Gospel Story Finder

I collected pencils for children who need them. My mom’s friend said that at one school in Africa, seven kids had to share one pencil! I set up boxes around my school, sent home flyers, and even called everyone on the school phone list to ask for donations! Now my school wants to do the “Pencil Project” every year. I feel so good inside knowing I helped kids be able to learn.
Colleen N., age 11, North Carolina, USA

That afternoon, orders came from firemen to evacuate the mission home so it could be dynamited and razed in an effort to clear a fire line. Drawers, beds, rugs, furniture, record books, and suitcases went onto a horse-drawn dray that took them to a small park two blocks away. Here the load was placed in a compact pile and covered with a carpet, under which some of the elders tried to sleep that exciting night. The fine organ recently given to the branch by the mayor and other friends was safely stored with one of the members.
On Thursday, as the fires and dynamiting continued, the Robinson family and several other Saints relocated in Golden Gate Park—a day late for the scheduled picnic! There they were better off, they knew, than other homeless members camped in Jefferson Square, where sanitary conditions were abhorrent. For food, the Saints took turns waiting in bread lines which ran four abreast and blocks long; two or three loaves per person was the limit—if supplies outlasted the line. A special pass allowed President Robinson to cross the bay to Oakland for bread, bringing back “two suitcases full each day, distributing the same to the women and children in greatest need in four parks we visited.”

Almost two years later, in April 1981, my father died unexpectedly. Among his effects I discovered a ring that bore his initials, CMY, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing it on his hand. He must have worn this ring as a young man while serving on a Canadian Navy minesweeper during the war.
Now, upon his death, I was the only living person appearing on my one-page pedigree chart, so I had to rely on extended relatives to gather more information. One of these was Betty, a sister-in-law of my grandfather, still living at the family home in Bexleyheath, Kent, England. I had always hoped to visit and learn more about my mother’s family, but as a single college student, I did not have the financial means to do so. Now, with the modest amount bequeathed to me after my father’s passing, I could fund a trip across the ocean to visit.
On the day I went to visit Aunt Betty for the first time I felt nervous. Would she understand my great desire to learn more about earlier generations? I looked at my father’s ring, now on my own right hand, reflected in the window of the double-decker bus I was riding in. It brought me comfort, as if his hand were resting on my knee in support of my errand.
Happily, Aunt Betty received me warmly and revealed many new and helpful details about my family, including the fact that my great-great-grandfather had built the home she was living in. That night I even slept in my grandfather’s childhood bedroom. I never met him, but from the photos she shared, I learned that I bear an uncanny resemblance to him. She generously gave me some of these old family photos, letters, and a family Bible listing the full names, birthdates, and birthplaces of two generations of my ancestors starting in the 1830s.
It has been over 25 years since that rainy September afternoon in England, when my tentative steps took me from the bus stop to an uncertain welcome at my ancestral home. Since then I have discovered a treasure trove of information from extended family members about my ancestors on both sides of the Atlantic, allowing me to ensure their temple ordinances have been done.
I will always remember walking up to the front door of number 32 Oaklands Road and seeing my own reflection in the glass. Now I know that the familiar face reflected back at me was not unlike the young face of my grandfather welcoming me home.

Some time ago Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Seventy, with his wife, was serving in an Area Presidency in Chile. One Friday he needed to travel 900 miles (1,450 km) from their home in Santiago to reorganize a stake presidency.
After he arrived at his destination on Friday night, he received a call telling him that his wife was in the hospital. When he spoke with Sister Johnson, she explained that she had fallen down some stairs and shattered her kneecap. Assuring him that she was being well cared for and wouldn’t be in surgery until Monday or Tuesday, she encouraged him to finish his assignment to reorganize the stake and preside at the stake conference.
Calmed by her words, Elder Johnson immediately sent an email to his quorum leader in Salt Lake City to report the situation. Then he made plans to continue his assignment. There is a lesson to be learned in his response: first, he reported the situation to his quorum leader, and then he went ahead with his assignment.
The Quorums of the Seventy are organized in such a way that each member has specific stewardship over others, including tender watchcare for emeritus members of the quorum. Because of assignments around the world, quorum members normally cannot visit in person; however, they keep in contact through telephone calls, emails, texts, and other electronic means. Each member is asked to advise his quorum leader immediately of any significant changes in personal or family situations, which is exactly what Elder Johnson did.
In Elder Johnson’s case, his priesthood leader was Elder Claudio R. M. Costa, who was then serving as a member of the Presidency of the Seventy. Elder Costa called Elder Johnson the next morning while Elder Johnson was in the middle of interviewing local leaders. Elder Costa felt that Elder Johnson should return home but listened carefully as Elder Johnson explained why he felt his wife was all right and he could finish the stake reorganization. Elder Costa told Elder Johnson to continue while he did some checking.
About two hours later Elder Costa called Elder Johnson and told him that he had talked with quorum leaders about the situation and that they felt he needed to be with Sister Johnson. Elder Johnson was advised that a ticket was waiting for him at the airport and that Elder Carlos H. Amado was on his way to finish the reorganization of the stake presidency.
When Elder Johnson arrived at the hospital, he found his wife in a great deal of pain. Adding to her distress was the fact that she didn’t speak the language of the medical staff that surrounded her. She needed her husband. The inspired, brotherly concern of his quorum leaders had brought Elder Johnson to her side.
“I feel cared for in this quorum,” said Elder Johnson, “and there is a lot of faith and energy behind that care. I truly feel part of a quorum. I think that if I were ever called into the presidency of an elders quorum, I would be a better president because of my experience in this one.”

My grandmother, a spiritual giant to me, taught me how to pray. She spent her winters with a daughter who lived a hundred miles away, so I saw her only in the summers. Sometimes I got to stay with her. I loved to climb between her sparkling white sheets and lay my head on her freshly ironed pillowcases. Her home was a house of order and love. And her homemade bread and Potawatomi plum jam was like a king’s dinner to me. She always kept a tin box of lemon drops and mints.

After biking to her house one day, I couldn’t find her in the kitchen, so I went into her bedroom. Through the window I noticed her out in her garden. Passing her dresser, I saw a new box of chocolates that someone had given her for Mother’s Day. The temptation was too great. I opened the box, picked out several pieces, and shoved them into my pocket before running outside to see Grandma.
The next day Grandma called and asked me to come over to her house. When I arrived, we visited for a while, then she offered me a chocolate. I cried and she cried, then we talked about what it means to be honest and about how disappointed Heavenly Father is when we steal. Grandma taught me other lessons that afternoon that helped strengthen my spirituality. She was the first one I called when I received my mission call. She died while I was in the mission home, and she was buried the day I arrived in New Zealand. I will always cherish the comfort and strength that she was to me.

“Why should we even bother to put up the tree this year?” I muttered, pushing aside the packing boxes in the garage.
My sister, Mary, picked up a box of ornaments. “What’s Christmas without our tree?”
“What’s a Christmas tree without presents?” I countered.
Mary didn’t bother to answer. We all knew that the new house would be our only Christmas gift this year. Even the money we children would have spent on each other went into moving expenses. We lived on food storage and potatoes and looked forward to the raise Dad had been promised in January. We would each get a few small treats in our stockings but nothing under the tree.
When the tree was decorated, Mary and I stood back to admire our work. “I knew it would look great by that big window,” she said, smiling.
“There’s still a lot of empty space underneath it, though,” I pointed out gloomily.
I was still feeling gloomy as I prepared for bed that night. And to make matters worse, I couldn’t find my pajamas. Old and worn in the knees, they were nothing special to look at, but they were comfortable and warm, and I liked them. I looked in my dresser, under my bed, and in the hamper but couldn’t find them. Finally I gave up and put on a sweatsuit.
At school the next day, my new friend, Joan, was very excited. “Do you know what I want for Christmas this year?”
“What?” I asked without much enthusiasm.
“A new bike.”
“A new bike? What’s wrong with the one you have?” I had seen her bike. It had a bell on the handle and a big basket to carry her books in.
“It’s kind of bent from when I fell.” Joan frowned. “What’s wrong with you today, anyway?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.” Then I realized that nothing was exactly what was wrong with me. “I’m getting nothing for Christmas,” I explained.
“I’m sure you’ll get exactly what you want,” Joan said confidently.
When I came home from school that day, I was astonished to see a present under the tree. I blinked and looked closer, but it was still there. It was large and brightly wrapped—and it had my name on it!
I ran into the kitchen and found my mother looking through drawers and cupboards. “Mom,” I said breathlessly, “There’s a—” I stopped when I saw her troubled face.
“Have you seen my favorite paring knife?” she asked.
“The old one with the wooden handle? No.”
“I suppose I’ll have to use the newer knife,” Mom said with a sigh. “I like the old one because it fits my hand so well. I’ll be glad when I figure out a place for everything and everything stays in its place. By the way,” she continued, “did you know that there’s a present for you under the tree? I wonder where it came from.”
The next day at school, I told Joan about the present, and a girl named Barb overheard me. “Just one present?” she said. “There are dozens under our tree.”
Joan squeezed my hand and smiled. “I told you that you’d get exactly what you want,” she said.
A few days later, my brother, Mike, came home from ball practice looking discouraged.
“Hard practice?” Mom asked.
“No,” Mike said, “it isn’t that. I wanted to take my autographed basketball to show the team, and I couldn’t find it. I hope we didn’t lose it in the move.”
“I’m sure everything will show up when we finish unpacking the boxes,” Mom assured him.
I cheered up Mike by showing him the new present that had mysteriously appeared under the tree. This one had his name on it.
And so it went. Every few days another present appeared under the tree until there was something for everyone, even our dog. We could hardly wait for Christmas day to find out what was in those packages and who had given them to us.
Finally it was the last day of school before the holidays. My teacher was passing out candy canes, when Joan pulled me aside. “I got it!”
“Got what?”
“My new ten-speed. My parents hid something big in the attic, so it must be my bike.”
“That’s great!” I said. “You’re getting exactly what you want.”
“I hope so.” Joan suddenly looked worried. “Barb told me that she had a ten-speed once but didn’t like it very much. I think I’ll hang on to my old bike, just in case.”
On Christmas morning, my family hurried through breakfast. We could hardly wait to open our presents. We emptied our stockings first, oohing and aahing over each package of gum, candy bar, and dollar-store trinket. Each small gift was a lot more fun because of the large, bright packages still awaiting us.
When we had finished with our stockings and were seated around the tree, holding our mystery gifts, Dad gave the signal for the unwrapping to begin. Usually we took turns, but this time no one could wait. As I tore open the paper, I could hear cries of delight from all around.
“I’m so glad!” Mary said. “I really wanted this.”
“I’ve looked everywhere for this,” Mike said.
“This is perfect,” Dad said. “It’s just what I wanted.”
I opened my own gift box and glimpsed plaid flannel folded beneath tissue paper. Was it a new pair of pajamas to replace the pair I’d lost? I’d really like that. But as I lifted it from the box, I realized that it wasn’t a new pair of pajamas. It was something much better—my old pair!
I hugged the soft pajamas to me. I was so happy to see them again! Never before had I been so thrilled by a present.
“Who did this?” Mary asked.
I looked over and saw Mom smiling, her gift unopened on her lap. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” she said. “Did you all get exactly what you wanted this year?”
“You bet!” my brother said as he happily twirled his basketball on his finger.
“What did you get?” I asked Mom.
“Yes,” Dad said. “Show us what you wanted for Christmas.”
Mom opened her box and held it out so that we could see what was inside.
“It’s empty.” Mike’s voice was sad. “You got nothing for Christmas.”
“Not really,” Mom said. “Because what I want most is what I already have.”
I felt the same way. I got nothing for Christmas—nothing new, that is. But I still got exactly what I wanted. And more. With a gift of nothing, my Mom taught me gratitude for everything I already had.
At lunch, after Dad and we three children searched and unpacked a zillion boxes, we gave Mom her old paring knife, wrapped in the biggest box we could find.

After finishing his service in the Brazil São Paulo North Mission in 2002, Ricardo Aurélio da Silva Fiusa used a PEF loan to earn a four-year degree in business administration.
“The fund has helped me grow up, prepare for work and marriage, and serve better in the Church,” says Ricardo. Like many PEF recipients, he was offered employment before he even finished his degree. “The fund has been a blessing in my life. I’m grateful to make monthly payments on my loan so that other people can use the fund as well.”
On his mission Ricardo learned to talk to people, study hard, and obey—qualities that have made him a good student and employee.
“A lot of my professors said there was something different about me that they couldn’t explain,” says Ricardo, who works in logistics for a company at Port Suape, south of Recife. “I told them it was because of my religious principles.” That answer has led to opportunities for Ricardo to talk with his professors and others about the Church.

I had a particular experience in my life that showed me how using the wrong word can shock those who do not expect such an utterance to come from you. I was in boot camp in the Marine Corps during World War II. Of course, the language among my fellow Marines was not of the caliber that you would want to repeat. Being a recently returned missionary, I determined I should keep my language above the level which they were using. I endeavored consistently to keep from saying even the simplest and most common of swear words.

One day we were on the rifle range firing for our final qualification scores. I had done well in the 100-, 200-, and 300-yard positions. Now we were back at the 500-yard position. All I needed was a reasonable score—just hitting the target without even having to hit the bull’s-eye, and I would make Expert Rifleman. We had been charged up with the desire to excel and be the top platoon in firing for qualifications. I tensed up at the 500-yard standing position, and on my first shot threw my shoulder into the rifle. Of course, the flag waved—I had missed the target. And likewise, I missed the opportunity of being named an Expert Rifleman.

Out of my mouth came a little four-letter word that I had determined never to use. Much to my shock and chagrin, suddenly the whole range stopped firing and everyone turned and looked at me with their mouths open. Any other Marine firing from that position that day could have used the word I used without anyone paying attention. Because I had determined that I would carry the standards of the mission field into the Marine Corps, everyone was shocked when I forgot myself.

My father used to be a fisherman, and he worked hard. Sometimes he would go fishing long before dawn and not return home until after dusk. It didn’t matter how many hours or in what horrible weather he had to work; he remained dedicated to providing for us. I never heard him complain about how hard he had to work. That’s because his own comfort didn’t matter to him. He cared only about bringing a smile to his children’s faces. My father would ensure that we always had the necessities of life, so we never had to worry that we would go without.

After that, the missionaries came to our home and gave us the first discussion. Then came the invitation: “Will you pray to Heavenly Father to know if the Book of Mormon is true?” We both agreed to do it.
On the first night I prayed before sleeping, but I was so tired that I fell asleep without waiting for a response. On the second night I prayed again, but I didn’t receive an answer. The next night I prayed once again. I wanted to feel what the missionaries had taught me: “Your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right” (D&C 9:8). I prayed and waited, but I didn’t receive a response. Still, I went to bed certain that one day I would receive it.
The next day was the first Sunday of the month, and we went to church. It was then that it happened. During class I began to feel something I had never felt before—something that made me feel so happy. When sacrament meeting began I had a desire to bear my testimony, but I didn’t have the courage. However, I was certain that the Book of Mormon was true.
My brother and I accepted the gospel without reluctance. We had testimonies of the Book of Mormon, and we knew that everything else the missionaries taught us would be true too.

After our first date, we both knew we wanted to go on a second date. Ben wanted to go on another date because Rachel was friendly and fun to talk to. Rachel wanted to go on another date because Ben was a gentleman and was still smiling after all of his well-laid plans fell through. After the second date, plus many more dates and prayers after that, we fell in love and decided to get married in the Sacramento California Temple.
The wedding day was absolutely perfect, and we have loved being married ever since. The world may see marriage differently, but we know that “no other relationship of any kind can bring as much joy, generate as much good, or produce as much personal refinement.”1 Marriage is awesome, and here’s why.

While serving as a young missionary in England, President M. Russell Ballard had an experience that changed his life forever.
“I remember walking down the side of the River Trent in Nottingham, England. …
“As I was walking along that river, … I said a prayer in my heart. I desired to feel some guidance from the Lord. I pled that He would be pleased with what I was trying to do. I asked, ‘Am I doing what you want?’”1
“An overwhelming feeling of peace and understanding came over me. It was at that precise moment in time that I came to know that Jesus Christ knew me, [and] that He loved me, … I didn’t see any visions and I didn’t hear any voices, but I could not have known of Christ’s reality and divinity any more intensely had He stood before me and called out my name.
“My life has been shaped by that experience. From that day to the present, every significant decision I have made has been influenced by my knowledge of the Savior.”2

As my family sat a few rows behind the deacons one sacrament meeting, all I could think about before the opening hymn was that one of the deacons had failed to properly tie his long tie and correctly tuck in his wrinkled shirt. I thought someone should have helped him out. After all, when passing the sacrament, deacons should be an example of the Savior in action and dress.
The meeting proceeded, and I forgot about him. After the deacons had passed the sacrament, the talks began. The second speaker was the young man’s mother. She spoke of her conversion, of her trials growing up, and of her struggles as a single mother. It was a wonderful talk that left her in tears. She took her seat on the stand and continued to cry as the ward choir gathered to sing.
Just then her son, with his crooked tie and untucked shirt, stood and walked to the stand. He hugged his mother and crouched beside her to comfort her. Tears came to my eyes as the scene played out before me; I was touched beyond words. But then realization dawned, and I hung my head. Sitting in my crisp double-breasted suit, with my perfectly tied tie and polished black shoes, I realized I had truly missed something in preparing for the sacrament.
The young man and his mother came down from the stand and sat together as the choir began to sing. I sat there, unable to listen to the music because the sermon taught by this deacon flooded my heart with a message of Christlike charity.
He had performed his act with tenderness and care. There was not the slightest sign of embarrassment on his young face—only pure love. The subsequent messages over the pulpit that day were good, but I will always remember the sermon behind the pulpit.

Just about everyone has heard the story of a proud little grandmother who, watching her grandson on parade with the other soldiers, exclaims: “Look, everyone but Johnny’s out of step!” It’s an old joke used to show how a dear lady refused to notice her grandson’s imperfection, and after I heard it, I filed it in the back of my mind and forgot it. Forgot it, that is, until one day when I was playing bass drum in the cadet band of University School in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada.
The bass drum player wears a shoulder harness to carry his instrument. As he marches along, he walks just as a person normally walks, so that his right hand is forward to strike the drum when his left foot hits the ground (and vice versa). This is important because the left foot-right hand position marks the beginning of each measure of music.
One other thing—the bass drum is big. The one I was playing was so large I could just barely see straight ahead over the top of it. But I could not see the feet of the band members ahead of me. I depended on the music and the left foot-right hand position to keep me in step.
We were rehearsing for our annual inspection. The cadets always marched along the school driveway and out onto the playing field to assembly for review. The band would lead the parade, followed by the platoons in ranks three abreast. Everyone followed the beat to keep their steps in cadence.
Mr. Genge, a veteran from the British Army’s North Africa campaign in World War II, directed the maneuvers of the entire parade. But the band members paid particular attention to the drum major. We called him Brown I (we had four fellows named Brown at the school, so we labeled them Brown I, II, III, and IV, and the nicknames stuck). Brown I was tall, about six-foot-six. He carried the big silver baton, or “mace”; he decided which tunes we would play; and by twirling and pointing the mace in different directions, he gave the band its instructions.
The morning sun dazzled its reflection from our polished instruments. Our newly pressed uniforms made us look crisp and sharp.
Mr. Genge called out in his high voice an oft-heard command: “Parade: move to the right in column of threes; To the right, quick MARCH!”
This time, however, something went wrong. Brown I stepped off on the wrong foot. He had never done it before, but now, there he was, in front of the whole band out of step!
A chain reaction quickly swept through the ranks. The front row of musicians, realizing they were not in step with Brown I, figured they must be out of step, so they changed to match him. The other rows rapidly did the same all except the bass drum player. Remember, I couldn’t see over the drum far enough to know that I wasn’t in step with the others. I was just listening to the music and following its beat.
“Birley, you’re out of step!” the snare drummer on my left whispered.
I marched on a few paces, feeling the rhythm of the music. I could tell I was in step with it. “No I’m not!” I whispered back.
“Birley, you’re out of step!” This time it was Price, on my right. “No I’m not!” I insisted. I cringed as I heard Mr. Genge’s voice say, rather softly, “Birley, change step!”
“But sir,” I protested, “I’m in time with the music!”
Mr. Genge seemed shocked for a moment. It’s not usual for a cadet to talk back to a superior, much less to refuse to follow a command. But he listened to the music as he watched me continue, and in a moment exclaimed, “You’re right!”
Then he issued the strangest order ever heard on that parade ground: “With the exception of Birley, parade CHANGE STEP!”
All of the cadets had to change to match my step and the beat of the music.
I don’t suppose many of those who were there would still recollect that event without being reminded of it. It might have slipped from my memory, too, if it hadn’t been for another incident a few years later, one that taught me something else about being out of step.
Kent and Colleen Ockey were definitely different from other families I had met while selling photography. Not only were they genuinely friendly to me, but they showed great love to each other as well. I remember how happy they seemed, how comfortable and at peace I felt in their home even though I couldn’t find an ashtray. These people seemed completely out of step with others I had encountered in my work.
On a side table in their living room, I noticed a large copy of the Book of Mormon. I had read a few chapters of it earlier in my life, and now it attracted my attention again. The Ockey’s answered my questions freely, and invited me back. They introduced me to the missionaries. I began studying, praying, and searching. Twenty-three days later, I was baptized. I finally felt that I was in step, and I’ve tried to keep in step with the Lord and the guidance from his appointed leaders ever since.
As I grew in my knowledge of the Church, I learned that the history of the gospel is a history of people (often classified as misfits by their peers) who marched in step with the Lord and out of step with their contemporaries.
Moses could have lived a life of luxury in a palace, instead, he faced persecution, battling to free the Hebrews from bondage. Daniel refused to bow and worship idols, even though it was the practice of nearly everyone else in his community. Mormon, even though encompassed by the hopeless corruption of his society, refused to succumb to its degradation. These prophets listened to the Lord rather than listening to the influential powers of their day.
In our dispensation, we find another good example in Joseph Smith. For a while, he was the only one in step. Then there were three witnesses, then eight more, and simultaneously many others joining the Church, all marking their step from the one man who began by being in step all alone. Now there are more than four million Latter-day Saints marching forward in the truth.
But though we may be in step with each other and with the Lord (or are at least trying to be), we are still greatly out of step with the trends of the world. We will be increasingly noticeable because we are not like all the others.
We are by no means perfect, but you and I know that in truth we are the only ones in step. There are many other sincere truth-seekers listening for the music, but only in the true Church is the true cadence marked.
There are many others who will whisper (or shout) at us that we’re out of step, but if we stand firm, we can look forward to the day when a great master, the supreme leader of mankind, will say in effect what Mr. Genge said to my group of cadets:
“All the world, with the exception of those who are true to the faith, CHANGE STEP!”
And what a wonderful feeling it will be to know we helped prepare the world for his coming!

Nearly 20 years ago I received my mission call to serve in Japan. With great anticipation and some anxiety, I prepared to leave for my mission in January. Around this time both of my parents lost their jobs.
I had funding for my mission once I arrived, but our family struggled financially. I wasn’t sure where I would get money for upfront expenses like mission clothes, luggage, and other necessities. I was working a part-time job but wouldn’t have enough. I was especially concerned with how I would get money to apply immediately for a passport so I would have it in time to leave for Japan.
One afternoon, in desperation, I went to my room and pleaded with Heavenly Father. I shared my desire to serve in Japan and my gratitude that my dream of serving a mission would come true soon. I choked back tears, telling Him how I needed $75 for a passport that I just did not have. When I arose from my prayer, I knew everything was going to work out. I didn’t know how, but a quiet peace assured me that the Lord would provide.
Later that day I opened our mailbox to find a Christmas card inside. The individual who delivered it had made a concerted effort to maintain anonymity. There was no stamp on the card; it had been delivered by hand.
On the inside of the card was typed, “Congratulations! You are the recipient of random acts of Christian kindness. Merry Christmas, Hannah. Good luck on your mission.”
Inside the card was $100. I stood at my front door and cried. Who did this, and how did they know of my need?
Years later I still don’t know who brought the money to my house that day. I have thought about that person, or persons, a lot since then. They demonstrated what I believe Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin (1917–2008) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles meant when he said: “The compassion of Christlike friends deeply touches and changes our lives. … In this Church, prayers for help are often answered by the Lord through the simple, daily service of caring brothers and sisters. In the goodness of genuine friends, I have seen the reflected mercy of the Lord Himself.”1
That act of kindness changed me, helping me to leave on time for my mission and inspiring me to look for ways to be the answer to the prayers of others.

My mother showed me how important the gathering of Israel is by helping full-time missionaries teach and share the gospel. One time I joined her to find the home of a sister in the ward who hadn’t attended church for some time. We almost got lost because we didn’t know exactly where she lived. Instead of being irritated, my mother diligently looked for that sister’s home. Like the woman in the parable of the lost coin (see Luke 15:8–10), she found the sister and rejoiced.
The way my mother gave her best for the Lord’s work, not only in sharing the gospel but also in other Church callings, helped me realize that everyone must serve the Lord, even in small ways.

Our stake in Venezuela decided to organize a soccer tournament for the Aaronic Priesthood youth. This activity had more than one purpose, including building friendships and strengthening the various priesthood quorums.
The stake leaders said that only the young men of each ward or branch were allowed to participate and they were to encourage new members and less-active members to join them so they would have full teams for each age group. In our ward there were only two deacons, one teacher, and a few priests.
My son, José Francisco, whom we lovingly call “Junior,” was part of the deacons quorum, with his good friend Oscar Alejandro. It was obvious that there were not enough boys to participate in the soccer tournament. So they worked with the missionaries and ward leaders to find all of the less-active youth. They spent time each week seeking out these young men, encouraging them and gaining their trust. Because of the efforts of this pair of 12-year-old boys, they were able to get enough young men for a team. One of the miracles that resulted from their efforts was that our ward gained several more active youth!
During the week they would pick up their new friends and then practice on a community field. It was a lot of work, and they were always tired. They had little coaching or strategy, but the young men didn’t let that stop them. They were happy with what they were doing.
At last, the first day of the competition arrived. Our valiant team of deacons arrived at the stake center. They didn’t have much of a crowd to cheer them on, nor did they have a coach to help them or uniforms like most of the other teams. But they played with enthusiasm, unity, and love.
They lost the first game by a landslide. But they didn’t give up, and the entire stake began to encourage them, saying that the boys were such good examples.
Junior was the goalkeeper. He defended the goal with such fervor that the balls he blocked left marks on his hands. That night at home, he told me that his hands really hurt and that he needed some gloves. We got out our savings so we could buy him a pair of gloves. But the gloves at the store were more than we could afford, so we had to buy some fabric gardening gloves. He took them with much gratitude.
I don’t know where his team got the motivation to continue. They were last in the rankings, but they kept playing.
Finally it was time for the elimination rounds. Due to the lack of deacons in the stake, this valiant group was able to play in the finals, but they played against a practiced team whose coach was a very good player. He had spent a lot of time working with his team. They were the top team; they had matching uniforms and exhibited the discipline that came from training. Their coach likely felt confident about winning the game because my son’s team was not very good.
My husband had just returned from a trip, so he decided to help the deacons. He encouraged them, gave them some pointers, and surprisingly they won. So they were able to face the other stake team. Our young men won again!
When the game ended, everyone applauded. The crowd could hardly believe that those young men were able to win first place in the deacon’s category and third place in the stake for the entire Aaronic Priesthood.
This experience taught us about principles and eternal truths that would serve us here in this life. The young men of the stake were examples of love, activation, perseverance, enthusiasm, and working together as a team. They demonstrated the true objective of the activity. They built bonds of friendship with others.

Luis Ricardo da Silva can answer that question. At one time he considered himself too unimportant for the Lord to pay attention to him. “I felt, why would God pay attention to someone of no importance like me? But now I know that Jesus loves me. I feel His Spirit, and I know Heavenly Father listens to my prayers.”
He knows because he has had prayers answered. He speaks quietly of times at home and school and church when the Lord has responded to his prayers. One experience stands out: “I was in the temple with friends one day doing baptisms for the dead. We decided to have a prayer in the dressing room of the baptistry. While we were praying we felt something special, as if a light had filled the room and someone else was with us. I had been praying to know that God really lives, and this was my answer. The feeling that I had was powerful. I just knew. Prayer is sacred.”

The Prophet and some of the other imprisoned brethren escaped on April 14, 1839, and headed for Illinois.
Monday, April 22.—We [the Prophet Joseph and fellow escaped prisoners] continued on our journey, both by night and by day; and after suffering much fatigue and hunger, I arrived in Quincy, Illinois, amidst the congratulations of my friends, and the embraces of my family. …
I have been preserved and delivered out of [my enemies’] hands, and can again enjoy the society of my friends and brethren, whom I love, and to whom I feel united in bonds that are stronger than death; and in a state where I believe the laws are respected, and whose citizens are humane and charitable.

Sunitha, Santosh, and Sanjay Murala welcome the increased membership. The three siblings were the only Latter-day Saint youths in Hyderabad for most of the 1980s after being introduced to the Church in 1978 by their aunt and uncle, Elsie and Edwin Dharmaraju, who had been baptized in Samoa. Sunitha, Santosh, and Sanjay say that study habits developed over years of Church service and teaching, coupled with prayer, helped them all to pass stringent entrance examinations required by India’s highly competitive medical colleges.
Sunitha, who attended medical school in Hyderabad, generated curiosity and discussion among fellow medical students because of her Word of Wisdom observance. Her brothers Santosh and Sanjay, the only Latter-day Saints attending an exclusive Christian medical college near Madras in southeast India, worked hard to clear up misconceptions about the Church. Santosh became so popular that he was elected student body president. “We learned the importance of being an example,” Sanjay says. “It is more effective than preaching and arguing.”