Gospel Story Finder

My freshman year in high school, however, I chose not to take seminary. I thought I didn’t have room in my schedule. I didn’t understand how important seminary was. My friends could say nothing but good about seminary, so I decided to adjust my schedule so that I could take it.
Seminary gave me a fresh outlook on the gospel. Through seminary my testimony of the scriptures developed. I read the entire New Testament and learned about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. My testimony grew at an overwhelming speed. Once again I felt the peace and love the gospel provided me, and I wanted my family to feel it as well.
I began to urge my family to come with me to sacrament meeting. I told them I wanted us to be an eternal family. To encourage them, I would wash everyone’s church clothes on Saturday night so that the excuse “I don’t have anything to wear” was no longer an option. I told them that I had a testimony of the gospel and that I wanted to share it with them. Most important, I prayed. I prayed that my family could know the Spirit the way I did. I wanted them to go to church so that we could someday be sealed in the temple.
It started slowly and took some time, but one warm August morning, my prayers were answered as we were sealed in the Portland Oregon Temple. I felt the Spirit stronger at that moment than ever before. I knew my family could be together forever. To this day I cannot thank my Heavenly Father enough for this wonderful blessing.
Now I am trying my best to be a good example and friend to everyone around me so that perhaps I can do for them what was done for me.

These brethren are not alone in their commitment to serve. I am reminded of a sister in Peru who has been called by her bishop to be a “special proxy” at the Lima Peru Temple. Her day begins at 3:00 A.M., and she begins her trek to the temple at 4:00 A.M. She has to take three different buses to get there. The cost of the bus takes more than one-third of her small monthly income. During a bus strike in Lima, she still came. Once she arrived in the back of a truck headed in the direction of the temple. What marvelous devotion to service!

Before February 1997, our family could have been compared to a deep river: on the surface the river appeared calm, but the undercurrents were continually raging.
When any problem arose, I tended to blame my wife. I believed she was the cause of our problems, so I rationalized doing anything I wanted, including looking for a new partner. I didn’t feel my wife had the right to complain about my behavior because I provided for the financial needs of our family.
One day in February, there was a knock on our door in Tacloban, Leyte, Philippines. When I looked out the window I saw two strangers—young women wearing name tags. I recognized them as Latter-day Saint missionaries. Looking for an opportunity to debate, I had them enter. When I asked them to sit down, I was ready for battle. I was determined they would leave disappointed, so I presented a false front. I pretended to be attentive so I would be prepared to deliver my arguments most effectively. But when it was my turn to speak, I found there was nothing to argue about. I could only agree with what the sisters had said.
The sisters wanted to set up another meeting, and I agreed. When they left, the peace I had enjoyed disappeared, and soon my negative feelings started to return. I dreaded the prospect of meeting with the missionaries. But I kept the appointment, and, with each succeeding visit, I rediscovered values and truths I had discarded in my vain pursuit of success. Each time they left our home, the peace I felt would last longer, and soon I found myself looking forward to their visits.
The missionaries’ teachings, the scriptures, and the reading material they left behind were microscopes with which I began to examine the minute details of my life. I found that I had been scrutinizing only half of my marriage—my wife’s half—and I had chosen to see only the bad in it. With the new opportunity to view my life in the light of Jesus Christ’s teachings, I began to see more clearly the other half of my marriage—my half—and found it in even worse condition.
The proclamation on the family states, “Happiness in family life is most likely to be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ” (Liahona, October 1998, 24). I rejoice and thank the Lord for giving me the chance to repent. I also thank Him for these sisters who willingly became His instruments so that through our accepting the gospel and living its teachings my family might become like a lake—calm and peaceful throughout, not just on the surface.

I must confess to you that, up until 24 years ago (I got married about 24 years ago), I had but one prayer in my heart. There was only one thing that I wanted to do. I prayed morning and night, unashamedly, that I could be the shortstop for the New York Yankees. That was my prayer. I don’t pray that anymore.

My prayer changed. It became, “I want to be the father of lovely and virtuous young ladies.” I’ve been blessed with four fine daughters. I’ve observed families that have done a great job with their children. I went to one couple, friends of ours, and asked, “How come your kids are so good? What is it you do with them?”

They said, “Oh, we do this, this, this, and we give them plenty of love.”

I asked some other friends, “How come your kids are so good? What is it you do?”

“Oh, we do this, this, this, and, oh, by the way, we give them plenty of love.” That seems to be the common denominator—give them plenty of love.

The union of Brother Destiny Uyinmwen (stake YSA leader from the Benin City Nigeria New Benin Stake) and Sister Blessing Aigbokhan (YSA from the Benin City Nigeria Oregbeni Stake) was a long-awaited match made possible because both individuals chose to stay on the covenant path and to be in places where they could feel the Spirit of the Lord in their lives.
Their fairy tale romance was built upon the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. They met at a training meeting for stake YSA members serving on seminary committees from around the area. This training meeting occurred three weeks before their multi-stake YSA Summit in 2024.
Sister Blessing was undecided about attending the Summit, but Destiny invited her to be his date at one of the Summit events, and after some discussion, she agreed. During the Summit, they got to know each other and learned that they had both served missions and were committed to building a righteous family in the gospel.
Destiny said, “I wanted to marry someone humble, teachable, and with a desire to keep learning together.” Blessing noted that she followed Elder David A. Bednar’s counsel to not look for perfection in a spouse but to seek potential and develop oneself to embody the qualities one desires. Her favorite quote from Elder Bednar is, “You don’t find love for marriage; you create it.”
Destiny proposed at the YSA end-of-year party on December 27, 2024, and the two were married three months later, with the support and well-wishes of their family and friends.
They immediately set their goal to live as a team. Destiny learned a skill before his mission, working with diesel and gas generators. They built upon his skill set to establish a business. Blessing takes the lead in selling electrical and other machine parts, while Destiny repairs, sells, and installs new generators. Together, they support the needs of every customer. They’re not wasting any time in becoming self-reliant, both temporally and spiritually.
Their advice to other young single adults is to always “think celestial.” Brother Destiny says, “Now is the time to rely on your Savior, Jesus Christ, and include Him in everything you want in life. When you rely on Him, He will be there in your decision-making, and you’ll know when the time is right.” In the end, he said, “Fear not; I know He will direct your path as He has directed mine.”

Summer is hot in Brisbane this time of year. Always is. An old swagman I met in Townsville told me that it’s always the same in Brisbane in the summer. This is my third summer in Queensland, my second in Brisbane, and my last month in Australia. It hasn’t changed. Just like the people. I found that out myself.
The airport in Brisbane is the only thing that has changed in two years. When I first arrived, there were only three Quonset huts, five palm trees, and a broken wooden fence. Monday when I went to see my friend off, I noticed a change. They have a new terminal made of stone. There are two palm trees in large stone barrels on either side of the passenger ramp. I took a picture of Ernstein between them when he left. He was finally going home. He told me he was glad. I told him I knew what he meant and envied him. He said he hoped his mother would notice a change in him. He said two years make a lot of difference, especially to 19-year-olds. Twenty-one meant a lot.
Oh, one other difference at the airport. There is a large chain link fence around it.
Tuesday I drove to the airport again to watch the big planes take off and to meet a new companion. I got to see one huge 707 heading for the U.S. It was beautiful. I thought I was going to die of thrills when the engines shook the terminal as the plane took off. My heart went crazy as the “big deliverer” streaked east. Beautiful. Fantastic. Only 30 1/2 days left. I took a deep breath, held it, closed my eyes, and smiled, then slowly let the air out. I looked down at the mission president’s letter. Jensen. I was to meet Jensen. Jensen was 19, two years younger than Ernstein. I watched him enter between the palms, and I couldn’t believe he was so young.
“Good afternoon, Elder Clemens.”
He thrust out his hand, grabbed mine, and crushed it. I smiled and yanked my hand out while it was still mine.
“Hello,” I answered. His smile broadened with my response. I guess he was relieved to know his new companion was human. My hand knew it! He trotted toward the baggage claim. I ran after him. He reached the baggage clerk before I could. He grabbed the wiry man’s hand, crushed it, and with a large smile on display proclaimed that he was Elder Jensen and how did you do and had his luggage arrived. The thin man pushed up a smile and rubbed his hand.
“Right, mate. How are you? Your bag’ll be right in. Ta.” He turned and walked to his desk by the revolving baggage claim table. He sat down and peered over his horse racing paper, the Daily Mirror.
I grabbed Jensen and asked him if he had seen his baggage yet.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, “here it comes. The large blue Samsonite fortnighter is mine. It weighs exactly 44 pounds. The rest of my clothes are in my overcoat. That’s why it’s so heavy. You were probably wondering why.” He smiled down at me as he finished his speech. For the first time I realized he was four inches taller than I was.
I forced a smile back.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Elder Clemens, will you grab that flight bag? It’s light. Thanks.”
I picked up the Pan Am flight bag beside Jensen. The bag was empty except for one thick paperback. It was the Book of Mormon.
“I feel bad about you seeing that, Elder Clemens.” He said my name like it was a novelty that he was anxiously trying to get used too. I still haven’t gotten used to the elder bit. I envied Ernstein. Jensen went on.
“The bag was full. It holds 15 books. My family and relatives in Salt Lake gave me this bag with copies of the Book of Mormon in it at the airport. I sold them all on the plane, all but this one.” He picked it out of the bag, rolled it over in his hands, and put it back. “I must have been meant to keep it.”
I yawned, grabbed the bag, and told him to follow me to the car. I started in the lead, but after four steps I was running after him.
He talked all the way to the flat.
That night I learned that he had been the fattest baby born, vice-president of his high school, and president of his seminary classes all four years. He had memorized 60 scriptures and all of the missionary lessons. He also promised his parents that he would baptize 24 people in his two years. He asked me who we would baptize this week. He frowned when I told him no one. I then told him we were going to bed. He agreed, finally.
Wednesday morning he volunteered to cook breakfast. We went to knock on doors at 9:00 A.M. Outside it was 90 degrees with 80 percent humidity. I was used to it by then, but my tall, thin, blonde companion was shocked by the heat. He winced as we stepped out of our cool basement apartment into the hot Brisbane air. As usual the sky was blue—no clouds, no breeze. We walked four blocks to a new street. It hadn’t been tracted for nearly two years. I was the last missionary to knock on its doors. It had been my first street. It had been awful. All old people and not interested. Everyone of them poor. The street was a waste, just like this area. And they stick me back here again with only one month until I’m out. I was a greenhorn the first time, but now I had a greeny to take care of. And in Brisbane. I hate Brisbane.
Jensen talked all the way to the first home. When we were walking up to the door, I sprung my trap.
“Jensen, this is your door. Go to it,” I announced. He looked at me slightly dazed. His eyes squinted in the bright sun. The perspiration had already soaked his white shirt under his arms. He carried a Book of Mormon in his right hand.
“Do you have any pamphlets?” was all he asked as he looked back down at me. I told him yes—one “Joseph Smith’s Testimony,” three “The Word of Wisdom,” and seven “Why Mormons Build Temples.” People liked them.
“How about a ‘Which Church Is Right’ pamphlet?” he queried.
“I never bring them. Puts people off. Makes them think we are pushing religion.” I settled that question.
He shrugged his shoulders and arrogantly walked up the final steps to the door. He twisted the knob of the doorbell. Australians have cheap doorbells. They are like our bicycle bells.
The door was pulled open, and an old man with a pipe looked down at us.
“Yes, sirs, can I help you boys?” he drawled in his Australian accent. Jensen quickly answered the inquiry.
“Yes, sir, you may.” The big smile was all over his face. I stood patiently by his left side.
“My companion, Elder Clemens, and I are talking to the good folks on this street, and we wonder if we might chat with you today?” His tone was sweet and phony. I could see I was going to have to change him. That’s how Ernstein had helped me.
The old man stared back without a smile.
“What do you want to chat with me about, mate?”
“Well, sir,” Jensen flowed on, “we are representatives of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and …”
The door slammed. I turned to go.
“Wait, Elder Clemens,” he stated. He turned and rang the bell again. I quickly turned to run. He grabbed my arm. “One more chance, Elder.” He didn’t even say it like a question.
“Look, Elder,” I pleaded, “don’t bother the old guy.” I tried to talk sense to him. “He doesn’t want to hear. Let him alone.” My tone now was firm.
I was interrupted when the door suddenly opened. The old man was framed in the doorway like Quasimodo. Jensen began acting again. I could tell it was all an act.
“Sir, I am sorry if you think we are bothering you, but if you will only let us explain why we are here. Have you heard of the Mormons?” His tone got softer as he spoke.
“Leave me alone, son.” His voice was deep, and I knew we had really annoyed him.
“I will, sir, but not until I tell you I care about you.”
I couldn’t believe it. The old man couldn’t either. He went quiet and looked unbelieving. He then bowed his head. I started to speak to avoid a further catastrophe.
“I am sorry, sir, and we will be going …”
Jensen cut me off.
“I mean that, sir. You see, sir, we believe you are our brother, since we are all children of God.”
He paused on “God” and waited for the old man to respond. The old man’s head was still bowed. He began to raise his head at the sudden silence, but Jensen continued.
“We feel it our duty and responsibility to tell you our message. It is a message of love and happiness. Please let us share it with you. Please, sir.” He was straining now. I put my finger through the back belt loop of his new pants. He didn’t respond.
By now the old man’s head was turning back and forth and his pipe was in his left hand. A cane in his right hand held him up. He was taking deep breaths, so I knew he was furious. I thought he was going to have a stroke right there. I pulled on the belt loop twice. Jensen turned his head around slowly. I did an instant double take as I saw his face. There were tears in his eyes. He turned his head away as I began to twitch the left side of my lips in disbelief and disgust. What a phony he is. I wanted to yank him off the porch that second, sit him down, and set him straight. The old man stopped me. He looked up. He was barely able to say what he said.
“You,” he paused and then continued in a deep voice, “you mean that?”
Jensen stared back.
“Yes, sir, I do.” He stood a little taller and went on. “I know our message will only bring you happiness. I know it’s true.” His tone was soft, but emphatic. He paused for a second, maybe two, and then fed him the same line we always use. “You see, sir, we come to Australia on our own time and at our own expense for two years. I couldn’t bear to tell a lie, especially for two years.” He sounded very convincing, but he wasn’t. He continued, “We only want to make you happy. If you want us to leave and let you alone, we will respect your wishes.”
“Yes,” whispered the old man. “Please leave me alone.” His head was bent again. Only the soft bald top of his head was showing. I knew it—he wanted us to leave. We were wasting his time. I pulled on Jensen’s arm. He turned around and grabbed the Joseph Smith pamphlet out of my pocket.
“Okay, sir, but will you read this?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It is short. It contains part of the message we have.” He waited for a reaction from the old man, but ended up breaking the silence himself. “Our phone number is on the back. If you want to hear more, please call us. We won’t keep you any longer.”
The old man took the pamphlet between his pipe and fingers, and we left.
When we were past the gate, the door to the house shut. I turned on Jensen. I let it flow.
“What were you trying to prove back there?” I snapped at him. “He wasn’t interested; he told you so. Not only that, you wasted our only Joseph Smith pamphlet on an old man. He’ll just throw it away. He can’t even read.”
Jensen’s head was now bowed and his shoulders were slouched. He apologized and followed me to the next door. I showed him how to do it on the next door, but they weren’t interested.
I got a letter that night; it was from Ernstein. It about blew my mind. He told me all about his first date. Oh, he also said his mother hadn’t noticed any change.
Jensen was quiet for the next three days. I think he was homesick. But today we got a phone call. That old man wants to talk to us.
Jensen and I went back to see him. We expected to find a frail old man who had been lonely and maybe curious. Instead, we found a very different man. He had read the pamphlet. He had read it to his wife, and they had both prayed about it. They had read more. Then they had asked for baptism.
We baptized them both.

Some years ago a friend named Louis related to me a tender account about his gentle, soft-spoken mother. When she passed away, she left to her sons and daughters no fortune of finance but rather a heritage of wealth in example, in sacrifice, in obedience.
After the funeral eulogies had been spoken and the sad trek to the cemetery had been made, the grown family sorted through the meager possessions the mother had left. Among them, Louis discovered a note and a key. The note instructed: “In the corner bedroom, in the bottom drawer of my dresser, is a tiny box. It contains the treasure of my heart. This key will open the box.”
All wondered what their mother had of sufficient value to place under lock and key.
The box was removed from its resting place and opened carefully with the aid of the key. As Louis and the others examined the contents of the box, they found an individual photo of each child, with the child’s name and birth date. Louis then pulled out a homemade valentine. In crude, childlike penmanship, which he recognized as his own, he read the words he had written 60 years before: “Dear Mother, I love you.”
Hearts were tender, voices soft, and eyes moist. Mother’s treasure was her eternal family. Its strength rested on the bedrock foundation of “I love you.”

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?

It has always been hard for me to sit quietly and watch general conference at home with my family. Last April, my family and I attended conference in the Conference Center in Salt Lake City, Utah. We arrived early and found our seats. I watched as hundreds of people began to file in and sit down. Many whispered quietly and waved to friends. All of a sudden, people began to stand, beginning on the far side of the Conference Center. It was like a slow, quiet wave. Soon I saw why. The prophet was slowly walking up a ramp, heading toward his seat. You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone stopped what he or she was doing and watched as the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, took his seat. A warm, tingly feeling came over me. The Spirit testified that this kind, wonderful man was a true prophet of our Father in Heaven.
I now look forward to watching each general conference with my family. It makes me happy to see the beautiful building, and it is fun to try to locate the seats where we sat. It is good to remember how I felt when I saw the prophet.
Taylor Osborne, age 11Meridian, Idaho

Rebecca’s best friend, Cindy, lived just down the street. They played together all the time. They played with the same dolls and rode on the same bikes and even liked to dress alike.
One day, Cindy came over to play. She was carrying a big plastic bag.
“I brought you some clothes I grew out of,” Cindy said. “I thought you might like them.”
“Thanks!” Rebecca said. “Now I can really dress like you.”
Later that evening, after Cindy had gone home, Rebecca’s mom came into her room and sat on the bed.
“Let’s try out those new clothes you got,” Mom said.
Rebecca squealed with excitement and dumped out the bag of clothes. She went through the clothes one by one. First, she held up a pink dress.
“What a pretty dress,” Mom said. “That will fit you perfectly.” She hung the dress in the closet.
Next they looked at a pair of blue pants.
“Hmm, they look a little small,” Mom said. “Let’s give those to your younger sister.”
Then Rebecca picked up a blue tank top.
“This is so cute,” Rebecca said, holding it up. “Can I wear it?”
“It’s a cute color,” Mom said, “but I don’t think you should wear it.”
“Why not?” Rebecca asked. “It will be great to wear this summer.”
“It’s not modest,” Mom said.
Rebecca thought for a moment. “What does it mean to be modest?” she asked.
“Being modest means dressing in a way that shows Heavenly Father we respect our bodies,” Mom said.
“But, Mom, it’s so cute. And Cindy used to wear it!” Rebecca said.
Mom patted Rebecca on the shoulder and said, “I’ll let you decide what to do with it.”
Rebecca sighed. She knew it was important to listen to her mom, but she really liked the shirt. So when her mom left the room, Rebecca hid the tank top in her drawer underneath some other clothes. She thought maybe she could wear it one day when Mom wasn’t home.
A few weeks later when Rebecca was cleaning out her dresser, she found the blue tank top.
She pulled it out. Once again, she saw how cute it was. But she remembered what her mom had said and decided that she would rather show respect for her body than wear something immodest.
She went to talk to her mom. “Mom, remember that tank top Cindy gave me?” Rebecca asked as she held it out. “Well, I kept it hidden in my drawer. But I decided I don’t want to wear it. I would rather please Heavenly Father.”
Mom smiled and gave Rebecca a hug. “I’m glad you chose the right,” she said.

They all said it. My mom said it. My dad said it. My teachers at church said it. My friends said it. And they said it over and over again. Joseph Smith is a prophet, they said. This Church is true, they said. The only true church on the face of the earth. But I wasn’t so sure that I could say it with my whole heart.
I wanted to know if they were right. I had always been told that if I wanted a testimony I had to pray and ask God for the truth. I prayed, but I felt nothing. As part of my daily prayers, I asked for a confirmation, a sure knowledge and testimony that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God and that the Church was true. I still felt the same. I continued praying daily, asking for a witness of the truth. God chose not to answer my prayers right away. But I continued seeking.
One day I was playing hymns on the piano and singing to myself. I turned to “Joseph Smith’s First Prayer” (Hymns, no. 26). I had sung it many times before. This time, I paid closer attention to the words, and they meant more to me than they ever had. “Oh, how lovely was the morning!” I sang. “Radiant beamed the sun above. Bees were humming, sweet birds singing, Music ringing thru the grove, When within the shady woodland Joseph sought the God of love.”
I imagined in my mind, Joseph Smith walking into a grove of trees on a beautiful spring day. “Humbly kneeling, sweet appealing—’Twas the boy’s first uttered prayer.” I pictured Joseph in my mind, praying to his Father with all his heart.
When I reached the third verse, the words affected me powerfully. “Suddenly a light descended, Brighter far than noon-day sun.” Just as that sudden light, brighter than the sun, enlightened the understanding of the boy Joseph, it enlightened mine. Peace filled me as I continued to sing. “And a shining glorious pillar O’er him fell, around him shone, While appeared two heav’nly beings, God the Father and the Son.”
With joy in my heart I sang, “‘Joseph, this is my Beloved; Hear him!’ Oh, how sweet the word! Joseph’s humble prayer was answered, And he listened to the Lord.”
Joseph’s humble prayer was answered, and so was mine that day. I didn’t have a vision as Joseph did, but I could feel that the Church was true. It was something I had never felt before: a peace, a joy, a surety that Joseph Smith was a prophet and had restored the Church of Jesus Christ. I have felt that peaceful assurance many times since then. I know God lives. He hears and answers our prayers. This is His true Church. And Joseph Smith was a true prophet.

Hans let his light shine brightly, even through hard times.
When he was six years old, he fell and broke his arm. That accident became a great blessing. His mom was planning to move to the United States and leave Hans in Ecuador with her sister for a time. “But when he broke his arm,” she says, “I realized Heavenly Father was telling me not to leave my son. If I did, he wouldn’t be able to go to church.”
That’s when Hans’s mother, Antonia Yolanda Nieto, was baptized. Since that time, her testimony has continued to grow and she has received her endowment in the Guayaquil Ecuador Temple. Hans was the missionary who brought his mother to the light of the gospel.

Thank you for the June leadership issue. I am second counselor in the Red Deer District Primary, and we had a leadership meeting planned for Saturday, June 4. On Wednesday, June 1, I still didn’t know what to discuss in my department, and I was getting panicky because of my responsibility of giving something worthwhile to leaders who would travel great distances. My prayers were truly answered when the mail came Wednesday with the New Era. I used most of the feature articles as well as the Puzzlement and Mormonad. Several sisters said it was just what they needed.
Verna J. ParkTrochu, Alberta, Canada

Aunt Jennie sent me a scrapbook for my birthday. The cover is red with “My Book of Remembrance” written on the front in big blue letters. Inside, the pages are thick and gray.
I decided to put the supplies I needed to work on my scrapbook in a shoe box. I soon had the box filled with markers, crayons, stickers, scissors, glue, and tape.
Mom is going to help me fill my book with things about me. She said that when I have filled this book, she will buy me another one!
For the first page I glued a photo of me and signed my name below it. Then I wrote, “My eyes are green. My hair is brown. I am six years old.”
On the next page, I glued a special letter from Grandma. It is the first letter that I have ever received.
Last month I wrote my dad a poem for Father’s Day. Then I colored purple flowers all around it. Dad said it was OK to glue it in my book.
On another page, I drew pictures of my mom, dad, brother, cat, and me. I added a photo of the whole family and wrote, “We are a family.”
Mom helped me find a picture of the Portland Oregon Temple to glue in my book. I want everyone to know that we are a forever family.
I drew a picture of my house and my favorite climbing tree. I also wrote my address and phone number on the page.
If you read my book of remembrance, you will learn lots of things about me. You can fill a scrapbook with things about you, too. When people read it, they will learn about your history!

Everyone in the family loved the house we lived in on East Franklin Street, everyone that is except me. My father called it “the Castle,” and from a distance (it was on a hill) it did look a little like a castle. The Castle was a dream come true for my parents. They’d had it built after nearly ten years of careful saving and planning, and even though it’s been years since we lived there my father still tells of my mother supervising the construction.
“Mama,” he says grinning. “She put her nose into everything. She made sure all of the carpenters put their nails in right and of course she knew more about bricklaying than any mason we hired. Everything had to be just so for her. If anyone did something she didn’t like, boy, did he hear about it.”
He tells that part of the story when my mother is listening. When she isn’t, he tells of how all the workers threatened to quit if she didn’t leave them alone and of how he saved the day by sending her to buy carpets and furniture.
When it was finished it was one of the most elegant homes in town. It was Victorian style complete with spires and a cupola. My mother was especially proud of the windows. Several in the front of the house were made of cut and frosted glass, and another on the south side had the design of a unicorn made with stained glass.
Everyone liked the house but me. The place just took too much work. If my mother and father were the king and queen of the Castle, I knew exactly where I stood—serf.
Painting the house was the biggest job. It was a project that lasted two months, two of the best months of summer, and involved everyone in the family. When we—I had six brothers and sisters—became old enough and careful enough we would be given the honor of doing the actual painting. This honor was bestowed with great ceremony. The night before the painting started, a large bonfire was built and then with the entire family watching my father would tap the shoulders of the honored person with a paintbrush.
“I knight you into the royal order of the paintbrush of the Madison family,” he said in his deepest and most ceremonious voice.
Afterward we celebrated with a banquet of fried chicken, potato salad, homemade root beer, and cake. A feast, of course, fit for a king. Toasts were made with the root beer and songs were sung, all directed to the new knight. It was great fun. The knights being initiated into King Arthur’s round table probably felt no more honored than we did when we became knighted into the royal order of the paintbrush.
Unfortunately for me, the year I became old enough to paint was the summer I became interested in baseball. The day painting started was also the day my team had its first practice game.
My mother wouldn’t let me get out of painting to go to the game.
“The house and the family are more important than anything else,” she said.
I knew my team wouldn’t have a chance without me, so while everyone was busy working, I painted my way to a far corner of the house and made a run for it. I reached a row of trees growing on the edge of our property and waited. I watched for a few minutes. No one was following me, so I hurried to the game.
It was the second inning. The other team, the North Side Wolves, had scored four runs. No problem. My team didn’t have anything to worry about. It was my turn to bat.
I stepped up to the plate, ready to hit the first home run of what was going to be an illustrious career of home runs. The pitcher hunkered down, spit, fleered his lips back, and gave me his fiercest scowl.
I just scowled back at him, swung my bat a couple of times for practice, and then to strike terror into the hearts of the outfielders, I casually pointed my bat at the church which was more than half a mile away. Several of them backed up. The pitcher, his face stone hard, swung his arms over his head, beginning the windup.
Just then a dark shadow came over me.
“Must be a cloud passing in front of the sun,” I thought, concentrating on the pitcher. Then I noticed the pitcher had stopped his windup and was backing up.
It was George, my oldest brother. George is big, six foot four, and he has this mean look on his face, the kind of look you see on a mad zoo gorilla. George makes most guys my age a little edgy, but not me. I knew what my mother would do to him if he hurt me.
“Let’s go,” George said. George never says more than he has to.
“After I hit a couple of homers,” I replied casually. I knew everyone there would be impressed with my bravery.
“Hey, let’s play ball!” the pitcher yelled.
George looked at him again and then tightened a hand into a fist. The pitcher dropped the ball and backed up several steps. His face was pale, just like he’d looked death in the face.
George looked at me, shook his head, and then reached for me. I sat down on home plate.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
George shook his head again.
“Dumb.”
He reached down, grabbed my leg, and started for home, dragging me behind him.
He let me walk part of the way after I promised to go along peacefully.
My mother was waiting at the house with my paintbrush and a bucket of paint.
“You do your work here,” she said, “before you do anything else.”
I thought then my mother cared more for that house than for anything else, including me. I was wrong, and it didn’t take me long to find out what was really important to her. That winter we lost the house.
Early in March my father called from work and told my mother he wanted to hold a family council that night.
My mother had built a fire in the fireplace and made us hot chocolate. When my father got home, he walked quietly into the living room and looked at us for awhile. Something was wrong. He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands. They were shaking. The room was dead silent except for the cracking sounds of burning wood. The room glowed with the flickering orange light.
“Papa, what’s wrong?” my mother asked.
He looked up slowly. His eyes were red. It was a shock to us to see him that way. He’d always been unmovably strong before. I’d thought there was nothing he was afraid of or couldn’t handle. The light from the fire that only a second before had seemed so warm was now dark and ominous.
“I’ve failed you,” he said.
He ran his finger through his hair slowly leaving his hand on his forehead.
“The business—I’ve lost everything.” He took a deep breath and looked directly at my mother. He looked old and defeated.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t true.”
He looked at her for a long time and then nodded his head.
“It’s true.” He stood and walked from the room.
The next day my mother sent me and my brothers down to see if we could help my father at work. We found out his business owed a large amount of money that would take him years to pay off. My father told us it would be hard just to make ends meet, and he didn’t know if we would make it, even with the money we’d get from the house. He seemed very depressed.
When we walked into the house that night, it was filled with incredibly delicious smells. We went into the dining room. The table was spread with a banquet. There was a roast goose, my father’s favorite, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, fresh baked bread, rolls, all of it steaming hot.
My father stood in the doorway. His face went red.
“Mama,” he shouted. “What is this? Have you gone crazy? Do you think Thanksgiving comes in March now?”
She smiled calmly.
“It’s a celebration.”
“What’s to celebrate? The world is going crazy, and we’ve lost everything.”
Mama smiled again.
“Papa, we’ve lost nothing.”
My father shook his head.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house. I found a buyer. He wants to move in next week! I don’t know where we’re going to go or how we’re going to live.”
Mama wasn’t smiling now. She had the determined look she gets on her face when she wants someone to know she means business.
“We’ve lost nothing,” she said. She was glaring at my father. “Nothing that matters. This celebration is to remind us what is most important to us. The food’s getting cold, so shut up and eat.”
For the first time in weeks my father relaxed. The pain he felt faded. He looked around the table at us and then back to my mother. He smiled.
“I married a hard, crazy woman,” he said. “And since Thanksgiving comes in March this year, I think we should give thanks for it.”
He sat at the head of the table and took my mother’s hands.
“Even if the food does get a little cold,” he said and then started a Thanksgiving prayer more eloquent and longer than any we’d ever heard on Thanksgiving Day.
A week later when my mother first saw the run-down house we rented she said, “I think it needs a little paint.” A week later when my mother first saw the run-down house we rented she said, “I think it needs a little paint.” That summer the royal order of the paintbrush went to work again.

Merania from New South Wales, Australia, befriended a woman who was learning about the Church in her ward. “She has become one of my dear friends now,” Merania says. “I love sitting with her in sacrament meeting every week, and I always ask how she’s doing and if there is anything I can do to help her.” After a while, Merania’s friend was baptized. The efforts of ward members, as well as the welcoming atmosphere in sacrament meeting, played a huge part in her decision.

I remember how the shrill scream of a siren gave me goose bumps whenever an ambulance went rushing by. Oh how I wanted to be at the wheel of that machine, rushing to the aid of sick and injured people. As I grew older, my dream became a reality. I took first-aid classes, human science classes, and finally, an emergency medical technician training course.
I was fresh out of high school when I got my first job as an ambulance attendant for a private ambulance, and I progressed rapidly in my knowledge of emergency treatments. I learned many things about life that most people never learn until their 20s. I was also exposed to many trials and temptations that I’d never come across before.
I worked in a non-Mormon atmosphere. It was the type of atmosphere that my church leaders always had warned me about, but at the time, I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about it. My work began conflicting with my church attendance. I started asking myself questions and often wondered about my future. I could see myself progressing into higher fields of medicine, and it seemed that nothing stood in my way. Then, on my 19th birthday, I made my way to California and applied to a hospital paramedic program. I was accepted and could enter in the fall semester. I knew then that was exactly what I wanted to do.
Suddenly it dawned on me. What about a mission. Oh sure, I always told my friends and family that I would go. I even told my employer I was planning on a mission. But all of that seemed unimportant now. All I could see was personal satisfaction, and I didn’t care what kind of spiritual development I’d surely miss. The voice of the prophet still echoed in my mind, “Every young man is to fulfill a mission.” But the thought always came back, “In two years’ time, look how far you could be as a paramedic.”
I didn’t know what to do! I knew deep down in my heart that a mission was the right thing, but I was so terribly blinded by worldly greed. The decision to go or not to go was constantly on my mind. I thought about it from the time I got up until the time I went to bed at night. Because we worked 24-hour shifts, I had lots of time to think.
One night right after I had gone to bed, I was awakened by the ring of the telephone. The highway patrol was calling for an ambulance to respond to a car-truck accident on the freeway, and soon I was at the scene of a two-car accident. A small car had run into the back of a semitrailer loaded with wooden fence posts. The badly mangled car had two occupants—a young couple that had recently been married. The husband, who was driving, had been killed instantly. His wife was critically injured. We worked desperately to save the slowly fading life of that beautiful nineteen-year-old woman. I thought to myself, How could something so terrible happen to this fine couple and totally destroy their future plans and happiness?
We rushed her to the hospital, where a team of highly trained doctors and nurses were waiting. Soon a helicopter arrived to transport her to a hospital in Salt Lake City, where she could receive special treatment for a severe head injury.
After I calmed down from the shock of such a terrible accident, I remembered talking to the highway patrolman who would be responsible for notifying the next of kin. I’ll never forget the solemn look on his face, and the glaze of tears in his eyes as he drove away. I thought to myself, What a horrible assignment! What if they were my parents being notified? Then another thought came to my mind: What will be the look on my face when I give an accounting to the Savior of the time I spent here in mortality?
The night air was chilled with a late frost. As I gazed up into the night, I noticed how clear and calm the sky looked. Tears ran freely down my cheeks, and I found myself pleading with the Lord for that young woman’s life. At that moment, when my heart actually seemed to swell painfully with love and compassion, I finally began to understand. Doctors and nurses and paramedics were wonderful, but they could only treat the body. They couldn’t heal the deeper wounds, the ones that would keep us from going home to our Father. Only one Physician could do that, and I was denying myself the chance to be his helper. I made a decision. I would do all I could to further the work of the Master Healer. I would serve a mission!
The days came and went. Finally, one month later, I learned my prayers had been answered. The young woman was released from the hospital, completely recovered. How I thanked our Eternal Father for that answer. But now came the biggest step of all, my mission.
As I prayed and prepared myself, the Spirit confirmed the fact that I was to serve my Heavenly Father in the mission field. I’ll never forget that calm, sweet feeling that came as the words fell from the lips of our stake patriarch, when he pronounced that blessing upon me. And I’ll never forget that same feeling as I opened the letter from a prophet of God, calling me to serve in the Pennsylvania Harrisburg Mission. Even as I served in Pennsylvania, as a representative of Jesus Christ, I had that special calm feeling, knowing that I had made the right choice.
Before I left for the mission field, I thought there was no feeling in the world like knowing someone was walking again because of your help, but I was wrong. There is no greater feeling in the world than knowing you helped someone in their search for true joy and happiness found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Kenny was going shopping. He had saved his allowance to buy himself a treat. Just down the street from his house was a little grocery store. Mr. and Mrs. Arnett, who ran the store, had big jars of candy on the counter. They used a little scoop to put the candy into a red and white bag. Then they weighed it on a big old-fashioned scale and told you how much to pay.
Kenny had saved enough money to get a whole pound of candy. That was a lot, but he knew that if he was careful, it would last a long time. He had already decided what kind he was getting. It was his very favorite—peas and carrots. Not real peas and carrots. Candy peas and carrots that looked just like real peas and tiny carrots.
Because the store wasn’t very far from his house, Kenny’s mom let him go by himself. He walked, skipped, and ran down the street. As he passed some of his friends’ houses along the way, he thought, What if people are outside when I come back with my candy? They will see the bag from Arnett’s store and want some.
Kenny had worked hard to save his money for a whole pound of peas and carrots, and he wanted it to last a long time. If he shared it with others, it wouldn’t last very long. So he thought up a plan and turned around and ran all the way home.
“Did you get your treat already? Mom asked.
“No, I forgot something.”
“OK, be careful,” Mom said.
Kenny hurried back to the store, this time carrying something besides money in his pockets.
When Mr. Arnett handed Kenny the red and white bag, it felt heavy. A pound of peas and carrots was a lot of candy! He was going to make it last a long, long time. And his plan was going to help.
As he left the store, Kenny pulled some headphones from his pocket and put them over his ears. He plugged them into a little radio in his other pocket. He turned the radio on and made sure the sound was pretty loud. As he started home, he watched carefully for any friends he might see.
Ashley and Isaac were the first friends he saw. They were just coming out of their house to play. Kenny looked straight ahead and pretended not to see them. He could see out of the corner of his eye that they were saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear them. They were pointing at his bag. He knew that they were going to ask for some of his candy, so he walked a little faster and passed them by.
My plan worked! Kenny thought.
Mrs. Moulton was working in her yard when he passed. He gave her a smile and a little wave. She was pointing at his bag and saying something.
She wants some candy, too! Kenny thought. He looked away and tried to enjoy the loud music.
He looked up the street and saw Hannah coming down the sidewalk on her skateboard. She hopped off and started talking to Kenny, pointing at his bag. He just smiled, bobbed his head in time with the music, and went around her. Hannah was asking him for candy, and he just didn’t want to share.
One more house to pass, and he would be home. He thought the Pierce brothers were visiting their grandma, but he was wrong. There they were, and they had already seen him. They also jumped up and down and pointed at his bag. Kenny pretended he didn’t see them and hurried to his house.
Now all he had to do was avoid his sister and brother and get to his room, where he would be safe at last! He rushed in and headed for the stairs. There was Janelle looking right at his bag and asking for some of the candy that he still hadn’t even tasted. He ran past her and up to his room. Dustin was on his way out to play ball. He reached out to touch the red-and-white bag. Kenny pulled it away and told him to leave it alone. Then he noticed something. The bag wasn’t as heavy as it had been when Mr. Arnett had given it to him. He looked inside.
“Oh no!” Kenny yelled. Instead of a whole pound of peas and carrots in his bag, there were only one pea and two carrots in the bottom. And right next to them was a great big hole! All of his candy was gone!
Kenny was sad. The candy must have fallen out a little at a time as he walked home. He hadn’t heard it landing on the sidewalk because he had had the radio turned up so loud.
Then he thought of something else. Everyone he’d passed had pointed at his bag. All those friends weren’t asking for candy—they were trying to tell him that his candy was falling out of the bag! Kenny didn’t feel like being selfish anymore. He wished he had some candy left to share.
He made another plan.
The next time Kenny saved up enough allowance for some candy, he didn’t take his radio to the store. Instead of pretending to not see his friends, he looked for them. He stopped at all their houses on the way home to share his peas and carrots. And the ones that were left tasted extra delicious.

The troops gathered early on a spring morning, just as the sun was breaking over the Montana hills. Mostly young men, they came in small clusters at first, a patrol here, another there, marshaling in the city park until their ranks were full. The ribbons and badges on their uniforms caught the fire of the dawning light.
You could tell by looking in their eyes that this was serious business. They came prepared for action, dressed in orange vests and hunting caps, wearing leather gloves. And they came heavily armed.
With trash bags.
For these were Scout troops, joined by Cub Scouts, some Girl Scouts, and a few other service groups. And their battle was an all-out war against litter.
This gathering of 289 in Missoula and others like it throughout the state would form an army of 7, 000. Dispersed in groups of four youth and two leaders per mile, they would clean Highway 93 from the Canadian border to Idaho. They would spruce up parts of Interstate 15. And working west from the North Dakota border, they would tidy significant stretches of Highway 2, Interstates 90 and 94, Highway 87, and other major thoroughfares.
By midday they would collect more than three million pounds of trash, including 2,000 pounds of recyclable glass and thousands of recyclable aluminum cans.
And they’d be home in time for lunch.

Usually Jennifer loved library time at school, but today she was confused about something the librarian said. Mrs. Miller said that books like biographies and science books are nonfiction, while adventure stories and fairy tales are fiction. Jennifer had never thought about the difference between fiction and nonfiction.
“But shouldn’t writing something that isn’t true be illegal?” Jennifer’s classmate Adam asked.
Mrs. Miller smiled. “No, Adam. We have lots of books that aren’t true that we all love—like all your favorite novels and storybooks.”
After school, Jennifer was still puzzled. She knew that a lot of the stories and fairy tales she loved were make-believe, but it was still fun to pretend they were real. As Jennifer thought about fiction and nonfiction books, she wondered where the Book of Mormon would be shelved. Was it really true, or was it just a nice story that was fun to believe was true?
Jennifer thought a lot about the Book of Mormon over the next several days. She spent a lot of time reading it too. If people could invent enough stories to fill up the large fiction section of the library, was it also possible that someone could have made up the Book of Mormon? Jennifer wasn’t sure how she ever would know the truth.
When Sunday came, Jennifer was still worried about whether or not the Book of Mormon was a true book. She was worried that she was even asking the question. Everyone else at church seemed to know the Book of Mormon was true. How could they feel so certain when she felt so unsure?
During the sacrament, Jennifer said a silent prayer. It felt good to pray. Jennifer felt warm inside. She felt like Heavenly Father was telling her it was OK that she wanted to know about what was true.
As Jennifer took the sacrament, she started thinking about her baptism. She thought about how happy she had felt. She thought about how taking the sacrament renewed her promise to Heavenly Father to keep His commandments. She thought about how the feelings in her heart let her know that Jesus lives, even though she had never seen Him.
Then Jennifer began thinking about the Prophet Joseph Smith, and she had that same warm, peaceful feeling. It was the same way she felt as she read the Book of Mormon. She knew that Heavenly Father was telling her through the Holy Ghost that the Book of Mormon was true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet.
Sacrament meeting went on as usual that day, but Jennifer felt different. She felt grateful that Heavenly Father was willing to answer her questions, and that she knew for herself that the Book of Mormon was true.