Gospel Story Finder

When I was 14, I met some young women who were excellent leaders. At that time, my family moved across the United States and became members of a new ward. I do not remember who served in the Mia Maid class presidency, but I clearly remember that the young women were particularly kind to me. They sincerely embraced a scared and scrawny new girl as a long-lost friend and made me feel welcome. Coming from Delaware, where I was the only Mormon girl in my junior high school and where the only other Mormon girl I knew lived an hour’s drive from my home, I thought, “This must be what heaven is like!”
For the first time in my life, I had a circle of friends who lived the standards in For the Strength of Youth, invited me to participate in activities, and shared their testimonies of the gospel with me. Their examples of loving-kindness did more to secure me to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at that time than any talk or lesson could have done. In their love and Christlike light, they were the message of the gospel of Christ, and they were the ones to lead and guide me into His fold.

My beloved wife, Ethel, and I enjoyed 37 years of a wonderfully happy marriage. At least that’s how I saw it. I hope she did too! Even her previous survival of cancer on two occasions and her significantly declining health over three years did not prepare me for what seemed an awful, sudden separation upon her death in 2021.
After her passing, the feelings of grief were intense and devastating. I was very fortunate. I had married an exceptional woman. We had many great shared memories. We had three daughters who lived nearby. I had a supportive Church community. One or two trusted friends were willing listeners, with whom I could share my innermost thoughts – though I felt awkward doing so. Even then, none of these, not even the sum of them, seemed to ease the immeasurable sorrow I felt.
Initially, the grief came in what seemed like never-ending torrents and, as time passed, later became waves (just as painful) that would crash onto me without warning. Bumping into someone, seeing a dress in a shop, hearing a piece of music, watching a grandchild that Ethel had never lived to see – all of these and more would bring on the tears. Nearly four years after Ethel’s departure, the frequency of intense grief has decreased, but the unpredictable onset of weeping for her continues with similar intensity. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Love does that to you.

October 3, 1984, began as an ordinary day. The sun rose, the colors of autumn sprinkled the Midwest, and it appeared as the garden spot of the nation. The day was somewhat uneventful until the telephone rang. “Elder Sonnenberg?” the voice inquired, and then intoned, “The office of the First Presidency is calling. President Hinckley would like to speak with you.”
After a brief exchange of kindnesses, he invited me to become a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy and a General Authority. It has been, and yet remains, overwhelming. The day took on new meaning and an entirely different dimension in my life as I pondered the challenge and invitation. I will do my best and serve with all my heart. My lovely wife and children and their wonderful families surely sustain me, as they have always done.
Men’s lives have been clearly and completely changed by such invitations from men of God. This acceptance was acknowledged by asking when and where the Lord would have me go.
Men and women the world over are invited each day to come and join with us. The Savior invited men to “come, follow me.” (Luke 18:22.) It was not an ordinary invitation—to follow Jesus. The commitment had everlasting and eternal consequences. Peter was invited to “launch out into the deep.” (Luke 5:4.) He was a strong, suntanned, ordinary fisherman until he was invited “to let down [the] nets.” (Luke 5:4.) Thereafter he would never be the same because the Savior was steering his soul more than the ship. Yes, he was an ordinary fisherman until he heard the voice of Jesus and accepted His invitation.
Another time Peter was invited to walk on the water, and when he couldn’t continue he learned that when our faith falters we fail. (See Matt. 14:28–31.) Accepting the invitation requires unconditional faith.
In the presence of arrogant and angry men who were eager to accuse, the Master inscribed in sand and dust that which is now cast in concrete. The crowded courtyard of anxious accusers was cleared, and a sinner was saved from stoning because the Savior was interested in the person more than the problem. (See John 8:3–11.) He invited us to not judge, and then He demonstrated that forgiveness fosters love and that casting stones simply wouldn’t solve the problem or bring about a solution.
If we are to be as He is, we must be as He was. We must even invite with interest those who show disinterest and hope that somehow they will recognize the divine discourse described as a testimony.
He invited us to seek after the singular sheep that was lost. He made us to understand that a lost sheep is really a lost soul that we need to seek and search for, that a lost coin is one who needs to be counted and then converted, and that a prodigal son is one that can be saved by serving and then giving service himself.
He invited little children to come unto Him and each of us to become as one of them. He invited men to love one another as He has loved us, and then He would call them His disciples. He extended His love to His Apostles on condition that they understood what unconditional love for their fellowman was.
He invites men to receive the priesthood of God and to magnify it by service. He invites us to pay our tithing and fast offering, to teach the gospel, and to be baptized, and receive the Holy Ghost. And He invites us to preach the gospel in all the world because we are a worldwide church.
Last month my faithful and youthful companion, Timmy Manners, and I did our home teaching. Sixteen-year-old Timmy was born in the British Isles, I was born in the DDR [German Democratic Republic], and we teach a family from France. We visit them in Germany, and speak English—and we all understand each other.
Each of our families were converted to this, the Lord’s true church, by dedicated missionaries in different lands. We were taught by the sweet Spirit of the Lord. As we meet monthly in the lovely home of Jean Collin and his wonderful family, we have the opportunity to enlighten one another in our home teaching visit by that same sweet Spirit.
We invite the Spirit of the Lord on bended knee in the attitude of prayer. On this wise shall ye pray. What an invitation to communicate in the name of Christ! We are invited to cry repentance and bear our testimony, and then as a crown of commitment He allows us to go to His Holy House and be sealed for eternity.
Before 1830, April 6 was also just an ordinary day. Since the coming of the Book of Mormon and the organization of His church, the Spirit of the Lord has touched men and women around the world. Apostles and prophets and fellow Saints have borne witness of the divinity of the restoration of the gospel. Light, knowlege, and truth have been restored, and the Spirit of the Lord has been felt by members of His Church.
My beloved brothers and sisters, I testify that the Book of Mormon is true, that Jesus is the Christ and that Spencer W. Kimball is a prophet of God, and I invite you to follow them and enjoy the Spirit of the Lord, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Just as an example to show you how easy it is, let me tell you about these names, William and May Brown. In January 1979, when we first arrived in England, there was an unusual amount of snow. We had no snow shovel; there were none for sale. I tried to sweep the snow, but it was too heavy. Phillip Brown, a young man, and his friend stopped and asked if they could clear our yard. They did a nice job. Sister Reeve called Phillip Brown’s mother to ask him if he could come and clean the yard again and to tell her what a good job her son did for us. Mrs. Brown said, “Why don’t you come over to our home and have coffee and get acquainted with the neighbors?”
Sister Reeve went, but she had orange juice; and, of course, that gave an opportunity to tell them why—that we were Mormons. Mrs. Brown said, “I met some of your missionaries, and they’re surely a fine group of young men. If I were going to change churches, I’d join yours.”
On February 19, our forty-second wedding anniversary, we didn’t have anyone to share it with, and so we thought, “Why don’t we call William and May?” So we called them and said, “Won’t you come over and help keep this anniversary with us?” We’ve had just one pleasant experience after another. They have a Book of Mormon and an LDS hymn book (Mrs. Brown plays the organ in her church). We send cards as we travel; they are fine people. We are keeping in touch with them. They are good friends.

The leaders were nervous about the steady rain because they had planned a nighttime hike through the woods. The 45-minute hike would simulate the journey described in Lehi’s dream and lead to the “tree of life” (see 1 Ne. 8). A rod of iron had been constructed to help guide the youth along the path.

The teens set out in the dark, rainy night wearing plastic garbage bags as ponchos and with only one flashlight per group of five to seven people.

In Lehi’s dream, those who made it to the tree had to hold to the iron rod to navigate the mists of darkness. Others wandered off “in strange roads” and “were drowned in the depths of the fountain” (1 Ne. 8:32).

Similarly, these youth had their own obstacles to deal with on the way to their “tree of life.” In addition to the rain and darkness, they walked in mud and around stones and logs. Looking for a shortcut or an easier way, some lost their way in the darkness. Even those who stayed on the path stumbled, and many fell, having to let go of the iron rod. Members of the youth committee were asked to try to tempt their peers to leave the safety of the path. A “spirit prison”—a place off the trail where the teens had to wait—detained those who left the path.

After clinging to the rod of iron and singing hymns on the way, those who endured to the end finally saw a large tree with white fruit. “Father Lehi,” standing at the “tree of life,” offered them the fruit of the tree.

In the Book of Mormon, Nephi describes eating the white fruit: “As I partook of the fruit thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy; … it was desirable above all other fruit” (1 Ne. 8:12). An imaginative youth committee had made desirable fruit. Caramel apples, dipped in white chocolate, rewarded those who reached this “tree of life.”

“Do you see her yet, Okorie?” Bernice asked.
Eight-year-old Okorie stood on his tiptoes and peered down the sandy Nigerian road. No motor could be heard over the rustling palm trees and the calls of the birds in the nearby rain forest. He strained his eyes to look as far down the road as he could, hoping to see a cloud of dust signaling the approach of their mother’s car.
“No, Bernice. Nothing yet,” Okorie said as he sat next to his little sister in the shade of the school walls. “I’m sure everything is all right. Maybe she is just busy with baby Ikechi.”
Bernice nodded. “Or maybe she went to the market. I hope she brings home lots of yams again. They’re my favorite.”
Okorie’s stomach growled at the thought of yams. He hoped Mum would hurry—it wasn’t like her to be this late picking them up. Everyone else had gone home long ago. The school compound was many kilometers from the nearest village of Owerri, and with nobody but his sister around, Okorie was starting to feel a little scared.
“Okorie! Look what I found!” Bernice held up a worn leather ball.
Okorie grinned broadly. Here was one way to help time pass! Eagerly he joined his sister in kicking the ball around the yard.
They were having so much fun they didn’t notice the approach of their car until their mother parked it across from the school yard. As she got out of the car, the two children ran to greet her.
“Okorie! Bernice! I am sorry you had to wait such a long time for me!” Mum said, hugging them close. “I was trying to do too many things in one day, and the time slipped away from me. Now we need to hurry! I’ve left baby Ikechi with Sister Anya’s daughter much longer than I planned. Ijeoma is only three years older than you, Okorie, and it is probably hard for her to watch a baby so long by herself.”
The two children jumped into the old car. “Look at all those yams!” Bernice squealed in delight as she peered into her mother’s woven shopping basket.
Mum smiled. “If we hurry, we can have dinner ready before your father comes home.” She turned the key to start the engine.
Click.
Their mother’s smile faded. She turned the key again. Once more there was only a click instead of the familiar roar of the engine. She tried without luck for several minutes to get the car to start—but they were stuck.
“What’s wrong with it, Mum?” Bernice asked. “Are we out of fuel?”
“No, no—I filled the tank only an hour ago.” There was concern in her voice. “But I did drive many kilometers today. Perhaps the engine has been working too hard and needs to rest a few minutes.”
“What should we do while we’re waiting?” Okorie asked.
“Well, I do have my Book of Mormon here. Should we read our scriptures now?” their mother asked.
The children agreed. Okorie liked listening to Mum’s voice as she read the scriptures. Sometimes the words confused him, but if he listened very carefully and tried to understand what the words meant, he always felt good inside. Mum said that this feeling was the Holy Ghost and that if he always tried to do what Jesus Christ would have him do, he could have that feeling all the time.
They started reading in Ether chapter 12 about several different prophets who were able to do wonderful things because of their faith in Jesus Christ. They read about Alma and Amulek, Nephi and Lehi, and Ammon and his brothers. Okorie remembered most of those names from his Primary class. One story—about the brother of Jared moving a whole mountain by faith—especially caught his attention.
“Mum, did the brother of Jared really make a mountain move?” Okorie asked.
“It was not the brother of Jared who moved the mountain. It was Heavenly Father, who was answering that prophet’s prayer. I am certain that the brother of Jared had a good reason to move that mountain. He knew he couldn’t do it himself, so he prayed to Heavenly Father. Heavenly Father knew that what the brother of Jared was asking was good and that he truly believed Heavenly Father would help him. So Heavenly Father answered his prayer.” Okorie thought about that as his mother finished reading.
“It’s been a really long time,” Bernice said. “Should we try to start the car again?”
They all held their breath while Mum turned the key. When the engine failed to start, she put her head in her hands.
“What are we going to do?” Bernice asked quietly.
Mum shook her head. “There is no one to help us for many kilometers, and it’s too far for you children to walk. It will take hours for me to walk there and return with help. Poor little Ijeoma—I have left her so long by herself with the baby!” Tears began to trickle down Mum’s cheeks.
Bernice and Okorie glanced at each other with wide eyes. What could they do?
“Mum,” Okorie said quietly, “I know what we can do.”
“What?” she asked.
“Let’s say a prayer! Heavenly Father will make the car start—just like He moved a mountain for the brother of Jared!”
“Prayers aren’t always answered right away, Okorie,” Mum sighed. “Someone will need to fix what is wrong with the engine before it will work again.”
“But if Heavenly Father can move a big mountain, don’t you think He can make our little car work?”
Mum looked at Okorie. She could see he was very serious.
“All right, my son, we will pray. Who would like to offer the prayer?”
While Okorie and Bernice talked, Okorie saw his mother bow her head and close her eyes, saying her own private prayer. When Mum opened her eyes, the two children told her they had decided they would each say a prayer.
Bernice went first. “Heavenly Father, we are stuck out here all alone because of our broken car. Please bless baby Ikechi to be safe until we get back. And please teach Ijeoma so she will know how to take care of her. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Now it was Okorie’s turn. “Heavenly Father,” he began, “please bless the car to start. We know Thou canst do it. Everybody else has gone home—there is no one else to help us. Please, Heavenly Father, help us start the car and get home safely so Mum can take care of us and the baby. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” Mum said. She got in the car, and with a flick of her wrist, she turned the key.
Rrrruuuummmm! The engine sprang to life as if nothing had ever been wrong with it. Bernice and Okorie bounced up and down with joy.
“Okorie! You did it! You did it!” Bernice exclaimed.
Okorie stopped his celebration long enough to shake his head solemnly and say, “No, I didn’t do it—Heavenly Father did.”
Mum hugged her children tightly. “Yes, Okorie, Heavenly Father did it. But I think it was your faith that really pulled us through. You never doubted. Both of you have made me a very happy mother.”
They said a prayer of gratitude and then drove home, singing all the way.

READER 5: Sergei stood at the rail of the trawler and wondered:
READER 2: What impels a man to jump from his warm, safe ship into a stormy ocean thousands of miles from home?
READER 3: Freedom?
READER 4: He had material freedom in the motherland.
READER 5: His future?
READER 4: At 19 he was attending a naval academy.
READER 5: So why did Sergei want to escape?
READER 6: Perhaps it was that strange light he had seen in the eyes of the woman he had been about to strike so many months ago.
READER 5: These people called themselves Christians.
READER 4: The government tolerated them if they held their meetings under state supervision.
READER 5: But they had this strange habit of secretly gathering in homes, barns, and even out in the forest.
READER 3: And through police intelligence it was always known where they would gather.
READER 1: A number of the big fellows at the naval school were paid by local police as volunteers to break up the meetings.
READER 7: Sergei was one of these.
READER 4: After breaking through the door, they would grab the Bibles and handwritten hymnals and rip them up.
READER 2: Any cry of protest was our excuse to wade into the people with truncheons flying. After all, they had broken the law and were enemies of the state.
READER 7: The police said, “Faith will fly out of their heads when they see your stick.”
READER 2: But I cannot forget Natasha, a blue-eyed blonde of about 18 years. She had long flowing hair. We found her in a worship meeting in a little town. One of our group was a giant whose arms seemed the girth of telephone poles. He picked up Natasha by her hair and threw her out of the door. Then he laughed.
READER 5: It would have been nicer to have been friends with her.
READER 2: A week later on a nearby street, we made another raid. And there she was! We beat her so hard with truncheons that we boasted, “She won’t be able to sit down for a week!” Three days later we found her again at another meeting. Why, Natasha, why?
READER 4: After the raids they would haul the literature to the police station and burn it in a potbelly stove.
READER 2: As I shoved the literature into the stove one time after seeing Natasha, I slipped a booklet into my pocket. Later I read it in a quiet corner at school.
READER 6: In it he read about a young man who’d turned on his father and run off to a far country where he squandered all he had. Yet when he crawled home, his father welcomed and kissed him!
READER 2: As I read on, I was flooded with a strange emotion—part disbelief, but mingled with it, a fascination with what this book called love. Something within me was touched, and I trembled.
READER 3: Sergei tore the books into shreds.
READER 2: On our next raid I followed through mechanically. As I raised my truncheon at an old woman, she said something. I hesitated and heard her praying.
READER 6: Oh, Lord, save this young man.
READER 2: Someone or something held my arm, and I spun around; there was no one there. I dropped the club and left the melee. Why, Natasha, why? And you, old grandmother, why do you pray for me? I went to the police director and told him I was through with the activist group.
READER 6: It was 9:45 Friday night, September 3, 1971.
READER 2: I closed the radio room door behind me for the last time. Through the mist I could make out the outline of mountains on the horizon. I estimated the shore at three miles away. I was alone on deck. This was the time. I swung over the rail and dived into the blackness. Struggling to the roaring surface, I struck out toward what I thought was shore. It was frightening. I would climb one soaring crest only to be buried by another crashing on me.
READER 5: After two hours, a dark shape loomed above him.
READER 6: When he made out what it was, he became sick with shock.
READER 7: It was his ship!
READER 1: He had been swimming in a circle.
READER 2: My first thought was to give myself up. I couldn’t go on any longer. But at that moment the clouds broke, the night sky lightened, and I could see the whole line of our trawlers, their bows all pointed toward shore. Now I knew where to head. I struck out again.
READER 6: But after two more hours of fighting waves, Sergei weakened and started cramping.
READER 4: As he choked and gasped, his arms became leaden, and he began to sink into the dark depths.
READER 2: Something from deep within me cried out, “God, if you really are, if you do exist, and I feel sure you do, when my body drowns, take my soul into paradise with you.” As l finished my prayer, something happened. New strength, new courage flowed into my heart. I did not feel alone anymore. I struggled upward, broke water, and began swimming again, using the same powerful stroke that earned me a school swimming award.
READER 5: After a while a new sound grew in intensity.
READER 6: It was the crashing of giant breakers. As he looked up, jagged rocks awaited him.
READER 7: But a wave carried him into an inlet where he tumbled onto the shore.
READER 1: It was about six o’clock in the morning, and the sun was coming up over a new land before him. As its rays began to warm him—
READER 2: I gave thanks to Him who brought me here. And you, old grandmother, you who prayed for me as I was about to strike you, I think of you often. Now I know why you do what you do.
(Music interlude.)

“Go, Monarchs, go!” shouted a voice from the stands as our team took the field for the first inning. It was the last game of the regular baseball season, and the most important game of the summer for our team, the Mid-Town Monarchs. We were tied for first place with the South-End Satellites, and whoever won would get the league championship trophy.
“We just have to win, Tim,” my best friend, Ryan, shouted at me as we headed for the field. He played center field, and I was in left field. We always backed each other up if the ball came our way.
“So let’s do it,” I shouted back.
We’d never won the league championship before. In fact, until this year, we hadn’t even won many games. But this year was different, partly because we’d gained experience and skills over the last three years, partly because of luck, but mostly because we had a new player, Jay Dunwoody, who had moved to our part of town last winter. Other years, we hadn’t had a good pitcher, but Jay was about the best twelve-year-old pitcher around.
Jay was really keen to win. When baseball season started and he discovered our team wasn’t very strong, he organized extra practices, beyond what Coach Burnell called. Jay became our self-elected captain, and when the coach made him official captain, we didn’t mind, even though he was the new boy.
“Strike ’em out, Jay,” I called to him now as we went to our positions in the field. I hoped that things would go right for us.
They did, at first. Jay struck out the first two batters, and the third one popped out to the shortstop. Then, on our turn at bat, we scored two runs.
But in the second inning, the Satellites’ first baseman belted a home run over Ryan’s head. Although there was no way that he could have reached it, I knew that Ryan was upset.
The next batter sent a hard ground ball toward me. Just as I reached for it, the ball struck a bump on the field and bounced over my glove. I retrieved the ball, but the batter reached third. Later our second baseman fumbled a fly ball, and two runners scored, putting the Satellites ahead, 3–2.
“What’s wrong with you guys in the field?” Jay grumbled when we went in for our second at bat. “I can’t win this game alone.”
“Take it easy, Jay,” Coach Burnell interrupted. “Those were honest errors. Maybe everybody’s trying too hard. We need to relax.”
“That first baseman is good,” Ryan muttered.
“Yes,” the coach agreed. “He can hit as well as play his position. We’ll have to watch him. Now, let’s settle down and play ball.”
That’s just what we did. We didn’t score any more runs for the next few innings, but we did stop the Satellites, and Ryan and I each caught a tricky fly ball, which helped make up for our earlier bad luck.
By the sixth inning, the score was still 3–2, and the tension was mounting. I could feel my stomach knotting, and the shouts from the crowd didn’t help.
As our first batter went to the plate, Jay called me aside. “You’ll be up third this inning. If you hit it, Tim,” he said quietly, “run into that first baseman. Knock him down and shake him up. Or step on his foot with your cleats. If he’s hurt, he won’t be able to play. He’s due to bat again. But if he can’t play, their whole team might give up.”
“We don’t play like that,” I started to protest, but Jay stopped me.
“Did you ever win the league championship before? Were you even close?”
I shook my head.
“Then listen to me. And don’t go running to Coach Burnell. I can’t win this game alone. But if you do what I say, you can really help.”
“Why me?”
“You’re the biggest guy on our team. And you can make it look like an accident.”
He walked away. The knot in my stomach was a lot worse, and I felt almost like throwing up. I didn’t want to do what he said, but, boy, did I want to win! And I knew that our whole team felt the same. After three years of finishing almost last, it would feel so good to finish first.
“Go, Monarchs, go,” called a voice from the stands that I knew was my mother’s. She was my biggest fan, and she was counting on a victory. Even my little sister had come to watch. I just had to do what I could to win this game.
“Tim, up to bat,” shouted the coach, and I realized that our first two batters had both struck out.
“Go for it, Tim,” called Jay. “Do what you can.”
I took a deep breath, and when the first pitch came, I was ready. Wham! The ball sailed past the pitcher. Dropping the bat, I sped for first.
I felt as if everything was in slow motion. With one eye, I watched the second baseman running to get the ball on a bounce. With the other, I saw the first baseman toeing the bag, to receive the throw. And the ball was going to beat me! But if I did what Jay wanted, I could still help, and maybe we’d have a chance.
I was sure that I could knock the guy over if I charged into him. He wasn’t very big. Or I could jump on his foot with my cleats. Nobody would know it wasn’t an accident. Nobody but Jay and me.
But suddenly, almost as if the slow motion stopped, I decided that it wasn’t that important to win. It was only a game, not a life and death struggle.
The ball smacked into the first baseman’s glove just before I reached the base. I sailed past without touching him.
“You’re out!” shouted the base umpire, and I headed for the bench to get my glove.
“You didn’t even try it,” Jay snarled as I went past him. “Don’t you want to win?”
I stopped. “I want to win, all right,” I told him. “Just as much as you do. But not that way.”
After that, the last inning sped by, and that was the end of us.
But when the game was over, when the Satellites lined up to accept the trophy, I felt good. We Monarchs had had a good season and finished second, and that was OK. Maybe Jay couldn’t understand, but from the grin on Ryan’s face, I figured that he felt the way I did.

I was called as a member of the Seventy in 1977. Since then I have had the privilege of visiting hundreds of stakes. After one priesthood leadership meeting in Taylorsville, Utah, a large man approached me and whispered that his brother had been killed during World War II and that he hated Japanese people. Following the stake conference, however, this same man approached me with tears in his eyes. Crying for joy, he gave me a hug because I had shared my conversion story and my love for Americans and it had touched him.

With her permission, I would like to share part of a sweet letter I received from Sister Linda Seamon of the Flagstaff Arizona Stake.

“We are a young family. My husband and I are 33. We have three small children. This is a busy ‘family time’ for us in our lives. For months, Diana, our ward genealogy person, would call us on a regular basis to ask if there was anything she could do to help us get started on our family history.

“We of course thanked her for the call, but firmly replied that ‘Aunt Leona, Cousin Nellie, and Aunt Bertha have done all there is to do on our families.’ Then, intrigued by an article in the Ensign about the new 8½-by-11 forms for family history, I mentioned this to Diana and a week later she was at my door with the forms! I took a look and thought how neat it would be to fill in the forms with our own names in the blanks. This simple experience of a loving, persistent family history representative was what got us started.

“We both come from Mormon families several generations back. We thought the ordinance work for our ancestors had been completed. We were wrong! In the short months we have been collecting copies of family group records, we have had so many experiences that confirmed to us the Lord’s hand in this work: 44 baptisms, 45 endowments, 29 children sealed to parents, 16 marriage sealings. All of these from records that were supposedly ‘all done.’

“Words cannot express the joy we have felt in the temple performing ordinances for our ancestors. Family relationships, some estranged since childhood, have been healed. Our extended families have also become involved. We have sent names to five different temples so that we could be united in helping to complete the temple work.

“We believe that it takes just one temple experience for one’s ancestors to convince a person of the importance of this work. It is possible to become involved in this exciting work at any age. We’re committed to it!”

The Lost Purse
When I was recently assigned to a conference in the Mission Viejo California Stake, I was touched by an account of their four-stake New Year’s Eve youth dance. Following the dance, a purse was found with no outside identification. I share with you part of what Sister Monica Sedgwick, the Young Women president in the Laguna Niguel stake, recorded: “We didn’t want to pry; this was someone’s personal stuff! So we gingerly opened it and grabbed the first thing that was on top—hopefully, it would identify her. It did, but in another way—it was a For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. Wow! This told us something about her. Then we reached in for the next item, a little notebook. Surely this would give us answers, but not the kind we were expecting. The first page was a list of favorite scriptures. There were five more pages of carefully written scriptures and personal notes.”
The sisters immediately wanted to meet this stalwart young woman. They returned to that purse to identify its owner. They pulled out some breath mints, soap, lotion, and a brush. I loved their comments: “Oh, good things come out of her mouth; she has clean and soft hands; and she takes care of herself.”
They eagerly awaited the next treasure. Out came a clever little homemade coin purse made from a cardboard juice carton, and there was some money in a zippered pocket. They exclaimed, “Ahh, she’s creative and prepared!” They felt like little children on Christmas morning. What they pulled out next surprised them even more: a recipe for Black Forest chocolate cake and a note to make the cake for a friend’s birthday. They almost screamed, “She’s a HOMEMAKER! Thoughtful and service minded.” Then, yes, finally some identification. The youth leaders said they felt greatly blessed “to observe the quiet example of a young lady living the gospel.”
Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles

Chris Rubio, a painter, arrives for work with his wife, Alfreda.
When Chris and Alfreda Rubio’s van broke down recently, they didn’t worry about how they were going to pay for repairs. And it wasn’t because they were wealthy.
“We had the money we needed because we had saved it,” says Chris. “We were good to go. We took the van to get fixed that day without having to think, ‘Oh, no.’ It felt nice.”
It wasn’t always that way. Not long ago, the Rubios would have taken out a loan, used a credit card, or waited until payday to get their van fixed. But that was before they took a course on personal finances offered through the Church’s self-reliance initiative.
Chris and Alfreda met while serving in the U.S. Air Force in Germany and were married in Denmark. Chris finished his enlistment in 2008, and health problems forced Alfreda to retire a few years later. They found the Church shortly after settling in Alabama, USA, but Chris couldn’t find a job. “I was either overqualified or underqualified,” he recalls.
Alfreda found work at an office supply store, but that was their only income. “We were drowning financially,” she says.
“We had a lot of debt and overdue bills, and collectors were calling,” Chris adds. “It reached the point that we began selling off stuff to pay bills. Our car got repoed, and we lost our house. It was bad.”
After they lost their home, the Rubios moved to an apartment in a new ward. They didn’t know anyone, and as their finances waned, so did their church attendance. Chris remembers that the more they focused on finances, the less they focused on faith.
“It was very easy to say, ‘We can’t go to church today because we’ve got to find a job or because we’re worried about bills or because we don’t have money for gas,’” he says.
When they visited with their new bishop about their financial situation, he told them about a Personal Finances for Self-Reliance course that was about to begin in their ward meetinghouse, located just outside Montgomery, Alabama.
“We both grew up in pretty modest families,” Chris says. “We didn’t have a whole lot, so we never really learned budgeting and saving. We lived paycheck to paycheck. Oftentimes, the check would run out after a couple of days and we’d have to go long periods with no money. So we were like, ‘Yeah, let’s take the course. If it’s going to help us in any way, we want to do it.’”
During their course on personal finances, the Rubios and three other families learned how to create and stick to a budget. They learned about debt and how to conquer it. They learned how to protect their families from financial hardship. And they learned about the important role tithing plays in financial self-reliance.
“It changed our whole thinking process,” Chris says. “We learned how to monitor not just our income and spending but also our savings, which we didn’t have at the time. I never thought we would have savings, to be honest.”
The Rubios especially enjoyed the council nature of the course, where participants shared ideas, successes, and failures. The camaraderie strengthened their faith and their efforts to become financially self-reliant, and the course facilitator happened to be able to offer Chris a job.
“It makes a difference when you meet other people in the same situation,” Chris says. “You find out that you’re not alone and that we’re all trying to make ends meet and develop skills to become self-reliant so that we can make things better for our kids.”
As they implemented the financial principles they were learning, their financial situation improved.
“We’re not to the point where we’re rich or no longer have financial worries, but it’s so much easier now to handle our callings and go to church without worrying about finances,” Chris says. “The course definitely changed us spiritually.”
Alfreda adds: “The course tied directly into how much stronger our faith became. We started praying more and reading the scriptures more. We felt that the course’s financial principles and spiritual principles went hand in hand.”
Chris likens those principles to a pair of glasses that have helped him and Alfreda find and stay on the path to spiritual and financial self-reliance.
“Without the class and without learning all the things we did, we wouldn’t be where we are now—financially or spiritually,” he says. “It has been an amazing journey. We learned that you don’t need a lot of money to be rich. We’re spiritually rich.”

Ever since my baptism, I have been able to serve in the Church. My first opportunity was as a visiting teacher. I loved being a visiting teacher and loved serving with Myrlande Jolibois. As my companion, she taught me how to care for the sisters and how to bring joy to those we were invited to teach. We walked everywhere and happily visited all our sisters. Her service prepared me to receive my first calling three months after my baptism. I was called to be the Relief Society president and continued to serve the sisters in my ward.

“Hello, Sheri! Are you there?” a friendly voice crackled from the shortwave radio. Australia’s School of the Air classes were ready to begin.
Sheri North sat up straight, arranged her school books a little, and adjusted the radio dial labeled squelch.
“I’m here, Mr. Walker,” she told her teacher.
Mr. Walker sat in an almost empty classroom a hundred miles away at Broken Hill in New South Wales, Australia.
Sheri listened attentively while Mr. Walker finished calling the roll. Then she heard a horse whinny and her mind wandered outside to where Jumper, her pinto pony, pawed the parched earth of his pen. She glanced at the calendar above her desk—December 22—two more days and she’d be free for Christmas vacation. Though it was only nine o’clock, the hot, dry air told her the day would be another scorcher.
It’s funny, she thought, how my cousin in the United States always sends Christmas cards showing ice and snow. She’d probably be surprised to know that south of the equator we have summer in December and winter in July.
“Sheri! Sheri North! Come in!” an anxious voice shouted.
Sheri’s daydreams were shattered by Mr. Walker’s call over the radio.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. Walker,” Sheri said as she pressed the microphone switch. “I guess my mind wandered.”
“Thank heavens you’re still there! I thought for a minute that you had disappeared too.”
“What do you mean too?” Sheri asked.
“Do you know Donny Fisher? He lives about ten miles north of you.”
“Sure, he’s a little red-haired boy my cousin sometimes plays with. He’s the only other eight-year-old in the whole neighborhood.”
“Well, he doesn’t answer his radio this morning; and he hasn’t missed a single day of class since we started this term. Do you think your father could drive over and see if the family is having some kind of trouble?”
Sheri tried to stifle her fears for a moment as thoughts of danger flashed through her mind. She knew families living in Australia’s outback (isolated rural countryside) had to be self-sufficient—modern-day pioneers, her father always called them. They were so isolated from each other, they even held church services over the shortwave radio.
Sheri’s father insisted that all his children learn to use a fire extinguisher, for there were no fire engines available. He taught them to shoot a rifle to drive off the dingos (wild dogs) that sometimes frightened the cattle with their wolf-like howling. Even her two-year-old brother was beginning to ride a horse, for horses were the only sure transportation across the parched, dry desert where cars and trucks habitually broke down.
“My father is out with the sheep,” Sheri explained. “He’s been gone three days and we don’t expect him home until tomorrow.”
“What about your mother?” Mr. Walker asked. “Could she go see if they need help?”
“I’ll ask, but I don’t think so. The baby is feverish and my mother can’t leave her when she’s so sick.”
“Then you’ll have to go,” Mr. Walker said in a firm voice. “It’s quite a responsibility, Sheri, but you’re the oldest in your family. People must grow up fast out here if they expect to survive.”
Sheri gulped hard. It wasn’t the ten miles that bothered her so much—she could ride that far in less than two hours—what worried her most was how she could help when she arrived. What if their house has burned down and they’re all dead? What if they’ve been attacked by outlaw aborigines or by a pack of dingos? What could I possibly do to help?
“All right . … I’ll go if my mother says it’s OK,” she hesitantly agreed. “But I want you to know I’m plenty scared! I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there.”
“Look. You just radio me, and if they’re sick or hurt, I’ll send a flying doctor over in a plane to help out. You won’t be alone for long,” Mr. Walker consoled.
“Just one more thing,” Sheri added. “You won’t mark me absent from school, will you?”
“No, I’ll give you full credit,” Mr. Walker chuckled. “Now skedaddle and get moving. Don’t forget to take a canteen, and don’t ride too fast. You can wear out a horse in no time at all in this heat.”
“I’ll be careful,” Sheri assured him.
Within minutes Sheri had saddled and mounted Jumper. Her mother slung a pair of heavy saddlebags behind Jumper’s saddle. Then she smiled and patted Sheri’s knee.
“There’s a first-aid kit in this side,” Mother explained, pointing to one bag. “I’ve packed a lunch in the other one and also a pistol. Don’t use it unless you have to!”
“Don’t worry, Mother, I won’t. I hate the loud bang and the way it kicks,” Sheri said, nudging her horse and trotting away.
“Radio me when you get there so I can stop worrying,” her mother called.
Sheri waved, but didn’t look back. Her mind was on the problems ahead. She rode past scattered dwarf acacia trees, saltbush shrubs, and tough spinifex grass growing in large clumps in the sandy areas.
Suddenly, Jumper pulled up short, rearing on his hind legs so quickly he almost threw Sheri from the saddle.
A large red kangaroo leaped from a bush in front of them. He was followed by another and then two more.
Sheri sighed, then called after them, “G’wan home you crazy wallaroos!”
The sun was high when the Fisher Sheep Station (ranch) appeared on the horizon. Sheri spotted a man on horseback and Jumper broke into a gallop.
Approaching the jackaroo (apprentice sheepherder) and his dog, Sheri was puzzled to see everything appearing pretty much as normal.
“Hold up there, young lady!” the man called. “What’s the big rush?”
“I rode over to help save the Fisher family,” Sheri said.
“Save ’em?” The man looked confused. “Save ’em from what? The ants or the lizards?”
“No! You don’t understand.” Sheri didn’t appreciate his dry sense of humor. “Mr. Walker, my teacher, sent me over to save them when Donny didn’t answer the radio at roll call this morning. I’ve got to help!”
The man burst out laughing, but stopped when he saw a tear run down Sheri’s cheek. “Hey, look, miss, if you really want to help and you don’t mind getting your hands greasy, you can ride over there to the tool repair shop and help Mr. Fisher fix the electric generator. He’s been working on it since late last night, and I’m sure he’d be happy to have all the help he can get.”
“You mean Donny didn’t answer the radio because there’s no electricity?”
“Kind of seems that way, doesn’t it?” the man said, his eyes twinkling. “And you’ve had an unexpected day off from school.”

It seems that every class has its black sheep, and my seminary class was no exception. One boy was a total loser in every sense of the word. At least it seemed that way.
He was scrawny and combed his greasy black hair straight down so that it covered his eyes and hid him from the world. Mockingly, I compared him to an ostrich who buried his head in the sand so he couldn’t be seen by others. He always sat at the back of the room, never voluntarily participating in any discussion. Friends were out of the question. He was a loner. I feel ashamed to say it, but I figured he couldn’t do much of anything, and I know many of the other students felt the same way. I was extremely surprised when he won the championship scripture chase award. I smugly thought that he just had more time to study because he wasn’t involved in anything else. The night of our seminary closing social proved how wrong my opinion of him was.
That evening remains indelibly engraved upon my mind. I arrived early at the church—a miracle in itself—and found him already there. Again I rationalized that his promptness resulted from a lack of having anything else to do. I greeted him with a perfunctory hello, then hurried to help the other “more friendly” kids set up chairs. Besides, I knew how he would react if I tried to start a conversation with him. First, his head would drop until his eyes became firmly attached to his switching feet. His shaking hands would nervously jiggle his car keys, showing how uncomfortable he felt. He always tensed up whenever I came near. Instinctively, I decided to avoid that awkward experience.
Then the time came for the party to begin. I was trying to round up the deafening herd of kids when I saw my teacher peek into the chapel. A smile of pure delight appeared on his face, like the expression one would find on the countenance of a miner at the discovery of gold. Indeed, a hidden treasure had been found.
Beautiful music floated out through the chapel doors—not just notes but feelings. The person playing the piano had been blessed with outstanding musical abilities. I looked in, expecting to see an adult practicing for a performance. Instead I was shocked to see that the piano player was the quiet boy who I had thought couldn’t do anything. One by one, the entire class crept into the chapel while he continued to play complete compositions—from memory—of Bach, Beethoven, and others. Painfully, my conscience reminded me of my critical judgment of him. I had pronounced him a nobody, simply because he was different from me. I felt superior to him. What a joke! Humbled, I realized he must have numerous other talents to which my abilities couldn’t even be compared. What a mistake it had been to think of him as a zero.
Someone coughed. Immediately, he glanced down, catching us like a bunch of kids with our hands in his cookie jar. We were devouring his musical treats without permission. Instantaneously, he flushed crimson, not from anger as I expected, but from embarrassment. He closed the lid of his music box and slowly left the stand. Thick compliments coated the air as he walked down the aisle and out of the chapel. Still red, he mumbled a humble thanks, not wanting any more of that sticky attention.
The seminary party went on to be a success with everyone laughing, joking, and acting crazy. (I should say acting normal.) That is everyone except me. Somehow that small incident changed me in a very big way.

Examples: “One of my best friends grew up with a strong Buddhist background. At first, I doubted that she would join the Church. But I mentioned it from time to time, and gradually she became curious about the gospel. She prayed daily. She read the scriptures. But she had so many questions I began to feel she might always have some belief in the Church but not join it. Then one day she told me she had decided to be baptized, that she had felt the witness of the Holy Ghost that the Church is true. I was very happy then.
“Another of my classmates studied for a long time and had a testimony, but she didn’t want to be baptized because she was afraid of water. She couldn’t imagine standing in the baptismal font. So we prayed and decided she should try her faith. The baptismal date was set. Even the day before she was still scared. So we prayed again. About 11:00 P.M. that night, she called me to say she had found peace about it and would be baptized.
“There have been many others. Each time I saw one of my friends standing in the baptismal font, I think I was as happy as they were. Once again I could see someone become a member of the kingdom of God.
“Now, even though we are members of different wards, we all keep in touch with each other. It is wonderful to know they have become happier and that they now want to share the gospel.”
Mei Ling regularly writes in her journal, too. And she serves as chorister during her ward’s sacrament meetings.
And even though schoolwork is a high priority, she finds time to join the other Latter-day Saint youth of Taipei for Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women activities.
“I love to take my guitar to the hills and sing, or go to the beach to swim. I like horseback riding at the youth park, or ice skating. And of course it’s only that much better when it’s a Church activity and friends and classmates come along.
“During the mid-autumn festival this year, we’re planning a party at the park. We will build a fire and sing and enjoy the beauty of the moon, which is an old Chinese custom.”
When Mei Ling thinks of future activities like that, she also thinks about things even further in the future.
“It is said that the Taiwanese are full of genuine human warmth—but I believe the people would have even more love and kindness among themselves if they had the gospel. I believe that someday most of the people in Taiwan will be Latter-day Saints. Then from here the Church will continue to grow throughout all of Asia, throughout all the world, as we reach out to our brothers and sisters everywhere.”
In learning about the Church, there are some lessons that Mei Ling has learned well.
“I think that someday I will certainly be married in the temple,” she said. “I will also do the ordinances for my ancestors. I want to enter into the kingdom of God and provide the same opportunity for my family before me. If they aren’t baptized, how can they enter the kingdom of God? So I have to do the ordinances for them. As far as my marriage is concerned, I think that the person I marry will be someone I love and that he will also love me. We will not like the idea of being separated after death. So we will go to the temple and be sealed forever. And because there will soon be a temple in Taipei, we won’t have to travel far.”
Right now, though, Mei Ling said her first priority is to put her own life in order. “Since I now have to go to school both day and night, I am busy. There is tremendous pressure. But as long as I am able to manage my time well, the Lord will bless me to find time to do what he has asked.”
Since she joined the Church, Mei Ling has progressed in two kinds of learning. She has continued her schoolwork, and she works hard at it. But she has also learned that by studying and sharing the gospel, she can help others to acquire a type of knowledge more important than any secular education.
Every weekday, the students of Taipei City Junior Business College come to school, open their books, study their lessons, return home and study some more. In a busy, crowded metropolis like Taipei, their activity may seem just another part of the rush and hurry. In the school’s student body of thousands, one LDS girl may not seem to most of her peers to stand out in a crowd.
But just as the schools of Taiwan have taught students and teachers alike ways of sharing knowledge with each other, the still small voice has taught Chu Mei Ling how to share her testimony with those around her.
There certainly must be lessons to be learned from both.

It was a hot summer day as Tyler made his way toward the big fields a short distance from his house. As he tromped up the dirt road, he looked at the tall yellow weeds on either side and pretended for a moment he was a Nephite warrior, hidden by the high weeds as he crept up on the enemy.
Earlier that morning, his father had talked about heroes in the scriptures who performed great deeds to help others. He had said that everyone could perform noble and honorable acts of service. They didn’t have to be big or brave acts to be important, he had explained. “In Heavenly Father’s eyes, any act of selfless service is of much worth.”
“I want to do noble things, too, Dark,” he confided to the big black German shepherd that walked along beside him, dragging a small dog sled (travois). Tyler’s father had helped him make it. It consisted of two poles tied together at one end, which were placed over the dog’s back and secured. The opposite ends of the frame trailed along the ground behind the dog. The load to be hauled—in this case, a box filled with empty jars—was fastened between the poles.
When Tyler had walked deep into the field, he stopped, removed the sled, and lifted one of the jars from the box. He walked toward a jumble of brush on the ground, pulled it away, and stared down with surprise. Where was the old ladder he had hidden there? The ladder helped him climb out across the blackberry bushes and reach the berries that were otherwise impossible to reach.
“Who could have taken it, Dark?” he asked. “Who could have—?”
Suddenly he spied the ladder, laid out across a large bush. A closer look revealed that whoever had used the ladder had picked almost all the berries.
“Madden!” Tyler breathed angrily. “He knows I’m saving up to buy those cowboy chaps.” Tyler could already envision wearing the leather pant legs over his jeans—then he’d look like a real cowboy.
He sat down beside his dog. “Madden did it just to get even, boy, just because I told Mr. Ruggles I saw him swipe that ice cream bar from the store. I couldn’t lie to Mr. Ruggles when he asked me.”
He gazed at the sparse bushes. His family didn’t have a lot of money since Dad had gotten laid off from his job. If Tyler couldn’t make enough money from selling blackberries, he wouldn’t be able to buy the chaps. “There’s only one pair left, Dark,” Tyler murmured.
For a good part of the day, Tyler worked feverishly to fill the jars, not even stopping for lunch. As he reworked the already picked-over bushes, it took him a long time to fill each jar.
A while later, he looked up and noticed Madden pulling a wagon behind his bike. It was filled with cans of blackberries. He was selling them to Tyler’s regular customers! Tyler hurried even faster, dropping one of the jars and losing all the berries from it inside a huge bush. He wiped sweat from his hands onto his pant legs and fumed at Madden.
Dark lifted his head from his cool place in the shade as Tyler placed the final filled jar in the wooden box. He quickly attached the sled to the big dog. “Mrs. Gregory will buy all these jars of berries,” he realized excitedly. “Madden doesn’t know about her because she hasn’t lived here very long.” Mrs. Gregory loved blackberries and always paid Tyler 50 cents a jar. “I’ve got eight jars, Dark. If I add that to what I already have, I’ll be able to buy the chaps!”
As Tyler walked down the rutted dirt lane, his excitement grew. He turned a corner and stopped. Someone was helping Mrs. Gregory sit on her porch swing, and she looked very sad. There were four other cars parked in front of the weathered two-story house and almost a dozen people mingling about. If it was a family reunion, it must be a sad one, he thought. “Maybe we had better come back tomorrow, Dark,” he said.
“Something’s wrong down at Mrs. Gregory’s place, Mom,” Tyler said when he got home. “There’s a bunch of people there, and—” His mother’s serious face made him pause.
“One of Mrs. Gregory’s sons died. They’re having a memorial service at her house, then they’re going to the cemetery.”
“I was going to sell Mrs. Gregory my blackberries today so I could buy those chaps. But …” His voice trailed off. Then an idea came to him. It was something his father had said about doing honorable acts of service for others. At first he tried to ignore the thought, because he so wanted to buy the leather cowboy chaps.
His mother eyed him. “A penny for your thoughts?” she said.
“I couldn’t charge you for that, Mom,” he said, “any more than I can charge Mrs. Gregory for the blackberries.” Tyler stepped to the window and gazed out. “Don’t people usually come back to the house to eat after a funeral?”
“Often that’s the case,” his mother answered. “Why?”
“Well,” Tyler said, “there were a lot of people at Mrs. Gregory’s place. I know she isn’t going to feel like fixing a bunch of food. She’ll probably have help, but I’d like to help her, too.” He turned and faced his mother. “Mrs. Gregory likes blackberries even more than I do. I want to make blackberry pies for her and all those people.”
His mother’s eyes welled up with tears. “I know how badly you want those cowboy chaps. You’re willing to sacrifice them?”
“I want to be like the heroes in the scriptures, Mom, and help somebody.”
Tyler’s mother hugged him.
“If I squeezed a blackberry as tight as you’re squeezing me, Mom,” Tyler grunted, “it would be squished to bits.”
Tyler’s mother laughed. “Would you like a little help making those pies?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” Tyler said.
Three hours later, Tyler stood before Mrs. Gregory’s door.
“Hello, Tyler,” she greeted, her voice warm but weary.
Tyler pointed to three freshly-baked blackberry pies in the wooden box on the dog sled. “I picked some berries, and Mom and I made some pies.”
Tears gathered in the old woman’s eyes. “How kind of you, Tyler. Just a moment, let me get my purse.”
“Oh, no,” Tyler blurted quickly. “They’re free, Mrs. Gregory. I just want to help.”
Mrs. Gregory bent over and hugged Tyler. He could feel her tears on his cheek. She didn’t say anything, just patted him on the back.
As Tyler walked down the dirt lane from the little two-story house nestled in the big trees and the evening shadows, he felt a feeling he had never felt before. It was warm, different from the warmth of the summer night.
When he finally had saved enough money to buy the cowboy chaps, they were gone—but the good feeling from having done a kind deed stayed.

President Kimball taught me a lesson during my call to become a General Authority. He asked if I would come to Salt Lake City to serve as a General Authority for the rest of my life. I was overcome with emotion. My reply: “President Kimball, I just don’t know what to say.” Then he said, “I only want you to say yes.” The lesson was clear; there is no need for an eloquent speech to express our commitment or our love and devotion when accepting a call from the prophet. He already knows these things.

The assignment to the Huntsville Second Ward road show committee was a challenging one: In just a few weeks, put on a great road show. And don’t spend a lot of money doing it.
“Our total budget consisted of $20 to $30,” said Becky Worthington, who was called as ward road show specialist.
It seemed like an impossible assignment. Costumes can cost a lot. Lumber and hardware for sets can cost a lot. Even tempera for painting cardboard can cost a lot. Some wards spend $30 or more just for a cast party.
“But we knew that if the youth of the ward got involved, they could make it work,” Sister Worthington said. She called a meeting to discuss the road show theme, “Future Fantasy.”
Someone suggested that the story take place in a city underneath the sea, and the idea caught on quickly.
“We could use strips of old sheets to look like waves.”
“At the space museum they’ve got a light that shines through water so you see waves projected on the wall. Maybe we could do that.”
“You could have a sea horse and an octopus.”
“We still need a plot. What’s the conflict?”
“How about pollution?”
“You could wear slime suits or something like that.”
“Here comes the slime! You could run off all the Primary kids with that.”
Sister Worthington had to whistle to get everyone to stop talking and pay attention.
“Okay. We’ve got some good ideas for the script. We know who the characters will be. Now let’s talk about costumes. We’ve only got $20 to spend.”
After more discussion, the group dismissed. But based on their ideas, costume making began right away. And by the time the script was finished and rehearsals were underway, costumes were ready. A Chicken of the Sea wore scuba fins, goggles, and a beak made of cardboard. Starfish dressed like movie stars and carried sunglasses with paper stars pasted on them. Girls with cardboard oyster shell hats carried white balloons for pearls. Cast members dressed like cowboys rode brooms with poster board sea horses taped on them. A fish net and some shells, borrowed from members who used to live in Hawaii, were pinned to curtains as a backdrop.
But perhaps most ingenious of all were the octopus costumes, made from black plastic trash bags and paper egg cartons.
“Everyone helped out and donated paper, fabric, paint, tape, and time,” Sister Worthington said. “But mostly the costumes were made out of things we had on hand. We tried to keep it simple. You can do a lot with a little if you think and plan.”
When the stake road shows were presented, the Second Ward won a superior rating, an award for best actor, and the award for best costumes as well. And the price tag? Just 23 dollars and 50 cents.

When I was 15 years old, missionaries used to eat with some of our neighbors. My older sister saw them coming and going every day, and she asked them if they were selling something. They said no, and that was the way they were introduced to our family. My father, my mother, and my brothers and sisters received the lessons and were all baptized. But I didn’t join. At that time I was investigating another church, but I was sincerely searching.
The 10th of May in Mexico is Mother’s Day. That day, my mother asked me if I loved her. I said, “Yes, I love you.”
She bore her testimony to me and asked me to be baptized. I decided to get baptized that day. The following Sunday, I was confirmed and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. At that time my life completely changed. I started reading everything I could get about the Church, especially the teachings of Joseph Smith. I had faith, and as I studied, I accepted the teachings of the Church. My faith grew as I grew in the gospel.