Gospel Story Finder

I called Victoria, my best friend, on Thursday. I was excited and nervous. When she answered, I asked her if she would come to church with me. She said that she would! I was so excited. I also felt all warm inside. I knew that the Lord was pleased with what I did.
Victoria asked me what time church was. I told her it was from eleven o’clock to two o’clock. She asked if we could pick her up. I answered that we would pick her up around ten-thirty.
When I got off the phone, I told my mom what Victoria had said. I even called my dad at work just to tell him. I couldn’t wait until Sunday. I thought, And all I had to do was make a simple phone call!
Kathleen Harris, age 10Orange Park, Florida

When I was about 14, my mother and father were divorced. There were seven children left at home. Little or no child support was ever paid. I watched my “champion” mom put on heavy shoes with metal toe protectors, dress like a workman, and go out to Garfield smelter to work so she could earn enough money to support our family. The poor woman would get ready for work at about 9:30 P.M., catch a bus at 10:00, work all night until 7:00 A.M., return home, and be there about the time we got up to go to school. During the day she would wash and iron, bake bread, fix meals, clean the house, and always be up when the children were home. I don’t know how she did it.
Now some of you will never have to experience conditions like that in your home. But let me say here, one of the highest places I have ever walked is in the shadow of a great mom who forgot her embarrassment and womanly image to simply support a large family until they came of age. I saw an older brother who grew up fast and was able to go to work at age 14 in the Bauer Mines near Tooele because he was large of stature. He became the masculine image to all of us who were his younger brothers and sisters.
It is no wonder that I love work. My wonderful mother taught me how to work, and when I did get a job, I knew the family was depending on me to hold it.

It has now been a little more than two years since I returned home. I still have lingering problems, and my stamina and energy have not been the same since before I served my mission. The doctors have never figured out what is wrong with me. It has not been easy for me to be a returned missionary who did not get to serve the full length of my mission. Nevertheless, I still love every one of my sweet converts. It has taken time for me to feel validated and know that my shortened missionary service had value just as 18- or 24-month missions have value to other missionaries.

The Lord has given me many opportunities to talk to others who have faced the trauma of returning home unexpectedly. I know Heavenly Father has led me to them to share my testimony and help them realize that returning home early because of health problems is not a flaw to be kept a secret but an experience to be discussed.

The first time I returned home, I experienced how it felt to neglect my faith, but the second time I returned, I experienced what it was like to stay true. I kept to the basics: studying the scriptures, attending institute, participating in church, and fulfilling my callings. I prayed many times to know why everything happened the way it did. I stopped blaming myself, and I stopped blaming Heavenly Father. As I look at my life since returning home and my visits with my Chinese brothers and sisters who live in my home city, I maintain the firm position that there has been an eternal purpose to it all.

I believe that if I continue living my life in dedication to the Lord, I will be forever blessed. In that way, I know I was healed through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, for although my body could not be 100 percent healed physically, my heart has never been more whole or ready to serve the cause of the Master.

One lunchtime in the fall before my sixth birthday, Dad came home and presented me with a beautiful, shiny-new harmonica. The wooden part was painted a bright red. A gleaming, nickel-plated metal guard on both sides protected the delicate reeds. The harmonica came in a small cardboard box lined with dark red velvet. It was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen!
I knew nothing about playing the harmonica, so I just blew and drew air through it as I had seen other people do. Somehow, I expected it to make music. I tried again and again, but nary a tune came out. “It doesn’t work,” I told my dad.
“Oh yes it does,” he responded. “Here. Let me have it a minute.” He tapped it in the palm of his hand a couple of times to release the moisture, then played an old Danish dance. It sounded smooth and happy.
“Can you play ‘Yankee Doodle’?” I begged.
He immediately switched tunes, and “Yankee Doodle” came out sharp and crisp.
I tried again, but all I got was that same monotonous, discordant sound.
“When I get home tonight,” Dad said, “I’ll teach you how to play some tunes. In the meantime, keep trying to play it. You may learn something by yourself.”
Dad wanted me to eventually learn to play a more difficult instrument. He reasoned that if I learned to play the harmonica well, it might be easier for me to learn a more complicated instrument.
When my friend Arthur Schultz came over later, I showed him the harmonica, and we decided to show it to some of our other friends. Hans Larsen was the first one we met. He was about a year younger than me, and we played together often.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s a brand new harmonica that my dad gave me,” I answered. “Isn’t it a beauty?”
Hans looked skeptical. “Can you play it?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“Play ‘Yankee Doodle.’”
I began to play. It was that same monotonous sound.
“I bet I can play it better than that,” he bragged. “Here—let me try it.”
I gave him the harmonica. His “tune” sounded exactly like mine.
“This harmonica’s no good,” he said, and he threw it as hard as he could. I let out a yelp when I saw that it had landed in an irrigation ditch. We’d had a big rainstorm the day before, and the water in the ditch was so muddy that the harmonica instantly sank out of sight.
I ran to the water, got down on my hands and knees, and began probing around. I thought that I knew exactly where the harmonica had landed, but it wasn’t there. I searched for ten minutes before I finally located it. When I waded out of the ditch, my pants were wet from my thighs down. My shirt was wet up to my elbows, and the harmonica was all covered with mud and dirty brown water.
After Hans had thrown my harmonica into the irrigation ditch, he had run away as fast as he could. I was really angry. In fact, I was furious! I couldn’t believe that Hans would do such a terrible thing. Hans deserves some awful punishment, I decided. Looking at that mud-streaked harmonica only increased my anger. I had to figure out a punishment equal to his terrible crime.
Arthur walked with me over to Hans’s house. I imagined that he was hiding somewhere inside. “Hans,” I yelled, standing on his front porch, “you’re going to get it! I’m going downtown and tell the city marshall on you. He’ll come and arrest you and take you to jail. He’ll put you in a cell all by yourself. At night it will be dark and cold. No one will talk to you, you’ll have to eat miserable jail food, and everybody will hate you. I won’t come to see you. They’ll make you do all kinds of hard work!” The list became longer and longer.
Then Arthur and I started downtown. I didn’t exactly know where the city marshall might be, but surely I would find him there. As we walked along talking, my voice became louder and louder. Pretty soon I was shouting about what was going to happen to Hans Larsen.
“What’s going on, boys?” a man sitting on his front porch asked. He was wearing a business suit, with his coat and vest unbuttoned. I explained to him about Hans’s terrible deed and told him that I was on my way to tell the city marshall to arrest him.
“Why don’t you come up on the porch so that we can talk about it some more,” the man suggested.
We climbed the man’s steps.
“My name is Brother Allred,” the man said. “What’s yours?”
I told him that my name was Christian Jensen and that my friend was Arthur Schultz. I showed him the muddy harmonica, and he agreed that it looked pretty shabby.
“His dad paid fifteen cents for it at the Co-op,” Arthur explained.
“It looks like a very fine instrument,” Brother Allred remarked. “Let me have it for a minute, and I’ll see if I can clean it up a bit.” He took the harmonica and went into the house. In a few minutes he returned. The harmonica looked brand-new. “It’s all cleaned up now,” he said, “inside and out. By evening the reeds will be dry enough that you can play it again.” Then he asked, “Can you play it yet?”
“I can play it, but I can’t play any tunes on it yet,” I answered.
“Do you know where you live from here?”
I pointed in a south-easterly direction.
“Don’t you think that your folks might be wondering where you are and that they might be worrying about you because you’ve been away so long?”
In all my excitement I hadn’t given a thought to my folks. “I guess that you’re right, but I still have to go downtown and tell the city marshall about Hans.”
“I can take care of that for you,” he answered.
“Do you know the city marshall?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” he replied. “You might say so. Now listen, I’ll walk with you boys up to the corner, and then I think that you’d better get home as fast as you can.” Pointing to me, he added, “You’re going to need to get into some dry clothes.”
The three of us walked to the corner, and Brother Allred said, “Well, boys, it was good to visit with you, but now I must get to work.”
As he was talking, he began buttoning up his vest. Under his left armpit was a holster with a revolver in it! On his buttoned vest was a star!
Then it dawned on me. “You’re the—” I couldn’t bring out the words.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m the city marshall. I’ll leave you boys now. I have to do my job.”
Does he mean that he’s going over to Hans Larsen’s house to arrest him right now? I agonized as Arthur and I headed for home. Suddenly I panicked. I had told the city marshall about Hans, and now he’d arrest Hans and put him in jail! Deep down in my heart I didn’t want Hans arrested, even though I had made those threats against him. I must stop the city marshall right now, I decided.
When we caught up with the marshall, I said, “Marshall Allred, about Hans—”
The marshall put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me from saying anything more. “I understand,” he said. “You were angry because he threw your brand-new harmonica into the dirty water, and you had a right to be angry. I’m sure that Hans is sorry for what he did. He’s probably worrying now about what he can do to make things right with you so that you can be friends again. I want you to go straight home and get on some dry clothes. Things will work out.”
I said good-bye to him, and Arthur and I hurried home. While I was getting on some dry clothing, I told my mother about the entire incident.
As Marshall Allred had predicted, after supper the harmonica was dry enough for my dad to begin teaching me how to play it.
The marshall was right about Hans, too—in a little over a week, Hans and I were playing together again.

Although Gabriel Salomão Neto is not a Latter-day Saint, he feels blessed by the Perpetual Education Fund just the same. “This is a great thing your church is doing,” he says, speaking for many employers in Brazil.
Mr. Neto, a manager and co-owner of a large vending-machine company in São Paulo, has reason to be grateful. He was so impressed with the qualifications of Church member Silvia O. H. Parra, who earned a degree in business administration with help from a PEF loan, that he hired her as his executive secretary.
“We love the job she does. She is hardworking and efficient. We believe in her, and we trust her,” says Mr. Neto. “The investment your church made in her has paid off—for you, for her, and for us.”
Grateful for the Perpetual Education Fund and for her membership in the Church, Silvia teaches English classes at her São Paulo ward to both members and nonmembers. “As I have received,” she says, “I also want to give.”

Getting up at 4:30 A.M. on Thursday mornings became an ordinary part of Camie Brasher’s week during her high school years. She decided to do baptisms for the dead, usually enlisting two or three friends in her Holladay 14th Ward, Salt Lake Holladay South Stake, to go with her.
The weekly treks to the Salt Lake Temple were soon life changing for Camie. “It was amazing how Thursdays were so much better than other days,” she recalls. “I loved feeling the peace of the temple and felt very close to the people I was baptized for. Now I definitely want to be married there.”

The Christmas I remember best happened when I was 12 years old. It all started one evening about a month before Christmas. The room had fallen totally silent. We all stood staring at Father, our jaws dropped in shock.
Just moments before, my three brothers and I had been wrestling with our two big dogs. My mother had watched, smiling, from the nearby kitchen table. But now, even her hands had gone perfectly still, stopping in midair as she sewed buttons back on a blue Scout uniform.
“What do you mean ‘No presents this year’?” my 16-year-old brother Mick asked slowly.
“Just what I said,” Father answered calmly. He sat down across the table from Mother. “Christmas has become all about ‘things.’ We worry too much about what we’re getting, how many presents are under the tree. Your mother and I have always taught you children the real reason we celebrate Christmas.”
“It’s Jesus’ birthday!” I piped up.
Father nodded. “That’s right, Nellie. But even though we all know the story of baby Jesus and can recite Luke chapter 2 by heart, I just feel that our home doesn’t have the right spirit in it during the holiday season. I think that if we forget about buying presents and really concentrate on the true meaning of Christmas, we’ll be more in tune with Jesus Christ and His gospel.”
“But, Dad,” I said, “we’ve always talked about how giving each other presents at Christmas is symbolic of Heavenly Father giving Jesus Christ to the world. Isn’t that true?”
Father considered this. “You’re right, Nellie. OK, let’s do this. No gift given in this family may be store-bought. Whatever you give each other must come from you,” he put his hand on his chest, “from inside you. You figure it out.” He got up and left the room.
“This is going to be the worst Christmas ever,” I thought.
“Is he serious?” Tyler asked Mother.
“He sure sounded like it.” She had already resumed her uniform mending.
“No presents …” Mick seemed in a daze.
Neil, my eight-year-old brother, looked like he was going to cry.
“So, what are we supposed to give each other?” I asked.
“Well, you all have about a month to ‘figure it out,’ as your father said,” Mother replied. She stood up with the finished shirt and left the room, humming a Christmas song.
Over the next four weeks, our house slowly filled with the Christmas spirit. We were all very secretive about what we were planning for everyone else, and we were excited about what we were giving. I never even thought about what I was getting.
Christmas morning dawned, chilly and white outside. For the first time since they had become teenagers, Mick and Tyler were the first ones up.
“Come on! Come on—get up!” They ran from room to room, waking up the rest of us.
Mother laughed. “I can’t believe you two. This alone has made my Christmas!”
Right after family prayers, the gift-giving started. What a wonderful, spirit-filled morning! We exchanged original poetry and songs. Neil had made “I’ll-do-you-a-favor” coupons for everyone. Mother had made copies of black-and-white photos of both sets of grandparents and framed them by hand for each of us.
All the gifts were truly given with love. But the one I remember the most was the one my father gave to me.
He handed me a plastic bag. Inside, I could see a slightly browned paper folded in thirds. All eyes were on me as I took the paper out and unfolded it. I gasped. It was the letter Father’s mother had written to him when he was 14 years old and she was dying of cancer. Her name was Nell, and I’m named after her. I had heard about this letter but had never seen it. I knew how precious it was to my father. And now he was giving it to me.
I started to read. The faith and spiritual strength of my grandmother radiated from her words. I read the six-page letter over and over again. The love she expressed for my father made me cry. The part that touched me the most was when she talked about leaving her family to join the Church:
I shared the letter with my brothers so that they could know Grandma, too. We’ve all grown up now, served missions, and been married in the temple. Every now and then, I pull out my father’s letter and read it again. Ever since my father gave it to me that Christmas long ago, it has been a source of strength for me. And I know, without a doubt, that my grandmother kept her promise to my father and has always been “right there beside” us.

“Can we talk?” Jonas asked Mom. He sat down on the grass next to where she was weeding the flower bed.
“Sure. What’s going on?” Mom asked. She took off her dirty garden gloves.
“Today at school some kids were saying a word I didn’t know. They laughed when they said it,” Jonas said. “I think it was a bad word.”
“How did you feel when you heard the word?” asked Mom.
“It didn’t make me feel good.”
Jonas whispered the word to Mom. She told him what it meant. Jonas was right. It wasn’t a nice word.
“But why is it bad?” he asked.
“It’s bad because it’s unkind and not respectful. When we use words like that, it makes it hard for the Holy Ghost to be with us. The Holy Ghost was telling you it was bad. That’s why you didn’t feel good inside.”
Jonas frowned. “But the other kids seemed to be having fun. Why was I the only one who felt uncomfortable?”
“How do you know the other kids didn’t feel the same way?” Mom asked.
“Because they all laughed and smiled when someone said the word.” Jonas felt confused.
“Sometimes people laugh or smile when they feel uncomfortable,” Mom said. “And sometimes when they hear or say bad words a lot, it doesn’t bother them anymore. But it’s still not right to say those words. It’s kind of like these weeds. I’m pulling them out to keep the garden clean and to let good plants grow.”
“I’m glad I didn’t say the word,” said Jonas.
“Me too,” said Mom. “I’m proud of you. And I have an idea. Why don’t we make a family promise?”
“What kind?” Jonas asked.
“Let’s promise to use good words and not bad words. It can be a family pact.”
Jonas liked that idea. He and Mom shook hands. Jonas felt good about the promise he made with Mom.
“Now, how about you promise to help me finish weeding?” Mom asked. “Then I’ll promise to take you to the park.”
Jonas grinned and picked up a spade. “It’s a deal.”
As he helped Mom, Jonas felt much better. He knew promising not to use bad words was a good choice for their family.
This story took place in the USA.

“Yatchaih gong,” our MTC teacher, Sister Tong, said. “Jyu.”
This was our cue to say the word Jyu—meaning “Lord”—together as a class.
“Jyu,” we repeated in unison.
“Yatchaih gong,” she said again. “Jyu.”
We went through this listen and repeat drill on the word Jyu for several minutes. See, this word is one of the more common errors foreign missionaries in Hong Kong make. In Hong Kong, we speak Cantonese, the second-most common Chinese dialect. And Cantonese has seven tones. That means you can often say the same sound in two different tones, and it will mean completely different things.
Take this word Jyu, for instance. If you say it as a rising tone, it means Lord. But if you say it as a high-falling tone, it means pig. So you can see why this was such a big deal to the MTC teachers.
Now Sister Tong had each of us repeat the word Jyu individually. All 10 of us got it right, except my companion, Elder Heywood.
“Jyu,” he said, with a high-falling tone. We all snickered, but Sister Tong didn’t find it amusing. She was concerned about Elder Heywood. And for good reason. He just couldn’t get those tones down. And if you can’t say the right tones, nobody in Hong Kong will understand you.
I met Elder Heywood my first day at the MTC when we both went to our assigned dorm room to unpack. That’s when I discovered he was going to be my companion for the next two months.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“New Mexico,” Elder Heywood said. “How about you?”
“Philadelphia. Ever been there?”
“Nope. Been to the west coast a few times but not to the East.”
Oh boy, I thought. Here we go. My older brother had warned me about companion problems. He said there would be elders I just wouldn’t get along with because we’d have nothing in common. So this was my first test.
That was the beginning of our relationship.
Later that first day in the MTC, we went to dinner in the cafeteria.
“So, tell me, Elder Heywood,” I said. “What did you do before your mission?”
“Ranched. Sheep, you know. New Mexico has lots of open spaces.”
“How about you?” he asked.
“I played ball. Basketball. Started at power forward for my high school team in Philadelphia. We had four players sign on with Division 1A schools this year. Me? I was offered a scholarship at St. John’s. But I passed it up so I could serve a mission.”
We finished our dinner and went to our first classes. Afterward we walked back to our dorm.
It seemed to me that Elder Heywood and I were about as different from each other as two people could be. We stayed together—as missionaries are supposed to—but we didn’t talk much. We just didn’t have much in common to talk about.
We spent most of our time in class, practicing our Cantonese sounds and tones. So a good part of our time was spent each day drilling our sounds and tones over and over and over again. When we weren’t drilling them with our teacher, we were using a cassette tape and headphones.
After four or five weeks, most of us in my MTC group had our tones down pretty well. But not Elder Heywood. He would massacre them. No matter what, it seemed, he just couldn’t say the words right.
After two months in the MTC, we boarded the 747 to fly to Hong Kong. It was the first time Elder Heywood had been on an airplane. In a way, I kind of felt sorry for the guy. There was no way he would be successful in such a far-off, exotic place as Hong Kong. I knew it and the rest of my MTC group knew it. The only problem was, Elder Heywood didn’t know it.
Once we arrived, we were assigned senior companions and went to our new apartments. I quickly forgot all about Elder Heywood and the problems he must have been having.
Months passed, and soon I was made a district leader—the first level of leadership in the mission. Just one month later, I was made a zone leader, a Z.L., as we called them.
When I had six months left on my mission, the president called me into his office. I knew what was about to happen.
“Elder Goodman, I’m releasing you as zone leader,” President Wong said. “I’m calling you to be an assistant to the president.”
I did it. I finally had what I saw as the most important position a young elder could have. I would have a desk. An office. Direct access to President Wong. I couldn’t wait to write home about this.
Well, I’m here to tell you that being A.P. isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
For the next three months, I spent most of my days dealing with problems missionaries were having. Illnesses. Expired leases on apartments. Lost keys. Lost companions. I started to long for the days when I was out among the Chinese people teaching the gospel. But I didn’t dare admit to myself or anyone else that what I really wanted was to be released as A.P. and sent back out as a normal, everyday missionary.
One day, I had a great idea to spice things up. I approached my companion.
“You know, we have some missionaries who are extremely successful, and others who are not,” I said to Elder Johnson, the other A.P. “I think I’m going to put together a profile of a successful missionary. What do you think?”
“Well, that depends,” Elder Johnson said. “What do you mean by the term ‘successful missionary’?”
“Obvious. Somebody with lots of baptisms.” I could tell Elder Johnson didn’t like this idea.
“What’s the matter?” I said, confronting him.
“Uh, as long as you have the time, I don’t mind if you do this. You’re an agent unto yourself,” he said, quoting scripture.
That afternoon, I started listing all the qualities I thought a successful missionary in Hong Kong must have: strong language skills, an understanding of the culture, social skills, a sense of humor, ability to extract referrals from Church members, ability to eat local cuisine, a sound understanding of Chinese history, and a robust doctrinal background. Of course, language skills were at the top of my list.
I showed my list to Elder Johnson.
“Interesting,” he said. “But are you really going to show all this to President Wong?”
“Why not?”
“Well, it just seems, well, like you’re not focusing on godly attributes.”
“What do you mean, godly attributes? Like what?”
“Like faith, charity, and enduring to the end.”
“But you can’t quantify those,” I protested. “Besides, those are things you’re born with. These other things—like social skills, speaking skills, that stuff—you can learn.”
“But what is most important, what really defines a successful missionary, is his faithfulness to the Lord. To the mission rules. To himself. You know that as well as I do.”
He was right. I did know all that. But I continued my argument anyway.
“See,” I said, still trying to make my point and convince my companion, “if we identify what makes a first-class missionary, then we’ll be able to shape, to form, to mold new elders and sisters when they first come to the mission field.”
“Okay, okay. If you really feel this strongly, go ahead with your project,” Elder Johnson said. “But remember, I’m not with you on this one.”
Neither was the Spirit. Not even close. And you know what? I knew it! I didn’t let my heart yield to the promptings of the Spirit.
The next day, after reviewing my list of qualities, I set out an action plan. First, I would go through the mission records and pick out the missionaries who have had the most baptisms since they’ve been a senior companion. I would give extra points to those who baptized adults, because it seemed tougher to baptize them than it was to baptize teenagers. And I would give the most points to those who baptized entire families.
Once I had those figures tabulated, I would then set out to determine retention rates. See, it’s one thing to baptize, but another thing to keep those converts active in the Church.
And when all that was done, I’d present my work to President Wong. I was certain he’d be so proud of me.
Well, it took four days to go through the mission records. I tallied the results like a bomber pilot tallies direct hits. And it got pretty exciting, at certain points, to see which missionaries were taking the lead over other missionaries. In a perverted kind of way, it was actually kind of fun.
But then the fun stopped. I was shocked.
Guess who had the most baptisms as a senior companion during the past year.
Elder Heywood.
This didn’t make any sense. Elder Heywood’s Chinese was horrible. So I reworked the numbers, just to make sure they were correct.
They were.
And not only did Elder Heywood have the most baptisms, but he had the most families baptized and the most adults baptized as well—and he had only been a senior companion for eight months.
I was stumped. I showed the results of my research to my companion, Elder Johnson. He didn’t seem surprised. But he questioned my motives.
“You were trying to prove Elder Heywood isn’t a good missionary, weren’t you?” he asked. “Is it really that difficult for you to admit that, baptisms or not, he’s doing a great job? Elder Heywood’s humble, he works hard, and from everything I can see he’s enduring to the end. So even if he didn’t have any baptisms, I’d still rank him pretty high on the success chart.”
I was embarrassed. Big time. In China, we call it losing face. I lost mine to the point that I thought I would never find it.
“It looks to me like Elder Heywood wouldn’t score too highly on that worldly list of yours. But according to your own research, he’s the best we’ve got. Give that some thought.”
I followed Elder Johnson’s advice: I thought! My thoughts led me to the scriptures and the teachings of the living prophets about missionaries and their work. I discovered that my conclusions about being a successful missionary were just not true, so I fasted and prayed for forgiveness.
After about another week, I knew what I had to do. I went in to see the president.
“I know you’re not supposed to aspire to callings,” I began. “But I believe I know what the Lord wants me to do.”
“Yes, Elder Goodman? What would that be?”
“I need to be released as your assistant,” I said, my voice cracking and my eyes welling with tears. “I have two months left on my mission, President. I want to have a second chance. I want to end my mission the way it began.”
“You want to go back to the MTC?” President Wong asked, half joking.
“Well, in a way. I want to learn how to be a real missionary. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and, well, I’ve discovered that I really don’t know all that much about how to be a good missionary. And to do that, I’d like to go back to my MTC companion. I’d like to be released and made junior companion to Elder Heywood.”
Two days later I was gone from the air-conditioned mission office and sleeping on the top bunk with Elder Heywood below.
For two weeks I did nothing but observe. I listened. I watched. I followed. And my heart began to soften. Then one morning during companion prayer, the secret to Elder Heywood’s success dawned on me.
It was Elder Heywood’s turn to pray. “And please bless us as we work with
Thy chosen people in Hong Kong,” he prayed. “They are Thy children. They are our brothers and sisters. We love them, and all we want to do is bring these sheep into Thy safe fold.”
He paused. It seemed like he was listening to a prompting from the Holy Ghost. “And please bless Elder Goodman,” he continued. “Help him to know how much I love him. He’s a good man. He wants to do good works. He wants to find the sheep. Please bless him that he’ll have the desires of his heart, that he will be led, that we will be led together to the lost sheep up in the dark mountains that we may bring them to Thy fold. But most of all, please bless Elder Goodman to know I love him.”
Tears flowed from my eyes. What he said touched my heart. His words took away my breath. He was so genuine. So real. I could tell he meant everything he said. This was no canned prayer. It was really from his heart.
Elder Heywood closed the prayer. I cried. I kept my head buried in my hands so he couldn’t see me—although I knew he could hear my weeping. He put his large, rough hand firmly on my shoulder.
“You’re a good missionary,” he whispered. “I’m glad we’re companions again. I always did look up to you.”
He patted my back again, then left the room. He closed the door softly behind him. I prayed for several minutes more, silently and vocally, begging for forgiveness, for humility, for charity, for strength.
I felt the Spirit overcome me in a way that had never happened to me before. I was overwhelmed with emotion, with love for God and man.
I came out of the bedroom to find Elder Heywood sitting at the table, his language book open and his headphones on. Here he was, less than two months away from going home, practicing his sounds and tones. Everyone else in our MTC group must have stopped working on those a year ago. But not him. He loved the Chinese people too much to stop practicing.
Several weeks later we found ourselves at the mission home having our final supper in Hong Kong. President and Sister Wong hosted our MTC group. Following dinner, we had a testimony meeting.
When it was Elder Heywood’s turn to speak, he expressed love for his Heavenly Father, his family, his friends, and most of all, he said, for his companions. Especially his current one, Elder Goodman.
Then it was my turn to speak. I shared my feelings about Hong Kong. I bore testimony of the Savior and His gospel. I testified the Book of Mormon is the word of God. Then I expressed my love for the Chinese people, for President and Sister Wong, and for my companion.
“I just need to tell you that Elder Heywood has taught me a lot about finding lost sheep in the mountains,” I said. “It takes love. And he’s an expert at that, you know.”
To this day, we’re still best friends.

For example, Neal Jones, a science teacher, introduced me to the marvels of the universe. At the time when air travel was emerging, he invited his students to explore the possibilities of space travel and interplanetary communication.
In one intriguing discussion, we considered the prospects of flying to the stars and back. We calculated the distances and applied the rates of flight. We concluded that at 100 mph a pilot would grow old and die before reaching some of the heavenly bodies and returning to earth. None of us could foresee, as Mr. Jones could, the future wonders of rocket power, jet propulsion, and the like.
When Sputnik was launched, I thought of Mr. Jones’s classroom; when the moon landing occurred in 1969, I thought of Mr. Jones; and, when I learned of the Concorde reaching altitudes above 60,000 feet and speeds in excess of 1,000 miles per hour—I thought of Mr. Jones. He introduced me to the fascinating world of science and transfused in me a curiosity about the universe, and convinced me that “the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator” (Alma 30:44).

Charlotte pushed her fingers into her ears. Singing time was usually her favorite part of Primary. But today she didn’t want to hear the songs they were singing. She had asked if she could sit in the hall instead.
She stared at the green carpet, trying not to cry. It didn’t work.
Someone walked up beside her. Charlotte quickly wiped away her tears and looked up.
It was Sister Henry. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Charlotte swallowed. “Those songs are about happy families and being together forever,” she said quietly.
“Oh. I see.” Sister Henry sat down beside Charlotte.
A few months ago, Charlotte’s parents had called a family meeting. Dad explained that he was moving.
“So it’s kind of like you’re getting a divorce?” Charlotte had asked.
“Not kind of,” Mom said. “We both love you, but yes, we are getting divorced.”
Charlotte remembered how her skin felt cold and hot at the same time. Then all of her feelings erupted! Fear, anger, confusion, and deep sadness—the kind that made you feel sick.
She still felt that way sometimes. Like when Mom and Dad sat on opposite sides of the pool at her swim meets. Or when her little brother cried for Mom when they stayed at Dad’s house.
Or when they were singing about families in Primary.
“When my parents got divorced, it felt like someone was punching me in the stomach,” Sister Henry said. “Over and over again.”
Charlotte was surprised. “Your parents are divorced too?”
Sister Henry nodded. “They got divorced when I was about your age.”
Charlotte looked at her hands. “Sometimes when we sing ‘Families Can Be Together Forever,’ I think, ‘Except for mine.’” She squeezed her eyes closed. “I get so mad. And that’s bad, isn’t it?”
Sister Henry shook her head. “No. I used to feel sick whenever I saw kids with both of their parents together.”
“Yeah!” Charlotte said. “It’s like they’re in a happy family club, and I’m not. Everything is different now.”
“It’s normal to feel mad, sad, or scared now—however you feel,” Sister Henry said. “Divorce is hard. But I promise that you will feel better. Your family is still your family, even if it looks different now. It helped me a lot to remember that my parents still loved me, and would for all eternity.”
Charlotte smiled. She liked Sister Henry.
Sister Henry leaned closer to Charlotte. “But you know what helped me the most?” she whispered.
“What?” Charlotte whispered back.
“I learned that I still have a perfect, happy family,” Sister Henry said. “And so do you. We all do, no matter what our earthly family is like right now.”
Charlotte crinkled her nose. “How?”
“Well, our earthly families aren’t perfect, but our heavenly family is. So no matter what happens, we have heavenly parents who love us and a wonderful heavenly home waiting for us.”
When Charlotte thought about that, she felt a little hopeful. She imagined what it would be like one day when she saw her heavenly parents again.
“Maybe when we’re singing about families, I can think about my heavenly family,” Charlotte said. Sister Henry nodded.
Charlotte had just one more question. “Does it look like I’ve been crying?”
“Not a bit,” Sister Henry said.
Charlotte stood up. “Then I think I’m ready to sing.”

Many years ago my husband became very ill with a rare disease. As the weeks went by and the sicker he became, the more I became convinced that he was dying. I told no one of my fears. We had a large, young family and a loving, eternal marriage, and the thought of losing my husband and raising my children by myself filled me with loneliness, despair, and even anger. I am ashamed to say that I pulled away from my Heavenly Father. For days I quit praying; I quit planning; I cried. I finally came to the realization that I could not do this alone.

For the first time in many days, I knelt down and poured out my heart to my Father in Heaven, pleading for forgiveness for turning away from Him, telling Him all of my deepest feelings, and finally crying out that if this was what He really wanted me to do, I would do it. I knew He must have a plan for our lives.

As I continued on my knees to pour out my heart, the sweetest, most peaceful, loving feeling came over me. It was as if a blanket of love was flowing over me. It was as if I could feel Heavenly Father saying, “That was all I needed to know.” I determined never to turn away from Him again. Gradually and amazingly, my husband began to get better until he made a full recovery.

by Debbie Jones
“Yes, it is a gold wedding band.” As the young men and women of my ward gathered around to admire the band, all sorts of questions arose. “Whose could it be? Where did you find it? I wonder how long it has been buried in the flower garden?”
While my friends had been mowing, power raking, and shoveling in the widow’s yard, I had been weeding her flowerbed. Sister Kelly and I were digging out a big clump of grass and shaking the dirt off the roots when the precious ring fell out.
It’s always fun to find buried treasure, but that one unanswered question still remained: To whom did the ring belong? I thought how sorry the owner must have felt when he lost it and how much it would mean to him if he could get it back.
That night as I said my prayers, I asked the Lord to help me find the rightful owner. I knew I would need His help because the house had been rented to many couples over the years.
You can imagine my surprise when just two days later, the doorbell rang and at the door stood Brother Huff, asking me if I had his wedding band. He explained that he and his wife were spending some time in Salt Lake City. They were waiting in a restaurant for breakfast when their good friends, Brother and Sister Thatcher, walked by. They invited the couple to join them. In conversation, Sister Thatcher, my Young Women leader, mentioned the ring we had found. How excited they all were when Brother and Sister Huff discovered that the ring was found at the house where they lived 14 years ago! He had lost his wedding ring while raking leaves.
Brother Huff had since purchased another band, but he was thrilled to find his original wedding ring again. He offered me 20 dollars in appreciation, but I refused. I knew it was the Lord who really deserved the thanks. And besides, I was as happy as he was.
A short time later, the doorbell rang again, and there stood the florist with a beautiful arrangement of flowers. I opened the card and read the words, “Thanks again. Brother Huff.” The next day I took the bouquet to church to share with the Payson Utah Third Ward and all who were involved in that service project.
From this experience I received much more than flowers. I now have a stronger testimony of church service and prayer. Don’t miss your next project, because you never know what service surprises await you!

A few days before he died, he was in the temple on the fourth floor with his associates of the First Presidency and the members of the Twelve. He was so week and frail that there was every good reason that he never should have been there. Before our meeting started, as he sat, members of the Twelve walked by to shake his hand and greet him. There was almost no response at all because of the physical drain that had come to him over the last number of months. There was almost no capacity to communicate or respond in the present situation. His hearing was very limited, his eyesight failing, his frail body filled with aches. As I shook his hand privately and felt little or no response, I gave it an extra squeeze. I said, “President Kimball, I’m Marvin Ashton.” How can I ever forget his last words to me when he looked up just a little and said very softly, “Marvin Ashton, I love you.”

Then one day I was shopping with my younger brother. As we were driving home, he said that every store we went in had posters and magazines with inappropriate images of women displayed everywhere. His voice was full of nervousness as he proceeded to tell me he had looked a little at pornography and later repented of it but felt so discouraged when everywhere he went he was bombarded with it. He mentioned that my other brothers had struggled with similar problems.
At first I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t believe that my brother had involved himself in something like that. But looking at his eyes filled with tears and pain made me realize how hard it is to stay clean in a world where we are confronted by inappropriate images every day.
I could tell that my little brother felt horrible, but I wanted him to know how pornography made me feel. I told him how hurt and how afraid I felt because of pornography and the power it had over those I cared about. He listened intently and said he hadn’t realized how awful it made girls feel. He apologized for hurting me.
My brother later told me that every time he saw women displayed inappropriately, he thought of not disappointing me and turned the other way. These images became less enticing as he realized that he was looking at someone’s mother, sister, wife, or daughter, that he was hurting people he loved, and that he could poison the way he would see his future wife.

Music has helped Ryan reach out to others and set a good example. He teaches keyboard and composition classes in a special summer school program. One friend was very discouraged and turned to Ryan for advice. He told her to go home and tune the radio to a classical music station instead of the usual hard rock she listened to. “She followed my advice,” Ryan said. “The next day she thanked me and said she didn’t feel one bit discouraged.”

“We had some acreage with a large garden; we also had chickens, pigs, and a cow. I grew up feeding the animals and cleaning the chicken coops and the cow barn. My father and I had an agreement: I would clean the barn every Saturday exactly as he had taught me to do it, and in return he would give me ten cents to go to the Saturday matinee and two cents for penny candy. There was a different movie at the theater each week, and I really enjoyed those Saturday movies.

“My mother worked harder than any woman I have ever known. She had eight boys and one girl, and she taught us discipline by having us work around the house and in the garden.

“I remember that many summer mornings when we’d go into the fields, Mother was right at our sides. We’d pick fruit and berries to can and store throughout the winter. The garden rows seemed very long to me as I worked up and down them throughout the summer.

“My father was a very gentle person. He disciplined us by letting us know that if we did wrong, we disappointed him. He and I were great friends, and he made me feel loved. I knew that he really cared about me. I felt a special bond with my father, for I was born on his birthday, November 25.

“At Christmastime our family would string popcorn and cranberries on thread to decorate the little Christmas tree. Maybe we would only have one gift and a few pieces of candy and popcorn, but they were wonderful Christmases, filled with love and fun family activities.

“We skated on Utah Lake during the winter. Sometimes we would go out a little too far on the ice, and we would hear it crack beneath us. In the summer we would swim in the Provo River, diving off the rocks into the cool, clear water. We played kick the can, hide-and-seek, and marbles; and we used a large tin can nailed to the garage and a little rubber ball to play basketball.

“We always attended church. I was sometimes wiggly and didn’t show all the interest that I should have shown, but I knew that what I was learning there were the things that really mattered.

“One of the spiritual experiences that I remember best from my youth happened when I was about five years old. My next older brother, Jay, had just been baptized. He was walking down a road between Provo and Orem. A man who had been drinking came swerving down the road in his car, and the door handle of the car caught my brother at the back of his neck. Jay had a serious fracture and concussion. We all prayed that he would get better, but after twenty long days in the hospital, he died. I vividly remember my mother and father sitting with us and saying, ‘Jay has gone back home to the God who gave us all life. The Lord could have saved him, but for some reason He didn’t. There will be a work for Jay to do where he is now, and we should not question the Lord. We should not have any bitterness or lasting sorrow.’ We all resolved that we were going to trust the Lord, and we all knew that someday we would again be with Jay.

“As I was growing up in Provo, there was another boy my age in my grade at school. His name was Walt Hansen. He and I were great friends; there was a great bond between us. His family did not attend Church, but Walt came because of the influence of his friends who reached out to him. Years later he became a bishop in the Provo Sunset Ward, and I’ve often heard people say that Walt Hansen was the most kind and helpful bishop that they had ever known. I hope that you children will realize that you may be a good influence in the lives of your friends and help someone else discover the gospel.

“I have two messages for young people: First, try to look on the bright side of things—look for the very best in people and in life. Have confidence in yourself, be happy, and develop good feelings about yourself. Try hard to please your Heavenly Father, because there is much joy from being obedient to the Lord’s teachings. Remember that you never know what the Lord has in store for you. When my parents brought me to Salt Lake City to general conference, we would sit in the balcony of the Tabernacle. I would look down and see the General Authorities. They seemed to be very wise, and they spoke with confidence. I felt the spirit of their testimonies and their love for the Lord. Now I sit in one of those red chairs, but I never thought back then that I would have such a calling.

“My second message to you is to pray to your Father in Heaven. Picture Him in your mind as the personal, loving, kind Father that He is, One who expects you to do your best in your Church assignments as well as in life. Pray for inspiration on how to live your life. I have found that most of my inspiration has come after I have prayed and while I am doing the things that I know that I should be doing. Inspiration and blessings flow as we serve our Heavenly Father.”

“When I was in junior high school, some of my friends made fun of me because I was a member of the Church. I tried to tell them about my testimony, but I was kind of ashamed. I decided to pray about it, and after my prayer I was able to express my testimony to them. Later one of my friends asked me questions about the Church, and others started to listen. From that day on, my friends have shown more respect to me and to the Church.”—Andrés Navarro

I remember fondly our entire family’s great joy when two of our children received their calls to serve as full-time missionaries. Excitement and anticipation filled our hearts as they each opened their special letter from the prophet of God. Our daughter Jenessa was called to the Michigan Detroit Mission, and our son, Christian, was called to the Russia Moscow South Mission. What humbling and thrilling experiences, all at the same time!

As Sister Rasband and I had the privilege of presiding over the New York New York North Mission several years ago, I marveled as the missionaries arrived in New York City.
As I interviewed them on their first day in the mission, I had a profound sense of gratitude for each missionary. I felt that their call to our mission was divinely designed for them and for me as their mission president.
After finishing our mission assignment, I was called by President Gordon B. Hinckley to serve as a Seventy in the Church. Part of my early training as a new General Authority included an opportunity to sit with members of the Twelve as they assigned missionaries to serve in one of the 300-plus missions of this great Church.
With the encouragement and permission of President Henry B. Eyring, I would like to relate to you an experience, very special to me, which I had with him several years ago when he was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve. Each Apostle holds the keys of the kingdom and exercises them at the direction and assignment of the President of the Church. Elder Eyring was assigning missionaries to their fields of labor, and as part of my training, I was invited to observe.
I joined Elder Eyring early one morning in a room where several large computer screens had been prepared for the session. There was also a staff member from the Missionary Department who had been assigned to assist us that day.
First, we knelt together in prayer. I remember Elder Eyring using very sincere words, asking the Lord to bless him to know “perfectly” where the missionaries should be assigned. The word “perfectly” said much about the faith that Elder Eyring exhibited that day.
As the process began, a picture of the missionary to be assigned would come up on one of the computer screens. As each picture appeared, to me it was as if the missionary were in the room with us. Elder Eyring would then greet the missionary with his kind and endearing voice: “Good morning, Elder Reier or Sister Yang. How are you today?”
He told me that in his own mind he liked to think of where the missionaries would conclude their mission. This would aid him to know where they were to be assigned. Elder Eyring would then study the comments from the bishops and stake presidents, medical notes, and other issues relating to each missionary.
He then referred to another screen which displayed areas and missions across the world. Finally, as he was prompted by the Spirit, he would assign the missionary to his or her field of labor.
From others of the Twelve, I have learned that this general method is typical each week as Apostles of the Lord assign scores of missionaries to serve throughout the world.
Having served as a missionary in my own country in the Eastern States Mission a number of years ago, I was deeply moved by this experience. Also, having served as a mission president, I was grateful for a further witness in my heart that the missionaries I had received in New York City were sent to me by revelation.
After assigning a few missionaries, Elder Eyring turned to me as he pondered one particular missionary and said, “So, Brother Rasband, where do you think this missionary should go?” I was startled! I quietly suggested to Elder Eyring that I did not know and that I did not know I could know! He looked at me directly and simply said, “Brother Rasband, pay closer attention and you too can know!” With that, I pulled my chair a little closer to Elder Eyring and the computer screen, and I did pay much closer attention!
A couple of other times as the process moved along, Elder Eyring would turn to me and say, “Well, Brother Rasband, where do you feel this missionary should go?” I would name a particular mission, and Elder Eyring would look at me thoughtfully and say, “No, that’s not it!” He would then continue to assign the missionaries where he had felt prompted.
As we were nearing the completion of that assignment meeting, a picture of a certain missionary appeared on the screen. I had the strongest prompting, the strongest of the morning, that the missionary we had before us was to be assigned to Japan. I did not know that Elder Eyring was going to ask me on this one, but amazingly he did. I rather tentatively and humbly said to him, “Japan?” Elder Eyring responded immediately, “Yes, let’s go there.” And up on the computer screen the missions of Japan appeared. I instantly knew that the missionary was to go to the Japan Sapporo Mission.
Elder Eyring did not ask me the exact name of the mission, but he did assign that missionary to the Japan Sapporo Mission.
Privately in my heart I was deeply touched and sincerely grateful to the Lord for allowing me to experience the prompting to know where that missionary should go.
At the end of the meeting Elder Eyring bore his witness to me of the love of the Savior, which He has for each missionary assigned to go out into the world and preach the restored gospel. He said that it is by the great love of the Savior that His servants know where these wonderful young men and women, senior missionaries, and senior couple missionaries are to serve. I had a further witness that morning that every missionary called in this Church, and assigned or reassigned to a particular mission, is called by revelation from the Lord God Almighty through one of these, His servants.

It took me seven years to qualify to serve a full-time mission. When I first spoke with my bishop, Bishop Tapueluelu, about it, he gave me some guidelines to strive to live by. He said if I followed them and learned to be obedient, I would be blessed. The first few guidelines—daily scripture study and weekly church attendance—were pretty doable. “This is easy,” I thought. But I got offended when I was told to change certain “worldly” things in my life, and my pride and stubbornness got the best of me.
Hoping for an easier way out, I moved to four different wards and spoke with four different bishops. I even went back to school to pursue a medical degree. Then I felt prompted to drop everything and prepare once again to serve a mission. So I did. I went back to Bishop Tapueluelu and humbly asked for his help. I was told that there was a weight requirement for missionaries—and I realized that I weighed over the limit. Immediately, feelings of discouragement and embarrassment cluttered my mind, but my bishop encouraged me. He expressed his love and faith in me and said, “My door is always open. We can work on it together! One weakness, one week at a time.”
So I visited with my bishop every week, working out one weakness at a time. I had no idea that I’d have to wait another four years, just trying to qualify to serve a mission.
During those years, I strived to come closer to Christ and apply His teachings in my life. As challenges came, His Atonement became real to me. I relied on the power, comfort, and strength He gave me through His Atonement when my best friend passed away, when our family lost our home, and when I got into a car accident. When circumstances caused me to lose many of my friends, I fell into depression, but the Savior pulled me out. My Friday nights with friends were replaced with working out at the gym and studying about the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
I prayed every night for the people whom I would one day serve and even for my future companions!
I eventually qualified and was called to serve in the New Zealand Auckland Mission, Tongan-speaking.
When I entered the missionary training center, I realized that there was more to learn about Jesus Christ and His Atonement and myself. Even though I’m of Tongan descent, I had never been to the South Pacific islands, and I struggled with the Tongan language. When I got to New Zealand, I had no idea what people were saying to me in Tongan. I had so much to say, but because I couldn’t speak the language, my words were few, simple, and broken. I nodded my head when people asked me questions. They laughed at me, and I laughed with them, but behind closed doors the laughter turned into tears of frustration and discouragement. I thought to myself, “I worked seven years to come out here for this?”
So I prayed to Heavenly Father. In Ether 12:27 we learn that our weaknesses can become strengths if we trust in Him. I told Him about my weaknesses and my trust in Him, and I got back up again … and again … and again. I started to rely even more on Christ and also on my strengths.
I love this gospel and I love street art, so I decided to combine the two. I packed my scriptures, a sketchbook, charcoal pencils, permanent markers, and cans of spray paint in my backpack. My companions laughed and asked, “What are you doing with spray paint?” I explained, “I may not speak the language yet, but I can show others my testimony.”
For the remainder of my mission, I used street art—on paper, not on buildings—and the Spirit to teach others about Christ. And as crazy as it sounds, it worked. Many people didn’t want to hear my message, so I sketched it. Doors and eyes opened when I told them that I did graffiti. They didn’t believe me. They timed me for three minutes, and I sketched the word faith while teaching them about it. Among them were many who felt judged and unloved. I could testify that with faith in Christ we can feel of His love and forgiveness, and He can help us change for the better. He did for me.
Seven years of preparation for my mission helped me find myself. That time allowed me to gain a testimony of Christ’s Atonement and His power to help me overcome my weaknesses and use my strengths to share what I knew with others. In the end it was worth the seven years.