Gospel Story Finder

One of these is Sebastiana Maria Catarina de Jesus; a talkative, cheerful lady who appears quite small in her wheelchair. She does not know her age, and has no relatives nor visitors. She has become a different woman since these loving and giving young people began visiting her. Catarina now feels that she has a family. She loves to spend time with these youth who are her new family.
They speak words of support and are always willing to help the elderly ladies, whose simple needs are easily met: a towel to Catarina, clothing to Flora or a cake to Virginia. These young people know that they are attending to the needs of a part of the Good Shepherd’s flock. They freely give of their love, affection, and kindness, which is just as freely returned.

For example, I think of Elder Lloyd Poelman and his wife, Sister Catherine Poelman. Parents of 9 grown children and grandparents of 20 grandchildren, they now serve in a remote part of Chile, working in a small branch. They make frequent visits among less-active members and with families recently converted to the Church. These visits provide opportunity for the Poelmans to read with those families and bear testimony of temple blessings. In their mission branches, they have also taught people how to conduct music and play simplified versions of the hymns on small electronic keyboards. Elder and Sister Poelman recently wrote: “Baptism is only the first step in conversion. When the initial excitement subsides and the new converts continue facing the need to work long hours just to put bread on the table, they need others to help them who share the joy of the gospel. That is our specialty. Part of our work is preventive—staying close to new converts. Yet others who rarely attend meetings have not lost conviction and receive our messages gratefully. As we watch the changes brought about in the lives of those we visit, we feel blessed to be receiving constant tutoring and help from the Lord in this work and, at the same time, to know that our family members back home are vicariously sharing our calling and those special blessings.”

I was five years old when our grandmother died back in 1892. We children stayed upstairs while all the neighbors gathered in the parlor below for the funeral.
“My little sister and I pressed our noses against the windowpane, and we saw horses and carriages and wagons up and down the whole lane.
“Then we saw the two black velvet horses come, pulling the shiny black hearse toward the house. The horses had gold fringes on their necks, and the high-wheeled hearse had windows on the sides with gold drapes and gold fringes.
“The horses walked slowly, and they looked sad. I was sad too because we loved our grandmother and I didn’t understand, but I did know she would not be in our house anymore.
“My mama cried, and her sister, Aunt Emily, came, and she held her little baby and cried. I felt sorry for them, but I didn’t cry.
“Mama told me grandmother was old and needed to rest, so I didn’t cry.
“It was two weeks afterward that I did cry. Just a few days after the funeral, Aunt Emily’s little baby took pneumonia. Maybe because she had been moved from her own house over in Emporia. We tiptoed around the house, my little sister Becca and I. We tiptoed, and we didn’t ask for anything. But the little baby died.
“We were back upstairs, and the carriages were again up and down the lane. This time a little white hearse came, drawn by two little white ponies.
“Now,” continued our grandmother, as the tape circled around her words. “Now we have sealed them all in the temple of the Lord, and they are together again. They didn’t know while they were on this earth that they could be together. Missionaries never came to our countryside homes.”

I find it hard to express my love vocally, especially to family members. However, I love my family very much, and I express it through my actions, for example, by listening to and obeying my parents’ counsel. Small things—like praising my mother for her fine cooking or expressing appreciation when my sisters make something beautiful—are my ways of telling my family I love them. Actions speak louder than words, although loving words don’t hurt either!Keshia Lai, 17, Woodlands Ward, Singapore Singapore Stake

Thank you, thank you for “Answers to Tough Questions” by Chris Crowe in the May 1988 issue. The article described exactly some of the situations I have encountered with nonmember friends. Reading it gave me the encouragement to explain my beliefs to my friends, and now I have a greater respect and the joy of watching a nonmember friend realize the truth of the gospel.
It will soon be the first anniversary of my baptism, and I can truly say it has been the happiest year of my life. Each New Era has brought me not only greater understanding but also the warmest feeling of a worldwide family.
Amanda HarperDundee, Scotland

The background for this declaration was as follows:
“Through a period of more than six years prior to [April 6th, 1830, when the Church was organized] Joseph Smith, the Prophet, had received at intervals Divine revelations and commandments. …
“As early as the summer of 1830, the Prophet, acting under Divine commandment, was engaged in copying and arranging the revelations received up to that time, evidently with a view to their publication in book form. On November 1, 1831, at a conference of the Elders of the Church held at Hiram, Ohio, definite action relating to the publication of the revelations [which the Prophet had received and compiled] was taken, and the compilation was called the Book of Commandments. The Lord’s acceptance of the undertaking was made manifest by the giving of the revelation … appearing as Section 1 [of our Doctrine and Covenants] … known as the Preface.” (D&C, Explanatory Introduction, iii; see also History of the Church, 1:222 and the introductory note to D&C 1.)

Fifty-two years ago, I baptized a promising and wonderful young man in London, England. He was gifted and educated. He was sincere and prayerful. My companion and I taught him over a long period of time. We both left to return home after he had been baptized.

Our convert was a shy and sensitive young man. While still in the infancy of his membership, he was criticized for a small mistake that he had made in the responsibility he carried in the branch.

When the young man left the meeting that night, he never returned. He had been hurt and wounded by the thoughtless remark of a man his senior who should have known better.

I tried to keep track of this new convert through correspondence. But World War II came along. He entered the military service. After the war he married, and a while later his wife passed away, bringing a greater tragedy into his life. He rose in his vocation to become an executive of recognized capacity in the business world of England. He might have made a tremendous contribution to the Church, but an ugly scar remained from that wound suffered in a branch meeting many years earlier.

Eventually, I learned of his whereabouts. He had remarried and was retired and living in Europe. I visited him once. I write to him and send him books and other materials. He writes to me, and we are friends. My companion, with whom I taught this good man, has passed away. I have done everything I know how to do to try to revive our friend’s faith. Thus far, it has been fruitless.

I occasionally reflect on the remarkable way in which we found him. I reflect on the many hours we spent teaching him. I reflect on the struggle he had within himself to make the right decision to be baptized. I reflect on his joy in having found the Church. And then I reflect on his loss. It need never have happened. It should never have happened.

The first free-lance article I submitted to the New Era was … well … much like wearing a tuxedo to a pool party. Inappropriate.
Without opening the magazine, I had mailed off a six-page essay on what I had learned being a convert to the Church. The rejection letter arrived in my college dorm mailbox a month later. “How dare they?” I demanded, showing the story to a few young people in my Sunday School class.
“Uh, good spelling,” one said, handing it back without turning the page.
“It’s very neat,” said another, not getting past the first paragraph.
It quickly became obvious there wasn’t a 15-year-old in the Church who would read my dry essay. I hadn’t done my homework, and the rejection letter proved it.
I tried again. This time I dug a stack of New Eras out of my drawer and read. It took a few days, but I got a feel for the style of the magazine—the way the anecdotal leads drew you into more serious topics; the up-tempo, spiritual kids featured in the stories; the faith-building experiences people wrote about.
And, as I read, I learned a few important points—that the New Era is particular about what it prints, and how it is presented.
A few days later, I again found myself in front of my typewriter. I stopped trying to summarize all I had learned since becoming a member of the Church. Instead, I focused on one event that happened while I was growing up in Canada and what I learned from it.
It took a lot of writing and rewriting to make the piece fit the style of the magazine. But a few weeks after I sent the article off, the editors mailed me a nice letter saying they’d like to purchase my story. The New Era wasn’t unreachable after all.

At least I thought I would have peace. Instead, I faced insults and rejection. Slanderous speculations circulated about my reasons for leaving the convent. Frustrated and filled with feelings of worthlessness, I became confused and decided on the most deplorable course of action—taking my own life.
On 21 November 1995 I wandered down a street, with thoughts of suicide filling my mind and tears running down my cheeks, when I happened upon a church building. Trying to keep my tears private and find some relief from my pain, I entered the building. Inside, I came upon a bulletin board. I was surprised to see a friendly and warm illustration of the Savior, accompanied by words so simple and understandable that I was instantly captivated. It was the Christ I had been searching for. Without realizing it, I had stopped weeping.
A few minutes later a kind woman asked if she could help. Not knowing what to say, I blurted out, “What is this church about?” She started to explain, and suddenly tears came to my eyes again. I told her, embarrassed, that I needed a friend. At that moment her husband joined us, and I told them of my sorrow. They said they knew a Friend who had all the answers—Jesus Christ—and they invited me to learn more about Him and our Heavenly Father’s plan. Without hesitation, I agreed.
For 10 days I met with this loving and kind missionary couple. They never pressured me, just shared their testimonies and taught me. They also shared one of the greatest gifts we can receive—the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. I read it, studied it, and put Moroni’s promise to the test (see Moro. 10:3–5). The Holy Ghost witnessed to me that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. What had been mysteries to me became clear. I knew who the Lord was and how to serve Him. Two sister missionaries taught me the missionary discussions, and I was baptized on 3 December 1995.

When I was about ten years old, we lived in a home surrounded by an orchard. There never seemed to be enough water for the trees. The ditches, always fresh-plowed in the spring, would soon be filled with weeds. One day, in charge of the irrigating turn, I found myself in trouble.
As the water moved down the rows choked with weeds, it would flood in every direction. I raced through the puddles trying to build up the bank. As soon as I had one break patched up, there would be another.
A neighbor came through the orchard. He watched for a moment, and then with a few vigorous strokes of the shovel he cleared the ditch bottom and allowed the water to course through the channel he had made.
“If you want the water to stay in its course, you’ll have to make a place for it to go,” he said.

I read “Dylan’s Saturday Surprise” in the June 2012 issue of the Friend. It made me excited to clean the church. Last Saturday was my family’s turn to clean. I went to bed early on my own the night before and woke up before my daddy on Saturday because I was so excited to clean. I had a good day cleaning with my daddy at the church. It was fun.

An unusually warm March sun felt good on ten-year-old Jamie’s back as he sat astride the board fence and watched a large herd of sheep moving up the dirt road toward him. Men on horseback rode on each side of the herd and behind it. Dogs circled silently around the sheep, their bushy tails waving happily. The sheep bleated and pushed against each other, bells clanking merrily on some of their necks. Jamie loved seeing them come by and watched their approach eagerly. Two of the riders waved to him as they rode by, nudging the animals. Some of the sheep came so close to the fence that Jamie could almost touch their woolly backs with his shoe.
After the herd had moved far up the road, almost out of sight, Jamie jumped down from the fence. But he could still hear a soft bleating from somewhere close-by. As he walked slowly up the road, the sounds seemed nearer. Suddenly in the dry ditch by the roadside, he spotted the gray white wool of an old sheep. He ran quickly and slid down the bank into the ditch. The ewe lifted her head, and patient yellow eyes looked into his.
“What are you doing here, sheep?” he asked. The ewe bleated again and tried to get to her feet. Jamie saw that one back leg was twisted and dangling. “You poor thing! I’ll go get Grandpa.” Jamie scrambled out of the ditch and ran down the road and through the gate. His grandfather was coming around the side of the house and almost collided with him.
“Grandpa!” Jamie shouted. “There’s a sheep in the ditch, and its leg’s hurt. Come see!”
Grandpa followed Jamie silently to the ditch and looked down at the sheep. “Whose herd was it that just came by?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Jamie answered. “Some riders waved to me, but I didn’t recognize any of them.”
“Probably from over in Lansdale, bringing their sheep down for shearing.” Grandpa stooped down, put one arm around the ewe’s chest and the other around her hips, and picked her up. The animal bleated with pain and fright as he staggered up the ditch bank with her. Jamie followed his grandfather through the gate and around to the sheds where their own sheep were brought for lambing and shearing.
Grandpa lowered the ewe gently onto the straw and examined her leg. “Go ask Grandma for part of an old sheet,” he directed.
When Jamie returned with the sheet, Grandpa had straightened the ewe’s leg. He tore the sheet into strips and made a splint on the leg with a small flat stick.
“Can we keep her?” Jamie asked.
“She doesn’t belong to us,” Grandpa answered.
“The man riding on that side must have seen her in the ditch,” Jamie argued.
“Maybe and maybe not. And even if he did, she still doesn’t belong to us.” Grandpa tied the strips firmly and stood the ewe up. He looked into its mouth at her ragged yellow teeth. “This is a very old sheep, Jamie. Could be they didn’t want her. Not good for much any longer and hurt to boot.” Grandpa felt the sheep’s stomach carefully. “But she’s going to lamb any day now. That’s worth something.”
“Grandpa, could the lamb be mine since I found its mother?” Jamie asked eagerly.
“Jamie, this is not our sheep.” He looked at Jamie’s sad brown eyes. “We’ll put her in the pasture with the others. If her leg heals and if she lambs and if no one comes for her, you can have the lamb.” Jamie looked up hopefully. “We’ll have to ask around, though, and see if we can find the owner,” Grandpa concluded. Jamie smiled at his grandfather and knelt to pet the old woolly sheep.
The ewe lambed two weeks later. Grandpa had awakened Jamie before the sun was up and had taken him out to the lambing shed. The tiny white lamb stood in the dim light, wet and wobbly, bleating very softly, almost mewing. Jamie loved it instantly and named him Joshua after a white cat he once had.
Every day after school Jamie jumped off the bus and hurried to the pasture to find the lamb, to pet him, and to pick tender young weeds and grass for Joshua to nibble from his hand.
It was a very warm day in the middle of April when Jamie found Joshua and the old ewe missing from the pasture. He ran into the house where his grandmother was kneading bread in the sunny kitchen.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
Grandma glanced at Jamie, then punched the bread and smacked it onto the floured table. “Mr. Goodman came and got them.”
Jamie was stunned. “Mr. Goodman! Why? When?”
“He drove up with his wagon, loaded them in, and was driving away when I went out and asked what he was doing. He said the ewe was lost from his cousin’s herd when they came through here. His cousin said he could have it, so he was taking it. Then he just climbed onto the wagon and left. I didn’t know what to say.” Grandma rolled the dough and smacked it angrily onto the table again.
“Where was Grandpa?” Jamie asked.
“Over to Dayton getting feed. But he’s out in the granary now.”
Jamie ran out the back door and found his grandfather unloading sacks of grain from the wagon. He lowered a sack to the ground and looked at Jamie. “It wasn’t our ewe, Jamie,” he said, before the boy even spoke to him.
“It wasn’t Mr. Goodman’s either!” Jamie’s heart was pounding, and his stomach felt cold.
“It was given to him by the rightful owner, son, so it is really his,” Grandpa said, dragging the sack into the granary.
Jamie followed. “It’s not right!” he shouted, feeling tears starting up behind his eyes. “That was my lamb. You said I could have it.”
“I said you could have it if no one came for it. Someone came.”
“It’s been a month!” Jamie pursued. “When it was just a wounded old ewe, no one cared about it. Those men knew they’d left it in the ditch, and they told Mr. Goodman. But he didn’t want it then. Now when she’s well and has a nice little lamb, he comes for her. It’s not right, Grandpa, and you know it.” Tears were stinging Jamie’s eyes, and his cheeks burned.
Grandpa settled the sack of grain with the others and turned to Jamie. “Well, Jamie, if you really think that’s your lamb, why don’t you go tell Mr. Goodman.”
Jamie’s tears stopped abruptly, and his stomach lurched with fear at the very thought. Mr. Goodman was the watermaster and also the richest man in the county. He rode the ditches on a big gray horse, a forbidding figure with a shovel and a shotgun sticking up behind him. Jamie believed that the big man would shoot anyone who took more than his rightful share of water. He had thick black hair, a black mustache, and fierce, dark eyes. None of the kids took apples from his orchards, no matter how red and tempting they looked from the road. Jamie could not imagine arguing with the watermaster. “Why don’t you talk to him, Grandpa?” he suggested hopefully.
“Because, Jamie, I never considered that ewe to be mine. I don’t figure I have any claim on her or her lamb. If you’re of a different mind, then you talk to him. He’s a fair man.”
Jamie thought about it for three days. He thought of little else. In school he sat in a daze, making up conversations with Mr. Goodman, thinking of good arguments. At night he lay awake picturing himself facing the tall, stern man, the man who took what he wanted without asking or apologizing. Sometimes he saw himself angry and indignant, sometimes mild and reasonable. The more he thought about it, though, the more wrong it seemed to him. He longed for Joshua, for the feel of his soft wool and the sight of him bouncing around the pasture. By the middle of the week Jamie knew for certain that he would have no peace within himself until he talked to Mr. Goodman.
Thursday night as he lay in his bed, a plan began to form in his mind. He thought about what Grandpa had said—that Mr. Goodman was a fair man. He tried to think what might seem right to Mr. Goodman about the lamb. When Jamie awoke the next morning he knew what he would do. All day at school he pondered the idea. When he got off the bus that afternoon he went straight to his grandfather, who was cleaning out the lambing sheds.
“Grandpa, would you excuse me from my chores this afternoon?” he asked.
“Why?” Grandpa questioned.
“I’m going to see Mr. Goodman.”
“Thought you might. But why just at choring time?”
“I want to catch him at his chores so I don’t have to knock on his door and maybe go into his house or something.”
Grandpa looked at him and nodded. “All right. Take the pony. And watch what you say.” Grandpa looked at him closely again. “Are you scared?”
“Yes,” Jamie answered. He turned away and went to saddle the pony.
Jamie found Mr. Goodman cleaning his shearing shed. Great mounds of wool were stacked on one side. Jamie stood in the doorway of the shed, holding a piece of paper in one hand and waiting for Mr. Goodman to notice him. Finally, the man looked up and stopped sweeping. “Well,” he growled. “What do you want?”
“I’m James Nielsen. My grandfather—“
“I know who you are. What do you want?” The afternoon sunlight from the doorway fell across Mr. Goodman’s face, and it seemed to blaze.
“It’s about the old ewe and her lamb.” Jamie swallowed hard.
“You think they’re yours, I suppose.” Mr. Goodman walked toward Jamie. Jamie wanted to turn and run, but he didn’t.
“No, sir, but I think you owe me some money for taking care of them. I have it written down right here.” Jamie handed Mr. Goodman a piece of paper.
Mr. Goodman took off his hat and looked at Jamie for several seconds before he examined the paper. He studied it for a long time. When the man finally looked up his eyes were very black, and he frowned with his whole face. Jamie wondered why he had ever thought his idea would work.
“Three dollars is too much for feed this time of year when sheep can graze,” Mr. Goodman said.
“Grandpa gives them a supplement.”
“Ten dollars for veterinary care? You’re not a vet. Neither is your grandpa.”
“The ewe got well though. And that includes helping her with her lamb.”
Suddenly Mr. Goodman smiled. “Did your grandpa put you up to this?”
“No, sir. He said it wasn’t his ewe, and you had a right to take her and her lamb. But I think it’s wrong.” Jamie hadn’t meant to say that, and Mr. Goodman wasn’t smiling now, but the boy went on anyway. “We took care of the ewe and got her well, and her lamb was born on our place. I wondered if instead of giving me the money, you’d give me the lamb.” Jamie stopped, his heart pounding in his throat.
Mr. Goodman sat down on a box and looked at the paper again. “This list of expenses is fair enough, I guess, but the lamb’s worth more than what I owe you.” Jamie’s heart sank. “However, if you’ll come over here and help me clean up from shearing for the next three nights, the lamb’s yours.” He stood up and smiled at Jamie. His eyes were not fierce at all, but quite warm and friendly. Mr. Goodman held out his hand to Jamie. “Is it a deal?”
“Yes, sir!” Jamie smiled and shook the man’s big hand. Then he turned and ran to his pony and climbed on. As he rode away, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Mr. Goodman still standing in the doorway watching him.
When he rode into the yard, Grandpa was waiting by the gate. Jamie jumped down quickly. “You were right, Grandpa. He’s a fair man.”
Grandpa put his arm around Jamie’s shoulders and pulled him close. “And you’re a brave man, Jamie. Tell me what happened.”

I am embarrassed to admit it, but there was a time when I thought home teachers were more of a nuisance than a blessing. At such times I would find ways to absent myself from their visits so I could get my work done.
That’s why when Lincoln became our home teacher, I was especially annoyed. He never missed a visit. He always had a lesson prepared, and he faithfully carried out his home teaching duties. I appreciated his efforts but not enough to give him and his companion my undivided attention when they came for their monthly visit. Lincoln was always cordial; I was always a little rude.
One year during the early spring, I was out working in the yard. The day was clear and warm. Usually I find gardening therapeutic, but on this day I was distraught. My husband had just undergone debilitating back surgery, and as a family we faced some tough decisions.
Needing answers, I found myself kneeling in the garden. Tears flowed as I prayed fervently for direction from the Lord. If I could only feel some peace. If I could only have some assurance that our future would not be as dismal as it seemed at the moment. I prayed earnestly, speaking aloud at times, begging the Lord for hope but most of all for peace.
When I returned to the house after pleading with the Lord, I was spent. I was glad no one was home so I could get myself together. But no sooner had I taken off my work shoes when the doorbell rang. Lincoln was the last person on my mind, but when I opened the door, there he stood with his wife, minus lesson materials.
For the first time, I actually found myself happy to see him. I invited them in. We chatted, and Lincoln asked about my husband’s work, our five daughters, and other family matters. They didn’t stay long, but as they got up to go, Lincoln asked if he could leave a blessing on our home. I was grateful, wondering how he knew a prayer would be so welcome. We knelt, and as I listened to his words of comfort, he specifically asked for a blessing of peace on our home.
During that moment I felt a wave of comfort fill my soul. I knew then that the Lord was in charge and that everything was going to work out.
My prayers had been answered with clarity and assurance through Lincoln, our faithful home teacher. In honoring his stewardship and following the promptings of the Holy Ghost, he left me with a testimony of his sacred calling.

Last year the children in Clara’s grade-four class were assigned to give four-to-five-minute speeches. Clara chose to give a speech on the Holocaust, which she presented as if she were a girl in a concentration camp. When she first rehearsed her speech, it took eight minutes and 40 seconds to give because many of the words were hard to say. She practiced it over and over. The speech slowly grew shorter as she learned to say the words fluently. She finally presented the speech in four minutes and 40 seconds, and her classmates chose her to represent them in front of the whole school. When she did, the entire student body broke into wild applause. Many of them had known Clara since grade one, and her progress seemed miraculous. “The principal was crying,” Clara’s mom recalls. “Clara’s grade-two teacher was crying. Her grade-four teacher was cheering. It was such a victory—one of the greatest moments of my life!”
What did Clara learn from the experience? “Keep trying,” she counsels children everywhere. “Never give up.”
Of course, prayer was also a vital part of Clara’s triumph. She has great faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Primary, home evenings, scripture study, and her parents’ teachings have helped. Her older sisters have made a difference too, both through their good examples and their reading materials. As soon as Carly, 18, and Josie, 15, turned 12 in their turn, they began putting New Era Posters on their mirrors. Clara has also memorized seminary scripture mastery scriptures and learned President Hinckley’s six B’s with her sisters.

After I quit drugs, I turned to alcohol. I can honestly say I was a high school alcoholic. When I decided I wanted to quit, I couldn’t—at least not by myself. I didn’t care enough about myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
Then I became close friends with a good, active Latter-day Saint girl. She couldn’t understand what I was experiencing, but she did know I was honestly trying to get out of the mess I was in. It hurt her when I slipped back into my bad habits. I finally quit drinking because I knew it hurt her, and I knew I couldn’t lie to her.
Keeping my morals straight was so hard under my weakened condition that I avoided any social contacts with girls except with ones as good as my Latter-day Saint friend.

We see some of the same attitudes today. Some act as if a man’s highest goal should be his own pleasure. Permissive social mores have “let men off the hook” as it were, so that many think it acceptable to father children out of wedlock and to cohabit rather than marry. Dodging commitments is considered smart, but sacrificing for the good of others, naive. For some, a life of work and achievement is optional. A psychologist studying the growing phenomenon of what he calls “young men stuck in neutral” describes this scenario:
“Justin goes off to college for a year or two, wastes thousands of dollars of his parents’ money, then gets bored and comes home to take up residence in his old room, the same bedroom where he lived when he was in high school. Now he’s working 16 hours a week at Kinko’s or part time at Starbucks.
“His parents are pulling their hair out. ‘Justin, you’re 26 years old. You’re not in school. You don’t have a career. You don’t even have a girlfriend. What’s the plan? When are you going to get a life?’
“‘What’s the problem?’ Justin asks. ‘I haven’t gotten arrested for anything, I haven’t asked you guys for money. Why can’t you just chill?’”
How’s that for ambition?

One day Toshiro Yoshizawa, who served in the army during the war, encountered two young Americans holding a meeting in the street; they were among the first LDS missionaries called to serve in Japan after the war. One of them, Elder Ray Price, spoke with respect of the service Japanese soldiers had given their country and talked of how all men and women are brothers and sisters and ought to treat each other with love. This message drew Toshiro to gospel study and eventually to conversion. He and his wife, Midori, baptized in 1953, are among Japanese pioneers whose service helped sustain the Church after its postwar establishment. Brother Yoshizawa went on to become a branch president, district president, counselor to four mission presidents, stake president, and mission president. He was called as patriarch of the Fukuoka stake in 1986. Sister Yoshizawa has served as a teacher in the Sunday School and in numerous Relief Society teaching and leadership callings, often holding several callings at the same time in the early years.

A few days ago I was looking through my money when I noticed a hole in my tithing envelope. I opened it to make sure all of what I owed was still there, and I found that I was missing a quarter. I had two choices: I could put another quarter in, or I could pretend there never was one in it. I chose to put another quarter in. I knew I had made the right choice because I had a happy feeling the rest of the day.

Like Rendell Mabey, Wevertoin de Arajo Fraga, a 17-year-old convert and priest in the Itaborai Ward, Rio de Janeiro Brazil Niteroi Stake, expressed his thrill at receiving the Aaronic Priesthood in 1999: “At the moment they conferred it on me, I felt the Spirit. I recognize the responsibilities I now have with this duty, this power, that was conferred on me, and I’m grateful.”

I was on the bus on my way home from school on a very windy day. My bus driver got to the stop where my neighbor and I get off. Our driver had a feeling that we shouldn’t get off, so she pulled to the side of the road and told us to stay on. As my neighbor and I were waiting for her to open the doors, we saw a flash of light and heard a big crash. We looked out the windows and saw our other neighbor’s big tree fall over onto a power pole, and the pole fell across the road right in front of the bus. It was in the exact spot where we would have crossed the road. If our bus driver had let us off, we would have been roadkill. I was really grateful for the Holy Ghost that day and that He inspires people.