Gospel Story Finder

Marnie Weintz, 17, of the Copper Hills 12th Ward in West Jordan, Utah, decided to build on a 12-year friendship with Sister Rebecca Mackey, an elderly woman her mom befriended in the temple. When it came time for Marnie to pick her Choice and Accountability project for Personal Progress, she thought to reach out to Sister Mackey in a different way by sending her a thoughtful card each week. She says that sending the cards “takes discipline to be dedicated in doing it every week.”
Marnie and her family aren’t able to visit Sister Mackey too often, but they maintain their relationship through phone calls. Marnie thought that by sending cards, she could show Sister Mackey in another way that she cares. Marnie has learned that even the smallest service can make a big impact. “I’m just surprised that it’s meant so much to her. I didn’t even know if she would really want me to send them to her every week or if she would save the cards at all.”
Sister Mackey looks forward to and cherishes those weekly cards, and for Marnie, her Choice and Accountability project turned out to be more lasting than she ever thought.

But our eagerness to declare this message is not merely the result of a sense of spiritual duty. Rather, our desire to share the restored gospel of Jesus Christ with you is a reflection of how important these truths are to us. I believe I can best describe why we are so forthright in seeking to explain our beliefs to you through an experience my wife and I had many years ago with two of our sons.
One evening Susan and I stood near a window in our home and watched two of our little boys playing outside. During the course of their adventures, the younger of the two boys was injured slightly in a small accident. We quickly recognized that he was not seriously hurt, and we decided not to provide immediate assistance. We wanted to observe and see if any of our family discussions about brotherly kindness had sunk in. What happened next was both interesting and instructive.
The older brother consoled and carefully helped the younger brother back into the house. Susan and I had positioned ourselves near the kitchen so we could see what next took place, and we were prepared to intervene immediately if additional bodily harm seemed likely or a serious accident was imminent.
The older brother dragged a chair to the kitchen sink. He climbed up on the chair, assisted his brother onto the chair, turned on the water, and proceeded to pour a large quantity of dishwashing soap onto the scratched arm of his little brother. He did his best to gently wash away the dirt. The reaction of the little brother to this procedure can only be described accurately using language from the holy scriptures: “And they shall have cause to howl, and weep, and wail, and gnash their teeth” (Mosiah 16:2). And did that little boy howl!
After the scrubbing was finished, the arm was carefully dried with a towel. Eventually the screaming stopped. The older brother next climbed up onto the kitchen counter, opened a cabinet, and found a new tube of medicated ointment. Though the scratches on his little brother were not large or extensive, the older brother applied almost all of the ointment in the tube to the entire injured arm. The screaming did not resume, as the little brother clearly liked the soothing effect of the ointment much more than he appreciated the cleansing effect of the dishwashing soap.
The older brother returned again to the cabinet in which he had found the ointment and located a new box of sterile bandages. He then unwrapped and put bandages all up and down his brother’s arm—from the wrist to the elbow. With the emergency resolved, and with soap bubbles, ointment, and wrappers all over the kitchen, the two little boys hopped down from the chair with bright smiles and happy faces.
What happened next is most important. The injured brother gathered up the remaining bandages and the almost empty tube of ointment, and he went back outside. He quickly sought out his friends and began to put ointment and bandages on their arms. Susan and I both were struck by the sincerity, enthusiasm, and rapidity of his response.
Why did that little boy do what he did? Please note that he immediately and intuitively wanted to give to his friends the very thing that had helped him when he was hurt. That little boy did not have to be urged, challenged, prompted, or goaded to act. His desire to share was the natural consequence of a most helpful and beneficial personal experience.

We often joked that she was my favorite aunt and I, her favorite niece. She was my mother’s only sister; and I, my mother’s only child. But even if our extended family hadn’t been so limited, Aunt Mary would have won the position.
She was one of those “quality” people—one who never got in a hurry, applying great patience to the most minute details.
It was that quality—and an artful eye—which combined to create the gifts she gently placed under the tree of our family’s Christmas Eve gatherings.
The package was always easy to spot. The paper was tailored and taped with precision. The ribbons were crossed around the box, gathering into a large rose-shaped bow—my aunt’s trademark. And beneath the handmade bow would be my name, accented with multicolored glitter.
Each Christmas I thrilled to my aunt’s creations.
One year it was a long, narrow wall plaque. Near the bottom edge, a small Japanese girl approached a bridge which served as the entrance to a pathway leading through a botanical garden.
As the path led to the top of the frame, it created the impression of walking deeper into the garden.
But the most unusual element of the plaque was not what it portrayed, but what it was made of—pebbles! Every drop of water, every flower petal, every inch was an accumulation of minute, colored pebbles. Each stone was spotted with a drop of glue, then delicately placed so close together that they created a flowing picture.
Another year, the box was especially large. Opening it, I gently lifted out a blue-dyed piece of canvas, the backdrop to a treetop filled with nests, complete with baby birds.
The tree was real bark; the nests, straw. The plump baby birds were small cotton-filled pouches covered with rows of colorful feathers, each bird had an open beak of split corn kernels.
As the years passed, my aunt’s health began to fail. Nevertheless, each year she managed to put a handmade gift under the tree—embroidered pillowcases, monogrammed handkerchiefs—all beneath a rose-shaped bow.
She continued to do this every Christmas until the one preceding her death. In the course of the year, Aunt Mary had become totally bedridden. Because she was unable to work, her savings had been quickly depleted by medical bills. Even if she had been physically capable of producing one of her elaborate creations, her limited funds would not have permitted such an expenditure.
But she wasn’t physically capable. She had become so weak that eating became a painstaking task that often took more than an hour. Assistance was required for bathroom trips. Bathing was done bedside. Her once surgeon-steady hands now shook uncontrollably as her arms laid alongside her emaciated body.
That Christmas there weren’t any glittering boxes with rose-shaped bows. But there was one with my name on it, scribbled by the shaking hand of my aunt.
Aunt Mary apologized repeatedly for the shabbily wrapped box. I continued to assure her it was just fine. But as I opened the lid, I couldn’t help but wonder what Aunt Mary could possibly have made for me this year.
Wrapped in shredded newspaper laid a small ceramic bird.
“I know it’s not much,” began my aunt.
“It’s beautiful,” I interrupted.
“It’s not anything like the other Christmases,” she continued.
“I understand,” I tried to comfort.
“I knew you would,” she said sadly. “I just hate that this Christmas has to be a green stamp one.”
I knew what she meant by her emphasis of this.
“Green stamp one?” I asked, trying to change our thoughts.
“Yep!” Aunt Mary chirped in a voice much like her youthful self. “Right out of the S&H Guidebook to Finer Living!”
“Well, I think it’s lovely,” I concluded, gently hugging her neck.
“Good! I’m glad,” she said jokingly. “I had to lick a lot of stamps for that bird!”
We all laughed. The humor sounded so much like my aunt—the way she was before.
“She did lick a lot of stamps,” my mother said seriously as we were leaving my aunt’s house. “She also stuck every one of them into the books.”
“She did?” I asked astonished. “How? I mean, those little single ones? It must have been …”
“Painstaking?” finished my mother. “As much as any of your other Christmas presents. She even went to the store and picked it up herself. I took her.”
Suddenly I realized how much the small bird represented. I tried to visualize the hours her shaking hands labored to place so many stamps, and the effort to dress and make the difficult journey to purchase the gift.
As I thought, I found myself gaining a new perspective on the gifts brought to the baby Jesus. Rather than seeing the material value of the Wise Men’s offerings, I realized the love they expressed in making the journey themselves, rather than sending messengers.
Instead of viewing the shepherds as paupers in comparison to the kings, I realized the great value in the gifts they brought, giving of the painstaking, daily labor of their lives.
My green stamp Christmas was the one when I learned the most about giving! From three kings, a few shepherds, and my favorite aunt.

He loved the youth of the Church, as is evidenced by the experience of Heber J. Grant. Nine days after Heber’s birth, his father, Jedediah M. Grant, who was Second Counselor to President Brigham Young, died. For the next 21 years, Brigham Young took special interest in the boy Heber J. Grant.
Heber J. Grant wrote:
“I was almost as familiar in the homes of President Brigham Young as I was in the home of my own mother. In one home … if I was hungry I felt as free to go in and ask for something to eat there as in my own home. … I knelt down time and time again in his home in the Lion House at family prayers, as a child and as a young man.”

One Sunday my dad brought home copies of the Book of Mormon. I told my mom that we needed to give one to the family next door. The next day I gave our neighbors a Book of Mormon. I had a big smile on my face because I felt so good inside. I was happy to share the gospel with our friends and be a good example to my family. I also invited my neighbor friends to watch general conference with our family. I was so excited when three of them came!

When I was 16 years old, I traveled from my home in Idaho to a conference on the East Coast of the United States, attended by young men and young women from all 50 states and nearly 40 nations. Before then, I had rarely been in a situation where my beliefs and convictions set me apart.
One evening in an informal group setting, a discussion arose about some of the beliefs and practices of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A large group of students suddenly turned their attention to me and started asking questions, some of which were critical of our beliefs.
That caught me off guard. But after I had reflected for a moment, I began sharing some basic gospel principles. I explained that we have a Heavenly Father, that we are His sons and daughters, and that we are on earth to develop faith in Jesus Christ and to prove ourselves by choosing good over evil.
Sharing these principles led me to Joseph Smith’s testimony. The other students had not asked about Joseph Smith, but I found myself going to the origins of why I believed what I believed. As I told of the appearance of the Father and the Son in the Sacred Grove, suddenly everyone fell silent. A piercing feeling of holiness entered the room, and an enormous feeling of spiritual power rested upon me and my words.
Afterward, several students thanked me for my strong convictions. Some even asked for more information about the Church. As I returned to my room that night, I realized that the person this experience had the greatest impact on was me. I had felt for myself the power of bearing testimony of God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the First Vision.
Since that experience more than 50 years ago, I have testified hundreds of times of the Father, the Son, and the Prophet Joseph Smith. In these experiences, I have constantly felt the confirming witness of the Holy Ghost.

It was my experience as a small boy to come under the influence of such a teacher. In our Sunday School class, she taught us concerning the Creation of the world, the Fall of Adam, and the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
One Sunday morning she announced sadly to us the death of a classmate’s mother. We had missed Billy that morning but knew not the reason for his absence. The lesson featured the theme, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Midway through the lesson, our teacher closed the manual and asked, “How much money do we have in our class party fund?”
Depression days prompted a proud answer: “Four dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Then she suggested, “Billy’s family is hard-pressed and grief-stricken. What would you think of the possibility of visiting the family members this morning and giving to them your fund?”
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Tears glistened in the eyes of all as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the hand of our teacher to the hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. A God-inspired teacher had taught her boys and girls an eternal lesson of divine truth: “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

My brother Bill was six years older than I was. He was my ideal, I wanted to be just like him. I would follow him and his friends around and, although I am sure he sometimes thought of me as a little pest, he was good to me and allowed me to tag along.
When Bill was in high school, he had saved enough money to buy himself a car. I remember well the day he drove his very first car home. It was his pride and joy, and he spent many hours shining it up. One day as we were coming home, he stopped at the bottom of the lane that led to our barn and asked me if I would like to drive his car up the lane, which was permissible in those days on a farm. Of course I would! I couldn’t believe that he would trust me to drive his new car—I knew how much it meant to him.
I ran around and jumped into the driver’s seat. He showed me where the key was, how to shift gears, and where the gas pedal was. My foot just barely reached the pedal. I knew everything I needed to know to start the car, and off we went. It was great! It was only when we reached the top of the hill that I realized he hadn’t shown me how to stop the car, and we ran right into the side of the barn. I felt so bad! I was sure that Bill would never trust me to drive his car again. However, a few days later he asked me again if I wanted to drive his car up the lane—but this time he showed me where the brake was! I was so grateful that he understood that running into the barn had just been an accident and that it hadn’t destroyed his trust in me.

Hannah sat on the train seat between her father and her sister, Bessie. Papa had let Bessie sit next to the window, but Hannah didn’t mind because that meant she could sit next to Papa. She snuggled up next to him, and he reached out to squeeze her hand.
“Today we’ll go inside the house of the Lord,” Papa said, his voice trembling a little.
“Yes, Papa,” Hannah said.
“Do you know why?”
Hannah nodded. “The Salt Lake Temple will be dedicated today. Then it will be a real temple.”
“Yes,” said Papa. “And why else do you want to go?”
“To see how beautiful it is inside,” Hannah answered.
Papa smiled. “Is that why we go to the temple?”
Hannah looked down at the pink ticket she was holding on her lap. It had President Wilford Woodruff’s own signature on it. She would show it at the door so she could go inside to see the temple dedication.
“To see President Woodruff?”
“We do love our prophet, but why else do you want to go?” Papa tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.
Hannah leaned back in her seat. What answer was Papa after?
“You think about that.” Papa patted her knee. “On the way home, you can answer again.”
The train ride went by quickly, and soon Hannah found herself staring at the Salt Lake Temple. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. Looking up at the spires made her delightfully dizzy. The angel Moroni sparkled in the morning sun. “Holiness to the Lord,” Hannah read from the inscription on the wall. She felt a powerful joy in her heart. She promised herself that someday she would be married right here in the temple.
Hannah whispered to her father, “I know why I want to go to the temple. It’s because of Charley and Grandfather Bird and the rest of our family. It’s for Holiness to the Lord and for me too.”
Papa nodded, tears pooling in his eyes. “That’s why I want to go too.”

A heartfelt delivery took place in December as Erina Osborne and Chris Forbes, along with a dedicated team of volunteers from local congregations of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, made their way to Waikato Hospital with 138 beautifully crafted quilts and “angel blankets” for various hospital units.
An angel blanket is an infant-sized blanket provided to mothers of newborn children with life threatening conditions.
The quilts provided comfort and warmth to families and children facing difficult circumstances during the holiday season.
The quilts were distributed across several hospital wards:
Neonatal Ward: 48 quilts
Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU): 76 quilts
Waikids Cancer Ward: 14 quilts
Since 2021, Erina and Chris, along with a network of volunteers, have donated over 750 quilts and angel blankets to various organizations.
Erina and Chris took the opportunity to visit with nurses and doctors, thanking them for their unwavering dedication to the children and families in their care. Many of the healthcare workers were visibly moved by the thoughtful gesture.
Several young women volunteers, many of whom were learning to sew for the first time, bravely took part in creating the quilts for babies while overcoming their own personal challenges to bless the lives of newborn babies.
The quilts were delivered just in time for Christmas, offering families and healthcare professionals a tangible reminder of hope and warmth during a season often marked by hardship and loss.
The quilting project was promoted on the JustServe.org website so volunteers could join in.

“My mother is a unique person,” began Elder Paramore in tribute to his mother. “She has implicit, absolute faith in our Father in heaven. Through prayer and undeviating faith, she has been able to accomplish many things in her life. She prayed that my father would become active in the Church, and it happened; he became a very strong, faithful, and capable leader. She prayed to have more children, a thing that was especially difficult for her. Yet she was able to have six children, who mean so much to her. She set as fine example for all of us to follow.
“My father is special also. When I was young, he trained me to be a dental technician. We often sat side by side while I worked under his direction until I became quite proficient. He would show and tell me things about this skill and this went on for about five years. When I went into the service, they learned of my skills. I was taken out of basic training when I was only eighteen years old and put in charge of a dental laboratory with many workers. All this because of my dad’s training.
“We have some great progenitors on the Paramore side of my family,” Elder Paramore continued. “My grandmother left Denmark alone at the age of eight. Her mother put her on a boat with a tag around her neck addressed to a place in Utah. When she arrived in New York, some Mormon missionaries who had arranged to meet her there helped put her aboard the train that would take her to Ephraim, Utah. What an experience for an eight-year-old child! It makes me weep to think about it. I’m sure her mother thought that this was a wonderful chance for her daughter to be where the Church was strong.”
On the subject of children who are eight years of age, Elder Paramore added, “As a former bishop, I must have interviewed at least eighty children and watched them be baptized. In all those interviews, I never knew a time when I felt that the child wasn’t ready for baptism. Eight is the age of accountability and children do know right from wrong at this age. They don’t know all of the doctrines, of course, but they know how to make proper judgments. They know instinctively, by the light of Christ, what is right. Whether they do what is right is subject to the exercise of their free agency, but there’s no question in my mind regarding an eight-year-old child’s ability to choose the right. I’ve had that witness come to me many, many times.
“I would like the children of the world to know that the great message from our Heavenly Father is to trust in Him and to love their fellowmen. Keep the loving spirit you have at this age in your life. You are humble now and teachable. You have a marvelous ability and that is that you can forget—you don’t hold grudges and you can put problems out of your mind and go on loving someone who may have hurt you. Don’t build walls or barriers, just keep a loving heart. There is no substitute for love. Love means interest and concern. It means doing things for others. When there is a spirit of love between two people, it encourages a feeling of trust and self-worth. You can share any problem with each other and solve it together. Love breaks down barriers. President Kimball loves unconditionally.
“If you are remembered for only one thing, what would it be? Would you want to be remembered because you were steadfast in the things of the Lord? That you were honest? That you were trustworthy? All of these are cherished attributes, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to be remembered above all else for your love of people?
“I bear witness to the truth that loving the Lord and loving your fellowmen is the message of the Savior and that we must find and return this love if we are to have eternal life.”

A month ago in Brazil, I met Aroldo Cavalcante. He was baptized at age 21, the first member of the Church in his family. His faith burned brightly, and he immediately began preparing to serve a mission. Sadly, Aroldo’s mother was diagnosed with cancer. Three months later, only days before she died, she spoke to Aroldo of her greatest concern: There were no relatives to help. Aroldo would need to take full responsibility for his two younger sisters and his younger brother. He solemnly made this promise to his dying mother.

By day he worked in a bank, and at night he attended the university. He continued to keep his baptismal covenants, but his hopes for a full-time mission were gone. His mission would be caring for his family.

Months later while preparing a sacrament meeting talk, Aroldo studied the words that Samuel reprovingly spoke to King Saul: “To obey,” he read, “is better than [to] sacrifice.” Aroldo received the seemingly impossible impression that he needed to obey the prophet’s call to serve a mission. Undaunted by the obstacles before him, he moved forward with enormous faith.

Aroldo saved every Brazilian cruzeiro he could. At age 23, he received his mission call. He told his brother how much to withdraw each month from his account for the family. Aroldo still did not have enough money to pay the full cost of his mission and the living expenses for his brother and sisters, but with faith he entered the MTC. A week later he received the first of many blessings. The bank that had employed Elder Cavalcante unexpectedly doubled the money he was to receive as he concluded his work. This miracle, along with others, provided the needed income for his mission and his family during his absence.

Twenty years later, Brother Cavalcante is now serving as the president of the Recife Brazil Boa Viagem Stake. Looking back, he said of those days, “As I tried to live righteously, I felt the Savior’s love and guidance. My faith grew, allowing me to overcome many challenges.” Aroldo’s faith did not come by chance, but by choice.

Two weeks later, as sacrament meeting began, the priests and deacons took their places close to the sacrament table. Because we have a large ward, three priests are required, with one sitting next to the wall serving as a witness. I noticed right away that Scott and Clint had taken the two positions of the priests who did administer the sacrament prayers. I was more than a bit nervous because, to my knowledge, Scott had never offered a sacrament prayer due to his difficulty in reading and speaking. Out of my apprehension, I looked at Clint who, as usual, seemed unconcerned and was calmly looking around the chapel. My inability to attract his attention to the matter worsened my fear, and I nearly arose to straighten out the situation. I did not want Scott to be embarrassed by failing to properly offer the prayer. Yet I didn’t want to disappoint him by asking him to leave.
Before I could decide what to do, the meeting began and proceeded as usual. I thought no one was aware, except the priests and me, of what was going to happen. But when it was time to have the blessing on the water, and Scott knelt before the sacrament, I knew I was not the only one whose heart began to beat faster. Everyone suddenly quieted, even the babies. Scott began to slowly say the prayer, sounding each word carefully and distinctly, occasionally mispronouncing one and having to say it again correctly before going on. The air was electric. It was possible to feel everyone’s attention riveted on that boy, giving him silent support. I followed word by word that familiar and oft-repeated prayer. Finally, after what seemed a long time, he finished with a resounding “Ah-men,” and the relieved congregation responded with an “Amen” that truly was a united voice of gratitude.
Scott was so pleased with himself that for a moment he stood smiling, looking around the chapel before thinking to hand the trays to the waiting deacons. I was so relieved and pleased he had succeeded that I failed to recognize for several days he had helped everyone pay more attention to each word of the sacrament prayer. Because of him the prayer that day had added significance. It truly was a unifying spiritual event for all who were there. After the meeting, as we congratulated Scott, Clint matter-of-factly told of teaching the prayer to him, and they both went their separate ways.

A long line of cars and large trucks sped along the freeway through the steady rain, tires hissing on the wet pavement. Water squirting from under the wheels of the trucks formed a curtain behind each speeding colossus. Every time we passed one of those road giants, a streaming shower blocked our view.
Often, when a long line of cars was in front of us, we had to drive for minutes beside one of those enormous vehicles. Shivering with fear, my wife would look up at the monster that thundered along only a couple of meters away from us.
I grumbled to myself because we had left so late that I had to hurry in these dangerous weather conditions to arrive on time for our appointment.
Suddenly we heard a mysterious sound against the side of the car. It went “klack-klack-klack-klack,” sounding like the first four beats of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, of which the composer said, “That’s the way fate knocks at the door.” The sound repeated itself every so often.
I stopped the car in the emergency lane and inspected the tires and the body of the car. I could find nothing that could have caused this knocking sound, so we continued our trip. After several kilometers, we heard the same knocking sound. I stopped and inspected the car again. Nothing was to be found. But when I stopped a third time, I did discover something—a bump on one of the tires that slowly grew to the size of a coconut!
When the mechanic who came to change the tire inspected the inside of the tire, he whistled fearfully. Even though the tire had been new, it had a big tear in the canvas—a factory defect. “You couldn’t have driven another kilometer with this,” the man said. “The tire would have had a blowout.”
I shivered with the thought of what could have happened if we had had a blowout when we were driving next to one of those huge trucks. That day, I clearly felt the protecting power that we so often plead for in our daily prayers.
Years later, one stormy night. I felt that protection again. We were a little older and little bit more forgetful. The wind roared around the house and gusted at doors and windows. However, inside it was quiet and safe, and we slept warm and comfortable.
The next morning, we awoke, said our morning prayers, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, we had the scare of our lives! There was a strong gas smell, and the kitchen door, which we normally locked tight, was wide open in the wind. Without realizing it, we had left the gas knob of the stove wide open and the door unlocked. Somehow the storm wind had blown the door open. Had the door not been open, the gas would surely have been ignited by the flame in the water heater, causing a potentially serious explosion.
We are not wise people, just a simple couple striving to keep the covenants we made with Heavenly Father when we were married in the temple. We feel protected. Perhaps we are protected many more times than we even realize. Certainly, we believe that it was the hand of our Heavenly Father who saved us twice from misfortune.

I began seminary in 2017 in our Pare Ward of the Arue Tahiti Stake. I was in 9th grade in school at the time, and I was eager to be part of this youth group.
During my first year, I woke up before 5 am every weekday to get to seminary on time. I did my readings, and I was very attentive in class. I realized seminary contributed to deepening my relationship with God. Without Him, I would not have been able to successfully pass my school’s National Certificate Exam at the end of year 9.

These inventions and discoveries set the stage for further contributions. In the early 1500s young William Tyndale enrolled at Oxford University. There he studied the work of the Bible scholar Erasmus, who believed that the scriptures are “the food of [a man’s] soul; and … must permeate the very depths of [his] heart and mind.” Through his studies, Tyndale developed a love for God’s word and a desire that all God’s children be able to feast on it for themselves.

Meanwhile, William Tyndale had become a trained priest and was fluent in eight languages. He believed a direct translation from Greek and Hebrew into English would be more accurate and readable than Wycliffe’s translation from Latin. So Tyndale, enlightened by the Spirit of God, translated the New Testament and a portion of the Old Testament. His friends warned him that he would be killed for doing so, but he was undaunted. Once, while disputing with a learned man, he said, “If God spare my life, ere many years I will cause a boy that driveth the plough shall know more of the scripture than thou dost.”

Eventually Tyndale, like others, was killed for his efforts—strangled and burned at the stake near Brussels. But the belief for which he gave his life was not lost. Millions have come to experience for themselves what Tyndale taught throughout his life: “The nature of God’s word is, that whosoever read it, … it will begin immediately to make him every day better and better, till he be grown into a perfect man.”

I want to thank you for the Q&A in the March 1996 issue. It was about a girl who didn’t think she was pretty. All through grade school, my classmates and peers told me I was ugly, so I believed it. No one else told me anything different, except my parents. And I thought that was just their “job.” As I got older, people at church and some girls at school told me they thought I was pretty. Then I moved and had a fresh start. Now when a guy is interested in me, I wonder why. I have learned to not judge others by their looks because I know what it feels like. This article really boosted me and helped me feel important and better about myself.
Name WithheldOregon

On 26 January 1880, everything was ready.
Elizabeth M. Decker wrote of the first wagons to go down through “the Hole”: “Coming down the hole in the rock to get to the river … is almost strait down, the cliffs on each side are five hundred ft. [about 155 meters] high and there is just room enough for a wagon to go down. It nearly scared me to death. The first wagon I saw go down they put the brake on and … [chained the rear wheels together so they slid as a unit instead of rolled] and had a big rope fastened to the wagon and about ten men holding back on it and they went down like they would smash everything. I’ll never forget that day.”

I was born into a family of many children, and I remember being able to have open discussions with my mother. One day, I asked her: “Mommy, why does one of my classmates always obtain the highest grades in class?” She looked at me and kindly replied: “Indeed, you are going to the same school; but he does something differently than you do. In fact, he goes to church every week, but you only attend Church sometimes.”
Since that day, I made a personal commitment to always attend church on Sunday so that I could do better at school. My grades became better because I did go to church regularly, although I did not always fully understand the teachings.

Two missionary couples recently shouldered much of the responsibility for sending and receiving the microfilm files. Manfred Hechtle, a native of Mannheim, Germany, and his wife, Karin, born in Königsberg, German East Prussia, moved to the United States more than 40 years ago. They returned to Germany as missionaries because “we knew it would be wonderfully rewarding to help people all over Europe discover more about their family history,” explains Sister Hechtle.
The Hechtles also spent quite a bit of their mission time traveling to various family history centers to offer assistance. “When they asked us, we taught the family history center directors and their staffs how to use Church computer programs,” says Elder Hechtle. “These visits also gave us a chance to repair and maintain the microfilm and microfiche equipment.”
The couple also helped present family history seminars.” We piled our equipment into a station wagon and headed out,” says Elder Hechtle. “We then taught members and others interested in learning about the Church’s family history programs.”