Gospel Story Finder

Gerhardt, a little German shepherd boy, was such an example. He was very, very poor, and one day as he was watching his flock, a hunter came out of the woods and asked the way to the nearest village. When the boy told him, he said if he would show him the way he would be rewarded handsomely. When Gerhardt replied that he could not leave his sheep for fear they might be lost, the hunter said, “Well, what of that? They are not your sheep, and the loss of one or two would not matter to your master. I will give you more money than you have earned in a year.”
When the boy still declined, the hunter said, “Then will you trust me with your sheep while you go to the village and bring me food and drink and a guide?”
The boy shook his head, saying, “The sheep do not know your voice.”
Angrily the hunter retorted, “Can’t you trust me?”
Gerhardt reminded him that he had tried to get him to break faith with his master and asked, “How do I know that you would keep your word to me?”
Cornered, the hunter laughed and said, “I see you are a good faithful boy. I will not forget you. Show me the road and I will try to make it out by myself.”
The hunter turned out to be the grand duke, and he was so pleased with Gerhardt’s honesty that he later sent for him and had him educated. Though Gerhardt became a rich and powerful man, he remained honest and true. (Adapted from “A Faithful Shepherd Boy,” in Moral Stories for Little Folks, Salt Lake City: Juvenile Instructor Office. 1891, pp. 11–13.)

William hopped into the car next to Jeremy and buckled his seat belt.
Is everybody ready for preschool?
Yes!
Yes!
Jeremy’s mom started driving down the road, and William opened his lunch box. He pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took a big bite.
Jeremy looked at William’s sandwich. It looked yummy. Jeremy was hungry.
Mom, I’m hungry. Do you have something for me to eat?
Sorry, Jeremy. We ate before we left. I don’t have anything else.
OK.
Jeremy was sad. He wanted a sandwich too.
William saw that Jeremy was sad. He pulled off a piece of his sandwich and handed it to Jeremy.
Here you go!
Thanks, William. You’re nice.
No problem. That’s what friends are for!

We were in one of the largest cities in Europe, surrounded by signs we could not read and a language completely foreign to our ears. And unlike home in Utah, Paris did not have LDS meetinghouses every few blocks. So far, I had not even seen one. How did my parents expect us to go to church on Sunday?
Ever since I was young, my family decided that whenever we went on vacation we would not treat Sundays like a vacation. Even though we did not have our own ward to go to, we still wanted to keep the Sabbath day holy by attending church wherever we were visiting. However, we had never encountered a language barrier before, and since we did not speak French, I did not know how we were going to find an address of a meetinghouse, let alone maneuver our way around an unfamiliar city to get there. Even so, we still had the desire to partake of the sacrament.
Throughout the week in Paris, my dad, mom, brother, and I prayed as a family, and each one of us had a prayer in our hearts that Heavenly Father would help us find a way to attend church. The days passed quickly as we toured many magnificent sites. Saturday came and we woke up early to set out for another adventurous day in the city. We hopped on the Metro—the underground train—to head out for the day. Much to our pleasure and surprise we discovered LDS missionaries riding the same Metro as we were. We quickly introduced ourselves, and just before they got off one stop later, we got an address of the meetinghouse.
Sunday we dressed in our best and said another prayer to Heavenly Father, thanking Him that we were able to get an address of the church and asking Him to guide us through the huge city. As we were waiting for the Metro, a couple came up to us and said, in English, that they had noticed our nice Sunday clothes and asked if we were going to church. We replied that we were trying to find The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We discovered they, too, were LDS, and gratefully we traveled with them to the building, where we were able to attend meetings and partake of the sacrament.
I know Heavenly Father answered our prayers through the missionaries and the LDS couple that approached us. Even though we were in a city with over two million people, Heavenly Father cared that my family had the opportunity to partake of the sacred ordinance of the sacrament and receive the spiritual nourishment church provides.

This is not your basic story of a super-achieving LDS family where everyone gets straight A pluses, wins international symphony competitions, trains for the Olympics, and trudges ten miles through the snow to get to seminary every morning. No. This is the story of a family that simply steps up to the plate and swings, regardless of the challenges they face.
Challenges don’t intimidate the Drummonds. They never have. When Heather decided she wanted to go out for baseball, she didn’t think twice about the fact that there are no girls’ teams in her area. Today the petite 15-year-old with long dark hair and bangs is the only girl playing on boys’ teams in her league, and she’s doing pretty well.
Then there’s tall, thin, 17-year-old Christopher. He didn’t let the fact that millions of boys all over the country dream of being a batboy for a professional baseball team stop him. He went right up to the personnel office of the California Angels, applied, and landed the position. It wasn’t half as difficult as he thought it would be.
Heather and Christopher take their cue from their father, Tom Drummond, who, when he got custody of his two children over 12 years ago, decided he would be the best parent he could be, with or without the support of a wife. And later, when he was introduced to the Church, he decided to take on the challenges and blessings of membership and hopefully share them with his children.
Heather was the first one to follow his lead. “I took the discussions and started going to church with my dad,” she said. “I knew some of the girls at church who played on my soccer team, and they were really nice. Everybody seemed really nice there, and joining the Church just seemed like the right thing to do.”
Christopher took a little longer. “A couple of sets of missionaries taught me, and I just didn’t know about it. But then one came along who helped me see everything was right in the Church. He talked baseball, and he showed me things in the scriptures too, and I knew. Then my dad baptized me.”
By now, it would be impossible not to note that sports, baseball in particular, play a big part in the Drummonds’ lives. Heather and Christopher have both been playing since they were about three years old, and since they live in southern California, they’re able to play in leagues all year round. Tom, a self-employed architect, makes it to almost every single game.
Baseball has formed a strong bond in their lives, even though Christopher takes some flak because his sister is the only girl playing on a boys’ team in their league—“You better watch out, Christopher. Your little sister’s gonna take your place!” And Heather says she doesn’t see a lot of her brother because he’s usually either working at Anaheim stadium or playing ball. Baseball is still a common interest that ties the family together, when they could be going in some very different directions.
When the gospel came into their lives about four years ago, it brought an even stronger bond. There’s a lot more to share now than box scores and batting averages. They share prayer, church meetings, scriptures, and a concept of the eternal unit their family is. “We have family home evening,” says Christopher. “I really like that. We talk or read or play games. Sometimes we go out to dinner or a movie or over to another family’s house. That’s a really good thing.”
The Drummonds are not the most outspoken kids in the world. They’re doers rather than talkers. But they will open up if you ask. Heather, for example, will tell you that she doesn’t feel short-changed by not growing up with a mother. “I’ve lived with guys all my life, so I do the things they do,” she says. “But I also do girl things. My best friends are girls. I don’t think growing up only with guys has hurt me.” Heather has her own ways of asserting her femininity. In the dugout, for example, even though she tucks her long brown hair up under her cap and wears a bulky uniform like the rest of the players, you can’t miss her because she’s the one wearing pink lipstick. And sometimes, when the other players lose their tempers and start swearing, they’re quickly reminded that a girl is present when Heather tells them, “Hey—watch your language!” And, she says, “They usually apologize.”
“Some of the guys I play with are kind of mean,” says Heather. “They say the only reason I’m on the team is because the coach doesn’t know how to cut a girl. I have to play extra hard to overcome that. I’ve been tempted to quit, but when I am, I just tell myself I have to stick in there, because everyone would think I can’t handle it. I can handle it,” she says with conviction, and you don’t doubt her.
When prodded, Christopher will tell you some of his deeper feelings, too. Things like his biggest fear about serving a mission is not that it will break up his baseball career, but that he will never know enough about the gospel to teach it to other people. “Missionaries know so much,” he says. He seems relieved to learn that the Spirit blesses missionaries with special knowledge as they strive to learn and grow.
Surprisingly enough, he’ll also tell you that working with some of the greatest baseball players in the world, and even, on occasion, getting to travel with the team, is not as big a deal as some people would think. “Oh, the players are really nice and everything—especially Wally Joyner—he’s Mormon too. But it’s just a basic, normal job. I’m paid by the hour, minimum wage. The food is good though. We get to eat with the players, and the Angels have one of the best chefs in professional baseball.” Still, Christopher says he likes the ballpark hotdogs about the best.
As involved as the Drummonds are in sports, you might think their grades would suffer a bit. But not so. “They’re both on the honor roll,” says their dad. “They have to maintain B averages. That’s my rule. And no underwater basketweaving or sandwich making courses, either.” He then goes on to recite their schedules—solid, difficult classes every one, with the exception of baseball, which the Drummonds take very seriously. Of course, since Tom made the rules, he’s always there to help his kids accomplish them. It’s not uncommon to find the family studying together in the evenings.
The Drummonds just seem to look right through challenges. They’re not afraid to take on demanding classes, to be the only girl on local baseball teams, to work with professional baseball players, or to join a church that outlines a brand-new lifestyle. Quietly, solidly, without a lot of fanfare or hype, they step up to the plate and take their swings at the good pitches that come their way.

In 2009, I was 13 years old, on my way home from school, I saw my father with two white men and one black man dressed neatly in white shirts and dark trousers. I really had the chills then because I knew our prayers had been answered. I said to myself “Whaaaaat? Dad had finally gotten a job and the owners had come to our home to interact with him, this is amazing!”
I knew their discussions were certainly about a job, so I quickly dropped my school bag inside the room, picked my chair and joined them without invitation. I couldn’t wait to hear the good news. No sooner did I do this than I realized that the conversation was about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the story of the Prophet Joseph Smith at the age 14. It wasn’t what I was expecting, nevertheless, the Restoration and Joseph Smith’s experience was so overwhelming! It brought much joy to my heart. The missionaries continued their visit to our home until my father’s first visit to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
On his second visit to the church, my father invited me to join. I really loved to spend time with my father, because he’s addicted to telling me stories whenever we find ourselves walking together. I suspended my Sunday service with the Pentecostal church to be with my father. I can clearly remember the hymn that was sung at the sacrament meeting that very day, “I Know That My Redeemer Lives”. The reverence observed by every member, even the little kids made it a truly a unique experience. Words cannot explain my first visit to the church. The teachings we had that very day and afterwards with the missionaries made me feel that I was not lost but was at the right place. A few weeks after that initial meeting with the missionaries, my father was baptized, and I was baptized a month later.

President Thomas S. Monson was 22 years old when he was called to be a bishop. As a young bishop, he watched carefully over the members of his ward, especially those who didn’t often come to church.
One Sunday morning he noticed that a young man named Richard was missing. This was not unusual because Richard often missed church. But Bishop Monson decided to try to find him. First he went to Richard’s home. When Richard’s mother answered the door, she said he was working at a gas station.
Bishop Monson drove to the gas station. He looked everywhere but could not find Richard. Then he felt inspired to look down in the grease pit at the side of the building. As he looked down into the dark pit, he saw a pair of shining eyes looking back at him and heard Richard say, “You found me, Bishop! I’ll come up.”
Bishop Monson told Richard how much the priests quorum missed him and needed him. Richard nodded and promised to come to church the next Sunday. He came to church the next week and the weeks after that. Then he and his family moved away.
One evening Bishop Monson got a phone call from the bishop in Richard’s new ward. He asked Bishop Monson to give a talk in the ward before Richard left to serve a mission. Richard served as a valiant missionary, and he also later served as a bishop. He said that the turning point in his life was when Bishop Monson found him in a grease pit that Sunday morning and encouraged him to come back to church.

When I was growing up in Florida, USA, temptations to break the commandments and Church standards were everywhere. My Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps (JROTC) class was no exception. Foul language was used a lot, and there were many parties outside of school with alcohol and drugs. I was invited to many of these parties, but I never went, so people eventually stopped inviting me. By not attending these parties, I started to lose popularity, but I thought, “So what?” That didn’t really matter to me.
At the end of my third year, our instructors were deciding who would be the senior cadet command for the next year. I was in the running for one of the three spots, but it was given to someone else because the instructors knew him better because he went to those parties.
At the end of my senior year our senior instructor approached me and told me that if he had known how the year would turn out, he would have made me senior cadet command instead. He said it was because of my hard work, obedience, and dedication. This gave me great confidence to keep doing what was right, and it helped me to face what lay ahead.

Photo illustrations by David Stoker
The reverberating dance music echoed loudly down the church hallway into the lobby where I sat with a set of scriptures open in my lap. I could hear the other youth laughing and socializing in the cultural hall, and I knew that somewhere down there the handful of young men from my small branch were catching up with old acquaintances.
I was the youngest person from my branch there and was still fairly new to Church dances. I wanted to meet other LDS youth and wanted to dance with some of the young women from my stake, but I always felt too out of place and self-conscious. So, I sat in the lobby.
This wasn’t my first dance, either. I’d been to a handful before, and some of the older young women had even asked me to dance, but that only made me more self-conscious. A hundred personal flaws would rush through my mind, and I knew that they were just being nice to the new kid. I felt that no one really wanted to dance with me.
That’s why this time I decided to stay in the lobby and leave them to enjoy themselves without worrying about me. Several times youth leaders and others from my branch tried to convince me to join the activity, but using the scriptures as a shield, I argued that I was happier studying the scriptures, idly reading about the bravery of Nephi, Captain Moroni, and the stripling warriors without putting their examples into practice. I went home that evening feeling miserable and alone.
At subsequent dances, I began to notice something when I went to the gym: as slow songs were played, most of the young women would sit down and remain seated until the next fast song. Though the more confident young men asked some girls to dance, they always seemed to pick the same two or three young women (generally from their wards). This meant that most of the girls sat through the slow songs watching from the sidelines.
I don’t remember exactly when the dance challenge first came about, but a couple of the young men from my branch decided that the young women should be able to dance to the slow songs. The challenge was simple: Ask a different young woman to dance for every slow song, and never sit out a dance.
Taking strength from the stories of Nephi, Captain Moroni, and the stripling warriors, I took the challenge to heart. For every dance after that, I did what I could to ensure that every young woman at every dance would have the chance to dance.
I started by asking any young women who were away from the center of the dance floor or who were from wards or branches that didn’t appear to have any young men there. I often had enough time to ask some girls twice, having danced with every young woman at least once.
Because of this goal, I had the opportunity to get to know dozens of incredible young women over the years, and a girl declined to dance with me on only two or three occasions.
The last youth dance I attended was held immediately after seminary graduation. I looked around the small gathering and noticed the faces of dozens of young women I’d danced with during the last three years. I felt grateful for the experiences I’d had, so I began the dance challenge again for one last time, inviting many girls to dance. Some of the young women were new, but most were now old acquaintances.
As one young woman eagerly jumped up to dance with me, I remembered the first time I’d asked her to dance three years before. I’d been very intimidated to ask her, because she was very beautiful, modest, and mature, and it seemed to me that if any young woman deserved to dance with someone better than me, then it would be her.
As we talked about our plans for college and careers during that last dance, she changed the topic very abruptly.
“I just want to tell you thank you,” she said with a sincere smile.
Caught by surprise, I croaked out a confused response: “For what?”
“When I first started coming to these dances,” she said, “no one would dance with me or the other girls from my branch. I really wanted to get to know other LDS people, but I’m shy. So I would sit in a chair and wait and wait, but none of the boys would ever ask. It was so humiliating that one time, while sitting and watching other people, I vowed that I would never come to a Church dance again.
“That was just before you asked me to dance for the first time. Because of that, I came to the next dance, where you asked me again. I kept coming to dances these past few years because I knew that even if no one else would ask me to dance, you would. So, thank you.”
I found myself at a loss for words. This amazing daughter of God, whom any young man should be honored to dance with, had experienced the same struggles I’d felt while sitting in that lobby.
I realized that all my fears hadn’t been anything to worry about and that by applying the principles of courage, faith, and consistency, I was able to bring happiness into both my life and into the lives of those around me.

Instead, I joined a neighborhood team with lots of friends. We had a great time the first year and were successful, but the second year the team struggled and sometimes lost focus on the game. I became frustrated. I put my best effort into every game, but we almost always lost.
After one very bad game, Coach Hashem, whose team was doing well, approached me on the soccer field. He asked me how things were going. I said, “Not so good.” I told him I missed my old teammates. Hashem coached with a great deal of skill and always seemed to get the most from his players.
“How would you like to be a guest player for our team when we go to the next tournament?” Hashem asked.
“I would really like that!” I responded excitedly.
“Great!” Hashem said, smiling. “I need to ask you one question though. Can you play on Sundays?” My stomach muscles tightened. I suddenly felt sick. I remembered what had happened that last time this question had been asked.
I looked at my mom. I looked at my dad. They too waited for my answer. I looked at Hashem.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t play on Sundays,” I said. “Will that make a difference?”
Hashem stood there for a moment. He had seen the expression of hope on my face fade quickly as I had answered his question.
“No, that’s OK,” Hashem responded. “We probably won’t get to the Sunday finals. We’d love to have you play with us.”
Soon I started practicing with Hashem’s team. The team played with a great deal of intensity, and they welcomed me back. I loved playing with them.
We didn’t win all of our games at the tournament, but we all tried our hardest, and we had a good time. Soon I became a permanent member of Hashem’s team. Though they knew I didn’t play on Sundays, they still appreciated me for what I added to the team on the other game days.

When I was 30 years old, I was visiting the Nagoya mission as part of my work. After the meeting, the mission president kindly arranged for the elders to drive me to the airport. However, as we reached the intersection at the bottom of a long hill, a large truck came barreling down from behind us at great speed. It rammed into the rear of our car and propelled it forward more than 70 feet (20 m). The terrifying part of all of this was there was no driver. The rear of our car was compacted to half its original size. Fortunately, both the elders and I survived.
However, on the following day, I began experiencing pain in my neck and shoulders and developed a severe headache. From that day, I couldn’t sleep and I was forced to live each day with both physical and mental pain. I prayed to God to please heal my pain, but these symptoms lingered on for about 10 years.
At this time, feelings of doubt also began creeping into my mind, and I wondered, “Why do I have to suffer this much pain?” However, even though the kind of healing I sought was not granted, I strove to be faithful in keeping God’s commandments. I continued to pray that I would be able to resolve the questions I had about my trials.
There came a time when I found myself struggling with a few additional personal issues, and I was agitated because I did not know how to cope with this new trial. I was praying for an answer. But I didn’t receive an answer right away. So I went and talked with a trusted Church leader.
As we were talking, with love in his voice, he said, “Brother Aoyagi, isn’t your purpose for being on this earth to experience this trial? Isn’t it to accept all the trials of this life for what they are and then leave the rest up to the Lord? Don’t you think that this problem will be resolved when we are resurrected?”
When I heard these words, I felt the Spirit of the Lord very strongly. I had heard this doctrine countless times, but the eyes of my understanding had never been opened to the extent they were at this time. I understood this was the answer that I had been seeking from the Lord in my prayers. I was able to clearly comprehend our Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation and understand anew this important principle.
Let’s now consider that rear-end collision in Nagoya. I could have died in that accident. Nevertheless, through the Lord’s grace, I miraculously survived. And I know that my sufferings were for my learning and for my growth.5 Heavenly Father schooled me to temper my impatience, to develop empathy, and to comfort those who are suffering. When I realized this, my heart was filled with feelings of thankfulness toward my Heavenly Father for this trial.

My dad had said that we could go away for the weekend—just the two of us. We were going to a campground outside of town. Then Dad lost his job.
He had been working at a local warehouse, but it burned down last month. All the money that Dad had been saving was used up when my little sister, Elizabeth, was born. She was born the day after the fire. Then our car broke down, and we couldn’t afford to get it fixed right away.
We had a family council and talked about us not having enough money and about Dad’s not having found another job yet. Dad said that, if needed, the Church could help us with food for a while. Then he stopped talking, and got tears in his eyes. That had happened before, when he bore his testimony one fast Sunday.
I went and got the money that I’d been saving and gave it to Dad. It wasn’t very much—one dollar and seventy-six cents—but it was all that I had. I told him that I wanted to help.
Dad didn’t say anything. He just pulled me close to him and held me longer than I could ever remember. I think that he was crying again, because my cheek felt wet.
After supper that night Dad asked me if I wanted to sleep out in our backyard. It’s a lot smaller than any campground, but the sky looked just as big in the yard as it did at the camp. And there weren’t any more stars there than there were right here.
We lay in our sleeping bags and looked at the sky. We saw a falling star. It seemed to go by about as fast as summer did. And that was too fast.
We talked, too, about lots of things. We talked about how far dandelion seeds can fly and we talked about the dent in the blade of the old cavalry sword that was handed down to Dad from his great-great-great uncle.
Most of all we talked about something else that was on my mind. I told Dad that I had been praying all week for something to happen so that we could still go to the campground. But nothing had happened. And looking up into the night sky and seeing how really big space was and how really small I was, I started thinking that maybe I was too little for God to bother with.
Dad turned his head toward me, his lips turning up into a big smile. “God hears everyone’s prayers, Nathan,” he said. “And that includes children’s. Maybe especially children’s. And when a person prays with all his heart, he receives answers.”
“But I didn’t get an answer!”
Dad took a small crawly insect off my pillow and put it on the grass. I think that maybe he was giving me time to think. I looked over at Dad, looking more intently at them than I’d ever seen him look at anything before. Then he looked at me in a gentle way. “You are a child of God,” he said softly. “That means that you are very special. Heavenly Father loves you even more than I do—and I love you with all my heart and soul.
“The Lord created this whole world for you,” he continued. “Our Elder Brother Jesus gave His life for you—and for all of us. So don’t ever think that you are too small for God to bother with. Heavenly Father is happy when you’re happy. And so am I.”
Now that I think about it, I guess that it isn’t important where Dad and I spend time together. In fact, I’m glad that we camped out in our backyard. I liked it just as much as I would have at a campground. Maybe even more—because we talked about some very important things that night that we might not have discussed at the camp because things would have been different. I would have gotten a “yes” answer to my prayer and not wondered about things. But as it was, we had spent a special night together. Just me, my dad, and the stars.

When I was eighteen years old, I was serving in the Navy in China. One day, a group of us had taken a train from our base to the nearest city, Tientsin. On our way back, we took the wrong train. When we realized that we were heading in the wrong direction, we pulled the emergency cord and got off the train. We found a pump-handle car and began pumping our way back along the tracks. Whenever we reached an incline, or whenever the car slowed down, some of us would jump off. Then we’d hop back on as the car began to gain speed again. My seat was right in front, over the rails.
After jumping off and walking for awhile, I tried to jump back on from the front of the moving car. As I did this, I heard in my mind the words my mother always told me as I left the house as a boy: “Be careful.” I knew that I wasn’t being careful. As I fell under the car, my foot caught in the gears and stopped the car—with the wheel just a foot from my hand. I know God was with me.
At the very time this was happening—2:00 A.M. where my parents were—my mother woke up and shook my dad. “Bud’s in trouble,” she told him. Before I had written to tell my parents about the accident, I received a letter from them asking what had happened to me.

There was a time in my life when I strayed far from the principles I knew to be true. Because of this, I felt terribly unhappy. Although I believed that the Atonement worked for other people, in my mind I was too far gone for it to apply to me. I thought I wasn’t worth saving.
One Sunday morning I heard the bells of a nearby Christian church sounding the hymn “Did You Think to Pray?” (Hymns, no. 140). The music struck me, and for the first time in many months, I felt the Spirit. I cried as I realized Heavenly Father was using this hymn to let me feel His love and know that He would help me.
The repentance process was not easy, and many times I felt discouraged. But the feelings I felt that Sunday morning stayed with me, and after a time I returned to full activity and received my endowment in the Dallas Texas Temple.
Now when I hear that hymn, I am reminded of that tender moment when the One I thought had forgotten me showed His love in a way He knew I would receive it.
Jessica Blakely, New Mexico, USA

The train rumbled through the night until it shuddered to a halt at the station in Salt Lake City. It was nearly midnight. Anna grabbed her bag and dragged it onto the platform. Her tired eyes searched for her aunt.
But there was no one waiting for her.
Fear slid over Anna. She scanned the platform again, hoping she had missed something. Her eyes lingered on the shadows. She tried to make out people’s features in the flickering lights. But her aunt was not there.
Strangers walked up to her and asked her questions. Anna thought they wanted to help, but she could not understand what they were saying.
She had never felt so scared in her life. Not when her classmates in Sweden had mocked her new faith. Not when she had been sick on the boat to New York. And not even when she had said good-bye to Mamma.
Anna closed her eyes and thought back to her mother’s words: “Don’t forget to pray to your Father in Heaven because He can understand you.”
Anna knelt on the platform next to her suitcase and prayed harder than she had ever prayed in her life. She prayed that Heavenly Father would send her someone who spoke Swedish and could understand her.
When she finished her prayer, she looked up. There was still no one waiting for her. But then she saw a German family she recognized from the train ride. The mother motioned for her to follow them. Still crying, Anna grabbed her bag and shuffled after them.
She followed them to the south gate of the Temple Square block. She looked at the spot where the beautiful new temple had been built. Then suddenly Anna heard quick footsteps nearby. A woman was hurrying toward them, looking closely at all the arriving immigrants. The woman’s gaze passed over the German family. Then she paused on Anna. When Anna looked up, the woman stopped and stared. Anna stared back, hope rising in her.
Anna knew her! It was her Sunday School teacher who had gone to Utah only a year before. She knew her!
The teacher pulled Anna tightly into her arms. She wiped away Anna’s tears and whispered in Swedish, “I had gone to bed, but I was awakened over and over again. Images of the arriving immigrants raced through my mind. I could not go back to sleep. I was prompted to come to the temple to see if there was anyone I knew here.” She took Anna’s hand and led her down the street. “Now come with me.”
Later Anna learned that her aunt and uncle had moved from Salt Lake and had not received her mother’s letter. Her teacher sent word to them, and they came to pick up Anna four days later. Eventually Ida and Anna were able to bring Mamma to America too.
But for now, none of that mattered. As Anna walked to her teacher’s home, she thought, Heavenly Father more than answered my prayer. I only asked for someone who could understand me, and He sent someone I knew.

When I was in my late teens, I received a telephone call that would change my life—my eternal life.
A good sister from my ward called to invite me to perform a dance number at a Mutual activity evening that was being held in a couple of weeks. Dancing was a hobby of mine, and I was studying ballroom dancing at a studio in Salt Lake City. I had never been to a Church dance before, and I was excited to accept the invitation to perform.
My partner and I arrived on the appointed evening and were greeted enthusiastically. I was surprised to find that we were the only ones on the program. It was an exciting experience, and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.
The following Sunday morning, I decided to go to church in our ward for the first time since I was ordained a deacon. At that time, none of my family was active. I found people who welcomed me warmly, and they demonstrated a genuine friendship and caring. These experiences started me on the road to activity and service in the Church that has been a joy to me throughout the years.
A group of brethren took me under their wing, and we became good friends. A wonderful returned missionary taught me the basics of the gospel and helped prepare me to serve a mission. During this same time I was asked to help teach dancing in the ward, which gave me a feeling of being needed, and it also gave me a responsibility.
The next 15 months flew by, filled with growth and happiness as I progressed. I soon received a call to serve a mission in Mexico. I quickly grew to love the language, the country, and its people. Sharing the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ gave me a foundation upon which to build the rest of my life.
That evening so long ago when I was invited to share my talent, the door opened to a wonderful new world of friends and activity in the Church. I am grateful for those who reached out with a warm hand of fellowship, invited me in, nurtured me, and blessed my life.

Strong families and an active seminary program have produced enthusiastic and willing Latter-day Saint youth in Brooklyn. But according to Randy Dow, a native of Maine who has worked with the youth for years, “A few years ago, we started seminary with only a couple of students. One of the problems was that parents didn’t want their children out late at night.” Private cars are rare in Brooklyn, but rides were organized, and activities later followed the weekly classes. Now seminary is held on Friday nights—the unanimous choice of the youth.

I was on a freight ship going to the Society Islands a few years ago, and I was up in the chart room with the captain who was checking his charts, and I said, “Where are we about now?” He showed me on the map and then said, “Would you like to see where we are going?” I said, “Sure.” He walked over to some kind of a contraption, turned a couple of dials and said, “That’s where we’re going.” I looked into a piece of glass about so square and I saw a beautiful island. I had never seen it before in my life. It was the island of Tahiti, and I was looking at it from that ship hundreds of miles away.

Now he didn’t have a kodak, with a large telescopic lens taking a picture of Tahiti and showing me the proof and the print. He had an instrument that could reach out and bring into his vision islands hundreds of miles away. He turned another dial, and I saw several ships. He said, “Those ships are on their way to Australia.”

Now, I don’t doubt anymore about the angel Moroni coming into the Prophet’s home. Man hasn’t yet harnessed all of these elements. He’s working at it and meeting with great success. But if I could bring the island of Tahiti by turning a dial in the chart room of that freight ship, God can send a resurrected being through walls and rooms into the home of a young inquiring mind that is seeking truth.

The youth of the Charleston, Fairmont, and Huntington stakes in West Virginia wanted service to be a part of their youth conference. In preparation for the conference, local governments and organizations were contacted and asked in what areas the youth might be of service.
Faced with funding problems, the public library asked the youth to help with a pledge drive. The librarians had not had the manpower to stage the campaign themselves. The head librarian said, “We were excited when the Church came to us and said they would like to help. I’m impressed with the Church and with their willingness to help. If every church made these kinds of efforts for the things they believed in, it would be exciting to see what would happen in the world.”
In addition, the youth helped with heavy yard work and cleaning for several widows in town. They also painted and cleaned the Head Start building. The youth presented a musical program at a local nursing home and spent time talking individually with the residents.
The youth also helped clean up along the roadways leading into town; cleaned, raked, and helped prepare a new soccer field; and painted park restrooms and a gazebo.
The group participated in a Book of Mormon marking project as well. They underlined specific scriptures in 120 copies of the Book of Mormon to be used by the missionaries in the Charleston West Virginia Mission.
At the testimony meeting at the conclusion of the youth conference, those involved left feeling better about themselves because they had helped someone else.

1. “Jesus told Peter to feed His sheep. That’s how Peter could show Jesus he loved Him.”
“Mom, did Jesus have a herd of sheep?”
“No, sweetie. Jesus is sometimes called the Good Shepherd, and we are like His sheep. Jesus was teaching Peter that if we want to show Jesus we love Him, we should help others.”
2. “Is that why we are going to deliver the pie to Sister Jacobs after family home evening?”
“Yes, it is. But it would be nice for you to think of something you can do to show Sister Jacobs you love her.”
3. Olivia thought about what she could do. She remembered that Mom and Grandma really like the pictures she draws.
“I know! I can make a card for Sister Jacobs and draw a picture on it!”
4. Olivia drew a beautiful rainbow. On the inside of the card she wrote, “Get well soon! Love, Olivia.”
5. When Olivia and her family got to Sister Jacobs’s house, Mom asked Sister Jacobs how she was feeling. Sister Jacobs started to cry.
“I just found out I have to go to the hospital to have an operation tomorrow. I’m a little scared.”
6. Mom handed Sister Jacobs the pie. Then Olivia gave her the card she had made.
“Thank you, Olivia. This beautiful card and your sweet smile make me feel better.”
7. Olivia felt like somebody was hugging her heart. She was happy that she could help Jesus feed His sheep.

Emmeline also embraced this command. She understood that what the Lord said to one, He said to all (see Doctrine and Covenants 25:1, 16; 82:5). Even before her baptism at age 14 in March 1842, Emmeline had shown a love of learning and a talent for writing. Shortly after her baptism she finished her last term of formal education in Massachusetts and began teaching. After emigrating to Nauvoo, she taught in the common school system there. As Emmeline’s faith led her to join the Saints in other locales, including Winter Quarters and Utah Territory, she continued her educational and literary pursuits, in large part through her involvement in the Relief Society.