Gospel Story Finder

On Sunday, Brandon was confirmed a member of the Church and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. He was interviewed by his bishop, and they talked about when he would receive the priesthood. Then Brandon was introduced during priesthood meeting and met the other young men who would now become part of his life. After the confirmation, Teren went to his own ward and joined in a priesthood lesson, even though he kept his leg propped up on a chair. The rivalry game had come and gone, but the priesthood teamwork was continuing. When that happens, everyone wins.

I was assigned to home teach with Brother Erickson, an older member of my ward who was a dedicated home teacher. He had me do the scheduling, which I didn’t mind.
One of our families, the Wrights (name has been changed), was not actively involved with the Church. When I called the home, Brother Wright said, “Don’t ever call my home again.”
I told Brother Erickson what had happened. The following month, when he asked me to call the Wrights again, I reminded him that Brother Wright didn’t want us to call. Brother Erickson insisted that I call anyway, so I did. When Brother Wright answered the phone, I asked him not to hang up on me and told him that my home teaching companion had insisted I call. I asked if we could home teach him just by calling each month. He agreed.
From that point on, I called the Wrights each month. Every time I called, Brother Wright would say, “You’ve made your call.” Then he would hang up. I didn’t have a problem with that, and Brother Erickson didn’t ask for more.
But after several months had passed, Brother Erickson suggested that we fast for the Wrights. I agreed, so one Sunday we prayed and fasted to find a way to reach Brother Wright. The next morning as I passed the Wright home on my way to work, Brother Wright was coming out of the house. I could see a toy truck under one of the rear tires of his car, so I stopped and pointed it out. He thanked me.
“By the way,” I said, “I’m your home teacher.”
He thanked me again as I headed off to work.
I called Brother Erickson to tell him what had happened. He asked me to call Brother Wright to set up a home teaching appointment for the next evening, which I did. Brother Wright was both congenial and accepting. We had a great visit with the family and set up another appointment. I left their home with a greater testimony of fasting and prayer and of the importance of being a home teacher.
Later that week we learned that Brother Wright had allowed the full-time missionaries to start teaching his 15-year-old daughter. She had been praying for months that her father would soften his heart and let her be baptized. Over time the family began attending church, and Brother Wright eventually consented to his daughter’s baptism. In fact, he was the one who baptized her.
I’m grateful that Brother Erickson was in tune with the Spirit. His insights during this experience helped me gain a greater testimony of the power and potential of dedicated home teaching.

A few weeks ago, I visited a stake consisting of young families. I asked the priesthood leaders how many of them had filled a mission. I was surprised when every man raised his hand. The next week I visited a more mature stake which was one of the outstanding stakes of the Church, and asked the same question. Every man in the meeting, but two, raised his hand.

The conclusion? Not that every man has to be a returned missionary to be a priesthood leader, but that those who fulfill an honorable mission develop an understanding of the gospel and a self-discipline that results in dedication and commitment to what they know to be true.

In 1988, we relocated to Perth, Australia for a new job opportunity. The Sydney Australia Temple was then 4000 km from our home. We made a family commitment to drive to the temple every two years. Once there, we would spend a whole week participating in temple ordinances. My children still have fond memories of the mostly sacred time we had together in the car for three and a half days each way driving across Australia and back.

I feel very blessed that at a young age I was taught the importance of keeping the Word of Wisdom. I committed myself to keeping that commandment. I remember a very prestigious competition in Germany, when I won the vaulting event. As I stood on the victory stand, I received a gold medal, flowers, and gifts. I couldn’t have been more pleased.
Before walking off of the stand, I noticed another individual coming forward with a silver cup, and I thought, “How great! Another prize!” But as the presenter moved closer with this cup, I noticed it was full of wine.
Turning to my German friend and competitor, I asked what it was for, and he explained that tradition calls for the champion to drink out of the cup and to pass it to the next athlete.
I told him, “Well, I don’t drink.”
He responded with: “Then just take a little sip and hand it to the next person.”
Then I explained, “No, it’s against my religion, and I can’t even take a sip.”
My friend proceeded to explain to the officials in German that I wouldn’t drink it, but for some reason they insisted I take the cup.
So I took the cup and held it high in the air for the crowd to see. And then, without taking a sip, I handed it down to the next person. I admit that amidst the laughter of the crowd I felt a bit embarrassed, but I felt proud that it was easy to say no. I believe that if we make proper decisions before we are faced with a temptation, we will find it much easier to resist that temptation.

The New Era is a great asset to our work. We love it. As a missionary I always enjoy the stories about special missionaries who do great things. I would like to add to those stories one about a very special missionary whom I am honored to serve with. Last week the chain on my bike broke while we were on the way to an appointment. Since it was Sunday, there was no way of getting it fixed, so we caught a ride home. The next day we had an appointment all the way across town, so my companion, being the special missionary he is, towed me with all his might up and down all the hills in Vicksburg. I think that shows true dedication and pure love for me, his companion. That’s the type of missionary I’m always proud to serve with. Thanks, New Era, for all the help you give the servants of the Lord.
Elder Greg ChristoffersenMississippi Jackson Mission

Jared watched the sun drop lower and lower, until it was just at the treetops. It was the first day of Christmas vacation. “Some vacation!” he muttered. He’d been alone all day with nothing to do. Oh, he’d gone for a walk, but all he’d found were scruffy storefronts and a few little kids with shabby coats playing in piles of dirty snow.
Since his dad had left them, Jared’s life had changed a lot. There wasn’t enough money to live in the house he’d grown up in, and they’d had to move to a big city so his mom could find a job.
His new home was in an old apartment building. From his point of view, everything was awful. They went to church in an old warehouse, with only about thirty other people. Their whole Primary had fifteen kids, and most of them were little. How could you have any fun being a Cub Scout all by yourself? His hometown had been small, but at least it had had a real ward.
School wasn’t any better. The building was as run-down as his apartment. The kids were loud and rough and made a point of avoiding him. He hadn’t found a friend yet, although he’d really tried to be friendly. And he was the only Church member in the whole school.
He leaned his head against the cold window glass, watching for his mom’s little green car, hoping that she’d come soon with something warm and good for dinner. She was always so late and so tired from work that they usually ended up eating canned soup and sandwiches. He’d help her clean up, then they’d read scriptures and have prayer together. He always felt better after that, when he went to bed. Mom was always tired these days, but it was a physical sort of tiredness. In spite of it, she had a kind of peace about her that gave him peace, too.
The trouble was, when he left for school in the mornings, that peace usually slipped away and he felt that there just was nothing to look forward to here. And now, Christmas. Jared hadn’t talked about it, but he was pretty sure that there wouldn’t be one for them. How could they afford anything? Mom had had to spend any extra money on uniforms for work and on tuition for the computer course she was taking two nights a week so that she could get a better job. Jared had decided to keep quiet about Christmas.
When two headlights blazed across the window, Jared threw his arm up to shield his eyes. The lights went out. He heard his mother’s hurried footsteps, then her key in the lock.
“Hi, honey,” she said, reaching to give him a hug. “How was your day? Did you have some fun?”
“Sure, Mom,” he murmured, turning his head so that she wouldn’t see his frown.
“Well, I brought us home a treat!” She was carrying a plastic grocery bag with a box bulging in it. Jared felt a spark of interest.
“What’s in the box?” he asked as she set it on the little table.
“Dessert. It was even free. My boss said I could take the doughnuts we didn’t sell. Since this is Christmas Eve, we can’t sell them even as day-old stock when we open again on Saturday. I just brought a couple for each of us since we’ll be having holiday treats tomorrow. So set the table now, and we’ll get tonight’s feast going.”
Wow! Jared thought, his mouth curling into a sarcastic scowl. Stale doughnuts—yippee! But he didn’t say anything as he set the table. Soup bowls, of course. And the plates for the sandwiches would do for the doughnuts, too. Then they wouldn’t have to wash more dishes.
Mom seemed full of energy tonight, for a change, chatting away about her day. It only made Jared’s dark mood darker. As they finished eating, more headlights swept across the ceiling, and then there was a knock at the door.
“Sister Holdrup, hi.”
There stood Brother Eldridge, their home teacher. What does he want? Jared wondered.
“Some of us are going to sing Christmas carols at a homeless shelter. We need extra voices. Can you join us?”
“That sounds like fun,” Mom said. “Come on, Jared, let’s go. We can wash the dishes later.”
“No,” Jared said. “I don’t want to.” That’s all I need, he thought—singing stupid Christmas carols at a stupid homeless shelter.
“But, Jared—”
“No!” Jared shouted. “I’m not going!” He ran into his room and slammed the door.
As he threw himself down on the bed, he heard his mother apologizing to Brother Eldridge for his behavior.
“It’s OK,” Brother Eldridge told her. “If you change your mind, here’s the address. We’ll be singing in about an hour.”
Jared covered his ears. Can’t she see how awful everything is? Can’t she see that there’s nothing to be happy about, especially Christmas?
There was a soft knock on the door. Jared ignored it.
“Jared, may I come in? I want to talk to you.”
He relented a little, hearing the sorrow in her voice. “OK,” he said, but he put his arm across his eyes.
“Jared, I know things aren’t easy for you. I know how you must miss your friends.”
And the park. And having someplace to ride my bike. And Cub Scout day camp. And … and even Dad. Especially Dad. Then the hot anger came up again, and tears began seeping from his eyes. “Why did Dad have to leave us, Mom? What did I do to make him leave?” Choking sobs stopped Jared’s questions.
Tears flowed from his mother’s eyes, too, as she gathered him into her arms. “I don’t know exactly why he left, Jared, but I do know this: It had nothing to do with you—not who you are or anything you did. He left because of things inside him. He thought he could solve his problems by leaving.”
“Do you think that will work?”
“I don’t know. But I think that when you are very unhappy, like Dad was, it makes it harder when you choose to look for happiness by running away. I think it’s better if you face your troubles and solve them. One thing I’ve learned from moving here is that you have to decide to be happy where you are, no matter what. Then nothing can make you unhappy, because you’re happy from the inside out.”
Jared was still for a long time, while his mom held him tight and rocked him. Then he said, “How do you get happy like that, Mom?”
“Jared, a few nights ago we read something that Mormon wrote to Moroni about what to do when things were awfully bad. Do you remember what he said?”
Jared shook his head. “But I want to know. I really need some help right now, Mom, because everything’s just awful!” He got up and got his Book of Mormon from the shelf.
“It’s in Moroni, chapter 9, verse 25. Can you find it?”
“Here.” He began to read: “‘My son, be faithful in Christ; and may not the things which I have written grieve thee, to weigh thee down unto death; but may Christ lift thee up. …’”
“Do you understand any of that, Jared?”
“A little. Things must have been pretty awful if Mormon was worried that Moroni would feel so bad that he’d die.”
Mom nodded. “What about you, Jared?”
“I’ve thought about running away.”
“I’m glad that you didn’t. But I don’t want you to go on feeling awful. Mormon didn’t want Moroni to suffer, either. What did he tell his son to do?”
“To be faithful in Christ. But what does that mean, exactly?”
“What do you think?”
“Pray every morning and night?” Jared guessed. Mom nodded. “And read the scriptures every day?”
Mom nodded again. “Those are two of the most important things. But Mormon tells Moroni something else. See, here, where he says ‘may Christ lift thee up’? How can Jesus do that for you?”
“I don’t know. Joseph didn’t leave Jesus’ mom, so how can He help me?”
“Well, He understands how you feel, and what to do about it. Alma explains that in Alma, chapter 7, verse 11: ‘And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.’ Jesus Christ took on Himself pains of every kind, Jared—your kind of pains, too.”
“Why did He do that?”
“Let’s read the next verse: ‘And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.’ Do you know what infirmities are?”
“At Cub Scout camp, there was an infirmary. That’s where you went if you got hurt or sick. Is it like that?”
“Yes, it is. And what does it say Jesus can do when we are hurt or sick?”
“It says He knows how to succor us according to our infirmities. Is that sort of to be like a doctor to us?”
“Even better than a doctor. Because He has suffered every pain and every bad thing and has overcome them all, He knows how to comfort us, heal us, and show us how to be happy, no matter what.”
“Then He knows how to help me.” Jared sat up straight. “Mom, Dad didn’t understand this about Jesus, did he? If he had, he wouldn’t have left. He could have stayed and found out how to get happy again.”
“I don’t know, Jared. Maybe so. I just don’t know.”
“I’m sorry for Dad, but maybe we can ask Heavenly Father to help him learn. Can we do that, Mom? Right now?”
“Yes, Jared. That is a very good thing to do, for all of us.”
They knelt beside Jared’s bed, and Jared prayed like he had never prayed before, asking that he and his mom could feel Jesus Christ helping them with their problems, and that his dad could learn how to be happy, too.
“Mom,” Jared asked as they got up, “is it too late to go sing with Brother Eldridge?”
Mom looked at her watch. “No, we have half an hour before they sing.”
“Do we have time to go to your bakery and get all the leftover doughnuts? Are there very many? I bet those people at the shelter don’t get good doughnuts very often.” Excitement was beginning to trickle through him.
His excitement grew as they filled boxes and loaded the car. The singing was beautiful, and Jared felt better than he had since before Dad left.
Brother Eldridge had his arm across Jared’s shoulders as they walked out of the shelter. “Say, Jared,” he said. “I go ice fishing every year between Christmas and New Year’s. Could I talk you into coming with me?”
“Wow!” This time Jared meant it sincerely. “Thanks! I’d really like that.”
On the way home, Jared was quiet.
“Are you OK?” Mom asked.
Jared nodded. “I’m better than OK, Mom. I think Christ has lifted me up and has ‘succored my infirmities.’ I’m happy!”

Almost anyone has a hard time pinning Kenneth Marsh down.

Ken represented Colorado and Nebraska in international wrestling meets held in Turkey. He grappled in the 143-pound class with a 3–2–0 record. Two of his wins were over Turkish national champions.

En route home Ken participated in the U.S. AAU Junior Nationals in Chicago. He competed there in both free-style and Greco-Roman wrestling, placing fourth in Greco-Roman.

The Littleton, Colorado, priest also compiled an impressive record in school athletics. He was chosen team captain and placed first in a 10-district meet.

Ken’s school wrestling career started in the seventh grade when he was the only member of his class to make the varsity team, competing in the 68-pound division.

Six years and some 75 pounds later, Ken was seeded first in the 10-district championship that he won.

Ken is a member of the Littleton Colorado Second Ward.

Nine-year-old Carrie held her dad’s strong hand tightly as they walked through the bleating sheep in the paddock (enclosed area). Ewes, watching their playful lambs, stamped their feet protectively as father and daughter pushed through the milling flock to the sheep shed. Old Jake, his face weathered by the Montana summer sun and winter cold, met them at the door. He was holding a new lamb.
“We have a bad one this time, boss. I gave him his first feeding, but he’s got a crooked set of hind legs and can’t seem to get up on them at all.”
Dad took the squirming lamb gently and carefully examined its twisted legs.
“What do you think, boss?” Jake asked. “He won’t be able to suck from his mother, so he’ll be just another bummer (orphan) lamb—and a mighty poor one at that.”
Dad put the lamb down in the new straw and watched the determined baby struggle to get up. Its forelegs were strong.
Carrie knelt beside it and stroked its wiry, short wool, hardly warm enough to keep it alive without a mother in the cold April nights. Its huge, soft eyes turned to her, and with a loud bleat it again struggled to get to its feet. Instead, it fell, the deformed legs useless. “Daddy, you wouldn’t really kill this lamb, would you?”
Dad studied the lamb, then Jake, then Carrie for a long time. Finally he asked Jake, “Do you think he’s pretty healthy otherwise?”
“Seems to be. He took the bottle OK.”
“Please, Daddy,” Carrie pleaded, “if he can take the bottle, can’t I feed him with the other bummer lambs?”
“That’s a big responsibility,” Dad said. “Raising a bummer is hard enough when they can fend for themselves and go to the pasture for grass when they’re bigger. You’d have to be not only his mother but also his back legs.”
The lamb continued to bleat and struggle to get up. Carrie hugged it. “But could I try? I promise to get up early to feed him before school. And as soon as I get home, I’ll take care of him again.”
Jake laughed, “Well, you can’t beat that for loving. But you’re forgetting the feeding during the day and at least one in the middle of the night. And how are you going to keep this little fellow warm?”
Carrie looked up at the old sheepherder. “You’d help me, wouldn’t you?” she pleaded. “I could help extra by feeding the ewes after school for you.”
“It looks like she’s as determined to keep that lamb as he is to get up and walk,” Dad said to Jake. He turned to Carrie. “Yes, you can keep this lamb. He will be your special responsibility. Jake and I will help you, but you will have to ask us.”
Joyfully Carrie picked up the lamb and followed Dad outside.
Soon Carrie faced the problems of her little lamb. It couldn’t be put in with the other bummer lambs for fear that they would trample it. She not only had to put up a pen for it outside, but she also had to put it in a big box in the sunroom at night to keep it warm. It couldn’t move about by itself, so she needed to move it often and change its straw frequently to keep it clean and warm. Like all the other bummer lambs, it had to be fed at six in the morning and again in the evening, as well as by Jake while she was in school. And she had to get up at night to check on and feed the hungry baby. No matter how sleepy she was, she had to clean out the bottles so that no sour milk would cause sickness. Besides, as she had promised, she helped Jake with the ewes.
One night at supper, Carrie, especially tired, slumped in her chair and blurted, “It’s just too hard.”
“What’s too hard?” Mom asked.
“It’s too hard to take care of my lamb. And he’ll never run and play with the other lambs. He’ll always be different.”
“Did you want to help him?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want all his problems,” Carrie faltered.
“Have you asked your father for his help? I know he said that he’d help you if you asked him.”
Carrie did ask for help. She and her dad made a better pen for the lamb outside. They also fixed up an old wagon for her to haul the growing lamb around in. They found that with some grain and a few hours in the pasture each day, it needed fewer bottle feedings.
Whenever the lamb, affectionately named Little Lamb, heard Carrie’s voice, he bleated happily to her and wriggled all over in excitement. Despite his unusable back legs, he started to pull forward on his forelegs, and when she held him, he nuzzled her lovingly and shook his head playfully.
Spring slipped into summer. The lambs spent more and more time in the pasture. With his strong forelegs, Little Lamb joined the others, pulling himself forward slowly but determinedly.
Watching the little flock of orphans one evening, Carrie and Dad laughed to see the strong bummers leap over Little Lamb and circle back around him, including him in a playful game of tag.
“Well, Carrie, it seems that your lamb is doing wonderfully,” Dad observed. “Thank you for taking such good care of him.”
“Oh, Dad, I couldn’t have done it without you!”
The next morning, Carrie ran out with her bucket of bottles as usual, calling “Lambie, lambie, lambie,” and hearing a chorus of noisy, appreciative blatting in return. Just as they recognized her call, she knew their voices. But one was missing—Little Lamb’s.
She ran to the lamb pen. He was gone! Frantically she looked in the pasture, in the driveway. No Little Lamb. She ran to the house, calling, “Dad! Mom! Jake! Have you seen Little Lamb?”
Soon the entire family was involved in the hunt.
It was Jake who discovered that the pasture gate had been left open. Somehow, Little Lamb had pulled himself to the creek flowing past the house. Jake found him lying lifeless near the water.
Carrying the lamb, he slowly walked back to the house. “I’m sorry, Carrie. He’s gone.”
“Oh, no!” she sobbed, reaching for the lamb. “He can’t be. I tried my best to take care of him. I loved him even with his bad legs. Dad, Jake, can’t you do something?” Dad gathered Carrie and the lamb into his arms, cradling them silently for a few moments as Carrie continued to sob. “Why did he have to die? Why?”
Finally Dad spoke. “I don’t know why this lamb died, but I do know that he lived for a special reason. He was born too deformed to stay with his mother. But he lived to give you love, to help you know that all life is good, even though it may be different. He lived so that you could learn the joy that comes from caring for someone else, for putting the needs of someone else above your own. Maybe you won’t understand all that right now, but I hope you’ll understand that the love you have for Little Lamb is good and that your memories of him should be happy ones.”

One of these enduring frontierswomen, Lucy Hannah White Flake 1 received her basic education in the home from her schoolteacher mother. The eldest of eight children, she also assumed many responsibilities in caring for the younger children. Lucy was baptized in the Missouri River at a time when the ice had to be broken to perform the ordinance. Then, along with her parents, she walked every step of the way from the Missouri River to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake, arriving there in August 1850.

Lucy spent her childhood in Cedar City, Utah. There, at the age of sixteen, she met William Jordan Flake, and they were married in 1858.

After years of hard work and many disappointments, William found a ranch he could buy in what is now called Snowflake, Arizona. There the Flakes lived in a four-room adobe dwelling called the “White House.” For many years this house served as a courthouse, post office, meetinghouse, and school. Lucy eventually bore thirteen children—nine sons and four daughters—five of whom died in childhood.

Sister Flake made her life tolerable by her many religious activities and by the pleasure of doing for her family. She was an officer and teacher in the Primary, Sunday School, and religion class, and had been stake president of the Primary for five years at the time of her death in 1900 at the age of fifty-eight. Among the activities that she chronicled one spring were whitewashing her home; gardening and irrigating; gleaning wool from carcasses along the trail over which sheepmen were, by this time, making a seasonal circuit to and from the Salt River Valley, and picking, washing, and cording it to make a mattress; sewing, including making underwear, shirts, and carpet rags; tending her grandchildren; and feeding her husband and growing children. On one occasion she set down in simple detail her morning tasks, which were typical of pioneer women generally:

“I will just write my morning chores. Get up, turn out my chickens, draw a pail of water, water hot beds, make a fire, put potatoes to cook, brush and sweep half inch of dust off floor … , feed three litters of chickens, then mix biscuits, get breakfast, milk besides work in the house, and this morning had to go half mile after calves. This is the way of life on the farm. …”2

One of the most beautiful modern-day examples of meekness that I am aware of is that of Brother Moses Mahlangu. His conversion began in 1964, when he received a copy of the Book of Mormon. He was fascinated as he read this book, but it was not until the early ’70s that he saw an LDS Church sign on a building in Johannesburg, South Africa, as he was walking down a street. Brother Mahlangu was intrigued and entered the building to learn more about the Church. He was kindly told that he could not attend the services or be baptized because the country’s laws did not allow it at that time.

Brother Mahlangu accepted that decision with meekness, humility, and without resentment, but he continued to have a strong desire to learn more about the Church. He asked the Church leaders if they could leave one of the meetinghouse windows open during the Sunday meetings so he could sit outside and listen to the services. For several years, Brother Mahlangu’s family and friends attended church regularly “through the window.” One day in 1980 they were told that they could attend church and also be baptized. What a glorious day it was for Brother Mahlangu.

Later the Church organized a branch in his neighborhood in Soweto. This was possible only because of the determination, courage, and faithfulness of people like Brother Mahlangu who remained faithful for so many years under difficult circumstances.

“In the old days of the Church, many pioneer mothers used to take their babies to church meetings and socials in a drawer taken from a dresser at home. Our father was one of those babies who went to meetings in a drawer, and he’s been ‘top drawer’ with all of us ever since.”

Just to know that someone cares is sometimes enough to turn the tide. All too often young people enter military service because they feel unwanted or unloved, and they can become completely demoralized in this new environment when there is little or no encouragement to hold high the standards and goals of their lives. One bishop writing to a young man admitted, “While praying for our servicemen, I suddenly realized my prayers were useless without some action.” Then, in a letter, he expressed his love for this boy and asked, “How can I help you?” The young serviceman, with tears, said, “My bishop cares.”

I’m sure I complained to my parents about a thousand times while I was growing up that something wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t have been my turn to do the dishes. I shouldn’t have had more chores than my younger siblings.
My parents’ response was always the same. A unanimous, resounding, “Life isn’t fair!”
But apparently that never sunk in.

The inspiration for the campaign came from an April 2010 general conference address by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, titled “You Are My Hands.” President Uchtdorf told the story of a statue of Jesus Christ damaged in World War II. Unable to replace the statue’s hands when restoring it, townsfolk added these words to the base: “You are my hands.”

My family traveled to Hong Kong to be sealed in the temple, and we felt the Spirit. I was able to help the missionaries because I speak English!
Rosa P., age 9, Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Louisa never married, but when her younger sister May died, she raised May’s baby, who had been named Louisa after her. Lulu, as the child was called, brightened Louisa’s life and became like a daughter to her.

When the missionaries showed me the filmstrip of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s First Vision, it was difficult for me to contain my tears. The story of his search for truth was in some ways similar to my own.
At that time, I was 20 years old and living in Italy, the land of my birth. For five years I had been looking for answers my parents’ religion had not been able to give me. I had sought these answers in other religions and philosophies, but something seemed lacking in all of them. During the year before I met the missionaries, that search had become the most important thing in my life. I distanced myself from some of my friends and even left the university where I had been studying. My relatives could not understand me.
At the end of 1984, I met the missionaries on the street and gave them my address. I knew very little about the Church, but for some reason I wanted to speak to them.
Some days later I was in my room. I opened my heart to God, asking Him to show me what He wanted me to do. As I prayed I felt a great peace surround me. At that exact moment, the doorbell rang. When the missionaries came in, I knew they had the answers I sought.

May I add one more comment about “All’Italiana” in the March New Era? The author was credited with all the photographs, but my brother-in-law Douglas Schulthess took all of them except the one of the open-air market. He left one set of slides with the mission when he came home in April of 1977 but had a second set made for himself. These are the same pictures we saw at his home.
Bishop Gary L. AndersonRed Bluff, California

Their married life got off to a great start. Leonie and Frank saved up to buy land and build a house, which they completed soon after their honeymoon. The newlyweds enjoyed taking long walks together, playing cards with friends and going to balls, and when they eventually welcomed five beautiful children into their family, Leonie cherished being a mother. “Throughout our childhood and our lives, we always felt loved,” says Lisa.
After some time, the family’s fortunes changed. They lost their home and had to move several times as Frank sought reliable work. Times were hard, but Leonie never complained. “Mum always demonstrated incredible patience,” said Lisa. She was an excellent cook who would brighten her children’s days with great food and fun activities. “I knew we weren’t all that well off, but thanks to Mum, I had no idea how poor we really were.”