Gospel Story Finder

Pam had never really thought of herself as being different. She had always known, of course, that she was Korean and that she had been adopted by Mom and Dad when she was just a baby. She loved to hear the story about how her parents went to the airport to get her and how excited they were to have the baby placed in their arms. She enjoyed looking at the special album her mother had, which contained her medical report, a brief history, and several pictures. She giggled at the two small pictures of the chubby baby in the strange Korean woman’s arms. Her mom always told her that she and Dad had taken one look at those pictures and said, “Yes, we want that child!”
But today she didn’t feel wanted as she huddled in a corner of the school yard and tried to keep the tears from falling. Just a few minutes ago their teacher, Mrs. Macy, had lined them up by the door and asked,
“All right, who’s turn is it to be the line leader for kickball today?”
“Me! Me!” Randy had demanded loudly.
Mrs. Macy had been gentle but firm. “Randy, you were leader last week.” After checking her list, she had given the ball to Pam.
When they were outside, Randy had come up to Pam and demanded to be the leader.
“It’s my turn. I want to do it,” Pam had said, clutching the ball more tightly.
“Come on, Pam. Let me do it.”
“No.”
“You dumb Chinese!”
The words had come out harshly and spitefully. Pam had frozen. Randy, pleased to be getting a reaction from her, had continued, “You don’t even belong in this country. You’re not like us at all! Why don’t you just go back to where you came from?”
Pam had felt the eyes of her other classmates boring into her. No one had said a word. Pam had dropped the ball and had run across the field.
It was hard to go back to the classroom when the bell rang. Pam slumped down in her seat all afternoon and didn’t speak to anyone. The minute school was over, she rushed out of the building and raced home. She gave her mother a brief hello, then locked herself in the bathroom. She stared at her slanted eyes, olive complexion, and straight black hair. She was different!
Pam barely said anything during dinner, but it all came pouring out when her mother brought out a pink brocade Oriental jacket she had bought for Pam.
Pam’s thank-you for the gift was barely audible.
“Don’t you like it?” her mother asked. “I think it’s beautiful.”
“No, I don’t!” Pam burst out. “It looks Oriental. I want to look like everyone else!”
Her parents exchanged glances. “What happened today, Pam?” her mother asked quietly.
Pam told them about what Randy had said and how the rest of the class had stared at her.
“Randy is mistaken,” Dad said. “First of all, you are not Chinese; you are Korean. You’re certainly not dumb. And what is most important to us, you are our daughter, and we love you very much.”
Talking to her parents helped. Pam felt secure in their love for her. But she still dreaded going to school the next day. She waited until the very last bell had rung before hurrying to her seat. She stared straight ahead throughout the class period, and when recess time came, she went to a corner of the field and stayed by herself. She didn’t talk to anyone the whole day, not even to Patti, her best friend. When school was over, and Patti started toward her, to walk home together the way they usually did, Pam hurried away.
Pam kept to herself the next week too. She didn’t play with anyone at school, and she spent her time at home reading in her room. Her mother urged her to go out and play with her friends, but Pam just shook her head.
The following Monday she walked home slowly. There was no need to hurry anymore, because Patti no longer tried to catch up with her. Pam was just heading into the field across from the service station when she heard a low whine. Something or somebody was in trouble! She stopped and listened. There it was again, a whine of pain just to her left. She hesitantly walked toward it. Bending down, she saw a dog tangled in some brush so that it couldn’t get free. While she spoke soothingly to the dog, Pam gently freed his trapped leg.
It was after she had untangled the dog and he was licking her hand gratefully that Pam got her first real look at him. He was the funniest-looking dog that she had ever seen. He had one huge black patch around one eye, and his nose was bent to one side. His ears were way too long for his short body, and Pam saw that his legs were short and bowlegged.
As Pam started for home again, the dog waddled along right behind her. “Go away now!” Pam told him firmly. “Go home!”
But the dog kept following her. When she reached her house, she wondered, What am I going to do with him? She knelt down and scratched him behind the ears. Again the dog’s tongue licked her. Pam sighed and went into the house, her new friend right at her heels.
“Pam, what is that!” Mother exclaimed.
Pam explained how she had found the dog and how he had followed her home. “He’s awfully skinny, Mom—can I feed him something?” she pleaded.
Worried about the dog’s ownership but happy to see Pam interested in something again, her mother went to the refrigerator for some leftover meat.
Pam spent the rest of the afternoon with the dog. She decided to call him Hector. After she gave him a bath with the garden hose, she brushed his coat until it was dry and shining. Then she found a stick and tried to teach him to chase it. When Hector got the idea and bounded eagerly after the stick with his curious lopsided gait, Pam laughed with delight. By the time her father came home, she thought Hector was the cutest dog she’d ever seen.
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
Pam giggled. “A dog!” She explained again how she had found him. “I call him Hector. Can we keep him? Oh, please! Can we?” she pleaded as her mother joined them in the backyard.
Her father knelt down beside her and Hector. “OK—but only if you check the newspaper. He probably belongs to someone, honey.”
“I will, Dad, but I’m sure he doesn’t! There’s no collar or anything. Please. I love him!”
“That funny looking thing?”
“He’s not funny looking!”
“What do you mean? Look at that patch, that nose, those legs.”
Pam drew Hector protectively into her arms. “But I like him! Just because he looks a little different from other dogs doesn’t mean that he isn’t the most super dog in the world. I love the way he looks.”
Her father stroked her hair. “Why, Pam. Do you mean that a dog—or a person—can look different and still be very wonderful and very loved?”
“Yes! That’s what I like about Hector. He’s different! He’s—” she stopped as she realized the point her father was making. Maybe she was a little different from the other kids, but Dad and Mom and Mrs. Macy and her friend Patti liked her just as she was!
Dad went into the house, and Pam sat outside for a long time, thinking and stroking Hector’s back. At last she got up and went into the house, with Hector following her. Her parents were sitting in the living room.
“I’m going to call Patti,” she said. “I want to see if she can come over after dinner and meet Hector.”

I want a cookie,” Emily said as Mom took cookies from the oven.
“Wait until they cool,” said Mom.
But Emily didn’t wait. She ate a hot cookie and burned her tongue.
“I want to play with it now,” she said while Dad glued a wheel back on her toy truck.
“Wait until the glue dries,” Dad said.
But Emily didn’t wait. She raced the truck across the rug, and the wheel came off again.
“I want to open my presents,” she said as Mom put bows on brightly wrapped boxes.
“Wait until your birthday tomorrow,” Mom said.
But Emily didn’t wait. As soon as Mom left the room, she opened her presents. Then she had no boxes to open on her birthday.
“Why didn’t you wait?” Dad asked.
“I hate to wait,” Emily said. “But now I wish I had.”
The next day, Dad took her to a garden shop. He picked out onion sets and seeds for peas and beans. “You may choose some seeds, too,” he told Emily.
“I love carrots,” she said, so Dad got a package of carrot seeds.
Emily helped Dad plant the onions, peas, and beans in the garden. Then she planted a row of carrots by herself. “We can have my carrots for dinner tomorrow,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Dad said, “but you will have to wait a long time for your seeds to grow into carrots.”
Emily didn’t wait. Every day, she dug up a few seeds to see if they had grown into carrots. “My seeds aren’t growing,” she told Dad.
“How do you know,” asked Dad.
“I looked at them,” said Emily.
“If you dig up your seeds, they won’t ever grow. You’ll have to learn to wait.”
“I hate to wait,” Emily said. “But I love carrots, so I’ll try.”
Emily tried hard all summer. She didn’t dig up any more carrot seeds, even when the green tops popped up along the row. But she did weed the garden while she waited. And she swam and ran and played. She even learned to wait for other things—for homemade Popsicles to freeze in the freezer, for her turn to ride on the back of a camel at the zoo, and for lots of other things. She even learned to wait to talk to Mom or Dad when they were on the telephone.
While Emily waited, the plants grew in the garden. When it was time, she helped to pick pea pods, and yellow beans, and tall green onions. At last it was time for the carrots.
Dad showed her how to loosen the dirt around the carrots and then how to hold the green tops and pull out the carrots one by one. Emily filled her basket with long, fat carrots. Then she ran to the house to show Mom. “Look how big they grew!”
“Yes they did,” Mom said, “and so did you!”
“Did I get taller?” Emily asked.
“You grew taller and wiser.”
“Wiser?” Emily asked.
“Waiting made you wiser.”
“Waiting made me want to eat carrots,” Emily said, “so I’m going to eat one right now!”
“Wait until I wash one,” Mom said.
But Emily didn’t wait. She took a big carrot and washed it herself. “Now I will eat the best carrot I have ever eaten,” she said. And she did.

It was a chilly Wednesday afternoon when I opened a white envelope with a blue Mount McKinley stamp. As a missionary in southern Brazil, I always looked forward to Wednesdays because it was preparation day, and that meant reading my mother’s encouraging letters.
This particular day my mother’s letter did not appear different from any other letter she had sent me before. The envelope was covered with the usual colorful Primary stickers, and I opened it quickly. My mother wrote that Brett had just received his mission call to Tokyo, Japan. As I read, I could not control my smile, and I tried to hide my moist eyes from my companion. My mind went back to the day I met Brett.
One Sunday at church a family friend introduced me to his son, who had recently moved back home. “Hey, Tyler, this is my son, Brett.”
Brett was chatting with his family in the bench behind mine. I politely smiled and leaned back over the bench to meet him. I figured this was what his dad hoped I would do. He had informed me previously that Brett was less active in the Church. Brett appeared nice enough, with his brown, gel-slicked hair and red pullover sweater. I remember thinking, “This guy seems cool. We’ll have to hang out sometime.” As the day wore on, I forgot all about Brett and my good intentions to become his friend.
Hours later, after a delicious Sunday dinner, a thought came to my mind, “You should call Brett now.”
As an enthusiastic priest and soon-to-be missionary, I longed to feel the Lord’s influence more powerfully in my life. My heart thrilled at the thought that the Lord might use me to help Brett come closer to Him.
But as I sat considering the impression, doubts began to creep in. “I barely know this kid,” I thought. “What will I say?”
Recognizing the source of these doubts, I made a conscious decision to follow the prompting to call Brett. I said a short prayer: “Please help me know what to say to Brett. I really want to help.” After the prayer, I felt an odd mixture of apprehension tempered with faith. Not wanting to allow any time for my fears to return, I quickly grabbed the telephone and dialed his number.
As the phone rang, I tried to decide what I would say to Brett.
“Hello?” I heard. It was Brett’s voice.
“Hello, Brett. This is Tyler, the guy who sat in front of you at church. What’s up?” I tried to sound cool.
“Oh, not much. How are you?”
“Umm, good.” There was an awkward pause. “Hey, I was wondering if you would like to go to ummm … institute maybe this Thursday night. It’s a long drive, and I would like someone to go with me.”
“Sure, Tyler, that sounds cool,” was his response.
“Awesome. I’ll pick you up at 6:30.” After a little more small talk, I hung up the phone. I eased into my chair and smiled.
We went to institute and church together that week and a couple weeks thereafter. Brett and I became good friends, and I realized later that the call I had been inspired to make came at just the right time in Brett’s life. He longed to feel closer to the Lord. Just like me, he was in desperate need of a friend who could give him support and encouragement.
Sitting in my apartment in southern Brazil, thousands of miles away from home and more than a year since I had met Brett, I became fully aware that the Lord had inspired me to be one of the friends Brett needed. Gratitude overwhelmed me as I realized that, despite my weaknesses and insecurities, the Lord can magnify my efforts and make up for my shortcomings. If I desire to serve Him, His hands will mold me into the servant He wants me to become.

Kwan Wah Kam of Hong Kong first decided to plant a garden to supplement her home storage. She had never attempted to grow her own food but assumed she could learn all she needed to know by reading books.
Although the information she found was helpful, Kwan soon discovered that the greatest lessons she learned came through the process of actually planting the garden. With each additional year of experience, she has learned more about the best soil to use for different seeds, how to distinguish between good seeds and bad seeds, different ways to water and fertilize plants, and the best seasons to grow various vegetables.
The lessons Kwan learned were not limited to gardening alone, however. One evening, a terrible storm threatened to destroy her garden. In the morning, she was surprised to discover that the plants were not damaged, but instead, grew stronger from the additional water.
“From that experience, I learned that with faith in God, we can become stronger as we face our trials and difficulties with courage,” Kwan says. “The blessings I have received from gardening are both temporal and spiritual.”

My stake president connected me with a couple who were able to help me get some machines to start my business, Kuatsikor Shoes. I named it after my father, to honor him since he never lived to see my business, having died in July 2019. My motto is “Walk Miles”. In August 2023, I was endowed in the house of the Lord in the Accra Ghana Temple. It was such a great experience. The moment I stepped into the temple, I felt a heavy burden had been lifted, it’s hard to explain. I felt a new peace and joy. The gospel of Jesus Christ has significantly impacted my life because I had the feeling that I was in the right place, my first Sunday at church. I will always be grateful for the self-reliance programs organized at the stake center that gave me insights and knowledge about how to grow my own business and to manage my finances. I believe if I continue to stick to these principles, my vision of becoming the best shoemaker in Africa shall come to pass. I know that God speaks to his servants, the prophets.

I told the sisters this experience: A young man and young woman who were going together were killed in a car accident, and when the father of the girl arrived at the scene, he saw these two lying dead and a whiskey bottle nearby. He was enraged, and he said, “I will kill the man who gave them that whiskey!” On returning home he opened his liquor cabinet, and he saw a note which read: “Father, I hope you will forgive us for taking your whiskey tonight.” You can imagine how he felt.

The morning sun was boiling up over the low, dry hills as Elliot trudged up the narrow dirt road. Dangling from his belt was a drawstring bag of marbles and a leather bag holding a thermos.
He left the road and slid down the side of a 10-foot-deep creek bed that was, for the most part, dry. He had promised himself and a hundred or so tadpoles trapped in two puddles that he would move them to deeper water.
He looked at the watch he had received on his 10th birthday the week before. It was barely nine o’clock, and he had until noon before he had to be home. Elliot set about herding the tadpoles into the lid of his thermos and then poured the squiggly contents into the small jug. He transported them up the creek to a deeper pool protected from the sun. He emptied the pollywogs and went back for another batch.
When he finished, he headed back to the road and saw a red-haired boy standing next to an overturned bike stuck in a tangle of brushwood. The boy pulled at the bicycle, whimpering. His pant leg was torn, his right knee was bleeding, and his face was smeared with dirt and tears.
Elliot approached the boy. “I’m Elliot.”
“I’m Rusty,” the boy said with a frown.
“What happened?” Elliot asked.
Rusty explained that he had been out riding his bike when three boys on bicycles forced him off the road. “They teased me and made fun of my red hair and freckles.”
Elliot was shocked. “Why would they want to do that?”
Rusty shrugged and sighed. His eyes welled up and he looked away, embarrassed. “Seems like kids are always doing that kind of stuff to me. I’m so used to it I don’t wonder why anymore. Maybe this time it’s because I’m a new kid. Or … just because. One time at another school, I was in the lunch line. A kid said, ‘Who do you think you are?’ and got in front of me. Maybe some kids get picked on because they are nobodies and that’s just the way it is.”
“No!” Elliot said. “You are somebody. You’re a child of God, and that makes you very important.” Rusty looked confused, so Elliot told him about the Savior, the plan of salvation, and the importance of each soul. Elliot talked easily about the things he knew were true.
“How do you know all that stuff?” Rusty asked.
“I learned it in church and from my parents,” Elliot said. Rusty looked thoughtful.
Elliot opened up his bag and held out a big shooter-sized marble. “Here, I want to give you this.”
Rusty held it up to the light. It was dark red and clear. “It’s almost the same color as my hair!” Rusty said. “I … I can’t take this. It’s yours, and—”
“Not anymore.” Elliot smiled. “I just gave it to you. Besides, I have another just like it.”
Rusty eyed Elliot with confusion. “Why do you want me to have it?”
Elliot’s smile got bigger. “So you’ll always remember that red is a special color. To me, red is the color of love. My dad gives my mom red roses. And red can remind you that Jesus bled in the Garden of Gethsemane for us.”
A smile slowly pushed its way across Rusty’s dirt- and tear-stained face. Elliot helped untangle Rusty’s bike from the brushwood, then walked home with him. Rusty lived in a neighborhood close to Elliot’s, and they decided to play together soon.
After saying good-bye to his new friend, Elliot glanced at his watch. He was 45 minutes late getting home! He hadn’t realized the time had gone so quickly.
Entering his house, Elliot saw his mother talking on the phone. There were tears in her eyes. He felt bad; he must have worried her by being so late. He started to apologize, but she put a quieting finger to her lips, finished her conversation, and hung up the phone.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I stopped to help some tadpoles, and then a boy named Rusty—”
His mother sat him down and knelt to his level. “That was Rusty’s mother.”
“Was she upset?” Elliot blurted. “I talked to Rusty about the Church and the plan of salvation and stuff. I’m sorry, Mom. I guess I shouldn’t have.”
Elliot’s mother shook her head no. “You didn’t do anything wrong, honey. You didn’t say or do anything the Savior wouldn’t have done. Rusty’s mother told me how you helped her son. She said she has never heard him talk so happily. You made a big difference in his life—like you do in ours.”

The young men and young women in Welland, Ontario, Canada, get excited about seminary. Winters in Welland are long and harsh, and during the greater part of the school year, going to seminary means a trek to the church in the dark and cold. Of course, teenagers in Welland are no different than teenagers anywhere else. Getting enough sleep is a paramount concern—something that can be a bit of a challenge when you get up for an early-morning class. But a few years ago, the Welland seminary students had a teacher who changed their lives, and their mumbling and grumbling about the early hour seemed to shrink, while their excitement about seminary seemed to grow.
Despite the fact that he had been ill with cystic fibrosis all his life, their teacher, Brother Ron Cunningham, wouldn’t have traded his calling as a seminary teacher for anything. In terms of his health, some days were better than others. But every day he taught seminary, he said, was a good day.
“He was our friend,” says James Burton, 17. “We all had such a good time, even though he was sick. He had such a great sense of humor, even about things that made him look silly. Sometimes, especially at the beginning of class before everyone was fully awake, he would fall asleep—while he was teaching.”
Because cystic fibrosis fills the lungs with fluid, breathing is difficult, causing extreme fatigue. Consequently, it seems that just about everyone has a favorite “Brother Cunningham fell asleep” story.
There were other ways he filled the seminary with laughter and fun, too. There were games and contests for scripture mastery, treats and stories to make lessons easier to understand.
“One year, Brother Cunningham brought an entire set of army men for us to use to reenact battles from the scriptures,” says Craig Dumoulin. “At first we thought it was crazy since none of us have played with toys like that since we were little, but it really did make it easier to understand. And it was a lot of fun.”
But Brother Cunningham taught his students much more than how to have a sense of humor. Make no mistake, the gospel was his life, and he wanted to help his students feel the same way.
“Because of his illness, he was pretty small physically,” says Matthew Glanfield, 18. “But I have never known such a spiritual giant.”
It was that spirit, that great feeling, that kept the students excited and happy about getting up before dawn to study. Even in the Toronto area’s brutal and icy winter. Even during exams when time was scarce. Even when it would have been easier to stay in bed and catch a few more minutes of sleep. Everyone knew that no matter how hard it was for them to get out of bed in the morning, it was harder for their teacher. If he could do it, they knew they could too.
The young men in the ward seemed especially responsive to his style of teaching. Although he didn’t fit the stereotype of macho strength and he was unable to participate in many athletic activities, the young men all say that he was exactly the kind of man—an honorable priesthood holder who was married in the temple—that they all aspire to be.
“There were a lot of things he couldn’t do, but he worked hard at the things he could do,” says Matthew. “He always told us that it was his number one wish for us to go on missions and be great missionaries. He couldn’t go on a mission because of his health, but he could contribute to the missionary effort by training others to share the gospel.”

Another time—it was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, about 1943—I went to priesthood meeting. There was a large framed board. It had the pictures of all the young men serving in the military. Priests who had been at the sacrament table a few months earlier were now in the war. Each week it would be updated. Those who were killed in action had a gold star by their picture; those who had been wounded, a red star; and those missing in action, a white star. Every week, as a 12-year-old deacon, I checked to see who had been killed or wounded.

In quorum meeting that morning, the member of the bishopric said: “This Thursday is Thanksgiving. We ought to all have family prayer in our homes.” Then he said, “Let’s put on the blackboard the things we are grateful for.” We did, and he said, “Include these things in your Thanksgiving prayer.” I got sick to my stomach, as we never had a prayer or blessing.

That night at 6:30 we went to sacrament meeting. At the end of the meeting, the bishop stood up and was very tender. He told about the young men from our ward who had been killed and wounded. He talked about our liberty, our freedom, our flag, and this great country, and our blessings. Then he said, “I’d hope every single family would kneel and have family prayer on Thanksgiving Day and thank God for His blessings.”

My heart ached. I thought, How can we have family prayer? I wanted to be obedient. I hardly slept all Sunday night. I wanted to have a prayer for Thanksgiving. I even thought I would say it if someone asked me, but I was too shy to volunteer. I worried all day Monday, and all day Tuesday, and Wednesday at school.

Dad did not come home on Wednesday until early in the morning. Thursday we all got up. There were five boys and two sisters. We skipped breakfast so we would have a real appetite for Thanksgiving dinner. To work up an appetite, we went to a nearby field and dug a hole six feet deep and six feet wide. We made a trench to it as a hideout. I remember with every shovelful of dirt, I thought, Please, Heavenly Father, let us have a prayer.

Finally at 2:30, my mother called us to come and eat. We cleaned up and sat at the table. Somehow Mom had managed to have a turkey with all the trimmings. She put all the food on the table, including the turkey. I thought my heart would burst. Time was running out. I looked at my father, then my mother. I thought, Please, now, someone, anyone, please can’t we have a prayer. I was almost panicky; then all of a sudden everyone started to eat. I had worked hard all morning and afternoon to work up an appetite, but I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to pray more than anything else in this world, and it was too late.

Beloved youth, be grateful for parents who have prayer and read the scriptures. Prize family home evening. Be grateful for those who teach and train you.

“My father isn’t a member and wouldn’t let me go to FSY or be baptized,” says Jesiana, 16. “But then branch members fasted for me, and my grandmother talked with my father. After that he said I could go!”

At FSY, she experienced many firsts, such as, “participating in the lessons and activities and bearing my testimony helped me understand what it is really like to feel the Holy Ghost. I had never felt the Spirit like that before, and I was so happy and excited. I bore my testimony for the first time.”

A true story from Argentina.
“Can we go to the plaza?” Ivan’s sister Cristal asked.
Ivan looked outside. “I want to,” he said. “But maybe we should wait until the sun goes down. It’s really hot.”
The plaza was a big field of grass near their home. They loved to play tag or hide-and-seek there with their friends. But the plaza didn’t have any shade for them to rest from the heat. And this summer, it was a big problem.
Cristal was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “What if we planted some trees? That way the plaza would have shade. Then we could play even when it’s hot!”
Ivan smiled. “I love that idea!”
Ivan and Cristal told Papá all about their plan. “I’ll ask the city for permission,” he said.
A few weeks later, they had the permission they needed and were ready to start! Papá took Ivan and Cristal to the big tree that grew behind their house. Under the tree, a bunch of little trees were growing.
“When the big tree blooms, it drops seeds to the ground,” Papá explained. “Then little trees grow from them. They’re like tiny miracles of nature!”
Papá showed them how to carefully dig up the little trees. Ivan and Cristal gently planted them in flower pots.
Then, one Saturday afternoon when the sun was hidden behind the clouds, Ivan and Cristal loaded the little trees onto a cart. Slowly, they pushed it to the plaza. Ivan’s younger brothers and sisters helped carry buckets of water. Mamá and Papá brought some shovels.
Together, they picked out a spot for each tree. They dug holes and planted each tree with love. Mamá showed them how to dig trenches around the trees to water them. “Trees need sunlight, water, and lots of nutrients to grow strong,” she said. “Just like kids!”
Ivan thought of the tree behind their house and imagined what the trees would look like someday. “Can you believe it?” he said. “Someday these trees will be taller than us!”
In the spring, the trees would dazzle everyone with their beautiful, bright pink flowers. In the summer, their shade would stretch across the plaza. And in the fall, the leaves would cover the ground in a yellow carpet.
Every day, Ivan and Cristal visited the plaza to check on the trees. They made sure each tree had enough water. And every time a new leaf or branch sprouted, they felt so proud. Their hard work was paying off!
Ivan felt happy thinking of all the people who would enjoy the shade at the plaza someday. He had helped make the earth a more beautiful place for all of Heavenly Father’s children.

My wife and I are serving our second senior mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We received our call to serve in August of 2023 as Area communication missionaries in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. We both had the privilege of serving previously in the Utah Salt City Headquarters Mission from 2017 to 2019. with our previous spouses.
While serving missions for the Church, missionaries are all asked to wear a black badge with the full name of the Church and the missionary’s name on it. In August 1980, the Church approved the standardized badge worn by its missionaries. Today, the badge is recognized worldwide and identifies men and women, both young and old, full-time and part-time, serving among the Church’s nearly 100,000 missionaries. While the badges themselves have no inherent power, they represent the covenants made with God by the wearer that he or she will “serve him with all [their] heart, might, mind and strength” (Doctrine and Covenants 4:2). The missionary badges help to bring unity of purpose to those who wear them.
Consistent with this principle, in the dedicatory prayer offered at the Kirtland Temple on March 27, 1836, the Prophet Joseph Smith asked that from the power endowed to the servants of God in the temple, the Lord’s glory would come upon them. “And we ask thee, Holy Father, that thy servants may go forth from this house armed with thy power, and that thy name may be upon them, and thy glory be round about them, and thine angels have charge over them;” (Doctrine and Covenants 109:22).
The unity and success in spreading the restored gospel is a fulfillment of this prophetic petition.
While serving in the headquarters mission in downtown Salt Lake City, both my wife and I noticed the many knowing glances from people on the street when they saw missionaries. Hearts softened, subtle smiles came on strangers’ faces, and many members and friends of the Church would approach the missionaries to ask, “Where are you from?” or “Where are you serving?” These were asked with a sincere interest and allowed for easy conversations about service and families. Such is the power of the badge.
As we prepared for our mission to the Caribbean Area, there were many forms to fill out, purchases to make, medical checks, and visa challenges to overcome. As we went through all these important steps, I opened a drawer I used to keep memories and found a zip-lock bag with quite a collection of badges I used on my first senior mission. Some were mission-specific, and others were assignment-specific. Memories flowed back over the years of service these badges represented and the many life-changing incidents that mission service had provided me from my first mission in the late ’60s and as a senior missionary. This event had a powerful impact and showed me that the symbolic power of the badge is not limited to when it is worn but also as a remembrance of past service rendered.
With all the preparations completed, all the shopping, talks, and goodbyes with dear friends and family, my wife and I headed for the security check at the Salt Lake City International Airport with our badges prominently displayed. A nice woman just behind us in line asked the question, “Where are you serving?” As we passed through the security checkpoint, we couldn’t help but notice the subtle glances and smiles that came from the security supervisors in their elevated booth as we walked past.
While waiting for our connecting flight in Atlanta, we were approached by a government contractor who was establishing a military support facility in southern Utah and who was a member of our Church. He asked us the same questions. He was a tough, military-trained man who reached out in the most tender of ways to two servants on their way to their assignment.
And so, our mission started with the blessing of having the power of the badge.

Rachel couldn’t decide. Should she take the music box? Or maybe her doll? Or … ? Her eyes full of tears, she fled from the bedroom to the kitchen. Mother was stirring a pot of stew.
Rachel slid into a kitchen chair and rested her elbows on the table. “Father says I can take something to America, but it must be very small so as not to take up space in the covered wagon.”
A ray of sunshine reached through the window and played on the sugar bowl on the table. Rachel gazed at the sparkle of sun on crystal.
“I’ll take the sugar bowl!” she exclaimed. “Every time I look at it, I’ll remember the sweetness of England.”
“But, dear, it’s glass. It’s sure to break,” Mother said.
“Please, Mother!”
They wrapped the bowl in a soft piece of cloth, put it in a small box, and tied a string around it. All the way to Liverpool on the train, Rachel hugged it to her.
At the boat dock, Rachel looked at the rusty old ship. “Oh, Father, it’s so rickety!”
“God travels with us,” Father said. “There’s nothing to fear.”
Storms followed them across the ocean. The ship creaked and shuddered. Rachel clutched the box to her chest. Whenever a wave sent the box flying from her arms, she dove after it. Then she tore at the string to check the precious sugar bowl.
“You’re wearing the string out,” Mother said as Rachel opened the box time after time.
When the ship finally reached New York, Rachel’s family boarded a train. Mother offered to carry the sugar bowl, but Rachel shook her head.
At last the train pulled into Omaha, Nebraska. Father filled a covered wagon with boxes of clothes and necessities. Bedding was piled on top of the boxes. A tent and Father’s tools were crammed inside. Pans and kettles jangled at the sides of the wagon. Father tucked Rachel’s box into a small space in the wagon. Before dawn, a bugle sounded, and the wagon train moved out.
Problems on the journey were never ending. People got sick. Oxen were often lame. Once from a wagon up ahead came the cry, “Axle down!” The wagons suddenly stopped, confused oxen knocking wagons helter-skelter in clouds of heavy dust.
“My sugar bowl!” Rachel cried. Trying to reach the wagon, Rachel stepped into a bed of cactus. Dozens of little barbs pierced her feet.
Mother used a needle to pick the cactus spines out of Rachel’s throbbing feet. Finally, Rachel found her little box and untied the string. The sugar bowl was safe.
Days turned into weeks and then months. The wagons rolled on. Some days Rachel parched in a dry, hot wind. Other days, great black clouds opened up, and sheets of rain whipped against her as she slogged through heavy, sticky mud.
Rachel held her breath at every river crossing. Sometimes the big wagons overturned, spilling their contents into the water. Crossing the rugged Rocky Mountains, wagons sometimes got too near the cliff and tumbled over. Rachel began to carry her box.
Finally, she looked down upon the Salt Lake Valley. Zion spread before her. She joined the others in shouts of joy mixed with tears.
In the valley, Father used his tools to build a small house. He made chairs, then a table.
Mother covered the table with a tablecloth brought from England. In the center Rachel placed her precious sugar bowl. She slid into a chair and rested her elbows on the table.
A sunbeam found its way through a window. Rachel gazed into the sparkle of sun on crystal. It wasn’t England Rachel thought about now. It was Zion. Rachel was home.

But if Alissa Barton, 16, of Elmo, had been told the service project would go on longer than one morning before she arrived at the park, it probably would have made her head hurt. She didn’t even want to come for the one morning, but her mother insisted. “Now I’m glad I came,” she said. “Now I understand better why service brings you closer to your Heavenly Father. Service helps me take on a more Christlike attitude, and it feels good.”

I went outside and saw some new neighbors moving in. One of the kids was my age. Her name was Hannah. I remembered there was a Primary activity that very day, so I asked her if she wanted to go. She asked, “What time?” I said, “four o’clock at the church.” She asked her mom and then said OK. I knew at that moment that Jesus and Heavenly Father were happy that I was being kind, because I felt warm inside. Now Hannah and I are best friends.

by Frances Asselin
Allison Brandow unpacked her suitcase and glanced quickly around the room, waiting anxiously for her weekend roommate to appear. When they met a few moments later, it was instant friendship! The girls were among 300 youth and counselors awaiting the beginning of the Toronto, Ontario, regional LDS youth conference. Held at Guelph University in Guelph, Ontario, the theme this year was “Friends Are Forever.”
The weekend began with a Friday night sock hop and dance contest, followed by a talent display. Saturday morning workshops included self-defense, modern dance, and missionary cooking (among others), and were followed by a volleyball tournament, swimming, and other sporting activities. That evening Elder Robert L. Simpson of the First Quorum of the Seventy spoke about missionary work, emphasizing that any friend can truly become a friend forever in the gospel.
Sunday meetings included inspirational messages from Elder Simpson and the Washington Temple president and matron, President and Sister Aimes. Sunday workshops on such topics as honoring the priesthood, temple marriage, and goal setting continued throughout the afternoon and were followed by a testimony meeting.
The next morning a late breakfast gave plenty of time for taking photographs, exchanging addresses, and tearful farewells. Traveling homeward, each person was warmed by the knowledge that memories, like friendship, are truly forever.

It was my last Christmas in the Brazil Rio de Janeiro North Mission. I would soon be returning to my home elsewhere in Brazil, and I was happy about the Christmas season. My companion, Elder Barney, was an American who had been in Brazil for only a short time. He was fighting homesickness.
We had been working hard, but we still weren’t sure how to celebrate Christmas. We hoped a family would invite us to spend Christmas with them, and eventually one family did. However, I wondered about some of the other missionaries in our area. On our next trip to Vitória, my companion and I learned that Elder Jones and Elder Junot didn’t have any Christmas plans. I thought within myself, These elders are my family while I’m on my mission. We can’t leave them alone on Christmas. The four of us decided we would spend Christmas together in Vitória.
We made plans for a special dinner on Christmas Eve. Although we didn’t have much money, we knew the Lord would bless us.
On Christmas Eve I recorded my feelings in my journal: “Today is 24 December. It has rained a lot, and I see that my companion is sadder. He says he misses the symbols of Christmas he is used to seeing in his country—snow, music, trees, and decorations. I can imagine how hard his Christmas will be since he is so far away from his family, his people, and his customs. The rain continues to fall, but it is lighter now.”
I looked at my companion and sensed his homesickness. I wanted him to be happy.
On the bus trip to Vitória, we could see people hurrying to make their Christmas purchases. We went by a house illuminated with colored lights. Children played in the gardens. Tears filled my eyes, and I could not speak to my companion because I knew I would cry. He seemed to be crying silently. For Elder Junot, Elder Jones, and me, this Christmas was our last on the mission. But it was Elder Barney’s first, and I didn’t know how to console him. During the trip, I cried several times but concealed it. And my companion concealed his tears from me.
We got off the bus and went to the other missionaries’ apartment. We put our money together, and Elder Junot and Elder Jones went out to make the purchases. After they returned with the food, we set the table with a white tablecloth and napkins and placed Christmas cards on it for decoration. But even this didn’t seem to lift our spirits.
Seeing this, Elder Jones suggested we get out our hymnbooks and sing hymns to the Lord. We sang one, then one more, and then another. And we sang louder each time. I wanted the neighborhood to hear our singing and know that we were worshiping the Lord. We started to feel the Spirit of the Lord.
After the singing, Elder Jones shared a scripture about the birth of Christ. Then everyone read from the scriptures. We bore our testimonies about our Redeemer.
When Elder Barney shared his testimony, he explained, “I was missing the things that are familiar to me—the snow, the Christmas tree, the turkey, the Christmas music of my country. I forgot to be concerned about the Son of God born in a manger.” We had tears in our eyes, for the Spirit testified in our hearts that we had worshiped the Creator of the day. We thanked the Lord for all He had given us.
It was my last Christmas in the mission, but it was the first true Christmas I ever spent.

The author being baptized by Thomas Salisbury in Sông Bé Lake, Vietnam.
Photograph courtesy of the author
I enlisted in the United States Army for a three-year term and arrived in South Vietnam on my 20th birthday. After eight months, I was assigned to a unit northwest of Saigon. While there, I quickly observed that one of my tentmates, Thomas Salisbury, was different from everyone else.
The difference was so striking that I eventually asked him, “Tom, why are you so different from everyone else?”
“Because I’m a Latter-day Saint,” he replied.
“What is a Latter-day Saint?” I asked.
He arranged for me to meet with him and Harold Lewis, a returned missionary who was serving as an assistant to the unit chaplain. During our first meeting in a tent that served as a small chapel, I agreed that if I really believed what they were telling me, I would be baptized. I also received a copy of the Book of Mormon, which I kept in the lower pocket of my cargo pants and read whenever I had downtime.
Several discussions followed, and I found that each lesson answered questions I had had in my search for truth. But when Tom and Harold asked me if I wanted to be baptized, I said no. I didn’t know how I could keep all the commandments they had taught me.
After attending a district conference in Saigon, I went to Australia for a week of rest and relaxation. While there, I started to realize how important the teachings of the gospel had become to me. Upon my return to Vietnam, I immediately announced to Tom that I wished to be baptized.
Soon after, Tom baptized me in Sông Bé Lake, Harold confirmed me a member of the Church, and Timothy Hill, our Church group leader, ordained me a deacon.
When I returned home to the United States six weeks later, I introduced the gospel to my girlfriend, who became my wife. She also embraced the gospel’s hopeful message.
I will be forever grateful that Tom asked me if I wanted to know more. His example and invitation answered my longing to find the truth and enjoy the blessings of the gospel.

One of the strongest recollections I have of being a missionary is how close I drew to the Lord through the practice of regular prayer. In my day the mission home was located on State Street in Salt Lake City. It was a large house that had been converted to a missionary training center. It had large dormitory rooms with perhaps as many as 10 beds in a room. We checked in on Sunday night.

The week before I entered the mission field was an exciting time. There were a lot of parties and farewells. I am afraid that I was not properly rested and prepared for the training I was to receive at the mission home. As the evening of our first day in the mission home came to a close, I was weary. While waiting for the other missionaries to prepare themselves for bed, I stretched out on my bed and promptly fell asleep. My sleep, however, was interrupted by a feeling that I was surrounded. As the fog of sleep lifted, I heard the words of a prayer being said. I opened my eyes, and much to my surprise I found all the elders in my dormitory room kneeling around my bed, concluding the day with a prayer. I quickly closed my eyes and acted as if I was asleep. I was too embarrassed to get out of bed and join them. Even though my first experience with prayer as a missionary was an embarrassing one, it was the beginning of two wonderful years of frequently calling upon the Lord for guidance.

Throughout my mission, I prayed with my companion each morning as we began a new day. The process was repeated each night before we retired. We offered a prayer before we studied, a prayer as we left our apartment to go out tracting, and of course special prayers when special guidance was needed to direct our missionary work. The frequency of our appeals to our Father in Heaven gave us strength and courage to press forward in the work to which we had been called. Answers would come, sometimes in astonishingly direct and positive ways. The guidance of the Holy Spirit seemed to be magnified the more times we appealed to Heavenly Father for direction on a given day.

Extending care and aid is a vast range of dedicated relief workers, many of them volunteers. I saw in action a member of the Church who, for many months, worked through the night, providing for the most immediate needs of those arriving from Turkey into Greece. Among countless other endeavors, she administered first aid to those in most critical medical need; she saw that the women and children traveling alone were cared for; she held those who had been bereaved along the way and did her best to allocate limited resources to limitless need. She, as so many like her, has been a literal ministering angel, whose deeds are not forgotten by those she cared for, nor by the Lord, on whose errand she was.