Gospel Story Finder

The privilege of serving the Lord on a mission is felt and demonstrated in many ways. One missionary had struggled with family problems since he was a boy. While still young, he was expelled from his home and went to live with another family who introduced him to the Church. The gospel gave him direction in life where his natural parents had not. A few years later, after becoming one of the best players on a college football team, he decided to serve a mission. Before leaving on his mission, he gave copies of the Book of Mormon to his friends at school. This included his team coaches, fellow players, and teachers. He distributed more than 200 copies before entering the Missionary Training Center.
The missionaries who looked upon a mission only as a sacrifice were often honestly dedicated to the Lord’s service. However, I found they had not experienced personal revelation and inspiration. They were usually less informed about the Savior. But as they studied their scriptures and came to know Him better, their hearts seemed to soften and enlarge. They began to more deeply feel His love and know of the importance of missionary work as a continuation of this love extended to others. Many of those who began by telling of their sacrifices left the Missionary Training Center talking about privilege.

“Eight, nine, ten. Hooray!” I cheered as I counted my last dollar. “Mom, I’ve finally earned enough money to buy the space shuttle.”
“That’s great, Jacob,” Mom said. “You’ve worked hard, and you’ve wanted that model for a long time.”
She was right. For the last month, I’d been mopping floors, watering plants, taking out garbage—and thinking about the space shuttle model. It had cool flag stickers for the wings and booster rockets that snapped off.
“Can we go to the store now?” I asked.
“It’s almost dinnertime,” Mom said. “Then it will be time for family home evening. But we could go tomorrow after school.”
“OK,” I said. One more day wouldn’t hurt.
After dinner, Dad spread out 10 pennies, 10 dimes, and 10 one-dollar bills on the living room floor.
“Tonight we’re going to talk about tithing,” Dad said.
“What’s that?” asked my four-year-old brother, Willy.
“It’s money we give to Heavenly Father,” Dad said. “It’s one-tenth of what we earn.”
“What’s one-tenth?” I asked. I knew it was a fraction. But in second grade we had only learned about halves and thirds.
“There’s a simple way to remember,” Dad said. “It’s a dime from a dollar, a penny from a dime.”
“What happens to our tithing?” Tod asked.
“It helps the Church grow,” Dad said. “Some of it is used to build new church buildings and temples.”
We practiced paying tithing with the dollars, dimes, and pennies on the floor. It was fun to play with all that money.
But then I thought of my own dollars. I had a sinking feeling. Did I owe one of those dollars for tithing?
“Do I have to pay tithing on my space-shuttle dollars?” I asked. But I didn’t really want to hear the answer. I was tired of mopping floors.
“Well,” Dad said, “one of those dollars you earned belongs to Heavenly Father. But no one forces you to pay tithing. It’s something you choose to do.”
For the rest of the night, I thought about doing the right thing—that is, when I wasn’t thinking about the space shuttle. Would it hurt to skip tithing this time? Surely one dollar wouldn’t make much difference to the Church.
The next day I raced home after school. “Let’s go buy the space shuttle, Mom,” I called.
“OK,” she said. “Get your brothers, and we’ll be on our way.”
In the car I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I wanted to pay tithing, but I really, really wanted the space shuttle.
At the store I went straight to the model aisle and grabbed the box. For some reason, though, holding the box didn’t feel as good as I thought it would. And the longer I held it, the worse it felt.
Holding the dollars in my other hand didn’t feel right either. Maybe it was because I knew one of them didn’t belong to me. Last night Dad said one-tenth isn’t very much to give to Heavenly Father when you think of everything He gives to us.
“Mom,” I said quietly, “are there any jobs I can do to earn some more money?”
“There are always lots of jobs,” Mom said.
“Maybe I should buy the space shuttle in a few days. Can we come back?”
“Sure,” Mom said.
On the way home, I held nine dollars in one hand and one in the other. I felt a little disappointed. But I didn’t wonder if I was doing the right thing. I knew I was.

What do you imagine when someone says the best gift ever? Toys? A bike? Some new clothes? Well, I got something better! I watched my adopted sister get sealed to my family forever.
Six months ago my family adopted a baby girl, Ava. This little infant brought so much love and joy into our house. We loved her so much that we wanted to have her sealed to our family, but we had one problem.
In our state a baby has to be six months old before you can finalize an adoption. When the court date finally arrived, we went to the judge. He said, “This baby will be yours, just as if she had been naturally born to you.” Ava was officially adopted! Jumping for joy, we got back in the car and drove to Utah to get Ava sealed to us.
I was so excited as we drove to the Bountiful Utah Temple. I was going to the temple! Ava and my older sister, Bailey, and I were taken to the children’s center in the temple. When I told the temple workers the size for my white dress, I finally realized that this was really happening.
When we walked into the beautiful sealing room, right away I felt the Spirit. I knew this was an experience that most children don’t have. I was able to be in the sealing room when Ava was sealed to my parents.
Afterward, the sealer let the five of us stay in the sealing room by ourselves. My dad pointed out the mirrors on both sides of the altar. When you stand in between both mirrors, you can see hundreds of your own reflections looking like they go on forever. This reminds us that now we are sealed for eternity. Seeing the five members of my family standing there made me feel like we would all be together forever.
Now that I have gone through this experience, I know how important temples are. When I grow up, I want to get sealed to my husband and have our children sealed to us for time and all eternity.

Forty-one years ago I climbed into the driver’s seat of an 18-wheel semitruck with my beautiful wife, Jan, and our infant son, Scotty. We were taking a heavy load of construction materials across several states.
In those days there were no seat-belt restrictions or infant car seats. My wife held our precious son in her arms. Her comment “We sure are high off the ground” should have given me a clue about her feelings of apprehension.
As we made our descent over historic Donner Pass, a steep section of highway, the cab of the semi suddenly and unexpectedly filled with thick smoke. It was difficult to see, and we could hardly breathe.
With a heavy rig, brakes alone are not enough to rapidly decrease speed. Using the engine brakes and gearing down, I frantically attempted to stop.
Just as I was pulling to the side of the road, but before we had come to a full stop, my wife opened the door of the cab and jumped out with our baby in her arms. I watched helplessly as they tumbled in the dirt.
As soon as I had the semi stopped, I bolted from the smoking cab. With adrenaline pumping, I ran through the rocks and weeds and held them in my arms. Jan’s forearms and elbows were battered and bleeding, but thankfully she and our son were both breathing. I just held them close as the dust settled there on the side of the highway.
As my heartbeat normalized and I caught my breath, I blurted out, “What in the world were you thinking? Do you know how dangerous that was? You could have been killed!”
She looked back at me, with tears running down her smoke-smudged cheeks, and said something that pierced my heart and still rings in my ears: “I was just trying to save our son.”
I realized in that moment she thought the engine was on fire, fearing the truck would explode and we would die. I, however, knew it was an electrical failure—hazardous but not fatal. I looked at my precious wife, softly rubbing the head of our infant son, and wondered what kind of woman would do something so courageous.
This situation could have been as emotionally hazardous as our literal engine failure. Gratefully, after enduring the silent treatment for a reasonable amount of time, each of us believing the other person was at fault, we finally expressed the emotions that were churning beneath our heated outbursts. Shared feelings of love and fear for the other’s safety kept the hazardous incident from proving fatal to our cherished marriage.
When our truck cab filled with smoke, my wife acted in the bravest manner she could imagine to protect our son. I too acted as a protector when I questioned her choice. Shockingly, it did not matter who was more right. What mattered was listening to each other and understanding the other’s perspective.

I share with you tonight two experiences from my life—one which took place when I was a boy and the other pertaining to a friend of mine who was a husband and father of children.

Not long after my ordination as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, I was called to serve as president of the quorum. Our adviser, Harold, was interested in us, and we knew it. One day he said to me, "Tom, you enjoy raising pigeons, don’t you?"

I responded with a warm, "Yes."

Then he proffered, "How would you like me to give you a pair of purebred Birmingham Roller pigeons?"

This time I answered, "Yes, Sir!" You see, the pigeons I had were just the common variety, trapped on the roof of the Grant Elementary School.

He invited me to come to his home the next evening. The following day was one of the longest in my young life. I was awaiting my adviser’s return from work an hour before he arrived home. He took me to his pigeon loft, which was in the upper area of a small barn located at the rear of his yard. As I looked at the most beautiful pigeons I had yet seen, he said, "Select any male, and I will give you a female which is different from any other pigeon in the world." I made my selection. He then placed in my hand a tiny hen pigeon. I asked what made her so different. He responded, "Look carefully, and you’ll notice that she has but one eye." Sure enough, one eye was missing, a cat having done the damage. "Take them home to your loft," he counseled. "Keep them in for about 10 days, and then turn them out to see if they will remain at your place."

I followed Harold’s instructions. Upon his release, the male pigeon strutted about the roof of the loft, then returned inside to eat. But the one-eyed female was gone in an instant. I called Harold and asked, "Did that one-eyed pigeon return to your loft?"

"Come on over," he said, "and we’ll have a look."

As we walked from his kitchen door to the loft, my adviser commented, "Tom, you are the president of the teachers quorum." This, of course, I already knew. Then he added, "What are you going to do to activate Bob, who is a member of your quorum?"

I answered, "I’ll have him at quorum meeting this week."

Then he reached up to a special nest and handed me the one-eyed pigeon. "Keep her in a few more days and try again." This I did, and once more she disappeared. Again the experience: "Come on over, and we’ll see if she returned home." Came the comment as we walked to the loft: "Congratulations on getting Bob to priesthood meeting. Now what are you and Bob going to do to activate Bill?"

"We’ll have him there next week," I volunteered.

This experience was repeated over and over again. I was a grown man before I fully realized that indeed Harold, my adviser, had given me a special pigeon, the only pigeon in his loft he knew would return every time she was released. It was his inspired way of having an ideal personal priesthood interview with the president of the teachers quorum every two weeks. I owe a lot to that one-eyed pigeon. I owe more to that quorum adviser. He had the patience and the skill to help me prepare for responsibilities which lay ahead.

One time as we talked about good nutrition, a sweet mother from the Philippines spoke to me. “You know, Sister, I don’t have enough money to buy all the things I’d like. So before I go to the market, I kneel and ask Heavenly Father to help me spend my few pesos wisely and buy the things that will be best for my family. As I bring home my food, I again ask him to help me prepare it properly. And then, Sister, when it is time for us to eat, we know we can ask Heavenly Father to bless our food—to help us be strong and healthy with what we have been able to buy and fix.” And I thought of how many times a blessing on the food had been for me but a signal to eat. …
There was the group of Relief Society women in Central Java who would each save a spoonful of rice in the morning before they began cooking for the day. They’d put that spoonful, each day, in a plastic bag; then on Saturday they would bring their bags with them to Relief Society. If anyone was ill or had not been attending church for some time, all the sisters would walk together following the meeting to visit her. And they would take some of the rice to share. I’ve learned much about service and consecration from such examples.
I was serving in Indonesia when the Book of Mormon was first translated and printed in that language. During that time I had an inkling of what it must have been like for Joseph Smith and others when they were finally able to give so many others the privilege of reading the book. One of my local companions, an Indonesian sister from the city of Solo, slept with her copy right beside her.
The chance to share the gospel sometimes came in unexpected ways. This happened once in Taiwan. Without any previous language training, I was struggling daily to learn Mandarin Chinese. Tracting provided the thrill of a lifetime—having someone answer the door when it was my turn to talk! How amazing it was to me those first few times that someone could actually understand some of my sounds!
Then one morning an American woman answered—totally unexpected. Her husband was in the Navy. We were caught off guard and were speechless. Finally she said, “Oh, you must be Mormon missionaries! Come on in—I used to be a Mormon.” And thus began a miracle.
Her husband wasn’t a member and she wasn’t active. A teenage son and daughter had been baptized but weren’t active at the time either. We had the privilege of switching from Mandarin to English and sharing the gospel with this great family. The father was eventually baptized, both children served missions, and now the father and mother are working in a temple. Who would have believed we would meet that wonderful American family in Tainan, Taiwan!
Through these and many other experiences, I have learned one of the great lessons of missionary work: I gained as much from others as they did from me. We all grew spiritually—we were teaching each other. I realized there is a need for all of us to be open to every chance to lift, help, teach, and strengthen one another … no matter where or when.

Mari and Jorma realized they were going counter to Finnish culture and tradition when they joined the Church. Yet they changed course in life and never looked back.

Mari and Jorma Alakoski know the road of conversion. In the years since joining the Church in their native Finland, they have served in various capacities, including Mari’s calling as an assistant temple matron and Jorma’s calling as counselor in the first temple presidency of the Helsinki Finland Temple.

But like many converts, they had to fight for their faith. When missionaries met them, a testimony didn’t come as easily to Mari as it did to her husband. At first, she was uncomfortable with the Book of Mormon and pushed it away by touching it as little as possible with only the tip of a finger.

Later, when she saw tears streaming down the cheeks of her husband while he read the Book of Mormon, she thought to herself, “If this book touches him so deeply, it must be valuable.”

Her resistance gradually softened, and she began her quest for truth. In time, she too shed tears when reading the Book of Mormon.

Mari and Jorma realized they were going counter to culture and tradition when they joined the Church. Yet they abruptly changed course in life and never looked back. “The Church brought great contentment into our lives. I almost think that everything was too good to be true. We were received very kindly in the congregation,” Mari says.

“A lot of new things suddenly came into our lives,” she says. Sundays were no longer leisure times but packed with Church meetings, which were held three times throughout the Sabbath day at that time. “This required dressing the children for each meeting and timing their meals and naps.”

Every day of the week required time for gospel-related activities and meetings, whether home evening, Relief Society, or Primary. “On Saturday, we prepared food and clothes for Sunday,” Mari says.

Tha Alakoskis didn’t make a grand announcement when they joined the Church, but their family and friends gradually came to know. “Not everyone understood our decision,” Mari recalls. “A few friends stopped talking to us. But that was a small price to pay for all the precious things that came into our lives. Nothing and no one could influence us to abandon the Church. My father, after learning about our conversion, settled any discord when he said, ‘Let them do as they see fit. They are grown people. They know what they want to do.’”

In time, the couple desired to be sealed. They planned, sacrificed, and traveled two days by bus and one night by ship through Sweden and Germany. They finally arrived at the Bern Switzerland Temple, the only temple in Europe at the time.

The Alakoskis are an example of those who receive a witness of the gospel and forge ahead, much like Nephi, not knowing everything beforehand but following the Spirit (see 1 Nephi 4:6). They took cues from fellow members to learn the doctrine and how to apply the gospel to their lives. When they didn’t know something, they studied or asked for more direction.

My family doesn’t go to church. I go alone. Because my street doesn’t have a bus to the Church building, I walk about 30 minutes to get there. My family worries what other people will think about them, but I say that it doesn’t matter because I know it’s true.
It’s hard to attend church without her family, but Nara knows that God loves and blesses her. He even protected her from a car accident once.

I like sports a lot, especially football. I was very excited when Jacksonville, Florida, got a professional football team, the Jaguars. Each time the players signed autographs, I asked my parents to please take me to see the players. I began collecting cards and knew all the players’ statistics.
When the games began, I was offered many really, really good seats to their games for free. But they were always on Sunday! One day, I asked Mom if I could go to a free game on a Sunday. She said that it was up to me. I needed to pray about it.
I remembered all the happy feelings that I’d had when I went to baptisms in our ward. My dad was ward mission leader, and we went to many baptisms. Each time I went, I was very happy and could hardly wait for my own baptism and then to be given the gift of the Holy Ghost.
When I prayed about going to the Sunday game, I felt so much happiness and peace because I could tell my mom that I didn’t want to go to that game.
Not long after that, I was given tickets to a game that wasn’t on Sunday. Dad took me, and we had a great time, especially when the Jaguars won. I am baptized now, and I know that by keeping my baptism covenant, I will always have peace and happiness in my life.
Hannah Mandel, age 10Orange Park, Florida

“Dora … Dora!” Ed was calling me in his coaxing voice. That usually meant he wanted me to do something for him. I dropped my spigot and walked over to where he was.

“We’re going to go swimming. Do you want to go with us?”

“Nah, I don’t want to.” I started to walk away.

“How come you never want to swim?” he asked.

“I don’t like drowning. That’s why.”

“You’ve never drowned yet,” he reminded me.

“I don’t intend to either,” I told him. “Even if I did go swimming, it wouldn’t be a hundred miles up in the air where you can’t climb out on the ground.”

“Ah, come on, Dora,” he coaxed. “We need you for a lookout so we don’t get caught.”

“What’ll you give me?”

“A pretty bottle. I found one where Papa was digging. Been buried a long time, and it’s purple.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Will you come?”

Why not? I thought. “If it’s as pretty as you say,” I finally agreed.

He pulled a piece of lavender colored glass from his pocket.

“It’s broken,” I said.

“Didn’t say it wasn’t,” he replied. “But just look at the color when the light shines through it.”

He was right. It was beautiful.

It was a long walk to the swimming spot we had found on the other edge of town. I guess it was worth it to the boys, who liked to be sweating hot when they climbed up the side and dropped into the cool water of the tank that stood by the tracks to fill the tenders of the train locomotives when they came by.

All my coolness had evaporated in the heat, and I stood waiting for the boys in the shade below the tank. I was grateful for any breeze that stirred the air to cool me off, and I kicked back the hot sand with my bare feet to see if there were a cooler spot underneath.

“When are you coming down?” I shouted up. I was answered only by loud splashes and playful laughing. They didn’t hear me. They didn’t even hear the mournful wail of the faraway train whistle or my shouts of “Train’s coming!”

They did hear the wild shriek of the brakes, though, as the engine shuddered to a stop. The sudden suspension of splashing in the tank told me that. I knew it was too late for them to climb out now without being caught, so I hid down in the shadows and tried to look invisible.

The engineer jumped out and turned on the spigot to fill the water tender on his train. If he noticed me, he ignored me. Soon he closed the valve, climbed back in the engine, and with a double toot of the whistle was on his way again.

After the train sounds died away, Ed shouted down, “Turn some more water into the tank.”

“What for? Aren’t you wet enough already?” I teased.

“So we can get out. That train drank half the water, and we can’t reach the top.”

“Can’t reach the bottom either,” Frank added.

“Where’s the tap?” I asked, looking around for it. I could only see the one the engineer used to drain the tank.

“I don’t know,” Ed shouted impatiently, “but find it!”

Finally I found another valve. But the tap had been shut off by stronger hands than mine. “I’m not strong enough,” I cried.

“Oh, come on,” Ed encouraged. “Try harder.”

“Why don’t you stand on each other’s shoulders?” I suggested.

“We tried that, and it doesn’t work. We still can’t reach.”

“Climb up the sides then.”

“It’s too slippery,” Ed called.

“Go get Papa,” Frank insisted.

“He’ll be mad,” I reminded him.

“He sure will,” Ed said, reconsidering.

Finally, however, there seemed to be no other solution, so I started off on a run to find Papa.

I was stumbling from fatigue and panting for breath when Mr. Leslie, one of our neighbors, came along on his horse.

“Why, what’s the matter, Dora?” he asked.

“My brothers will drown in the water tank. They can’t get out.”

“The train tank? They shouldn’t be in there.”

“I know they shouldn’t, but they are. They were swimming and the train came along and took most of the water. Now they can’t reach the top to get out and I can’t turn on the tap and they’ll drown.”

“There, there, now calm down. We’ll get them out,” Mr. Leslie said soothingly. “I have my rope right here.” He reached down and pulled me up behind him on the horse, and we loped all the way back to the tank.

“Ed?” I called to the silence that had settled down as we rode up. “Mr. Leslie’s going to turn on the water.”

When the water started running into the tank in a slow trickle, Mr. Leslie climbed up and pulled the boys out one at a time with the rope. When they were all out and scrambling into their clothes, Ed asked Mr. Leslie, “You aren’t going to tell Papa about this, are you?”

“Can’t think of any reason why not,” Mr. Leslie replied.

“ ’Cause he’ll whip us good,” Frank said.

“A little whippin’ never hurt any boy that I know of,” Mr. Leslie teased.

“He’ll never let us go swimming again,” Frank pleaded.

“It’ll save us a lot of trouble if you could just forget this happened,” Ed suggested. “We’re willing to pay by working for you. We’ll both pull weeds for you for half a day.”

“I’ll help too,” I offered.
The next morning when we got up Papa was waiting with a little green willow.

“Somebody needs a whipping,” he said. I couldn’t figure out how he’d heard about swimming in the train tank so soon.

“Come over here,” he directed, and he led us out by our water tank. “Look at that mess.” He pointed to a mire where the cows had sloshed up and down all night in the mud made by my siphon. He picked up the onion hose that had been pulled from the tank.

“Who,” he thundered, “thought of this?”

“I didn’t do it,” Ed said.

“Me neither,” Frank insisted.

“Well, I’m sure it wasn’t Georgie,” Papa said. “Dora, was it you?”

I turned my face down so I wouldn’t have to look at his blazing eyes, and he could tell I was guilty.

“Run along, boys,” he said. “I have some private business with Dora.”

He had to switch me a little so I’d learn my lesson. Then when he was through he said, “That was really a smart way to get a cold drink, but it sure made a mess, didn’t it? Next time remember to turn it off.”

(To be continued.)

Many years ago I heard the story of the son of King Louis XVI of France. King Louis had been taken from his throne and imprisoned. His young son, the prince, was taken by those who dethroned the king. They thought that inasmuch as the king’s son was heir to the throne, if they could destroy him morally, he would never realize the great and grand destiny that life had bestowed upon him.
They took him to a community far away, and there they exposed the lad to every filthy and vile thing that life could offer. They exposed him to foods the richness of which would quickly make him a slave to appetite. They used vile language around him constantly. They exposed him to lewd and lusting women. They exposed him to dishonor and distrust. He was surrounded 24 hours a day by everything that could drag the soul of a man as low as one could slip. For over six months he had this treatment—but not once did the young lad buckle under pressure. Finally, after intensive temptation, they questioned him. Why had he not submitted himself to these things—why had he not partaken? These things would provide pleasure, satisfy his lusts, and were desirable; they were all his. The boy said, “I cannot do what you ask for I was born to be a king.”

What is the record of Church service of Joseph Smith, Sr.? When he accepted the restored gospel, he found himself. Although previously skeptical of all organized religion, he believed at once in his son’s visions. He physically protected the Prophet during the translation of the plates and became a witness of the Book of Mormon after seeing and handling the plates. He then brought people into the Church as a missionary to the northeastern United States and to his family. In 1833 he was called as Patriarch to the Church. There were other offices: member of the first high council in 1834 and even counselor in the First Presidency for a short time in 1836. But Mormon diaries show that his greatest impact on his fellow Church members was through the blessings given as Patriarch. Many of those blessings were prophetic for Church members who came west. A young college student who attended blessing meetings in Kirtland, Ohio, was Lorenzo Snow, then a nonmember and later president of the Church. His sister, Eliza R. Snow, had induced him to come from Oberlin College to study with the competent Hebrew instructor employed by the Church for the missionaries. She had hoped that he would be exposed to Mormonism while studying Hebrew, and it was Joseph Smith, Sr., who impressed him most toward conversion. For Lorenzo felt his strong inspiration and discerned the appropriateness of instruction given to different people. In recalling his first impressions, Lorenzo Snow later said: “I looked at Father Smith and silently asked myself the question: Can that man be a deceiver? His every appearance answered in the negative. … I had never seen age so prepossessing.”11 His strong convictions attracted strong men to the Church. The most influential Smith of the second generation in Utah was George A., cousin of the Prophet and counselor to Brigham Young. His Uncle Joseph, the Patriarch, visited northern New York to meet initial ridicule of the Book of Mormon even from his family, most of whom were later converted. George A. Smith, then a bright and brash teenager, began to read the Book of Mormon but with the purpose of gathering devastating objections against it. The sequel was not as he expected. In his own words: “On the return of my Uncle Joseph, I undertook to argue with him upon the subject, but he so successfully removed my objections and enlightened my mind, that I have never since ceased to advocate its divine authority.”12 Other converts left records that show the unquestionable sincerity and deep convictions of Joseph Smith, Sr. His total loyalty to the restored church is itself a strong argument for the authenticity of the prophetic mission of his son.

Recently, I attended a sacrament meeting given by children with special needs. Each was disabled in hearing or sight or mental development. Beside each was a teenager assigned as a companion. They sang and played music for us. Facing us on the front row was a young girl who stood and signed to those behind us who could not hear.
Jenny gave a brief testimony. Then her parents each spoke. They told of the utter agony they had known when they learned that their child would never have a normal life. They told of the endless, everyday trials that followed. When others would stare or laugh, Jenny’s brothers put an arm protectively around her. The mother then told us of the love and absolute joy Jenny brought to the family.
Those parents have learned that “after much tribulation, … cometh the blessing” (D&C 103:12). I saw them bound together by adversity and refined into pure gold—true Latter-day Saints.
They told us Jenny adopts fathers. So when I shook hands with her, I said, “I’m a grandpa.”
She looked up at me and said, “Well, I can see why!”

An experienced goal-setter and achiever, Becky is well-qualified to give advice. Before her wedding she was able to share her ideas, and show the results of her labors at a trousseau luncheon given by her visiting teachers and the wife of one of the members of the bishopric.
All the Young Women in Becky’s ward, as well as many other friends, were invited to attend the open house luncheon held at Sister Catherine Hogan’s home. As the guests arrived, windblown and flushed from the chill winter weather, Becky greeted them with punch and a variety of finger sandwiches. Downstairs were several display tables, accompanied by note cards that contained appropriate scriptures, thoughts, and notes of explanation.
The items in her trousseau reflected careful planning and selection as well as her love for her family and desire to keep her heritage alive. On one display was draped a blanket made from the wool of her grandfather’s sheep; on another chair was a baby afghan crocheted by her 90-year-old uncle. Becky is an accomplished seamstress, does embroidery work, and also crochets.
Another display contained her piano books, yearbooks, seminary and high school graduation certificates, hand-painted figurines, and scrapbooks—all mementos of activities and hobbies that have been meaningful in her life. Looking at them, and then observing the quilts hanging further down, the home-canned fruits and vegetables at the end of the room (which she likes to give as wedding gifts), and the sewing machine off to the side, it was apparent that Becky had prepared well for her future. And preparing well meant planning well. Some of the goals Becky set and achieved were (1) to learn to play the piano well, (2) to graduate from seminary, (3) to own a sewing machine and learn to sew most of her own clothing, (4) to have a nice set of dishes on which to serve her friends and later her family, and (5) to continue her education at the University of Utah. Perhaps one of the most valuable challenges she accepted was to enjoy the time of preparing, using as her motto something taught to her by her mother: “I want to grow, learn, and develop that I may give so much more.”

A case in point: In 2007, NBC Television came to Salt Lake for an interview with me as part of a piece they were producing on the Church. Reporter Ron Allen and I spent an hour together in the chapel in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. We discussed the Church at length. A few days later the story appeared, and in the four-minute segment that aired, there was one short quote of about six seconds from the one-hour interview. That was just enough time for me to testify of our faith in Jesus Christ as the center of all we believe. I repeat, just six seconds were used from a 60-minute interview. Those six seconds are quite typical, actually, for members of the traditional TV media, who think and air in sound bites. The big difference from the old days to today is that the reporter also ran 15 minutes of our interview on the NBC Nightly News Web site. And those 15 minutes are still there. What we say is no longer on and off the screen in a flash, but it remains as part of a permanent archive and can appear on other sites that reuse the content. People using Internet search engines to hunt for topics about the Church will come across that interview and many others.

Consider Sister Hansen, the faithful teacher of a Laurel class of lovely young girls in a small mission branch in Canada. How she prayed for inspiration that she might teach well the precious girls in her class. Particularly did she pray for Julie, one who had been subjected to great stress and temptation to leave the pathway of truth and follow the detour of sin. Through the constant persuasions of her classmates at school, Julie had agreed to follow such a detour. The plan was designed: she would attend opening exercises of Mutual, even the first portion of the class, that she might appear on the roll as being present; and then there would be the sound of an automobile horn to announce to her that her girl friend and their dates, who were older and far more experienced than Julie, were at hand and the night of the carefully arranged escapade of sin would begin. Then she would be one of the inner circle.

Before calling the roll that night, this humble, loving teacher announced to the class that a shipment from Church headquarters had arrived at her home that very day. She had opened the packages and found copies of a pamphlet by Elder Mark E. Petersen. Its subject, chastity. Sister Hansen said: “I feel impressed to leave for another week our lesson scheduled for tonight and want rather to review with you the inspiration of this pamphlet. We will each read a paragraph or two aloud, that all might participate.” Sister Hansen looked at each of her precious girls and then said, “Julie, will you begin?” Julie looked at the clock—just two minutes before the scheduled rendezvous. She began to read; her heart was touched, her conscience awakened, her determination renewed. She scarcely heard the repeated sound of the automobile horn. She remained throughout the class. The temptation to detour from God’s approved way had been averted. Satan had been frustrated. A soul had been saved. A prayer had been answered.

Loren Eiseley walked along a stormy beach late one afternoon “with the wind roaring at his back and the seagulls screaming” overhead. Tourists who came to the beach would collect shellfish and sea life tossed up each night, boil them in large kettles, and take the shells home as souvenirs. Eiseley walked far down the beach around a point away from the collectors and saw “a gigantic rainbow of incredible perfection.” Toward its foot he “discerned a human figure … gazing … at something in the sand.”

“In a pool of sand … a starfish had thrust its arms up stiffly and was holding its body away from the stifling mud. … [“Is it still alive?” Eiseley asked.]

“‘Yes,’” [said the man standing in the rainbow] and with a quick … gentle movement he picked up the star and spun it … far out into the sea.

“It may live,” he said, “if the offshore pull is strong enough. …”

At first Eiseley felt only the futility of the man’s efforts, “throwing one starfish at a time back into the sea when it nightly tosses out hundreds.” He walked away, looking sadly “at the shell collectors … [and] the steaming kettles in which … voiceless things were being boiled alive.”

The next morning Eiseley again went to the beach. Again the star thrower was there. “Silently [Eiseley] … picked up a still-living star, spinning it far out into the waves. … ‘I understand,’ [he] said. ‘Call [me a star] thrower [also].’”

Of throwing the starfish back he wrote, “It was like a sowing—the sowing of life on an infinitely gigantic scale. …” He saw the star thrower stoop and throw once more. Eiseley joined with him. They “flung and flung again while all about [them] roared the insatiable waters.”

They, “alone and small in that immensity, hurled back the living stars.” They set their shoulders and “cast, … slowly, deliberately, and well. The task was not to be assumed lightly.” (Loren Eiseley, The Star Thrower [New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1978], pp. 171–73, 184.) Each moment counted if they were to rescue the starfish that they sought to save.

Our Church members demonstrated the healing and pacifying power of love in their shipment of food and clothing to relieve the suffering of the German Saints just after World War II. U.S. President Harry S. Truman was amazed when President George Albert Smith told him the supplies would not be sold. “You don’t mean you are going to give it to them?” he exclaimed.

President Smith replied simply, “They are our brothers and sisters and are in distress” (in Edward L. Kimball and Andrew E. Kimball, Jr., Spencer W. Kimball [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1977], p. 222).

A few months later, Elder Ezra Taft Benson saw a German member in tears as he ran his fingers through a container of cracked wheat and whispered, “Brother Benson, it is hard for me to believe that people who have never seen us could do so much for us” (in Sheri L. Dew, Ezra Taft Benson [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1987], p. 219).

Every year the eighth graders in my middle school get to choose what their graduation colors, flowers, and theme will be. They also get to decide what the basic style of the girls’ and boys’ outfits will be so that pictures will look nice and consistent.
My year, when all the girls got together to discuss what style their dresses would be, I was a little nervous. I was concerned about how I could make the other girls understand that I’d chosen not to wear short skirts or spaghetti straps, even if that was the style chosen. I didn’t want to ruin the pictures, but I also wouldn’t choose to be immodest.
Then something amazing happened. Before I had an opportunity to express my concerns, a girl in my class shouted, “It has to have sleeves and go at least to our knees because Abby needs to dress that way.” Before I could blink, everyone decided on short-sleeved, knee-length dresses. I could hardly believe what had happened. I’m so thankful that I’ve always lived the standards and set a positive example for those around me. Because I chose to dress modestly, others noticed and were respectful of my decision.
Abby H., California, USA

When I had left Hawaii, some friends saw us off. One of them happened to be an inactive Mormon, and when he said goodbye, he added, “If you ever get in a bind and need help, call my church. They’ll help you.”
I knew absolutely nothing of Mormons except that they had a fine Tabernacle Choir. I did not like the idea of begging for help, least of all help from some strange church that I’d never even visited; but I was desperate, and there seemed no other choice. In searching the telephone book, I found an endless number of Mormon churches and listings, so I picked one that was called a mission home. I thought that a mission home would be more apt to be compassionate. A young elder answered the phone, and I told him pretty much the same thing I had told the three ministers: that I did not need money, but I was in desperate need of advice. His reply was that he was quite new to the area and he himself could not help me, but if I would give him my name and phone number, he would have someone else call me. I hung up, half-suspecting never to hear from them again.
To my surprise, within ten minutes I received a call from a lovely lady who listened to my story and then agreed that I could use some assistance. She told me to get all my luggage together, call a taxi, and meet her in thirty minutes at the Berkeley bus terminal. After she described her car and what she would be wearing, she added, “By the way, are you a member of the Church?”
“Here it comes again,” I thought cynically, but into the phone I simply said, “No, I’m not.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, “I just wondered. See you in half an hour.”
I hurried my things together, cleaned up the children, checked out of the hotel, and headed for Berkeley. I was surprised, and a bit suspicious, at the woman’s willingness to help a total stranger, but at this point I was willing to take advantage of any offer.
Her first move was to treat us to lunch. Then I learned that she was the wife of a man named O. Leslie Stone, a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy who was then the stake president there. She got us settled into a boarding house and promised to get me the names of some potential babysitters. All this, in spite of the fact that I emphasized to her my strong bitterness toward churches of any kind, and my intention to stay that way. I couldn’t get over it!
She didn’t seem to care that I was so antagonistic, nor did she try to convert me or criticize me. She even seemed to act as though I was doing her a favor by letting her help me. A Bible verse kept echoing through my mind: “By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.” (John 13:35.)
Over the next few days, Sister Stone came every day. She did, indeed, find me a babysitter, a woman from her church. Also she helped me find and get moved into a small, furnished apartment, and she gave me the name of a man to see about a temporary job. Still she didn’t preach to me. It amazed me; and still that same scripture kept flitting in and out of my thoughts, “if ye have love one to another.”
In the apartment I rented, I found a small Mormon book entitled, Articles of Faith, by James E. Talmage. I never knew if Sister Stone secretly placed it there, or if it had been left by the former tenant. At any rate, I began reading it after the children were in bed at night; not because I was interested, but because there was nothing else to do.
During those first few weeks, not a Saturday went by that Sister Stone didn’t stop and ask if we would like to go to church with her on Sunday. When I would politely refuse, she never pushed the issue; but still she regularly asked. At the same time, I became more and more engrossed in the book. I had never heard of such things as I found in that book, though I had studied the Bible faithfully most of my life. Much of what I read I either wondered about or outright disagreed with, so I started jotting down notes of such items as I came across it.
One Saturday when Sister Stone came by, I still refused to go to church with her, but I did tell her that I had some questions about it, and that if she would send her pastor to talk to me I’d discuss them with him. In just a few days I was visited by a man named Marvin Turner and his wife, who said they were stake missionaries and had come to answer my questions. Almost defiantly I brought out my written questions, seven pages in all, and told them that if they could answer them I would listen to whatever they wanted to teach me. Brother Turner’s response was that he did not have all the answers, but he knew that through the Church he could find me logical, reasonable answers. Through the patience and tenderness of the Turners, I finally reached the time when I was willing to pray about the truthfulness of those things that they taught me. I consented to go to church with them. Some time later, I was baptized. However, when I moved to southern California, I lost track of my new friends. I remarried and had other children.
That was many years ago. Now I sit in sacrament meeting and watch while one of my sons passes the sacrament and another one blesses it; I watch the faith and testimonies of each of the children grow; and my thoughts turn toward people who have joined the church as a result of different ones spreading the gospel; and I think too of our kindred dead who have had their baptisms and endowments and sealings done through our genealogy work.
Ultimately my thoughts turn toward a gracious Sister Stone and a sharing, loving Turner family somewhere among the vast number of Saints who, I have no doubt, are still serving the Lord through loving and caring. I ask myself how I can ever repay those people who cared so much for someone so rebellious long ago. And the answer comes to me loud and clear: “Go, and do thou likewise.” (Luke 10:37.)