. The Russians were advancing, and the British and Americans were already very close to where I was.
We said we would go to Berlin, but I had prayed about it already, and I had the feeling that I should go home. We knew there was no use in going to Berlin because the war was lost. “Günther,” I said to my best friend, “I am not going. I am going home.”
“I’ll join you,” he decided. I asked him about his hasty decision and he said, “I have watched you all the time. I have noticed that you are quite religious, and I have admired you. I trust in your decisions because I think they are made with some guidance from above.”
The other three trainers decided to go with us, and the five of us left, supposedly for Berlin. As soon as we got out of sight, we hurried into the forest and changed into the civilian clothes we had with us.
The Americans had already arrived and were on the main roads next to the forest. We stayed way up on the peak of the mountain because there we were still quite safe. Our trip home would take us two to three weeks. We slept in the forest—five of us under one blanket—and had to rotate positions every hour because the two on the ends would get so cold. The food we took with us lasted three days. The rest of the time we ate berries we picked in the forest, and once in a while German families gave us food.

One man came to see me for therapy against the wishes of his wife, who mocked him for “needing help.” At church she was friendly and devout, but at home her cold condescension stung like a whip. She criticized his income and called his teaching career “a girl’s job.” She told her son, “I hope you don’t end up a wimp like your dad,” and spent every day on the phone with her mother, where they disparaged their husbands. Critical people feel justified in causing pain and “love to have others suffer” (Doctrine and Covenants 121:13). These family members break Jesus’s commands to “judge not” and “condemn not” (Luke 6:37) as they belittle, show disgust, or call names.

On a quiet November night in 1943, Nellie Middleton heard her doorbell ring. It was dark outside, but she knew enough not to have the lights on when she opened the door. Nearly three years had passed since German bombs had first fallen near her home, and Nellie continued to darken her windows at night to keep herself and her daughter safe from air raids.
With her lights out, Nellie opened the door. A young man was standing on her front step, his face in shadow. He extended his hand and quietly introduced himself as Brother Ray Hermansen. His accent was undeniably American.4
A lump came to Nellie’s throat. After their branch disbanded, she and other women in Cheltenham had longed to take the sacrament more regularly. The United States had recently sent troops to England to prepare for an Allied offensive against Nazi Germany. Once it had occurred to Nellie that some of the American soldiers stationed in her town might be Latter-day Saints who could bless the sacrament, she had asked her stepsister, Margaret, to paint a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and place it in town. Below the picture was a message: “If any soldier is interested in the above, he will find a warm welcome at 13 Saint Paul’s Road.”5
Had this American seen her poster? Did he have authority to bless the sacrament? Nellie shook his hand and welcomed him inside.
Ray was a twenty-year-old Latter-day Saint soldier from Utah and a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. Although he was stationed ten miles away, he had heard about the Salt Lake Temple painting from another Church member and obtained leave to visit the address. He had walked to Nellie’s home on foot, which was why he had arrived after dark. When Nellie told him about her desire to take the sacrament, he asked her when he could come to administer the ordinance to her.
On November 21, Nellie, her daughter, and three other women welcomed Ray to their Sunday meeting. Nellie opened the meeting with prayer before the group sang “How Great the Wisdom and the Love.” Ray then blessed and passed the sacrament, and all four women bore testimony of the gospel.
Soon other Latter-day Saint soldiers heard about the meetings at Saint Paul’s Road. Some Sundays, Nellie’s living room was so full that people had to sit on the staircase.6

After several weeks of formal discussions, the missionaries asked if I would be willing to be baptized. I told them sure. Then they told me that before I could be baptized, I needed to be living the Word of Wisdom.
I hadn’t been drinking or abusing drugs as much as in the past. Things were changing in my life; I felt more hopeful than I had in ages—but surely those habits would be impossible to break completely. Besides, I had already given up so much in embracing the gospel—including several friends who thought I was crazy for showing interest in the Mormon Church. I had persisted because I felt that the gospel was true. But could I completely abandon long-standing addictions?
The missionaries offered to give me a priesthood blessing to help me. Immediately afterward, I threw away all the drugs and alcohol I had. And that night the desire to partake of anything that was against the Word of Wisdom left me. It was a true miracle.
I was baptized in June 1978. A little more than a year later, Bruce and I were married in the Washington D.C. Temple.

You have taught us about pure testimony. On our first Sunday in Africa, we attended a sacrament meeting in the Protea Glen ward in the Soweto Stake. Every talk we heard from the pulpit that day was Christ-centered and included pure testimony of the Saviour and His atoning sacrifice. We have found this to be the case over and over in sacrament meetings throughout Africa. As with the Nephites, it can be said of you; “we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ . . . that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”5