Gospel Story Finder

On Wednesday afternoons I have a very special job. I bag fifteen newspapers in plastic bags, load them into my red wagon, then go up the street to deliver newspapers and to check on my neighbors.
My first stop is always the Baxters’ house. Every spring a robin builds a nest in the tree by their front door. After the eggs have hatched, I always carefully lay the newspaper on their front steps so that I don’t scare the baby birds.
The next house is Mrs. Kirkham’s. She loves flowers. When I leave her paper, I like to count and see how many tulips have bloomed. One summer she gave me a pink rose to take home to my mother. I carried it straight home so that it wouldn’t get squashed in the wagon.
The Statlers, who live up the block, are gone most of the summer, visiting their grandchildren. I don’t deliver a paper when they’re gone, but once I had to chase a stray cat away from their birdbath.
When it’s really hot, Peg Jackson and her baby, Ryan, wait for me with a glass of ice-cold lemonade. I know I’m half done with my route when I get to their house, so I sit in the shade on their front porch to rest for a minute.
At the end of the street, I cross carefully over to the house with the white picket fence. Mr. Weber lives there. He’s pretty old, but he usually shuffles out to the sidewalk when he sees me coming. Sometimes he “trades” me something for the newspaper. Once he gave me a sackful of zucchini from his garden. Mom made it into bread, and I took a loaf back to him. He said that that was a good deal.
My next favorite place is the Morris’s big house. Mrs. Morris is an art teacher, and in October they have fantastic jack-o’-lanterns on their front steps. Sometimes they have scary monster faces or scenes from fairy tales carved into them. They’re amazing!
There’s a small creek in the trees by the Changs’ house. When the water starts getting ice on the edges, I know that soon I’ll be using my sled instead of my red wagon to haul papers. When the creek is frozen solid, the Changs let me pull my sled right across it so that I can get out of the cold quicker.
When I get home, I always have a treat. Do you know what I like best when I’m cold? Hot chocolate. First it warms my hands and my face, and then it warms me inside.
After paying my tithing, most of the money I earn for delivering papers goes into my missionary savings fund. Mom says that my paper route is preparing me to be a missionary in other ways, too. I’m learning to be a good walker in all kinds of weather, and I’m learning to really care about people and to serve them. I think that’s a pretty good deal for Wednesday afternoons. Don’t you?

Years ago, I once tried to persuade my friends at school to not do their homework because I hadn’t done mine. I was in the wrong, but I thought that if we all got in trouble, I would somehow feel better about myself. My poor behaviour reminds me of Satan’s attitude toward us. Because he is miserable, he wants to spoil our potential for eternal life.
Satan is so distorted by his bitterness that he—even knowing he will ultimately fail—desperately attempts to “spread the works of darkness” (Helaman 6:28), to harm as many of us as he can.

As I was going to the park with my friend Emma and her mom, I saw the temple and started to sing “I Love to See the Temple.” When we got to the park, Emma’s mom told my mom that she wanted to start going to church again. My mom was surprised because Emma’s mom hadn’t been to church for a long time. She told my mom, “Natalie was singing Primary songs, and Emma doesn’t even know any.” Now Emma is a Sunbeam. I’m glad I could be an example.

Elder Daniel Stolt of the Australia Melbourne Mission was once on the fence about serving a mission. “The more I thought about it the more confusing the decision became,” he recalls. One day, he took his concerns to the Lord. “I prayed my heart out, and [then] I had this feeling that I should find my grandfather’s story. My mom told me, ‘You know we have your grandfather’s mission letters; I think he would have wanted you to read them.’”
“My grandfather’s story has shown me that we do not always know the kind of impact we have when sharing the gospel,” Elder Stolt reflects, “but we do have an impact.” Reading his grandfather’s mission letters gave him the answer he needed to serve his own full-time mission.
“In trying to do the Lord’s work, the lesson I know to be true is that we must try our best, show faith in Christ, and all will fall into place.”

I remember a touching testimony by a mother with three little children. Speaking at the pulpit, she carried her new baby. Another was tugging at her skirt. She said:

When I see on TV little children and mothers suffering, when I see their emaciated and starved little bodies, it’s like a knife in my heart and I cry out ‘what can I do, I am poor, far away, with three needy children of my own. I am helpless.’ But then it dawns on me that there are two things I can do. I can pray and I can cry and the Lord will consecrate my tears in their behalf.

Anderson School was a tall and dark redbrick building, and Jenny knew she wouldn’t like it. She remembered the low cream-colored school she had attended in California, also the modern one in Maryland before that where one wall was built completely of glass.
Clutching her mother’s hand, Jenny walked into the principal’s office. A woman behind a desk stood up to meet them and introduced herself. Jenny heard her mother’s meeting-new-people voice, telling of their arrival in Grant’s Valley two days before. Jenny knew the sentences by heart: “Our daughter has gone to five different schools and has never had any trouble adjusting.”
The lady smiled and said kindly, “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the fourth grade here, Jenny. Miss Sorenson is a wonderful teacher!”
Jenny’s mother said again that she knew Jenny would fit right in as she always had in the other schools.
But Jenny wasn’t sure that she would. She just twisted her pink handkerchief around her little finger and stared hard at the bouquet of lilacs on the principal’s desk, until the two women rose to go to the fourth grade classroom. Then she followed them down the hall, glancing at the boys and girls who sat at the old desks in the rooms she passed.
When they arrived at Room 12, Miss Sorenson was showing a movie about Washington, D.C. The teacher stopped the movie and turned on the lights so she could talk with the principal. The children turned around in their seats and looked at Jenny. The room smelled like blackboard erasers, and there were narrow windows at the side with dark green blinds pulled down for the movie. Jenny wished that her mother would stop talking to Miss Sorenson and go home. A girl with brown hair and a red-checked dress whispered something to the girl across the aisle, who giggled and whispered back, their eyes on Jenny.
At last Jenny’s mother left. Miss Sorenson said, “Class, this is Jenny Martin, who just moved here from California. Now, Jenny, why don’t you take that seat there in the second row and we’ll finish watching the movie.”
Gratefully, Jenny slid into the seat just as someone switched off the light. She watched as the scenes flashed by on the screen, showing the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument during cherry blossom time. Jenny wanted to say, “I’ve been to those places!” But she was sure no one cared about that.
Recess followed the movie. Everyone had to wait in line and march down the long halls together. In California, the playground had been right next to the classroom. Jenny reached the end of the line and slowly walked outside, wondering what they would play.
There were swings, a slide, and climbing bars on the playground. In California, the playground was an area of black asphalt without play equipment, but with painted white lines for hopscotch and dodge ball. Jenny kicked at the dirt that comprised most of the playground and watched the other children. They played noisily in their own private groups. The girls looked at her as she walked past them, but no one smiled or asked her to join them. She walked on until she went around a corner of the building and just kept going. Soon she had walked past the end of the school property and crossed the street at the corner.
Jenny continued walking. The weather was cool and, even though it was early May, she wished she’d worn a coat instead of her light sweater. Between the sidewalk and the street a stream of sparkling water rushed through the new grass. Jenny noticed how beautiful the trees were, with tiny leaves of the softest green, just the color of a dress her mother sometimes wore to parties.
At the end of the block Jenny came to a small park. It was empty except for a man picking up litter with a pointed stick. The lonely girl sat down in a swing and pushed herself slowly. It made a squeaking noise, and for a moment she was afraid someone would come to ask why she wasn’t in school. But soon the rhythm of the swing and the sound of the wind moving through the trees made her forget her fear. She closed her eyes and swung higher, pretending she was back in California playing on the beach.
When she opened her eyes, she saw the principal was standing there. Jenny almost fell out of the swing.
“Hello, Jenny,” said the principal in a kind voice. “Did you decide to come here for recess today?”
She didn’t sound angry, and for a minute Jenny almost smiled.
“I saw you walking away from the playground and wondered if you thought school was over for the day,” the principal added.
Then Jenny did a strange thing. She started to cry. She hardly ever cried, but she cried now because she was thinking of how the girl in the red-checked dress would probably laugh and whisper about her tardiness. And she was crying because she knew that she couldn’t hunt for shells and rocks on the beach anymore. But mostly she was crying because the principal was very kind and Jenny thought somehow she should be quite cross.
The principal didn’t put her arms around the sobbing girl, although she wanted to very much, to help her stop crying. She stood quietly and said, “Jenny, I imagine you noticed a lot of things about Grant’s Valley on your little walk, didn’t you? I used to live in San Francisco, and when I came here I was surprised to find that spring in Grant’s Valley is like a miracle. When we walk back to school, I’ll show you the place where I got the lilacs on my desk, and perhaps the lady who lives there will give you some to take to your mother.”
The principal took Jenny’s hand in hers and continued, “You will soon see that the children in Grant’s Valley have a good time, especially in the spring and summer. They don’t ride ferryboats across the bay, and they can’t go to the beach and find seashells. But they play games outside on warm summer evenings, and wade in these refreshing irrigation ditches. And do you know, I’ll bet if you told the class some afternoon about all the things you’ve seen and done in the places you’ve lived, they’d be glad to share with you some of the wonderful things in their lives!”
Together she and Jenny walked back to Anderson School—the friendly redbrick building.

Like Bishop Caussé, I lived in a small branch of the Church during a good part of my teen years, and I was often asked to fulfill assignments and callings that would normally have been done by adults. For example, those of us in the youth program often took the lead in helping organize and run our activities and special events. We wrote plays, formed a singing group to entertain at branch activities, and were full participants in every meeting. I was called to be the branch music leader and led the singing in sacrament meeting each week. It was a great experience as a 16-year-old to stand in front of everyone in the branch each Sunday and lead them in singing the hymns. I felt needed and knew I had something to contribute. People depended on me to be there, and I loved feeling useful. That experience helped build my testimony of Jesus Christ, and just as it did for Bishop Caussé, it anchored my life in gospel service.

Many years ago two General Authorities called a very young man to be a new stake president. In his response, the new stake president said he would give total devotion to his calling and would not ask any of the members of his stake to be more devoted than he. Then he bore his testimony that he believed the gospel with all his heart and proposed to live it.

Later at lunch one of the General Authorities asked this new stake president whether he knew absolutely that this gospel is true. He answered that he did not. The senior Apostle said to his fellow Apostle, “He knows it just as well as you do. The only thing that he does not know is that he does know it. It will be but a short time until he does know it. … You do not need to worry.”

A short time later, the new stake president testified that following a spiritual experience, “I shed tears of gratitude to the Lord for the abiding, perfect, and absolute testimony that came into my life of the divinity of this work.”

I had 467 full-time missionaries given to me over a period of three years. What a glorious experience. I remember I hadn’t been in New England more than an hour when the telephone rang. On the line was an elder I hadn’t met yet, an elder who had been in the mission field just one week. He had some concerns, as sometimes missionaries do, and he wanted to go home. He didn’t just say, “I want to go home.” He announced he was going. He was a small young man in stature, quite good-looking, and a sharp athlete; but he was born with a handicap, and this was one of his barriers. He had only half a larynx. When he spoke he spoke with a harsh voice, and people often made fun of him. He announced on the phone, “President Dunn, I just called to tell you I’m going home tonight, so don’t try to stop me.”
I said, “Well, at least pay me the courtesy of coming over and getting acquainted and saying good-bye.”
“All right, I’ll come by on my way to the airport.”
He came over. In the meantime, I checked his file and found among other things one thing in my favor—he wanted to be an athlete. He was a good one. He wanted to make a career out of sports. I sat him down. He said, “Now, President, you’re not going to talk me into staying.”
I said, “Didn’t intend to. Tell me your problem.”
He said, “It’s very simple. I don’t have a testimony. I don’t believe in the Lord. Furthermore, and you’ll learn sometime, my home life hasn’t been what it ought to be. I hate my dad, I hate my mother, I hate this Church, I hate this mission, and I already hate you.”
I thought, “Well, this is a thrilling challenge; first day on your mission and you’ve got a young man thinking like this.” I said, “I don’t know what all the circumstances are, but let me tell you something. The Lord lives, and he loves you. Your parents, for reasons you can’t fully comprehend, love you. This Church loves you, this mission loves you, and I like you a little bit. Now,” I said, “you can walk out of this mission anytime you want; but I don’t think you’re going to and let me tell you why. You’re not a quitter. You may have a lot of hang-ups and problems, but you’re not a quitter. I noticed from your athletic record that you don’t quit. Let me tell you something you may not know. I played professional baseball for a number of years and found myself behind in early and middle innings of many a ball game. If you were my coach, and we were behind five to two in the seventh inning, and I came to you and said, ‘Coach, let’s get out of here while we can and save face,’ what would you say?”
He said, “We’ve got two more innings to catch up and win.”
I said, “Exactly, and a mission is no different!”
“Well,” he said, “that’s baseball.”
I said, “No, it isn’t. The game of life plays by the same rules and principles. I just don’t think you’re going to quit because you’re not that kind of player. There’s the door. You can go if you must, but I don’t think you will.”
“Well,” he said, “I’ll try it one more week.”
“Fine. One more week. You call me next week, and we’ll talk about it.”
He called me the next week, and he gave me the same dialogue. He didn’t even miss a line. He had it out again, and would you believe for the next 103 weeks. Every week, through the mail, in person, on the phone, “I’m going, President!”
“So long, Elder; but I don’t think you are.”
And then it happened, the 104th week. Another phone call and he said, “I’ve got to tell you. It happened. I got the spirit!” And he told me of some very special experiences he had had that week, how the Lord had answered his prayers and how he received a testimony. Through real hardship and prayers he got an answer.
The following Sunday he came into the mission home for his last evening prior to his departure home. We used to have a simple ceremony when a group departed; and when it came time for him to speak he said, “Can I say something, President?”
I said, “You haven’t hesitated up to now. What do you want to tell us?”
He said, “You know what I found out this week? I’ve found what a testimony is. I believe in the Lord. He lives, and I love him. I love my mom and dad. I love this Church. I love this mission, and I kind of like you.”

By way of illustration, one young man who was anxious to serve a mission came to my home late one evening and poured out his heart to me in confession. He had been up in the hills praying for forgiveness. During the mental and spiritual turmoil caused by his sins, his mind had been drawn back to the story of Enos. At length he convinced himself that he would seek forgiveness directly from the Lord in personal, fervent prayer, even if he—like Enos—had to pray all night.

The young man prayed long, hard, fervently, and tearfully with much energy, anguish, and humility. Yet he did not receive a witness that his sins had been forgiven; rather, he received an overwhelming impression that he should go confess his sins to his bishop. Soon the young man had properly confessed all the transgressions from his past to an authorized representative of the Lord, and together they had established a plan to help him put his spiritual life in order.

In the fully organized, restored Church of Jesus Christ—which has a complete line of authorized priesthood leaders in every ward, branch, stake, district, or mission—complete repentance of serious sins always involves confession to the proper ecclesiastical leader in addition to humble prayer to our Heavenly Father.

At 53, Elizabeth seized another learning opportunity. She and her daughter Jessie were walking down the street in Bendigo when a man in a black coat and top hat introduced himself as a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He offered them a book and said it would teach them God’s plan for His children. Elizabeth always eagerly accepted free books, but this one would change their lives.

All through that night, Jessie read The Book of Mormon to her mother, and the Holy Spirit affirmed to them this book was true.

Elizabeth and three of her children were baptized on 2 February 1902. A couple years later, her two grandsons were baptized.

Then in February a new convert named Keith moved into our small branch. He had been a member for five months and had the enthusiasm of four new missionaries in one. When the college we attended announced a foster grandparent program involving a local rest home, Keith suggested that we, the only LDS students on campus, should join and be good examples. We talked about visiting two branch members who lived in the rest home, but we took no action.
Then one Sunday President Harrison gave a talk on faith. He said faith was putting your words and beliefs in action. That afternoon Keith and I decided to visit the sisters in the rest home.
Our first visit was a disaster. We visited each sister alone, and we didn’t really get beyond “How are you?” “Fine.” As we left we knew to things: first, they needed us; second, we could do better. And even though we spent much of the next Sunday afternoon driving the 150 miles home from district conference, Keith and I convinced Les Harrison, his sister LeAnn, and Portia (a nursing student) to visit the women with us.
We wheeled both sisters into a quiet corner. Keith read an article from a Church magazine, Les read a scripture, and Portia offered a beautiful prayer. We felt good about the experience, and the next Sunday we came with seven Young Adults and youth. With President Harrison’s permission, Les and Keith blessed the sacrament and passed it to the sisters. We then wheeled them into a small chapel in the rest home and sang a hymn. We took turns reading an article from the Church magazines, then a poem and a scripture. We had a closing hymn and prayer.
It was three o’clock before we left, and since we were all hungry, Les invited us to his house for soup and crackers. So that Sunday afternoon I was again in the branch president’s home—but this time it was very different from the Sunday I went there looking for someone to play ice hockey. During the week the seven of us were scattered about the town, and many of us were without families in the Church. But for two hours that Sunday afternoon, we sat around the table and talked with each other and Les’s parents, sharing jokes, stories, and the problems of being lone Latter-day Saints out in the mission field. It was truly an inspiring experience.
When I finally returned home at ten o’clock after several other meetings, I had no time left to work on my genealogy or write a letter to a missionary as I had planned. As I knelt for prayer that night, I realized there were more “dos” for the Sabbath than I could ever fit into one short day. I thanked my Heavenly Father for the special day he had set apart to bless us.

Amanda had been watching through the window for what seemed like hours. Finally the car pulled into the driveway. “Daddy’s home!” she shouted as she ran out the door. Before Daddy was even out of the car, Amanda was showing him her letter.
“Look, Daddy, I got a letter from Grandma! It came in the mail today. Mommy read it to me already, but I want you to read it again.”
Letters from Amanda’s grandma are especially fun to get because Amanda’s grandma and grandpa are missionaries far, far away in Paraguay (pah-rah-gwi). Almost everyone in Paraguay speaks Spanish, so Grandma and Grandpa have learned to speak Spanish too. They teach the people there about the Church. They also teach them how to sew and how to plant gardens, and they help them to build chicken coops and other things. Grandpa is even helping to build a meetinghouse there.
As soon as Daddy had a chance to get in the house and sit down, Amanda crawled up onto his lap. “Here, Daddy. Read my letter,” she said.
Daddy gave Amanda a big hug, then read this letter:
Dear Amanda,
We had so many interesting visitors at church last Sunday that I thought you would like to hear about them. Grandpa and I went to church in a little town called Itakyrú (ee-tahk-ee-roo). We are building a nice new meetinghouse there, but for now the members come to the home of the Ugarte (oo-gar-teh) family for church. There are two rooms in the house: a bedroom, where the whole family sleeps, and a kitchen, where Sister Ugarte cooks over an open fire. Between the two rooms is a covered area for the animals. There is a big box of corn there, and the dogs and pigs and chickens and ducks go in and out whenever they wish. The Ugarte family also has a little brown burro, a calf, and a pretty gray cat.
On Sunday, however, all the animals have to go out into the yard, and Brother Ugarte sets up benches for our meetings in the area between the two rooms. It is a very cool and pretty place to have a meeting.
Sacrament meeting last Sunday started out as usual. Then, after the announcements and opening song, we heard a strange munching noise. It was the little black calf. He had come in to listen and to eat some of his corn!
A little later, during the first talk, Grandpa leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Grandma, there is a little pig between my feet!”
“I know,” I whispered back, “and there is a little spotted dog under me.”
Just at that moment the little dog under me playfully nipped the little pig under Grandpa.
“Ooee! Ooee! Ooee!” squealed the pig, and it ran into the yard.
“Woof! Woof! Woof!” barked the dog, following the pig into the yard.
“Amen,” said the speaker as he finished his talk.
Everyone stood up to sing a rest song. The little brown burro, which had been very reverent in the yard the whole time, decided he would like to sing. Have you ever heard a burro sing? They don’t stay with the music very well, and they always forget the words!
The second half of the meeting was much quieter. The pretty gray cat fell asleep outside near the burro, and the only new visitors to church were some ducks and a mother hen that came to eat the corn that the calf had spilled on the floor.
Soon the new meetinghouse in Itakyru will be finished. Then the animals won’t be able to come to church anymore, which is really too bad, because they seemed to enjoy being there with us.
Grandpa and I are very glad that we can be missionaries in Paraguay. Maybe someday you can be a missionary too. Don’t forget to be a good girl for your mommy and daddy.
Love,
Grandma

Enrique was born the year his grandfather Delio was baptized into the Church. Growing up, he frequently spent time with his grandparents next door or with his aunts, all of whom were active in the Church. (He calls Liduvina his second mother.) Though his father and mother were not members in his early years, “my brothers and sisters and I grew up in the Church.”
His father, Vicente, he recalls, wanted nothing to do with the Church—did not even want to talk about it. When Vicente’s children tried to give him a Book of Mormon, he literally tossed it back at them. But, Enrique says, “it was the example of his children that eventually changed my father.” Enrique’s patriarchal blessing promised that his father would join the Church because of the example of his children. Enrique and the rest of the family clung to that promise.
In 1986, while Enrique’s younger brother was serving a mission, their father’s opposition to the Church had softened enough for him to give consent for his wife to be baptized. After 25 years of attending and serving as she could, Lina was finally a member. Her husband, however, was far from ready to take that step. Family life went on for several more years with everyone but Vicente as a member of the Church. Then one Sunday morning in 2002, Vicente got up and dressed in his suit, ready to go to church—ready to be taught. He was baptized shortly afterward, and he and his wife were sealed in the temple in 2003.

But I often felt out of place at church because I was learning so many new things. I bought some new long skirts to replace my short ones. When I wore them to church, I found out they were still too short to meet Church standards. I didn’t understand what my friends meant when they used Church-related abbreviations. I was too nervous and shy to ask them the meanings of things.

What helped was the teens befriending me and taking time to include me. They seemed to have a natural way of caring for new members. Another thing that helped was visualizing my family in the next life. I never wanted them to be disappointed in me for not living the gospel when I knew it to be true. Even though times were difficult when I was a teenager, I tried to think of the future and my responsibility to my family. If I did not live the gospel, how would my family ever have a chance of accepting it?

In 1935, a returning missionary, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, was asked to visit with the First Presidency because of his special work in the British Isles. His fifteen-minute appointment soon stretched to nearly an hour and a half. Impressed, the First Presidency requested him to help with missionary work, and he has scarcely left the Church Administration Building since then. Only now he sits, humbly, in the center chair in the First Presidency Council Room to which he came humbly sixty years ago!

Eliza felt like she had butterflies in her stomach as she stood outside the school gym. She had spent the last month getting ready to try out for the school volleyball team. And today was finally the tryout!
She took a deep breath as she pushed open the gym door. Don’t be nervous, she told herself. Don’t be nervous!
Eliza might not be the best player, but she’d been practicing every day with her sister. She’d improved a lot!
“Eliza!” her friend Jada called from the other side of the gym. “Want to practice with me?”
They found a volleyball and passed it back and forth to each other. It helped Eliza feel a bit better. I can do this! she thought.
When the coach finally arrived, Eliza and Jada joined the other girls in the center of the gym. The coach welcomed them, and then tryouts began!
First they did some warm-ups. Then they split into teams and practiced hitting the ball to each other. They ended with a game of volleyball. Eliza felt good when she earned her team a point.
Two hours later, Eliza was back home and exhausted. She fell on the couch, ready to rest.
“How did it go?” Mom asked.
“I think it went OK,” Eliza said. She still felt a little nervous. “There was one girl who was really good. She’ll be on the team for sure!”
“When do you find out if you made it?” Mom asked.
“Tomorrow after school. They’ll have a list in the gym.”
Eliza could hardly wait for tomorrow! After dinner, she went straight to bed. In 19 hours I’ll know if I made the team! She knew it was going to be a long night.
As soon as school was over the next day, Eliza hurried to the gym. There it was! The list of girls who made the team was hanging on the wall. Lots of girls were crowded around it.
Eliza rushed over to the list and read it quickly. Then she read it again and felt her stomach drop. Her name wasn’t there! The girl who was really good made the team. Jada also made the team. A lot of her other friends made it too.
But I wasn’t good enough, she thought.
After going home and telling Mom her news, Eliza hid in her bedroom for the rest of the day. She didn’t want to see anyone.
She had just decided to stay in her room forever when she smelled something. It smelled so good! Eliza tried to focus on the book she was reading, but it was too hard. What was that smell? It was something familiar …
Eliza couldn’t ignore it any longer. She sneaked into the kitchen to investigate.
Key lime pie! That was her favorite dessert!
“Why are we having pie?” Eliza asked her dad.
“It’s not just a pie,” Dad said. “It’s a try pie.”
“What?”
“It’s for you. We’re going to celebrate your tryout.”
Eliza’s stomach dropped. “Didn’t Mom tell you? I didn’t make the team. I failed.”
“Part of learning new things means not always succeeding. That can be scary. But the important thing is you still tried. We think that’s worth celebrating!”
“Really?” Eliza asked.
“Really!” Dad said.
That night, Eliza and her family ate the pie. Eliza piled lots of whipped cream on her slice. It was delicious!
“Thanks for the pie,” Eliza said, with her mouth full.
“You’re welcome,” Mom said. “We’re proud of you for trying something hard!”

It was stuck, completely, 100 percent stuck. I couldn’t pull the knee brace up any farther, but I also couldn’t pull it down to get it off. The doctor came back in, and I had to explain my predicament.
“You’re bigger than I thought,” was his comment.
After successfully wrestling the next larger size up my leg, I was ready to leave. The doctor’s nurse stopped me and apologized for the doctor’s comment.
“I told him you just don’t say things like that to girls. He meant you are tall.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I get it all the time.”

My mother, my elder and my younger sisters all got baptized when I was on my mission. We lived with my mother for 10 years without my father’s love, and my sisters and I had our mother by our side all the time. I had all the love for my father despite the fact that he had distanced himself from us for 10 years. When I was on a mission, I knew I shouldn’t change the lives of others while my family perished, so I did everything I could to get back in touch with my father.
As I got in touch with my father, I knew I had a huge responsibility to introduce him to the missionaries. I attended his first meeting with the missionaries through a WhatsApp video call, but the first time, the missionaries and I faced a lot of criticism and backbiting. My father didn’t believe that there can be a true church of God in the world today. I asked my mission president for a favor to go to the temple. On my way to the temple, I prayed and fasted for my father.
Two months after I returned from my mission, on August 5 and 6, 2023, I was privileged to baptize and confirm my father and today we are all members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints through prayer, fasting and meditation in the holy house of the Lord. Today all the members of my family are with me, and we share the same faith and the same gospel of Christ.

Sister Mayra is a recent convert from Ecuador. Her joy in the gospel skyrocketed immediately following her baptism as she invited friends and loved ones around her through social media accounts. Many family members and friends who saw her posts responded with questions. Mayra connected with them, often inviting them to her home to meet with the missionaries together.
Mayra’s parents, her siblings, her aunt, two cousins, and several of her friends were baptized because she courageously invited them to “come and see,” “come and serve,” and “come and belong.” Through her normal and natural invitations, over 20 people have accepted her invitation to be baptized members of the Church of Jesus Christ. This came about because Sister Mayra simply invited others to experience the joy she felt as a member of the Church.