Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, Alice E. Smith, of Yuba City, California, wrote of a faith-promoting experience in finding a record of her great-grandfather’s death. She and her husband were returning from their annual trip to visit their daughter who lived near Seattle, Washington. Although Sister Smith knew how much her husband disliked making stops during their return journey, she asked him if they could stop briefly at a cemetery to see if there were any record of her great-grandfather’s death. She was surprised and delighted when he readily agreed to the side trip in a little town along the Columbia River.
On a hunch they drove to the nearest of three cemeteries, parked in the middle of an older section, and started to search. Within ten minutes, their youngest daughter called, “Here’s a Bailey. I think this is the one!”
With a can of water and a rag from the car, her husband carefully began to scrub away the years’ accumulation of moss, revealing the name, dates in full, and a little inscription: Note the significance of the inscription: Here’s my heart, O take and seal it; Seal it for thy courts above. Surely it was heaven-sent help that had brought them to this message from her devout Methodist ancestor to the family today.
Another family member was able to identify the inscription, taken from the old hymn “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing.”3 The divine message of that hymn will sing in the hearts of an expanding family forevermore. The word sealing will take on greater significance.

We need to make sense of what we perceive as injustice. Raising a child with a disability can give you a close view of the cruel side of life. Creating a new definition of what is fair and just, however, can reduce anger. For example, when my daughter was 10 years old, she attended a Sunday School party. She came home scraped and bleeding. One of the boys in the class had called her a “stupid retard” and pushed her down. I felt angry that my child was hurt. Angry feelings can be a message that something needs to be done. Anger can alert us to dangers, problems, and offenses that may need some correcting. We can make decisions, however, about how we act on those feelings. We can deal with anger in a constructive way.
My husband and I visited the boy’s family. We sat with the boy and his parents and calmly talked about what the word retarded meant. We asked the boy how he would feel if he were unable to do the things he enjoyed. This boy became one of our daughter’s strongest allies. That experience ultimately helped another person to grow. This seemed “fair.” Retaliation would not have produced justice. Although anger may come from experiences with injustice, we can turn them into good experiences for ourselves and others.

When I was 14, I began working for a neighbor who raised bees as a hobby. My job was to take care of his horses, paint fences, mow the lawn, and weed the garden.
The beehives were located in the field behind the garden, and it seemed like every time I was there I’d end up getting stung or chased by some angry bee. I was beginning to wonder if the bees were trying to avenge the death of their long-lost ancestor.
I told my neighbor I was going to need combat pay if he wanted his garden weeded. He told me what I really needed was the right equipment. We went into his basement and he got out his bee suit: thick gloves with sleeves that went all the way up my arms, white pants and shirt because white tends to pacify bees, boots, a hat, and a screen mask that covered my face and head.
Feeling protected, I journeyed outside. Unfortunately it didn’t take long before I felt something crawling around on my head. There was a hole on the top of the mask. I’m not sure who panicked first, the bee or me. I took off running for the house, but before I got very far it was too late.
I guess you could say I got the point that day. But I really got it later when I was reading in Doctrine and Covenants 27:15 [D&C 27:15] where it says, “Wherefore, lift up your hearts and rejoice, and gird up your loins, and take upon you my whole armor, that ye may be able to withstand the evil day, having done all, that ye may be able to stand.”

The bishop of a twelve-year-old confined to a wheel chair came to the boy’s home with a measuring tape. Since the young man was not able to walk or carry anything, this sensitive priesthood leader measured his wheelchair and made a wooden shelf that could hold a sacrament tray. Now ward members witness a beautiful example of charity in action each week as other priesthood holders take turns pushing his wheelchair so he can pass the sacred emblems to the congregation.

• In February of 1943, the Allied transport ship Dorchester was torpedoed in the North Atlantic. As the ship went down, four chaplains—one Catholic, one Jewish, and two Protestant—stood on deck passing out life belts. When there were no more, they gave away their own. The four chaplains were last seen standing arm-in-arm, praying.

Recently, on a family holiday at a game park north of our home in South Africa, my family decided we would spend a few nights in Johannesburg and visit the temple.
The hotel in Johannesburg was incredible. I mean, it was the kind of hotel you see in the movies. My bedroom suite was bigger than the kitchen and family room at home combined, the tiles in the bathroom were heated, and the television came out of a box when we pressed a button. The staff was there to take care of our every whim.
I was impressed. This, I thought, was how my life was meant to be: swanning around, acting like royalty. In fact, I was so caught up in the luxury of the hotel that I forgot why we were there in the first place.
The only opportunity my brother, sister, and I would have to attend the temple to do baptisms for the dead was Saturday morning. But instead of thinking about the temple, all I was thinking about was how nice it would be to sleep late on Saturday, spend the day in this beautiful hotel, and then leave for home.
Still, we decided to go to the temple. As I walked through the temple doors and saw and felt the holiness and beauty of that place, my perspective changed, and I realized what was really important. The hotel may have been beautiful, but it couldn’t compare to the temple. The feelings I had as I did baptisms for the dead brought such peace and joy to me, greater than any worldly pleasure.
I am so grateful for this lesson. It is easy to become caught up in the things of the world. These things are attractive, but the pleasure they bring doesn’t last. Now I more clearly understand that real joy and peace can be found only through obeying and honoring Heavenly Father’s commandments.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was organized 150 years ago today. On this sesquicentennial anniversary we issue to the world a proclamation concerning its progress, its doctrine, its mission, and its message.
On April 6, 1830, a small group assembled in the farmhouse of Peter Whitmer in Fayette Township in the state of New York. Six men participated in the formal organization procedures, with Joseph Smith as their leader. From that modest beginning in a rural area, this work has grown consistently and broadly, as men and women in many lands have embraced the doctrine and entered the waters of baptism. There are now almost four and a half million living members, and the Church is stronger and growing more rapidly than at any time in its history. Congregations of Latter-day Saints are found throughout North, Central, and South America; in the nations of Europe; in Asia; in Africa; in Australia and the islands of the South Pacific; and in other areas of the world. The gospel restored through the instrumentality of Joseph Smith is presently taught in forty-six languages and in eighty-one nations. From that small meeting held in a farmhouse a century and a half ago, the Church has grown until today it includes nearly twelve thousand organized congregations.

I once listened to a 17-year-old girl on a distant Tahitian island who was a seventh-generation member. She paid tribute to her ancestors who had been converted in 1845 on Tubuai, two years before early Church members arrived in the Salt Lake Valley.

When I was 14, I met some young women who were excellent leaders. At that time, my family moved across the United States and became members of a new ward. I do not remember who served in the Mia Maid class presidency, but I clearly remember that the young women were particularly kind to me. They sincerely embraced a scared and scrawny new girl as a long-lost friend and made me feel welcome. Coming from Delaware, where I was the only Mormon girl in my junior high school and where the only other Mormon girl I knew lived an hour’s drive from my home, I thought, “This must be what heaven is like!”
For the first time in my life, I had a circle of friends who lived the standards in For the Strength of Youth, invited me to participate in activities, and shared their testimonies of the gospel with me. Their examples of loving-kindness did more to secure me to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at that time than any talk or lesson could have done. In their love and Christlike light, they were the message of the gospel of Christ, and they were the ones to lead and guide me into His fold.

From a hill, the ripe pumpkin field looks like orange and brown cake batter—swirled, not blended. It’s harvest time, and Alf Buckley is pulling pumpkins, building orange pyramids. It’s back-breaking work; 10–12-hours-a-day work.
“There are things I’d rather be doing,” says Alf, 17, a straight-talking young man with a true New England accent. “But you feel better about yourself after working. Maybe just to know you’re not sitting around the house, watching the tube all day.”
During the summer Alf works six days a week, saving for his mission and technical college. In the fall and winter he works evenings and Saturdays at local farms and for his father’s plumbing business.
Alf isn’t perfect, of course. He has challenges at school and with friends just like any other LDS teenager, but he knows how to work hard, and people recognize his effort.
“Sure, I get tempted to spend my tithing money, but Dad gave me a good way to stay in line,” said Alf. “I slip the money behind a poster on the wall. I can’t see it, and then I don’t spend it. When I pay my tithing the jobs keep coming in.”
Even Alf Buckley doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but he has learned the value of work. Perhaps it was one afternoon when his dad came home exhausted from a long day on the job, and he realized he was looking at an honest man. Whatever made the difference, it was Alf who decided to be the kind of young man he is today.
In a field near Pepperell, Alf is pulling pumpkins, working steady. The field was orange, now it’s brown—the pumpkins are stacked. “My dad taught me how to live, but now I have to take that and do something with it,” he says.
He pauses. “That’s kind of hard in a way. But I can do it.”

“Come on, guys,” Brother Larmouth said, breaking into our discussion of the basketball game our team had lost the night before. “We have a service project to think about.”
Brother Larmouth leaned forward in his dark suit, placed his forearms on his knees, and held his black pocket calendar in front of him. Brother Larmouth was vice president of one of the banks in town and everything he did was always precise, proper, and meticulous. He studied his calendar a moment and then asked, “Well, men, what’s it going to be?”
The room went quiet. I always hated this part of our planning session. Service projects never were my first love. I didn’t mind doing them, but coming up with the idea was always a royal pain. They were always so much the same.
“Sister Seymour might need some help,” Brother Larmouth suggested after observing our sudden silence.
“Yeah, that sounds all right,” Chris Frei mumbled without conviction.
“She can always use some help.”
I leaned back in my chair and stretched. “The widows get all the breaks,” I muttered jokingly. “Let’s skip them this month.”
“Any suggestions, Kyle?” Brother Larmouth asked, glancing over at me and adjusting the tie that didn’t need adjusting.
I thought for a minute. “How about picking out a good widower?”
Brad and Chris began to smile while Brother Larmouth shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“We could activate Willard Weatherford,” I suggested, fighting not to smile.
“Kyle, can we get back to our planning?”
“What’s wrong with Brother Weatherford?” I asked.
“Kyle, I’ve lived in the 12th Ward since I was a kid. To my knowledge Brother Weatherford has been inside this church twice during that time. Once for his wife’s funeral and the other time for a friend’s. He smokes. He cusses. For years he wouldn’t even let the home teachers inside his house. He’s been a prospective elder since I went on my mission.”
“Well, I say it’s about time we got him out to church.”
“Kyle, can we wrap this up in the next few minutes?”
“So we just write him off?”
“Kyle, he wrote himself off a long time ago.”
Because our stomachs were growling, Sister Seymour finally ended up as our service project for the month, but as I left the church and headed for home in the crisp January air, I couldn’t help thinking of Willard Weatherford and wondering what it was like to be written off by everyone.
Willard lived just five houses down from me in a modest, red brick home with a large garage to the south. He had been an auto mechanic for years, so he’d set up an auto shop in his garage to tinker in his spare time. He was a stocky, grizzly old guy with gray, short-cropped hair, a round head, and flat nose. He rarely spoke or smiled, always looking like he’d just bitten the heads off a handful of nails.
Before I went into the house that Sunday afternoon, I glanced down the street toward Brother Weatherford’s place where a few patches of old snow lingered on his lawn. His old Ford truck was parked in front and the living room drapes were pulled closed.
Mom called me in to dinner and her fried chicken, hot rolls, mashed potatoes, and cherry cheese cake made me forget all about Willard.
Four days later a winter storm moved in and dumped seven inches of snow overnight. Dad woke me up in the morning, pushed a snow shovel into my hands, and pointed me to the driveway, reminding me that I would have to hurry to make it to school on time. I grumbled most of the time but worked fast to get out of the cold. I was about to hurry into the warmth of the house to eat breakfast when I glanced down the street in Brother Weatherford’s direction. The house was dark; the snow in the driveway, undisturbed. For a moment I pondered. Then I did one of the craziest things I’d ever done in my life. I walked down the street and began pushing the snow from Brother Weatherford’s driveway.
“What you doing, boy?” a voice growled behind me when I was about half finished with the driveway.
Startled, I turned to see Willard Weatherford standing at the top of the driveway wearing a faded, grease-spotted parka. His hands were stuffed into the pockets, and his head was scrunched into the coat’s collar.
I shrugged. “Just pushing a little snow to stay in shape.” I banged the shovel on the cement and stomped my feet.
“I do my own driveway. I can’t pay you, if that’s what you’re planning.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I answered undaunted, returning to my shoveling.
He watched for a moment and then turned and walked into the house. I finished the driveway. Then, just to be ornery, I shoveled his sidewalk too. I suppose I was curious about him, wondered what made him tick.
“Hey, boy,” Brother Weatherford called to me from the front door as I was about to head for home. He came down the steps in a T-shirt and held three dollar bills in his hand. “This is all the change I have,” he mumbled. “I usually do my own work.”
I looked at the three dollars. “I didn’t do it for money.”
He seemed puzzled. “You Tom Jordan’s boy?”
I nodded.
“He put you up to this?”
I shook my head and muttered something about being late for school.
Three other times I cleaned off Brother Weatherford’s walk and driveway. Each time I finished he came out with a few one dollar bills and handed them to me. Each time I refused.
The last time I cleaned off his walk was the end of March after a wet snow dumped two or three inches. He came out with a 20 dollar bill.
“Take it,” he insisted, thrusting it towards me.
I laughed, shaking my head and shouldering my shovel. “I’m still trying to get myself in shape.”
Who makes you do this?” he demanded.
We stared at each other for several seconds without speaking. It was a question I had asked myself. Part of the reason went back to the fact that everyone had just crossed him off as one more negative Church statistic. Ever since that first morning I’d felt sorry for Willard Weatherford, living alone in his house, just waiting for life to run out on him. Everybody deserved more than that out of life. Chances were that the next time he went to church might be to attend his own funeral. “I guess I just figured you—” I hesitated, chewing on my lower lip. “I better get going,” I mumbled. “School, you know.”
Willard pulled out a cigarette, put it in the corner of his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, and as he exhaled he muttered, almost as though he didn’t want me to hear, “Well, thanks.”
One Saturday morning in late April the Young Men and Young Women planned a cleanup day in Sister Seymour’s yard. Brad Hunt and Chris Frei stopped by so we could walk over together. On the way I spotted Willard Weatherford in his backyard putting up a fence.
“Sister Seymour’s going to have more people than she needs,” I remarked, stopping.
“You skip out on another service project,” Chris grinned, “and Brother Larmouth will have the bishop all over you.”
“Nobody’s skipping out. We’re just changing projects. We can call Sister Seymour’s to let them know we can’t make it. Brother Weatherford needs a hand.”
“Old man Weatherford?” Brad groaned. “He wouldn’t let you help him even if you wanted to.”
I started into Willard’s yard.
“You’re not serious?” Brad called after me.
I just kept walking.
Brad and Chris hesitated a moment, but their curiosity got the better of them and they soon followed.
“Well, what do we do?” I asked jovially.
Willard looked up from the posthole he was digging. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing first at me and then at Chris and Brad. “I can’t pay you anything,” he muttered.
I grabbed a shovel. “What do you want us to do?”
Things were awkward for a moment, but then Willard saw that we weren’t going to leave, so he grumbled some instructions to us and we got to work. Brad and Chris thought I was crazy at first, but they didn’t hold back. It was a bigger project than any of us had anticipated, but we stayed with it.
Willard chain-smoked most of the day and occasionally grunted instructions. Several times he told us we should go, that we’d done all that a person could expect us to do. But we stayed till the end, which was about three in the afternoon.
As we were helping Willard put the tools away, Brad announced, “Well, I better get home. I need to do some work on my car.”
“When did that old bomb of yours start working?” Chris asked.
“I didn’t say that it was working. I said that I had to work on it.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Willard asked.
“A ’67 Mercury,” Brad said sheepishly.
“The one his dad dated his mom in,” Chris kidded.
“Maybe I could look at it sometime.”
“It’s not a bad car,” Brad said.
“Yeah,” I said, “everything works but the engine.”
That evening Willard dropped by Brad’s place and towed the Mercury back to his garage.
The following day in quorum meeting, Brother Larmouth mentioned that he was sorry the three of us hadn’t been able to make it to Sister Seymour’s for the service project.
“We found another project that was more urgent,” I explained.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. We were helping Brother Weatherford.”
The rest of the quorum began to snicker—except for Brad and Chris. I looked around without smiling. Back in January when I had first brought Willard’s name up, I would have appreciated the chuckles because Willard was just a joke then, but the last three months had made him a person, and finally a friend. I knew then that I hadn’t skipped Sister Seymour’s service project just to do my own thing. I had been at Willard’s place because I really wanted to be there.
A week later Willard called and asked if I’d bring Chris and Brad over to his place. I was shocked. The last person I had expected to call me on the phone was Willard.
When the three of us arrived, Willard was in the garage puttering about. Brad’s car was parked in the middle of the garage. Willard reached into his pocket, pulled out Brad’s keys and tossed them to him. “See what you think.”
Brad caught the keys. “Does it work?” he asked.
Willard shrugged and turned away, going to his workbench and pushing a set of wrenches about. “Try it,” was all he said.
Slowly, Brad put the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine cranked over and began to purr.
“I don’t believe it,” Chris gasped.
“What’d you do to it?” Brad called out, stepping from the car and letting the engine idle.
Willard turned around, his face expressionless, but his eyes beamed with pleasure. “Don’t ever give up on a car like that.”
“What do I owe you? I mean—how much did all this cost?”
“Didn’t cost me a thing. Some of the wrecking yards around here owe me some favors. They coughed up the parts.”
After that it seemed that Brad, Chris, and I were always over at Willard’s. We worked in his garage, sipped sodas on his front lawn, talked baseball. We even teased him about his smoking. We told him that every time he took a drag he was throwing away 30 minutes of his life.
He chuckled and wagged his head. “I’ve been at it too long to kick it now.” But after that we noticed that when we walked up, he would flip his cigarette away.
Then one afternoon as we sat in his shop, he seemed more nervous than usual. He kept rubbing his hands on his pants, scratching the back of his neck, pacing the floor, and shuffling his feet.
“What’s on your mind, Willard?” Brad asked.
Willard shook his head. He tried to smile, but his attempt was more a grimace. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I chucked my smokes. I haven’t had a smoke for a couple of days. But I don’t know if I can handle it.”
For a moment the three of us were quiet. Then Chris jumped up. “You’ll make it, Willard. You just need something to take your mind off it. Do you chew gum?”
“I could chew nails.”
“You need to stay busy too,” I offered. “I have an uncle that quit. He said the only thing that saved him was to stay busy. He worked himself into exhaustion.”
For the rest of the day we stayed with Willard and pulled him through. It was almost ten when we left him, but he’d made it. As far as we knew, he never took another smoke.
“Hey, Willard, we’ve got a favor to ask,” I mentioned one afternoon as we were changing the oil in Brad’s car. “We’re in charge of a dinner over at the church this weekend.” I shrugged and felt my cheeks color. “The kids in the ward are putting on a dinner for some senior citizens. Now I don’t mean that we think you’re a senior citizen or anything like that,” I quickly added, “but we wanted you there. How about it?”
Willard looked up. His eyes went to each one of us, and then he stared down into the Mercury’s engine. For a long time he didn’t speak. Slowly he pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands. A wan smile tugged at his lips. “The last time I was in church was when Mary died. That’s been better than three years. And it was a lot longer before that. There’ve been times when I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse. And there’s nobody there I know.”
“You’ve got an excuse now. We’re having barbecued chicken. And you know us. We’ll be there,” I pointed out.
“Why would you want me to go to a nice, fancy dinner with you?” he asked without looking at us.
For a moment I didn’t answer, pondering the question. “Because you’re our friend,” I answered simply.
He shook his head. “I don’t know if I could. People would stare. They’d wonder why—”
“You’ll be with us,” Brad spoke up. “The whole time. Honest.”
We all waited, holding our breath. Willard thought for a long time. Finally his face softened into a smile and he said, “Well, I’ll think about it.”
The night of the dinner I was nervous. Brad had promised to pick up Willard while Chris and I helped get things ready at the church.
“Did you invite anyone tonight?” Brother Larmouth asked as I was carrying food from the kitchen to the serving table in the cultural hall.
“Willard Weatherford.”
Brother Larmouth sighed. “When are you going to get off this Willard Weatherford kick?” He smiled and shook his head. “The day you get old Willard inside this church I’ll buy you the biggest, fattest steak you’ve ever had in your life.”
Just then Chris and Brad came through the doors on the far side of the cultural hall with Willard between them. Brother Larmouth had his back to them so he didn’t see them approach until they were right there. When he turned around, he almost dropped his jaw.
“Brother Larmouth,” I started out, “I’d like you to meet a good friend of ours, Brother Weatherford.”
For a moment Brother Larmouth could hardly speak. Then he held out his hand and greeted Willard. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he stammered. “The guys here have talked about you a lot.” He looked at the three of us and then back to Willard. “I guess I can believe everything they’ve told me.”
Willard nodded his head. “They’re good boys. I figure you can believe what they say.”
As Brad and Chris led Willard away, Brother Larmouth turned to me and muttered, “I would have never believed it. I guess I owe you a steak.”
I shook my head and swallowed back the lump in my throat. “Forget it.” I smiled. “Some things you don’t do for a steak.”

As a Seventy, Elder Stevenson was assigned as a counselor in the Area Presidency and then as president of the Asia North Area.
In March 2011, an earthquake and tsunami devastated Japan. The 9.0-magnitude temblor generated a seismic sea wave that left 20,000 dead, displaced thousands, and destroyed 550,000 homes.
He visited the disaster zone many times. “As we met with people, our emotions ran from one end of the spectrum to the other,” he recalls. “We simultaneously observed tragedy and loss mixed with hope and restoration. Over and over again our hearts were touched as we witnessed the healing balm of our Savior’s love.”
In addition, he witnessed firsthand how the Church helps those in need: “To be able to react to a calamity and to help shape a response—that was a manifestation of the Church of Jesus Christ filling one of its divinely appointed responsibilities of caring for the poor and needy.” He described it as a sacred privilege to minister to those in need and see others do the same: “We learned about the goodness of humanity.”

In Oslo, the morning sun is hazy. It’s peering over rock walls, creeping down the cobblestone streets. For most teenagers, it’s time to get up and get ready for school.

But at the Oslo First Ward building, a group of teenagers is already studying. In fact, they arrived long before the first light peeked through their seminary classroom windows.
“I have to get up at 5:30 in the morning to get ready,” says Øyvind Andersen, 17. “My father drives me over, and class starts at 6:30. Then at 7:15 I take the subway to my school, which starts at 8:20.”
“At school we already have classes on Christianity and World Religions,” says Liv Austenaa, 15. “So some of my friends think I’m crazy to come to another religion class early every day.”
“But early-morning seminary has given me a lot,” says Thor Andre Eråk, 16. “I believe I’ve learned much more than if I had studied by myself at home.”
Is it worth the effort? “I cannot possibly express my gratitude for what the Church has done to my life,” Øyvind says. “I know what I have—the gospel—is extremely valuable. I’m convinced that programs like seminary and missionary work give you a solid platform for later life. They strengthen your testimony radically.”
His brother Geir, 16, agrees. “Seminary helps me to find out what the gospel is all about,” he says. “I think Christ is the best of all examples, and thinking about him makes me want to get up and go to seminary. When I come here, I always get more out of my day.”

Perhaps most important, the Christmas experiences of the prophets teach us to increase our testimonies of Jesus Christ as we make Him the center of our celebrations. In 1876 the St. George Utah Temple was nearing completion. The dedication ceremony for the basement, main room, and sealing room was scheduled for January 1, 1877.8 With Christmas just seven days before the dedication, many in St. George worked frantically to help ensure the temple was completed in time.
President Wilford Woodruff, who served as the first president of the temple, recorded in his journal that on Christmas day the men were busy at work with buzz saws and that 40 women spent the whole day in the temple sewing carpets. They laid carpet and put up curtains.9
Although they nearly didn’t finish in time, their offering that Christmas season was worth the effort. This work was their Christmas celebration. With 2,000 people present on January 1, President Woodruff gave the dedicatory prayer for portions of the temple—over 30 years after Latter-day Saints had been forced to abandon the Nauvoo Temple.

While my family and I were saying family prayer, I felt something I had never felt before. I felt this feeling when my mom was praying for a visitor of ours to be guided and protected. The feeling was warm and good. I felt that Heavenly Father would help me in my life and that He loves me. Lately I’ve been tempted with bad thoughts about the Church, but after feeling this good feeling, I feel good. I feel I have my own testimony now. I know the Church is true. I know Joseph Smith translated the golden plates and that they are the words of Heavenly Father. I felt the Holy Ghost tell me that, and I know it’s true.
Alex M., age 7, Utah, USA

“Another good example my dad set for me was when he called me into his office and asked, ‘Do you know where the bishops’ storehouse is?’ When I nodded, he said, ‘OK, you go with the truck driver.’ We took five big barrels of chickens—about a thousand pounds of them—to the storehouse as a gift to the poor and needy from my father. I’ve never forgotten that day.
“Dad made donations like that to the storehouse several times. It was the old Pioneer Stake Storehouse, and it became the model storehouse for the Church general welfare program.”

“Please tell me a story,” Jeff said to his granny.
Granny began, “Once upon a time there was a boy.”
“He was a little boy,” Jeff said.
Granny began again. “Once upon a time there was a bad little boy.”
“No, Granny. That isn’t the way the story goes,” Jeff said. “He was a good little boy.”
Once more Granny started the story. “Once upon a time there was a good little boy.”
Jeff nodded his head up and down. “That’s the right story.”
“This good little boy was going to town.”
Jeff shook his head. “No, no, Granny. Don’t you remember? That very good little boy was going to his granny’s house.”
Granny smiled at Jeff. “That’s the same old story. Wouldn’t you like to hear a new one?”
“I like the old story,” Jeff insisted.
So Granny told it. “Once upon a time there was a very good little boy. His daddy took him in the car to see his granny. When they got to Granny’s house. Daddy stopped the car in the driveway. He smoothed Jeff’s hair and tucked Jeff’s shirttail in. ‘Be a good boy,’ Daddy said.
“Jeff climbed out of the car and waved good-bye to Daddy. Then Jeff rang Granny’s doorbell.
“When Granny opened the door, she pretended that she didn’t know him. ‘Good morning,’ Granny said. ‘Are you selling something? I don’t think I need anything today.’
“Jeff began to giggle. ‘Don’t you need a good little boy?’
“Granny made her face look surprised. ‘How did you know? That’s the only thing that I need.’
“Jeff laughed out loud. ‘I’m just what you need!’ he said.”
Granny stopped telling the story and hugged Jeff. “It’s the same old story,” she said.
“That’s why I like it,” Jeff told her. “Could we have a glass of milk and a cookie for that very good little boy? That comes next in that same old story.”

Because of construction, over 2,000 Muslims in Ghana didn’t have a place to celebrate their religious holidays in 2022. Leaders of the Takoradi Ghana Stake let them worship on the grounds of the stake center. Top: Brother Emmanuel Botwe (left) helped coordinate between the two groups.

That blessed tradition continues today in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Take, for example, the generous Saints of Ghana. Because of construction, local Muslims didn’t have a place where large groups could gather for worship during some of 2022. In April of that year, Latter-day Saints graciously allowed 2,000 followers of Islam to use the Takoradi Ghana Stake center for Ramadan meals and prayers. Two months later, Latter-day Saint leaders welcomed the group as they celebrated Eid al-Adha. These are two of Islam’s biggest holidays.6

Our Muslim friends were grateful. “We are all brothers and sisters. We are from one heritage,” said the local Muslims’ chief imam, Alhaji Mohammad Awal, alluding to Abraham’s sons Ishmael and Isaac.7

Emmanuel Botwe, called to lead communication in the Takoradi Ghana Stake, said he has cultivated relationships with other faiths in the area since 2018. He has invited them in to play football and attend a religious symposium, stake conferences, and the dedication of a new meetinghouse.

“We all have to respect and care for each other regardless of our differences,” Brother Botwe said. “That has prompted me to reach out—especially to our Muslim brothers.” Muslims make up only 19 percent of Ghana, a predominantly Christian country. “We are all sons and daughters of our Father,” he continued, “so we need to see eye to eye with them.”

Brother Botwe’s outreach balances kindness with principle. Muslims traditionally celebrate Eid al-Adha by sacrificing an animal such as a ram or goat. They do this in memory of God allowing Abraham to sacrifice a ram instead of his son Isaac.

“We told [our Muslim friends] that it’s not possible for them to slaughter the ram at our church premises. We explained our belief that the ultimate sacrifice has been done by the Almighty. And they respected our wish,” Brother Botwe said. “After the service, they moved to the mosque, where the sacrifice was done by the chief imam.”

For Brother Botwe’s kindness, the chief imam gifted him some of the ram meat. Brother Botwe graciously accepted.

“When you start by respecting their values and beliefs, respecting them for who they are—and not condemning them, not belittling them, even if you disagree with them—mutual respect will be there,” Brother Botwe said.

—Abe was born in St. Louis, Missouri. His parents joined the Church when he was eight. “When I was 15, my dad got transferred to Massachusetts. I went from a seminary class of 18 and a lot of Mormons in my high school to a town where the only Mormons in our high school were me and my brother. In seminary there were only four people.”
Abe came to BYU as a walk-on football player, then went on a mission to Houston, Texas. He returned to play defensive back for a couple more years, but eventually gave it up to pursue an acting career.

In the late 1970s, a friend asked me to go to Relief Society with her. “What’s that?” I asked. My friend simply said, “Come and see.” Wow! I was captivated from the first moment.