Gospel Story Finder

Despite my mother’s dedicated efforts during family home evenings, I was always more interested in video games than in spiritual things. The idea of serving a mission seemed distant and unappealing to me.
But everything changed one quiet night when I was 15. I was alone in the living room, playing a game on my cell phone. My mother and sister were in another room. Suddenly, a surprising noise caught my attention: the scriptures had inexplicably fallen from the shelf and landed in the middle of the room.
At first I thought my mother had thrown the book to get me off my cell phone, but then I realized she wouldn’t do that. And there was no breeze or anything that could explain how the scriptures fell.
Curious, I put down my phone and picked up the scriptures, opening them at random. The words I read were like a call straight to my heart:
“Now behold, a marvelous work is about to come forth among the children of men.
“Therefore, O ye that embark in the service of God, see that ye serve him with all your heart, might, mind and strength, that ye may stand blameless before God at the last day.
“Therefore, if ye have desires to serve God ye are called to the work” (Doctrine and Covenants 4:1–3).
I had never read these verses before. The words touched something deep within me.
I ran to tell my mother about what had happened and showed her the passage I had read. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said she believed this was a reminder from Heavenly Father that I had been called by a prophet to prepare myself to serve a mission.
From that moment on, I began to see life and my purpose in it with new eyes. Even though I still loved video games, I realized that something had fundamentally changed within me. My cell phone often sat on the couch as I pondered the words of Jesus Christ that had touched my soul.
Now I’m serving as a missionary, sharing the good news of the gospel. I’m glad my spiritual journey began when the scriptures fell into my life one silent night, leading to a divine call that I could not ignore.

“Mommy,” Marla called, frowning, “I’m hungry!”
“Lunch isn’t ready yet, but while you wait, you can play a game,” said Mother.
Marla’s frown vanished. “OK!”
Mother picked up a ball of string, opened the back door, and said, “Follow me.”
Marla skipped along beside her mother. The sun danced on Mother’s hair as they made a big circle with the string in the yard.
“Inside the circle,” Mother explained, “are many wonders of God’s world. While I’m fixing lunch, I want you to count them.”
Marla’s smile faded. “All I see is grass.”
“Look carefully. Not all of God’s wonders are big,” Mother explained.
Marla sat inside the circle. She saw a purple violet blooming.
Next, she discovered an acorn missed by the squirrels. The brown shell had cracked open, and a sprout was curling out of it. Marla gazed at the tall, leafy branches above her. Will this little sprout grow that big? she wondered.
Nearby, an earthworm poked its way through the earth, seeming to wave hello.
Her eyes now saw tiny ants working their way through their grass jungle.
When Mother returned, Marla proudly shared her discoveries with her.
“What a good detective you are,” Mother praised her. “But I see one of God’s wonders that you missed—a very large one, compared to all these others.”
“Where? Where?” Marla asked, looking around.
“Why, you, of course!” Mother told her. “To me, you’re the most special of God’s wonders in that circle.”

When I was a newly called deacons quorum president, I wasn’t sure how to increase my spirituality. I started doing family history, usually each Sunday. I have been going to the temple every Saturday morning. My goal was to take male baptism and confirmation names as often as I could. After I went to the temple each week, I would feel a little more spiritual, and that way I was able to help my quorum better.
Josh B., age 13, Utah, USA

I had been a missionary in southern Brazil for just over a year. My companion and I were driving to Florianópolis to pick up a sick missionary and bring him back to the mission headquarters for treatment. The four-hour trip south on the winding, pothole-riddled highway had been fairly uneventful. We enjoyed the bright day and beautiful forest scenery as we drove and talked, and soon we reached our destination. At about 4 p.m. we began the trip with the sick elder back to the mission office.
After an hour or so on the road, though, the weather changed drastically. The clouds gathered and within 15 minutes our day had gone from sun to heavy fog and rain. I was driving at the time, and it became impossible to see where we were going. None of us was very familiar with the road, and we knew we couldn’t navigate the curves and potholes without being able to see. We couldn’t tell if an exit was near, so we carefully pulled over to the side of the road and said a prayer.
When we finished, we sat quietly, waiting in faith for the help we had asked for. After a few minutes, a truck going 15 miles per hour or so passed by. We couldn’t really make out the truck itself, but we saw its taillights. Another truck soon followed, and then another. Each one passed slowly and carefully, and each one had red taillights bright enough for us to see. And this was the answer to our prayer.
As the next truck passed by, we carefully eased in just behind it, following its bright red taillights. We stayed close enough to see the lights clearly, but back far enough to be safe. In this way we were able to navigate in the rain and fog using the truck as our guide. The driver was obviously very familiar with the road—he was moving very slowly but confidently. We safely followed him and other truck drivers until the weather cleared enough for us to find our own way.
I’m sure the truck driver didn’t even know we were there. Yet he led us until we could see well enough to navigate the precarious road ourselves.

In our multicultural family, we celebrate all the English, Irish and Dutch national holidays abundantly. My wife, Kirsty, loves going all out on decorations and traditional foods for Halloween, Sinterklaas, Christmas and so much more, and our children and their friends loved it!
One evening, Kirsty and I were discussing how we could create a similar experience for our children during general conference. We decided to introduce homemade croissants with ham and cheese as the general conference food of choice. We prepared coloring papers with gospel topics and word games that would help them to be engaged in conference talks. On conference morning we would be dressed in our Sunday best. But we also had lots of pillows and cozy blankets that the children could build pillow forts and tents out of to make them feel safe, secure, and loved.
We enjoyed watching conference as a family and savored the inspired messages from Church leaders whilst the smell of freshly baked croissants filled our home. The younger children got plenty of praise for sitting through one session of conference. We expected a little more from our older children as time went by. The excitement over general conference brought us all so much joy. Now we are grandparents, we love receiving pictures of our grandchildren through social media having a similar conference experience.

Blanca Campo, a 17-year-old at the time, was one of the first piano students of Elder and Sister Heywood. She was unable to attend the regular weekday classes because she spent six days of the week in another town marketing products for the family business. So the Heywoods scheduled Sunday afternoon classes just for her.
Blanca purchased her own teclado so she could practice the hymns during her spare moments at market. After three weeks of practice, she was prepared to play in a Christmas sing-along with other new piano students.
Soon after, Blanca was called by her father, Bishop Rafael Campo, to serve as the Paguche Ward pianist. As he set her apart, Bishop Campo was impressed to call Blanca as a teacher of music for their ward. She still serves in this capacity, sharing her talents with her family and ward members.
When Blanca accompanied a stake youth choir later that summer, and she heard a recording of herself playing “Carry On,” she humbly smiled and exclaimed, “I can’t believe that I am the person playing that music!”

My missionary companion, Paul, was someone who always radiated good cheer. As a young father, he was stricken with multiple sclerosis. Yet despite the adversity that followed, he continued serving others with joy and good humor. He once entered my office seated in his first wheelchair and declared, “Life begins with a motorized wheelchair!” I will always remember him, a few years before he died, holding high the Olympic torch while riding in his wheelchair as hundreds cheered. Like that ever-burning flame, Paul’s faith never dimmed in the storm of life.

We eagerly climbed the steps to the Upper Room—the traditional site of Christ’s last supper. During our short stay in Jerusalem, our group of American students and teachers had seen the signs of past wars—but also some encouraging signs of peace and hope in this holy, yet often-bloodied, city. Now we had come to the Upper Room to review the quiet moments the Savior had spent during the last Passover of his life.
Gathered in the large room with its high ceilings and graceful arches, we realized that this wasn’t the actual setting of that sacred event: the building we were in had been constructed on this traditional site by Franciscan monks in the 1300s.
But that didn’t matter. Jesus Christ did celebrate his last Passover in an upper room somewhere in this city, he did wash his Apostles’ feet, he did give them the sacrament, and he did urge them to “love one another.” (John 13:34.) We were worshiping the Son of God and the event in his life was very real; the setting was not the important thing.
Whenever we stopped at a biblical site, we hoped there would be time and privacy enough to read the scriptures together and sing hymns as a group. In some cases we were undisturbed; in others, another tourist group came behind us and we politely moved on—or moved to one side out of the way. Since time was precious during our visit to the Holy Land, we began to hope for as few intrusions as possible.
After we had gathered in the Upper Room, someone in our group read Christ’s words from the New Testament, and then we all began to sing the song “Love One Another.” As we sang, another group of visitors entered the room. They were led by a bearded priest wearing a long brown robe, speaking a language I didn’t understand.
I’ll have to admit that while we sang, I thought more about the other group than about the words of the song; because they had come, we would have to leave instead of lingering. And I wondered if they considered our song and our presence as an intrusion into their own brief moments in that room.
We finished and, without a word, began to leave. As I passed the priest, he unexpectedly turned to us. With an accent, he said three short words: “God bless you.”
“God bless you.” The words seemed to be more than a common salutation. They were like a prayer—a blessing spoken in kindness by a stranger in a land that has known more intolerance than peace. Perhaps he had been touched by our simple singing of the Savior’s words. Perhaps he was simply expressing goodwill to a group of fellow worshipers. In either case, his words carried with them the spirit of the Savior’s own words at that Passover meal—words that we had just sung and that I had been too preoccupied to hear.
As I walked back down those steps into the busy city, I hummed the song again to myself—and was thankful for a stranger, a friend, who had gently reminded me of its message.

One autumn day during my shift as a worker in the Salt Lake Temple, a young man and his friends, clearly not dressed for temple worship, arrived.
“We’re here to see the temple,” the young man said.
“Do you have a recommend?” I asked.
The young man thought for a moment. Then he said, “Yes. My mother has a Mormon friend in Minnesota. She recommended that we come see the temple.”
I felt impressed to pull the young people aside and talk to them. The young man’s name was Lars. I explained to him that not only could he come to the temple but also that Heavenly Father wanted him to come. I told Lars that he first had to prepare, and I explained how.
The following spring, Lars wrote me a letter, thanking me for explaining the real meaning of a temple recommend. “I did learn more about a temple recommend,” he wrote. “Actually, I was baptized and received a recommend of my own last January!” My eyes filled with tears as I looked at the photograph he had enclosed of himself in his white baptismal clothes and of the missionaries who had taught him.
My journey back to the temple was remarkable, and learning of Lars’s journey was a wonderful blessing that reminded me how we can all touch lives for good.

Rubí Monzón, 24, who recently returned from her mission, is the seminary teacher. “When I was fourteen, my mother died,” she says. “It was very hard on my family. Often I would be home alone, feeling lonely. One time, I was crying, and I heard a voice telling me that I wasn’t alone and that the Lord was with me and would help me. It was a soothing voice, and it made me feel good. Since then, I have felt at peace, knowing that the Lord loves me and will always be with me.”
Three years after her mother died, Rubí and her family were sealed in the Guatemala City Temple. “I feel grateful for the opportunity Heavenly Father has given us to become an eternal family. I know that through obedience I will always be with my mother, father, and brothers and sisters. Many times I think about my mother, and I know that in just a short while we can all be together again.”

Third, I will never forget my consternation as I watched the workmen using new nails as they built the walls back up and completed remodeling our home. The pile of nails that I had straightened and put in the green bucket grew and grew and was never used. I went to my father and said, “Wouldn’t it be better to save the new nails and use the ones I have straightened?” I was proud of the work I had accomplished.
My father showed me something very important. He took a new nail and, using an odd angle, drove it into a board. He was able to drive it straight and true. Then he took one of the nails I had straightened so carefully, and, using the same odd angle, hit it again and again. It soon bent and was impossible to drive into the board. So I learned that a used or bent nail is never as strong as a new one. But then why had my father asked me to straighten those nails?
As a boy, I never remembered receiving a satisfactory answer. It was not until I had a son of my own that I started to understand. When my son was about three years old, I took him out to the garden to help me weed. I assumed that he, being low to the ground at the time, would have a real advantage at weeding. Unfortunately for my garden, he had a difficult time distinguishing between the weeds and the young plants.
I then tried Lee at milking a cow we owned together with a neighbor. He quickly developed the hand action of a fine milker, but, sadly, his aim was not very good. Whenever I checked on him, he was always surrounded by a white puddle, and the milk bucket was nearly empty. He would look up at me and smile proudly, and my initial inclination to be angry would quickly dissipate—but I was frustrated. I expected him to help me, but he only seemed to create more work.
It was in such moments of frustration that I remembered straightening the nails for my father, and I began to understand. Work is something more than the final end result. It is a discipline. We must learn to do, and do well, before we can expect to receive tangible rewards for our labors. My father must have known that if he focused on the outcome of my labors, he would only become frustrated with how inadequately I did things then. So he found tasks that were difficult and would challenge me, to teach me the discipline of hard work. He was using the straightened nails not to rebuild our home but to build my character.

Throughout my teenage years, I prepared for my mission. When a loving priests quorum adviser, David Poulsen, offered to teach any of the priests the missionary discussions, a few of us took him up on his offer. We faithfully attended 7:00 A.M. classes each Sunday.
We studied the missionary discussions, and I had most of them memorized before I ever entered the mission home. We even went out a few times and taught ward members who pretended to be investigators. Most of them were a lot tougher than any real investigators with whom I worked! In 1971 I was thrilled to accept a call to serve in the Argentina North Mission.
A mission brands the gospel on your heart. I like the way President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) described a mission as the “university of the Lord,” as an opportunity to serve others and to learn many valuable principles the Lord wants His disciples to learn. These are principles that will help us in everything we do from then on, whether in building His kingdom or in improving our personal lives.
After I returned from Argentina, missionary service remained very important to me. As I earned both a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree, I looked for chances to share the gospel. I married Jan Nielson, and we have taught our seven children the importance of missionary work.
My whole family had an opportunity to put those teachings into practice in 1994, when my wife and I received a call to preside over the Uruguay Montevideo Mission. During that time, our son Jason served in the Portland Oregon Mission and our son Andy in the Brazil Recife Mission. The rest of the family enjoyed our missionary work in Uruguay.
We are definitely a missionary family. We have learned that there is no greater work, no greater joy, than sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ.
One of my favorite things to do even now as a member of the Seventy is meet with missionaries and experience the joy that comes from serving the Lord and working with others who are also serving Him.
This interest in missionary work, this commitment to share the gospel, began when I was Primary age. That’s the age at which all boys should decide to serve a mission. That most important decision will then be a guiding influence on all that they do throughout their growing-up years.

“We tried to find the Church in Chernigov,” Lena says. “But we couldn’t.” In the city of 350,000, there were no missionaries, no branches, no known members. The closest branch was 150 kilometers away in the capital city of Kiev. “So we decided to follow all the commandments we knew of—to obey the Word of Wisdom and pray,” she says. “Our family grew closer. We started to spend more time together.”
But they yearned to have a greater understanding of the gospel, to make covenants with the Lord, and to have fellowship with Church members. On Sunday, 24 November 1996, Nikolay, Lena, and their daughters, Anya, age 10, and Yulia, age 7, made the 150-kilometer journey to Kiev.
“When we arrived at the branch, we met the missionaries for the first time,” says Lena. “They thought we were already members!” The Shavekos were amazed by the love and welcome they received. “It’s in our blood not to smile a lot,” she says, “so we were surprised to see all the people smiling. We loved the spirit we felt.”
That was the first of many trips the Shaveko family made from Chernigov to Kiev for Sunday meetings. For months they never missed a Sunday, even though the 300-kilometer round-trip journey took 24 hours each weekend, the temperatures dipped to -30 degrees Celsius, and the trains were poorly heated. The train always made several stops along the way, including a seven-hour layover in a crowded station in the middle of the night. The Shavekos would leave home at 8:30 P.M. Saturday and return home at 8:30 P.M. Sunday—or they would leave at midnight and return home the following midnight. In Kiev they would take buses and subways to the rented building where the branch met, arriving just in time for the 10:00 A.M. meeting. Afterward they would mingle with members, eat lunch, listen to a missionary discussion or two, and then head home.
Traveling by bus would have been faster—only three hours each way because of a more efficient schedule. But bus tickets were too expensive. As it was, train tickets for four Sundays each month cost nearly half of Nikolay’s monthly income.
But the journey didn’t seem burdensome, remembers Lena. “We were happy. Even the girls didn’t complain, although sometimes they fell asleep on the way. When we received the Liahona at church, we would read the whole magazine on the way home using the dim overhead lights on the train. The inconvenience of the trip didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t important.”
Two missionaries, Elders Kent Averett and Derek Rowe, obtained permission from the mission president, Wilfried M. Voge, to travel to Chernigov a couple of times to teach discussions to the Shavekos in their own home. Since the home’s heating wasn’t adequate, the family and missionaries had to dress warmly. “But the presence of the Spirit in our gospel conversations warmed us,” says Elder Rowe.
On 5 January 1997, six weeks after their first visit to the branch, the whole family—Nikolay, Lena, Anya, and Yulia (who had turned eight)—were baptized.
After Lena became pregnant a few months later, she was unable to make the long journey to Kiev every Sunday. So the mission president authorized a variation in the schedule. Two Sundays per month, Nikolay and his daughters continued to travel to Kiev for meetings. On the other Sundays, missionaries held Church meetings in the Shaveko home. Talks and lessons were taken from the scriptures, Church manuals, and the Liahona.
But along with joy came persecution. “Some neighbors said, ‘Oh, the Orthodox Church isn’t enough for you?’ And they started giving us problems,” says Lena. “Some of them are not as close to us anymore.”
On the day of their baptisms, the Shavekos received wonderful news. A member in Kiev told them that while serving as a missionary three years earlier in St. Petersburg, Russia, she had taught the gospel to a Ukrainian family—a single mother named Alla Kurnosova and her young son, Vitaliy. They had joined the Church and returned to live in Chernigov, where Alla works as a tailor.
During the three years since Alla Kurnosova’s baptism, she had corresponded with missionaries she had known in St. Petersburg. “Through letters, they gave me hope and strength,” Alla says. She and 13-year-old Vitaliy had continued studying the scriptures. “It seems Vitaliy knows even more than I do,” says Alla. “He teaches me all the time.” Both prayed that the Church would come to Chernigov.
Their prayers and patience were finally rewarded. Alla and Vitaliy became close friends with the Shavekos. The two families took turns hosting the twice-a-month Sunday meetings with the missionaries. Nikolay and Vitaliy were assigned as home teaching companions and visited both families together.
The meeting in Nikolay and Lena’s home on Sunday, 1 June 1997, is typical of the meetings during those days. Twelve people are in attendance: Nikolay, Lena, Anya, and Yulia; Alla, Vitaliy, and Alla’s nonmember mother, Vera; Katya Malihina, a 19-year-old Church member from Kiev attending law school in Chernigov; and four missionaries who have been teaching the group—Elder William and Sister Manette Murri, Elder David Sills, and Elder Chris Colton.
Elder Sills conducts the meeting. Sister Murri plays the piano. (She has been encouraging Anya and Yulia to learn to play several hymns. Before and after the meeting, the girls demonstrate how well they are progressing.)
The opening hymn is “I Need Thee Every Hour,” and Vitaliy offers the prayer. The sacrament hymn is “Jesus Once of Humble Birth.” Nikolay and Elder Colton prepare the sacrament on a small table covered with a simple white cloth and offer the sacrament prayers. Vitaliy passes the bread and water. Then, as sunlight streams through the living room windows, the members and missionaries express love for the Savior and gratitude for the gospel.
Lena weeps as she expresses how wonderful it is to hold Church meetings in her home. “There are very few people here; everybody fits into one apartment,” she says. “In other places, there are more members of the Church, and everybody does not have the opportunity to bear his or her testimony every time.”
She tells about a visit she had with a woman during the week: “I had a feeling in my heart that I should share the gospel with her.” In return, the woman, a member of a Protestant church, shared with Lena the steps necessary to officially register the LDS Church in the city—making a complicated process seem manageable. “The woman and I were happy to have the opportunity to talk with each other about religion. We became good friends, sisters in faith, even though we have different religions. We are all children of God. I know God will always help us and that the Church will grow here in Chernigov.”
Nikolay expresses appreciation for “being able to bear my testimony freely and to show my feelings to other people. How wonderful it is to come to know the truth and to have faith in God and in Jesus Christ, our Savior.” Then he bears witness of the Word of Wisdom. “By following it, we can have a clean heart and a clean body,” he says. “Before, I was often a drunk man, but today I am bearing my testimony! When I began to live the Word of Wisdom, there was a big change inside of me. I look at life a lot differently than before. I don’t want to go back to the darkness we had around us. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has the truth and the commandments we should obey. We are coming closer to becoming like our Heavenly Father.”
Katya Malihina, the 19-year-old law student, says: “Yesterday I spoke with my friend about what Jesus Christ did for us. She asked me many questions.”
Young Anya Shaveko testifies: “I know Jesus Christ lives. The Church of Jesus Christ is true. It was restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I hope we can get a branch here as soon as possible so people can come more quickly to the gospel.”
Alla Kurnosova says: “I love the Savior with all my heart, and I try to live His commandments. After our meeting last Sunday, I spoke to my cousin about the Church. She was very interested and wants to come to our next meeting.”
Then Alla’s nonmember mother, Vera, speaks: “This is my first time to come to church here in Chernigov, but I attended several times in St. Petersburg. I have noticed here today the same feeling I had when I went to that branch—peacefulness in my heart. My soul is softened today. I think I will keep coming.”
“Love at Home” is the closing hymn. Eight-year-old Yulia offers the prayer.
Since that Sabbath day in 1997, much has changed for the Church in Chernigov. Nikolay and Lena have had their baby—a daughter named Lara. Alla’s mother, Vera, has been baptized. Vitaliy, now age 14, is preparing to serve a mission. The Church has been officially registered in the city, and a branch has been organized—with Nikolay serving as branch president. Full-time missionaries now live and work in Chernigov. Several more people have been baptized. And the growing branch has rented a small building in which to meet.
But other things have not changed. The branch members still care about and watch over one another. They still share the gospel with people they meet. And the Spirit of the Lord continues to burn brightly in their hearts and in their homes.
Best of all, on 8 August 1998 the First Presidency announced that a temple will be built in Kiev, Ukraine. Soon, when the members from Chernigov make the trip to Kiev, it will be to attend the house of the Lord.

Last year when I was called to be the Young Women general president, as I was leaving President Monson’s office, he reached over to a bouquet of white roses, took one from the vase, and handed it to me. The moment he handed me that beautiful white rose, I knew why. I went back to the time when, as a young woman, I chose the white rose as my symbol of purity—my personal banner. How did President Monson know? I took that precious rose home, put it in a beautiful crystal vase, and placed it on a table where I could see it every day. Every day that rose reminded me of the importance of my own personal purity and virtue, and it reminded me of you. As you grow and blossom, your personal purity will enable you to become a force for good and an influence for righteousness in the world. I truly believe that one virtuous young woman, led by the Spirit, can change the world.

Father and I are ready to leave in the morning to join the Saints. Uncle Samuel came today all the way from Avery to persuade Father to give up Mormonism. My dearest cousin, Lydia, came with him. I haven’t seen Lydia since Mother’s funeral. Lydia told me that I needn’t go with Father. I could live with her family. She said Father had been deluded and led astray by the Mormons.
I told Lydia that I also believed the Mormon church is the only true church on earth.
She said, “But that Joseph Smith is dead now. Father said he was possessed by devils!”
My heart hurt when I heard those words. “No,” I told her, “Joseph Smith was a prophet just like the prophets in the Bible. I know this is true!”
Lydia stared at me. “I feel sorry for you. I guess we’ll never see each other again.”
Am I going to be without friends for the rest of my life?

“Why can’t Grandma be like Caroline’s grandmother?” complained Gina as she folded the towels. “Yesterday Caroline’s grandmother sent her a new skateboard. It’s really neat! She gives her presents all the time. Grandma never gives me anything.”
Mother stopped in the middle of changing the baby’s diaper. “Gina! I’m surprised at you. Grandma Ross loves you and has always been very good to you. You’re nine years old now and that’s old enough to understand love doesn’t need a price tag. Grandma Ross doesn’t have money to spend on fancy toys. She started working when Grandpa became ill, and most of her money pays for his hospital bills.”
Gina could feel her face getting hot. She knew that what Mother said about Grandma Ross was true, but knowing didn’t make her feel any better. She carried the towels into the hall closet and stacked them neatly on the shelves. “I’m through,” she announced. “Now may I go with Caroline? She said I could try out her skateboard.”
Mother put little David down to crawl on the floor. She sighed and looked at Gina. “You may go after you set the table. And remember to put on an extra plate. It’s Thursday and Grandma Ross will be here for supper.”
Gina pretended she was skateboarding around the dining room as she put the plates on the table. Then she grabbed the knives, forks, and spoons. Mmm, mmm. Her arms were outstretched to balance her skateboard pose as she sailed behind the chairs and placed the silverware beside each plate. “I’m finished, Mom,” she called to the next room. “Now may I go?”
“Yes,” her mother answered, “but be home in time for dinner.”
With only thoughts of skateboarding in her mind, Gina ran up the hill and around the corner to the familiar brown house. Caroline answered the bell. “Hi,” she greeted her friend. “I thought you’d never come!”
“Well, I’m here!” Gina said breathlessly. “Where is it?”
Caroline opened the screen door and pushed the slender skateboard out for Gina to admire. It was bright red with glistening flecks of many different colors. She spun the wheels and they made an even, purring sound.
“Wow! What a neat skateboard!” exclaimed Gina. “How did your grandmother know what kind to buy?”
“Well,” confided Caroline, “last time she called I hinted around a lot …” Her voice trailed off and she looked at Gina. The two girls giggled. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Gina watched enviously as Caroline balanced herself on the board and then breezed past her down the sloping sidewalk. She could hardly wait for her own turn. Finally Caroline handed her the shiny skateboard, but Gina promptly fell off. After a few more tries she managed to stay on, and soon she was feeling like an old pro. Gliding down the hill made her heart pound, but she loved it. Finally Gina noticed that the sun had gone down. “I’ve got to go home,” she said quickly. “My grandmother’s coming for dinner—Thursday night, you know.”
Caroline reached down for the skateboard and tucked it under her arm. “You sure are lucky, Gina,” she said. “All my grandparents live so far away I hardly ever get to see them. Well, sometimes I see them on Christmas and sometimes in the summer, but they don’t just come over for dinner like your grandmother does.”
Gina looked at her friend in amazement. “But your grandmother sends you presents all the time,” she said. “All that furniture for your dollhouse, new games and clothes, and now a skateboard. I wouldn’t mind all that.”
“Sure, that stuff’s OK, but it’s not like having a real person who can be with you. Well, see you tomorrow at school.” Caroline’s voice seemed a bit sad to Gina.
“Bye, Caroline,” Gina said softly, staring after her friend. Suddenly many thoughts went racing through her head. Maybe Caroline did have a lot of things sent to her, but she didn’t have a grandmother who played checkers with her, guessed at her riddles, and always came to school for open house. She didn’t have a smiling grandmother to give her a warm hug every Thursday night.
Gina smiled as she ran down the hill toward home, thinking gratefully of a loving grandmother who would be waiting there to greet her.

About the first part of October, our teacher, Miss Olson, began telling us about Halloween in the olden days in our town. People wore special costumes and went around town doing good deeds, such as taking food and clothing to those who needed them. “They weren’t like some of you boys today, going out Halloween night and destroying people’s property or putting their plows on someone else’s roof.”
I was sure she was looking directly at the four of us sitting in the southwest corner of the classroom. As far as I knew, none of us had been involved in any vandalism. But we were in the fifth grade now and were strong enough to do almost anything. The idea that Halloween had been a night for doing good and not for mischief kept coming up the next few weeks, but none of us boys realized how much of it we had absorbed.
One Monday, Miss Olson announced, “Next Saturday night you are all invited to a Halloween party at my home. Everyone is to wear a costume. We’ll play games, and there will be refreshments. The party will begin at seven-thirty, and anyone who shows up without a costume will be sent home.”
Directly after school, Tom, DeForest, Raymond, and I conferred. None of us had any money to buy a costume, so we all figured out what we could rig up. We had several conferences during the week to update each other’s progress, and we decided to meet at the corner a half block from my house, then walk the four blocks to Miss Olson’s home together.
Even though we arrived early the night of the party, several girls were already there, wearing the usual Halloween costumes—princess, ballerina, and so forth. There was one Gypsy. She pretended to tell our fortunes, telling us we’d go on journeys or inherit a large fortune. After each “fortune,” she placed a small piece of hard candy in our hand, closed our fist around it, and patted our cheek. One girl was wearing an Austrian dirndl (native dress) that her brother had brought home from his mission there.
We had a wonderful time playing games. When we bobbed for apples, none of us boys was able to get one. Only one of the girls got one. She dunked her whole head into the water to do it, and almost all the curl came out of her hair.
The next game went more smoothly. Apples were hung from the ceiling on strings. A girl on one side and a boy on the other were to try to get a bite from it without using their hands. I was matched up with Nora. We eventually worked out a solution: We both pressed our mouths against the apple to keep it somewhat stationary. Then Nora was able to get her teeth a little way into it and hold it still until I got a bite. Most of the others saw what we did, and succeeded in getting at least a nibble too.
After some more games, we sang songs around Miss Olson’s piano. Then the living room door opened, and her mother and father came in carrying plates. On each plate was a cheese sandwich cut diagonally, a mound of potato salad, and a cup of hot chocolate. Forks and napkins followed. And as soon as we gobbled down the food, the plates were taken to the kitchen and we were each given a dish heaped with orange ice cream with small black candies on it, and a large orange cookie with a dab of black frosting on top! It was then after nine-thirty. We all shook hands with Miss Olson and her parents and thanked them for the nice party.
Outside, the four of us boys got together. The moon was about half full, and some thin clouds partially obscured it. We knew that our parents weren’t expecting us home till about ten o’clock, so we walked along the streets, looking for evidences of Halloween pranks. A few gates had been removed, and just in front of one door a bucket of water had been balanced on the top of a rake. The dwellers would get a watery surprise when they opened the door the next morning!
We stopped in front of the Christiansens’ home. All the blinds were drawn, and there wasn’t a light anywhere. They were an elderly couple and were almost totally deaf. Mr. Christiansen spoke only Norwegian, and though I understood Norwegian pretty well, I couldn’t speak it. Most Norwegians can understand Danish, even if they can’t speak it, but when I tried to talk to him in Danish, he’d wave his hand and tell me that I should know that he didn’t understand English.
Next to the kitchen of their home was a wooden lean-to. Its foundation was four feet above the ground. Under it Mr. Christiansen stored his wood and coal so that it could be out of the weather but handy to get at.
Miss Olson’s lessons about Halloween in the olden days struck a chord in us as we stood there, and we decided to chop some wood for the Christiansens. When I went home for my favorite ax—my father had made it specially so that I could cut kindling—I told my parents what we were going to do, and they seemed very pleased.
Having the shortest distance to go, I was at the woodpile first. I found several pieces of sawed logs under the kitchen stairs and was busily chopping those into kindling by the time the others arrived.
At first we worked as quietly as we could, but then we began to sing. Pretty soon we were singing louder and louder, and I was thinking, How happy Mr. Christiansen will be when he comes out in the morning and sees all this kindling. And how happy Miss Olson is going to be on Monday when we tell her what we did after we left her party. I don’t know how the other boys felt, but I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.
Suddenly the light in the kitchen went on, the door flew open, and out came Mr. Christiansen. He was in his nightshirt, and his feet were bare. He yelled, in Norwegian, “Thieves! Thieves! You are stealing my wood!”
I tried to speak to him in Danish, but he just yelled, “No! No! I don’t understand English, and you are stealing my wood!”
Then Mr. Christiansen saw the lighted lantern that I had placed on a nearby rock. “And you are trying to burn my house down!” he bellowed.
All we could do was grab our saws and axes and leave. I felt terrible. This certainly wasn’t the way it was supposed to turn out.
DeForest was the first to say anything. “So much for doing good deeds on Halloween. I wonder if people in the olden days ever ran into this kind of trouble.”
Now, I can understand the old man’s confusion. As poor as they were, Mr. Christiansen had always worried about someone setting his house or his barn on fire or stealing his kindling. And it must have been hard for him to chop and cut all the wood for their everyday needs. We had tried to reason with him, but was it really us? I mean, that night I was dressed in a mountain man costume—a red flannel shirt underneath a jacket that Mom had sewn fringes of cloth scraps on, Dad’s old leather boots, and a hat I’d made from a rabbit skin. Our string mop had become my scraggly beard.
Tom wore an old crumpled hat, one of his father’s old coats that his mother had sewn patches on here and there to cover supposed worn spots, and an old pair of overalls that were also covered with various colored patches. He had rubbed soot on his cheeks to look like a scruffy beard, and was a very convincing hobo.
DeForest had so many freckles that they seemed to be plastered on top of each other. He hated them, so he had painted his face white and his nose red, made a top hat out of black construction paper, stuffed paper into his dad’s work shoes, and wore two different plaids for his pants and shirt. He made a really great clown.
Raymond was wearing a suit of long underwear that had been dyed green and had “muscles” sewn into it, and a blue blanket that had been fashioned into a cape. He’d glued blue scraps of material onto the front nt in the shape of the letters SR for “Super Raymond.”
So no wonder Mr. Christiansen didn’t recognize us. When he’d gone to bed, all had been quiet. Then he was awakened by our singing, which to his deaf ears must have sounded like coyotes’ howling. Imagine how he must have felt when he saw all sorts of strange-looking characters lurking around his woodpile. I would have yelled too.
When I went home and told my folks, my mother said, “We’ll get this all straightened out tomorrow. I’m sure that when Mr. Christiansen finds out what you were trying to do, he’ll be happy and grateful.”
The next morning on the way to church, I was startled to see him bundled in two heavy quilts, sitting in a rocker in his yard. He was asleep, and I figured that if he had been sitting there protecting his woodpile all night, he was entitled to sleep.
He was asleep in the chair again on Monday morning. His head was bent over to one side, and he looked cold and tired.
At school, we told Miss Olson the entire story and how puzzled we were by the outcome.
“I know all about it,” she told us. “I’m very proud of you boys for what you tried to do. I’m in touch with Mr. Christiansen’s daughter, Mrs. Larsen, and I’m sure that everything will be straightened out to your credit.”
Neither the chair nor Mr. Christiansen were in his yard when I came home from school that afternoon. As I entered the kitchen, my mother said, “Miss Olson and Mrs. Larsen have explained to Mr. Christiansen what you boys were trying to do for him last Saturday. He wants to apologize to all of you. You’re to go over tomorrow after school.”
The next afternoon, Miss Olson opened the door as we approached the Christiansens’. The old couple were sitting by the window. Their daughter stood next to Mr. Christiansen. “Now, here is the way we’ll work this,” Miss Olson said. “You boys line up in single file. When I introduce you, you shake hands with Mr. and Mrs. Christiansen, then tell Mrs. Larsen your parents’ names and where you live. She’ll translate your words into Norwegian for them.”
Tom was called on first. Mr. Christiansen thanked him profusely, in Norwegian. The old couple smiled and shook hands with him.
DeForest was next. The couple knew his family quite well. In fact, Mr. Christiansen had made bins for DeForest’s grandfather’s salt refinery.
Then came Raymond. After Mrs. Larsen explained in very loud Norwegian who he was, Mr. Christiansen thanked him over and over again. Then Raymond winked at Mr. Christiansen and grinned at him. One of his teeth had been blacked out with black gum. Mr. Christiansen almost laughed out loud.
I was last. As Mrs. Larsen started to tell the couple about me, Mr. Christiansen waved her to silence. “I know this boy. He comes over to visit, and he talks to me in a very strange language.” He grabbed my hand and held it in both of his. Mrs. Christiansen did the same with my other hand.
“Well, I think that everything is straightened out now,” Miss Olson said. “Do you boys think that you could finish what you’d started to do for the Christiansens last Saturday night?”
I hurried home for my special ax, and Raymond and DeForest borrowed Mr. Christiansen’s ax and saw. Tom busied himself with carrying in the wood. We soon filled up three coal buckets, two for the kitchen and one for the bedroom.
Mrs. Larsen told us to wash our hands; then we were ushered into the dining room, where we saw stacks of sandwiches, a huge bowl of potato salad, a tray full of pumpkin pickles, and cups of steaming hot chocolate. Mr. Christiansen offered a prayer in which he thanked the Lord for us, our families, and Miss Olson.
When we left, the Christiansens stood by the door and thanked us again for coming. We decided that maybe we’d have an olden-days Halloween next year too.

Mother always kept a cow so that her sons would have what she called “some real responsibility.” This included milking the cow every morning and every night, pitching hay down into the stall for the cow to eat, and watering her morning and night at a nearby stream. Unless we did these chores, the cow would be hungry and thirsty.
There were times when I would be a little late getting home, and then I’d wish I didn’t have to take care of that cow.
One evening when I returned home, I found that she had broken down the fence and run away. I looked in all of the usual places, but I could not find her. I looked everywhere imaginable—but no cow.
It started to grow dark, and I was desperate. I knew that my mother would be worried if she knew the cow was lost. We sold milk to some of our neighbors, and I could picture them waiting for me to take them their fresh milk.
How well I recall that evening! I had been taught to pray, and I knew I could ask the Lord for help. There was a little clump of bushes near the canal, and so I took off my cap, got down on my knees, told the Lord my problem, and asked Him to help me find our cow.
After my prayer, I started walking down the canal bank. And only a few yards from where I had prayed, I found our cow. She was almost hidden in the tall willows by the canal because she was about the same color as the willows. I was grateful my prayer had been answered and that our Heavenly Father had guided my footsteps down the canal bank to where she was.
The many nights my mother knelt by my bed to teach me how to pray helped me learn to talk to our Father in heaven. Ever since the night I prayed for help by that clump of bushes, I have continued to pray for His guidance.
And I know the Lord answers our prayers.

The familiar 10-hour drive from southern California to Utah should have been uneventful. The roads were clear of snow, and I was awake and alert. But I didn’t expect a 57-inch TV to suddenly appear in my lane. It had fallen from a pickup truck in front of us. I swerved, but not in time. We had hit the TV, and now I was struggling to get control.
My best friend, brother, and little stepsister were all in the car. My brother in the backseat woke up and started shouting that we were fine, but with the car still spinning, I wasn’t so sure.
Eventually, we came to a stop in the median. It was only then that my stepsister woke up, confused and in shock. There was nothing around us but empty, black desert and an occasional semitruck whizzing by. The four of us sat in silence for a moment, realizing we were still alive. None of us knew what to say or think. Then my best friend asked, “Should we say a prayer?” The idea was a welcome relief. The Spirit was the only thing that could calm our nerves at that time. We bowed our heads and thanked our Heavenly Father for preserving our lives. We asked Him to comfort us and help us to get home safely. My fear and shock from the accident wore off and I felt calm.
A police officer and the driver of the pickup came over, relieved to find everyone okay. The impact from the TV alone could have been fatal, even without the added danger of spinning. The car was damaged but drivable, and we got home safely. It amazes me to think of how much worse the outcome could have been. I am so grateful for my safety and the safety of my passengers. Before and since then, we start every long car trip with a prayer. I’m grateful that we can call on the power of the Lord to watch over us. But even with this added protection, accidents may happen. And if they do, we will have the Spirit to comfort us.

One Sunday, seated in front of the television with my cigarettes and usual bottle of wine, I heard the doorbell. Opening the door, I saw two young men in blue suits, with name tags identifying them as missionaries. The room I invited them into was full of smoke and the smell of alcohol, but they were undeterred and began to question me about my beliefs. Did I believe in God?
That made me stop and think. Though I had been baptized as a little boy, I had never been a churchgoer—I thought religion was not worth it. Rather, I believed in my conscience and the need to be honest with my fellowmen. Yet I surprised myself and answered yes to their question. As they continued and began to teach me about Joseph Smith and the Restoration, it seemed as though I had already heard their words. An indescribable feeling began to come over me, and I loved these young men. When they offered a prayer, I began to cry, and my heart began to swell until I felt it would burst.
We made an appointment for the following Tuesday, and during the interval, my life passed before me as in a film. Until the age of twenty, I had abstained from alcohol. But then a business failure and financial difficulties sent me into a deep personal crisis, compounded by my wife’s illness and two-year convalescence in a distant hospital. I sought comfort in alcohol, and before long I began to drink quantities of strong spirits from morning until night. Add to that the 70 to 100 cigarettes I smoked daily and you can understand that my physical condition deteriorated gradually to the point where I was embarrassed about it.
At one point I entered a hospital to be detoxified, but the doctors were unable to help me and I became even more depressed. I had a good job and a wonderful family, but I needed to get out from under these vices. In desperation I abandoned myself even more completely to alcohol, at one point even attempting suicide. I tried to enter a private clinic for help, but could not afford the treatments. It was at this point that Elders Sorensen and Waterman entered my life.
When they returned for our second meeting, the two missionaries spoke to me of many new things that I did not know but felt were true. When they told me about the Word of Wisdom, I felt my heart sink, and I said “Tell me how I, of all persons, can give up alcohol, since I have tried every way I know how, and have had no success.” They asked me if I believed in God and in the things they had taught me and if I felt that I had faith in the Lord. I replied that I did.
“Good,” they said. “If you will listen to us, we’ll help you and the Lord will give you the power to overcome your problem.” “I’ll be infinitely grateful,” I answered. Their exhortations filled me with joy, with hope, and with faith, and I really desired in my heart to follow their guidance. When I prayed I felt more and more self-confidence, and from that morning, with my newborn courage, I imposed the rule that I would never drink cognac again. And I was able to maintain that rule though I suffered greatly. With the help of the elders, and with humility, I was able to gradually reduce the doses of other alcoholic beverages and of cigarettes. It was not easy, but I felt the Lord near to me, helping me. I felt that I had to do my part and that I would not be alone in this trial.
After a month and a half I was able to overcome my vices. Finally free, I felt ready to be baptized, with my wife, on December 28, 1977. I came up out of the baptismal waters renovated in body and spirit, sure that the Lord forgets our sins if we are truly repentant. I can’t explain what a joy it was to abandon the old me and see myself reborn full of trust in myself and love for my fellowman. I had an immense desire to recover all the lost time showing gratitude to the Lord with a commitment to do everything that he commanded me.
Following my baptism, my health improved day by day. At first I continued to arise in the morning full of aches and pains. Getting up was a painful trial. But after prayer, I was able to go about my work serenely until the evening, when the problems returned. But then, one great day, I arose and realized that I was finally free of the pains. From that time forward I have had no problems.
After a year of Church membership, we were able to go to the temple, where my wife and our three daughters were sealed to me. Now we are truly a united family. I have been blessed with a number of challenging callings in the Church and can bear witness that, with humility and faith in the Lord, there is nothing impossible for man. I know, too, that observance of the Word of Wisdom brings health and strength—and the desire to use that strength in the service of the Lord.