Gospel Story Finder

But through their eight years of marriage, it seemed that María Teresa was continually begging him to give the church one more chance. “I continued crying and arguing with him,” she says. “Then one day, he got tired of it, packed his bags, and left!”

Now she was alone with her three children—alone in the beautiful home Carlos had designed and built himself. And she had plenty of time to think.

Fortunately, Carlos returned home two days after leaving in that fit of anger. And soon afterward, something happened that changed María’s heart—and her feelings toward her husband.

“We got our first patriarch in Paraguay, and I asked for my patriarchal blessing,” she remembers. “In it, the Lord assured me that if I magnified my callings as wife, mother, and daughter of God—along with my other callings in the Church—everything would be all right. The Lord promised me that He would touch my husband’s heart, and that we would go to the temple and be sealed. I was told to cry no more about it. (How could the patriarch have known that I had spent the entire previous day crying about it?)”

When she told Carlos about her blessing, he scoffed, telling her those things would never happen. “But I had great faith and hope in my patriarchal blessing,” she says. “From that moment, I never again pleaded with him about the Church. Instead, I began to do what my patriarchal blessing told me to do.”

She made her home a lovely, happy place, trying to be a good example of what she believed. She kept the Sabbath day holy, fulfilled her Church callings, and took the children with her to the meetings and activities. “I fasted and prayed for Carlos,” she says. “The children and I held family home evenings, always inviting him to join us. In family prayer, we prayed that someday he would accept the gospel. But when it was Carlos’s turn to pray, he would ask the Lord to never let him lose his own faith or stray from his own church!”

María was also preparing Carlos for the day when he would begin to pay his tithing. “I asked him to give me 10 percent of his extra income. Then I paid my tithing with it. I was helping him get used to living without the 10 percent.”

All during the years of my childhood and youth, even until the time I was ordained an elder and came home from a mission, I had only one bishop. He was a remarkable man. He served for 25 years. We knew him, and he knew us. We always addressed him as “Bishop Duncan,” and he always called us by our first names. We had great respect for him—an almost awesome respect. But we had no fear of him. We knew that he was our friend. His was a very large ward, and how very well he served his people.
I spoke at his funeral. Next to my own father, he probably had the greatest influence on my young life. How grateful I am for him.

While in college, David is putting to good use the doodling habit he has had since he was a little boy. Growing up in Massachusetts, David and his childhood friends loved the animated movies. At eight, his goal in life was to become an animator. “I learned about animation cells by reading books about Walt Disney,” he said. “I drew my own animation cells. I’d draw on acetate with a marker, and then I’d paint the back of it. My favorite character was one I called Foxy Fox.” Just for fun, he would draw comic books and give them to friends at school.

The Message “Your Heart Will Tell You So” in the May New Era was just spot on. (“Spot on” is Australian for great.) I really needed some help to lift me up and get me going again after a hard week. Like most missionaries, we have our bad times when no one wants to listen to the important and eternal message we carry. I looked to the scriptures and to my latest issue of the New Era, and there was my help. The Message by Elder Jack H. Goaslind, Jr., really gave me a lift and helped me to remember the importance and responsibility of this great calling of a missionary. I know, and bear testimony, of the importance of missionary work and the growth that a mission can bring into every young man’s life. The rewards, blessings, trials, commitments, love, and understanding that result from a mission are priceless.
Elder Jed W. PorterAustralia Perth Mission

One special place we went was Bethlehem, where Jesus was born. Mary and Joseph had to travel about 90 miles (144 km) to get there from their home in Nazareth. We visited a church that was built where people think the stable was.
We also saw the fields near Bethlehem. Shepherds still watch over flocks there, just as they did on the night Jesus was born. We could hear the baaing of the sheep as we sang “Far, Far Away on Judea’s Plains” (Hymns, no. 212). I’ll always remember how I felt singing that song.

In an area conference held in Mexico City in 1972, Bruce R. McConkie said: “[The] revealed words speak of … there being congregations of … covenant people of the Lord in every nation, speaking every tongue, and among every people when the Lord comes again. …

“The place of gathering for the Mexican Saints is in Mexico; the place of gathering for the Guatemalan Saints is in Guatemala; the place of gathering for the Brazilian Saints is in Brazil; and so it goes throughout the length and breadth of the whole earth. … Every nation is the gathering place for its own people” (in Conference Report, Mexico and Central America Area Conference 1972, p. 45; emphasis added).

The following April, President Harold B. Lee quoted those words in general conference and, in effect, announced that the pioneering phase of gathering was now over. The gathering is now to be out of the world into the Church in every nation (see Conference Report, Apr. 1973, p. 7; or Ensign, July 1973, pp. 4–5).

We better get back to class.
Hang on. I think I found something.
Whoa! Josh, come here! Mike found 10 pounds!
A “pound” is what money in England is called.
Brilliant!
So what are we gonna do with it?
Maybe we could buy some sweets.
What are you talking about? It’s not ours.
Of course it is! Finders keepers.
No way. I’m gonna turn it in to the office.
Josh and Anthony: What?!
At least split it with me and Anthony. You can turn in the rest.
It’s not right to keep it. You can’t change my mind.
I found this in the courtyard. I thought someone might come looking for it.
Oh, thank you!
You’re such a goody-goody.
I can’t believe you wouldn’t share.
I know I did the right thing.
Label: A few weeks later
The headmistress wants to see you in her office.
Am I in trouble?
Come in, Mike! I just wanted to thank you for turning this in. Not many people would have. You’re a good example.
Oh! Thank you.
We held it in case someone came looking for it. But no one did. I thought you should keep it.
Wow, thank you!
Even if I hadn’t gotten the money back, I’m glad I was honest.

“The Way to a Missionary’s Mailbox” in the December New Era was an excellent article. I hope that the many girls who are writing to missionaries will read it and apply the wonderful and appropriate suggestions given therein. I have a strong personal testimony of what the right kind of letters can do for a missionary because I received many such letters during my recently completed mission to France and Switzerland. I cannot remember a single instance in which my friend wrote a letter that was in any way selfish or distracting. There was, of course, news from home, but the majority of the space was used to write thoughts, feelings, insights, and testimony that could only encourage and uplift me. Instead of feeling homesick or full of self-pity after reading her letters, I felt grateful and desirous to work all the more diligently for the Savior. The article spoke of building self-esteem in elders. The friend who wrote to me understood this well and often expressed her respect, her confidence, and her belief in me as a servant of the Lord. This can work miracles and was especially important to me during a very difficult period of my mission. I know that her support played a large part in helping me overcome the difficulties I faced during those months. My friend even earned, at one point, the “Most Edifying Letters to a Missionary Award” presented by the special awards committee of the Switzerland Geneva Mission. I was the committee. I will never cease to be grateful to the Lord for the blessing this sister was to me during my mission.
Walter LenelPhiladelphia, Pennsylvania

The Amazing Adventures of Albert and His Flying Machine When Albert receives an inheritance of a thousand dollars, he sends away for a Zephyrcar. But when he finally gets it put together and starts delivering papers in it, the townspeople think that it’s a UFO and that he’s an alien. Then the chase begins!Thomas Sant9–12 years

While the formal classroom may be intimidating at times, some of the most effective teaching takes place other than in the chapel or the classroom. Well do I remember that about this season, some years ago, members holding the Aaronic Priesthood would eagerly look forward to an annual outing commemorating the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood. By the busload the young men of our stake journeyed ninety miles north to the Clarkston Cemetery, where we viewed the grave of Martin Harris, one of the three witnesses of the Book of Mormon. While we surrounded the beautiful granite shaft which marks his grave, Elder Glen L. Rudd, then a high councilor, presented the background of the life of Martin Harris, read from the Book of Mormon his testimony, and then bore his own witness to the truth. The young men listened with rapt attention, touched the granite marker, and pondered the words they had heard and the feelings they had felt.

At a park in Logan, lunch was enjoyed. The group of young men then lay down on the lawn at the Logan Temple and gazed upward at its lofty spires. Beautiful white clouds hurried by the spires, moved along by a gentle breeze. The purpose of temples was taught. Covenants and promises became much more than words. The desire to be worthy to enter those temple doors entered those youthful hearts. Heaven was very close that day. Learning what we should learn was assured.

The youth Sunday School class in the Hyde Park Ward, Sydney Australia Mortdale Stake, in New South Wales, doesn’t just meet on Sunday. They have other activities. Their first was at the Audley National Park, where they were divided into teams, played games, boated, and had a “Great Australian Barbecue.”
The best part about the day was that it provided an opportunity to “get to know each other and our teacher even better, and to build closer friendships with one another,” said several class members.

Sometimes winters in east Texas were as mild and soft as a baby’s breath; other times they snarled and whistled and shivered. This winter, the winter of Kerrie’s big surprise, was a whistle-and-shiver kind.
Papa and big brother, Joseph, were outdoors most of every day. They gathered wood and chopped it into logs for the fireplace. They made holes through the ice on the river and set lines for the big yellow catfish that swam on the bottom.
Until the winter rains had turned the ruts in the dirt road into deep mud puddles, the school wagon had taken Kerrie into town to school. But now only a horse and rider could make the trip into the settlement, and Kerrie wasn’t old enough to go by herself, so she had to stay home. Every morning Kerrie helped Mama clean their log house, and every afternoon she studied her lessons.
Sometimes Kerrie wished that she weren’t a farm girl. Town girls didn’t have to worry about muddy roads.
It had been weeks since Kerrie’s family had gone to town. But finally the temperature dropped, and the muddy road froze hard and firm. At first it seemed that the roads would be frozen enough to take the wagon to town for the Christmas Eve party. But the day before Christmas Eve, sleet began to fall. The wagon couldn’t make it on icy roads, so they wouldn’t be able to go to the party, after all.
“What a pretty sampler,” Papa said, stacking a load of wood beside the fireplace that evening. “You’re a handy girl with a needle.”
Kerrie smiled. She didn’t tell Papa how she hated embroidering and long cold winters and having to stay inside all day by the fire. It would have made Papa feel sad.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Papa reminded her, hanging his coat near the fire to dry.
Kerrie only nodded. She was too sad to talk.
“Where’s Joseph?” Mama asked.
Papa’s blue eyes twinkled, “In the barn. He and I are making a Christmas surprise.”
Little Helen had been busy rocking her doll to sleep. She looked at Papa, about to ask what the surprise was.
But Papa shook his head. “Just wait and see,” he said. “Wait and see.”
Supper was Kerrie’s favorite—hot cornmeal mush sweetened with honey and thinned with thick yellow cream. But Kerrie could hardly eat. She kept thinking sadly about missing the Christmas party in town and the beautiful Christmas tree with its gold and silver ornaments.
By bedtime the sleet had stopped, and snowflakes as big as pigeon feathers were drifting down. Kerrie knew that by morning everything would be buried under a blanket of sleet and snow.
Squeals of laughter from outside awoke Kerrie. She hurried to the window. Papa, Mama, Joseph, and Helen were already dressed and outside. Ice and snow covered everything. Mama’s outdoor clay oven, the one that Joseph had built so that the one in the kitchen wouldn’t have to be used in the summer, looked like a tiny igloo. The trees were white and sparkling in the cold morning sun. Kerrie felt that she’d gone to sleep in one world and awakened in a fairyland. It was so beautiful that she almost didn’t mind missing the Christmas party.
Slipping and sliding, everyone came inside. “Ready for the big surprise?” Papa asked Kerrie. Papa’s blue eyes were so twinkly that Kerrie knew that the surprise must be something wonderful. She nodded her head, too excited to speak.
“First, baths, then clean clothes,” Mama ordered, smiling her happiest smile.
Baths! Clean clothes! Kerrie’s heart gave a leap—the Christmas party! Then she remembered the roads. Nobody, not even Papa could drive a wagon over them.
“We’re burning daylight,” Papa said. “Let’s hurry!”
Kerrie and Helen bathed in the big tin tub pushed close to the fireplace. Joseph and Papa, secretively smiling, went out to the barn.
It seemed to Kerrie that it took forever to dress: two petticoats, two pairs of long cotton stockings, then her warmest dress.
Just as she and Helen were putting on their coats and mittens, Kerrie heard the prettiest sound. It was the jingling of bells. They ran out the door as fast as they could.
“What is it?” Helen asked, staring at the strangest sight that she’d ever seen.
“It’s a sleigh!” Kerrie shouted in answer. “At least I think that it is,” she added, for it was a strange-looking sleigh. Papa and Joseph had replaced the wheels of the wagon with runners. Now it slid over the icy road with hardly any effort from their strong, brown horse. The back of the wagon was filled with fresh hay and covered with quilts. Gently Papa helped Kerrie and Helen and Mama into the sweet-smelling nest. How warm it was.
The sleigh felt as if it were flying over the frozen earth. Kerrie didn’t believe that anything, not even the big black train, could go so fast.
How quickly the miles flew under them. To Kerrie’s surprise, Papa didn’t go directly to the settlement. First he went to Uncle Joe’s farm. Laughing, and bundled in quilts, Uncle Joe, Aunt Katie, and Josie climbed into the soft hay.
Next Papa picked up the Johnson family. Their last stop was for the Landers: a mother, father, five little girls, and one big brother. The wagon was so full that not even a Christmas mouse could have found a place to sit.
The cold sun was slipping behind the horizon when they reached the settlement. How the townspeople welcomed them! Kerrie waved to her best friend, Ara. Ara’s eyes opened wide. She’d never seen a sleigh before.
Kerrie was the last one out of the sleigh. “How was it?” Papa asked. “Did you like your surprise?”
Kerrie pressed her cold face close to Papa’s face and kissed his cheek.
“That’s a good answer,” Papa said with a laugh. “The best kind. Now run inside. You don’t want to miss the tree.”
But Kerrie didn’t care about the tree anymore. Flying over the frozen ground in Papa’s sleigh was the best present she’d ever had. She was sure that nothing so wonderful had ever happened to anyone else. But, then, nobody else had ever had a papa more wonderful than hers.

Jessie and Steve Cota saw a need and found a way to fill it. With help from their father, they built a house for an abandoned mother and her five children, who had been living on the street.
The 12-year-old twin brothers, who live in the Nogales Branch, Tucson Arizona Rincon Stake, didn’t wait for a quorum service project or an assignment from the branch president. They went right to work.
“My aunt, who lives in Mexico, met this woman in the hospital,” Steve explains. “She found out the conditions the woman and her children were living in and knew they needed help. She talked to my father, Jose, who is first counselor in our branch presidency, to see if something could be done.”
Something could. Word spread quickly in the branch. Church members contributed what they could, and Brother Cota, a builder, was able to get materials donated from a project he was working on. The aunt donated her own backyard as a site for the new construction.
“Everybody helped out,” Jessie says. “But to be honest, my dad did most of the work.”
Brother Cota, however, gives credit to his sons. “They really enjoy working. They helped put the floor in, hauling buckets of water so we could make the cement. They helped with the framing and with the roof. We’re especially proud of the roof, which has asphalt shingles and should last many years.”
The house the twins built is similar to dozens of others that cover the hillsides of Nogales, which straddles the border of Arizona and Mexico. The house is small, made mostly of plywood, and has no plumbing. But it is now home to a family of six.
It took three to four weeks, working on Saturdays, to complete the structure. “We felt good, knowing we were helping someone who needed help,” Steve says. “We learned a lot doing this together. We learned about how Church members can reach out to help others in the community. We learned about construction. And we got to be better friends with our father.”
“We like to nail things together,” Jessie says. “Maybe I’ll be a builder when I grow up, too.”
Brother Cota just smiles, then says, “The important thing about this is that now the children who live in this house will have a future. They have protection from the weather and a chance to go to school.”
We visit for a minute more, talking about birdhouses the boys are building as a hobby, about Steve’s baseball games and Jessie’s love of football, about future plans to build an outside bathroom to go along with the house.
Then the woman, surrounded by her children, greets the Cotas warmly and poses for a photo with them.
“These,” she says, “are the people who gave me my home.”

Others who are first in the hearts of Church members include May Anderson, who served for fourteen years as the second general president of the Primary Association, and who for thirty-eight years was the editor of the Children’s Friend. Prior to becoming the Primary president, May was a counselor to Louie B. Felt, the very first general Primary president. One day while May and Sister Felt were walking along the street, they saw a badly crippled boy and were inspired to establish a hospital to help boys and girls who need care. This was the beginning of the Primary Children’s Hospital, which has made it possible for children all over the world to “give that sick children might live.”

My class at school had a piñata. Everyone got lots of candy except one girl. I gave her my candy. I felt really good, and we became friends.
Haily H., age 8

I pushed open the door to the shelter for abused women where I volunteer on Saturday mornings. They needed me to work in the donation room again.
I trudged down the steps to the basement, dreading the mess that seemed to materialize week after week. As usual I had a long morning ahead of me. Piles of women’s and children’s clothing littered the floor, waiting for me to organize them.
Why do I keep coming here every week? I asked myself. It just wasn’t as fun as when my best friend used to come with me. She had moved, and now I was reluctantly coming alone. I started plowing through the donations and organizing the usable items. I worked for about half an hour and was starting to see some appearance of order when I heard the basement door open.
I stood up, expecting another volunteer. Instead, a mother and her little girl stood at the open door. Slowly they walked down the steps. This woman and her daughter had left the man in their lives because he was abusing them. They had left in the middle of the night, and the girl didn’t have anything to wear. The woman looked tired. The child, about four years old, wore a faded, flower-print flannel nightgown. Her white-blonde hair fell in wispy tangles around her face.
After figuring out the girl’s size, finding a T-shirt and a pair of shorts was easy, but I knew that finding shoes would be a problem. The clothing was organized according to size and type. The shoes, however, were merely thrown into a large cardboard box. Discouraged, I dragged the box to the middle of the room and dumped the contents on the floor. The mother and I sat next to the pile and started sifting through the shoes. I finally found a shoe that looked about the right size. The little girl loved the shoe because, not only did it fit, but it was her favorite color—pink!
I started searching again, hoping to find the matching shoe. As I pawed through the huge pile, I began to realize the other shoe might not be in the box. As the mother began to realize the same thing, she started trying to find a different pair of shoes. I continued to look for the match, clinging to the unlikely possibility that it was hidden somewhere in the pile.
The mother found a pair of dirty red sneakers and began to coax her daughter into wearing them, but she had little success. The child had nothing: no home, no father, no toys, not even her own clothes. She seemed to need something of her own, and she had apparently decided on this pair of pink tennis shoes. To give up the only thing she had in this new place was too much for her, and the tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
Now I had to find that other shoe. Every week I came here feeling useless. What could I really do for the women I met? I couldn’t give them new husbands, new houses, new jobs, or new lives. I felt humbled by their bravery. They took their children and walked away from everything in their lives to escape abuse. If only I could find that matching pink sneaker. This little girl, who had known more sorrow in her four years than I had in my seventeen, could be a princess, at least for a while.
I went into a frenzy searching through the shoes and decided, finally, to put them back into the box one by one. I tossed a green pump towards the box, but it missed. I had to stand up to retrieve it, and as I dangled it above the box, I looked inside. There was a glimpse of pink. I dropped the pump and dug my hand down frantically. It closed around a small tennis shoe.
Is it possible I could have left some shoes in the box when I turned it over? I prayed silently that this was the shoe I needed and lifted my hand out. Yes, it was a pink tennis shoe, but was it the match? I did not dare tell the little girl I might have found it. Instead, I quietly picked up the other shoe and compared the two. It was a match! I felt like a little kid. I wanted to yell, “Look! Look what I found!” at the top of my lungs. Instead, I quietly handed the shoes to the mother, who was still trying to dry her daughter’s tears. She held the shoes and looked up at me.
“Thank you. Thank you. You can’t know how much this means to her,” she said softly.
But I did know. I finally understood. I had been coming here in search of a way to help people, and I had been frustrated with the realization that I could not change these women’s lives. I had no control over their situations, but I understood at that moment why I was there. It didn’t matter that morning that I couldn’t give the woman a job, or a house, or a husband.
What mattered was that I helped a little girl find a pink shoe.

“Just look at you, Matthew—you’re growing like a weed,” Uncle Clinton said. “Pretty soon you’ll be as big as I am.”
Giggling, I spread out my fingers. “I’m only six, and I won’t be as big as you are for a long, long time because you must be a hundred.”
Uncle Clinton threw back his head and laughed.
Grandpa laughed too. Uncle Clinton and Grandpa grow the best dry-farm watermelons out on Coal Pitts. Grandpa made a pond out there, but whenever my brother Raymond—he’s four—and I come visiting in the summer, all we ever see in it is dried-up mud. Grandpa promised us that if the pond ever has enough water in it to float a duck, we can take Luckus and Luella with us to Coal Pitts.
Luckus is a he duck, and Luella is a she duck. When Grandpa turns the canal water onto his irrigated farm in LaVerkin, Raymond and I climb right into the ditch with our ducks and have a splashing good time.
One hot afternoon, big clouds appeared from nowhere and got right down to the business of raining. Raymond and I were excited. We watched through the window, and Grandpa recited, “The lightning flashed and the thunder roared and the little pig lay down and snored.”
The storm passed by LaVerkin, and the sky above Coal Pitts got purplish black.
Grandpa said, “It looks like Coal Pitts is getting a regular gully washer. We might get some water in the pond.”
The next day, when Grandpa figured that the dirt road was dry enough, he said, “Let’s take a little run out to Coal Pitts.”
“Oh boy!” I exclaimed. “Can Luckus and Luella go too? Can they?”
“You’re sort of a funny duck yourself,” Grandpa laughed.
“I’m a boy, Grandpa. Luckus and Luella are ducks.”
“Really?” he teased. “OK, let’s round up the boys and the ducks.”
While Grandma packed a lunch, Grandpa put Luckus and Luella into a wooden crate and set it in the back of the pickup. Just then Aunt Lillian drove up and asked Grandpa if we were going to the dry farm. She said that Uncle Clinton had forgotten his lunch bucket and asked us to take it to him. Grandpa put it beside the crate in the pickup. Grandma brought out the picnic basket, and we all got into the truck and went chugging up the hill.
The rainstorm had filled Grandpa’s pond plumb full. We turned Luckus and Luella loose, and they skimmed over to that water as happy as if they were floating right into heaven. Raymond and I started to go after them.
“Hold it, you fellows,” Grandpa said. “Don’t you want to come with me to take Uncle Clinton his lunch bucket? He’ll be wondering where it is.”
“I think I’ll stay and pick us some roasting ears,” Grandma said. “There’s a fine row of corn alongside our own melon patch.”
Uncle Clinton was mighty glad to see his lunch bucket. He was picking a load of melons to take to town. He wasn’t starving, because he was full of melon, but he said that a piece of fried chicken would be mighty tasty too.
Grandpa was just getting back into the pickup when Uncle Clinton said, “Before you go, I’d like you to see my golden honey melons.”
We followed him up the hillside toward the cedars. He took out his pocketknife and speared a dark green watermelon. It popped open to the touch. The inside of that melon wasn’t red like all the rest, but a bright gold—almost an orange color. He cut a slice for each of us. Mmmm! How juicy and sweet it was!
When Grandpa finally left, I talked him into letting Raymond and me walk back.
“Go ahead and explore if you want to,” Grandpa said. “You know the way back to the pond.”
Uncle Clinton sliced off another piece of melon for each of us. We ate until we were as full as toads; then we went exploring. We had barely gone around the first bend, when a jackrabbit ran in front of us and we took off after him up a little gully that twisted and turned. Then we lost sight of him. After that we played hide-and-seek in some tall bushes that were loaded with yellow flowers—rabbit brush, Grandma calls them. We decided to pick some for Grandma and became so interested that we wandered all over the gully. Finally we climbed to the top of it, where we expected to see Grandpa’s pickup and his melon patch. But all we could see were more hills and gullies.
We just stood and stared, trying to decide which way to go. Raymond thought that we should go back. I thought that we should go ahead, so I coaxed him to go over the next little hill with me. When we got there, we saw the same thing—more gullies and hills.
Raymond started to cry. I wanted to cry, too, but I knew that it would only make him cry harder. If I was as big as Uncle Clinton said, I’d better think of something. Raymond was beginning to really howl, and I had to say something. So I said, “Don’t cry, Raymond. Maybe a helicopter will fly over and see us.”
Then a really good idea popped into my head: Heavenly Father knows where we are. He can see us all the time. I looked up, and my voice choked a little when I said, “Heavenly Father, we’re lost. Please help us find the way back to Grandpa’s melon patch.”
At that very minute I heard the sweetest sound. Looking up again, I said, “Thanks a lot, Heavenly Father.” Then I turned and said, “Raymond, quit crying and listen.”
He snuffled a couple of times quieting down; then we both heard it! Prettier than any songbird’s song came “Quack, quack, quack.”
We ran toward the sound. We had to go down one more little dip and over one more rise. But from the top of it, we could see Grandpa in his watermelon patch and Grandma shucking corn next to it. The quacking and splashing became louder and happier, and we ran through the rocks and brush like a couple of lizards.
“It’s about time you two showed up,” Grandma said, pushing back the hair from her face. “Your grandpa and I have about starved waiting for you so that we could unpack the lunch basket.”
Luckus and Luella had waddled out of the pond at the sight of us. I was real hungry, but before I could eat, I just had to hug a couple of ducks.

A missionary randomly yelling. The rest of the story: While I was in the missionary training center, a missionary in my zone had Tourette’s syndrome. Periodically, he would shout in class, the lunchroom, and Church meetings. His yelling was not seen as irreverent; we quickly saw that he was prepared to serve, eager to share the gospel, and full of the Spirit.

Barry Olsen of the Ucon Idaho Third Ward has received many awards for his photography skills. He won the sweepstakes award in the national Quill and Scroll photography contest. He also took third place honors in the Columbia Scholastic Press Association’s photography contest.
Barry also received a superior rating in the Idaho Journalism Advisers Association Write-Off contest in the photography division. He received a scholarship to Ricks College.

When we received a letter calling us to serve a full-time mission from 2016 to 2019, we did not know in which mission. With my wife, Lucie, we started to think about where it could be. Then we decided to wait for the assignment letter from the First Presidency to know the place. Later, the letter arrived, and I was on trip for my assignment as an Area Seventy. I asked Lucie to wait and to not open the letter until I returned home so that we could read it together.

When I returned home, we went in our bedroom to open the letter. We read it and learned that we had been called to serve as mission leaders in Democratic Republic of the Congo Mbuji Mayi Mission. As we discovered the place, we stopped reading the letter and we did not even finish it. We were kind of upset and many questions and concerns came to our mind in few minutes. We thought about our three children who were 14, 11 and 7 years old. We thought about their school, the change of life conditions, a new area with a new local language that none of us could speak. We were overwhelmed and stuck. Suddenly we look each other, and I suggested that we pray.

Our prayer was not to change the place to serve. We went on our knees and I did pray our Heavenly Father sincerely about our concerns and feelings.

After the prayer, we felt peace, confirmation, and comfort that it is about the Lord’s work. All fears and concerns had been replaced by an assurance and understanding and with the desire to serve God. We stood up and we finished reading the letter.

We then decided to start preparing ourselves and our family for the move to serve the mission. We went on mission and the Lord was in charge until the end of our three years of mission service.