Gospel Story Finder

It was my best friend’s birthday, and she was turning 13. I rushed to find a present for her before school, but I couldn’t find anything. Then I saw the Book of Mormon. I decided to challenge myself by giving it to her as a gift. I felt good inside but sort of scared because I had never given anyone the Book of Mormon before. I was afraid she might not accept it.
When I arrived at school, I looked for her and told her that I had a special book for her. She took the book and saw a picture of my family in the front. I told her that it was the Book of Mormon, a book that tells the truth of why we are here on earth. I also told her that I was sorry for not giving her a better gift.
She looked me in the eye and said it was the greatest thing I could have given her. Her words touched my heart, and I nearly cried. I felt like a missionary already! I can’t wait until I’m old enough to go on a mission so I can share the gospel with other people like my friend.

Youth of the Las Vegas Nevada and Las Vegas West Stakes joined forces to hold a youth conference using the Bicentennial of the United States Constitution as a theme.

On Friday after school, the youth met and divided into groups. They had prearranged with ward families to gather items of clothing and gifts to send to a Central American orphanage. They also purchased 30 copies of the Book of Mormon. They wrote their testimonies, had them translated into Spanish, and glued the translations along with their photographs in the fronts of the books. The groups returned to a central meetinghouse for a dance following dinner.

Saturday there were workshops held on subjects related to freedom. Following the luncheon the finals of the USIQ (United States Intelligence Quotient) game were held. Previously each ward had held practice games and playoffs to select a four-member team that would represent them in the finals. The questions were projected on a large screen, and teams responded as quickly as possible with the answers.

The evening was set aside for sports activities. A special testimony meeting was held early Sunday morning before the youth conference participants returned to their own wards for regular Sunday meetings. The conference concluded with a large fireside held Sunday evening.

One time, I was standing by an abandoned car in my grandparents’ backyard when some neighbor boys threw a match into the gas tank. It exploded, burning my hands severely. They were absolutely charred, and I went to show my grandmother. A woman of great faith, my grandmother prayed over those hands. She put some salve on them, and the pain went away instantly. By the next day they were healing well.

Around this time, fog enveloped the Brooklyn as it sailed into San Francisco Bay, six weary months after leaving New York Harbor. Standing on the ship’s deck, Sam Brannan peered through the haze and glimpsed a rugged shoreline. Just inside the bay, he saw a crumbling Mexican fort. Flapping in the breeze above it was the American flag.10
Sam had feared something like this would happen. The flag was a sure sign the United States had seized San Francisco from Mexico. He had learned about the war with Mexico when the Brooklyn anchored at the Hawaiian Islands. There the commander of an American warship said the Saints would be expected to assist the U.S. military in capturing California from the Mexicans. The news angered the Saints, who had not traveled west to fight for a nation that had rejected them.11
As they sailed farther into the bay, Sam could see trees along the sandy shoreline and a few wandering animals. In the distance, tucked between some hills, lay Yerba Buena, an old Spanish town.
The Brooklyn docked in the harbor, and the Saints disembarked later that afternoon. They pitched tents in the hills outside of Yerba Buena or found shelter in abandoned homes and an old military barracks nearby. Using materials they had brought from New York, the Saints set up mills and a printing shop. A few of them also found work among the town’s settlers.12
Although disappointed that the California coast now belonged to the United States, Sam was determined to establish the kingdom of God there. He sent a group of men to a valley several days’ journey east of the bay to found a settlement called New Hope. There they built a sawmill and a cabin, then cleared the land and sowed acres of wheat and other crops.
Sam wanted to take some men east to find Brigham and lead the rest of the Saints to California as soon as the snow melted off the mountains the following year. Enamored by the healthy climate, fertile soil, and good harbor, he believed the Lord’s people could not ask for a better gathering place.13

A friend told me of an instance when she was inconsolable. She felt such sorrow over a family tragedy that on one day she could not even leave her home. Unannounced, a Relief Society sister came to her door and said, “I had the feeling you needed me.” The sister did not probe or ask for details but rather enfolded my friend in her arms and asked, “Would you like to have a prayer?” After their prayer the sister left. That kind touch and sensitive approach did much to heal my friend’s broken heart.
This loving Relief Society sister not only listened to the Spirit, but she acted upon that prompting. In a real sense, she showed that the virtue found in the doctrines of salvation had touched her so profoundly that she worked daily to be Christlike. Her actions reflected her personal understanding that “charity never faileth.”

I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine named Ekaette, my neighbor for two and a half years. She lives in a tropical rain forest in Nigeria, the most densely populated country in Africa. During the rainy season, Ekaette’s home is surrounded by lush green undergrowth. Palm trees decorate the horizons, and the sun shining through the clouds creates gorgeous sunsets. During the hot, dry season, winds from the Sahara desert bring a haze of fine dust that filters the harsh rays of the sun.
Ekaette is two years older than I. She was a young schoolgirl when her marriage to Akpan, ten years her senior, was arranged. Their first child was born when Ekaette was only fourteen or fifteen years old. Ekaette has had eight children. Five have survived. Her family joined the Church a few years ago.
Akpan is unemployed, but he works at miscellaneous jobs and repairs things for other people. He is a proud and industrious man, a good husband and father.
Ekaette has a nice home made of reddish clay packed between bamboo poles. A thatch roof protects her family from the heavy tropical storms. Inside, the home has a hardpacked earth floor and is divided into four rooms. A covered cooking area is separate from the house.
As with many other places in the world, there is no electricity in Ekaette’s area of the country. Ekaette cooks over a fire, washes clothes in the stream, and irons them with an iron filled with hot coals.
Ekaette’s day begins very early. She and her children must carry all the water they will need for the day from a stream not far from their home. Several times a week they must make a trip into the forest to cut the firewood they need. They carry the wood home in bundles on their heads.
Most of the food for Ekaette’s family comes from several small farm plots outside their village. Ekaette grows cassava, yams, bananas, plantain, pineapple, hot red peppers, and several kinds of greens used in different soups.
Ekaette and her family are happy. They have a good life.
I met Ekaette while I was directing a village health program for the Thrasher Research Fund, which sponsors research projects on child health in third-world countries. My colleagues and I organized health classes and trained volunteer teachers in dozens of villages to teach basic health principles like nutrition, sanitation, personal hygiene, and home health care. The teachers then taught similar classes in their own language in homes, schools, churches, and village council halls.
I remember one hot, sultry evening sitting under a generator-operated ceiling fan looking through some of the latest editions of a newspaper which I had just received. I paused at a page filled with suggestions of practical things to do in our homes to save money. Ideas included turning off lights and water when they are not being used, buying food in bulk and then freezing it in small containers, using cloth diapers instead of disposable ones, sending letters to cut down on long-distance telephone bills, and not shopping for food when you are hungry. These suggestions are certainly practical, but they belonged in a world other than the one I was in at the time.
But in spite of the differences between my world and Ekaette’s, there was something that united us: the gospel of Jesus Christ—Christianity.
Christianity is absolute. It should not be affected by our environment or circumstances, even though they determine how we practice our beliefs. Christianity should not be affected by skin color or race, by how we earn a living, or by what we buy at the market. It should not be determined by climate or geographical location.
I returned from Africa with a simpler definition of Christianity than I once had. To me, Christianity is love, or charity—the highest, noblest, strongest kind of love—the pure love of Christ. It may prompt alms or benevolent deeds, but it is not the same thing as charitable works.
In other words, Christianity is not so much what I do, but how I love; it’s the process of learning to love as Christ loves. Churches are institutions where we can learn about Christ and practice being Christians. But attending church will not make me a Christian any more than sitting in a library will make me a scholar. It simply gives me the means and opportunity of learning to become a Christian. Christianity teaches me about my relationship to God and to those around me. Understanding that relationship helps my heart change, increasing my capacity to love.
Principles such as love, sacrifice, faith, repentance, self-reliance, and consecration are universal. Working in Africa taught me how much more important principles like these are than programs. The Western world provides many programs for third-world countries. Schools are built, clinics are established, medicine is dispensed, tractors are imported, and food is distributed. The programs help meet immediate needs, but often, the principles behind the practices are overlooked. I don’t think I could do much good for Ekaette if I concentrated on programs like food storage or family history, worthy though they are. But Ekaette and I share a broad basis of belief in such eternal principles as faith, love, and self-reliance. In practicing these principles, we learned from each other.
I realized the importance of teaching principles after I attended a Relief Society lesson at the local branch. The lesson, taken from the manual, was on keeping our homes neat and clean. An illustration in the lesson manual showed an American home that was neatly arranged and obviously well kept. Our instructor was so unfamiliar with Western-style homes that she held the picture upside down when she showed it to the class.
Later that week, I went to Ekaette’s house and found her covered from head to toe with mud. She was beaming. Inspired by the lesson, Ekaette was cleaning her home. She had taken every single item out of the house (there wasn’t much), and she was smearing new clay mud on the walls and floor. She excitedly showed me how she had decorated the front of the house by using a darker mud along the bottom for a nice trim. It looked beautiful. Ekaette had learned the principle, then implemented it in a way that was practical for her.
Her example prompted me to think about my own efforts to apply the principles of Christianity. It occurred to me that perhaps the first and most important principle to practice is self-examination. For example, many times I think, “That’s a good idea, but I don’t have the means to do anything about it.” Money and material things become issues that prevent Christian service. But what things does it take to be a Christian—a rug to kneel on, or a warm loaf of bread to share with a neighbor? Must I be financially established before I can share my means? Must I go to Africa to find children who need help? I believe the Lord is pleased when we serve with whatever resources we have available to us.
A second principle I learned is that it is important that I serve wherever I am. My experiences in Africa was very special to me, but I do not feel that it is better to love someone far away than those near at hand. The Savior showed by example whom I should love. He didn’t leave his own country and travel far away to another place and people. He went among his own people, and he associated with a variety of people—the wealthy and the poor; the politicians; the sick, the lame, and the blind; tax collectors; the hungry, the tired, and the lonely; and even those considered unworthy.
When I was in Africa, it was clear to me that Africa was the best place for me to practice being a Christian. Now that I am home, the most practical place for me to be a Christian is here, among my own people. This is challenging for me. It often seems easier to send some money to a “save-the-world” organization than make room in my busy schedule to take time with a brother, sister, neighbor, or friend.
A third lesson I have learned is that I should prepare myself to serve in a wide variety of settings. I had many experience that helped me understand Ekaette and her family better. But because I could not understand all she had experienced, it was hard for me to know how to help in the best and most practical ways. I don’t know how it feels to have three of my own children die in my arms because no medical help is available. I don’t know how it feels to wonder where my next meal is coming from. I don’t know how it feels to mold the walls of my home into shape with my own hands. I don’t know what has brought Ekaette her greatest joys. As hard as I try, I am not able to relate to many of her problems and challenges.
And yet, I’ve learned that the more variety I can experience, the more people I will understand. Choosing to associate only with a select group of individuals who think and act the same way I do will seriously limit my opportunities for Christian service. I can choose to increase the variety of my experience and my capacity to love. The more people I understand, the more like Christ I can become.
As I have tried to practice being a Christian, I’ve discovered that many of my motives are often reflected in the actions of the people around me. As my colleagues in Africa and I associated with hundreds of people from dozens of villages, we observed many reasons for their participation in our program. Some came because they believed that white health workers would provide free services, medicine, or employment. Others were curious about the novelty of white faces in their villages. Some came because they were concerned with their family’s health; they were frightened of illness and feared that a child might die. Others wanted to learn more about health for their families’ sake. Some came because their neighbors came. Still others came because there was love in their hearts and a desire to know how to improve their lives and the lives of those around them.
It was fascinating to see the different responses to our project. The people who came hoping to get something free dropped out very quickly. The curious got used to our white faces and also left. Those who needed to solve family health problems usually did well; they not only received some answers to meet their current needs, but they also stored up information against future needs. Those who were motivated by love not only stayed, but went a step further in offering what they had learned to those around them.
Ekaette was one of these people. She told me once, “If you had given me money—no matter how much or how little—it would all be gone now. But you have given me knowledge, and no one can ever take it away from me!” In the last year or so, Ekaette, on her own with very little help from us, trained teachers to instruct several groups of women in different villages.
In Ekaette’s life, I have seen Christianity—or love—at work. Guided by gospel principles, she has found practical solutions to her daily challenges. And so can we. I am convinced that the gospel of Jesus Christ has the answers to all of the world’s problems.
I have spent nearly half of the last decade living outside of my homeland. During this time, I have seen and experienced much contrast, and I have looked into the eyes of many who have great challenges in their lives. I believe what President Spencer W. Kimball said to be true—that in the gospel of love taught and exemplified by the Savior, we can find the answers to all our problems. With that kind of love in my heart, I can be a practical Christian, whether here or in Ekaette’s world.

A good example of weathering this trial of faith is Yolanda Cantos of the Tolosa Branch, Tolosa Philippines District, on the island of Leyte. In 1985, when Yolanda was 22 years old, she visited relatives on Samar, a neighboring island. Her relatives invited her to listen to the missionary discussions. She agreed, but because she was a devout member of another church her real intention was to challenge the missionaries. “I knew they were wrong,” she says. She listened, though, and despite her intentions, she says, “the Spirit worked with me, and I couldn’t find any fault in their teachings.” Fearing that they were misleading her, she returned home to Tolosa. But when she prayed, she couldn’t forget what the missionaries had taught her, so she returned to Samar to continue the discussions.
“I was challenged twice to be baptized,” she says. “I knew the Church was true, but it was hard for me because of my family and friends. They belonged to another church, and I was a member of the choir. But when I went to witness the baptism of a friend, I heard a voice asking me why I had rejected Him so many times. And when I saw my friend immersed in the water, it was as if I saw myself being baptized. After that I told the missionaries that, no matter what happened, I wanted to be baptized.”
Her baptism took place a week later. When her mother learned of it, she wouldn’t allow Yolanda in her home anymore. She said if Yolanda would deny her new faith, then she would be welcome again. Yolanda assured her mother that someday she would understand her choice. Then she returned to Samar to live with her relatives and to fast and pray for her family. One month later her brother was baptized, and a year later her mother joined the Church. “It was through fasting and prayer,” explains Yolanda.
The path to the Lord’s Church wasn’t easy, but the rewards have been well worth the trial of faith Yolanda endured. She was married in the Manila Philippines Temple in 1993; her husband, Felix, a returned missionary, is president of the Tolosa Branch; and they have two sons, Jed Ephraim and Russell Jacob.

On Sunday, November 26, 1990, I was on the bus, on my way home from our Asian branch in Lynnfield, Massachusetts. I sat by an 11-year-old girl and her 6-year-old brother. I had seen them at our branch, but I didn’t know their names. I did know they were not members yet.
In her hands, the girl was holding a children’s book of Bible stories. She was flipping through the pages, looking at the wonderful pictures. “Look!” she said with surprise, pointing to a picture of Jesus kneeling by a rock, praying, with blood coming out of every pore.
Turning to me she asked, “Why does Jesus look like that?”
“Because he is suffering for the sins of the people. He’s full of pain.”
Again she asked, “Why?”
So I said, “Here, do you want me to read to you?”
I started from where Jesus was kneeling and praying, and every story that I came across I explained. The words just came out, and I knew the children were getting into the story because when they saw Jesus nailed to the cross, they were scared for him. And when they saw he was resurrected, they were happy.
I think I explained the entire story to them from the book and with my own words. And when I asked them questions, they both kept raising their hands as fast as they could.
Finally, the little girl looked up at me and asked, “Is it true?”
I looked down at her and said, “Yes, yes, it’s true.”
And as I nodded my head, I knew myself that it was solid truth. I realized right then and there that I did have a strong testimony of Christ. I bore my testimony of the things that I knew in my heart were true. I know the Spirit was with me. I felt it. I felt the sensation of it—the warmth, the peace, the love.
From then on, I wanted to tell the whole world about Jesus Christ. I wanted everyone to feel that happiness too.

The gym was quickly filling up with people when a hush came over the once-noisy room. The choir from the Czech Republic started to file onto the stage.
I sat forward in my chair searching for the red-haired girl whom Mr. Lauritzen, my choir director, had described to me a few minutes earlier.
“There is a Latter-day Saint girl in the choir,” he had said. “She has red hair and her name is Iva.” I had signed up to host someone from the choir at my house for the night, and once I had heard about Iva, I immediately wanted her to stay with me.
I soon discovered a few red-haired girls in the choir, but one stood out to me. She was on the front row, and somehow I felt that she was Iva.
“What is your name?” I asked the girl after the program.
“Iva,” she said.
“Hi, my name is Cindy.” I paused not knowing what to say next. “Would you like to stay with me?”
“No, I am sorry. I am staying in the dorm.”
I felt bitter disappointment. I had to think quickly because there was no way that she was staying in that dorm if I had anything to do with it.
“I’m a Latter-day Saint!” I blurted desperately.
She looked at me in shock. “You are? Well, then I want to stay with you,” she said excitedly.
She was the only Latter-day Saint in her choir, and I understood how she felt because I am the only Church member in my school. Since there are not very many Latter-day Saints in either the Czech Republic or in my hometown, Collegedale, Tennessee, the chances of her staying with an LDS family were very slim. It was not even likely for us to meet.
Iva chattered away in her own language to her friends, explaining to them that she wanted to stay with me.
She turned to me regretfully and said, “It’s too late. The girl that I needed to talk to has already left.”
Once again, something came in the way of her staying with me. I was not about to give up. After I said a silent prayer, I turned to my choir director for help.
“Mr. Lauritzen, Iva was staying in the dorm, and now she says that it is too late for her to stay with me.”
“Well, I know how to fix this. Iva, why don’t you talk to your conductor?”
After Iva’s conversation with her conductor, she smiled at me. “It is fine. I can stay with you.”
I blew out a sigh of relief as we headed toward the exit. As I drove the short distance to my house, Iva told me something.
“While I was still in the Czech Republic, I prayed that I would be able to stay in a Latter-day Saint family’s home. I cannot believe that I am really doing this.”
We arrived at my home at 11:00 P.M., and my mom met us at the front door. “Mom, this is Iva.” I paused, “She’s a Latter-day Saint.”
“I can’t believe what you just said,” my mom replied as if she were in a dream.
“I am so glad to be able to stay in your home,” Iva said with gleaming eyes.
“It’s nice to have a Church member stay with us,” my mom added.
Iva agreed as they embraced.
Later, when we had snuggled underneath the soft covers of the twin beds in my room, Iva pulled out her Czech Book of Mormon.
“Iva, I have an idea. Why don’t you read from your Book of Mormon aloud while I follow along in my English one.”
Iva seemed to like the idea and soon the room was filled with the sound of her soothing voice speaking in the tongue so foreign to me. Soon after we put up our books, we fell asleep.
Iva left early the next morning. Her choir was headed for Memphis. I do not know if we will ever see each other again, but we will keep in touch. Iva and I were almost complete strangers brought together by shared beliefs. Although we were with each other for too short a time, I know we will always be friends and I will never forget her or the blessing that she brought into my life.

One Sunday a small child handed the bishop his family’s donation envelope as he entered the chapel before the sacrament meeting. The family had just learned of someone in the ward in need. The boy’s father had said something like this to the child as he placed a generous fast offering in the envelope: “We fasted today and prayed for those in need. Please give this envelope to the bishop for us. I know that he will give it to help those with greater needs than ours.”

I could tell from the boy’s smile and the way he held the envelope so tightly that he felt the great trust of his father to carry the family offering for the poor.

Feeling the influence of the Spirit is what the gospel means to many members in Otavalo—people like Lauro Yamverla and his wife, Lucila. In the beginning, he made it hard for the missionaries to teach him, Brother Yamverla recalls. But when the Spirit bore witness that their message was true, “I set a goal that if I was going to be baptized, I was going to follow the gospel’s teachings strictly.” When he began closing his grocery store on Sundays, he worried at first about losing business, but it actually got better.
Brother and Sister Yamverla have been deeply involved in service since they came into the Church. As ward Relief Society president, Sister Yamverla is concerned with helping sisters in her area learn practical things, such as cooking and other basic homemaking skills. But even more important is teaching them “to convey the love of Christ to others.”

As a boy I loved to play soldier. I imagined myself as a great hero, and my fantasies included ceremonies of pomp and grandeur during which my country decorated me for courageous feats. As I grew older, I graduated from college and from Army ROTC. I was commissioned as a second lieutenant. I began to realize I might actually be placed in situations that would demand courage, and my hopes of becoming a hero grew and grew.
I attended helicopter pilot training and won my silver wings. I served 22 months in Europe. Then I was assigned as a medical evacuation helicopter pilot in Vietnam. As I waited for the actual transfer orders, my desire for greatness became an obsession.
I soon learned that the real experience of war wasn’t anything like the battlefields of my childhood imagination. The sight and stench of combat made me ill. My inner courage wasn’t as strong as I had thought, and I often found myself scared beyond any fear I had previously known. I sought the Lord as a source of strength, promising that if he preserved my life, I would spend my remaining days serving him in whatever manner he desired.
I still retained a vain hope that somehow I might earn the coveted Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) without serious injury to myself or my crew. The DFC is the mark of an aviator’s display of valor above and beyond the call of duty while under hostile fire. I dreamed of having the medal pinned on my chest.
Three months after I arrived in Vietnam, just about dusk one evening, a radio call came in to the operations office requesting a patient pickup at an insecure landing zone (meaning our forces were still in contact with the enemy).
As our helicopter followed a river through the Tuy Hoa Valley into a mountain pass, we were enveloped in torrential rain. It was extremely difficult to locate the landing area. Soldiers on the ground directed us with a flashlight beam.
We wanted to land up the slope from the casualty to allow those transporting him more clearance from the rotor blade. Turbulent winds whipped across the uneven terrain, causing the chopper to fishtail wildly and aborting our first landing attempt. This also meant the enemy had seen our landing spot and would be preparing to fire on us. A lull in the wind allowed us to land, and enemy tracers ripped like fiery baseballs through the night.
Our friendly forces returned fire. We made a hasty pick-up of the wounded and asked for flares to be shot into the sky to illuminate the surrounding mountains as we departed through lightning, thunder, and heavy rain. A few bursts of enemy ground fire bid us farewell.
As a result of this action, I was recommended for a DFC. But the recommendation was reviewed and downgraded to an Air Medal with a “V” for valor. I was disappointed, but remembered my promise to the Lord and was satisfied that my life had been spared.
About a month later, my crew made another perilous medical evacuation, this time on the side of a 60-degree mountain slope under a double canopy of foliage. This meant that we had to maneuver our helicopter down through the first cover of branches and leaves and over to an opening in the lower canopy of foliage where a hoist could lower a litter for the wounded soldier. Our rotor blades were literally inches from the branches, and the rotor wash of air bouncing off the foliage made hovering critically unstable. Despite these obstacles, the mission was successful, and the crew felt it deserved special recognition. We were once again recommended for the DFC, but again it was lessened to an Air Medal.
I was furious! “Do those people know what it’s like to put your life on the line every day?” I fumed. “They must be crazy to think this kind of flying is part of normal duty!” But in the quietness of my quarters, I remembered the words of my patriarchal blessing, which reminded me that the Holy Ghost would guide me. I thought, “That’s right. The Spirit made this mission and all the other missions, as hazardous as they may have been, possible for me.” And I knew Heavenly Father had protected me. No crew members who had flown with me had ever been harmed. I realized I had a great deal to be thankful for.
With only three months left on my tour of duty, I was called on another hoist rescue. This time it was in the Ashau Valley. Two casualties had to be moved from a dangerous location in another double canopy area. Once again we hovered between the trees like a sitting duck, protected only by cover shots from our troops but threatened by incoming enemy fire. Things went well until we started to bring the second patient up through the lower canopy.
Rifle fire sprayed around us. The crew chief was going to cut the cable, dropping the wounded man back to the ground and to possible death. “No!” I yelled. “Tell me when he’s clear of the trees.” The crew chief kept the litter bearing the wounded man coming up and yelled, “Clear!” as soon as it got above the trees. I moved the helicopter up, then forward, while the wounded man dangled below, slowly being drawn into the cargo area. Finally the terrified soldier was inside and we were on our way back to the base. What an experience! What excitement!
Back on the ground, the crew hugged each other. We were grateful to acknowledge that we were delivered by the power and mercy of God. We also felt sure we would merit a DFC. The recommendation was written up and submitted with assurance that it would be approved.
The awards ceremony was scheduled for July 8, 1968, two days before my departure from the country. I didn’t have to fly any more combat missions, and I had been informed that the DFC had been approved. I was going home and would be a hero, finally receiving the award I had longed for for so long.
Since many of the officers were receiving decorations, the first sergeant was left in charge of the awards formation. Those of us who were recipients were out in front of the other men. I was second in line, next to the detachment commander, who was also receiving a DFC. This was the moment of glory I had been waiting for since childhood. This was the ceremony of grandeur envisioned in the dreams of my youth.
The commanding general’s helicopter touched down. His aide-de-camp scurried from the craft to talk to the first sergeant, as the first sergeant called us all to attention. The two men exchanged comments, then the sergeant took several steps and stood right in front of me. He saluted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but your DFC has been downgraded. Take your place as fifth in formation.”
Pow! My dream was shattered. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I had to bite my lower lip to make sure I was in the real world and not having a bad dream. I was angry and hurt. Was this the type of gratitude bestowed for dedicated service which I considered above and beyond the call of duty? I did an about face, took two steps forward, made a right face, and moved to my new location as fifth in formation.
As the detachment commander had his Distinguished Flying Cross pinned on his pocket, I had to fight back the tears. I was happy for my boss and his deserved recognition, but I was disappointed at my own situation. When the general came to me, I snapped a salute. He returned it and pinned another Air Medal with a “V” for valor onto my shirt, saying, “Captain, this represents a lot of flying. I respect you for your contribution and congratulate you.” My heart was filled with resentment. How could he do this to me? I choked out a half-hearted “Thank you, sir.” We saluted and he moved on.
As I stood there with those mixed up feelings, I asked the Lord why this had happened. Surely there must be a mistake! It wasn’t fair! Then my spirit became calm as the words of my patriarchal blessing came to mind once again, telling me not to let Satan keep me from growth and development, telling me that the Lord would try me to prove my worth. The Spirit spoke to my soul, telling me that God had kept his promise to me—I was returning to my loved ones unharmed, I still had work to do in this life, and God had preserved my life. “Seek not after your own heart,” the Spirit whispered, “for the praise and rewards of men.”
I have reflected upon these thoughts over the years as I have tried to keep my end of the bargain—that I would serve the Lord with all my heart. I realize that the Savior provided temporal and spiritual rescue for us all, and his reward was a wooden cross and a crown of thorns, with no “V” for valor. What right, then, did I have to feel disappointed that I hadn’t received earthly recognition for saving the lives of a handful of men and women? I am now satisfied that the opportunity to repent of my sins and work out my mortal probation is reward enough for anything I do in this life.

Five cubs had been born to Red and Vixen only nine days ago. These young ones were still completely helpless, and their eyes were just beginning to open. Two of the cubs were the typical red color of their father; two were more of a cross like Vixen—reddish brown with a smoky stripe down the back and across the shoulders; and one had silver black fur sprinkled with white.
Red was now on his way back to his family, feeling rather smug after stealing some leftover meat that a wolf had cached for a future meal. Hunting was not usually so easy. As a matter of fact, when the snowshoe hare population was low and the marmots and ground squirrels were still in hibernation, death from starvation was a constant threat. As if that problem were not enough, a desperate lynx that depended on the hare for most of its diet might anytime add a red fox to its menu. But in recent years snowshoe hares had been plentiful in the north country, so Red had not noticed any extra attention from his lynx neighbors.
Another resident of the wilderness, however, lurked nearby. The clucking alarm and whirring wings of a willow ptarmigan were warning signals to Red. He stopped abruptly, forepaw in the air. His body was arrow straight, tense, ready to spring into action. Something was edging through the lodgepole pines. Suddenly a giant grizzly bear appeared. Its massive hump-shouldered body weighed almost a thousand pounds. The grizzly was one of the most ferocious of all wild animals.
The bear was headed toward the den of Red and his new family. Red couldn’t tell if the bear were aware of the den. But he knew that if the grizzly were not diverted before he had the scent of the cubs, they would be devoured.
Red was one of the smaller predators of the north country, but his intelligence, speed, and courage made up for his size. In a red blur of motion, the fox dashed out to meet the grizzly. He circled around the bear and then rushed in to nip at his heels. The bear turned and snarled. Red circled again and again, darting in and out as he went, teasing, taunting, challenging. He knew that he must draw the bear away from the den, so each time Red retreated from the savage claws of the grizzly, he backed a little farther away from Vixen and their cubs.
In one unguarded moment before the grizzly had completely turned, Red made a rushing leap and bit the bear on the rump. Snarling with rage, the grizzly lunged toward the little fox. The whole forest shuddered with the sound. But the agile fox dodged the lashing paw just in time, backing away in an effort to draw the grizzly still farther from the den.
By now the bear was breathing in hoarse huffs. He was rapidly losing his appetite for a red fox dinner. What may have once seemed like a good idea had become a painful, frustrating ordeal. With a resigned grunt, the grizzly turned and lumbered off into the pines.

Elder Wall from the Spain Barcelona Mission had a wealth of information. “I didn’t turn straw into gold; I used hay, sheep, a TV, spare parts, wood, cars, and a lot of paint,” he said.
Hyrum was speechless. This guy knew the secret. We begged him to tell us more. He laughed.
“I’ve been working since I can remember. When I was eight my dad put me on a tractor and pointed me at a hay field. I worked when other kids fished. Sometimes I would dream about lying on a riverbank, but I don’t regret working. I painted curbs with house numbers when I was ten. I sold candy bars in junior high and made more money than the school store. I picked berries. I learned to drive a truck before I drove a car. That led to driving a forklift and later a berry harvester for $8.00 an hour. I’ve laid over 100,000 feet of sprinkler pipe; planted shrubbery; trimmed, pruned, and mowed lots of lawns. During high school, Ernie Harwood and I formed a housepainting partnership. He completely paid for his mission to Japan with this job. We bid for jobs with a realty company. Before I left I trained one of the priests, who will carry on with the contacts we made. I hope they keep passing the job around the quorum. I earned a lot of my mission fund this way.
“The most unusual job I had was six weeks as a sheepherder. I lived in a camper 70 miles from the nearest settlement. There was no hot water, shower, or washing machine. The weather was often 15 degrees with a 30-mile-an-hour wind. I cared for sick sheep and helped with the lambing.
“My favorite work was the least profitable. I love to invent. I formed a direct sales company partnership to sell my inventions all across the United States. I even invented a device to prevent ewes from rolling onto their newborns. My boss said it would save millions of dollars by preventing lamb deaths.
“I’ve chopped several cords of wood, delivered and stacked it. There are opportunities all around if you keep your eyes open. I bought things at auctions, then cleaned, fixed, and sold them at a profit, still giving the customer a bargain. This became a game. A popcorn machine, calves, mag wheels, televisions, cars, and motorcycles all turned into gold.
“You can spin anything into gold if you turn yourself into an expert first. I never watched television. I read how-to books. The best advice I can give you is to keep your eyes open, read and learn, and listen to your dad.”

Cardboard replaced paper as the young artist’s favorite surface when he was nine years old. The family was reading about putting on the whole armor of God (see Eph. 6:13–17). There were cardboard boxes lying around because the Stewarts were sending packages to Sam’s brothers who were on missions. The boxes and the armor collided in Sam’s mind, and he began constructing a cardboard “shield of faith.” After he finished it, he shaped a “sword of the Spirit” out of wood.

About this time, Sam began to feel a strong attachment to the nearby Las Vegas Nevada Temple. At first he appreciated it simply because it was beautiful. But as he learned more about the purpose of temples, he came to love it for the blessings it brings to people’s lives. This interest soon grew to include all the temples of the Church. Sam began filling a binder with pictures of the world’s temples and a file with diagrams and information about their design, history, and construction. By the time he had filled the binder, he knew that he wanted to build temples of stone someday. In the meantime, he would build temples of cardboard.

With boxes, a pair of scissors, a hot-glue gun, and a ruler, he created a faithful scale model of the Las Vegas Temple. It was astonishingly good. No one taught him how to build cardboard temples. He invented the craft as he went along.

Next came his version of the historic Nauvoo Illinois Temple, which was then being rebuilt. The family read all they could find about the project as Sam raised his cardboard walls. He drew the sunstones and other carvings onto the surface with a pen. The Manti Temple and the Preston England Temple followed. Then Sam started working on his masterpiece—the Salt Lake Temple, crafted in far greater detail than the others. This project has taken a year so far and is not yet finished. Once it’s completed, he plans to build models of the Montevideo Uruguay Temple and the Portland Oregon Temple.

Sam doesn’t just build temples; he studies them, too. He learned so much about the stone carvings on the Nauvoo Temple that his dad invited him to explain their meaning to the temple preparation class he teaches. Sam has also given family home evening lessons on temple architecture to several families in the ward.

He is not shy about sharing his love of temples with his friends from other religions. They like to watch him build, and as he works he quizzes them about temple facts. By now they know all the answers.

Working on temples doesn’t fill all of Sam’s time. He is an excellent student who studies hard because he knows that to be an architect he must be good at math and get good grades. He enjoys sports, including skiing, baseball, and soccer. He especially loves the outdoors and the beauties of nature. He is always eager to visit his family’s cabin in the mountains of Utah.

Families and temples just seem to go together, and Sam loves his family even more than he loves temples. His brothers, Willie and John, who are twins serving missions in Uruguay and England respectively, are role models for him. He is especially close to his sister, Lea, a student at BYU. Five years ago Lea suffered a spinal cord injury in a car accident, and she now uses a wheelchair. Sam often paints with her and plays wheelchair basketball with her when she is home on vacation. “Sam’s very sensitive to the feelings of others,” Lea says. “Since I’ve been in the wheelchair, he’s always there to help.”

“Sam wants to understand things spiritually,” his dad comments. “He prays. He reads the scriptures. He asks a lot of difficult questions—the kind that parents don’t always know how to answer. He’s made me a better person just being around him.”

His mom adds, “He has a clear vision of what’s right and wrong, and he’s strong in doing what’s right. He wants to make people happy. If I’m down, he knows it, and he’ll cheer me up.”

This builder of temples is also helping to build a happy family.

Massimo and Daniela Lo Monaco
Massimo Lo Monaco confided to his young wife that he had doubts about the existence of God. If there was a God, why didn’t he make himself known to man?
But a recent experience, an answer to prayer, had left Daniela Lo Monaco certain of the existence of God. She had been responsible for a serious error at her place of employment and feared the consequences. She had prayed to God for help, and when she reported the problem to her supervisor, the situation had been resolved surprisingly easily. So she prayed again in gratitude, and asked her Heavenly Father, “What would you have me do?”
Not long afterward, two young missionaries knocked on their door. As the missionaries taught them, the Lo Monacos discovered that the gospel answered both his question and hers, and they were soon baptized. He is first counselor in the presidency of the Pisa Branch and she is the Primary president.

I am grateful that I was taught as a child how to plant seeds. Through the miracle of life, we planted the seeds and produced delicious fresh peas, corn, carrots, turnips, onions, and potatoes from our own garden. I clearly remember a most meaningful experience when my grandfather showed us how to sow alfalfa seeds by hand. He had plowed and harrowed the ground to prepare the seedbed. Then he took a handful of seeds, and with a wide swing of his arm he artfully scattered them as he paced across the field in geometric patterns. Although birds ate some of the alfalfa seed, the crop grew, and the stand was rich and plentiful for many years.

In grade school and junior high, Kalin participated in athletics, but by the time he was a sophomore in high school, things began to unravel. He was skipping too much school and his grades were going downhill. He played in four games; then his poor academic record forced him off the team. For two years of high school he watched games from the stands. He started hanging around some guys with gang affiliation. The bond between these guys appealed to Kalin, who was not used to being close with anyone. He became a follower.
Then things hit bottom for Kalin. He got kicked out of school for fighting in defense of a friend. He got caught riding on a scooter someone else had stolen. He wrote a suicide note to his mother. “I don’t know if I was serious,” says Kalin, “but I put it in my mom’s purse, and she found it.”
His mother took him to a hospital for help, and things turned around for Kalin. “I decided I had to change. I saw a lot of guys older than me doing nothing, hanging around selling drugs. I couldn’t see myself that way. I knew I was a fairly bright kid. I knew there was a purpose for me. I always prayed every night before I went to bed. I didn’t know why I did that. Nobody taught me. It was something I felt I had to do.” Only later did Kalin realize that those early feelings that helped him to pray every day prepared him for the changes he would make in his life.
Looking for a new group of friends, Kalin watched the people he admired to see what they were doing. He saw they were going to class, getting good grades, and playing sports. In one semester of school, he raised his grades to As and Bs. He played football and basketball his senior year of high school. As a high school running back, he was all-conference, all-region, and all-state. He was named Nevada’s Gatorade Player of the Year. But he paid a price for messing around for two years of high school. He was not eligible to be recruited by a Division I football school. He was headed to a junior college. He chose Dixie College in St. George, Utah, because it had a good football program and was close to home.

Soon we began learning about the restored Church of Jesus Christ with the missionaries. I shed beautiful tears because I was so happy to be coming back to my Savior. I had no questions about what they taught us until we came to the Book of Mormon. I had a hard time believing anything about it. The missionaries, however, asked me to read the Book of Mormon and pray about it. I prayed sincerely every day for weeks to know if it was really the word of God, but I never read it.

After several weeks without an answer from God, I boarded a train for a trip to Stockholm. On the way, I pulled out the Book of Mormon and began to read.

I read the introduction and the Testimony of Three Witnesses and Eight Witnesses, and I read about Joseph Smith. I was reading it and reading it and reading it. By the time I got to Stockholm, I was crying, shivering, and covered with goosebumps. I felt overwhelmed with the Spirit of God. I knew from personal revelation who Joseph Smith truly was—that he was a prophet and a servant of God. I knew that the Lord had restored the gospel of Jesus Christ to the earth through him.

I then believed all that the missionaries had told me. Once I had read the Book of Mormon for myself, I knew it was true. I told the missionaries I wanted to be baptized. My husband brought our whole family to show their support for me.

We can let the light within us show in many different ways. It may be as simple as a smile. I recently read the account of a man in the northwest United States who used to drive past a bus stop on his way to work. He began to notice a young girl among some children waiting for the school bus. Even when it was raining, she would smile and wave as he drove by. He said: “The young girl was tall and slim and about 13 years old. She wore a mouthful of braces and I could see them glisten in the glare of my car lights.” Her effort to be friendly gave his day a good start and was something he looked forward to.

This man’s name was Hankins, and he had a daughter, Cheryl, who was about the same age as the girl at the bus stop. One day Cheryl asked her parents’ permission to attend an activity at a local church. A neighbor girl, Vicki, had invited her to attend. The activity was MIA, the forerunner to the Young Women program! Cheryl enjoyed MIA and after a while told her parents that Vicki was a Mormon. It wasn’t long before Cheryl came home from school and said that Vicki was sending two young men over—missionaries—to tell the family about her Church.

The elders arrived, taught them about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith, and bore their testimonies of the Restoration of the gospel. As a family they began to read these new scriptures and were soon captivated by them. Mr. Hankins finally met Vicki. She was the smiling girl he had seen so many times at the bus stop. She was present when he and two other members of his family were baptized.

Looking back on Vicki’s actions and those of other young people, Brother and Sister Hankins became convinced that “the greatest potential for missionary work lies in the youth of the Church.” Brother and Sister Hankins have since served as missionaries themselves. They relied upon the referrals and good example that the youth supplied. Vicki—the girl at the bus stop who smiled every day, even when it was raining—changed their lives forever.