Gospel Story Finder

I woke up one morning during my junior year in high school in a rotten mood. It was 5:30 a.m., it was cold, and it was a Tuesday—a day with a heavy class load. I’d already decided it was going to be a miserable day.
I bumbled around the kitchen and got my lunch ready. Then I plopped down at the table for some plain cereal and milk. Grumpy, I dug my spoon into the bowl and took a huge bite of breakfast. I scowled at the wall.
A small plaque caught my attention. My mother had received it from her visiting teachers. In cheerful letters it said, “Blessings brighten when you count them.”
“No,” I thought darkly. “I’m in a bad mood today and nothing is going to change it.”
In my head, I started an argument with the plaque.
“Absolutely nothing can brighten this day,” I thought. I took another bite of cereal and crunched it angrily. But my eyes were drawn back to the white writing: “Blessings brighten when you count them.”
“You won’t work,” I told the plaque. “You can’t work. I’m pretty sure even a box of puppies couldn’t make me happy today.”
“You don’t like puppies,” my brain argued.
“Exactly,” I said.
I like to be right all the time, and the plaque was challenging me. “Fine!” I said out loud, “I’ll prove you’re wrong.”
I looked around the kitchen, daring myself to find something I was grateful for. The obstinate part of me was still being unreasonable.
“It is 5:43 in the morning. I have nothing to be grateful for.”
I crunched another bite of cereal. Then suddenly I had a thought.
“It would be mighty hard to eat your cereal without a spoon.”
I stopped. I looked at my spoon. Then I looked at the cereal in my bowl.
“I guess you’re right,” I thought reluctantly. “It would be pretty hard to eat cereal without a spoon.”
“Now,” the thought came to mind, “imagine trying to eat your cereal without a bowl.” I actually smiled a little at the thought of a big puddle of milk and cereal on the table.
“What about without a chair to sit in?” I thought.
I felt the chair beneath me and gripped my spoon a little tighter, looking at the simple utensil with appreciation. My gaze drifted back to the plaque that still said, “Blessings brighten when you count them.”
This time, I gave a tiny smile. “I have a spoon. I have something to be grateful for. And a bowl. And a chair.”
I started to see dozens of things I was thankful for. Not only did I have food, but there was also food in the pantry and downstairs in the storage room. I would probably never have to go hungry. My parents worked hard to feed my siblings and me. They also worked hard to create a safe house for us to live in. And they loved me.
All of a sudden, many things gained new meaning: It was cold outside, but I lived in a warm house. It was early in the morning, but I had the opportunity to go to seminary and to school. I was eating breakfast alone, but Tuesdays were my dad’s temple days, so I could rejoice that he was in the house of the Lord. I could be grateful that I had parents who were devoted to the gospel. Many times they got up early to go and serve.
“So, plaque, I guess you were right. My blessings did brighten as I counted them.” The dark mood from minutes before had evaporated. It had been replaced with a spirit of peace.
“No hard feelings,” I thought. I realized that I’d only scratched the surface of understanding how blessed I am. In fact, I was so busy feeling blessed that I was nearly late for seminary. As I walked out of the house, I was full of gratitude—for my family, my Heavenly Father, a wooden plaque, and the women who had given it to my mother.
And, yes, I was grateful for something as small and easily overlooked as a spoon.

Moving from a small high school in a small town to a big one in a faraway place is hard enough. But it’s especially rough if your name is Ferger Brown. Some people with different names shorten them, or use a nickname. There is nothing you can do, however, with Ferger. Shortening it doesn’t help, and the only nicknames I ever received were worse than Ferger.
In every class that first day of school my junior year, I endured the snapping of other students’ heads in unison when I answered “Here” in my deep bass voice to each teacher’s incredulous question, “Ferger Brown?” Had I been six feet and 190 pounds with the face of a movie star, I suppose any name might have been considered dashing. As it was, at five-feet-four, with a hook nose; long, skinny face; and glasses, I looked—as one of my friends back home said—”just like my name.” Added to that, I had a voice lower than sea level. For some reason, when I turned 13, my voice went bottom fishing and never came up.
As I walked out of my second-period class, a girl with blond hair walked up and said, “Hi, I’m Stephanie Hays. You’re new here, aren’t you?” Her freckled nose crinkled when she smiled, and I thought things may not be so bad around here after all.
“Yeah,” I answered, returning the smile. “We just moved here from Steamsprings, Illinois.”
“Welcome to Hillsdale High,” she said.
I was ready to start strolling down the hall with this beauty when a character who looked like he had been on Mr. America vitamins since the third grade walked up to us. He was muscular and at least six-five.
“This guy bothering you, Steph?” he asked.
“No, he’s new here. I was just introducing myself.”
Brute Force—that’s what I immediately named him—looked down at me from on high.
I stuck out my hand and said, “I’m Ferger …”
“I know what your name is,” he said, cutting me off. “I heard the teacher.” He looked down at my hand but didn’t take it. Then he looked up again. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anyone forgetting that name, or that voice.” He grinned, looked at my hand once again, then said, “Come on, Steph. Or do you want to hear Frogger croak again?”
“The name’s Ferger!” I boomed, aware that my basso profundo voice had the power of intimidation—unless, of course, the person I was trying to intimidate happened to be looking at me.
Brute Force and Stephanie walked out of the room. I started to leave when I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve. I turned to see a kid with glasses, red hair, four well-placed pimples, and a big grin. “That’s Brandon Wallerstadt—heaven’s gift to this school and every girl here. Don’t worry about him. I’m Jason Carr. Welcome.”
Jason, it turned out, was a great find. He was a straight-A student who seemed to know everyone at school. For some reason, he took me under his wing. He never even teased me about my name.
Brute Force Wallerstadt did, though. Every time he saw me, he made a snide remark or said something like, “Croak for us, Frogger.”
It was about midterm when Jason started inviting me to go to church with him. I didn’t know much about churches, but I figured if Jason liked this place it must be pretty good. And it was. Three hours of church every Sunday, though, nearly wiped me out. But I kept hearing this stuff about a Savior, about priesthood, about the Book of Mormon, about testimonies. It was fascinating. We talked about angels, visions, gold plates, premortal life, three kingdoms. I’d come home every week with some new idea that spun around in my head for days.
My life with Brute Force was another matter. That is until I found out we had one thing in common: golf. With spring lurking around the corner, I told Jason I was thinking about trying out for the golf team. He rubbed his hand through his red hair and said, “Did you know Brandon Wallerstadt led the team last year as a sophomore?”
I hadn’t known until then, but that was when a plan hatched deep within my devious soul. I had been toying with the idea of asking Stephanie Hays to the junior-senior prom. Despite Brute Force Wallerstadt’s attempts to brand her his exclusive territory, we had become friends. It seemed she didn’t want to be tied to just one guy. To get free sailing for the prom, though, I needed to get Wallerstadt completely out of the way. And I was sure I could do it.
You see, I was born thinking the ninth green of the Steamsprings Municipal Golf Course—right out our back door—was our yard, and that golf balls were teething rings. My dad gave me my first set of golf clubs when I was two. My sophomore year I led the Steamsprings golf team and carried a four handicap. Before I tipped my hand at the varsity tryouts, I thought I might challenge Wallerstadt to a match for the rights to ask Stephanie to the prom.
I sat down in the lunch room at the table with Brandon and his friends and made him the proposition. The winner gets to invite Stephanie to the prom. Brute Force looked at me and laughed. “You know how to play?” he asked.
“I played for my high school last year,” I said, as nonchalantly as possible.
A glint came into his eye. “Frogger, you’re on. Friday after school we’ll play at my dad’s club. There are two lakes there, so if you get tired of golf, you can jump in with the other frogs and croak away.”
I pushed my glasses up on my nose and wondered if my knuckles could reach across the table to his perfect rows of white teeth.
I had asked Jason to be my caddie. That meant he’d drive the cart carrying my clubs and cheer me on. We arrived at the Hillsdale Country Club in my old Chevy. I wore blue and orange plaid shorts and a green and white striped shirt. I’ve always thought ugly distracted opponents.
Brandon, of course, drove up in his red convertible dressed in $400 worth of clothes. His clubs and balls were some of the finest money could buy. One of his buddies was there to caddie for him.
Brute’s father came out from the clubhouse to the tee, looked at me like I was an alien, and said, “Son, I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
For the first time I saw Brandon Wallerstadt flinch. “I won’t, Dad. I won’t.”
“If you don’t come in at 74 or better today, you’ll play two rounds on Sunday. Understand?” his dad said.
Brute suddenly didn’t look so brutish. Sheepishly he smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Dad.”
We flipped a coin and Wallerstadt won. He had honors. He teed his ball and nailed a high draw down the right side of the fairway. I had aptly named him. Brute must have hit the ball 315 yards. But it wasn’t a smart play. It meant he had to drop a delicate wedge shot over the bunker, and in front of another if he wanted a chance at birdie. Since this was a short par-four, I took out my two-wood and drove my ball down the left side of the fairway.
My second shot put me within eight feet of the cup. Brute dumped his ball in the front trap, but a brilliant shot out of the sand put him three feet from the cup. My putt for birdie rimmed out, he sank his, and we were both even-par after the first hole.
We played even until the par-five ninth hole. Again, Brute made the mistake of driving too far. His ball rolled into a fairway bunker. By the time he finished, he was one-over and I was one-under. Quite a spectacular nine for me, I thought. And a pretty darn good one for him, too. He even complimented me on a couple of my shots.
Brute’s father was waiting for him as we headed for the tenth tee. I didn’t stand too close, but when Brute told him his score you didn’t need spy gear to hear he was upset.
On the back nine, the lead seesawed until we reached the 17th tee. We were even with two holes to go. I had the honors on the little par-three. I took my seven-iron and dropped the ball within three feet of the flag. Brute overhit his shot and it rolled off the back of the green. He chipped up, but his putt slid off to the right. My birdie to his bogey put me two-up going into the last hole.
“You’ve got him,” Jason hooted as we rode to the final tee. I looked at Brute. I’d expected him to throw clubs after bad shots. He hadn’t. He didn’t make too many bad shots, either. Actually, he was somewhat of a gentleman on the course. But now I could see he was just plain despondent.
Ready to finish him off, I teed my ball, looked over at Brute, and said, “Brandon, you don’t have to answer this, but what happens if I beat you?”
“You get to ask Stephanie to the prom,” he snapped.
“No,” I said. “I mean between you and your father?”
“He’ll yell at me for not concentrating and insist I spend an hour on the driving range before I go home. But you haven’t won yet. Let’s go,” he said, looking down the fairway.
I drew back my club and hit a perfectly placed drive 250 yards down the middle of the fairway. Brandon, trying too hard, pulled his shot to the left. Still, it went about 290 yards.
I laid out my second shot, but it faded to the right. Not what I wanted, but still okay.
Brute tried to hook his second shot around a bunch of trees, but the ball flew straight, landing near mine. It looked like we were five yards apart and about 80 yards from the green. Only an absolute disaster would keep me from winning now.
As I surveyed my shot, there was Brandon’s father casting a huge shadow behind the 18th green. He stood there with his legs spread and arms folded across his chest as he watched.
“Brandon, do you like golf?” I asked.
“I hate it,” he said bitterly.
“You’re very good,” I said. “Why do you hate it?”
“Him,” Brandon said, nodding toward his father. “He wants me to be a golf pro. It’s his dream and I can’t say no. All I have to do is play golf and he gives me anything money can buy. Would you walk away from that?”
“Let’s get this over with, Ferger,” he said. I was stunned. It may have been the first time he didn’t call me Frog or Frogger.
Looking at Brute, I remembered what Jason’s Sunday School teacher had said once: “It was never the Lord’s plan to make yourself taller by standing on someone else’s sore head.”
I took a practice swing. “If you par out, you’ll have a 74 and you won’t have to play on Sunday, will you?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. Even if I birdie this and finish with a 73, if you beat me I’ll get extra duty.” Then he looked me square in the eye. “Ferger, I underestimated you. You’re a fine golfer and good guy.”
“I underestimated you, too, Brandon,” I said. And I had. He was an excellent golfer, and somewhere under that jerk veneer, there seemed to be a nice guy lurking. Then I spoke in my most solemn, adult voice. If you were to win this round, would you go somewhere with Jason and me on Sunday?”
“Where?”
“It’s kind of a different place, but I think you could use it.”
“Okay, but I’m not worried. You’d have to shank this ball to lose.”
Which I did. And Brute beat me by one stroke, finishing with a 74 to my 75.
As Jason and I left the course, Brandon was walking with his dad, who was slapping him on the back. I called to him, “Remember, Jason and I will be by at ten Sunday morning to pick you up.”
“Okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“What are we doing with Wallerstadt on Sunday?” Jason asked.
Then he looked at me like I was crazy when I told him we were taking Brute Force to church with us.
It’s now two years later, and Brandon Wallerstadt—former jerk, now close friend—and I will be going on our missions in two weeks. I’m going to California and he’s been called to England. Jason will leave for Australia two weeks after that. I would have never supposed a shanked golf shot could have put two guys like Brandon and me together. Brandon’s dad wasn’t happy when he first told him he wanted to join the Mormon church and perhaps go on a mission. His dad still thinks Brandon has thrown away a great career, but he’s accepted his son’s decision.
Oh, about the prom that year. That Sunday when we picked up Brandon, he said I could ask Stephanie to the prom if I wanted to. So I did. But someone had told her about our golf game for the right to ask her and she got mad and wouldn’t speak to either one of us for months. Eventually she forgave us, and even came to both of our missionary farewells. Before we leave, Brandon and I are going over to her house to give her a Book of Mormon. The problem is, we’re having trouble trying to decide who should give it to her.
Perhaps we should play golf.

President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, once explained how he used scripture study to find specific guidance for his life and calling. After praying to Heavenly Father about what to do, President Eyring wrote down a list of answers, color-coded each item on the list, and pasted a copy in an inexpensive set of the scriptures. He explained, “The first [answer on the list] was ‘I am to be a witness that Christ is the Son of God.’ Then I read my scriptures looking for ideas that taught me how to witness that Christ is the Son of God. Every time I came to something, I marked it in blue. Soon I developed my own topical guide around what I thought the Lord wanted me to do.”1

President Camille N. Johnson visits with a mother of three children at a food donation event in Costa Rica. “She was so grateful for a meal for her hungry children,” says President Johnson. “I told her I loved her and, more importantly, that God loved her.”

When I (President Johnson) traveled to Costa Rica last year, I had the opportunity to help with a food donation event. I was touched to meet many women and children who came to receive a healthy meal. I had the distinct impression that we were doing just what the Savior would have us do. I met Yumana and her three beautiful children. This sincere woman was selling ribbon roses she had crafted in order to provide for her family. She was so grateful for a meal for her hungry children. I told her I loved her and, more importantly, that God loved her. Yumana received temporal relief and spiritual relief as she felt and acknowledged the love of God.

Illustration by Bradley Clark
Before I joined the Church, my husband became seriously ill. I prayed hard, asking God to let my husband live for the sake of our five children and the baby I was expecting. But my prayers were in vain.
When my husband died, my love for God and my faith and trust in Him died as well. I was overwhelmed with the responsibilities now on my shoulders. Fortunately, my parents were there to help.
One day a few years later, I heard a knock at my door. Two strangers stood there with friendly smiles and a book in their hands. They introduced themselves as missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had never heard of their church. They left when I told them I was busy, but I continued to think about them.
The next day I saw them showing their book to a neighbor. Curious, I came closer. The missionaries noticed me and asked again if they could visit me. I was surprised by my answer: “Yes, anytime!”
As I listened to the missionary lessons and studied the Book of Mormon, I realized the mistakes I had made in life, repented of my sins, and grew closer to God. When my parents heard that the elders were teaching me, however, they were upset. They threatened to disown my children and me. The missionaries invited me to be baptized, but I refused because we couldn’t live without my parents’ help.
The day of my baptism I was nervous, but I entered the water and was baptized.
Before the elders left, they asked me to read 3 Nephi 13:31–34. When I read “seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you” (verse 33), I knew that Heavenly Father would provide if I put Him first and obeyed His commandments. When the missionaries returned, we scheduled my baptism.
The day of my baptism, my mother’s angry voice flashed into my mind. I was nervous, but I entered the water and was baptized. Afterward I was so happy, and when I was confirmed a member of the Church and given the gift of the Holy Ghost, I felt that my burdens had been lifted.
When my parents heard that I had joined the Church, they disowned me. But we reconciled a year later, after which my two sisters were baptized with our parents’ consent.
Three of my children eventually served full-time missions, and soon I will celebrate 40 years as a member of the Church. What great blessings I have—all thanks to two missionaries who knocked on my door, introduced me to the Book of Mormon, and helped restore my love for God and my faith and trust in Him.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Jack, who lived with his mother in a small village. They were very poor, and the mother earned their living by spinning. But Jack was so lazy that he would do nothing but bask in the sun in hot weather and sit by the hearth in cold weather. The townspeople called him Lazy Jack.
One day Jack’s mother came to the end of her patience. She told Jack that if he did not begin to work for his porridge, she would turn him out on his own.
Jack bestirred himself and hired out the next day to a neighboring farmer. However, when the day’s work was done and he was on his way home, he dropped his day’s pay while passing over a brook.
“You stupid boy,” said his mother, “you should have put it in your pocket.”
“I’ll do so next time,” replied Jack.
On Wednesday Jack hired out to a cowkeeper, who gave him a jar of milk for his day’s work. Jack took the jar and put it into the large pocket of his jacket. But the milk was spilled long before he got home.
“Dear me!” said his mother, “you should have carried it on your head.”
“I’ll do so next time,” said Jack.
On Thursday Jack hired out to another farmer, who agreed to give him a cream cheese for his services. In the evening Jack took the cheese and went home with it on his head. By the time he got there it had melted and become matted in his hair.
“You really are a numbskull!” his mother scolded. “You should have carried it very carefully in your hands.”
“I’ll do so next time,” replied Jack.
On Friday Lazy Jack went to town and hired out to a baker, who gave him nothing for his work but a large tomcat. Jack took the cat and began carrying it very carefully in his hands. But in a short time the animal scratched and fought so much that the simpleton had to let it go.
When he got home, his mother cried, “You silly fellow, you should have tied it with a string and walked it along after you.”
“I’ll do so next time,” Jack promised.
On Saturday Jack hired out to a butcher, who rewarded him for his work with a shoulder of mutton. Jack took the mutton, tied it to a string, and trailed it along after him in the dirt. By the time he arrived home, the meat was completely ruined.
Quite out of patience Jack’s mother exclaimed, “You ninnyhammer! You should have carried it on your shoulder.”
“I’ll do so next time,” replied Jack.
“Now we’ll have to have cabbage for Sunday dinner again,” she complained.
The following Monday Lazy Jack hired out to a cattleman, who gave him an old donkey as his wages. Jack found that it wasn’t easy to hoist the donkey onto his shoulders, but at last he was able to do so, and began walking slowly home with his prize.
Now it happened that in the course of his journey home each evening Jack passed the house of a certain rich man and his daughter. The girl had been unable to speak from birth and had never laughed aloud. The doctors said she would never speak until somebody made her laugh. However, when she saw Jack with the donkey on his back and its legs sticking up in the air, the sight was so comical that she burst into a great fit of laughter. Her father was overjoyed and promised her to Lazy Jack in marriage.
Lazy Jack became a rich gentleman, living in a large house with his new wife. And his mother lived with them in great comfort and happiness.

President Kimball was a great and active missionary himself. Brother Udall tells this story of President Kimball’s mission in the Central States.
“While tracting in St. Louis one day he saw through the partly opened door a new piano and said to the woman who was in the act of closing the door in his face, ‘I see that you have a new piano.’
“‘Yes, we’ve just bought it,’ she replied with pride.
“‘It is a “Kimball” isn’t it? That is my name also,’ he said, as the door opened wider. ‘Would you like me to sing and play for you?’
“‘Surely, come in,’ she answered.
“Walking to the piano he played and sang ‘O, My Father.’ This pleasant introduction led to many subsequent gospel conversations.” (“The Apostle from Arizona,” Improvement Era, October 1943, p. 591.)

Michael Herrick—“I certainly was glad to have the opportunity to return to Japan to meet again the wonderful Japanese people. They are just fantastic. I love them. While at Expo I learned to appreciate the close friendships we can have in the Church, but I also came to see the many possible friends we can have outside the Church. Members of the Church sometimes tend to avoid people who do not belong, just because they do not belong. If we do so, we miss out on many choice friends.

“One of the choicest experiences was to see one of the American guides, Claudette Polka, join the Church because of what she saw and observed of the M-Squad. She had always wanted to find a future marriage companion with whom she could kneel and pray. She saw in the M-Squad the kind of person she was looking for in her ideal man. To watch her become interested was a real thrill. (We were asked not to preach the gospel at Expo because we were representatives of the United States, and our actions could easily have been misinterpreted, had we done so.)

“Soon Claudette was attending our home evenings. We made her the ‘mother’ of our home evenings. After she attended our services, met with the missionaries, and learned about the Church, she invited her parents to come to Expo so that she could tell them personally of her desire to join the Church. To hear her testimony and to join in the baptismal service was a wonderful experience.

“It was a great honor to try to represent my country with dignity—and to represent the gospel in all my actions.”

Hope Gentile, four days before her first chemotherapy treatment in March 2015.
Photographs of Hope by Nicholas Gentile
A few years ago, a single word—cancer—thrust the young family of Nicholas and Christina Gentile into what Brother Gentile called “the uncharted depths of a life-or-death trial.” Their 19-month-old daughter, Hope, had been diagnosed with a tumor in her lower back.
“Over the next five months of surgeries and chemotherapy,” recalls Brother Gentile, “Hope’s battle for life created a kaleidoscope of experiences that ultimately strengthened our family’s testimony of the Savior’s grace.”
Hope’s trial and uncertain future drew the family closer—to each other and to the Savior.
“We knew that what we saw was only part of the reality that God saw for Hope,” said Brother Gentile. “Despite the darkness, we trusted in Him, regardless of the outcome.”
One dark night during Hope’s second five-day round of chemotherapy, Brother Gentile noticed how much hair she had lost in the previous few days. Her remaining strawberry blonde wisps painfully reminded him of her mortality. Nevertheless, he found solace in the Lord’s promise that “a hair of [her] head shall not fall to the ground unnoticed” (Doctrine and Covenants 84:116).
“I felt that Jesus Christ was deeply aware of Hope’s journey—and our heartache,” said Brother Gentile. “He did ‘not leave [us] comfortless’ [John 14:18].”
During bedtime one evening as he read a board book to Hope, Brother Gentile asked in a silly voice, “What does the owl say?” Giggling, Hope replied, “Hoo, hoo!” Then he asked, “What does the cow say?” Hope proudly responded, “Moo, moo!”
At that moment, a picture of the Savior on the bedroom wall caught Brother Gentile’s attention. The Spirit prompted him to ask, “Hope, and what does Jesus say?”
As he waited for his daughter’s reply, she snuggled into his shoulder, opened her big blue eyes, and whispered, “‘Hold you.’ Jesus says, ‘Hold you.’”
Brother Gentile gently pulled Hope’s tiny body close and hugged her as he sobbed. As Hope hugged back with her tiny arms, she whispered, “Love you, Dada.”
God had given Brother Gentile and his family that moment for a special reason: “Jesus was holding our family in His loving arms,” he said. “Since that sacred night, I have pondered the tender truth God taught me through my daughter’s words: Jesus will hold us and bless us during our trials if we let Him. These blessings come according to His perfect time, way, and will, but they do come. I know these truths because the Holy Ghost helped me to feel them in Hope’s room on that dark night.”2
I am happy to report that the Gentile family’s faith and prayers were answered. Today, Hope is a healthy, happy 10-year-old.
Left: Hope after her fourth chemotherapy treatment in June 2015. Right: Hope at nine years old.

From her home near the mouth of Emigration Canyon in Salt Lake City, Sareah Gardner can hear the lions roar. It’s nothing new for her to be lying in bed at night and hear the elephants trumpeting. And if it’s really still, she’ll listen for the seals barking. The noise from a wide variety of animals is one of the advantages of living near a zoo.
Another advantage is that Sareah is close enough to Hogle Zoo that she can walk to work, something she has done each summer since 1987, when she became one of the zoo’s junior zookeepers. In this program, young people with an interest in animals can help take care of the animals by feeding them, cleaning their cages, and taking them for walks. It gives them hands-on experience with a variety of animals, and, in Sareah’s case, helps them decide if working with animals is something they want to do for a career.
“It’s a great chance to be involved with the animals, and to learn about them,” says Sareah, who thought she wanted to be a veterinarian when she began in the program. Now, graduated from high school, she says she’d rather do something involving wildlife biology.
But back when she first became a junior zookeeper, Sareah wasn’t sure if the job was for her. “When I first started, I thought, What have I gotten myself into? I didn’t expect it to be what it was.” It turned out that Sareah was asked to clean the cages her first day on the job. It wasn’t very fun, and it certainly wasn’t very glamorous. “The job has become more enjoyable, and I don’t mind what I’m doing when I’m doing the worst job,” says a more experienced Sareah, reflecting on her first days at the zoo.
Sareah’s interest in animals stems from family camping trips where she would go with her older brother and look for animal tracks, hoping to see different forms of wildlife. “It was a really neat thing to be the one who spotted the animal first, not just to see it,” she says. “Those trips have given me an appreciation for wilderness, and helped interest me in animals.”
When Sareah’s not camping, she can step into her yard and usually find animals roaming there, as well. In the nine years her family has lived in the house near the zoo, they’ve had skunks, porcupines, deer, raccoons, and quail stopping for a visit. The most recent inhabitant was a pheasant, and they’ve even had a rattlesnake stalking the premises. It’s no wonder Sareah considers her yard a refuge park.
With college in Sareah’s future, her days as a junior zookeeper are numbered. Learning about different animals has been one of the enjoyable parts of her job. In college, she expects the learning to only intensify.
As far as a career goes, she’s leaving her options open. Sareah does know that because of her love for animals, a job with animals is definitely in her future.

With his first preaching trip ended, Erastus worked on the family farm a winter and attended a short term of school. In the spring of 1835, still 16, he “labored what I could, some in the neighboring churches and some in the adjoining towns until the first of June when I went to the state of New Hampshire and laboured a while in Lisbon and the adjacent country … but none at this time obeyed the truth.” That year, 1835, he helped his father with spring and summer work. “I was father’s chief help on the farm,” he recalled, “but always carried a pocket Bible or some of the religious works with me to the field, and when my team was resting, I was reading. Father sometimes thought my team owed a debt of gratitude to my Bible.”

I had a friend in my branch of the Church in Russia with whom I socialized at all Church activities. We had a lot in common, I had a lot of fun with him, and I was glad to have such a good friend.
But then something strange happened. For no reason that I could determine, he offended me badly. He did not ask for forgiveness, and I stopped associating with him. I did not even greet him on Sundays. That went on for two months. I was hurt and unhappy, but he said nothing.
Then I found out he was leaving our city. I didn’t think our relationship should stay the way it was; I thought we should reconcile. About then I remembered a scripture from the Book of Mormon: “Go thy way unto thy brother, and first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come unto me with full purpose of heart, and I will receive you” (3 Nephi 12:24).
It was difficult for me to humble myself and take the first step, but I prayed and then called him. I didn’t know what his reaction would be, and I was ready for the worst. What I heard shocked me.
He sincerely asked me for forgiveness, and I could tell by his voice that he had suffered a lot because of his action—just as I had. Most of all, I remember one sentence that he repeated three times: “Natal’ya, thanks for calling!”
I was so happy! He moved a short time later, but we separated the best of friends.
Learning to love and forgive each other is one of our most difficult tasks. Forgiveness—especially when we are not at fault—requires that we be humble and overcome our pride. I learned that taking the first step to forgive and reconcile is worth it.

One day I went to the store with my mom. I was wearing my patent leather shoes that I call my “church shoes” because I usually wear them only on Sunday. I was very proud of my shiny shoes. The lady who was helping my mom noticed me wiggling my feet and asked me about my shoes. When I told her they were my church shoes, she asked me which church I attended. I looked at my mom because I wasn’t sure I could remember the full name of the Church, and I wanted to make sure I said it right. My mom reminded me of my favorite Primary song. I sang, “I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (Children’s Songbook, 77). The lady smiled and told me that was great. I’m glad the song helped me to remember the Church’s name.

My Uncle Mons Andersen had said to us that we must go to his folks in Lehi. That same evening a fisherman was going past Lehi and said he could take two of us. So Mother and my brother Mathias went with him. Then someone would come after the rest of us. The train could not take us there for the track was then only laid to the Point of the Mountain. So the rest of us stayed in the tithing yard till the next day. All that day no one came. But the next day, July 20, 1872, a man by the name of Mathias Petersen from Lehi came for us in a brand-new wagon. Happy were we. We came as far as this side of Sandy and stopped overnight. The next day, this being Sunday morning, July 21, 1872, we arrived in Lehi.

Now I must say a little about Sunday, July 21, 1872. As I said before, we camped overnight on the state road this side of Sandy. It was a beautiful morning, and time came for us to have something to eat before starting. There were five of us in all, and we had some baked wheat bread. There was a farmhouse some distance away, so Mathias Petersen, our driver, went over there to see if he could get some milk to go with the bread. He soon came back and a lady with him with a pan full of sweet milk. It was my first night camping out and my first meal of wheat bread and sweet milk. I shall never forget how good it tasted to me. I was overjoyed. Oh, how good I thought that lady was to bring us that good milk! I don’t know if she was a Mormon or not. But at that time I thought all the people in Utah were Mormons so, of course, I thought she was. So it was another step to me to gain a little better feeling for Mormonism.

I remember the first time I encountered the Americans. We came through a dense pine forest, and we had to go across the street. We opened the branches and all of a sudden a huge tank was right in front, and the gun was aimed at us.
I was scared. I had never seen an American tank or an American. The top of the tank opened, and an American came out. Russian prisoners who had been freed by the Americans were sitting on top. They saw that we were shaking. The American asked me where we came from and where we wanted to go. I told him we wanted to go home. “No way,” he said. “You just jump on here, and we’ll take you along. At the next stop we’ll put you on a truck that will take you to a camp.”

The Russian soldiers seated on the tank made me think of a possible solution to our dilemma. During the war the feeling of love I had learned all my life in church was in my heart. I didn’t hate anyone. I thought about being my brother’s keeper.

The Russian soldiers imprisoned in our camp weren’t treated well. They went without much to eat and we had plenty, so we asked them to clean our mess kits, and they consented. We left food in them all the time just to feed them.

My commanding officer noticed, and he called me in. “What do you do with your mess kits?”
“The Russians clean them for us,” I replied.
“I checked and there was food in them.”
“We cannot eat it all. That’s why we leave it in there.”
“You know that’s strictly forbidden. I could report you and you would be in trouble. Don’t do it again,” he said, and patted me on the shoulder.

One of the Russians to whom we had given the food wrote me a note. He told me that whenever we lost the war or I needed help from the Russians to show them this note.

I had put it in my pocket, and at the moment that we were confronted with that tank I remembered it. I pulled it out and gave it to the Russians. They read it and then all of a sudden said, “Friend! Friend!” in German and talked to the American, telling him that I had given food to the Russians. He said, “I hear you have been good to the Russians. Instead of us taking you along, just go ahead.”

In another instance, a Laurel class president determined that she was going to fulfill her responsibility to activate a girl even though her leaders felt the situation was almost hopeless. Her bishop told her that because of some problems in the home and for other reasons, there was very little chance this girl would ever come to church. The other class members laughed when they learned helping this girl come back to church was to be one of the goals of their class president.

Nevertheless, she was determined to befriend this girl and enlisted the help of a neighbor girl as well. They began by saying “Hi” whenever they saw her and always stopping to visit for a minute. Then they started finding reasons to visit her. She was selected to be a member of the Booster Club for her high school wrestling team. The Laurel class president took her a flower and a note expressing congratulations. This process went on for three or four months. Finally, one Sunday the girl accepted an invitation to come to Sunday School. The next week she was there again, and that week she also attended Mutual. Because of her courage and faith, a young Laurel influenced one of her peers to take the first step toward activity in the Church.

Some months ago Sister Faust and I were privileged to hear the testimony of Sister Fay Richardson, the wife of Bishop Richard Richardson of the Nottingham England Stake. Sister Richardson said, and with her permission I quote:
“I learned not to be passive about my testimony quite a long time ago during a religious-knowledge lesson in a schoolroom. I was fourteen years old, and after asking us all our religions, the teacher asked the question of us, ‘How many of you know God lives?’
“I felt myself go hot, and my face turn red, and I thought, “Oh, no, time to stand and be counted.” I instinctively knew that no one else would raise their hand, for they were far too sophisticated to believe in God, but I slowly raised mine. Then, feeling rather embarrassed and aware that all eyes were upon me, I said, ‘Well, I suppose so.’
“How I wished I hadn’t said that! I had added doubt to what could have been a firm testimony. In the years that followed I often dreamed of being able to stand boldly in front of that same class and bear firm testimony of the living God. I wished over and over again that I could relive the experience and be able to tell them just how much I loved my Heavenly Father. Fortunately, I learned from the experience, and I never since have said, ‘I suppose so,’ where the gospel is concerned.”

One Sunday during our teachers quorum meeting, we had a lesson on patriarchal blessings. I didn’t know a lot about patriarchal blessings, so I found the lesson very interesting. The next week my aunt and uncle who recently became active in the Church received their patriarchal blessings. Then that Monday I got my copy of the New Era in the mail. I saw that one of the articles in it was titled “When Should I Get My Patriarchal Blessing?” [Aug. 2009], and that is when I started to wonder if my Heavenly Father was trying to tell me to get my patriarchal blessing. I prayed about it and received my answer. Soon afterward I received my patriarchal blessing.

Time was very short as I dashed on to the train, thinking what I was going to study once I had found a seat.
The train was almost empty, but I spied a student seated at a table obviously returning to his university studies, with books piled high at his side, studiously burying his head in his desired subjects.
“Ah,” I thought, “This young man won’t mind one iota if I slide in at his table with my own pile of books filled with interesting material.” Our carriage was already filling up. The train then speedily left the terminal.
I had not been studying too long when I began receiving impressions from the Lord to open a different study guide. No, I obstinately pushed the thoughts out of my mind. But, again and again, the Lord was saying, “Read this one!”
After a while, I chose to be obedient, opening the ’Doctrines of the Gospel’ study guide. Not knowing why, I decided to read. Time passed with the miles fleeing by. Suddenly the student shouted very angrily, “Why, why do I have to go away and study? Why leave my family alone; I don’t understand.” Everyone in the carriage must have understood his distress. I imagined his darling wife back home, perhaps two tiny children, maybe crying as he had to leave them again for another long period.
“Why?” I thought. It came to me that maybe he might be a law student, on a course of study that takes seven long years! (My own brother had a hard time qualifying for his law degree to become a solicitor.) I thought, “Oh, his poor wife.”
I prayed for him in his embarrassed state. Then, “open the book” I heard the Spirit tell me. To the Lord’s entreaty, I opened the manual in a questioning way. Then, there in chapter 13, page 37, a large picture of Daniel in the lion’s den faced me. “YES!” I thought, “Yes I do feel like Daniel in the lion’s den right now.” I’d felt responsible for answering the student’s earnest question.
Above the picture of Daniel in the lion’s den were the words that could answer this student’s question. I was awestruck! The words were a quote from the teachings of Spencer W Kimball. It was so astounding; I was gobsmacked. I found a piece of paper and wrote out the answer to this student’s question, the words from a previous Prophet, and passed it to him.
The quote read, “It takes faith-unseeing, faith, for young people to proceed immediately with their family responsibilities in the face of financial uncertainties. It takes faith, for the young woman to bear her family instead of accepting employment, especially when schooling for the young husband is to be finished.”
The quote goes on to state other matters that I left out. But I went further into President Kimball’s remarks, “Know this—that all these [difficult life situations that require faith] are of the planting, while faithful devout families, spiritual security, peace and eternal life are the harvests.”1
I am thankful indeed, that I could answer his distress call that day. I had given him quotations so he could go on the internet later and look up the source material.
I am always happy to help others; those seeking learning and answers to questions about the meaning of life. He was being tested. Also, I was being tested, to see if I really care for my fellow ‘travellers’.
Oh, how I have looked back on that day when I testified and felt, as is stated in the Book of Mormon, “If he would believe in him that he could show unto him all things—it should be shown unto him; therefore the Lord could not withhold anything from him, for he knew that the Lord could show him all things” (Ether 3:26).
I love to travel about and share what I know to be true, with wonderful sons and daughters of God who are not aware of who they really are. I feel this is required of me as a sister missionary of his gospel, and I am blessed for it.

Dad was out of town on a business trip, so the only one to greet me when I limped off the plane from my mission was my mother. She held me and we cried.
I took as many medical tests as possible, but the doctors could not find the problem. Taking off my missionary tag nine months early was the hardest thing I have ever done. I felt like a failure for not finishing my mission.
Being a missionary had always been in my plans. When my older brother left on his mission, I dressed up with a homemade name tag to see him off. When the mission age change was announced in 2012, I had just turned 19 and knew that the announcement was an answer to my prayers. I danced around the room, filled out my paperwork that day, set up my medical appointments, and put my papers in within the week. I received my call to the California Anaheim Mission two weeks later and reported to the missionary training center two months after that.
I hit the mission field with “greenie” fire and never wanted to slow down. My trainer and I literally ran to some lessons because we were so excited to teach. For me, being a full-time missionary was the most natural thing in the world. I was awkward and struggled at times, but there was nothing more amazing to me than being a missionary.
Around eight months into my mission, my companions and I were given bikes because of a car shortage. I hadn’t ridden a bike in a long time and wasn’t entirely sure how to do so in a skirt, but I was thrilled anyway. After a few weeks, though, I developed a pain in my side that would come and go. I ignored it and kept working.
The pain became more frequent and more intense until one night my companion had to take me to the emergency room. I took many medical tests but the doctors couldn’t find the source of my pain.
In the weeks that followed, I prayed to Heavenly Father to make the pain go away and received several priesthood blessings, but it just got worse. Every possible position hurt; the pain was constant. But I decided that I could get used to it and kept going.
One day I collapsed on the side of the road, unable to move anymore. I was transported to the hospital to do tests with yet again no results. I tried to take it easy and sit on bus-stop benches with my companions and teach people as they waited for their buses. I sat through lessons, biting my lip through the pain. I eventually pushed myself too far and ended up in the hospital again. I realized that I might permanently damage myself if I stayed on my mission. After a lot of prayer, I received the answer that I should go home to sort out my health issues.
When I realized I was home for good, I was devastated. But I tried my best to maintain my faith and scripture study. My family handled it well, but the other people around me weren’t sure how to react to my situation. They kept asking me questions, and I barely kept it together. One man, however, called me unexpectedly and told me that his son had come home early from a mission a long time ago. He told me that this trial had the potential to destroy my faith and happiness and that it frequently did with many early-returned missionaries. “What you have to remember,” he said, “is that as long as you are trying as hard as you can to live your life righteously, it’s always a step forward no matter what happens outside of your control.”
That became my motto, and I relied on it heavily for the next year. For eight months I could barely walk, but people would still judge me when they found out that I had come home early. They said that there were people with worse medical conditions who had finished serving. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t have finished, even with medical difficulties. It was agonizing to hear this when I had loved my mission so much, but I had faith that Heavenly Father had a purpose for my trial and that it would be a step forward.
I began school again and started dating. I could see that I was progressing, but I felt that I would always view my mission with a little bitterness. Then a friend of mine reminded me that the Savior’s Atonement can heal all pain and bitterness. With His help I could be happy when thinking about my mission.
I knelt down and prayed to my Heavenly Father. I told Him about my pain and my efforts to be healed and comforted. I asked if He would take away the bitterness I felt. After my prayer, the Lord opened my eyes to see my mission from His perspective. Both my service and early return were a part of the Lord’s plan to help make me into who He wanted me to be. I could see the miracles that He had provided since I came home. It has been a hard path, but now I can look back on my early return home with peace, knowing that God has my best interests at heart.