Gospel Story Finder

“I look ugly,” I said, staring into the mirror in disbelief.
Gazing back at me was the same right eye as always. However, covering my left eye was the worst black eye I had ever seen.
“It’s not that bad. Really,” my friend Emily said unconvincingly.
I rolled my good eye at her and put the ice pack back on.
Only five minutes earlier my left eye had received an accidental but well-placed whack from my friend Janna’s elbow. Immediately my hands flew to my face, and I tried to stop myself from falling. Janna apologized. I could hear my friends surrounding me to find out if I was OK.
Though I was in pain, I didn’t realize what had actually happened until I moved my hands and heard every person in the room gasp.
“What?” I asked. No one answered.
I ran to the mirror. Within seconds of the contact, the skin around my eye had swelled to four times its normal size. Bright red blood filled the bruise.
“How am I going to face everyone?” I said, grabbing an ice pack from Janna’s hand. She bit her lip and apologized for about the hundredth time. I held the ice firmly to my eye, hoping the bruise would go away by the next morning.
Unfortunately, while some of the swelling did go down and the redness disappeared by the next morning, the puffy bruise had turned to a deep rose color. I looked ugly, and I felt even uglier.
I tried to cover my eye with makeup, but it just made the bruise look purplish. And nothing could help the swelling. I finally threw a hat on and wore it so I could just barely see from under it.
That day at school, I felt as though everyone were staring. I refused to look anyone in the eye. For days I couldn’t think about anything else, despite my friends’ attempts to cheer me up.
On Sunday I was grouchy because I couldn’t wear my hat to church. But everything changed during a lesson in Sunday School.
“Pray to see yourself as He sees you,” the teacher said, speaking about the Atonement and individual worth.
I touched my bruise, thinking to myself, “He sees me as a girl with an ugly black eye.” Then, as I stopped pitying myself, my perspective changed, and I wondered, “How does Heavenly Father see me?”
Tears filled my eyes as I reflected on the love He has not only for others but for me. “He sees me as His daughter, who is worth the life of His Son,” I realized.
I felt the Spirit testify of the great worth of my soul as a daughter of God. I remembered a scripture I had learned in seminary. I opened my scriptures and found it in 1 Samuel 16:7: “Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; … for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.” What I looked like on the outside was not as important as who I was on the inside.
My mind-set changed again as I looked around the room and felt an immense amount of love for the people I saw around me. The warmth of Heavenly Father’s love filled me, and for a moment I think I saw my classmates, in a small way, as Heavenly Father sees them—as His children.
I felt peace and comfort the rest of the Sabbath day, now not caring what others were thinking. I loved them, and I looked them all in the eye—with both of my eyes.

Early one Saturday morning, as the sun began to rise over Nsit Ubium, a group of young single adults gathered for a special institute class unlike any other. We called it “Breakfast with President Nelson.” Our course material was Teachings of the Living Prophets, and our next topic was “Succession in the Presidency.”
After the class, we met with our stake president, President Williams, and the YSA representative. I felt impressed to make the next lesson one that would not only be heard but also experienced. In our discussion, the Spirit reminded us of King Benjamin’s powerful counsel: “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).
We prayerfully selected some elderly members of the stake who needed support with household chores or farm work. Then, without revealing our full plan to the students, we asked each to bring a small, affordable token—perhaps a bar of soap, a sachet of milk, or any household item they could easily offer.
When the day arrived, our class began as usual at 6:30 a.m. As we studied the inspired order of succession in the First Presidency, we came to a beautiful realization together: in the Church, every calling—from the newest convert to the prophet of God—is an invitation to serve.
At the end of the lesson, I shared our plan. The refreshments we had prepared for class would be divided—half to be enjoyed and half to be given to those we would visit. I could see the excitement on the students’ faces as they realized that today’s gospel learning would be lived out in action.
Our first stop was the humble home of Sister Rosemary Abraham, an elderly sister who had been unable to attend church for years due to health and age constraints. Together, we cleared her lawn, swept her backyard, and presented her with the small gifts we brought. Her smile and tears spoke louder than any words.
Next, we visited Brother Harrison Ekanem, a long-time member, and his wife, a kind friend of the Church. Their home needed much care. We washed their clothes, cleared the bushes, and helped crack palm kernels she sold to support the family. Watching the young people labour joyfully touched her deeply. She promised to come to church to learn more about “these good people.”
Our final stop was at the home of a former patriarch who had suffered a serious accident and could no longer walk properly. This visit became the most emotional of all. As we helped peel cassava, clear his yard, and sweep around, he was moved to tears of gratitude—and so were we.
On our walk back to the stake centre, about a mile away, the students broke into hymns of praise. Their voices filled the quiet morning air as they expressed gratitude for the opportunity to serve. They spoke of how they had felt the Savior’s love and how their understanding of service had deepened.
Before we parted, one of them said, “Brother Ibok, can we do this every week? And maybe extend this same gesture to friends who aren’t members?”
That simple question felt like the echo of King Benjamin’s legacy—a reminder that true discipleship is found not just in what we learn but in what we do with that learning.
That day, we didn’t just study about prophets—we lived their teachings.

Early in the summer of 1914, Dorothy Page and her parents left their home in the United States and traveled across the ocean to the city of Brussels in Belgium. Her father had been sent there on business and the family expected to be away at least a year.
Soon they were comfortably settled in a quaint old house with beautiful gardens, surrounded by a high stone wall with a heavy iron gate in front. When Dorothy grew tired of playing among the tiny flower beds and winding paths, she and her mother would drive through the narrow, crooked streets. The odd little shops and houses were interesting to Dorothy and unlike any she had ever seen back home.
In August, just as Brussels was becoming more like home to the Page family, Belgium entered World War I. Mr. Page received word that he should remain in Belgium, as few people thought the war would last very long. Dorothy and her family didn’t even worry much when they heard the big guns booming in the distance.
As food became scarce in Belgium and Thanksgiving Day drew near, Dorothy began to think of the traditional party that would be held at Grandfather’s farm back home. There would be a wonderful dinner of turkey, cranberry sauce, and mince and pumpkin pies. She was homesick for the cousins who would be there having fun playing together.
The day before Thanksgiving, Dorothy’s father came home with the news that the next morning they were driving to the coast to make arrangements to return to the United States. “Pack everything we’ll need,” he said, “and remember to take plenty of warm clothes for the ocean voyage. I believe we can fit it all in the car.”
Many hours were spent packing at the Page home, and early Thanksgiving morning the family was in the car ready to start.
Just as the car rolled through the big iron gates, a man came running after them, carrying a large square box. He explained that the box had somehow managed to come through by express from the United States. He put it down in the bottom of the car and stepped back and waved good-bye.
Soon their home in Brussels was out of sight, and the car sped smoothly down the country road toward the coast. Suddenly, as the road turned sharply, they were stopped by a sharp command, “Halt!” A half dozen soldiers blocked the road in front of them, and an officer approached their car.
He was polite but firm. He said he was very sorry but he must have their car. It was needed to carry wounded soldiers, he explained. Despite their protests, the family was soon sitting alone by the roadside with all their luggage in a neat pile beside them.
“It’s Thanksgiving Day, and we don’t have anything to be thankful for,” said Dorothy, big tears in her eyes.
“We have a great deal to be thankful for, dear,” said Father. “We are all healthy, alive, and together.”
Just behind them was a small farmhouse with one end entirely destroyed by shell-fire. The other walls had several gaping holes where bombshells had hit. The place looked uninhabited.
Suddenly, a little girl darted from the cottage and ran toward them, speaking rapidly in her own language.
The girl was about Dorothy’s own age. She had very blue eyes, yellow hair, rosy cheeks, and wore a little cap over her tight pigtail braids. Her clothes were worn but clean.
A man and a woman came from the house that had seemed so empty and deserted and followed the little girl. They all began gesturing and talking in a mixture of French and English.
Mr. Page tried to explain what had happened. At the end of his story, the man invited them to share their humble home, but he apologized that they didn’t have a crumb of food to offer them.
Everyone began carrying the baggage to the house while Dorothy’s mother was sorting out their belongings. She laid aside many things that had at first seemed necessary and kept only the warmest wraps. At last she came to the big express package from home.
When she tore off the wrapping paper and lifted the lid from the box, she gave such a happy shout that all the others crowded around her. They peered eagerly down at the package and Dorothy shouted with joy.
There was a canned turkey, candied sweet potatoes, cranberry jelly, nut bread, raisins, candy, cookies, and other tasty homemade foods that Grandmother always prepared for Thanksgiving Day.
Everyone was so hungry that they hurriedly spread the feast on an old kitchen table, but no one touched a bite of food until they had first bowed their heads and thanked Heavenly Father for their blessings. For a few moments, as they enjoyed the food, the war seemed very far away even though they ate to the sound of booming guns in the distance.
Dorothy and her parents explained why Grandmother had sent the box of food and told their new friends about Thanksgiving Day. As they did, each one felt that never before had they understood and appreciated the true meaning of Thanksgiving Day. And their Belgian friends decided that it was indeed a wonderful custom to set aside a special day of thanks for year-round blessings.

Elder Anderson and I scanned the backs of two apartment buildings for empty windows. Over the balconies clothes hung down from drying poles. The balcony railings were draped with futon, colorful floor mattresses and quilts. Some women whacked them with bamboo. Again no luck. Only 10:30 and already we were depressed.
“Well, today is the day,” my companion said. “I’m sure we’ll find one.”
We were sure, but today was also Friday and new missionaries arrived tomorrow. There were so many that the mission had to open three new branches, one here in Yao-shi. We had to find an apartment for them today.
Elder Anderson indicated a small fruit stand. “Elder Tice. I’ll treat you. You’re thinking too much.” He had silvery blue eyes and blond-brown freckles and hair, contrasting sharply with my darker skin and black hair.
“You’re right. Let’s precelebrate with apple pears, and after we find a place today, I’ll treat you at Mr. Donuts: Bavarian cream and raspberry.”
“Now you’re talking! Doughnuts are great for my blisters!”
We chose the thin-skinned, light yellow nashi that crunched when bitten and ran with juice. Among the old wooden houses we found a small park. Eating on the streets was impolite, but a park was more acceptable.
Four preschoolers stopped playing and gawked at the foreigners. Their mothers told them not to stare and tried to turn them. “Ii desu yo” (That’s okay), we assured them. Then, with powerful hands and wrists, Elder Anderson tore two nashi into halves and gave them to the startled children.
We introduced ourselves. “Tice Choro to moshimasu” (My name is Elder Tice).
“Anderson Choro desu” (I’m Elder Anderson).
I gave Elder Anderson my Sofuto Tacchi tissues to wipe his hands. A few women giggled. We handed them our name cards, wrote their addresses, then left after an episode of furious bowing.
Around the bend Elder Anderson said, “Every day from 8:30 in the morning to 9:00 at night! Who’d have thought it would take so long?”
“Two-and-a-half weeks. We’ll have the missionaries return to this neighborhood after they’re settled. Wish we could work here.”
“Yeah. I love this city.”
Toward evening we reached the main road again where the houses thinned and the road became a highway. “Well, Elder Tice, we’re back. What do we do now?”
The signs across the street were steeped in dusk. A few cars slipped past.
“It doesn’t look like this leads into town.” I paused. “It’s 7:00.” He nodded. “Two hours before our train.” He didn’t move, then nodded again. I had to do something.
A series of rice fields began where the houses ended. The stalks were large, and evening darkened the fields. A rich green luster lingered around the tassels. “Shall we try another prayer?” I suggested.
“Yes, I think we should.”
I pointed to an alley a few buildings down. Except for one small grocer, all businesses along the thoroughfare were closed. “Let’s go there. It looks private enough.” We crossed the street and slipped into the alleyway. “Elder Anderson, would you offer the prayer?”
“Elder Tice, I’d be delighted.” We faced each other and bowed our heads.
“Our kind and gracious Heavenly Father, thou knowest we have need of thee. Thou hast sent us here where the gospel has not been taught before. Many times we have asked thee to help us find an apartment. We need thy help. The people of this city need thy help. In no other way can we find the apartment tonight. Please guide us. We ask thee for this aid in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
We felt buoyant. We put our right hands out palms downward, mine under Elder Anderson’s, then flung them upward with a hearty “Yoshi!” (All right!)
I said, “There’s a real estate agent several blocks away. We passed him earlier, but the office was closed.” We set off jogging.
The street was no longer empty. People were chatting in front of their homes, enjoying the cooling evening. We reached the real estate office, but it was still closed. I banged on the door. On one side a narrow passage ran between the building and adjacent wooden houses. About 30 feet away, a lanky, middle-aged man putted a golf ball into a cup. He missed one stroke and the ball rolled toward us.
I hustled over to pick it up, then handed him the ball. “Arigato” (Thanks), he said. He must have thought I was Japanese, for when I replied, “Do itashimashite” (You’re welcome), his eyes went wide. They went even wider when Elder Anderson came up.
“Hee. Gaijin desu ka?” the man asked. Gaijin was the popular abbreviation for gaikokujin, people from an outside country. We nodded.
We asked him if he knew who owned the real estate business.
“That’s my office,” he said, pointing an index finger at his nose. “Today is my day off.”
“We’re glad we found you,” Elder Anderson said.
The real estate agent stepped back in surprise. He dropped his golf ball. “You speak Japanese too?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Hee. Both of you speak so well. Are you Americans?”
“We’re from California,” I replied.
“Ah, California. Warm sun and oranges. I will visit San Francisco some day.” He went around to the front and unlocked the door. “Please come in.” Then he pulled up some chairs, took a bottle of Karupisu, a sour milk drink, from the compact refrigerator, and turned three glasses on a towel right side up. He poured some concentrate into each glass and added cold water. “I’m sorry I don’t have any sake” (rice wine).
“That’s fine. We don’t drink sake or any alcohol,” I said.
“That’s good! Me—I drink too much and my face turns bright red.” He brought the glasses to us. “Such fine young men,” he commented. “Shall we introduce ourselves? Mochida Ryusuke desu” (I’m Ryusuke Mochida).
“Hajimemashite, Mochida-san. Tice Choro desu” (How do you do, Mr. Mochida. I’m Elder Tice).
“Hajimemashite. Anderson Choro desu (How do you do. I’m Elder Anderson). We’re missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
We shook hands vigorously. “Perhaps you can help us,” I started. “We need an apartment for four male missionaries. At least two six-jo rooms, a 4.5-jo kitchen, a bath, and a flush toilet.” A jo was the size of one straw floor mat.
“Yoshi. Large apartments, but I have a few. Let me bring some blueprints. I have a new one with two eight-jo rooms—750,000 yen deposit and 35,000 yen monthly rent. Very good price.” He moved toward his desk.
“That’s the problem. We’re allowed a maximum of 500,000 yen deposit and 28,000 yen rent.”
He looked back at us. “Impossible. Not around Osaka. Even old places that size go to 600,000 yen.” He sat down at his desk and shook his head. “You can’t go any higher?”
“The mission home establishes a standard for all apartments we rent.”
“We’ve been looking in Yao-shi for more than two weeks,” Elder Anderson said. We looked at Mochida-san expectantly.
“Saa. Well, I can call a friend who has the largest agency in Yao. If he doesn’t have one, then there isn’t one.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Moshi moshi (hello). Okusan desu ka? (Is this Mrs. ?) Ryusuke desu. (I’m Ryusuke.) Ee. Imasu ka? Hai.” (Yes. Is he in? Yes.) He looked up. “He’s at home—“but was cut off. “Hai. Yes, it’s business. Ano, two Americans are here. They’re looking for an apartment: six-jo—two rooms, kitchen, bath, flush toilet. Yes, I do, but price is a problem. Deposit—500,000, rent—28,000 … You do—But they speak Japanese … Oh? … Well, you speak to them. Don’t worry.” He motioned for me to hurry. “He has a place, but he doesn’t want to rent it to you.” He handed me the receiver.
“Moshi moshi” (hello), was all I could think to say.
“Moshi moshi. You speak Japanese?” It was more a doubt than a question.
“Some. I’ve been in Japan one year and nine months.”
“You speak quite well. Did you study Japanese long in America?”
“No. Two months in Hawaii and the rest here.”
“Which school do you attend?”
“I don’t attend school. I’m a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ—”
“A Christian church, huh? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Let me talk to Ryusuke-san now.”
I looked up, bewildered. “He wants to talk to you.” Mochida-san took the receiver. “Moshi moshi. Ee. Why don’t you—It won’t hurt to see them … Have you ever met any? Well? … I’ll take them there. Just say hello.” He hung up and shrugged. “He’s really very friendly. Well, shall we go?”
The blue-tiled office was new, with the front nearly all glass. Mochida-san hopped out of his Nissan, and we pulled ourselves from the cramped back seats. Our friend opened the door slightly. “Gomen kudasai. Mairimashita yo” (Excuse me).
“Dozo, dozo, ohairi kudasai” (Please come right in). A slender woman in a scarlet and blue cotton kimono appeared from a side curtain, carrying a tray of teacups and a teapot. She put the tray down and shuffled toward us, stopping before the genkan, or entryway. Mochida-san opened the door wide.
After she again invited us in, we stepped from the genkan up to the floor into slippers provided, leaving our shoes behind. A solidly built man about five feet, six inches tall hurried in through the back door. He scowled. Elder Anderson and I bowed and introduced ourselves.
Our host returned the bow quickly. “Seki Nijiro desu” (I’m Nijiro Seki). His wife smiled graciously, then bowed slowly. He looked at Elder Anderson. “Do you speak Japanese too?”
“Yes, I speak Japanese. I’ve been in Japan only one year so I don’t speak as well as Elder Tice.”
“You’re wearing suits. I wouldn’t have talked to you if you had come in with long hair and jeans.”
“We all wear suits and keep our hair short. It’s a mission rule,” Elder Anderson said.
“Well, sit down. We might as well talk.” He and his wife settled in the chairs; we and Mochida-san sat on the sofa.
I began. “Every day for two-and-a-half weeks we’ve been looking for an apartment. We need to find one by tomorrow. Do—”
“My apartment building is in a quiet neighborhood. It’s for newlyweds. They take care of their apartments. Four young students—”
“Missionaries,” I prompted.
“Ee to … missionaries … I can’t rent to single men. Their rooms get cluttered because their mothers aren’t around to clean after them. Newlyweds are more conscientious.”
“Our mission rules make us clean our apartments,” I said. “Every morning from 8:00 to 8:30. We also have inspections.”
“I see. But you’ll still have ashes and cigarette butts all over. Young men—”
“Oh, we don’t smoke.”
Seki-san sputtered. Mochida-san stared at me in amazement.
“That’s right,” Elder Anderson said. “In our church we have a commandment not to smoke. It’s very healthy.”
Both men nodded. Seki-san’s wife took advantage of the silence to pour some tea.
I stammered, “Excuse me, but is that ocha?” (tea).
“No. It’s mugicha.” Mugicha was made from barley kernels roasted black. It was often served in summer.
“Yokatta!” (Good!) we said in relief. I explained, “We don’t drink anything made from cha leaves. We don’t drink coffee either. It’s part of our health laws.”
The wife finished pouring. “That’s very strict. But don’t worry. This is mugicha.” She placed the teacups before us. The drink was so hot I couldn’t keep my fingers on the sides.
“Green tea is good for you.” Evidently Seki-san had recovered. “Still, young men are not responsible enough. No telling what time you’d get in. We can’t have you disturbing others at midnight. I’m sorry.”
Elder Anderson responded, “The mission has a nightly curfew at 9:30, and all missionaries are to be in bed at 10:30.”
“We have to be up by 6:30,” I volunteered.
“Maa (Oh!). Is that so?” Seki-san shifted about in his chair uncomfortably. “I simply cannot rent to you. All the other families would be newlyweds. You’d be coming and going all day. The radio would be on. You’d disturb others.” He stood up unexpectedly and raised his voice. “The husbands would be away and only the okusan (wives) would be home it wouldn’t be seemly! I can’t allow immoral behavior! Okusan and unmarried men! And what about young women? Who’s to stop them? No telling what—”
“Now wait a minute!” I exclaimed.
Elder Anderson leaped up. “We’re missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! Do you know what that means?”
Seki-san drew in his cheeks and his wife poured him some mugicha. He raised the teacup and slurped noisily before sitting down.
I leaned forward and looked at him intently. “When we enter the Church, we make some crucial promises to God. One of them we call the law of chastity. We stay chaste before marriage and remain faithful after marriage. Missionaries especially try to live all the commandments. We believe they’re from God. They bring us joy and make us honorable, respected people. We also promise not to date during the years we work as missionaries. In our mission no one but missionaries is allowed in our apartments.” I had spent most of my steam and was feeling guilty. I looked down. “Except of course for landlords … I’m very sorry we got upset.”
Seki-san waved his hand. “No, no. That’s all right. We shall be friends.”
Elder Anderson started speaking eagerly. “I think we’d make good renters. We have a Japanese and gospel study program every morning. We leave for the day at 10:30, coming back only at mealtimes. We aren’t supposed to listen to popular music, and since most of us don’t like classical music, it’s pretty quiet.” He grinned broadly. He had an infectious, good-natured smile.
“Saa, saa (Come now). Let’s have some sake.”
His wife started to stand, but Mochida-san, who had been quiet till now, broke in. “They don’t drink sake, either.”
“Well, biru then.” Beer is extremely popular in Japan.
“Oh, they don’t drink biru, either. No alcohol.” He was enjoying himself immensely. He patted us both on the back. “Fine fellows. Maybe I should stop drinking.”
“You? The day you stop drinking I stop drinking.” Seki-san laughed.
“Well, I can always cut back.”
“You should. At least I don’t have to worry about cases of empty biru bottles stacked before the door.” He stopped and stood up. “Shall we look at the blueprints?”
“You mean?”—I had trouble believing what I heard. I blinked hard to hold back tears. “Thank you so much.” I took out a handkerchief, and wiped my eyes.
“Ii to mo (That’s all right). I would be honored to rent to you. It would be a pleasure.”
Elder Anderson stood to shake hands with Seki-san. “We’re very grateful.” Then we started to cry. I finally lent my companion the handkerchief.
When we left half an hour later to catch our train, just before we climbed into Mochida-san’s car, Elder Anderson began to hum our favorite jingle, “Ohayo, Mr. Donuts …”

Living near the coast on Vancouver Island, Marnie gets many opportunities to go to the ocean. “I hike to Witty’s Lagoon sometimes. You can see whales and sea lions there,” said Marnie. “Once when I was there with my friends Kara and Nina and my sister Stephanie, two sea lions came up not far from us and played for fifteen or twenty minutes. When we got out of the water, they swam away. Another time our family was at Witty’s Lagoon with Brother Bedesso from our ward. We put inflated inner tubes on each end of a big log we found so that it would float better. Then Dad, Brother Bedesso, Stephanie, Kristy, Melissa, and I all sat on the log and sailed in the lagoon. Later that day we caught a dogfish, which is a kind of small shark.
“I like to swim in fresh water, too,” said Marnie. (There are two fresh-water lakes near Marnie’s home.) “I like to wade in the water and put logs out to sail.”
“Our family goes to Sealand sometimes. There are three killer whales there, and we know that if we stand in a certain spot, the trainer will pick us to feed the whales. So Stephanie, Melissa, Kristy, and I have been able to feed the whales.”
Marnie does her share to help her mother, Linda, and her father, Doug, do the housework and yard work. “I help clean the house, and I put my laundry away and make my bed. Sometimes I take care of Kellie, and I make supper every Saturday. Well, not exactly every Saturday, but lots of Saturdays. In the summer I water the raspberry bushes.
“Each day Stephanie, Melissa, Kristy, and I draw sticks with jobs written on them to see who clears the table after supper, washes the dishes, and dries the dishes. One stick says that that person gets the day off. If you get three days off in a row, the next day you have to do the clearing, washing, and wiping all by yourself.”
Marnie, Melissa, and Stephanie are in the same class at school. “It’s a combined class with twenty-one other students,” Marnie explained. “Having sisters in your class is neat. We don’t always do our homework together, though, because we don’t always have the same homework. Sometimes,” she added, “being in the same class can cause problems. Like today: I expected Melissa to bring home her social studies book because she always brings her books home.”
“And Marnie usually ‘forgets’ her books,” Melissa put in.
“Well, we have a social studies test tomorrow,” added Marnie, “and not one of us brought our book home to study, because we all thought that someone else would bring hers.”
“In Primary Melissa and I aren’t in the same class, but sometimes our teachers let us sit together during opening exercises and Sharing Time. I like Primary. One of my favorite lessons that I learned in Primary was from a talk that one of our leaders gave. She said that once when she was little and had gone out trick-or-treating, some teenagers took her bag of candy away from her. Her brother saw how sad she was and gave her his bag of candy. I thought that was a good lesson.” And it’s a lesson that Marnie Payne lives by.

I’d never been very committed to indexing. I love temple work and have used FamilySearch.org to find family members’ names to take to the temple. I believe the Lord has inspired technological advancements to further and hasten His work. And I understand that indexing performs a critical function of making searchable records accessible. But my efforts at indexing had still been intermittent and weak.
Enter COVID-19 and temple closures. In the April 2020 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson said: “While worshipping in the temple is presently not possible, I invite you to increase your participation in family history, including family history research and indexing. I promise that as you increase your time in temple and family history work, you will increase and improve your ability to hear Him.”1 Right after this invitation was given, I was quarantined because of exposure to someone with COVID-19. I decided to use that time to try indexing again.
At first my experience was the same as before—slow and frustrating. I don’t easily understand other people’s handwriting or the formats of different forms. Then I remembered what I learned in Saints, volume 1, when Joseph Smith was translating the Book of Mormon: “He had to be humble and exercise faith as he studied the characters.”2 At that same time, Oliver Cowdery was unable to translate, in part because he “took no thought save it [were] to ask” (Doctrine and Covenants 9:7). I didn’t want to find myself making the same mistake as Oliver, so I applied myself with a little more enthusiasm and commitment.
Ever since that moment, instead of wincing or shying away from difficult indexing projects, I relish the opportunity to work hand in hand with the Lord in indexing names so that those who have passed can become one step closer to receiving ordinances in the temple. As I study out in my mind the details of the records before me, I feel greater patience in my persistence to understand the records, and I recognize the Lord’s hand in my understanding when it comes. I have felt the fulfillment of President Nelson’s promise—I am increasing in my ability to hear the Lord.
I am thankful for the opportunity to participate in the work of salvation and exaltation! Indexing is an amazing opportunity to emulate the Prophet Joseph Smith in laboring to comprehend what would otherwise be incomprehensible to us but can become clear through the gift and power of God.

If this really works, it is the greatest source of happiness to be found on earth. Let me cite one more example as it was written in a recent Ensign magazine.
“In the summer of 1953 I was a sixteen-year-old apprentice actress. … Our lead actress was a pretty red-haired girl who had won the lead role in a competition (so I understood) in New York. … She and I shared a suite of rooms, and every morning when I woke up I saw [her] sitting on her bed reading. I awoke to that sight, no matter what the hour, for four months.
“The news quickly spread that she was a Mormon, and in an environment where morals simply did not exist, she was as pure as snow. No drinking, no smoking, not even in plays, and no men in her room. She loved everyone, and she was so gentle and friendly even though she was the “star.” And always in the morning she was reading and reading, not her scripts, but some other books and magazines that she had brought with her.
“She never talked to me about her religion, and I never asked her. But I never forgot her.
“Many years later, after I had married and already had two children, my husband and I became dissatisfied with our spiritual lives. We took religion courses and went to all kinds of churches, but we still were not satisfied.
“Then I remembered [her]. She had been, they said, a Mormon. We had no idea what a Mormon was, and I didn’t remember even talking about them in school history. So I went to the public library in the little Alabama town of Opelika, and checked out the only thing I could find: ‘Mormon, The Book of.’ In the back was a list of mission homes and I wrote to the nearest one, which was in Georgia, and asked if they accepted converts. The rest is part of our family history.
“I’ve never been able to find that young lady to tell her that, because she lived her religion in a way that I could not forget, thirty-seven people on both sides of our families are members of the Church. Countless others in the spirit world also have been given the opportunity.” (Ensign, Dec. 1977, p. 62.)

On 4 Dec 2020, Bishop Les Pointer of the Telford Ward, Newcastle-under-Lyme Stake, accepted an award on behalf of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in recognition for its generous support of the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council. The award was presented by Raj Mehta, chair and founder of the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council, and a town councillor.
Since Bishop Pointer’s call in October 2017, he has led the ward members to work ever closer with the community and other local faith groups. He was invited to become a trustee of the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council in April 2020. Admittedly, before the COVID-19 pandemic, it was easier to serve the local community. Despite the pandemic, Ward members have been able to find appropriate and safe ways to continue serving the community throughout 2020. Bishop Pointer was also nominated for an Unsung Heroes Award from the Telford and Wrekin Borough Council, which he accepted on behalf of ward members.

I owe much of my happiness to a man I have never met. He was one of my great-grandparents. He left me a priceless heritage of hope.

His name was Heinrich Eyring. He was born into a wealthy family in Germany, but both of his parents died when he was young. He was left without any money. He felt that his best hope was in going to the United States. He moved to Missouri. There he worked with a man who was a Latter-day Saint. He gave Heinrich a copy of a Church pamphlet. Heinrich read it and studied every word he could find about the Latter-day Saints. He prayed to know if there really were angels that appeared to men, whether there was a living prophet, and whether he had found a true religion. After two months of careful study and prayer, Heinrich was told in a dream that he should be baptized. On March 11, 1855, Heinrich was baptized in a pool of rainwater.

Heinrich left a written history for his descendants. In that history I can feel his love for those of us who would follow. I feel his hope that his descendants might choose to follow him on the path back to our heavenly home. He knew it would not be one choice to make, but many small choices.

Like my ancestor Heinrich, you may be the first in your family to make sacred covenants.

Heinrich was a pioneer in President Eyring’s family. Who are the pioneers in your family? Look at the pictures below. One shows a pioneer family in the early days of the Church. The other shows a pioneer family today. What is the same about both pictures? What is different?

I had not strayed from the gospel because of disobedience or rebellion. But because of a serious medical condition, I came to know what it means to feel lost from the Lord’s flock.
After months of illness and hospitalization, I attended a fast and testimony meeting in late summer, feeling very alone. Watching individuals stand and testify of their love for the Lord, the gospel, leaders, and family, I desperately wanted to feel the same confidence, peace, and security in the gospel those around me obviously felt. But because of my physical condition, my spiritual senses were unresponsive.
Then a Brother Vance rose from his seat in the congregation. A large, strong, grandfatherly man who worked well with his hands, he related his thankfulness to the Lord for the growth of some lilac bushes that were most precious to his wife.
The Spirit bore witness to me of the truthfulness of Brother Vance’s words, and this new insight gave me the strength to continue my efforts to return to both physical and spiritual strength.
Many months later, in a new ward, with my health restored, I was called to teach seminary. Because of my experience, I was now more able to study the gospel with zeal and share that newfound strength not only with the youth in the ward, but also with a few other sheep who were contemplating straying.
Now, whenever I feel the discomforts of a new beginning, I try to remember Brother Vance’s analogy about pruning with a purpose. It helps to see my trials in a broader perspective, and I find myself praying that I shall grow in a manner that will be pleasing to the Lord and to me.

Many years ago our young family was going to see a movie for family home evening. We were all in the van except for one of our sons and my wife, Valerie. It was dark outside, and as our son threw open the door and ran toward the car, he accidentally kicked what he thought was our cat on the porch. Unfortunately for our son and my wife, who was right behind him, it was not our cat but rather a very unhappy skunk, who let them know it! We all returned to the house, where they both showered and washed their hair with tomato juice, the supposed sure remedy to eliminate the skunk odor. By the time they had cleaned up and changed their clothes, we were all desensitized to any odor, so we decided we were OK to go to the movie after all.
Once we were seated at the back of the theater, one by one the people around us suddenly decided to go out to get popcorn. When they came back, however, no one returned to their original seat.
We have laughed as we’ve recalled that experience, but what if all of our sins had an odor? What if we could smell dishonesty, lust, envy, or pride? With our own weaknesses revealed, we would hopefully be a little more considerate and careful of others and, likewise, they with us as we make the needed changes in our lives. I actually love the smell of tobacco in church because it indicates someone is trying to change. They need our welcoming arms around them.

Brother Consky was an old, bent man with deep wrinkles and feathery white hair. He lived down our street in a small, beat-up house that seemed kind of spooky to us kids. Big strips of red paint had peeled off the outside walls, and ugly weeds grew wild everywhere. Once in a while Brother Consky pulled his curtains back and peeked out at us as we played, which made him seem spooky too. We decided to keep clear of him.
We would have done just that if it hadn’t been for Mom. “Boys,” she called to my brother, Jeremy, and me one day. “I need you to run dinner over to Brother Consky.”
Jeremy and I stared at each other in wide-eyed disbelief.
In the kitchen, we pleaded our cause. “Mom, we just can’t go. We’re in the middle of a very important scientific discovery (watching a spider devour a fly). We’ll miss the whole thing!” Our argument sounded good to us, but I guess it wasn’t very convincing to Mom.
She gave us that “if you know what’s good for you” look and handed us a couple of plates.
“It will only take a minute. Brother Consky is ill and can’t get his own meals. Dad has just been assigned as his home teacher, so you’d better get used to going over to his house. Besides, he could use your smiles. He doesn’t have any family to care for him.”
“Well, I’ll take the food,” I grumbled. “But I won’t promise a smile.”
Mom gave me another look and marched us out the door.
We walked slowly down the street and hesitated at the broken-down gate in front of Brother Consky’s house. It squeaked as we opened it. We stopped for a minute, then forced our trembling legs to walk through the scratchy weeds to the front door.
Jeremy slowly raised his hand and knocked timidly.
“Come in,” a raspy voice called out.
I hadn’t counted on going inside! I turned the doorknob and shoved Jeremy ahead. When I was sure it was safe, I followed him. For a moment I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Then my eyes began to focus, and I’ll never forget what I saw.
The room was empty except for an old gray couch where Brother Consky lay looking dull and sad. The floors were bare and cold, and the curtains torn and stained. There were no bright autumn leaves in vases like Mom put in our house. But worst of all were the walls. Green paint had faded and chipped, leaving great big spots of moldy gray plasterboard. It was a cold, dreary place, and I was glad when we were finally out in the sunshine again.
From then on, Jeremy and I took food over to Brother Consky every Wednesday and Sunday. Each visit was the same. We sat in the dark, moldy room, answered a few questions, and waited for our release into the bright world outside.
Fall passed slowly into the first week of December. Christmas trees and bright lights appeared in other homes but not in Brother Consky’s. One Wednesday he didn’t answer our knocks.
“Try the door,” I said. “He’s always up waiting for us.”
I knew that if we returned home with plates still full of food, Mom would send us right back.
The rusty knob turned, and the door clicked open.
“Brother Consky?” I called. “Are you here?”
The house was dark and still except for the eerie humming of the refrigerator.
“Brother Consky?” I called again as I walked down the hall and into the bedroom. Then, “Jeremy!” I yelled. Jeremy came running into the room. Brother Consky was hunched up on the floor. “Run and get Mom and Dad.”
My heart pounded faster as I sat there and waited and watched. As much as I had complained about going to Brother Consky’s every week, deep down inside, I liked him. I didn’t want him to die. Tears stung my eyes, and I quickly brushed them back as Mom and Dad hurried into the room.
“What happened?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know. I just found him like this.”
“Quick, Ken. Call the ambulance.”
Soon I heard the whining siren. In a matter of minutes Brother Consky was lifted onto a stretcher and taken away.
Two weeks passed. Each Wednesday and Sunday Jeremy and I walked to Brother Consky’s and stood outside the broken gate.
“I wish he was here for us to visit now,” said Jeremy glumly one Wednesday.
“Me too.” I also wished that I’d never complained about going to his house.
The next night Dad announced that Brother Consky was getting better and would be coming home the day before Christmas.
Jeremy and I jumped out of our seats and cheered.
Later that night Jeremy and I lay wide awake trying to think of something special to give Brother Consky for his homecoming.
“How about bringing in a Christmas tree and decorating it for him,” suggested Jeremy.
“Great idea, but it’s not enough. It has to be something really neat.”
“Good night, boys,” Mom called upstairs. Somehow she always knew when we were whispering.
Jeremy rolled over and went to sleep, but I was too excited. I thought of Brother Consky cooped up in his house. I remembered when I’d been sick how awful it was to stay inside all day, staring at the same four walls. I had felt like a prisoner caged in a cell, and I’d desperately wanted to escape the walls that held me in. The walls—that’s it! The perfect gift!
The next morning, before I could even gulp any breakfast down, I told my family about my plan.
“Dad, I need your help on a special project.”
“Sure, James. What is it?”
“Jeremy and I want to give Brother Consky a welcome-home gift, and I have the perfect idea—newly painted walls! You’ve seen his house. How would you like to lie in bed staring at those ugly walls?”
I ran on excitedly, “We have over a week before he comes home. If we all pitch in and paint, it will be done and we can bring him into a bright new room!”
“That’s a great idea, James. We’ll get the paint and start on it tomorrow.”
I saw him wink at Mom.
Later, as I was rounding up paintbrushes, I heard Dad on the phone: “No, Stan. We won’t need the elder’s quorum now. Two Christmas elves beat you to the idea. We’re going to start tomorrow.”
Early in the afternoon on the twenty-fourth, Dad wheeled Brother Consky into his newly painted home. The walls glowed with fresh paint. The new curtains Mom had made were parted to let the sunshine in. A Christmas tree glistened with lights and tinsel. Outside, last summer’s dead weeds had been cleared away and the fence fixed. To Jeremy and me, it looked like a castle.
Brother Consky sat there stunned. For a moment no one spoke as his eyes wandered from wall to wall. Then a smile cracked his lips. He looked at Jeremy and then at me. I saw tears in his eyes. He reached out a shaky hand and took my hand and squeezed it. I moved closer than I’d ever been to him and threw my arms around his neck.
Jeremy and I still visit Brother Consky. Only now we don’t go just on Wednesdays and Sundays. We stop off almost every day on our way home from school. He likes to hear about what we’re doing, and he even helps us with our math. Best of all, we just like being there with him, listening to his stories.

Years later, our family had grown to five children, including our youngest, Spencer.
Once, when Spencer was six years old, my wife and I went away for just a few days and left the children with a babysitter. When we returned home, I sat down with Spencer and asked him how everything had gone while we were away.
He told me that he’d had a hard time sleeping. When I asked why he didn’t sleep well, he thought about it and said he did not know.
Later that evening our family began our nightly routine of reading the Book of Mormon together.
Suddenly Spencer exclaimed, “That’s it!” I asked what he was talking about. “That’s why I couldn’t sleep very well at night.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” I asked.
“We didn’t read the scriptures at night while you were gone, and I like how the scriptures make me feel.”
Spencer had learned that reading the scriptures every day brings us the comfort, peace, and guidance of the Holy Ghost.

Mama wiped down the countertops in the kitchen while Nicole and her cousin Cassidi sat on the floor in the living room, playing quietly. Nicole and Cassidi were both five years old, but Nicole was small for her age.
Nicole and Cassidi agreed on a book from the bookcase, and Nicole began to read aloud. Cassidi sat across from Nicole with her legs crossed and listened closely to the story. The book had pictures, and each time Nicole finished reading a page, she faced the book toward Cassidi so that her cousin could see the picture, too. The girls were having a great time until halfway through the story. Then a look of sadness came over Cassidi’s face, and she began to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Nicole asked.
“Nothing,” Cassidi said quietly, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“If you’re sad, it makes me sad, too, Cassidi. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
Still sniffling, Cassidi nodded. “Nicole, you are so smart. You can read, and I can’t.”
Nicole lowered her head and closed the book. She felt very sad because Cassidi was unhappy. Mama wanted to rush in and comfort Cassidi; instead, she watched quietly from the kitchen.
Nicole’s eyes grew big, and a smile appeared on her face. “Cassidi, you are the best two-wheel-bicycle rider I’ve ever seen!” she said boldly. “I can’t ride a two-wheel bike at all,” she added, looking into Cassidi’s tear-filled eyes.
A big smile grew on Cassidi’s lips as she wiped the remaining tears from her face. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Nicole. They hugged each other tightly.
“I feel better now,” Cassidi said. “Thank you, Nicole.”
Nicole answered with a smile, and the girls continued to play.
Mama’s eyes filled with tears. She realized that the girls understood better than most grown-ups what it means to love one another as Jesus Christ would.

The final Saturday, having put the bikes on the train the day before, the weary travelers boarded to return home. There was plenty of room to stretch out and relax, and soon they were snoozers, not bikers.
Somehow, though, when the train finally halted in San Jose and they had to remount their cycles for another seven-mile jaunt to the chapel, they seemed almost eager to be riding once again. Soon they would be home recuperating, sharing a slice of their saga with their families.

It was her first day on the job as a dietary aid for a nursing home. Dawn Dyrhaug, 15, of Arlington Heights, Illinois, could have hesitated when she heard the sound of someone choking. What if she did something wrong? She could have held back, but she didn’t.
Dawn went into action. She knew she had only about four minutes to dislodge the food that prevented Clara Lieptz from breathing. Help might not arrive in time. Besides she had been trained to help.
She clasped her hands below the elderly lady’s rib cage in the Heimlich Maneuver. Dawn had learned that in many cases it would be necessary to repeat the procedure. To her relief, however, repeated attempts were not necessary.
In the days following the incident, Clara introduced Dawn as the girl who saved her life. Dawn felt good. For four years during YW girls’ camp with her stake, she had learned lifesaving techniques and first aid.
For having the know-how and exhibiting the courage to use it, Dawn will receive the American Red Cross Certificate of Merit signed by President Reagan and Illinois Governor Thompson.
Dawn is a member of the Northwest Second Ward, Schaumburg Illinois Stake.

Jason and Alanea Hanna faced many financial questions when Jason lost his job. Should they relocate and find another job? Should they try to find a job where they were currently living? After considering several options, they asked the most important question of all: “What would the Lord have us do?”
“We studied talks by prophets and apostles on topics like debt, budgeting, and saving to try to figure out what the Lord wanted us to do,” Alanea explains. “We knew that the Lord’s plan was the best plan and that we would be blessed if we followed it.”
After prayer and contemplation, Jason and Alanea both decided to return to college and finish their bachelor’s degrees. They took out minimal student loans to pay for their education, and both worked full-time to provide for their other expenses. They coordinated their work schedules to ensure that one of them was home with their children. They budgeted carefully, spending their money on the essentials and eliminating fast food, cable TV, and new clothes. Jason even rode his bike to school and work to limit the costs of gasoline and car insurance.
Now Jason works as an engineer. Alanea also completed her degree and is currently fulfilling her responsibilities as a full-time mother of five children. They still live within their means, budget carefully, pay tithing, and live according to the financial counsel of Church leaders. “We’re grateful for the trial and the experience,” Alanea says. “It ended up being a great blessing in our lives and taught us that the Lord will always bless us if we are obedient.”

As the sun rose the following morning, so did Bien’s hopes. Rescue workers pried him from the rubble and carried him to safety. His relieved family was notified. Bien was rushed to a hospital. Doctors immediately amputated his right arm. “I woke up, looked at my right side and cried out, ‘What’s happening here?’ I thought I was dreaming.” Shock turned to sorrow. “I felt so lonely because I might not be able to do what I used to do.”
After three bedridden months, Bien went home. Nearly all of his 50 classmates had perished. It seemed the same thing happened to Bien’s will to live. How could he, a right-handed person, manage with just his left hand?
While tutoring his nephews one day, Bien felt prompted to practice writing the alphabet. At first it was pure frustration. “My mind knew the shapes, but my hand had difficulty following.” However, practice makes perfect; less than a year after that fateful day, Bien was not only writing with ease but also back to his oil-painting hobby. And he resumed college.

He was introduced by a friend to the English language classes the missionaries presented. That led to the discussions and an invitation to attend Church.
“I attended the investigators’ class. What I heard there made little sense to me at first. I was an active Buddhist in a family of active Buddhists. But the name of Jesus touched my heart. I remember as a boy hearing Protestant missionaries talk of Jesus and Christianity. My parents and relatives did not like Christians and they said harsh things about them and about Jesus. I couldn’t help but wonder about this man Jesus. What happened to him? Why did my family talk only of bad things about him?
“So when the missionaries talked to me of Jesus, I decided to invite them to my cousin’s home where I was living while going to school. He and his family listened to some of the discussions, but then stopped.
“I continued with the discussions and with attending church, and I finally gained a testimony.
“I was baptized when I was eighteen years old.

I just finished reading the September New Era. It was the first Church magazine I have had the pleasure of reading. Thanks. It helps me. I am presently in the U.S. Coast Guard, stationed at the San Francisco Airport.
I was baptized into the Church a little over two years ago. It marked a turning point in my life and helped me to find peace of mind. Shortly thereafter I enlisted in the coast guard. I went through a tough boot camp and spent some great Sundays with other guys in the Church. I can remember someone saying that there was a reason for us to be there and that our Heavenly Father had a purpose for us.
After two trips to the Antarctic and one to the Arctic on the Glacier, the biggest coast guard icebreaker, I enrolled in aviation school for six months. Then it happened—Millington, Tennessee, and the greatest little branch you’ll ever see. I can’t begin to express my love for those people back there. I had been there less than a month when the branch president called me as a Sunday School teacher. I loved it. My students helped me to gain a testimony of my own. I was living off the joy that everyone else poured into me, when suddenly I found out for myself the sweet, honest, joyful truth of the gospel.
My testimony got me started into many Church activities, such as our roadshow, which took first place. Then there was the branch sweet potato project. I can remember the men and boys working in the field early one morning and then coming back to a good hot breakfast prepared by the sisters of the branch, while the girls watched the little children. Fantastic! I was later appointed teacher of the Blazers in Primary. Just think! I played a part in preparing those boys for the Aaronic Priesthood! You should drop out to Millington, Tennessee, sometime and be filled with the Spirit.
Thanks again for the joy your magazine brings.
Kurt CattonLos Altos Hills, California