Gospel Story Finder

“Elder Perry, if you could say something to the children of the world, what would you tell them?” I asked.
“I would like to tell them to learn as much as they could about the life of the Savior and to live as close to Him as they possibly can. Living the Lord’s way is the only way to find joy and happiness. If they turn from his course, there’s always a penalty involved, and they’ll find that sorrow and heartache will result from their decision.
“Children ought to start early in their lives to develop a method for retaining that which they study—a kind of filing system. Mine is simple enough for an eight-year-old to use. When I read scriptures and find one especially important, I underline it and try to pick out the main thought. If the scripture is on faith, I write faith in the margin.
“I think we spend too much time just reading the scriptures without remembering them. It is said that we retain about 10 percent of whatever we read, but we can retain 50–60 percent if we do something specific about it. If a child began at eight years of age, think of the vast amount of information he or she would have from that early study of the scriptures!”
The conversation then turned to recollections of Elder Perry’s parents and his own childhood: “I grew up very close to the Church,” he said. “My father was made bishop of our ward when I was only six months old. By the time I was six years of age, our ward was building a chapel. Father would take us all over to work on it. I remember that my first job was pulling nails out of boards and straightening them so they could be used again.
“My father came from a large family. They were homesteading in Idaho and had little money. When he reached high school age, he asked my grandfather to allow him to go to high school. His father gave him five dollars and a one-way ticket to Salt Lake, where he had to make it on his own. He found a job caring for President Joseph F. Smith’s cows and lived in the Beehive House like a member of the family for three and a half years. Father attended LDS High School and then went on to the University of Utah, where he was valedictorian of his graduating class. He accepted a position as principal of a school in Rexburg, Idaho. There he met my mother who was a teacher in the same school.
They were married and Dad left teaching and went to law school and became an attorney.
“Dad was a very intense man, but he knew how to relax. Saturday afternoon was spent with the family—fishing, hiking, or playing ball up Logan Canyon. He and I enjoyed pitching horseshoes together even when I was very young.
“My mother was a tremendous woman. She had more energy than anyone I’ve ever been around. She was the first one up in the morning and the last one to bed at night—just perpetual motion all day long. Her family came first and she was a tremendous support to my father, who was a bishop for eighteen years and then in the stake presidency for another twenty years.
“I had some great teachers when I was a boy. I remember a Sister Johnson, who was president of the Primary for years and years. How tender she was!
“But the teacher I remember best was Sister Call. She was just a jewel. I remember how impressed I was that she was willing to go on hikes with the Trail Builders. She’d plan scavenger hunts but they were not just the regular kind. Each one would have a connection with some part of the lesson. As we would find each thing, it would teach us another part of the lesson. Then there was always a nice reward—some special treat at the end. I can’t believe the creative ways she used to keep our attention as young boys.
“Sister Call is a person who keeps on giving. Recently I received a phone call from her son. He wanted to bring a gift Sister Call had just completed for me. He brought to my office a beautiful quilt she had made. Thousands of careful stitches prepared in a beautiful pattern. She is ninety-one years young. I could not hold back a tear as I thought of the kindness of this great teacher.”
We concluded the interview with some conversation about Elder Perry’s own family: “I have two grandchildren who live here in Salt Lake City and two who live in the eastern part of the U.S. We try to have family home evening together once a month with those who live here. One of our greatest family activities has been a garden that we planted in a vacant lot. We call it the Perry Family Welfare Farm. Both grandchildren have assignments. We plant, water, irrigate, harvest, and have a great time together! I hope I’m teaching them something about the Lord’s cycle of replenishment—that if we’re diligent, He will reward us abundantly. Each little seed brings forth a hundredfold.”
“Do you have a last word about children?”
“Children are receptive and attentive and able to follow the leader. They have freshness and are eager to learn. Children are wonderful!”

In one of my school classes, we were reading a book that critiqued the Church. I knew I needed to speak up about the truths of the restored gospel. So I raised my hand. The teacher called on me, but I didn’t know what to say. For some reason, I started to sing the songs of the Articles of Faith. To my surprise, a profound reverence came over the room. Afterward there was less confusion, and my teacher and classmates treated class discussion and me with more respect.
Monique, Massachusetts, USA

Born in Atlanta, Georgia, Martha Poston joined the United States Peace Corps in 1972. The Peace Corps trains and sends volunteers around the world to use their abilities to help others. She joined, she says, because, “I wanted to share my skills and knowledge with those less fortunate than I.” After she studied health and sanitation, child care, food and nutrition, and sewing, Martha began serving in rural Jamaica, where she organized classes to improve living conditions. Soon, however, she was transferred to Liberia in western Africa.
During her Peace Corps service, Martha recalls wanting an understanding of eternity and her place in God’s plan. She had inborn faith in a loving Father in Heaven. “I began feeling spiritual promptings telling me to set my house in order,” she remembers. “But when and for what reason was not clear.”
So Martha kept serving. To help combat the ever-present diseases, she taught rural Liberian women how to do their domestic chores off the ground, where mites and bacteria abounded, in sinks and ovens made from large oil cans and raised-hearth stoves constructed from earth and cement. She introduced clotheslines to the villages. Natives had been drying clothes on the ground and using a charcoal iron to kill mites that would settle in and lay eggs on the clothing. Those that survived would multiply and infect the wearers, causing misery. She also taught them how to boil and crack open palm nuts for their butter, to store grain, and to build iceless refrigerators from the oil cans. These they insulated with fabric-stuffed rice bags soaked with water, creating a crude thermos good for several days.
As Martha continued to lose herself in service, she began to awaken spiritually. She occasionally became discouraged, but remembers that she felt very close to God. “I relied on his Spirit to strengthen and direct me,” she says. “During this time, I had a dream similar to the one I would later recognize when I read the Book of Mormon—that of the rod leading to the tree of life. Other dreams assured me that my Heavenly Father would lead me from darkness into the light.
“I began reading my Bible daily but did not understand it,” she says. “I didn’t know what my next step should be—I just trusted the Lord. Then my mother became ill and I returned to Atlanta to care for her. I still continued to search the scriptures.”
While Martha stayed at her mother’s home, two missionaries came to the door. “We are here to teach you the restored gospel of Jesus Christ,” they said. After the first lesson, Martha felt grateful for additional knowledge, but she wasn’t inclined to join this “true church.” But by the third lesson, she began to receive answers to her prayers. She felt strongly that she was being led to this church where she would find people who would love and accept her.
On 1 May 1983, Martha Poston was baptized. She recalls that “my soul hungered and my mind and spirit were athirst, and God didn’t fail me.”
Two years later, Martha received a call to serve a temple mission in the Atlanta Temple, where she enjoys bearing her testimony of “having found the Spirit of God’s dear Son, Jesus Christ. He is alive,” she says, “and is blessing those who will open up their hearts and let him come in.”

A true story from France.
Alexandre was turning eight years old in just a few days! He was very excited because he and Dad were planning a special birthday snack for him to eat after school. As the missionaries arrived for dinner, Alexandre told them all about the delicious chocolate pastries he had chosen.
“We’re going to have eight of them with one candle each, instead of one cake with eight candles!”
Elder Lauener laughed. “That sounds awesome. Save some for me!”
After dinner, the missionaries taught a lesson on baptism. Elder Doyon turned to Alexandre. “When you are baptized, you promise to follow Jesus Christ.” He told Alexandre about his own baptism and shared his testimony. “The Holy Ghost helped me to feel so happy because that day I chose to follow Jesus Christ.”
Alexandre couldn’t wait for his baptism day!
But when he went to bed that night, he found it hard to sleep. He liked the idea of being clean and new. But how would he stay clean after baptism?
The next morning Alexandre walked to school with Dad. “You’ve been really quiet this morning,” Dad said. “What’s the matter?”
Alexandre sighed. “l wish I could be baptized more than once.”
“Why?” Dad asked.
“How else can I stay clean after I’m baptized?” asked Alexandre. “l forget things all the time—like saying hello and thank you to grown-ups and being patient with my little brother. I know I’ll still make mistakes. You only get one baptism, so I’ll never be that clean again.”
Dad stopped and met Alexandre’s eyes. “Wow. That probably feels a little overwhelming. Do you remember when we talked about making promises at baptism?”
Alexandre nodded. “I think so.”
“When you get baptized, you make a covenant with Heavenly Father. You promise to keep His commandments and follow Jesus Christ. After that, every time you take the sacrament, you can remember Jesus and how He can help you repent.”
Alexandre’s eyes widened. “So I can feel just as clean as when I’m baptized?”
“Exactly,” Dad said. “Heavenly Father knows you aren’t perfect, and sometimes you’re going to make wrong choices. But when you sin, you can repent and keep trying to follow Jesus. Does that sound like something you can do?”
Alexandre smiled. “Yes! I think I can do that.”
When Alexandre’s birthday arrived, his family had his birthday snack after school. It was delicious! And at his baptism, Alexandre felt extra good inside when he came up out of the water. He had promised to follow Jesus Christ, and that felt amazing!
That week Alexandre tried his best to keep his new covenants and be kind to his little brother. But when the next Sunday came, he was a little disappointed. He felt like he could have made some better choices that week.
As the sacrament was being passed, Alexandre folded his arms and bowed his head. He quietly asked Heavenly Father to help him do better next week. He thought about how much Jesus loved him and how he wanted to be more like Him.
As he took a piece of baguette from the sacrament tray, Alexandre felt warm and peaceful inside. He felt just like he did on his baptism day! Dad put his arm around Alexandre’s shoulder and gave him a smile.
Today was the start of a new week, and Alexandre was going to do his best—with Heavenly Father’s help.

One day when strolling down the road on which the Bridlington meeting house stands, my mind not taken up so much as usual with the needs of the day, I took to looking at the buildings that line this very ancient of streets.
My first observation was a surprising one, when I realised there had been eight churches of different denominations on the street at some point. Many were still there, but now used for different purposes than their builders intended. I then began to wonder at what had been on the sites of new buildings squeezed between the Victorian shops and houses. My curiosity aroused, I made a visit to our local studies library, and returned many times, as I became absorbed in the history of this road that had existed since pre-Christian times.
I was fascinated and felt that maybe others of the town would be also. This thought coincided with an invitation to attend a meeting to discuss ideas for the year’s Heritage Open Days (every September thousands of volunteers in towns and cities across the country organise events to celebrate Britain’s heritage and culture). I went along and volunteered to give a talk and put on an exhibition on the history of the street. Conscious that the biggest problem in doing so is finding a location, I had previously approached the Bishop and been given permission to use the church building.
A further thought had already come into my mind- why not extend the event to include a chapel Open House? Saddened by the missionaries’ lack of success in getting people to come into the building, I felt that putting on something of a nonreligious nature could be the encouragement people needed and hopefully once in the building, they might ask questions, pick up leaflets and read things on notice boards.
The foyer had the history of the Bridlington Ward, the Church’s involvement in humanitarian aid, emergency preparedness and ‘Just Serve.’ The notice board in the baptismal font told of Christ’s original Church, the apostasy and the restoration; and our belief in the need for baptism and the form it should take. Displays on the work of Relief Society, the Young Men and Young Women’s programmes and Primary, filled the classrooms, and the Elders Quorum were on hand to give help and advice on family history and show a film about one brother’s experience of finding out more about his family than merely their names and dates.
With excellent advertising on social media, in local newspapers and free events booklets supplied by the Heritage Week organisation, seventy people attended. No one asked the missionaries for the discussions, no-one new appeared at church the following day, but one man who attended the lecture approached me and raised my spirits when he expressed his appreciation for being able to tour the building and learn something of our beliefs. Others may have felt the same, but not expressed it. Seeds were sown and continued effort and new ideas will bring results. As Christ said: "If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you." (Matthew 17:20)

I could see the young deacons losing interest as my mission companion talked. He was explaining the importance of doing missionary work with their friends.
One young man finally spoke up, “What can I do? I’m only thirteen. My friends aren’t interested in the Church. And even if they were, their parents wouldn’t let them be baptized.”
My companion kept talking with the young men, but my mind went back to when I was about twelve years old.
I had a best friend, Chris. We did everything together. But whenever a group of us would gather to do something mischievous, as boys sometimes do, Chris would refuse to take part. He said his parents would be mad if they found out.
Then one day I talked Chris into stealing tennis balls from some men playing tennis on the local courts. He followed me, even helped me gather a handful of balls, and then ran with me through the hole in the fence. When we arrived at my house, I noticed that Chris’s face was white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“We’ve got to take these balls back,” he blurted out.
“No way. They’re ours now,” I replied. But Chris grabbed them and started to run. I had always been faster than Chris, but I couldn’t catch him that day. He ran right to the tennis players and gave every ball back. He said he was sorry and then did something I’d never seen before. He asked them for forgiveness. I just knew the men would call the police, but they let him go.
When we got home, I had a few questions for my best friend.
“I’m a Mormon,” he said.
“I know. You told me.”
“But I didn’t tell you how important my church is to me.” He went on to explain the standards of honesty he had been taught and how he could not feel right about stealing.
Six weeks later, I found myself in a font, ready to be baptized a Latter-day Saint.
Suddenly my attention returned to the deacons in front of me. I don’t know if it made much difference to those boys, but I told them how a young man their age had brought me into the Church. I told them they could and should do missionary work. They could teach with their example, just as Chris had done.

A few years later I was finished with school and was working as an apprentice cabinetmaker, putting away every pound I could for my mission.

One early winter day at work I got a call from Mum.

“Granddad’s all right,” she said. “But he’s had a stroke.”

When I arrived at Granddad’s farmhouse, I could hear him arguing with Nan as I threw my coat in the cloakroom.

“You’re not going to feed that rabbit food to me,” he bellowed. “I want bangers and mash (sausage and potatoes). It’s Thursday, and I’ve had bangers and mash every Thursday for 75 years.”

I peeked around the doorway and looked into his room. Granddad looked old and frail, but he had enough strength to sit up in bed and push away my grandmother’s hand as she tried to feed him from a plate of something green and healthy looking.

“She’ll let you go hungry then,” I said.

“Danny!” he called out and held his hand out for me to take. “I’ve been waiting for sumone to rescue me.”

“You’d better get used to the rules, or you’ll get no dinner,” I answered.

“Ahh.”

“Hello, Nan,” I said.

“Finally, someone to rescue me,” she said. “I’m going to nip into town for some things. Sit with your granddad, will you?”

“Sure.”

We heard her car rev up in the driveway. Granddad reached up and felt my arm. “Hmm, strong enough,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“What? I don’t know. I don’t think we should. Nan will be cross.”

“You do as you’re told.”

So I pulled over Granddad’s wheelchair and helped him in. I bundled up his legs and got our coats and Granddad’s cap. Then I scribbled a quick note to Nan.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked when we were outside the house. I hoped he would say ‘down the road,’ but he said what I expected.

“I fancy sum’ mushrooms,” he said, looking out toward the wet hills. I shrugged and began pushing his wheelchair over the pasture toward the first gate.

Pushing Granddad through the bumpy, slippery glens was hard work, but I didn’t really mind. He was happy and spent the next hour pointing things out to me as I grunted and groaned behind him.

When we finally reached the top of mushroom hill, I stopped to catch my breath, sitting beside Granddad’s wheelchair on the damp grass. It was cold out, and the town below was partly obscured by mist. All that rose above the haze were the trees and a few of the tall brick homes.

“I’ve always remembered what you told me here,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for more details.

“You know, about knowing where to look—for mushrooms and other stuff. A few years ago I knew someone who was a bit lost, so I began dropping hints that maybe church was a good place to look for answers. I think it helped.”

“Aye, nice to think I taught you sumthing,” he said.

I smiled. “You did.”

“How’s Stu? Haven’t seen him for a while.”

“He’s all right. I bet he’ll come see you soon. He’s going out with a really nice girl, and they’re talking of getting married in the temple.”

“He’s a good boy, is Stu.”

“Yeah, he is.”

We sat quietly for a time, looking down the hill at the rolling grass and the mist that refused to clear from the town. We stayed until, bit by bit, the cold and damp crept under our wool coats. A wind picked up from the north, and Granddad began to shiver.

“Time to go, lad,” said Granddad. “Time to go.”

“You don’t want any mushrooms?”

“Na, couldn’t be bothered today. To be honest, I just wanted to come here again—with you.”

I stood up and obediently began pushing my grandfather away from our mushroom hill.

“How do you feel?” I asked, stopping the chair and putting my hand on his shoulder.

“I feel good,” he said, putting his hand on mine.

So I started to push again, Granddad and I quietly moving toward home.

As I attended college and then medical school, I was continually drawn to Latter-day Saints. I watched them closely, and they rarely disappointed me. Finally, after several years, I decided that I was going to learn for myself what made them so different. I went to the public library and checked out every book I could find about the Mormons.
I found a copy of the Book of Mormon and began to read it. As soon as I read just a few chapters, I had the feeling that this was something special. After about six months of reading and studying, I realized that I needed to make some changes in my life. A voice inside me whispered that real faith requires action. If I wanted to experience what my LDS friends had, I knew I would have to act.
So I decided to be baptized. As soon as I made the decision, I felt the assurance of the Spirit. It was the best decision I ever made!
After I was baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost, I finally understood the source of that “Mormon confidence.” It comes from the companionship of the Holy Ghost.

In the spring of 1945, I was on Okinawa as a frightened, barely adequate infantry replacement, concerned with victory to be sure, but very much concerned with selfish survival. Japanese artillery pieces had tried for several days without success to hit the little plateau our mortar squad was on. Then one evening they dropped three shells on us; they had finally found the range and we knew it, and they surely knew it. Since one of those shells fell just several feet from my foxhole, I was stimulated to intense prayer, full of promises. Strangely, no more shells fell near us that evening—at the very time when more shells should have been fired for effect. The Lord that night blessed me and others. But suppose He also told me to be of good cheer, for not only would I live, but one day (just a few ridges away) I would preach the gospel to an LDS chapel full of members! Could I have managed that perspective? Probably not. Yet that is what happened in 1973, 28 years later, as I was privileged to go back to that—for me—sacred spot. Sugar cane has since covered the little plateau but not my poignant memories of Okinawa, that bloodiest battle in the Pacific.

What these sources teach us is that repentance is essentially a six-step process. First, we must come to a recognition of our sin. Second, we must develop what Paul calls a “godly sorrow” for our sin. Third, we must completely abandon our sin. Fourth, we must confess our sin and make what restitution we can. Fifth, we must replace the negative action of the sin with the positive action of a recommitment to keep the commandments. And, sixth, we must receive a final forgiveness of our sin. Let me illustrate this process with a personal example.
When I was a freshman in high school, I developed the terrible habit of profanity. My friends used foul language and, while I resisted its allure at first, I finally became seduced by its strains as it ran filthily, though I imagined it trippingly, off the tongue. After about a year, just as I was turning 16, I developed, for a number of reasons, a deep sense that I had been committing a very serious sin. This sense, inspired, I am sure, by the Holy Ghost working on my conscience, seemed to almost envelop me totally with a dark sense of guilt, and I determined to repent and put this sin away from me forever. Thus, I had fulfilled the first two steps toward repentance by recognizing my sin and, then, by feeling a deep sense of sorrow because of it.
I started an intense program of deprofaning my language, concentrating on steps three, four, and five of the repentance process. I began avoiding my especially profane acquaintances in favor of others, mostly Church members, and developed other words to express myself. I slipped occasionally, of course, but eventually got to where I could avoid vocalizing the profanity altogether.
Then, after having successfully gotten the vile words out of my mouth, I went to work on getting them out of my mind. I prayed each morning for strength and reported my progress in my nightly prayers, always reiterating my desire to receive a forgiveness of my sin. I told my friends of my efforts and asked their forgiveness of my former language. They were understanding and helpful.
And finally, having mastered my tongue and my mind, I felt I had completed every step necessary to be forgiven short of the final one, which is the forgiveness itself. But I had to wait awhile for that last step to be accomplished, just like I had to wait for my dry-cleaned slacks. Then, one night, as I lay in bed after my prayers, the sweet sense of forgiveness I had been seeking came to me through the Spirit. I felt a great joy over my spiritual cleansing, far more profound that the relief I had felt over the physical cleaning of my favorite slacks.
Now, about 15 years later, it is sometimes hard for me to believe that I ever used such foul language. I remember, certainly, that I did, but not with the pain I had felt earlier, because I know that I have been forgiven and that I have kept my forgiveness in force by never having fallen back into that same sin.

Young John was also prepared to accept the restoration of the gospel through other spiritual experiences while yet in his youth. As a very young boy he had seen in the heavens an angel holding a trumpet to his mouth. When Elder Pratt announced that God’s angel had indeed restored the gospel to the earth, John remembered this manifestation of his youth and recognized it had been given to him as a sign of the truth he would receive so many years later. And this was not the only spiritual manifestation he had received, for he reported that “often when alone, and sometimes in company, I heard sweet, soft, melodious music, as if performed by angelic or supernatural beings” (Life of John Taylor, pp. 27–28).

Christ is our best example of service. He served others throughout His life. When I serve others, it makes me feel good. The other day we were going to give a rocking horse to a boy in our ward, but it had to be put together. I was excited to do this because I could picture the joy on the boy’s face when he got on the horse. When the horse was assembled, I helped Mom put it in the car to take to the boy’s house. Sometimes I complain about doing things like this, but when they are over I’m glad that I did them, and I’m happy.

I Love Family History! I didn’t always appreciate family history work. That changed when I was baptized for one of my ancestors in the Chile Santiago Temple.
I was a deacon the first time I went to the temple. When I was about to enter the baptismal font, I felt the presence of someone enter the room. I looked up and saw an old man dressed in old clothes. I felt his love and gratitude for me because I was doing his vicarious work. After I was baptized for him and came up out of the water, I looked around for him, but he was no longer there.
I used to think that the temple would provide the names for temple work, so I wasn’t interested in doing family history research. But this experience got me excited about looking for my own family names.
One day I got on my computer and saw that I had received an email from the Church with a family name. I felt that I needed to research more names, so I asked my mother how I could effectively look for names and gather more information about my ancestors.
So far, I’ve found 11 family names, and I know I can find even more. These people never had the opportunity to be baptized while they were on earth, and they have waited a long time for their temple work to be done. I’m glad I can help them through temple and family history work.
Lucas,16, Santiago, Chile

The Granja Viana Ward in the São Paulo Brazil Cotia Stake had a high activity rate among its young men. But their leaders noticed that some of them were facing personal challenges and having difficulty fulfilling their priesthood duties.
After the bishopric and Young Men leaders counseled together, they decided to focus more of their activities on service and not as many on entertainment or amusement. This included visiting less-active quorum members, participating in proselyting with the full-time missionaries, and administering the sacrament to homebound ward members. These activities gave the young men an opportunity to act on the principles they were learning in seminary and on Sundays (see 2 Nephi 2:26).
Over time, “these spiritual activities made all the difference,” reports one priesthood leader.
“We were amazed when on a particular fast Sunday, all of our young men bore their testimonies,” he says. “As they did so, many of them recalled in tears the good spirit they had felt on those occasions. One young man shared the experience of administering the sacrament to an older member of our ward who has been bedridden for three years. His wife, a faithful sister, received our young men with joy and hope. After the ordinance, she shared with them the happiness she feels in her life because of the gospel despite the huge problems and challenges she faces. They felt the Spirit and realized the difference the gospel makes in people’s lives. This experience was so powerful that they will recall it for years to come—perhaps for their entire lives.”
He notes that he had never seen that kind of response from any “football game or funny Mutual night.” Rather, he says, the experience taught him the importance of promoting the kinds of experiences in which youth can feel the Spirit.
“Social activities are important,” he continues. “But spiritual experiences are critical in helping youth build their own testimonies.”

Mix lots of strips of newspaper, lots of young women, a well-written script, missionary-minded enthusiasm, and what have you got? The Freeport Ward, Pittsburgh East Stake’s Young Women community service project.
They used papier-mache-masked players in a program introducing the concept of family home evening to local parent/teacher groups as a free public service. It was a major project, which included handouts with family home evening ideas and brochures on marriage and communication. “It felt good teaching nonmembers gospel principles that could strengthen their families,” said one of the girls who participated. Everyone involved, both spectators and cast members, learned from the experience.

Every day last autumn when mail was delivered in Baytown, Texas, one six-year-old boy found a letter addressed just to him. “It would make me happy when I wasn’t feeling too happy,” says Lance Brunson, who is confined to his home with complications from a severe skin disease.
The letters were from an “older” friend, seventh grader Sarah Ferguson, affectionately called “Little Miss Sunshine” by Lance’s family. Sarah has been creating and sending letters to Lance since mid-October 1988. “She has really been a bright spot for us,” said Joy Brunson, Lance’s mother.
Sarah first learned about Lance’s condition from her mother, Melanie Ferguson, who had taught Lance in Primary in Baytown Ward, Houston East Texas Stake. Sister Ferguson and Lance’s classmates put together a card to send to Lance after his illness forced him to be homebound. Sarah liked the idea and decided to send one, too—and has kept sending them ever since.
“I try to give Lance something to do, something to make him happy,” Sarah said. She admits she finds some of her ideas in card shops, but her letters are original, with handmade cards, puzzles, quizzes, riddles, and art lessons.
The rare skin disease Lance has is caused by some of his internal organs—kidneys, pancreas, spleen—not functioning to capacity. It causes severe itching and burning and deep peeling to the point that Lance can’t stand to wear any clothes and can only wrap up in a sheet or blanket.
His mother says, “Last fall Lance couldn’t sleep sometimes for two or three days. He would lay for days in the fetal position. We had to carry him to the bathroom. This lasted for almost six weeks. It was his worst time. And during this time Sarah’s letters arrived daily. Sometimes Lance was too sick to look at them, but he would smile when we showed him the letter. And most often that was the only smile we saw from him all day.”
“We didn’t get mail every day, but we’d at least get Sarah’s letter,” Lance said. “Even when she was sick!” he exclaimed. A siege with the flu did not cause her to miss a single day.
Lance’s gratitude to Sarah is spoken with childlike simplicity, “Thank you for sending me all these letters. I love you.”
What does Sarah think about her acts of kindness? “It’s no big deal, really,” she shyly comments. However, the community of Baytown feels Sarah’s heroic efforts are a “big deal.” She was featured in a local newspaper story, and honored by a service organization which awarded her a plaque that now hangs in city hall.
Ask her why she kept sending letters daily for those first few months, she answers, “Because Lance’s mom appreciated it so much and said it made Lance happy. Besides, I know how it feels to be sick and at home. My dad has been sick ever since I can remember. I know how he feels. It gets boring and you need something to keep you busy.” Sarah’s father, Ira, has been going through operations and skin grafts for the past nine years after suffering third-degree burns in an industrial accident.
Sister Brunson expresses her appreciation for what Sarah has been doing for Lance. “She is sacrificing her time, talent, and energy for my child,” she said. “The humble spirit of an incredible young Beehive has richly blessed my household.”
Lance is feeling better now. He attends school and church some of the time, and he was well enough to participate with Sarah and other ward members in the road show last spring. But his trials are not yet over. He has days when he is in great discomfort. And, although he sees Sarah more often now, he still gets a letter at least once a week from her.
Because of the six-year age difference, Sarah and Lance don’t have a lot to talk about with each other. But one night last spring after road show practice Sarah softly said, “Bye, Lance.” And Lance turned and smiled at her and simply said back, “Bye, Sarah.” Lance’s mother comments, “You could see this bond—a look in their eyes that they have shared something. A great deal of love passed between them.”

When you first meet Simone Millo, 10, of Florence, Italy, he seems to be shy. His dark brown eyes sparkle with friendship, but his manner is very quiet. But give him his bicycle, put a helmet on his head, let him dress in his brightly-colored bicycle racing outfit, and he becomes all smiles and full of excitement. Almost all children have favorite things that they like to do, and Simone loves cycling! He belongs to a cycling club called Itala. The club meets three times a week; and because Florence is such a large city with a lot of traffic, they usually ride on the cycling circuit in the park.
Simone has other favorites, too. He loves animals and had always wanted to have a pet of his own. Not long ago, his dream came true! “My brother and I got two dogs!” Simone said with a smile. “We named them Birba and Quinzia.” Birba (which means “naughty”) is a small basset hound, and Quinzia is a boxer. Simone and his brother, Emanuele, love to play with the dogs and take them for walks around their neighborhood. Of course, having pets also means taking care of them. But Simone’s mother, Christina, says that he is very willing to do that. “He also helps me with other chores around the house,” she adds, “and because I work outside the home, that is very important to me.”
The Millo family lives quite a distance from the church—it takes them about twenty minutes to drive there. Simone looks forward to Sundays and going to his Primary class. He loves to learn about the scriptures, and his favorite scripture story is about Nephi’s journey in the desert. There are three children in his Valiant class—two boys and one girl. But in his school, none of his friends are members of the Church. Simone tries to set a good example for them by remembering the things he learns at church and by doing the things he should.
Simone’s eighth birthday was a very special day—he was baptized on his birthday! His family were members of the Church when he was born, so he had looked forward to this day for a long time.
Simone’s father, Daniel, works with the Boy Scout troop in the Florence Branch, and his brother, Emanuele, belongs to that troop. Simone looks forward to the time when he can participate in Scouting activities with them. At this time, there is not a Cub Scout program in this branch for the younger boys, but Simone hopes that will happen soon.
“I want to go on a mission when I am old enough,” says Simone. When asked if he had a place in mind where he would like to serve his mission, he replied, “My grandmother is German, so maybe it would be nice to go to Germany.” But Simone knows he will be happy to go wherever he is called. And wherever that is—just maybe he can ride a bicycle there, too.

Even though they have at least four years before they will be old enough to serve, Brett Roper, 14, and Ben Holdaway, 15, are determined to serve missions when they turn 19. Both of these young men look at the missionary board often. They especially like seeing pictures of their older brothers on the board.
Ben Holdaway likes to think about where he might be called to serve a mission. His brother Ryan served his mission in Jacksonville, Florida, and his brother Jacob* will soon serve in Montevideo, Uruguay. Both Ryan and Jacob feel the board helped them make their decision to serve a mission. As Jacob describes, “The missionary board helps you answer the question about serving a mission so much earlier than when you are a priest. It helps you answer it when you are a deacon.”

The next day Kipp and I rode out to Carlos’s place again. He was working in his garden. Kipp and I gave him a hand. He told us stories of when he was a young man. He had left home when he was twelve years old to work as a ranch hand, first in Mexico and finally in Arizona. At noon we went into his little house and ate beans and tortillas again.
Kipp and I made at least one visit a day to Carlos’s place. Sometimes we’d help him work around his house. Other times we’d just sit in the shade and he’d talk. Two days before Christmas, I asked him, “What are you doing for Christmas?”
“I’m too old for Christmas. It is for children and families.”
Kipp and I were quiet as we rode Bill back to the barn. As we stripped off the bridle and saddle, I said, “Carlos can’t spend Christmas alone.”
Kipp nodded. “We thought things were rough for us. He doesn’t have anybody. And he won’t have any presents.”
“Aunt Clara,” I asked as we burst through the front door, “do you suppose we could invite Carlos over for Christmas?”
Aunt Clara sighed. “We used to invite him every year, but the last few years he hasn’t come. He says he doesn’t care for Christmas anymore.”
“Can’t we try?” Kipp pleaded. “Spending Christmas in that little hut can’t be any fun. Christmas is for everybody. This year we can be his family, and he can be ours.”
Uncle Hank thought our idea was a good one, so the next morning we went to Tucson. It took us most of the day, but when we had finished, we had two blankets, a pair of work boots, a new hat, and a basket of fruit and nuts for Carlos.
“Now, how are we going to get him to celebrate with us?” Uncle Hank asked as we drove down the dirt road to the ranch.
“Kipp and I will worry about that,” I said with a grin.
It was turning dark, but there was a bright, full moon when Kipp and I saddled old Bill and headed for Carlos’s place. As we rode up, we saw a little light from his two windows. When he opened his door, we shouted, “Merry Christmas, Carlos!” I added, “Grab a jacket—we’re going to be late.”
“Late? Late for what?”
“It’s Christmas Eve. The party’s ready to start.”
“I thought I told you that I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore.”
Kipp said, “But we can’t celebrate Christmas without you. This year we don’t have family except you, Uncle Hank, and Aunt Clara. You have to come! You can ride old Bill. We’ll walk.”
Kipp and I had to do some more fast talking, but we finally got Carlos out of his house and onto Bill; then the three of us left for the ranch house.
Aunt Clara had a stocking for each of us, bulging with candy and nuts. We sang Christmas carols, read the Christmas story from the Bible, and snacked on popcorn, candy, and apple cider. Toward the end of the evening, we gave him our gifts.
Carlos was like a little kid! He admired the blankets and fruit basket. Then he tried on his new shoes and hat and marched around the house, studying himself in the hall mirror. Big, happy tears trickled down his cheeks.
When Kipp and I took Carlos back to his place, he paused in the doorway and said, “Maybe I am still a child, because Christmas feels good tonight. Or maybe it is because I was with family.” He grinned. “Feliz Navidad, muchachos. Y muchas gracias! (Merry Christmas, boys. And many thanks!)”
Kipp and I rode Bill back to the ranch house in silence. “You know, Jacob,” Kipp said quietly, “a week ago we thought that this was going to be our worst Christmas ever.”
“Yeah,” I answered, “but this Christmas was special, and I’m going to remember it more than any other.”

Immediately following the 8.0-magnitude earthquake in Peru in August 2007—the deadliest quake to hit the country in the last 35 years—local Church leaders began assessing the urgent needs of all Peruvians, not only those of the Latter-day Saint faith, in the hard-hit port city of Pisco.
While a 747 cargo plane loaded in Salt Lake City with vital medical supplies, surgical instruments, family food boxes, hygiene kits, and tarps was making its way to Peru, Elder Walter F. González of the Presidency of the Seventy, then President of the South America West Area, directed the purchasing of food locally and opened four meetinghouses to serve as shelters.
Two days after the earthquake, Elder González represented the Church at a ceremony where more than 8,000 blankets were donated to Pilar Nores de García, the first lady of Peru, to be distributed to Peruvians affected by the quake.