Gospel Story Finder

“When I was small and our leaders spoke to us of marriage, all the stories were happy ones,” says Ruth Silva. She realizes that “happily ever after” takes work, “but I feel that those stories were true. The largest blessing of being married in the temple is the happiness I feel in knowing that we are united as an eternal family.”
Her example helped her father enter the waters of baptism in 2008 and then take his family to the temple, where they were sealed a year later.

Question: What makes the missionary work go so well?
A: There are several factors. One is the dedication of the missionaries and their leaders. They are very willing to open their mouths and teach wherever they are. As an example, two of our young missionaries had a goal to teach seven discussions one day, and when they were headed home on their bicycles that night, they had completed only six. Then a young man rode by them on his bicycle. They looked at each other, then pulled up next to him, one on each side, and introduced him to the Church. Then they said, “Now what we have to teach you is so sacred we need to stop.” They stopped, taught him about Joseph Smith, bore witness of the Restoration, and today that young man is preparing to go on a mission.
Like that young man, people in our area are very ready to hear the gospel, very willing to listen to testimony and to act on the witness they feel. Our members are eager to share what they have. The Church is well respected, so it is not difficult to converse with people about it.
It is important that members in other parts of the world see the true picture of the Church in these countries. These are not third-world areas. We are able to use all the missionary tools and approaches used anywhere else. We have had some successes, for example, through public affairs media programs. The Church attracts people from all walks of life. We have many highly educated and professional people among our membership.

Just before my junior year in high school, my family moved 3,000 miles to the San Francisco area. I started the year knowing exactly one person—my freshman sister.

Redwood High School was very different from the strict high school I had been attending. The whole atmosphere was intimidating.

Shortly after school began, I tried out for cheerleader. I didn’t even make first cuts. In October I went to an audition for a Christmas choir program. Before I even sang a note, the choir director asked me if I had ever been in a school choir. When my answer was no, I was ushered out the door and told thank you very much.

The one bright spot in my day was early-morning seminary, where I always felt welcome and accepted.

At school I worked hard and occasionally forced myself to contribute during classroom discussions. Eventually I made some friends and found a group to eat lunch with. I went to the ball games and school plays, volunteered during spirit week, and hung out at the dances. But I still never felt like I quite belonged.

I kept busy my senior year filling out college application forms, taking entrance exams, and applying for scholarships. Three weeks before graduation, Lee, the good-looking, iron-pumping, brainy debate team member and senior class president, called out to me after class and asked me to walk with him. I was stunned that he even knew my name.

As we walked he explained that he was the president of his church youth group. The group had been studying the religions of the world, and someone had expressed interest in learning about Latter-day Saints. Lee turned to face me and asked if I would deliver an hour-long presentation about the Church to his group.

Weakly I managed to reply, “You don’t want me to speak; who you really want is our missionaries. I’ll ask them for you.”

His response startled me, “We don’t want your missionaries. We want you. We know you, we’ve watched you, and we like who you are.”

Stunned again, I told Lee I would be glad to speak to his group.

The next five days were a flurry of preparation. My seminary teacher, my parents, and the missionaries helped me prepare to explain the basic principles of the gospel and how The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints differs from other churches. Knowing that Lee and his friends were forceful debaters who could be merciless against opponents, I also fasted and prayed for divine guidance.

The day of the presentation arrived. With scriptures in hand and a prayer in my heart, I entered the meeting hall. The 35 people in the room—kids from school, a few adults, and the pastor—all turned to look at me as I walked to the front. After Lee greeted me warmly and introduced me, I took a deep breath and began by telling the Joseph Smith story. A calm feeling filled the room, and for the next 45 minutes the words I spoke came smoothly and effortlessly. I ended by bearing my testimony of modern-day prophets, revelation, and the love Jesus Christ has for each of us.

Then, with great apprehension, I asked if there were any questions. Hands shot up all over the room. Oh boy, here it comes, I thought to myself. But to my surprise, none of the questions were hostile or quarrelsome. As I left the hall I knew that a power stronger than my own had directed the evening’s event.

Throughout high school I had always assumed that being popular meant dating cool guys, appearing in lots of yearbook pictures, or being prom queen. Through this experience, I finally realized that there is a different kind of popularity—popularity based on respect.

After serving in the Philippines Cagayan de Oro Mission, I was determined to follow the counsel of the prophet and apostles to marry in the temple. Most of my nonmember relatives and friends, and even some members, said I should earn a college degree first or have a great job before thinking about marriage. I had neither when I became engaged.
I was nervous, but I remembered a story about President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) when he received a mission call to England. He was preparing to leave in the midst of economic pressures and concerns that troubled him. Just before he left, his father handed him a card with five written words: “Be not afraid, only believe” (Mark 5:36). I also remembered the words of my bishop: “Have faith. God will provide.” These words gave me courage and strength to move forward.
Though empty-handed, I married my lovely fiancée in the Manila Philippines Temple. Shortly thereafter I started to work for a company that required me to work on Sundays. I wanted to keep the Sabbath day holy, so this job didn’t last long. Many wondered why I had quit my job, but I pressed forward, repeating to myself the words “Have faith. God will provide.”
I began driving a jeepney and working as a sales agent to provide for our basic needs and prepare for the arrival of our first baby. My wife noticed I was exhausted trying to provide for our family. She told me I needed to go back to school, but I thought it would be hard to work, serve in the Church, and be a student.
I was right; it was hard. But we did our best to keep the commandments. Often our finances fell short, but with help from the Church’s Perpetual Education Fund, I was able to finish my education before our second child was born. I found a job as a high school teacher and eventually became a seminary and institute coordinator.
Following the counsel of the prophet and other Church leaders helped me realize that marriage provides great opportunities for spiritual growth and maturity. I have been blessed because of my marriage and the gospel.
We don’t need to be afraid, even in the most difficult circumstances. We just need to do our best and remember these words: “Have faith. God will provide.”

A 15-year-old son of a mission president attended high school with very few members of the Church.
One day the class was given a true-or-false test. Matthew was confident that he knew the answers to all except for question 15. It read, “Joseph Smith, the alleged Mormon prophet, wrote the Book of Mormon. True or false?”
He could not answer it either way, so being a clever teenager, he rewrote the question. He crossed out the word alleged and replaced the word wrote with translated. It then read, “Joseph Smith, the Mormon prophet, translated the Book of Mormon.” He marked it true and handed it in.
The next day the teacher sternly asked why he had changed the question. He smiled and said, “Because Joseph Smith did not write the Book of Mormon, he translated it, and he was not an alleged prophet, he was a prophet.”
He was then invited to tell the class how he knew that.

The flight from Brisbane, Australia, to San Francisco is a long one. There is time to read, time to sleep, and time to ponder and think. As a passenger on this flight, I was awakened by the calm, resonant sound of the pilot’s voice as he announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re now passing over the Coral Sea, scene of the great sea battle of World War II.”
Through the cabin window I could see billowy, white clouds and far below the azure blue of the vast Pacific. My thoughts turned to the events of that fateful eighth day of May in 1942 when the mammoth aircraft carrier Lexington slipped to its final resting place on the ocean floor. Twenty-seven hundred thirty-five sailors scrambled to safety. Others were not so fortunate. One who went down with his ship was my boyhood friend Arthur Patton.
May I tell you about Arthur? He had blond, curly hair and a smile as big as all outdoors. Arthur stood taller than any boy in the class. I suppose this is how he was able to fool the recruiting officers and enlist in the navy at the tender age of 15. To Arthur and most of the boys, the war was a great adventure. I remember how striking he appeared in his navy uniform. How we wished we were older, or at least taller, so we too could enlist.
Arthur’s mother was so proud of the blue star which graced her living room window. It represented to every passerby that her son wore the uniform of his country. When I would pass the house she often opened the door and invited me in to read the latest letter from Arthur. Her eyes would fill with tears, and I would then be asked to read aloud. Arthur meant everything to his widowed mother. I can still picture Mrs. Patton’s coarse hands as she would carefully replace the letter in its envelope. These were honest hands which bore the worker’s seal. Mrs. Patton was a cleaning woman—a janitress for a downtown office building. Each day of her life except Sundays, she could be seen walking up the sidewalk, pail and brush in hand, her gray hair combed in a tight bob, her shoulders weary from work and stooped with age.
Then came the Battle of the Coral Sea, the sinking of the Lexington, and the death of Arthur Patton. The blue star was taken from its hallowed spot in the front window. It was replaced by one of gold. A light went out in the life of Mrs. Patton. She groped in utter darkness and deep despair.
With a prayer in my heart, I approached the familiar walkway to the Patton home, wondering what words of comfort could come from the lips of a mere boy. The door opened and Mrs. Patton embraced me as she would her own son. Home became a chapel as a grief-stricken mother and a less-than-adequate boy knelt in prayer.
Arising from our knees, Mrs. Patton gazed into my eyes and spoke: “Tom, I belong to no church, but you do. Tell me, will Arthur live again?” Time dims the memory of that conversation. The present whereabouts of Mrs. Patton is not known to me; but, Mrs. Patton, wherever you are, from the backdrop of my personal experience, I should like to once more answer your question, “Will Arthur live again?”
I suppose we could say that this is a universal question, for who has not at a time of bereavement pondered the same thought?
Death leaves in its cruel wake shattered dreams, unfulfilled ambitions, crushed hopes. In our helplessness, we turn to others for assurance. Men of letters and leaders of renown can express their beliefs, but they cannot provide definitive answers.
The dim light of belief must yield to the noonday sun of revelation. We turn backward in time, that we might go forward with hope. Back to Him who walked the dusty paths of villages we now reverently call the Holy Land, to Him who caused the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to walk and the dead to live. To Him who tenderly and lovingly assured us, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6).
The plan of life and an explanation of its eternal course come to us from the Master of Heaven and Earth, Jesus Christ the Lord. To understand the meaning of death, we must appreciate the purpose of life.
In this dispensation, the Lord declared: “And now, verily I say unto you, I was in the beginning with the Father, and am the Firstborn” (D&C 93:21). “Man was also in the beginning with God” (D&C 93:29). Jeremiah the prophet recorded, “The word of the Lord came unto me, saying, Before I formed thee … I knew thee; and before thou camest forth … I sanctified thee, and I ordained thee a prophet unto the nations” (Jer. 1:4–5).
From that majestic world of spirits we enter the grand stage of life to prove ourselves obedient to all things commanded of God. During mortality we grow from helpless infancy to inquiring childhood and then to reflective maturity. We experience joy and sorrow, fulfillment and disappointment, success and failure; taste the sweet, yet sample the bitter. This is mortality.
Then to each life comes the experience known as death. None is exempt. All must pass its portals. Death claims the aged, the weary and worn. It visits the youth in the bloom of hope and glory of expectation. Nor are the little children kept beyond its grasp. In the words of the Apostle Paul: “It is appointed unto men once to die” (Heb. 9:27).
To most, there is something sinister and mysterious about this unwelcome visitor called death. Perhaps it is a fear of the unknown which causes many to dread its coming.
Arthur Patton died quickly. Others linger. Not long ago I held the thin hand of a youth as he approached the brink of eternity. “I know I am dying,” he said touchingly. “What follows death?” I turned to the scriptures and read to him: “Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it” (Eccl. 12:7). “There is a time appointed unto men that they shall rise from the dead; and there is a space between the time of death and the resurrection. … Now, concerning the state of the soul between death and the resurrection—Behold … the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body, … are taken home to that God who gave them life” (Alma 40:9, 11).
To me, the lad said, “Thank you.” To my Heavenly Father I said silently, “Thank thee, O God, for truth.”
Mrs. Patton, do not grieve as you think of your boy in the depths of the Pacific or question how God’s purposes can be fulfilled. Remember the words of the Psalmist: “If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me” (Ps. 139:9–10).
God has not forsaken you, Mrs. Patton. He sent his Only Begotten Son into the world to teach us by example the life we should live. His Son died upon the cross to redeem all mankind. His words to the grieving Martha and to His disciples today bring comfort to you: “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die” (John 11:25–26). “In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. … I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also” (John 14:2–3).
Mrs. Patton, the testimonies of John the Revelator and Paul the Apostle are also significant to you. John recorded: “I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; … And the sea gave up the dead which were in it” (Rev. 20:12–13). Paul declared: “As in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22).
Until the glorious resurrection morning, we walk by faith. “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face” (1 Cor. 13:12).
Jesus invites you, Mrs. Patton, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls” (Matt. 11:28–29).
Such knowledge will sustain you in your heartache. You will never be in the tragic situation of the disbeliever who, having lost a son, was heard to say as she watched the casket lowered into mother earth: “Good-bye, my boy. Good-bye forever.” Rather, with head erect, courage undaunted, and faith unwavering, you can lift your eyes as you look beyond the gently breaking waves of the blue Pacific and whisper, “Good-bye, Arthur, my precious son. Good-bye—until we meet again.”
And the words of Alfred Lord Tennyson may come to you as though spoken by your boy:
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
· · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
(“Crossing the Bar,” lines 1–4, 9–16)
To the words of the poet I add the testimony of a witness. Mrs. Patton, God our Father is mindful of you. Through sincere prayer you can communicate with Him. He, too, had a Son who died, even Jesus Christ the Lord. He is our advocate with the Father, the Prince of Peace, our Savior and Divine Redeemer. One day we shall see Him face to face.
In His blessed name I declare to you the solemn and sacred truth: Oh, Mrs. Patton, Arthur lives.
Note: Following the original broadcast of this message, President Monson received a touching letter from Mrs. Terese Patton, Arthur’s mother, who was living in Pomona, California. Among other things, she wrote, “I don’t know how to thank you for your wonderful and comforting words. God bless you always.”

Mikel signed his name at the bottom of a clipboard titled “Junior Runners.” A man handed him a bright red number, and Mikel ran back to where his mom, dad, sister, and baby brother sat in the bleachers.
“Ready?” Dad asked.
Mikel pinned the number on his shirt. “I think so.” He had signed up to run in his town’s mile-long race. His family had trained together for weeks, but he still couldn’t believe how far a mile really was!
“I’m ready too!” his sister, Isabella, said. She had a bright yellow number on her shirt. Since she was only in kindergarten, she would run in the half-mile race.
“Junior runners to the track!” the announcer called over the speakers. Mikel felt his stomach do a flip-flop. Dad patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
Mikel smiled back, then turned and headed toward the track. It was time to run.
When the buzzer sounded, Mikel ran just like he had practiced. The mile was long, but Mikel knew he could do it. Even when his shoe fell off during the second lap, he put it back on and finished the race as fast as he could.
As Mikel crossed the finish line, Dad gave him a big hug. “Great job! I bet you’re ready to rest!”
Mikel only nodded, too busy gulping down air to answer. He had a cramp in his side, and he was hot and sweaty.
“Pee-wee runners to the track!” the announcer called.
Isabella bounced up and down in excitement. “My turn!” She jogged to her place at the starting line and waved at Mikel. “I’m going to run just like you!”
Mikel gave a tired wave back. He walked back to the bleachers with Dad.
The race started, and Isabella began her first lap around the track. Mikel settled down on the bleachers. It was nice to sit. His legs felt like rubbery spaghetti noodles.
Isabella was on the opposite end of the track now. They couldn’t see her very well in the crowd of other runners.
As she finished the first loop, Mikel squinted to see her. “Is she okay?”
Isabella was stumbling slowly down the track. It looked like something was wrong.
Dad stood up from his seat. “What happened?” He called to Isabella as she got closer.
The rest of the runners were far ahead. Isabella stopped running. “I fell down on the other side of the track, and I got scared!” she said as she started to sob.
Dad ran out on the track. “Come on, Isabella! We can do it!” Taking her hand, he started running down the track with her.
As Mikel watched them, he felt his noodley legs get stronger. Hopping off his seat, he ran onto the track and took Isabella by the other hand. “Yeah! We can do it together!”
Isabella looked up at Mikel. She wiped the tears away from her cheeks and smiled. Dad let go of Isabella’s hand, and Mikel continued running down the track with her. They were already catching up with the other runners.
Mikel’s legs were burning, and he was out of breath. But he was running—running more than he had ever run before!
Mikel looked over at Isabella as he continued to run. She was grinning from ear to ear.
He smiled and tightened his grip on his sister’s hand. The race was getting easier with every step.

“I was not a member of the Church until I was past Primary age. My father was not a member either (although he joined the Church later), but my mother was Primary president, and later Mutual president, in our little branch in Boise, Idaho, which was then in the Northwestern States Mission. Our meetinghouse was a single room. Curtains were hung from cross wires to divide the room into sections. Besides passing the sacrament, it was the deacon’s job to pull the curtains when we separated for classes. Since I wasn’t a member of the Church, I wasn’t able to perform these duties. I did attend meetings, however, and I joined the Scout troop. I became the first Eagle Scout of that troop and the second Eagle Scout in Boise, Idaho.
“When I was thirteen, I decided I didn’t want to be different from the rest of the boys, so I asked my father if I could be baptized. My sister and I were baptized the same day.”

Growing up without a father, I was fortunate to have wonderful Church and Scouting leaders as role models. One of these was my father’s cousin, Israel Bennion. He was the stake patriarch, and when I was seven, he paid us a visit that helped me look forward with courage and hope during those hard years.
Each of us children, scrubbed clean and dressed in our Sunday best, waited in turn for this dignified man to place his hands on our heads and give us our patriarchal blessings. Mine was only 263 words long, but it has been a guide to me my whole life. It helped me begin to realize that I was literally a son of God and that He knew who I was and what I was doing. If I lived the right way, He would help me. It sustained me when I was in the Navy in World War II. It inspired me on my mission. Throughout my life it helped me chart a course that included honesty and high moral standards.

Friends come in a variety of sizes, shapes, and ages. I learned that as a young boy. I knew that after my daily chores were done, I had a friend next door ready to play—not to run in the fields, ride horses, or swim in the pond, but to sit and have a good game of checkers. For many of the boys my age in our community, Elmer Sessions didn’t seem like a very good prospect as a friend. He was old, especially in the eyes of a 10-year-old boy. He was crippled and could be a little disagreeable at times. But Elmer liked me and I liked him.
Elmer was a good checkers player, and I would patiently watch him plan and execute his moves. He taught me by example how to play checkers. I don’t know who was more excited, Elmer or me, the first time I beat him at his own game.
There was a determination about Elmer that I came to admire. He had an appreciation for nature and beauty and loved to see things grow. Every morning you could see him heading out to work in his garden. With the aid of an old walking stick, Elmer would drag his crippled leg behind him. The walk itself was difficult, and keeping the weeds out of his large garden seemed to me to be a monumental task. It wasn’t easy, but he took pride in the beautiful produce that grew there. I would help him when I could. I enjoyed our conversations. He was full of interesting facts that he was willing to share with a listening boy.
He liked to grow unusual things in his garden, and one spring day I remember asking him what he was planting. He replied, “Goober peas.” When I told him I had never heard of goober peas, he gave me some and told me to go home and plant them in our garden. I did, and I watched them carefully as they grew. When I expressed my concern that I couldn’t see any fruit on the vine, he told me to be patient. The day came when it was time to harvest the goober peas. Elmer showed me how to dig around the plants, and was I surprised and delighted to find that under the ground were mounds of peanuts just waiting to be roasted—Elmer’s goober peas.
Over the years I learned many things from Elmer Sessions—lessons about patience, determination, endurance, and long-suffering. I learned that friends can come in a variety of sizes, shapes, and ages. That an old man and a young boy can be friends. Friendships can easily span years when two people are willing to listen and care and reach out to each other.

Not long ago while sitting on the stand during the closing session of a youth conference, just as the young priest conducting the meeting stood to bring the meeting to a close, Kathy, sitting next to me, jumped up and unhesitatingly slipped in front of the young man, took her place at the pulpit, faced the audience, raised both hands in front of her with outstretched fingers, and said, “I’ll bet you’ve all been wondering why I’ve been wearing this ugly green nail polish.” A soft ripple could be heard across the audience, and I realized I was not alone in my curiosity.
“Well,” she said, “it’s like this: I knew my responsibilities as one of the leaders of this conference were big. I knew I had some real challenges ahead, and I didn’t want to be sorry after the chance was gone that I didn’t do what I really wanted to do.
“You see, I needed something that would remind me of what I really wanted to do and help me through the things I didn’t want to do. So I thought of a plan. And it worked! You see,” she went on, “I wanted something that would remind me of what I really wanted to make myself do. I knew my fingernails would always be right there.”
After further details, and bearing a strong testimony of the joy that comes when you do what you should, she took her seat. From this insight I was reminded of the message of the Apostle Paul as he was counseling the Corinthians:
“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things” (1 Cor. 13:11).
Kathy had helped us all understand the importance of reminders, but it was the combined voices of young people singing the closing song, resounding like a sacred sermon, that brought forth new appreciation for sacred reminders. They sang:
I marvel that he would descend from his throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine;
That he should extend his great love unto such as I,
Sufficient to own, to redeem, and to justify.
(“I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns, no. 80)

Though all of us have to do things we do not like, it is important that you ultimately enjoy your work. If you can’t stand to be indoors, maybe you had better try to find something that you would like to do outside. One high school senior loved to fish and camp, and consequently he became very knowledgeable about nature. He got in touch with two prominent naturalists and they hired him. His job? To help study the habits and life of the grizzly bear in Yellowstone National Park.

Some members remained faithful despite years of isolation. Gunter Schulze, now bishop of the Dresden Ward, spent much of his time during that period finding and caring for isolated members—some in Poland, some in outlying areas of the German Democratic Republic. One of these was an elderly sister in Upper Silesia.
“We visited with her a long time,” recalls Brother Schulze. “Finally she went behind the stove and brought out a knotted stocking and began untying the knots, several knots. Then she held out her two hands like a scale and weighed money from the knotted stocking. She said, ‘This is my tithing. I have been saving it for over twenty-five years now. I knew the priesthood would come into my home again someday!’”

Some months ago I had a conversation with a young father. He was desperately trying to meet his financial obligations and at the same time graduate from college, work, support his young family, attend church, read the scriptures, and do everything that was expected of him. He seemed like a boxer--half groggy, half conscious--listening to the countdown by the referee. He seemed almost relieved with the thought that, with the sound of the bell, it would all be over.
With a note of desperation in his voice, he said, "What's the use of continuing this crazy kind of life, disciplining, working, sacrificing? Anyway, I'm a failure at what I have been doing." His perception was wrong. Again, the adversary was using his favorite weapon: to distort the perception of our spiritual identity and potential and to transform us from agents to victims of the system. How can we face this constant challenge? How could this young man come out of this depression? The answer is relatively simple. Perceive correctly the Spirit of the Lord and feel the companionship and influence of the Holy Ghost. Do not turn your heart from the Lord because of the precepts of man. There is the power, the strength, the will to overcome despair about one's responsibilities and role in this life.

During April 1993 my father was buying groceries at a local store in the little town of Realicó, Argentina. Two young men approached him and asked if they could visit his family. My father agreed, and they soon came to our home.
I can still hear my little brother, Sebastián, running to my bedroom and whispering excitedly, “Come look! The missionaries are here!” We had seen them on the streets before, and I must confess we had made fun of them.
That day they shared the Book of Mormon with my parents. They stopped by two days later, and to their amazement my mother had read the whole book and had a list of questions. The missionaries were very excited, but my parents were not looking for a change of religion as much as they were interested in developing a friendship with the elders. “Talk all you want, but you will not get a convert out of this family” was my parents’ first reaction to the discussions. Still the missionaries continued to teach us with a lot of faith and patience.
On a cold night we offered to take the elders home after a discussion. On the way back to our house I asked my mother if she was really thinking of being baptized into this new religion. Her reply stunned me: “If I find it to be the truth, then I will get baptized.” I realized I should also know for myself if it was true.
When the commitment to obey the Word of Wisdom came up in the discussions, I thought it was the end. My mother had tried to stop smoking for 16 years without positive results, and my father sometimes drank alcohol at social events. I didn’t think we needed to change our lifestyle to please some strange religion. Still the missionaries asked us to pray to find out if the gospel had been restored and if Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. A miracle occurred because my mother was able to stop smoking. She knew God was trying to let her know the Church was true, and she was baptized.
I kept reading and praying, and once I had a testimony of the Book of Mormon, I entered the waters of baptism. A few weeks later my father made the same decision, and two years later so did my brother. Although I was only 13 years old when I joined the Church, I knew I had found the greatest treasure ever.
We were sealed as an eternal family in the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple, and we have discovered the joy the gospel brings to our lives. As I look back, I can see the Spirit of God working in our hearts and helping us come out of the darkness into the light.
I love my family. I love the gospel. I love being a missionary. And now when I knock on a door and people say, “Talk all you want, but you will not get a convert out of this family,” I smile and pray that the Spirit will touch them the way it touched my family 10 years ago.

When Alan Carroll of the Crescent Sixth Ward, Draper Utah Stake, was a Cub Scout, he was the only boy in his pack to earn all 15 activity badges. And that was only the beginning! An enthusiastic response to the Scouting program, as well as excellence in Church, community, and school activities, earned him the honor of being chosen as the top Explorer Scout in the nation last year. Alan’s first official duty was representing the nation’s 1.4 million Explorer Scouts in reporting Scouting activities to President Jimmy Carter and members of Congress in Washington, D.C. He is now a freshman at BYU and preparing for a mission in the fall.

When we arrived in Merthyr, the scene had already been set by those who had been directing our lives for the past year. It felt as though we were in a giant genealogical chess game over which we had no control. Terry was beginning to feel the same forces in action as well. Every morning he would present us with a list of places we would visit that day. One day he showed us his list, which had two sides. He said that he created one list the night before and then this morning, for some unknown reason, he changed it and added a new place: Gadfield Elm Chapel in Gloucestershire. He said he didn’t know why he added it but thought it would be interesting for us to see. Of course, we acquiesced.
Miracle number eight: As we got to Gadfield Elm we discovered the reason. The first ownership of the chapel was given to Wilford Woodruff by the United Brethren, but it rested on or near brother Benbow’s farm. Many of the early members were baptized in Benbow’s pond. And Benbow was the maiden name of Terry’s wife. Terry was stunned. He kept saying he had no idea why he had changed the itinerary for the day, but we all knew why.

My testimony that this is the true and living Church began in my childhood. One of my earliest memories is of a conference meeting held not in some place like this but in a rented room of a hotel. A man was speaking whom I did not know, nor do I know his name today. I knew only that he was someone sent to our little district in the mission field by someone who held the priesthood. I do not know what he said. But I received a powerful, certain witness before I was eight, even before I was baptized, that I was hearing a servant of God in the true Church of Jesus Christ. It was not the rental room nor the size of the congregation, which was small, but it was a witness that I had been blessed at that moment to be in a meeting of the true Church.

In some ways I know how Elijah felt. It is difficult to try and convince a people whose hearts are not ready for the word of the Lord. And yet I benefit from the keys Elijah restored to the prophet Joseph Smith in the Kirtland Temple. How? Let me share. One night I dreamt about a brother who had passed on. We were in a room. There were three people in the room; Andy, my brother, my mom and me. Andy was speaking to my Mom in Chamorro, "Ma u yu" Translated he was saying, "I am thirsty." Using my gospel knowledge, I interpreted this to mean he was ready for what the Savior described as "living waters." He was ready for the gospel of Jesus Christ. Most dreams, I don't remember but this one stayed with me. I had to do my brother's work in the temple but how. I needed to ask my mom permission to do his work. I kept praying for courage and the ability to say the right words to my mom. When the opportunity came, I asked my mom. I said, "Mom you know how in the Catholic Church you honor your loved ones that have died by offering mass; I want to do the same especially for Andy. We have our own way of honoring our dead. Is it alright if I do this work for Andy?" I told her about my dream and with no hesitation she said, "Go ahead because I know you love your brother." Tears of joy welled up in my eyes and I immediately thanked the Lord for placing words in my mouth. I couldn't have said it any better.

Caliana McMurtrey of Big Thompson Ward, Loveland Colorado Stake, shows this spirit in her own way. Caliana knows what it is to give of herself. To celebrate her ninth birthday, she decided to have her first real haircut.

The hairstylist, Jill Harris, also a member of Big Thompson Ward, braided Caliana’s hair from the middle of her back to her hips, then cut 15? (38 cm) from the 30? (76 cm) length. Caliana donated her hair to an organization that makes wigs of real hair for children who have lost their hair because of cancer treatments, burns, or other medical problems.

Before the big moment, Caliana had never had a real haircut, just trims and snips. She decided to donate her hair after her mother told her about seeing a television program on charities that make children’s wigs.

“I want to do that because I have such long hair,” Caliana said.