Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago my father had a serious operation and spent several weeks in the hospital. This was during the winter months. My sons and I had made several trips down to my parents’ home to keep the snow cleared from the driveway and walk, but one day while I was working and my sons were in school, we had a very heavy snowfall. My mother was trying to clear the walks when a young university student came by, laid his books down, gently took the shovel from her, and cleared all the walks and driveway. As my mother thanked him he said, “That’s all right. I am away from home going to school. Maybe someone else’s son will be there to help my mother.”
As my mother told me how this young man had helped her, I remembered the words from my childhood: “God bless you, my son. I pray that some young man will be there to help your mother.”
And he was.

“Why do you keep saying that you know this Church is true? What exactly does that mean, and how can you possibly know that?”
My concerned parents asked me those questions when I told them about my decision to be baptized. I thought back on all the missionary lessons I had been attending recently. I remembered asking myself the same questions just weeks before. How did I know the Church was true?
For 17 years I had been content with the little knowledge I had about anything religious. I never realized how much I longed to have a relationship with Christ and my Heavenly Father and feel the peace of the Holy Spirit.
I thought back on the missionaries’ telling the story of Joseph Smith’s First Vision: a young boy seeing God and the Savior, Joseph hearing their words and knowing that what he was seeing was real and true.
Then I remembered my first prayer. Sure, I had prayed many times throughout my life, but this prayer was the first time I had asked my Heavenly Father if what the missionaries were teaching me was real and something from Him. I knew that He wouldn’t lie to me. He wants the best for His children. With that knowledge I prayed with my whole heart.
The Holy Spirit touched me for the first time. I knew that as I said “amen.” I had been told by the missionaries and my close friends who had introduced this new gospel to me that “I would feel of the Spirit, and it would let me know.” I knew that it had.
As I related this story to my parents, who had asked the questions, I felt it again. The Spirit was with me, which meant the Lord was with me also. I once again knew that my choice to be baptized was the right decision.
Standing alone in the dressing room of the meetinghouse a few months later, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Who was this girl wearing a long white gown and staring back at me? As I stood there all by myself, I realized that this was how I had made the decision to join the Church—all by myself. But I also realized I was not truly alone. The Spirit was strong. In a few moments, I would be the newest member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
The door swung open, and in came my close friends, friends who had decided to share a message about their Church with me a few months earlier.
“Are you ready?” they asked.
We walked out toward the chapel. I thought again about my first prayer and the Spirit I had felt. I knew the Church was true, and because I knew that, I was ready.

When the girls’ mother was a teenager, her brother used to take her out on a boat in the river and read to her the names painted on all the other vessels. There was one racing yacht that she particularly liked. It was called the Treasure Lee. “That’s what I’m going to name my first daughter,” Susan told her brother.
The treasure she was to receive, in the form of two loving, giving daughters, was more than she could have hoped for.

My employer transferred our family to Beijing just a few years after I had finished graduate school. As I arrived to develop clients for our consulting firm, business leaders from the United States and Europe advised that, to be successful, I would need to take Chinese executives to karaoke bars and consume a lot of alcohol. I chose not to do that, and yet our firm still succeeded.

You may be tempted to break the Word of Wisdom to fit in socially, to try something new, or to obtain a work promotion. You may think that just a little sip will not hurt. I assure you that it will—spiritually, and perhaps physically as well. I testify the Lord will bless you with “wisdom and great treasures”20 as you choose to be peculiar in joyfully living the Word of Wisdom.

Now that the triplets are old enough to date, they’re really finding their threesome to be an advantage at times. Dan recalls one evening when he was trying to phone a girl to ask her out, but her number was always busy. He had to run off to a meeting, so he assigned brother Dave to fill in for him.
“Dave finally got hold of her and asked for a date. She said yes, I took her out, and she never found out what really happened,” says Dan. The three brothers remain sworn to secrecy as to the name of the young lady in question.

During Mutual, we were given an assignment to become missionaries by getting a companion, sharing our testimonies with a nonmember, and giving our nonmember friend a copy of the Book of Mormon.
After Mutual, I asked my mother for some advice. She promised me that if I prayed in faith and asked Heavenly Father, He would surely answer.
It took me two weeks to find someone who would accept the Book of Mormon. At first, I was rejected again and again. I was so tired of getting hurt that I was about to give up.
One night, I had a dream about a woman who was a close friend to my family. As I dreamed, I realized that she was the one for me and my companion to visit. When I woke up, I thanked the Lord for helping me.
At the next Mutual, my companion and I wrote our testimonies on the front page of the book and made a fruit basket for the woman. We went to her house, knocked on her door, and waited. Even though I was scared that she might reject it, I told myself to have a little faith. She finally came outside with a happy face and accepted the Book of Mormon.
Through this experience, I learned that when you have a little faith and you know that Heavenly Father is there, you can easily feel that the impossible is possible.
Rapunzel L., American Samoa

“Look,” Jessica said, pointing to the window. “It’s snowing.”
We ran to look outside. The tiny flakes started falling faster and faster. Then the flakes got bigger. They fell in swirls and swoops, and sometimes we could hardly see the barn through the curtain of white. By the time we finished lunch, the snow was three feet deep.
We watched from the window, feeling snug and warm inside the house. The cedar trees bent and swayed under their load, and the mailbox wore a thick white muff. Every now and then we heard a sharp crack as a limb broke under the weight of the snow.
Suddenly the lights blinked—once, twice. We held our breaths. Mom hurried about, setting out candles and filling the oil lamp on the mantel. The lights flickered again, then gave up.
“Listen to the quiet,” said Jessica. There was no television, no radio, no hum from the refrigerator. The only sound we heard was the tick of the grandfather clock by the front door.
David brought an armful of wood from the shed for the fireplace and soon had a blaze crackling and popping. We all gathered around the hearth, bundling into our warmest clothes. Our dog, Duke, crept closer to the fire and curled up for a nap.
The wind howled around the house, and I was glad to be inside. “What about the ponies?” asked Jessica. “Will they get cold?”
“They’re safe inside the barn,” said Dad. “I put extra straw in their stalls.”
For supper we roasted hot dogs in the fireplace and ate off of paper plates. It was just like a picnic. We toasted marshmallows for dessert. I let mine burn on the outside so that they were crisp and almost black. Inside they were gooey and hot.
“Mmmm,” said Jessica, licking her sticky fingers. “I wish the electricity would go off every day.”
“I’ll bet you’d soon get tired of that,” Mom said.
“Well, it’s time for family home evening,” Dad said and brought out his guitar. He played while we sang “I Am a Child of God.” David said an opening prayer. Then, by the light of the oil lamp, Mom read us the story of the brother of Jared. The flickering candles made spooky shadows against the walls. I sat close to Dad, glad to be by the fire.
Afterward, we sang “Over in the Meadow” all the way through, and “Bingo” and “Old MacDonald” and “Frosty the Snowman.”
“We can make a snowman tomorrow,” I said.
David turned Duke out. When he came back inside, he looked like a snow dog. Jessica dried him off with a towel.
We knelt together for family prayer, then went to bed early in our warmest pajamas and with extra blankets piled on our beds. “May we have waffles for breakfast tomorrow?” I asked as Mom tucked me in.
“We’ll have cold cereal if the power is still out,” Mom reminded me.
The moon was bright, and I could see its reflection on the snow from my window. Everything looked strange and different. The house sounded different too.
I woke up in the middle of the night. My nose was cold. Suddenly, I heard a click and a hum. The electricity was back on! I heard the furnace start, and I snuggled deeper into my blankets. The house would be warm again by morning. Maybe there would be waffles for breakfast, after all.

Working together is a sacrifice. You have to make sure that the person you’re dating right now is going to be willing to sacrifice. I’ll give you one story in life that helped me learn this. I can remember a young couple just out of college. One parent gave them a home; the other parent gave them the furnishings and a new car. They had everything. They were beautiful people and they were popular. They had everything in the world given to them. Well, you know the story. Within three years they were divorced. They hadn’t worked and sacrificed. They had leaned on each other and on their parents as a crutch, had crippled themselves, and hadn’t grown. They hadn’t learned the hard part. They hadn’t worried about making their marriage work. How do you support your wife? What is the role of a priesthood holder? What is the role of a woman with the priesthood? Again, it’s making sure that you share and grow together.

I was just finishing my farm work when Mom called. The cows had been taken to the pasture, and the rabbits, chickens, pigs, and horses were all fed. The three cans of milk were on the trailer ready to be taken to the dairy.
I was fifteen years old then, and it was 1936, one of the hard years for our big family of thirteen. One of my brothers was on a mission, and eight of us were in school. The rest were home keeping Mom busy.
Mom said, “Jay, I’ll have to keep you out of school today so you can get a ride to the PFE shops where your father is working. I must get this letter to your father. It’s very important or I wouldn’t ask you to do it.” The Pacific Fruit Express shops were repair stations for railroad engines and cars. My father worked there to help support the family financially.
Mom handed me the envelope. It must have been a very important letter to justify keeping me out of school even for one day. “I’m sorry to do this, Jay,” she said, “but there isn’t any other way to get this letter to him.” She couldn’t telephone Dad because there were no telephone lines to our farm.
The place where Dad worked was about twenty-four kilometers away. I walked three kilometers to the highway in the beautiful, early summer air and soon had a ride to the next town. After walking through town, I got another ride that brought me to the dirt road leading to the gate of the PFE shops. I stepped out of the car, thanked the driver, and began the twenty minute walk to the gate, surveying as I walked the place Dad had so often talked about—the place that made him so dirty and so tired, the place of work that Mom had said was so important to our large family.
With new understanding I thought, This is why Dad is only with us evenings and Saturdays and Sundays. This is why it’s Mom who teaches us how to milk cows, to stack hay and grain, to irrigate the crops, to harness the team and make fences, to build hen houses and all the other things that must be done on a farm. This is also why Mom is so good at teaching us the gospel and telling us Bible and Book of Mormon stories while we work with her. Dad was here. And his work was important and hard.
As I came to the gate, I could see large buildings on both sides of the many railroad tracks. The noise of the railroad cars banging into each other as they were hooked together was loud. There was also noise from steam engines, signal bells, horns, and men working with air hammers and other railroad equipment.
Suddenly a loud siren sounded, and all the other noise went away. It was noon—lunch time. Men appeared from all over and I could hear hundreds of voices. How will I ever find Dad in all of these people? I wondered.
I went through the gate and walked toward the closest work area I saw, thinking I might find someone there to ask for directions. There were big stacks of materials and equipment around an open area. As I looked across the clearing, I recognized Dad immediately. I stopped and stood still and it felt as if there were not another person in sight. In a world of our own, it felt as if it were just Dad and me, and I will always be grateful for what I saw. Dad was sitting on the ground with his back to one of the stacks of materials, his legs stretched out, and his hat by his side. With his lunch box between his knees, hands folded in his lap, and head bowed, he was speaking thanks to God for what He was giving him—and for many other things, I’m sure because of the time it took and the feeling I had as I saw him praying. I stood silent and watched intently while the message sank deep within me: There’s nobody here for him to prove anything to. Dad really does believe. When he finished and looked up, he saw me at once. A humble smile spread over his face, and as I approached him tears filled his eyes. “Well, Jay, it’s so nice to see you,” he said. “Come and sit down, son.”
To this day, I don’t know what the message was that I delivered to Dad, but I’ve never forgotten the one he gave me.

Most days my bus arrived right on time, but one day—11 October 1993—it was late. I was a young university student in Caen, France, and I needed to get to class. Looking around, I noticed I was not the only one waiting for the bus. Two young men standing nearby caught my eye. They looked different. Each had a name tag. Who were they? They were obviously not high school students. But anxious about getting to class on time, I quickly turned my thoughts back to worrying about the late bus.
Then, unexpectedly, I heard a voice behind me, saying, “May I ask you a question?”
I turned and found myself facing one of the young men. He spoke French with an unusual accent. “Do you believe in God?” he asked.
I was surprised and hesitated to reply. I had asked myself that very question many times. I had finally decided I was an atheist. There was no reason to continue talking with these young men, but something about their demeanor was so remarkable I found myself wanting to continue our conversation. They radiated a feeling of peace and, surprisingly, an outpouring of love and intelligence. Their name tags said they were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
The three of us conversed for about 10 minutes. I knew nothing about their church, and I was amazed when they said they were prepared to teach me everything I needed to know about God, including the meaning of life. Before my bus arrived—15 minutes late—we set an appointment to meet.
During our discussions, the two elders introduced me to the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ, and they taught me about the restored gospel. Little by little, I learned the principles of the gospel and came to believe they are true.
My entire life began to change. My parents were the first to notice the difference. Communication with my family improved, and my relationships with everyone became happier. I made friends more easily than ever before. I attended church and saw no pretense there, only expressions of love and acceptance unlike anything I had experienced before. The members seemed to know the difference between what was true and what was false. It was a place of wonderful opportunities.
But before joining the Church, I wanted to be absolutely certain it was the right thing to do. I took my time making up my mind. The missionary discussions helped me come to the conviction that I would not be making a mistake, that I had indeed found the truth. I was baptized on 24 July 1994.
It was the best decision I have ever made. Since then, I have enjoyed the blessings of the gospel and the fellowship of wonderful ward members. I have received the priesthood. I have taught Sunday School and participated in the conversion of others. Life has taken on new meaning.
Thanks to the elders, I found the answers to my questions and the solutions to my problems. Meeting them was the most fortunate encounter of my life. When people ask me how I came to join the Church, I grin and tell them, “The bus was late—thank heavens!”

Eunice loved to sing. Her parents, Titus and Diantha Morley Billings, often sang for Church meetings at the request of the Prophet Joseph Smith. At a very early age, Eunice was taught to harmonize with them and sing the alto part. The Prophet Joseph must have enjoyed her singing, because every time he saw her, he took her on his knee and had her sing a song. Eunice attended Eliza R. Snow’s school with the Prophet’s children. Her mother did sewing and doctoring for the Prophet’s family, so Eunice was in his home often.
One day Mother finished a sewing project and asked Eunice to deliver it to Sister Smith. Upon doing so, Eunice saw the Prophet. This was not unusual, except that at the time, Joseph was in hiding for the safety of his life. He had just slipped home for a change of clothes. The Prophet knelt and lovingly sat young Eunice on his knee. He had her sing a song as always. Then he looked deeply into her eyes.
“Eunice,” he said, “no one must know that I am here. My family is in danger. Please rush home and tell no one that you saw me.”
Eunice ran all the way home so that no one could stop her to talk. Long afterward, she said, “I would have cut out my tongue before I would have told anyone I had seen the Prophet that day!”

In stark contrast I share the example of another young man. Through the years I have watched how his parents have taught him from infancy to unwaveringly live the commandments of God. By example and precept, they nurtured him and their other children in truth. They encouraged the development of discipline and sacrifice to obtain worthy goals. This young man chose swimming as an activity that could instill in his character these qualities. The early-morning practice sessions required discipline and sacrifice. Over time he excelled in that sport.

Then came the challenges—for example, a championship swim meet on Sunday. Would he participate? To help his team win the championship would he rationalize an exception to his rule of not swimming on Sunday? No, he would not yield, even under intense peer pressure. He was peppered with derisive comments, even physically abused. But he would not yield. The rejection of friends, the loneliness, and the pressure brought times of sadness and tears. But he would not yield. He was learning firsthand what each of us must come to know, the reality of Paul’s counsel to Timothy: “All that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution” (2 Timothy 3:12). I have observed how over the years this consistent pattern of righteous living—woven from hundreds of correct decisions, some in the face of great challenge—has developed a character of strength and capacity. Now, as a missionary, he is respected by his peers for his capacity to work, his knowledge of truth, his unwavering devotion, and his determination to share the gospel. One who earlier was rejected by his peers now has become a leader of his peers.

“Don’t forget this is fast Sunday.” Hearing my mother’s reminder was like hearing a judge pronounce “ten years to life.” Wandering out to the kitchen on a Sunday morning and discovering that the table was bare and there was no bacon smell made me want to crawl right back under the covers. How could a word like fast be associated with something that seems to drag on forever?
I remember fast Sundays spent pacing the kitchen floor as I tried to justify eating just a little something. “I need to take something for a headache, but I can’t take aspirin on an empty stomach.” When I persisted with my grumbling, good old Mom always said, “We don’t force anyone to fast around here. You are free to eat whenever you choose.” Sure. Eat while everyone else is fasting. And feel like a total jerk.
After a while, I learned not to complain and not to hover around the pantry. Instead, I’d go outside and mess around, or go to a far corner of the house and dive into the Sunday paper or a book—anything to take my mind off my stomach.
And so I fasted. At least I went without food and drink for two meals. I had been told I was old enough to fast, so I suffered through it, one Sunday a month. Rewarding? About like a forced run in gym class. It’s painful and unpleasant, and when you get through, all you have is the satisfaction that you toughed it out. Until—
Until one Sunday. I don’t know what got into me. (It certainly wasn’t pancakes! Might have been a past Sunday School lesson, though.) At any rate, I decided that I would really see if I could get something out of fasting besides killer breath. Why go through the discomfort and come away with nothing more than relief that it’s over?
So when I woke up that Sunday morning, I made a deliberate effort to be pleasant and patient. I didn’t prowl the kitchen, growling like an echo of my stomach. Yes, I spent some time reading the Sunday paper, but I also spent time (and effort) in the scriptures. When I went off to my room, it was not to sulk, but to pray—for patience, for understanding, and for an increase of testimony.
My mouth still tasted like something small and furry had hibernated in it. But mouthwash helped. My stomach still threw tantrums for a while. But then the hunger pangs faded into the background, partly because I was tuning them out, and partly because my body seemed to shift into another gear.
As the day progressed, I actually became happy. (No, it wasn’t delirium.) In fast and testimony meeting I found myself watching the speakers and listening to their testimonies, rather than watching the clock and listening to my stomach. Being there felt good. When dinner time finally arrived, I discovered that I was able to sit calmly. A new sense of self-control allowed me to eat reasonably, instead of giving way to the usual gluttony of the “feast of the fast over.”
On the fast Sundays that followed, I often had to relearn the same lessons. It’s so easy to let the stomach control moods, thoughts, temper. And it’s easy to go through the motions and discomfort of fasting without finding joy in it. But as I persevered, I continued to learn to actually enjoy fasting.
A few years later, in the mission field, proper fasting became even more important as I sought the blessings of the Spirit. Of course, I still had a missionary’s appreciation for food. In fact, one day our new zone leader leaned toward me over the lunch table, glanced down at my well-stocked plate, and said, “I’ll bet you really hate to fast, don’t you, Elder?”
My mouth was full of food, so all I could do was dumbly shake my head. But no. I no longer hated to fast.
Before I had really put myself into it, really looked for the rewards of fasting, I wouldn’t have understood what the Lord was talking about when he said:
“Verily, this is fasting and prayer, or in other words, rejoicing and prayer” (D&C 59:14; italics added).
But now I understand: There are rewards that go far beyond the meager satisfaction of just having endured.

Dalisey Brooks of Cape Town, South Africa is a Latter-day Saint, a Young Women president, online BYU student, and budding entrepreneur in the Church’s self-reliance program.
When she was 16, the Spirit guided her to talk to some missionaries she saw on the street which led to her conversion and baptism. Years later, this same Spirit has guided her to the Church’s Self-Reliance program to start her own business. With the help of her self-reliance group, she created an online store to sell her own line of handmade South African sandals and clothing.
Dalisey recalls that, “even as a little girl who owned only one red dress and no shoes, I loved fashion. Despite my shyness, I worked in the retail industry of South Africa to develop communication skills and self-esteem. By day, I design and sell quality sandals, accessories, and clothing. By night, I study for a bachelor of science in business management with a finance emphasis through BYU.”
In 2020, Dalisey was looking for help to start her business. At the same time, across the globe, a new self-reliance instructor in Idaho was looking for members to attend his first self-reliance group. “Because of the pandemic, I couldn’t get anyone to attend. So, I created an online group instead. I found one member from South Africa [Dalisey] to participate,” said Ben Davidson of the Pocatello Idaho East Stake. “Our weekly Zoom meetings eventually pulled in a class of BYU-I students working with Brother John Ward of the Rexburg Business Development Center.
“I always wanted to start my own business,” explained Dalisey, “but I didn’t have anyone to guide me.” Thanks to the Church’s self-reliance program, Dalisey is now a business owner. “I am grateful beyond words,” she says. Her unique line of sandals and accessories use colorful fabrics, soft ropes, and leather available in South Africa.
“Having firsthand experience with poverty, I believe in serving and giving back to the community. The products are handcrafted there in Cape Town. My brand, Chipantha, is named after my grandfather. He didn’t see me as a helpless little girl in a village. He saw who I might become. He gave me the ability to persevere,” explains Dalisey.
“Dalisey’s strength and testimony bless me each week we meet as part of the Church’s self-reliance program. I feel blessed to serve in a Church of brothers and sisters who are united in so many ways, including a self-reliance class that joins members from Cape Town, Pocatello, and Rexburg,” says Davidson.

One of our graduate students in sociology related to me her experience in applying to our PhD program, a story that I share with her permission. Jules said that she was at a point in her life when she was prayerfully considering various options about what to do next. One day, as she was walking across campus, she received the inspiration that she should apply to the sociology PhD program. She was surprised by this because her training and work experience had been in social work, and she had no background in sociology. Despite her doubts, she applied to the program and was accepted; however, she continued to question her ability to succeed.

During her first year in the graduate program, she sought and received three priesthood blessings regarding her decision. Each time the priesthood mouthpiece confirmed to her that indeed she was doing what the Lord wanted her to do, but she continued to question her ability to succeed in her classes. Finally, after the third blessing, her roommate gave her some wise counsel. Jules said:

I told her that I was having a hard time with statistics again, and expected her to console me, as she had done in the past. I told her about the blessing Ihad received from the bishop a few weeks before.
My roommate said, “Don’t you trust God?”
I replied, “Of course I do.”
“No, you don’t,” my roommate responded calmly.
“You don’t understand,” I explained to her, “I trust God; I just don’t trust myself.”
“Then you don’t trust God,” she responded. “If you trusted God, you would believe him when he says you can do statistics, or anything else in this program.”
I knew she was right, but now I was faced with a real dilemma. In order to succeed at statistics I had to stop panicking, stop telling myself I couldn’t do it, and believe God, who said I could do it. I had to trust in God when I didn’t even trust myself. . . . Finally I decided that if God was omnipotent, then he knew everything there was to know about statistics, so what better tutor could I have for this subject than God? That was a turning point. [Jules Law, personal journal, March 1997]

Jules received the comfort and guidance she needed to complete her course work and successfully finish the semester. She continues to work hard in the program, but now with less anxiety. She knows that through hard work she can succeed, because she is doing what the Lord wants her to do and she has faith in him.

What if you didn’t even have a room to meet in for Sunday classes? That’s the situation some young women from Iceland found themselves in a few years ago. The Church rents rooms in a building there, and at first the young women had to meet in the foyer. That wasn’t the best environment for a class, so after some renovations they turned a closet into a classroom.
Still, “the room was tiny and empty. It was impersonal,” recalls Karolina G., 18. “We decided as a class that we wanted to make the room our room. We wanted to feel the Spirit just by being there, to make it a holy place. So we did. We picked pictures and made our own poster with the Young Women theme on it.”
The result? The room may be small—the five youth and their two leaders barely fit—and it may be cold in the winter and very hot in the summer, but “the room is now a place where you can feel the Spirit,” Karolina says. “I’ve had many spiritual experiences in there. We’re squeezed in, but we’ve become closer. We’ve become a little family. I love this room!”

My missionary companion and I were deciding where to tract when we spotted a woman entering a home. We were sure she was arriving home to prepare lunch because the suburbs of Buenos Aires, Argentina, were already shutting down for siesta. Before I realized it, my companion was teaching her a gospel principle, and I was testifying of its truthfulness. Narda enjoyed our message and invited us to return the following week.
When we arrived at Narda’s home, her five children were sitting around the table waiting for us. Neither parent had full-time employment, and our hearts ached as we realized that they had barely enough to survive. Their humble home had no flooring or running water, and the walls consisted of boards loosely hammered together. Their only source of heat was a small single-burner stove.
However poor the family’s circumstances, they were rich in a desire to learn more about God. Narda loved and studied the Bible and wanted her children to have a similar foundation. Twelve-year-old Cristian especially enjoyed listening to the missionary lessons. After we left a copy of the Book of Mormon with the family, he eagerly read the first few books. Narda’s husband was also interested, but he was shy and listened from the bedroom.
Because of their financial situation, we hesitated to teach them about fast offerings and tithing. We wanted them to have a solid testimony of Jesus Christ and the Restoration before we introduced principles that would require more faith. But because the older children had begun reading the Book of Mormon and attending church, they had questions that we needed to answer.
“Sister,” said Cristian, “at church and in the Book of Mormon, everyone talks about fasting. What does fasting mean?” We taught and testified of the importance of fasting and then silently prayed that the family would accept this commandment.
Cristian later shared his testimony with us: “The other day, my mom gave me some money to buy candy. While walking to the store, I remembered your lesson on fasting, and I wanted to try it. But I only had 20 centavos. I decided to fast anyway and use those 20 centavos as my offering.”
Narda discouraged Cristian from contributing such a small sum, but he was determined. He wanted to live all of God’s commandments and give what he could. A few weeks later he and two of his siblings were baptized. His parents joined the Church the following year.
Now whenever I think that I can’t afford to give fast offerings, I remember Cristian and his faithfulness, and I realize that I have more than enough to give. His offering reminds me of the widow’s mite (see Mark 12:42–44). It may have been small, but Cristian gave because he truly loved God and wanted to obey.

I was one of 12 high school students selected from Fairfield College in Hamilton, New Zealand, to participate in a program called Project K. The first part involved a three-week wilderness adventure, including canoeing, exploring caves, rock climbing, mountain biking, and sleeping and cooking our meals in all sorts of conditions. We spent most of our days in torrential rain and cold.
Sometimes spirits were low, and there were tears of frustration. We learned about teamwork and endurance. We encouraged each other through the challenges that came to us every day. One person chose to go home—it was just too much.
Halfway through the adventure, we got to write a letter home. As I wrote my letter, the tears welled up as I expressed my love and appreciation to my family. I realized just how much I missed the simple things in life like family prayers, scripture reading, family home evening, seminary, and attending church. I was saddened because I couldn’t picture my baby sister’s face in my mind.
I was thankful that I’d brought my pocket-sized Book of Mormon with me. I would sit inside my bivouac and read by flashlight. Everyone was pretty tired after each day, and they’d just go to sleep. After a day or so, more of my companions became curious about what I was reading. They became interested when I told them about the stripling warriors, Nephi and Laban, Ammon, and especially Nephi and his broken bow. Everyone could relate to the challenges of the wilderness.
By the end of our adventure, every night before sleeping, all 12 of us would huddle under my bivouac and listen as I read from the Book of Mormon. I know that the prophets of old were able to speak to us all on those cold, dark, rainy nights. I know that I gained strength to endure the difficult challenges during that time. I never felt the need to cry or to quit. I owe that to prayer and my pocket-sized Book of Mormon.

In January 2021 I was visiting my Granny Cecilia’s grave. I walked past this older man and gave him a smile and said, “Hi”. He was visiting the grave of his wife of more than 60 years who had passed away in October 2020. I immediately felt to say, “You’ll see her again.” He immediately responded that he believed that too. I told him where I went to church. He said that he had attended a few times in another ward (Dundee 2nd) with his wife and young family—around 50 years previously. I was surprised how small the world felt.

We spoke at the freezing graveside for over an hour. I felt I couldn’t put into words the experience I had and how special it felt. It felt like a dream, and I even questioned if it had happened.

A couple of months later I was going on a drive on a Sunday afternoon. The main route was closed, the alternative leading me close to my Gran’s graveyard. So, I thought I would go up for a visit.

As I pulled into the cemetery, I saw a man getting into a car, so I sped up and parked right next to him. He got out and said, “Lydia McPhee!” We hugged and he told me that on the day we originally met, he thought he had met an angel—that’s what he was telling his friends and family. He had also questioned if the experience had really happened. On that day he had felt like life wasn’t worth living anymore; he wasn’t coping well with his wife’s death. But after seeing me, things started to change, and he had hope for the first time in years. While looking over the vista of Dundee, we spoke for over two hours in the sunshine.

Almost a year went by, and I hadn’t bumped into him, so I searched for him on Facebook and found him. Within an hour he had sent me a message. We arranged to meet the following Saturday. It was good to see him. We spoke for over four hours—time flew by. We said goodbye and agreed to keep in touch and to meet more often.

The next day I was at church. Sunday school had just finished when out of the corner of my eye I saw Mike. There he was in church! He told me that he had woken up that morning and felt he had to come. He said he tried ignoring the feeling but found himself getting his suit and shoes ready whilst telling himself he wasn’t going.

I introduced him to everyone that walked by; I could feel his excitement. When I went home that day, he called me and said that he was feeling uplifted, and that everything felt right for the first time in years. He said that he wanted to be taught by the missionaries.

Mike was baptised in January this year by my dad and has been confirmed a member and received the Aaronic Priesthood. My sister Rebekah and I were the witnesses.

I am so grateful to Heavenly Father for blessing me by being involved in helping Mike. Mike is now eagerly anticipating entering the temple to receive his ordinances and be sealed to his wife, family, and ancestors.

After attending Brigham Young University for a year, Elder Walker served as a full-time missionary in the Tennessee Nashville Mission.
To assist his father’s recovery from a serious accident, Elder Walker delayed his plans to return to school following his mission and returned to Argentina. That’s when he met Ines Marcela Sulé at an institute dance. Eight months later, on August 12, 1993, they were married in the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple. The next day, the young couple moved to Provo, Utah, USA, where Elder Walker completed his bachelor’s degree in economics in 1996.