Gospel Story Finder

I had been a member of the Church for only one month when I paid my first full tithe. I was the only member in my family, and tithing was difficult for my family to understand. My mother discouraged me from paying tithing and wanted me to give her the money instead.
One day before work, I realized that there was no food in the refrigerator and I’d have to buy something to eat. I didn’t have any money with me, so I asked my mom to lend me money for lunch. She refused and said I didn’t have money because I had paid my tithing.
I went to get my Book of Mormon and told her that this book would give me my nourishment for the day—spiritual nourishment. I opened it in front of my mother and found 100 pesos (enough to buy some lunch) tucked inside. It was a miracle—I hadn’t put that money in my scriptures. I learned a great lesson: although challenges and temptations are everywhere, I will always be blessed as I pay a full tithe and keep the commandments.
Montserrat L., Federal District, Mexico

George Q. Cannon was born in Liverpool, England, January 11, 1827. When he was thirteen years old, he and two other children in the family were baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints through the efforts of his uncle, Elder John Taylor, then a young missionary serving in England. George’s parents had been baptized some months before. In 1842 George, with his family, sailed to America to join the Saints in Nauvoo. While traveling aboard ship, his mother died, and two years later his father died while on a business trip. However, all the children made it across the plains to Utah.

We often don’t know the reach of a simple act of kindness. The Prophet Joseph Smith was a model of compassion and love. One day, a group of eight African Americans arrived at the Prophet’s home in Nauvoo. They had traveled from their home in Buffalo, New York, some 800 miles away, so they could be with the prophet of God and with the Saints. Although they were free, they were forced to hide from those who might mistake them for runaway slaves. They endured cold and hardship, wearing out shoes and then socks until they walked on bare feet all the way to the City of Joseph. When they arrived in Nauvoo, the Prophet welcomed them into his home and helped each of them find a place to stay.
But there was one, a girl named Jane, who did not have a place to go, and she wept, not knowing what to do.
“We won’t have tears here,” Joseph said to her. He turned to Emma and said, “Here’s a girl who says she [doesn’t have a] home. Don’t you think she has a home here?”
Emma agreed. From that day on, Jane lived as a member of the family.
Years after the Prophet’s martyrdom and after she had joined the pioneers and made the long trek to Utah, Jane said that sometimes she would still “wake up in the middle of the night, and just think about Brother Joseph and Sister Emma and how good they [were] to me. Joseph Smith,” she said, “was the finest man I ever saw on Earth.”

I wonder if you have any idea how easy you are to love and how much I love you. Just before this session started, some of our grandchildren stopped by our hotel room. They had obviously been talking about Elder Marlin Jensen’s talk of this morning. One of them said, “Are you scared, Grandpa?” I lied and said, “Not very.” Another one said, “Don’t worry, Grandpa, if you mess up, we’ll still love you.” But then reality came back into the room when someone added, “But, Grandpa, it would be very embarrassing.” So I am going to try very hard not to mess up.
On June 26, 1858, what I believe to be the largest standing army in the history of the United States up to that date began its prearranged entry into Salt Lake Valley. They had come to quell a nonexistent rebellion. Almost anyone remotely familiar with the history of the Church can tell you that they marched in relative silence within a few yards of where this building now stands, through a city described by one writer as “deserted,” and encamped some distance to the west. What followed is far less well known. In due course the army moved approximately 40 miles south of Salt Lake City to the village of Fairfield, a small farming community in Cedar Valley, home to what is estimated to have been less than 200 people. Their local spiritual leader was John Carson, my great-grandfather.
Imagine how this small congregation must have felt. After all, how would you like to wake up some morning and find that several thousand soldiers, together with over 3,000 wagons, 10,000 oxen, and 12,000 mules, had moved into your ward? The challenges were immediate. From our oral family history, and subject to all of the romanticizing and inaccuracies of such histories, we learn that Bishop Carson was gravely concerned about the welfare of the people over whom he presided. All of the challenges that attended army encampments of that time descended upon Fairfield almost overnight.
To protect the members of the congregation as much as possible, Bishop Carson met with the commander of the fort, who often dined at his hotel and with whom he developed a good relationship based upon mutual respect. The two leaders surveyed the situation and then by agreement drew a line upon the ground. No army personnel would cross into the civilian community without specific approval of their superiors. And members of the congregation would not cross into the fort without specific approval from Bishop Carson. The line on the ground represented an unspoken command: “Over this line you may not cross.”
When we were children, a line on the ground had special significance. Whenever boyhood tempers caused disagreement, the time-honored solution called for a line on the ground. The antagonists stood on opposite sides of the line, attempting to act as intimidating as possible. Someone would say, “Step over the line and you’ll be sorry,” though they usually didn’t say it in those genteel words. In those moments I learned the great value of a line on the ground and the consequences of stepping over it. In the years that have followed, I have come to understand that figurative lines on the ground are placed there by a loving Heavenly Father who seeks to protect us from Lucifer’s army.
While each of us may have dozens of lines on the ground in our life today, I would like to discuss just one of them—the line that says, “Keep each person’s name safe in your home.”
During the early years of my service as a General Authority, I was privileged to be in company with Elder Marion D. Hanks on one occasion when he related the following story. I use it here with his permission:
Oscar Kirkham was one of the great men of the Church and among the Church’s most respected Scouters. He served in the First Council of the Seventy and was a significant presence wherever he went. Often in meetings he would rise to a “point of personal privilege” and then, when recognized, would proceed to say something good about someone. Near the end of his life, he spoke briefly at Brigham Young University on the theme “say the good word.” On the morning that Elder Kirkham died, Elder Hanks was invited to the Kirkham family home. There he was handed a small, inexpensive notebook in which Elder Kirkham had kept his notes. The last two entries were: “Say the good word” and “Your name is safe in our home” (see Marion D. Hanks, foreword to Say the Good Word, by Oscar A. Kirkham [1958], 4).
What a blessing it would be if all of us could follow that counsel, if each of our names truly could be safe in the home of others. Have you noticed how easy it is to cross over the line and find fault with other people? All too often we seek to be excused from the very behavior we condemn in others. Mercy for me, justice for everyone else is a much too common addiction. When we deal with the name and reputation of another, we deal with something sacred in the sight of the Lord.
There are those among us who would recoil in horror at the thought of stealing another person’s money or property but who don’t give a second thought to stealing another person’s good name or reputation.
The old adage “Never judge another man until you have walked a mile in his footsteps” is as good advice today as it was the day it was first uttered. Someone once said:
There is so much good in the worst of us,
And so much bad in the best of us,
That it ill behooves any of us
To find fault with the rest of us.
[In Hazel Felleman, sel., The Best Loved Poems of the American People (1936), 615]
The principle is not new, nor is it unique to our day and time. The book of Psalms from the Old Testament contains this urgent warning from the Lord: “Whoso privily slandereth his neighbour, him will I cut off” (Ps. 101:5).
James, a servant of the Lord in the meridian of time, repeated this eternal truth when he said: “Speak not evil one of another, brethren. He that speaketh evil of his brother, and judgeth his brother, speaketh evil of the law, and judgeth the law. …
“… Who art thou that judgest another?” (James 4:11–12).
And in this latter day, the Lord renewed His long-taught command in a revelation given through the prophet Brigham Young: “Cease to speak evil one of another” (D&C 136:23).
It is most significant to me that this simple commandment is set forth just a few verses from the Lord’s words on the penalty for disobedience: “Be diligent in keeping all my commandments, lest judgments come upon you, and your faith fail you, and your enemies triumph over you” (D&C 136:42).
To those who doubt the importance of the commandment, may I pose two simple questions: (1) How can you say you love your fellowman when behind his back you seek to diminish his good name and reputation? (2) How can you say you love your God when you cannot even love your neighbor?
Any feeble attempt to justify such conduct only brings more forcibly to mind those explosive words of the Savior found in the book of Matthew:
“O generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good things? …
“But I say unto you, That every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.
“For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned” (Matt. 12:34, 36–37).
I would like to say a few words to the Primary children who may be listening. Children, I’ve been trying to teach your moms and dads something very important, but I need your help. I’ll make you a deal. If you will promise to listen very carefully, I promise not to talk very long.
Do you remember the story of Bambi, the little deer, and all of his friends in the forest? If you do, you will remember that one of Bambi’s good friends was a rabbit named Thumper. Thumper was about your age. He was a neat rabbit, but he had one problem. He kept saying bad things about people. One day Bambi was in the forest learning to walk, and he fell down. Thumper just couldn’t resist the temptation. “He doesn’t walk very good, does he?” Thumper blurted out. His mother felt very bad and said, “What did your father tell you this morning?” And then Thumper, looking down at his feet and kind of shifting his weight, said, “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” That’s a good piece of advice that all of us need to follow. What I need you to do, young people, is this. If you hear anyone in your family start to say something bad about someone else, will you please just stamp your foot and say in a loud voice, “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” Now, even though that isn’t correct English, everyone will understand exactly what you mean. Now, Moms and Dads, that ought to make it a little easier to live the commandment.
I pray that the Lord will bless each of us that we may never cross over the line on the ground and that we may live so that it can be said, “Your name is safe in our home.”
On this special Easter Day, I close with my solemn declaration, born of the Spirit, that Jesus Christ is indeed our Savior and our Redeemer and that salvation comes by and through His atoning sacrifice and in no other way. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Their story parallels that of their ancestors in the Book of Mormon to some degree. Their parents, Mike and Vake, left their homeland of Tonga and crossed the sea to live in Salt Lake City, Utah, some twenty years ago. In those days there were no temples in the South Pacific, and they came to Salt Lake City to be sealed together. They didn’t have the funds to make it back to Tonga, however, so they stayed in the United States and began adding to their family.

Like the family of Lehi, the Wolfgramms had to work hard to carve a place for themselves in their new country. In addition to other jobs, the parents were involved in Polynesian performing groups in the Salt Lake area. As soon as the children were old enough to walk and talk, they were taught to play, sing, and dance in the Polynesian tradition. They eagerly took to the stage, and soon the family had a Polynesian group of their own.

They never did take professional music or dance lessons. What their parents couldn’t teach them, they picked up by themselves. Today they admit to getting some professional advice on warming up their voices before concerts. But for the most part they are self taught musicians, which seems quite amazing when you watch them manipulate synthesizers, guitars, and a number of percussion and brass instruments.

The Wolfgramms took their Polynesian show on the road and traveled all over the United States and Canada. When they got a full-time offer from a Hawaiian hotel chain in Minneapolis, Minnesota, they packed their bags and moved. Minneapolis was about as far removed from Tonga as it could possibly be, but the Wolfgramms liked it there and contributed to the local ward as well as to the local entertainment industry.

They were devastated when the hotel chain they were working with went out of business. For several months the family of fifteen lived in the hotel owners’ basement. They decided that it would be more profitable to switch from Polynesian to popular music, and they began traveling in an old, uninsulated van, to whatever playing engagements they could arrange. “The van didn’t have any seats,” Leroy recalls, “and we sat in chairs against the sides. Sometimes we traveled in temperatures forty degrees below freezing, and there would be ice on the roof—on the inside.”

Finally, however, their efforts and dedication paid off. Don Powell, an entertainment industry expert who had managed some leading performing groups in the 1960s and 70s, heard them play. He had retired from entertainment because the industry had become “so bizarre,” but when he heard the Wolfgramms, he became interested again.

“The reason I reentered this business was literally because of this family,” says Don, who had had very little contact with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints before he met the Wolfgramms. “The whole family is so loving and bright, and talented, I couldn’t help getting involved. And we’ll never have problems with drugs or alcohol or anything like that, as you do with so many entertainers. It’s absolute heaven to manage them.”

With the resultant success, every minute of every day is packed full of performances, personal appearances, interviews, recording and photography sessions, but a Monday doesn’t go by without a family home evening. If they happen to be on the road on any given Monday, the stage crew is invited, and a lot of missionary work is done at these times.

Sometimes, when the Jets are traveling, it’s a bit difficult to find chapels for Sunday services, so the family has received special permission to hold their own sacrament services. With each boy bearing the priesthood, all the ordinances can be taken care of.

And they still wear homemade clothes. Their costumes, which are bright, exciting, and rival anything else you’ll see on stage without compromising Latter-day Saint standards, are designed and sewn by their mother, who learned tailoring when she worked at the Beehive Clothing Mills in Salt Lake City.

Their days are hectic, but like other children, they take time out to study, see their tutors, and complete their home-study courses. Most important of all, however, is the time they always find for scripture study.

And they don’t just read the scriptures. They memorize and absorb them. The Wolfgramms take the lessons they learn from the Book of Mormon seriously, as they do their church attendance. “A lot of people think we’re so serious when we go to church,” says Haini, 16, who is probably the quietest of all the Wolfgramms but is energetic in spite of it, especially on the football field and basketball court. “But church is not a social thing on Sunday for us. It’s worship.” Although Eugene is considered to be the joker of the family, he adds “When we go to church, it’s for real. It’s no joke.”

The music the Jets play is positive, and lively, but there’s a serious side to that, too. “Our church classes teach us about the power of music, and how it can destroy the mind,” explains Leroy, “but we know from the hymns that music can also build and uplift, so there are two sides to the power of music. We try to lift people with our music in a contemporary way. Satan has always got his crew pulling one way, and the Lord has always got his crew pulling the other. We’re on the Lord’s side, pulling as hard as we can.”

It’s a close-knit family, and at least one of the parents tries to be on the road with the group all the time. The six younger members of the family, including a set of twins, take turns traveling with the group and are excited about the day they’ll be able to perform too.

“I like to be with them as much as I can,” says Sister Wolfgramm, who looks almost as young as her children. “But even when I can’t be there, they look after each other. We stick together as a family. The brothers look out for their sisters, and we know that if we all work together, it will be all right.”

But doesn’t she worry about outside influences affecting her children? “No,” she says. “They read the scriptures. There’s nothing else that will help them as much to resist dangerous temptation. It’s what their father and I have taught them all their lives.”

The scriptures have played an important role in the lives of the Wolfgramms, and the Wolfgramms try to repay their ancestors by telling others about them. “This talent we’ve been given is a vehicle to spread the gospel,” says Leroy, and his brothers and sisters nod their heads enthusiastically. “We carry a lot of copies of the Book of Mormon around so we can give them away.”

Several years ago my wife, Susan, and I had the opportunity to tour the New Zealand Christchurch Mission with President and Sister Melvin Tagg. President Tagg suggested that as part of the mission tour we include a preparation day and take a bus trip to see the beautiful Milford Sound. Part of the trip involved stopping at several beautiful scenic sites along the way. At one of those stops, as we walked back to the bus, I became curious about a group of passengers standing in a circle on the road taking photographs. As I peered over the people, I saw in the circle a frightened little baby lamb on wobbly legs. It appeared to be no more than a few hours old. I have seen a lot of sheep in my life, since my father-in-law was in the sheep business. Consequently, I had no interest in taking a photograph of a solitary lamb, so I boarded the bus and waited.
After all the passengers finally boarded the bus, the driver picked up the frightened little lamb in his arms, held it tenderly against his chest, and brought it on the bus. He sat down, closed the door, picked up his microphone, and said to us, “Undoubtedly a band of sheep has gone through here this morning, and this little lamb has strayed. Perhaps if we take it with us, we might find the band of sheep farther up the road and return this baby lamb to its mother.”
We drove through several kilometers of beautiful forests and finally came to a beautiful meadow of tall, flowing grass. Sure enough, there in the meadow was a band of sheep feeding. The bus driver stopped the bus and excused himself. We all thought he would put the lamb down on the side of the road and come back, but he didn’t. With the lamb in his arms, he carefully and quietly walked out through the grass toward the band of sheep. When he got as close as he could without disturbing them, he gently put the lamb down and then remained in the field to make sure the baby lamb returned to the fold.
As he returned to the bus, he once again picked up his microphone and said, “Oh, can’t you hear that mother sheep saying, ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you for bringing my lost lamb back home to me!’”

The morning sun cast gentle shadows across the courtyard as Joseph pumped water from the well into his bucket. “I’ll take my buckets up to the reservoir first,” he said. “Then I’ll return for yours.”
“I want to empty my own bucket,” five-year-old Beatrice protested.
Joseph shook his head. “It’s too heavy for you to carry up the steps. You’ll spill it.”
“No, I won’t,” she answered, standing as tall as she could.
“All right. But please be careful. If we spill, it will take us longer to fill the reservoir deep enough for my baptism today.”
“I know. I’ll be careful.”
The two started toward one of the houses. There were several other Armenian families living in the courtyard, their homes joined together by thick stone walls. Near one of the walls, stone steps led up to a flat rooftop and a reservoir that fed the courtyard’s fountain. Joseph started up the steps.
“Joseph! Listen! Do you hear the bells?”
“It’s the goats,” Joseph said. “I thought it was about time for the milkman to arrive.”
“Go tell Mother,” Beatrice said. “I’m sure she’ll send you for the milk. She always does.”
Joseph tried not to think about how much he liked fresh goat’s milk. “You go this time,” he said.
“But you love to go.”
“I know, but I can get the milk another day. Today I want to be baptized.”
Beatrice nodded. “I’ll hurry,” she said.
When she was gone, Joseph climbed the rest of the way to the reservoir and emptied his buckets. The water barely covered the bottom of the basin.
“I’ll never finish in time,” he grumbled. But then he remembered something that made him wish he had not complained. His grandfather had been killed by wicked men because he would not deny his belief in Jesus Christ. Joseph was proud of his grandfather, and he knew that filling the reservoir was a very small sacrifice compared to what his grandfather had done. “It will be hard to fill the reservoir,” he told himself. “But like Grandfather, I also believe in Jesus Christ. And I want to be baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. I can do this.”
With renewed determination, Joseph retrieved Beatrice’s bucket, emptied it, then hauled all three buckets back to the well.
Soon after he finished refilling the third bucket, Beatrice returned. “Mother says we can have milk at lunch,” she said.
Joseph almost replied, “I wish I could have some now,” but instead he wiped the sweat from his forehead and started back to the reservoir. Beatrice followed. Back and forth they went until the midday sun shone bright above their heads and their legs felt as heavy as stone pillars.
“Let’s stop for lunch,” Joseph said.
Joseph and Beatrice set down their buckets and headed back to their one-room home. Mother met them at the door. “You two must be hungry,” she said with a tired smile.
“Yes, Mother,” said Beatrice, “but we’re halfway finished.”
“Almost halfway,” Joseph muttered.
“It sounds like you’ve been working hard,” Mother said. She led them to a shady spot near the cooking quarters.
“My arms hurt,” Beatrice complained. “And my hands are sore.”
Joseph looked at his hands. He wasn’t surprised to see blisters forming on the palms. “Beatrice said we could have some milk,” he said.
Mother laughed. “I knew cheese and watermelon wouldn’t satisfy you today,” she said, handing him a full cup.
“I’ve been imagining this moment all morning.” Joseph lifted the cup to his lips and took a long drink.
After lunch, Joseph and Beatrice returned to the well. Again and again they filled their buckets, climbed the steps, poured the water into the reservoir, and trudged back to the well.
Finally, just before the sun began to set behind the western hills, Mother called, “Joseph? Is the reservoir filled?”
“Yes, Mother, we’ve just finished!”
“I knew you could do it,” Mother replied.
Beatrice turned over her bucket and sat on it. “I wish I was old enough to be baptized,” she said.
“I can hardly believe it’s my turn,” Joseph answered. He walked to the edge of the reservoir and dipped his hand into the water. Tiny waves rippled outward. “I’m about to be baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” he thought.
“Joseph?” It was Mother again. “Elder Booth will be here soon. Hurry down so you can get ready.”
“Coming,” he said.
Joseph walked to the steps, then turned and looked at his sister. “Thanks for helping me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You’re welcome,” Beatrice said. “And you can help me when I turn eight!”

I was a Latter-day Saint missionary and had been sent, along with an American Indian from California, to establish a small school in the mountain village of Ayancocha. The village lies on the east side of the Andes in central Peru and is situated on the banks of the Huallaga River that cascades toward Peru’s rain forests and finally meanders through the flat jungles to join with the Amazon.
The first night Pedro entered the adult education class, he looked like any other older mountain Indian. Decay had robbed him of many of his teeth and eaten parts of others. Improper diet and years of scraping at the unproductive, rocky Andean soil had wrapped the flesh tautly around his frame. Calloused welts protruded from under the leather thongs that tied his llantas (rubber treaded sandals made from worn truck tires) to his feet. His nose bore angular testimony to his membership in the royal Incan family.
But, in fact, Pedro was not like many of the other mountain Indians. He had not numbed his mind by chewing cocaine leaves, which serve as an antidote for the cold, fear, and frustration for so many of Peru’s older mountain people.
Pedro’s adult memory extended back past the time when the first trucks crossed the Andes and rumbled through his village toward Peru’s wood- and fruit-laden jungles.
But his mind was young and he wanted to learn to read.
Somewhere he had picked up the basics of the written language. He knew the letters and sounds of the Spanish alphabet. And when we opened the adult reading class in his village, Pedro was the first to enter.
The class dwindled as the weeks passed by. Learning is not easy for adults who measure their formal education by the number of days they have spent in a classroom. But Pedro hung on.
Soon he could sound out the syllables. The process was slow: he would sound out each syllable and then put the word together; it would sometimes take an hour to read one paragraph.
When Pedro learned to read, he cut a large window through the adobe in his living room to let the light in.
Nothing was too dull or unimportant. Old newspapers, government pamphlets, anything that had words on it was slowly devoured.
And when the sun had dropped behind the towering Andes that guarded the village to the west, I could see the dim flicker from a coal-oil lamp coming from Pedro’s new window. He would be squinting across the top of his glasses, with the lamp across the wooden table and the book between, slowly sounding out the syllables.
But Pedro’s academic curiosity was not his only asset. He had not succumbed to the pressures of a practical society where art and craftsmanship were considered unneeded luxuries. Plantation owners would have paid Pedro well for the use of his carpentry skills.
Rather than go to work making rough door frames and unpolished fruit boxes, Pedro would spend a month and a half sculpturing a harp that would sell for around 20 American dollars. To make sure there was food on the table for his wife and five children, he tilled a small plot of ground and raised chickens and guinea pigs. (Guinea pigs are kept by the mountain people of Peru much like rural Americans keep rabbits. One mountain specialty is to soak them in hot pepper juice and roast them over an open fire.)
Watching Pedro make harps was a lesson in concentration. He would pick out a prospective candidate for the harp from his seasoned wood pile, and like a raccoon selecting his food, pass the stick from hand to hand, eyeing it from this angle and that, all the while running his fingers across the grain; an appropriate grunt would finish off the process. The grunt meant that judgment had been affixed: the stick would either become a polished part of the finished instrument or serve as kindling to roast Pedro’s speciality: pepper-dipped guinea pig.
Then, using primitive carpenter’s tools, Pedro would build a precision musical instrument. For many, beauty exists only when perceived, but not for Pedro. His harps were art inside and out. No matter where the wood was used, it had to be the best. Even unnoticed ribs well within the dark interior were seasoned and planed.
But while Pedro’s academic curiosity and craftsmanship would have made him stand out in any community, one other quality made him unique. There have been few characters in the course of written history with whom faith and fact were synonymous. Pedro was one of these.
Even for those of us who use the term daily, faith is a paradox. Conspicuously absent in many who bear its robes, it sometimes finds a more congenial soil under homespun wool and leather thongs.
At any rate Pedro’s faith was both simple and factual. We had bought a diesel engine that generated electricity for our school and church building. A film arrived from Church headquarters depicting the struggles of early pioneers in southern Utah. President Lorenzo Snow, president of the Church at that time, promised the pioneers that a devastating drought would end if they would pay their tithing.
That year Pedro’s village was experiencing a drought. Potatoes and corn were drooping in despair at the rainy season’s slow arrival.
Pedro arrived the morning after the film was shown to pay ten soles (less than 50 cents) in tithing. He then went home and sat on his porch to wait for the rain.
It rained.
It is nearly ten years now since I have seen Pedro. He was an old man then. Perhaps the murmur of articulated syllables no longer escapes from the adobe dwelling’s open window.
On my dining room table rests an 18-inch replica of a Peruvian harp, a cherished gift from the Noria workshop. Its finger-stained ribs and hand-carved bridge are surrounded by machine-planed woods, synthetic carpets, and imitation hickory paneling. The bridge of the instrument ends in the sculptured head of a bird. Its unblinking eye and symmetrical bill are fitting memorials to Pedro Noria de Toledo.

Other experiences I had as a boy taught me that the Holy Ghost can help us stay close to Heavenly Father. I had a friend named Ralph who was a few months older than I was. We went to school in a one-room redbrick schoolhouse, and Ralph and I would walk there together. One day we talked about his recent baptism and confirmation. He told me how clean he felt when he was baptized. I asked him what it was like to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, and he said, “It’s like a voice that whispers in your ear, teaching you the truth.” I never forgot Ralph’s explanation. I wanted to have what my friend had.

Later, after I was baptized and confirmed, I attended a banquet where President George Albert Smith was invited to speak. After the banquet, my dad and I stood in a long line to shake President Smith’s hand. When my turn came, President Smith looked down at me, took my hand, and spoke to me. I don’t remember what he said, but I will never forget how I felt. The Holy Ghost testified to me that he was a prophet of God.

I am grateful for the Holy Ghost. When we obey the commandments, the Holy Ghost dwells with us. He purifies us and teaches us the truth, and this helps us stay close to our Heavenly Father.

I want to thank each of you—the translators and all those who help publish the Liahona. It is because of you that I have the blessing of holding the words of our prophets and the General Authorities in my hands.
I was baptized as a child but was lost to the Church for a long time. When I heard Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (in October 2004 general conference), he helped me believe that the Savior made it possible for me to be redeemed from my sins. I have experienced that change of heart spoken of by Alma, and my joy is complete.Araceli Arroyo Romero, Mexico

During my school’s values-education month, our teacher asked us to write an essay titled “Why am I here?” It had to be a 10-paragraph essay on the topic of our purpose in life. As I read the topic on the board, my heart was filled with comfort and happiness. As a member of the Church, I had known my purpose as a daughter of God for many years. But as I looked at my other classmates’ faces, my heart was filled with sadness. Why? Because they started to murmur regarding the difficulty of the topic. They didn’t have the same knowledge I did.
When I turned in my essay, I realized how blessed I am to be a member of the one true Church. From that day on, my desire to serve a mission and share my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ was strengthened.
I know that Heavenly Father loves me and wants me to be with Him someday. I also know that it is my purpose to serve others.
Jaymee A., Philippines

Miles of gray desert ended abruptly in a miragelike valley of green. A cluster of neat houses sparsely shaded by poplar and cedar trees flanked both sides of the road. Near the center of town stood a bank, a mini-supermarket, a hardware and general mercantile store, and a combination garage and service station.
A few strings of tinsel and pasteboard Santa Claus placards swung wearily in the hot breeze above the street. In the doubtful shade of a large cedar stood a small frame building with a weathered sign that read: U.S. POST OFFICE, DESERT CITY, ARIZONA, POPULATION 467. The cedar was decorated with colored bulbs and strands of red and green paper. Inside the post office a wreath of holly hung over a grilled window which boasted a faded sign: GENERAL DELIVERY … STAMPS.
Behind the window, Luke Jones sorted the mail without conscious thought or effort. After 30 years in Desert City there was little he didn’t know about every resident—with one exception, the stranger who had arrived in town two days before. Luke shrugged, murmuring under his breath, “Curiosity killed the cat.” His lips twitched into a wry grin. “Must be a mighty long trail of dead cats behind me.”
Luke heard a scuffle of feet and turned toward the door. Mrs. Abbie Smithers walked in, and just behind her stood the stranger. Luke’s eyes watched the stranger, but his words were to Mrs. Smithers. “Got a postcard for you, Abbie. From your sister in Colorado. She ain’t going to get here for Christmas after all.”
“For pity’s sake!” Mrs. Smithers said. “I’ve cleaned house until the whole place shines like a new pin.”
“Don’t fret,” Luke said calmly. “It’s only a delay. Her little girl came down with the chicken pox. Here—you better read it yourself.”
As Mrs. Smithers left the window, the stranger asked, “Anything for Bill Anders?”
Luke’s sharp eyes studied him. He knew without looking that there was nothing, yet he turned and slowly sorted through some letters, his gaze darting sideways at the young man. “Ain’t you the fellar whose car broke down here day before yesterday?”
“That’s right.”
“Too bad,” Luke said. He looked directly at the serious-faced young man. “I hear it’s costing you $70 to get it fixed.” His glance was shrewd. “Garageman was in a while ago. Said it’s been ready for you since yesterday.”
“That’s right. Have I got a letter?”
“Where you expecting this letter from?”
Anders’s face flushed. “Look, I just want to know—”
“If I know where it’s from,” Luke interrupted, “maybe I can tell you when it’ll be here.”
Anders looked down at the floor. “It’s coming from Los Angeles. I wrote airmail two days ago when my car broke down.”
“Ain’t here yet,” Luke drawled.
Anders’s face shadowed. He turned to leave.
“Should be in tomorrow,” Luke said. “Mail gets in at 11:00.”
Anders limped toward the door, and Luke noticed that he wore a heavy brace with a built-up shoe on one foot.
“Hey, Anders!”
The young man stopped and turned around.
“You clear broke?” An angry flush reddened Anders’s face. “None of your business!”
Slyly Luke said, “You got money coming in that letter, ain’t you?”
“What’s it to you?” He stopped, took a deep breath, and said more quietly, “Yes, 100 dollars. Anything else you’d like to know?”
Without expression, Luke said, “From your folks, hey?”
Anders hobbled back to the window; his face was white. “Look, my folks are dead. A friend of mine in L.A. is sending me the money. At least, I asked him to send it, and I’m sure he will.”
“Maybe,” Luke said dryly, “maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes you find out you ain’t got a friend when you ask for money.”
Anders stared at him, then said, “Jim isn’t that way.”
Luke could sense an uncertainty behind the words. “Where you going from here if this Jim sends the money?”
Bill Anders’s mood changed suddenly. He looked at Luke and grinned. “Darned if you aren’t the most nosy, old … curious man I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve been told that.”
Anders laughed. “All right, you might as well know. I’ve got a job waiting for me in Albuquerque that I’ve been trying to get since high school. A good job. A big chance for me.” His voice lowered. “I’ve got to get there in time to begin work the day after Christmas. I’ve got to!” He turned abruptly and limped out to the street.
Luke rubbed his chin and stared after him.
At 11:30 the next morning Luke finished sorting the mail to the barely audible Christmas carols coming from the battered radio on the shelf. He examined again the letter addressed to Bill Anders. The postmark was smudged beyond recognition; the name and the address were typed. Luke held the envelope up to the light. He could see the outline of currency inside. He fingered the envelope. It crinkled like crisp, new greenbacks crinkle. Yes, it contained the 100 dollars Bill Anders was waiting for.
Luke’s lips thinned a little. A hundred dollars could mean a lot to a person, even to a man in his position. It could mean that new fishing outfit he wanted for his next vacation. He smiled at the thought. A Christmas gift to himself …
He fondled the letter. What he would have given years ago for this money! It might have changed his whole life—marriage, children, grandchildren—but he had been unable to borrow the money. Friends—even relatives—had turned him down. He slammed the letter into the mail slot. Why should he worry about a crippled young man, a stranger he would never see again?
Luke heard dragging footsteps on the wood floor and turned around to see a subdued Bill Anders, a face lined with worry, yet eyes which still held a lurking hope.
Luke hesitated, and then he reached into the slot and pulled out the mail under the letter A. Deliberately he sorted through the letters; indecision still weighed upon him. He didn’t have to give this letter to the boy. But if he didn’t, could he ever live with himself? Could he look into a mirror without seeing the disappointment on the young man’s face?
He held the letter away from the others.
“Is that for me?” Anders’s voice was strained.
Luke held the letter up to the light. “Postmark’s smudged. Can’t tell where it’s from.”
“Is it for me?”
“Ain’t got a return address on it,” Luke drawled.
“It’s from Jim! It must be!”
Luke watched the boy’s face. It was transformed. His eyes were shining now, the lines of strain and worry vanished. Luke waited a moment longer, and then he tossed the letter through the iron grill.
Anders ripped open the envelope. Five crisp, 20-dollar bills fell out. There was no message. Carefully he picked up the money, handling each greenback almost with reverence. He glanced up at Luke. “Jim isn’t one to write,” he explained, “but when a guy needs help, he comes through.”
“Guess you got a real friend, hey?” Luke said softly.
As he reached the door, his shoulders straight, Anders looked back and smiled. “Merry Christmas!”
Luke watched him limp down the street toward the garage. He sighed heavily and turned again to the mail rack. From the A slot he withdrew a postcard. It was postmarked Los Angeles and addressed to Bill Anders. The few scribbled words on the back were still fresh in Luke’s memory. “Dear Bill: Sorry I can’t help. Things are tight for me too. Jim.”
Slowly Luke placed the card on the counter and stamped it “UNCLAIMED.”
His voice was fretful as he muttered, “Curiosity cost more than a cat this time.” But he was smiling as he turned back to his work.
From the battered radio came the soft strains of “Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men.”

I was down on the Indian reservation when I met a sister who had just joined the Church, a beautiful Navajo woman. My, they dress beautifully down there. I have never seen an immodestly dressed woman—never seen an Indian indecently exposed. Those beautiful velvet dresses. … It’s wonderful to be modest. They get on these beautiful dresses and go out and buy their groceries at the trading post.

Anyway, after I had met this sister, one of the missionaries called me off to the side and said, “A few months ago my companion and I went into a hogan and that lady, that Indian sister, was lying on the ground on a sheepskin. She had been lying there for six long years. We called on her, and when we were leaving she called us back and said in broken English, ‘Isn’t there something you do for sick people?’ And we said, ‘Yes.’ She said, ‘Please do it for me.’” So they got down on their knees and administered to her, by the authority of the priesthood and in the name of Jesus Christ. Then they left, and they weren’t away fifty yards when she came out of the hogan after them and said, “Come back and see what you have done for me.” She walked.

In October 2021 the Book of Mormon musical began its performances in The Millenium Centre in Cardiff. On the opening evening, I had the privilege of going to the Millennium Centre, along with Stake President Jason Spragg and Bishop Stefan Liassides of Cardiff Ward. We had all attended training in preparation for questions from the media or audience members.

We waited as the audience made their way out after seeing the show, where they were met by 40 missionaries in bright white shirts and missionary tags clearly in view. These young men and women stood firm in their beliefs and were a shining example to us who stood by. They were polite, friendly, and answered all questions. Some people stopped to listen and then while walking away would exclaim, “They are the real ones”. I remember seeing one young missionary run to his mission president in excitement proclaiming, “We need more, we need more!” He was referring to the pass-along cards, and leaflets with more information about the Church.

Due to COVID restrictions these missionaries had spent most of their mission working with social media to share the gospel and to contact people. Now they had the opportunity to meet face-to-face and to share their beliefs.

These young men and women were wonderful examples. Even though some people rushed past, or said they weren’t interested, the missionaries were not disheartened and carried on sharing what they knew to be true. How lucky we are to have real missionaries in each of our wards and stakes.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Andrew swallowed his popcorn and grabbed another handful.
His older brother, Caleb, plopped down on the couch beside him. “Hey, can I have some?”
Andrew didn’t look away from the TV. “No.”
“Aw, come on. You can share.”
Caleb reached for the bowl, but Andrew snatched it away.
“No! I already told you before. Don’t ask again!”
“Fine.” Caleb got up and left the room.
The next day, Andrew went into the kitchen. Caleb was making some sushi with rice, seaweed, and canned pork.
Andrew’s mouth watered. “Can I have some?”
“No,” Caleb said.
That made Andrew really mad. He ran downstairs to tell Dad.
“Why is Caleb being so selfish?” he asked.
Dad frowned. “I saw yesterday that you wouldn’t share your popcorn. Why should Caleb share with you after you didn’t share with him?”
“Because he’s my brother!” Andrew said.
“Then why didn’t you share with him?”
“He never shares with me either! Besides, I made it for myself, not him,” Andrew said. But he felt a little bad. Maybe it was mean of him not to share.
“Did you know that in Korea, sharing is really important?” Dad asked. Andrew’s family was from Korea. “Sharing is a way to show someone you care about them. So if you don’t share, it’s kind of like saying that you don’t care about them.”
“But I do care about Caleb.”
Andrew thought about what Jesus might do. He remembered how Jesus loved everyone—even those who were unkind to Him.
“I think I’m going to share with Caleb tomorrow and see how it turns out,” he told Dad.
Dad smiled. “I think that’s a good idea.”
When Andrew went to bed that night, he thought about other nice things he could do for Caleb. He was excited to start sharing!
The next morning, Andrew woke up to a surprise. Caleb had made breakfast just for him!
“Dad talked to me about sharing,” Caleb said. “I want to do better. So I made this for you.”
“Thanks!” Andrew said. “I want to do better too.”
Later that day, Andrew and Caleb watched a movie. Andrew let Caleb pick which one. Then he made some popcorn just for Caleb! He looked inside the bowl. It was like the popcorn was saying, “EAT ME!” But Andrew didn’t take any. He gave Caleb the bowl and said, “This is all yours. I’m sorry I didn’t share before.”
Andrew shared with Caleb all week. He let Caleb read his books. He let Caleb use his markers. He let Caleb play with his favorite toy. He even gave Caleb an extra turn when they were playing a game.
The more Andrew shared with Caleb, the more Caleb shared with him! Soon they were doing nice things for each other all the time. Andrew knew that Heavenly Father was helping him share with his brother. Andrew wasn’t perfect like Jesus, but he was trying to be more like Him every day.
This story took place in the USA.
Illustration by Adam Howling

First, I should like to tell you about a different kind of classroom with a unique group of teachers. The students have come from a state-run shelter for juvenile offenders of the law to be instructed by prison inmates serving life terms or more than twenty-five years.

Let me describe a group of recent participants in what is known as the Juvenile Awareness Program. There were twenty of them, including several as young as fourteen with tattoos on their arms, and all had had minor scrapes with the law, ranging from break-ins to shoplifting and assault. They arrived by bus and strutted cockily into the prison confines. Three hours later they walked out timidly—some shaking and near tears.

Their change in attitude came after their "teachers" gave them firsthand information about prison life. In the vilest of language, and with frequent threats of violence (although never carried out), the class members were transformed from fidgeting, squirming, disinterested youths to a spellbound, captive audience.

Let me repeat some of the words of the "instructors" which brought about this change.

"I’m 45 years old now and I know I’m never going to see the streets again," said a convicted murderer. "We’re all dying to get out and you guys are pounding on the doors, saying, ‘Let us in.’"

Another statement: "The Hollywood image of prison doesn’t tell you about gang rapes and suicides. That happens all the time here. And you little punks are fresh meat."

A convicted kidnapper told the boys: "I’ve been in here for 16 years and you guys can’t sit still for a couple of hours. If you’re going to be criminals, you better get used to someone telling you what to do all the time." (Salt Lake Tribune, July 19, 1977, pp. 1–2.)

As I contemplated the possibility of bearing my testimony tonight to you, my mind went back to many years ago when I was in the Aaronic Priesthood, and somehow I and one of my companions found ourselves over here by the stairs where we didn’t belong, just prior to the beginning of the priesthood meeting. President George Albert Smith, in his kindly way, saw our plight, saw that we really had nowhere to go, and invited us to sit on these stairs by the pulpit. I sat there with my friend and watched the proceedings of that great priesthood session, never believing that I would ever again get that close to this pulpit.
I remember that I said to my friend when we left the conference, “It sure would be nice to be a General Authority; then you would have one of those big red chairs to sit in.”
I would like to say, my brethren, that I have been sitting in a big red chair for just a few minutes, and the greatest desire of my heart is that I will learn through my obedience and my service to become comfortable in that big red chair. I pray that the Lord will bless me that I might properly represent President Kimball, his counselors, the Council of the Twelve, and all my brethren of the General Authorities; that as they send me forth on whatever errand it might be, I might do the will and the bidding of the Lord.

“I was telling a friend of mine that I come from a big family,” Cay said. “I told her about standing in line at the airport when my dad came back from a business trip, how people’s chins dropped when they saw five kids waiting for the same dad. My friend laughed and said, ‘They must have thought y’all were Mormons.’
“I turned to my other friend and said, ‘Should I tell her? Should I tell her?’
“And the first friend said, ‘Tell me what?’
“Then I said, ‘I am Mormon.’ I think she was bright red with embarrassment for the rest of the day.”

About eight years ago, in far-off Dresden, a city in the German Democratic Republic, I visited, with a few members, a small cemetery. The night was dark, and a cold rain had been falling throughout the day.
We had come to visit the grave of a missionary who many years before had died while in the service of the Lord. A hushed silence shrouded the scene as we gathered about the grave. With a flashlight illuminating the headstone, I read the inscription:
Joseph A. Ott
Born: 12 December 1870—Virgin, Utah
Died: 10 January 1896—Dresden, Germany
(See “In the Lord’s Time,” by C. Eric Ott, Tambuli, May 1989, page 7.)
Then the light revealed that this grave was unlike any other in the cemetery. The headstone had been polished, weeds such as those which covered other graves had been carefully removed, and in their place was an immaculately edged bit of lawn and some beautiful flowers that told of tender and loving care. I asked, “Who has made this grave so attractive?” My query was met by silence.
Finally, a twelve-year-old deacon acknowledged that he had wanted to take on this responsibility and, without prompting from parents or leaders, had done so. He said that he just wanted to do something for a missionary who gave his life while in the service of the Lord. He said, “I’ll never be able to serve a mission, as did my father. I feel close to missionary work when I care for this grave where the body of a missionary rests.”
I wept out of respect for his faith. I sorrowed at his inability to fulfill his greatest desire—to serve as a missionary. But God did hear his prayer. He noted his faith. He honored one who magnified the calling of a deacon.
Several years have gone by since that special night in Dresden. Many significant changes have taken place in the German Democratic Republic. A temple of God adorns the land, chapels accommodate wards and stakes, and the full program of the Church blesses the lives of our members. On Thursday, 30 March 1989, the first Church missionaries in fifty years crossed the border into the German Democratic Republic. Already investigators are being taught and the first baptisms have taken place.
But what about the boy who so tenderly tended the grave of Joseph Ott? Well, Tobias Burkhardt, a deacon then, is an elder now. On 28 May 1989 he and nine other companions entered the Missionary Training Center, the first ever from their country to serve abroad as missionaries. Asked about his feelings at this special time, he responded, “I am anxious to serve my mission. I’ll strive to work so diligently, that Joseph Ott can, through me, yet perform an earthly mission.”

Mary Rollins was 12 years old when she first learned about the Book of Mormon. She borrowed a copy and stayed up most of the night reading.
Mary was also excited for a new book called the Book of Commandments. It would have many of the teachings Jesus Christ had given to Joseph Smith.
But some people didn’t like the Church. One day, men broke into the building where the Book of Commandments was being printed. They threw the printing press out the window and scattered the pages into the street.
Mary and her younger sister, Caroline, hid and watched. Mary wanted to save the pages before they were ruined. Caroline was afraid, but they knew the pages had the word of God on them.
The sisters ran into the street and grabbed as many pages as they could. Some men saw them and yelled at them to stop. Mary and Caroline held the pages tighter and ran into a nearby cornfield.
Two men chased after them. Mary and Caroline dropped to the ground and hid the pages beneath their bodies. They listened quietly as the men searched for them.
Soon the men gave up. Mary and Caroline were safe! They had saved the pages. Today those teachings are in the Doctrine and Covenants.