Gospel Story Finder

The story was that of a fictional black family, the Hendersons. The parents and their lively teenagers are a righteous family searching to know more of God’s truth. Two missionaries, “Elder Elder and Elder Younger,” come to their home. The Hendersons welcome the missionaries warmly, receive their message, and agree to come to church. The concluding scene shows the family walking to the front of the stage with many other branch members coming from the wings of the stage behind them, welcoming them and including them in the fellowship of the branch.

In 1952 I returned to San Diego, California, from a Korean campaign during which I had been baptized at the mission home in Tokyo, Japan. As a new convert I was sure that everyone, everywhere, was looking for the gospel of Jesus Christ, which I had found. I had it, and I was going to give it to them whether they wanted it or not.
I became a member of a car pool that operated between my home in Chula Vista, California, and North Island, where I worked. There were four other navy men in that car pool—all nonmembers. Three of them were lieutenants (which was also my rank), and one was an enlisted man, a first class ordinance man, whose name was George Whitehead. I was elated with the prospects of converting these four car pool mates. I was sure it would be a cinch. It was a 45-minute trip in each direction, and they couldn’t get out of the car—they had to listen. I decided I would convert these four, and then move into a new car pool and convert them, and then move to another. Why, I could convert a whole ward in no time at all!
I went to work on my four comrades. Three of them (the lieutenants) obviously never listened to a word I said, or if they did, you couldn’t tell it; my words were like so much water off a duck’s back. But the enlisted man, George Whitehead, he dared not turn me off. I could tell that George was interested; so when it was my turn to drive, I would take the lieutenants home first and then sit and preach to George in front of his house for an hour before I would let him out of the car.
I kept trying to commit George to come to church, but he resisted for a period of about four weeks. Finally, he agreed to attend with me and said his wife, Lucille, would also attend. I was so excited. I remember on the Saturday night before George and Lucille were to attend their first Mormon Sunday School, I went to the chapel, and I washed the back door of the chapel; it was the door I always used to enter the building. I enlisted the aid of a young man who thought I must be slightly psycho. He said, “Why are you washing the back door of the church? Nobody washes the back door of a church!” I assured him that I was washing the back door because it needed to be washed; and besides, tomorrow morning George and Lucille Whitehead were coming through this door. And everything must be perfect for them, so they would see the Lord’s church in its true light.
I presume that no one looks at the Church more critically than does a missionary who is bringing a contact for the first time. How important it is that all the babies be quiet and that the music be beautiful. It would also be nice if everyone sitting on the stand would stay awake, but I guess that is too much to expect.
George and Lucille came to Sunday School, and I was there to meet them. We had a great Sunday School class that day. (I was teaching the class.) George was obviously impressed. He looked for all the world like a sponge, soaking up every word. But his wife, Lucille, sitting beside him, looked like the Sphinx. I couldn’t tell if she had heard a word I had said. I was concerned. I could hardly wait to speak to her after the class.
As we walked out of the chapel, through that clean back door, I said, “Lucille, what did you think of that service this morning?” She said, without a smile, “I was born a Methodist, and I expect to die one.” At that time I had not heard LeGrand Richards’ story about the Englishman and the Scotsman, where the Englishman said, “I was born an Englishman, raised an Englishman, and expect to die an Englishman.” The Scotsman said, “Have ye no ambition?”
I could have used that retort, I presume; but instead I said, “Lucille, I promise you that to be a Latter-day Saint you will never have to give up anything true that you have learned as a Methodist. We have no quarrels with other churches or religious beliefs. We do not write tracts against other churches and we never will, because we are not in the business of tearing down other people’s faith, but, on the contrary, our purpose is to build it up. To our Protestant friends who believe that salvation is by ‘grace through faith’ we say, ‘We believe it too—does not the scripture declare, “… Without faith it is impossible to please him [God]”?’ (Heb. 1:6.) We just wish to add to their faith. So, to our Protestant friends we say, ‘Come let us share with you the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. We will take no truth from you but will merely add certain works and priesthood authority to what you have.’”
This is essentially what I told Lucille that day. She made no further comment whatsoever. That episode took place in 1952.
In 1958 I was in Washington, D.C., still in the navy, and I received orders to go to the University of Southern California to attend a special course of instruction on aviation safety. While I was in Los Angeles, I was able to spend much time in the Los Angeles Temple. As I recall, I did the work for all of my grandparents and great grandparents. The women who acted as proxy for two of my grandmothers and my own mother (who had subsequently died not having accepted the gospel) was this same Lucille Whitehead who was, as she said, “born a Methodist and expected to die one.” She had not quite made it—in fact, she was ready for baptism just three weeks after she had made that statement to me that Sunday morning in San Diego, California. Why? Because the Holy Ghost had touched her heart, and she knew the gospel was true.
Surely the Lord moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. How could I know that sharing the gospel with a member of my car pool would result in making eternal life possible to my own mother?
There are so many things we don’t know, but our Heavenly Father knows. It behooves us to follow his directions to us, for surely we will be eternally blessed for so doing.

I was sixteen when the missionaries challenged me to study the Book of Mormon. As I read it, I felt it was a good book. So when the missionaries asked me to be baptized, I did so. I joined the Church not because I had gained a strong testimony, but because I had not had any bad or unpeaceful feelings while reading the Book of Mormon or attending Church. It seemed that I accepted the gospel naturally.
But some time after I had joined the Church, I began to worry that perhaps I should not have joined a “Western” church. During this time, I did not have the courage to tell any of my friends that I was a Latter-day Saint. In fact, I covered my Book of Mormon with a piece of white paper so that no one would know what I was reading.
Finally I decided to find out for myself whether or not the Book of Mormon is true. As I was reading and praying one day, I came to this passage:
“And no tongue can speak, neither can there be written by any man, neither can the hearts of men conceive so great and marvelous things as we both saw and heard Jesus speak; and no one can conceive of the joy which filled our souls at the time we heard him pray for us unto the Father.
“And it came to pass that when Jesus had made an end of praying unto the Father, he arose; but so great was the joy of the multitude that they were overcome.
“And it came to pass that Jesus spake unto them, and bade them arise.
“And they arose from the earth, and he said unto them: Blessed are ye because of your faith. And now behold, my joy is full.
“And when he had said these words, he wept. …” (3 Ne. 17:17–22.)
As I read these words, I started to cry. My heart was filled with the great love the Lord has for me. I cried in my heart, “O my Lord. I know thou livest. I know the Book of Mormon is true.”
Now I knew that the Church is a universal church. Joyfully, I took the white cover off my Book of Mormon.
At about this time, I also received the strong impression that I should become a full-time missionary. After serving two years in the Navy, I was able to get my parents’ permission to serve a mission. There I had the privilege to testify of the Book of Mormon, of which I was once ashamed, and to proclaim the gospel in my own language. My mission widened my understanding of the gospel and deepened my testimony of the restored truth.
My wife and I were married in the temple. We began to read the Book of Mormon together while we were dating. We now have three children. We feel that the Book of Mormon has changed our lives completely, for, as it is written, “The preaching of the word [has] a great tendency to lead the people to do that which [is] just—yea, it [has] more powerful effect upon the minds of people than the sword, or anything else. …” (Alma 31:5.)

An example of such service was the missionary experience of Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, who were called to fill a two-year mission in Poland. Brother Fussek was born in Poland. He spoke the language. He loved the people. Sister Fussek was English and knew little of Poland and its people.
Trusting in the Lord, they embarked on their assignment. The living conditions were primitive, the work lonely, their task immense. A mission had not at that time been established in Poland. The assignment given the Fusseks was to prepare the way, that a mission could be established so that other missionaries could be called to serve, people could be taught, converts could be baptized, branches could be established, and chapels could be erected.
Did Elder and Sister Fussek despair because of the enormity of their assignment? Not for a moment. They knew their calling was from God. They prayed for His divine help, and they devoted themselves wholeheartedly to their work. They remained in Poland not two years but five years. All of the foregoing objectives were realized.
Elders Russell M. Nelson, Hans B. Ringger, and I, accompanied by Elder Fussek, met with Minister Adam Wopatka of the Polish government, and we heard him say, “Your church is welcome here. You may build your buildings; you may send your missionaries. You are welcome in Poland. This man,” pointing to Juliusz Fussek, “has served your church well. You can be grateful for his example and his work.”
Like the Fusseks, let us do what we should do in the work of the Lord. Then we can, with Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, echo the Psalm: “My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth … : he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.”

One day after school, I didn’t see Mom waiting to pick me up. I decided to walk home. I had walked a block when I thought that I should ask Heavenly Father to help keep me safe. While I was praying, I had a feeling to go back to school. I took a couple more steps, and I felt sick to my stomach. I turned around and began walking back toward school. With every step I took, I felt better. Just as I got back to school, I saw Mom getting out of our car to look for me. I told her what happened, and she agreed with me that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer and that it was the Holy Ghost who told me to go back to school. I am thankful that Heavenly Father loves me and answers my prayers.
Todd Judd, age 7Bountiful, Utah

My family lived in São Paulo, Brazil. On the other side of our street, there was a forest of mangrove trees. Mangrove forests have rivers crossing through the trees. The ground is very muddy.
Many people built houses on that muddy ground. They put huge logs in the mud. Then they built their house on top of them. But when it rained, the river overflowed. The water got into their houses. Then the people had nowhere to sleep at night.
When that happened, my father would invite all of them into our home. Sometimes there were as many as 15 people! He brought them into our living room and gave them blankets. Mom made them something to eat. Then they slept in our house until the next day.
This happened at least three or four times. I remember thinking, “Not very many people would take strangers in.” My father was letting people we barely knew sleep in our house! But then I thought, “They have nowhere else to go.”
My parents always did things to help people. But their service was more than just helping and giving. It was showing love to our neighbor, even when our neighbor was somebody we didn’t know well.

“Wow!” Ana said. “Look at all the stars.” Everyone in Ana’s family looked up from the campfire. It seemed like there were millions of stars in the dark sky.
“Just think,” Mom said, “each of those stars is one of Heavenly Father’s creations.”
“Let’s each name one of our favorite things that Heavenly Father has created for us,” Dad suggested.
“I know,” Daniel said quickly. “I like those huge waves we saw at the ocean last year.”
Ana didn’t know what to choose. She thought about the warm sun, the bright moon, and sweet-smelling flowers. Then she remembered how much she loved all kinds of soft, furry animals. “Animals!” she said.
Ana started to shiver, so Dad wrapped a blanket around her. “After Heavenly Father created all these beautiful things for His children, He saw that they were good,” Dad said.
Ana had a warm, happy feeling inside. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and looked back up at the stars. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” she whispered.

It was nearly three months later that Brother Hanson took us on a winter Scout camp. The entire object of the outing was for us to learn how to build a fire so we could cook and keep warm in sub-zero temperatures. We hiked for what seemed like miles, and even though Brother Hanson was close to seventy years old, we had a difficult time keeping up. Finally he brought us to a place where there was a frozen pond beside a clear spot in the trees, and there he turned us loose to build our fires.
It didn’t take long for us to discover that the frozen pond was much easier to clear off than the lumpy rock-strewn ground. In no time at all most of our fires were constructed on the thick, just-offshore ice, ready to go.
That’s when I noticed Brother Hanson. He was going to all the extra effort of clearing snow down to the bare dirt before laying out his wood. I stood and watched him for a minute, knowing him well enough to realize that he never did anything without a reason. Then I moved my pile of sticks over beside his and proceeded to do exactly as he was doing.
A while later, Brother Hanson and I were enjoying roasted hot dogs and warming our cold toes next to the crackling flames, while the rest of the troop ran frantically in circles as their fires flickered to death in pools of puddling ice.
“There’s a lesson to be learned here,” Brother Hanson stated matter-of-factly.
The boys practically howled.
Brother Hanson leaned back on his log and stretched his huge feet out lazily in front of him.
“You tell me what the lesson is,” he said, nodding at Bryan.
“Fire melts ice,” Bryan declared wisely.
Brother Hanson glanced toward Jonathan.
“That you should always build your fire on solid ground,” Jonathan concluded.
Brother Hanson looked directly at me. “Philip, what do you think?”
I quoted his own words, as if reading from a book, “‘If you build your house upon a rock, which is the gospel, and the rain descends and the floods come and the winds blow, which are the trials and temptations of life, your house will not fall.’”
What followed was a moment of surprised silence as Brother Hanson stared at me. Then, when I started to fear that he was angry and that I shouldn’t have been quite so cocky, I heard a deep rumbling sound, which I realized was actually Brother Hanson chuckling.
The chuckles soon turned into outright guffaws that made his face go red and caused his breath to come in ragged gasps. Pretty soon all the rest of us were laughing right along with him. After a few minutes he stopped, pulled himself up straight on his log, and wiped his face with his sleeve. “That’s what I like to see—a boy who learns his lesson right the first time!”

I kind of know what Preston Taylor, author of “G-Rated Recruit” (Mar. 2003), went through when he was at boot camp where everybody was cussing. When I was at soccer camp, one of my coaches would cuss a lot, and I asked him to stop. And the reaction I got was amazing. He said he was really sorry and that he would try to stop. During the camp he kept apologizing to me. It was kind of cool that he actually listened to me and stopped cussing.Scott Rollins, Fairfield Ward, Cincinnati Ohio North Stake

I have had the privilege, as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, of ordaining a number of patriarchs, but the first one I ordained said to me, “I don’t believe I can fill that important office.” I had a letter from him a few weeks after he had been ordained, and he said something like this: “I did not think I could do it, and now I have been reading over the blessings that I have given, and I know I did not do it. The Lord did it, or it could not have been done as it has been done.”

“Let’s enter,” Kristy urged her twin brother Derek. So after school they did.
As an incentive to keep the youth out of trouble and off the streets on traditionally mischief-filled Halloween night, community merchants had donated a good used car as a prize for the one teenager contacted and found home before midnight.
Not much was mentioned of the contest or the twins silent dreams until supper time October 31st, when Kristy expressed her distinct confidence and anticipation. A strong hunch that she would be the winner left her expectant all evening while at the door she met one “trick-or-treater” after another. Derek attended volleyball practice, returning home exhausted. By 10:30 he was fast asleep.
Soon treats were depleted, porch lights extinguished, and younger brothers and sisters retired with mild stomach aches from overindulgence. Even Kristy relented and went to bed. Only Mother was still reading when at 11:45 the shrill ring of the telephone sent her flying in response. “This is radio station KPCS wishing to speak with … Derek,” she was told. As if by prearrangement the entire household flared alive. Father switched on the radio to listen in on the conversation. Several youngsters squealed into Derek’s bedroom, dragging their groggy brother to the downstairs extension phone. Suddenly realizing the implication of this late disturbance, he became fully alert. Incredulous as it seemed, his brain registered the fact that he had won the coveted automobile. Hundreds of teenagers must have put in their names. Yet he would be the one to drive home the prize the very next afternoon. Nothing this exciting had ever happened to him before.
Understandably, the family had trouble settling down. Finally, having drifted off to dreamland, Derek visualized himself on gleaming hubcapped “wheels,” gliding noiselessly through throngs of cheering friends. Later he found himself whizzing breathlessly past open spaces in a fire-red machine, and before waking to reality, he was the one roaring down main street in a fabulous convertible, accompanied by several of the most gorgeous girls he had ever seen—the envy of all his peers.
Indeed, the next day Derek was the center of attraction when word of his good fortune spread at seminary and at school. “What kind of a car is it?” he was asked repeatedly. No one knew. Some speculated on a late model; others, less optimistic, suspected an old “clunker.” But when at last classes had finished Derek was to find out.
The vehicle his eyes beheld proved to be beyond his expectations, much nicer than those owned by anyone in his circle of friends. That purring beauty was his, all his. Was he ever going to have a ball!
Delighted and proud he was greeted by his equally pleased family, all assembled on the front lawn. Neighbors soon joined them. Each was given a ride. Definitely this was Derek’s finest hour. Soon the dealer’s license plate had to be returned. Well, tomorrow insurance matters could be worked out.
The subject did come up and was thoroughly considered and discussed with earnest efforts made to help Derek’s car get on the road. Yet it simply could not be done. The painful truth was that funds had been extremely limited with one brother in the mission field, another due to leave and depending on family assistance. Even Derek, a senior in high school, had been forced to drop out of basketball because he was unable to afford the tournament travel expenses. Scraping up nearly $400 for licensing and insurance was impossible under the circumstances.
So there stood the apple of Derek’s eye, evoking a pronounced pounding of his heart every time he glanced at it and extracting each spare minute of his time with polishing and sprucing it up to top performance. Particular care was lavished on achieving the finest reproduction from its stereo system. How he yearned to drive it!
Still, hope prevailed. Perhaps an after-school and Saturday job was the solution. Unfortunately, scores of jobless hopefuls saturated the market. Weeks of filling out applications, interviews, and callbacks produced no results.
One blustery December day Derek noticed a vaguely familiar figure stomping through the deep snow. Seconds later he recognized it as belonging to Sister Taylor. Her family had been experiencing incredible hardships. First, their business had gone bankrupt. Then they had lost their home, recently also their car.
Ever so subtly and ever so quietly a thought began creeping into Derek’s subconscious mind. On reaching awareness, he tried desperately to push it out. However, once conceived, it would not be suppressed. No matter how hard he fought the impulse, gradually a plan took shape, one which caused him to alternate between gladness and sadness. And so, at first reluctantly, but soon with stern determination, the young man made a difficult and noble decision.
Christmas Sunday at priesthood meeting someone mentioned, “Did I see Brother Taylor driving your car today, Derek?” “I sold it to him,” was the reply.
This prompted several priests into simultaneously responding, “But they have no money.”
“They had enough,” answered Derek with a wistful grin. Audible only to himself he added, “They had one dollar.”

As a teen I studied in a technical school for young men. It was hard to be a member of the Church in an atmosphere where there were other beliefs or no beliefs at all. Being the only member in school was difficult because I felt alone; I felt different. My classmates were relatively good, but many didn’t share my principles.
I remember well one time when they wanted to get me to smoke. They didn’t say it directly. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette while we were in our classroom waiting for the professor. We weren’t supposed to smoke inside the school.
I was sitting in the back. The guys at the front of the room lit the cigarette, and they each took a puff and passed it on. Everyone was watching to see it get to me. Finally the guy in front of me took a puff and turned around.
I didn’t take the cigarette.
He said, “Come on. Go ahead.”
“No, I’m not going to smoke.”
He took the cigarette and put it to my mouth. So I hit him. He hit me back. Then almost everyone in the room started to fight, though we quickly calmed down before the professor got there.
Now I’m not saying that was the right way to respond, but I was only 13. I didn’t know how to respond. I just knew no one was going to make me smoke.
After class I found the boy I had hit and asked his forgiveness. With some emotion, he told me, “No, I’m the one who needs to ask your forgiveness.”
If I had lowered my standards, would the Holy Ghost have stayed with me? Or would I have lost my guide?
By choosing the right, I allowed the Holy Ghost to be my companion. With Him as my guide, I had help making the right decisions, and my testimony was strengthened.

Last Sunday I decided that I wanted to try to fast for the first time. My dad is a pilot in the Air Force, and he had been gone for two months flying over Afghanistan and Iraq. I really miss my dad when he is gone for so long. He was finally scheduled to start his trip home, but his connections for the military flights were not working out, so he was going to be a week late coming home. I told my mom that I was going to fast for my dad so he would be safe and be able to come home on time—something my dad said was impossible.
It was really hard to fast, but I knew I was doing it for a good reason, and that made it easier. We were so excited to get the news that my dad made the connection he thought would be impossible to make. He was able to come home on time, and he was safe—just what I had fasted and prayed for.Hunter Johnson, age 7 Penn Valley, California

When I was a Mia Maid, the secretary in our Young Women presidency, Sister Moore,* was moving to a new home, so all of the leaders and young women volunteered to help. The morning we showed up to help pack, everything that could go wrong seemed to be going wrong, and Sister Moore was feeling very overwhelmed. We tried to keep positive and do what we could.
After packing the boxes, we waited for the moving truck to come. But it didn’t come, and we waited, and waited, and waited. After a while, we called the driver. He explained that he had gotten lost on the way and then had run into traffic. Finally, after another two hours, we saw him turn the corner onto Sister Moore’s street.
But before the truck got any closer, it stopped. It had broken down—just far enough away that we wouldn’t be able to carry any heavy furniture to it. It was all too much for Sister Moore and she started to cry.
Our Young Women president started to comfort her, and lovingly and calmly she asked, “Did you pray before you started your day today?” Sister Moore looked surprised and said no. Our president said, “Let’s pray now.” We all knelt in the kitchen. Immediately after the prayer, we heard the truck’s engine start. It was working again! We were finally able to finish the job.
I know the power of prayer is real, and I always make sure to start my day off with a prayer to invite the Lord to be with me throughout the day.

One of Joseph Millett’s unforgettable early memories was of the day he and some young companions were herding cows along the Carthage Road. Several members of the mob from Carthage dashed by in a carriage and yelled out, “Dig a grave for Joe Smith for he is dead,” and young Joseph ran the six miles to Nauvoo with the news. His family was driven from Nauvoo with the Saints, and they lived for a time in Iowa, helping others move on until they themselves went to Salt Lake in 1850 and settled, under Brigham Young’s direction, in Manti.

“Please take out your crayons,” Mrs. Webb said. “We’re going to do an art activity.”
Natalie was excited. She loved art projects. Natalie listened carefully because she knew her teacher always wanted things done just right.
Mrs. Webb gave everyone a piece of brightly colored paper. “Last week we made Mother’s Day cards,” she said. “Today I’d like you to make a card for your dad. You can save it for Father’s Day in a few weeks.”
Natalie carefully folded her piece of colored paper. She picked out her favorite crayons and drew a big flower on the front of her card. Then she opened her card and used her best handwriting to copy the words her teacher had written on the board.
As Natalie wrote, she started to feel sad. Everyone in her class seemed to have a dad. But Natalie lived with just her mom.
When school ended that day, Mrs. Webb said, “Be sure to take your card home and put it in a safe place. And remember to give it to your dad on Father’s Day.”
Natalie picked up her card. She thought it looked very pretty. But what could she do with it if she took it home? Quietly she put the card in her desk and left it there.
When she got home, Natalie kept thinking about her card. And the more she thought about it, the worse she felt. After dinner she helped Mom wash the dishes. This was usually her favorite time with Mom. But tonight Natalie felt unhappy and strange inside.
“Mommy, why am I different from the other kids?” she asked. “I wish I had a dad to talk to, like they do.” She explained about the Father’s Day card.
Mom stopped washing dishes and dried her hands on a towel. She put her arms around Natalie.
“I know how much you miss having a dad to talk to,” Mom said. “But you do have a Heavenly Father who loves you, and you can talk to Him whenever you want.”
Natalie thought for a moment. “Is that when I pray?”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “When you pray you can tell Heavenly Father anything you would want a father to know.” Mom started humming the tune to “I Am a Child of God.”
Natalie started singing, and Mom joined in. As Natalie sang, she began to feel better.
When they finished singing, Natalie asked, “But what about the card? I can’t send that to Heavenly Father.”
“No, but can you think of someone else who loves you, someone who comes to visit and play with you?” Mom asked.
“I could give it to Grandpa!” Natalie said. “Would he like that?”
“I think he would like it a lot,” Mom said.
That night when Natalie knelt by her bed to say her prayers, she remembered what Mom had said. It gave her a warm, peaceful feeling inside to know that Heavenly Father was listening.
The next day when school ended, Natalie put her Father’s Day card carefully into her backpack. She couldn’t wait to give Grandpa his card. And she knew she had a Heavenly Father who would always be there to love her and hear her prayers.

In the midst of all the suffering of the pioneer handcart companies are numerous examples of Saints who, through their actions, showed great love for the Savior. One of these was a young English girl named Emily Wall, who had come across the plains with her brother, Joseph. They had been promised that they would live to come to the Salt Lake Valley. That faith sustained them through all the terrible sufferings they endured. Their mother had given each of them extra pairs of shoes to wear during the journey, and they gave most of those away to Saints who had no shoes at all.
Partway across the plains, Joseph, who was then eighteen, fell sick. The leaders of the group felt that they would have to leave him behind—not because they were cruel but because they simply could not stop and wait for him to get better. To do so would endanger the lives of everyone in the group. They said that if Joseph got well, he could catch up to the company. Emily said, “I can’t leave him. We have both been promised that we will live to get across the plains, so I’ll put him in the handcart and I will push it myself.” So fifteen-year-old Emily, with the help of another girl, pulled the heavy handcart for three days while Joseph recovered. Soon he was able to get back on his feet, and the two of them proceeded as part of the Martin Company.
Emily later married a man she met at Devil’s Gate after the handcart company was rescued. The couple had twelve children who followed the example of their mother’s faith and obedience to the Lord’s commandments.

I grew up in the Church—I went to the activities, and I participated in family prayer and scripture study. But I didn’t really have a testimony. I didn’t know if I believed in God or His Son. I didn’t know if the Book of Mormon was true.
I wanted a testimony, but I felt frustrated after praying many times without feeling like I had received an answer. I started wondering, “If God is real, why won’t He show me? Why does He let me sit here wondering?”
Looking back, I can see clearly why I wasn’t getting an answer: I wasn’t really putting in the effort. I would read my scriptures for five minutes once a week and expect some revelatory experience just because I asked for it.
I didn’t understand that faith is a principle of action.
Anyone looking from the outside would have called me “active” in the Church, but I still didn’t know if the Church was true. But I did want to know.
So I decided to serve a mission. I incorrectly assumed that as a missionary, I would automatically be more likely to get answers from God. I still wasn’t putting much effort into praying or studying, but soon I had my assignment.
At the start of my mission, I struggled to feel the Spirit while training online during the pandemic because of my half-hearted effort. But then I got to the missionary training center in person. And my time there was the most spiritual experience of my life. It was the first time I had a simple seed of faith that was real.
Finally entering the mission field was hard. I felt like the small testimony I had gained got lost.
One day I was crying, and then a memory popped into my head. My dad used to ask me how my day at school was, and I would always say it was boring. And he would say, “Well, that’s because you made it boring. If you want school to be fun, make it fun.” I realized that I could either make the most of my time on my mission through learning and growth or I could be miserable.
So I prayed with more sincerity than ever to tell Heavenly Father that I was going to try and change my attitude. After that, I was motivated to put in new effort. I started to truly study and pray and ponder, and over time that glimmer of testimony came back—and continued to grow. I was less frustrated, and I started finding joy in the gospel.
I was never going to strengthen my faith without changing my attitude, following this pattern, and putting my full heart into connecting with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. When I made those changes, I started to receive answers and believe truths.
For onlookers, my level of activity in the Church probably looks the same as it always has. But I’ve changed my commitment to the gospel in my heart. And that has made all the difference.

My little brother, Max, saw the ad in the paper. “What is a donation?” he asked as he turned the paper into a miniature tent. “It’s kind of like a present that helps someone,” I explained. “Like when Mom gives cans of soup to the food pantry.”
“The new shelter wants donations. It needs clothes and toys.”
“Why don’t you donate your stuffed animals?” I teased. “They’re taking over our bedroom.”
“Maybe I will,” he said, collapsing his tent and giving me a big grin. Then he jumped up and ran off with the newspaper to show Mom. She thought it would be a wonderful idea if everyone in the family found some things to give to the homeless shelter. The next day, she brought home a big empty box from work, and we started to fill it. Max began asking me so many questions that I wondered how he managed to breathe.
“Do you think there’s a kid at the shelter who would like a toy lion?” Max dug through his mountain of animals. “Or do you think the kid would like a zebra better?”
“Either one would be fine,” I said as I sorted through my closet. I had some puzzles I never put together anymore, and all the pieces were still there. I put them in my pile for the box.
“Maybe there’s a kid who collects teddy bears, like me,” Max thought aloud. “Maybe I should give a teddy bear.”
“That sounds like a good idea, too,” I said, adding a game to my pile.
“But everyone always gets bears,” Max decided. He took a fluffy white dog off his bed. “Do you think that someone would like sleeping with my dog? He’s soft, like a big furry pillow.”
“Sure, Max,” I agreed. “Do you want to put him into the box?”
Max stared at the dog for a minute. “No,” he finally said. “Not this dog.” He plopped the dog back on his bed and started sorting through his toys again.
I smiled to myself, thinking, Max likes the idea of donating a toy, but he doesn’t really want to give any of his stuffed animals away.
“What about some books?” I suggested. “You have lots of them that you’ve already read a zillion times.”
Max got up and pulled some books from his bottom shelf. He opened one and slowly looked at the pictures. Then he put it back. “No,” he said, “I don’t want to give someone a book.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something,” I said, picking up my pile. But I wondered if Max would part with anything. He was a real collector.
That night, Max went through his toys over and over. He’d put something into the box, and then he’d take it out again. Finally he asked Mom if she could wait a day for his donation. I didn’t think another day would help Max decide any more easily, but Mom just smiled and said, “That’s fine.”
The next morning, Max got up early and ate breakfast.
“Did you forget it’s Saturday?” I asked as he pulled on a jacket. “There’s no school today.”
“I know,” he said with a mysterious smile. He didn’t let my teasing bother him one bit. “Mom’s taking me on an errand.”
“Don’t forget to put your donation into the box today,” I reminded him.
“I’ll do that later.”
I finished my breakfast and headed out to play a game of basketball with my friends. When I came home for lunch, Max was waiting for me.
“Come and see my donation,” he said, tugging at my hand the second I stepped through the front door.
“Just a minute,” I said as he pulled hard. “If you stretch my arm much more, I’ll be able to tie my shoes without bending over.”
“Please,” he begged.
“OK, I’m coming.” I wondered what toy Max had finally decided to part with.
He pulled me down the hall and into the kitchen. I didn’t have to look into the box to see his donation, because it stuck out of the top. It was an enormous tiger with velvet orange fur. I’d never seen such a humongous stuffed animal before. “Where did that come from?” I asked.
“I bought it with some money I had saved up. I wanted to put something in the box that I liked best of all, but none of my toys seemed special enough. Don’t you think someone is going to really like it?”
“Yes, I sure do!” In that short moment, Max taught me a lot about giving. Even though he didn’t know the person who would receive his gift, and even though he didn’t have such an amazing big tiger for himself, Max just cared about giving his best.
“Come on, Max, Old Buddy,” I said. “I think you can help me. I want to donate a few more things to that box myself. What do you think a seventh grader would like best of all?”

My journey started when I was introduced to the Church in 2015 by my son (who is a graduate student in Texas), while he was visiting Kolkata. It was then that I had received my first Book of Mormon in Bengali and had the opportunity to visit the Relief Society president of our Kolkata Branch. Soon enough, I started taking lessons through Skype from the elders in the India New Delhi Mission. On 18 June 2016, my daughter and I became the newest members of our Kolkata Branch. My son was present to baptize us.
It was the beginning of a new chapter in my life, an experience that has left a profound impact since. The promise of baptism is the first step to join the fold of our Heavenly Father’s covenant children and it consists of our being willing to obey all of God’s commandments. Just as we immerse ourselves backwards into the waters of baptism, it provides us a chance to revisit our old life; and to cleanse ourselves of all our past sins and transgressions. And as we come forward out of the water, it is as if we have our eyes fixed onto our future: to receive eternal life. Receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost is the immediate essential step toward this eternal progression. We are promised guidance, protection and knowledge about the truth through promptings and feelings, that can come from the continual presence of the Holy Ghost in our lives. The Book of Mormon describes the Holy Ghost as the “Comforter (that) filleth with hope and perfect love, which love endureth by diligence unto prayer, until the end shall come, when all the saints shall dwell with God” (Moroni 8:26).