Gospel Story Finder

Certain techniques for handling peer pressure can be helpful, according to Jerroll Taylor of the Norfolk Virginia Second Ward, who’s been in the military for nine years. “At each of my duty stations, peer pressure has been considerable. But I’ve found that most people or situations can be handled by using either humor or a direct, serious discussion, depending on the situation. I’ve also realized that my greatest asset has been a strong testimony I developed after boot camp when I realized the military was going to make me either sink or swim. I’ve been blessed in being able to baptize at least one person at each duty station, and that’s been a very rewarding experience.”

A true story from Ghana.
Nyamedo ran to the bus with his little brother, Kwame. They climbed the steps and sat next to a window. Nyamedo looked outside to see the sun shining on the green trees. Their school was going on a field trip to a nature reserve. Today would be an adventure!
“Hey, Nyamedo!”
Nyamedo’s friends Ralph and Sierra sat down on the seat across from him.
Ralph tugged at Nyamedo’s sleeve and whispered. “When we get to the park, let’s go exploring!”
“Yeah!” Sierra said. “We can have our own adventure.”
Ralph nodded excitedly. “We can sneak away before the first activity.”
Nyamedo imagined all the things they might see in the wilderness. Tall trees, cool animals, and maybe waterfalls!
“That sounds fun! Let’s do it,” he said with a smile.
When the bus pulled up to the nature reserve, Nyamedo and Kwame got off the bus together. Their teachers told everyone to stay with the group and not wander off.
Ralph walked up to Nyamedo. “Remember the plan?” Ralph whispered.
Nyamedo nodded. But then he stopped to think. Exploring the wilderness sounded exciting, but Nyamedo also knew it could be dangerous. What if they got lost or hurt?
Suddenly, he felt a voice speak to him. Stay with Kwame.
The voice was still and small. Nyamedo knew it was the Holy Ghost.
He was worried that his friends would be mad at him for not exploring with them. But maybe the Holy Ghost was protecting him.
Nyamedo turned to Ralph. “Sorry, I actually have to stay with my brother,” he said. “He’s my responsibility.”
Ralph frowned.
“But you said you’d come!”
“The teacher said we should stay,” Nyamedo said. Ralph sighed and walked away.
Nyamedo and Kwame went with the rest of the students and followed their teachers. First they went on the zipline. The wind rushed against their faces as they soared over the bright green trees. It was like flying!
Next the guides at the reserve taught them about some of the animals that lived there. Nyamedo and Kwame couldn’t wait to see them. They learned about zebras, monkeys, snakes, antelope, and lots of birds! After seeing all the cool animals, they went rock climbing and horseback riding. Later they played games.
Nyamedo was happy he had stayed back with Kwame. If he hadn’t, he would have missed out on so many fun things!
When it was time to get back on the bus, Nyamedo saw Ralph and Sierra. They ran up to him.
“We almost got chased by angry monkeys,” Ralph whispered. He looked a little scared. “We could’ve gotten hurt.”
Sierra nodded. “It’s good you didn’t come.”
“Whoa,” said Nyamedo. “I’m glad you’re OK!”
The Holy Ghost really was protecting me, he thought. He held Kwame’s hand as they got onto the bus together.
He was grateful that the Holy Ghost had kept them safe and helped them have a fun adventure.
Illustrations by Cam Kendall

My brethren and sisters, last Sunday as I sat in my study thinking of what I might say on this occasion, I received a phone call telling me that Staff Sergeant James W. Cawley of the U.S. Marines had been killed somewhere in Iraq. He was 41 years of age, leaving behind a wife and two small children.
Twenty years ago Elder Cawley was a missionary of the Church in Japan. Like so many others, he had grown up in the Church, had played as a schoolboy, had passed the sacrament as a deacon, and had been found worthy to serve a mission to teach the gospel of peace to the people of Japan. He returned home, served in the Marines, married, became a policeman, and was then recalled to active military duty, to which he responded without hesitation.
His life, his mission, his military service, his death seem to represent the contradictions of the peace of the gospel and the tides of war.

In much of the world, we are entering upon unsettled economic times. Let us look after one another the very best we can. I remember the story of a Vietnamese family that fled Saigon in 1975 and ended up living in a small mobile home in Provo, Utah. A young man in the refugee family became the home teaching companion to a Brother Johnson who lived nearby with his large family. The boy related the following:
“One day Brother Johnson noticed that our family had no kitchen table. He appeared the next day with an odd-looking but very functional table that fit nicely against the trailer wall across from the kitchen sink and counters. I say odd-looking because two of the table legs matched the tabletop and two did not. Also, several small wooden pegs stuck out along one edge of the worn surface.
“Soon we used this unique table daily for food preparation and for eating some quick meals. We still ate our family meals while we sat on the floor … in true Vietnamese fashion.
“One evening I stood inside Brother Johnson’s front door as I waited for him before a home teaching appointment. There in the nearby kitchen—I was surprised to see it—was a table practically identical to the one they had given to my family. The only difference was that where our table had pegs, the Johnsons’ table had holes! I then realized that, seeing our need, this charitable man had cut his kitchen table in half and had built two new legs for each half.
“It was obvious that the Johnson family could not fit around this small piece of furniture—they probably didn’t fit comfortably around it when it was whole. …
“Throughout my life this kind act has been a powerful reminder of true giving” (Son Quang Le, as told to Beth Ellis Le, “Two-of-a-Kind Table,” Liahona, July 2004, 45; Ensign, July 2004, 63).

In a different vein, I recall a young couple who were having difficulty behaving themselves alone on dates. They became concerned with their actions and worried that they might become increasingly involved to the point that they would lose all they held dear. After talking things over, they decided they needed to begin each date with a prayer. That was a good plan, but their dates continued to end up with just the two of them in some secluded spot. Walking on the edge of the cliff, as it were, they repeatedly fell into the same behavior for which they had prayed for strength to overcome. The peril-filled thrill of petting had great attraction than did the calm plans made in the less secluded light of day. It was obvious that if they were going to stop flirting with danger, they would have to take steps to change their pattern of being alone. Yet it seems so human that, having once walked to the edge of the cliff, they returned so readily.
The story had an almost happy ending. One of them finally realized that they lacked the determination to modify their behavior. She terminated their dating altogether, thus narrowly escaping the final slip into the abyss.

When I was in sixth grade, my family moved. One of my new friends was not a member of the Church.
One Sunday, my friend called me. He wanted me to come bowling with him and his parents that afternoon. I had only been bowling once before, and I had really liked it. Bowling again would be really fun, especially with my new friend. I immediately went to ask my mom.
“Well,” she said, “it’s Sunday, so I don’t think you should go. But you can make your own decision.”
I was shocked! I thought that she would say no. Instead the choice was all mine. So I chose to go bowling with my friend.
Pretty soon my friend, his parents, and I were at the bowling alley. I did really well! My friend and I had fun. But the whole time, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. I knew in my heart that my mom was right. I had learned at church and at home that making Sunday a holy day was important. Going bowling with my friend wasn’t the best Sunday activity.
That day, I learned an important lesson. It is good to have fun and be with friends! But choosing to make Sunday special is more important.

Sometimes confirming and restraining revelations are combined. For example, during my service at Brigham Young University I was invited to give a speech before a national association of attorneys. Because it would require many days to prepare, this was the kind of speaking invitation I had routinely declined. But as I began to dictate a letter declining this particular invitation, I felt restrained. I paused and reconsidered my action. I then considered how I might accept the invitation, and as I came to consider it in that light, I felt the confirming assurance of the Spirit and knew that this was what I must do.

The speech that resulted, “A Private University Looks at Government Regulation,” opened the door to a host of important opportunities. I was invited to repeat that same speech before several other nationally prominent groups. It was published in Vital Speeches, in a professional journal, and in several other periodicals and books, from which it was used as a leading statement of the private university’s interest in freedom from government regulation. This speech led to the University being consulted by various church groups on the proper relationship between government and a church-related college. These consultations in turn contributed to the formation of a national organization of church-related colleges and universities that has provided a significant coalition to oppose unlawful or unwise government regulation in the future. I have no doubt, as I look back on the event, that this speaking invitation I almost declined was one of those occasions when a seemingly insignificant act made a great deal of difference. Those are the times when it is vital for us to receive the guidance of the Lord, and those are the times when revelation will come to aid us if we will hear and heed it.

I went into a hospital one day in New Zealand to bless a woman who didn’t belong to the Church. She was dying. We all knew she was dying. The doctor even said so. She was having her farewell party. Ah, that’s one thing I like about the natives. When you go they give you a farewell party. They all gather around. They send messages over to the other side. “When you get over there tell my mother I’m trying to do my best; I’m not so good, but I’m trying.” “Tell her to have a good room fixed for me when I get over there and plenty of fish, good meals.” My, it’s wonderful how they send you off. There they were, all gathered around this poor sister. She was about to be confined, and the doctor told her it would kill her. She was tubercular from head to foot.

I had with me an old native, almost ninety. She was his niece. He stood up at the head of the bed and he said, “Vera, you’re dead. You’re dead because the doctor says you’re dead. You’re on your way out. I’ve been to you, your home and your people—my relatives. I’m the only one that joined the Church. None of you has ever listened to me. You’re dead now; you’re going to live.” He turned to me and said, “Is it all right if we kneel down and pray?” I said, “Yes.” So we knelt down. Everybody around there knelt down, and after the prayer we blessed her. The last time I was in New Zealand she was physically well from head to foot and had had her fifth child. She has not joined the Church yet. That’s the next miracle I’m waiting for.

“One night I had to make a choice between a party at the Church and another party where no one was a Church member,” says Estefanía Gómez, 17, of Guayaquil. “I decided I didn’t want to go to the Church party. When I got to the other party, there was a lot of cigarette smoke and everybody was drinking. I really felt bad—and I felt lonely. The One who I try to keep with me, the Holy Ghost, stayed outside because He doesn’t go into unclean places. After 10 minutes, I phoned my brother to take me to the other party.
“We need to take advantage of the parties and friends we have in the Church. A lot of our friends may be at other parties, and they may say it’s just a little get-together. But it’s not just a get-together. It usually turns into something else—and that’s not good for anything!”

Young Matthew Kelsay stared gloomily out the window at the drifts of deepening snow, and listened to the icy wind moan like an ill-bearing minstrel. “Can’t go out and play,” he grumbled to himself. “Maybe I should have gone with Mom and Dad to the genealogy library like they wanted me to.” But he thought there wouldn’t have been anything to do at the library except thumb through a bunch of old dusty books, trying to find the name of someone who was born one year and died another. Uuchhh! How boring, he thought with disgust.
Turning away from the misted glass, Matthew stared bleakly across the room at the stairway. “Nothing to do inside, either,” he murmured. Then his eyes suddenly brightened. Jumping off the sofa, he sprinted up the steep stairs.
The boy hadn’t explored the attic for a long time. The last time he had been up there, he had played an innocent prank on Methuselah, their old tomcat, who sometimes slept there on a dusty featherbed. Now to a very bored eleven-year-old who had nothing better to do, it seemed like a good place to escape a humdrum afternoon.
Matthew squeezed inside, waded through the piles of clutter, and posed clownishly before a cracked mirror with one of his father’s old hats piled on his head. Then he saw something reflected in the mirror that distracted him—an old chest caught in a shaft of wintry light that slivered through a tattered curtain covering the single attic window.
Plopping himself down beside the big box, Matthew creaked open the lid. A warm, musty-sweet smell floated out like a trapped ghost set free. He reached in and pulled out a pair of old boots—boots Matthew was sure must have walked a thousand miles! Next he discovered a faded photograph of a white-haired man with a Moses-like beard and a dusty smile. On the lower corner was written—Josiah Kelsay 1905.
“It’s Great-Grandpa,” whispered the boy. Tucked next to the photograph was a little worn red book. Matthew picked it up and opened it carefully so as not to tear the pages, and the scent that emanated from it tingled him. “Must be Great Grandpa’s diary,” breathed Matthew with awe and reverence. He turned to the inside cover and read: “The diary of ten-year-old Josiah Kelsay, recorded as he crossed the plains with a party of wagons on their way to the Great Salt Lake Valley in the spring of eighteen hundred and forty-nine.” Matthew looked up, his eyes big and round. “Wow! Methuselah, 1849!”
Matthew gingerly fingered a few pages into the little book, stopped, and began to read aloud: “March 18. Our Conestoga left without Ma’s piano. There just wasn’t any room, and the oxen were put upon enough as it was. Baby Jess nearly took a joyful fit when a butterfly lit on her cradle in the back of the wagon.”
The boy turned a few more pages. “March 29. Saw some Indians not too far from our camp today. Brother Ezekiel said they were Crows. They didn’t look as though they meant us any harm, but Ma took on fearful and then became prayerful. Pa tried to comfort Ma and told her not to worry because God would see to it that all of us got to the valley in one piece.”
Digging into the diary a little deeper, Matthew read: “April 3. It rained some today. Old Sister Weber died this morning. Found me a real arrowhead in the skull of a dead coyote. Brother Beacon’s boy said he’d give me his gold watch for it but I’d rather keep the arrowhead. Baby Jess has taken to coughing something fierce.”
More pages were turned. “April 19. We only made about a mile today. Pa took time out to bury Baby Jess. Didn’t see Pa cry but he put his arms round Ma in the holdingest kind of way. Then he walked off somewhere by himself for the rest of the day. Once I thought I heard someone crying off aways. Maybe it was just the wind coming down off the butte.”
“April 20. Brother Ezekiel shot a wild pig that came into a place where Sister Gunnerson was digging some Indian Soapweed. The pig was acting crazy and bubbling at the jaws like he had a devil in him. And before it was killed it horned a place across Ma’s leg—just a scratch but there’s some folks looking unusually mournful. Pa and Nephi Cole administered to Ma. Flora Clanton found some berries and said she’s going to work up something special for the one that sings the loudest tonight at the camp sing.”
Matthew fingered ahead. “May 2. They had to tie Ma down in the wagon today.”
“May 3. Ma died this morning. Just before the end she told us good-bye. I think I heard her tell me to be strong and to praise God.”
On another page Matthew read: “May 4. Cold all day—colder than ever before. We found some little wild flowers to put on Ma’s grave.”
Matthew rubbed his arms, looked up at the snow falling against the little attic window, then he flipped the page. “May 6. We’ve been trying to catch up with the rest of the wagons. Pa told me to try to stop looking so stretchy-faced over Ma being gone. He says we’ll all get to the valley, only we’ll have to take Ma and Baby Jess with us in our hearts. He said they’ll live forever because things eternal never die. And maybe it’s so.”
Matthew turned one more page. “May 7. The wind is most howly and wild today, guess that’s why Pa’s been holding me tighter than I can ever remember.”
Matthew closed the book respectfully, wiped a tear from his cheek, and stared at the diary a long, proud moment. Looking at old books isn’t so boring after all, he decided. And it certainly isn’t dumb.
“You know what, Methuselah?” he said to his sleeping cat. “The next time Mom and Dad ask me to go to the genealogy library, maybe I’ll go with them to see if there are some other diaries that will be as interesting as Great-Grandpa’s.” The old tom’s paws twitched in undisturbed sleep. Matthew laughed. He was thinking that if Methusalah ever tried to find out about his ancestors, he would have to rely on dreams!

Our third child was born while we were living in Germany and Bruce was serving as branch president. I had three children under the age of three to care for while he served. I often felt isolated and alone. One Sunday after teaching a Relief Society lesson, I received a clear impression: “The Lord loves a plodder.”
That gift of personal revelation let me know that the Lord recognized my struggle. It gave me the hope and strength I needed to keep going, even if I was just plodding along.

Illustrated by Sal Velutto and Eugenio Mattozzi
In April 1844, President Joseph Smith called the Twelve Apostles to serve missions in the Eastern United States.
Joseph Smith: All of the Apostles except Willard Richards and John Taylor are called as missionaries to continue preaching the gospel.
Wilford Woodruff had already served as a missionary in England and America, but he was obedient to the Prophet. He packed his things and got ready to travel.
When he went to say good-bye to the Prophet, Elder Woodruff could tell that he was sad. Elder Woodruff felt sad too even though he didn’t know why.
Joseph Smith: You are about to start upon your mission. God bless you, Brother Woodruff. Go in peace.
Two months later, Elder Woodruff was preaching the gospel in Maine when he heard some terrible news.
Woman: Have you heard, Elder Woodruff? The Prophet has been killed! Joseph Smith has been shot in Carthage Jail!
Elder Woodruff immediately left to meet with the other Apostles in Nauvoo.
Elder Woodruff: Now I know why I was so sad before. That was the last time I would ever see the Prophet Joseph Smith here on earth.
Although many Saints were worried that the Church would not be able to go on without the Prophet Joseph Smith, Elder Woodruff was not afraid. He was asked to go and comfort the Saints in Europe and lead them until a new prophet was called.
Elder Woodruff: Though our Prophet has been killed because of his testimony, the keys of the kingdom of God are still here upon earth. The heavens are not closed.
Elder Woodruff: Heavenly Father will still speak to us and direct His disciples. Be humble and faithful, and the Lord will bless you.

Dear Amanda,
We had so many interesting visitors at church last Sunday that I thought you would like to hear about them. Grandpa and I went to church in a little town called Itakyrú (ee-tahk-ee-roo). We are building a nice new meetinghouse there, but for now the members come to the home of the Ugarte (oo-gar-teh) family for church. There are two rooms in the house: a bedroom, where the whole family sleeps, and a kitchen, where Sister Ugarte cooks over an open fire. Between the two rooms is a covered area for the animals. There is a big box of corn there, and the dogs and pigs and chickens and ducks go in and out whenever they wish. The Ugarte family also has a little brown burro, a calf, and a pretty gray cat.
On Sunday, however, all the animals have to go out into the yard, and Brother Ugarte sets up benches for our meetings in the area between the two rooms. It is a very cool and pretty place to have a meeting.
Sacrament meeting last Sunday started out as usual. Then, after the announcements and opening song, we heard a strange munching noise. It was the little black calf. He had come in to listen and to eat some of his corn!
A little later, during the first talk, Grandpa leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Grandma, there is a little pig between my feet!”
“I know,” I whispered back, “and there is a little spotted dog under me.”
Just at that moment the little dog under me playfully nipped the little pig under Grandpa.
“Ooee! Ooee! Ooee!” squealed the pig, and it ran into the yard.
“Woof! Woof! Woof!” barked the dog, following the pig into the yard.
“Amen,” said the speaker as he finished his talk.
Everyone stood up to sing a rest song. The little brown burro, which had been very reverent in the yard the whole time, decided he would like to sing. Have you ever heard a burro sing? They don’t stay with the music very well, and they always forget the words!
The second half of the meeting was much quieter. The pretty gray cat fell asleep outside near the burro, and the only new visitors to church were some ducks and a mother hen that came to eat the corn that the calf had spilled on the floor.
Soon the new meetinghouse in Itakyru will be finished. Then the animals won’t be able to come to church anymore, which is really too bad, because they seemed to enjoy being there with us.
Grandpa and I are very glad that we can be missionaries in Paraguay. Maybe someday you can be a missionary too. Don’t forget to be a good girl for your mommy and daddy.
Love,
Grandma

La Verne California Stake
As the 100th birthday of the El Buen Pastor Church in Pomona, California, approached, the congregation had concerns about the state of its building and premises. Looking for a chance to help a neighbor, the youth of the La Verne California Stake decided to pitch in and spruce up the church for its celebration. El Buen supplied the paint and the LDS youth came with a willing attitude, painting the church’s exterior in only four hours. The youth tore out old carpet, sanded and repainted the pews, and landscaped the grounds. Many members of the El Buen Pastor Church were touched by the service, and one parishioner, a member of the Pastor Church for more than 60 years, said she was so grateful to the LDS youth who restored their church to its former beauty.

There were two outs, and I was up at bat. It was late in the game, and the score was close. We needed a run, but I was a very average second baseman. Trying to fake confidence, I nervously stepped to the plate.
“Strike one!” “Strike two!” The next pitch was fast and outside, but I wanted to hit it so badly I swung anyway. I heard a “crack” and watched my line drive sail over the third baseman’s head. I dropped my bat and ran, the first base coach waving me on to second. Adrenaline pumping, I rounded the base and saw the third base coach signal me to hold up. I had a stand-up double.
I was excited, but believe it or not, the hit wasn’t the most memorable part of the game. What I remember most is that my head coach called time out, left the dugout, and ran across the field. He hurried to second base with a huge smile on his face. “Good job! That’s how to hit!” He gave me a high five, then ran back to the dugout. The ump yelled “batter up,” and the game went on.
I think we won, but to be truthful, I don’t remember for sure. What I do remember is the coach’s compliment. It made me want to do better. I’ve noticed such moments don’t usually take much effort and don’t require a lot of time, but their effects last and last.

I was 11, shivering in a flurry of pre-dawn snowfall, staring from the edge of the Grand Canyon into the black void below. Behind me, the other Scouts were pulling on their packs and horsing around, ignoring the Scoutmaster who was trying to get everyone organized for the long hike. As the youngest—and smallest—of the group, I was intimidated by the older boys and the task that lay ahead.
“Are you ready?” my dad asked then, coming up behind me and laying a strong hand on my shoulder. My heart pounded in my chest and part of me wanted to say no, but I didn’t want to look weak in front of the other Scouts, so I nodded. A few minutes later, we hefted our packs and started down the winding trail to the river far below.
Slowly, the sun rose into the sky. The snow turned into freezing mist and then into a light rain that formed puddles in the red dirt. At last, it evaporated into a sweltering heat. We shed our jackets, applied sunscreen, and marched on.
The hours ticked by. Sweat dripped down my face, and every inch of my body ached. Blisters began to form on my feet. The pack, towering over my head, grew heavier with every step.
Miles inched past: first one, then two, then three. When we stopped for lunch, we had barely passed the halfway point and my legs were already turning to jelly. I dropped my pack to the ground and gratefully plopped onto a large rock beside the trail to eat my smashed peanut butter sandwich.
Relieved of their load, my muscles shook uncontrollably. I longingly watched a mule train pass on its way to the bottom. What would it be like to ride instead of walk? Much sooner than I would have liked, the Scoutmaster signaled the end of the break. I staggered as I hoisted my pack, but my dad caught me and helped me get it into place.
We started down the trail again and, almost immediately, I started having problems. Instead of resting my sore muscles, the break had tightened them. I almost stumbled with each aching step.
Ten minutes passed. My pack seemed to drag behind me, pulling me down and making it impossible to lift my feet. Still, I forced myself forward. I couldn’t show weakness in front of the other Scouts. I had to keep moving.
But a few minutes later, I could go no farther. My heart beat faster as I gathered my courage to call for a stop. In my mind, I could see the disappointment and frustration of the older boys at having to stop for the baby who shouldn’t have been allowed to come in the first place. Tears welled up, and I choked back a sudden lump in my throat.
That was when my pack lifted and I suddenly felt lighter than air.
My father, who had been following close behind, had seen my distress and, just when I was about to give up, had reached out, grabbed the bottom of my pack, and lifted it with his strong arm. With the load gone, I suddenly felt like I could run down the trail.
We continued like this for several minutes, with me walking ahead and my father following close behind, lifting the pack from my shoulders. When he at last lowered the pack and removed what must have been a very sore arm, I had regained my strength and could continue on.
Over the years, the memory of that hike and what my father had done for me had faded. But as I stared into the valley that last morning before leaving on my mission, it came rushing back.
In that moment, I saw that my father had shown me an incredible example of how the Savior works. He lets us live our lives and make our own decisions. He lets the weight of the world gather on our shoulders as we face choices and circumstances that test our faith and dedication. And then, when we can go no further, He reaches out with His strong arm and lifts our packs so we can continue on.
Staring into the valley now, I no longer feared the long journey ahead or the trials I would face on my mission or at any other time in my life. I knew that the Lord would always be close behind and that, when I had done all I could, He would reach out and lift my pack.

A woman named Christa once worked for a small seed company. She loved her job. It was a source of immense wonder that each tiny seed she sold had the capacity to transform itself into something quite miraculous—a carrot, a cabbage, or even a mighty oak tree.
Christa loved sitting at her computer taking orders and answering questions. But one day she received a complaint that puzzled her.
“The seeds don’t work,” the customer said. “I bought them two months ago and still nothing.”
“Did you plant them in good soil and give them enough water and sunlight?” Christa asked.
“No, but I did my part,” the customer replied. “I bought the seeds. After all, they are guaranteed to grow.”
“But you didn’t plant them?”
“Heavens no. That would mean getting my hands dirty.”
Christa thought about this and decided that planting guidelines would have to be written. She resolved what the first guideline would be: “You must follow planting instructions for the seeds to sprout. You can’t set them on the shelf and expect them to grow.”
It wasn’t long before another complaint puzzled her.
“The seeds aren’t producing,” a customer claimed.
“Did you plant them in good soil?” Christa responded. “Did you give them the appropriate amount of water and sunlight?”
“Oh, yes,” the customer insisted. “I did all that?exactly as it says on the package. But they don’t work.”
“Did anything happen at all? Did they sprout?”
“Nothing happened,” the customer said. “I planted them just as directed. I was hoping to have tomatoes for dinner. Now I am very disappointed.”
“Wait,” Christa replied. “Are you saying you planted the seeds today?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the customer replied. “I planted them a week ago. I was not expecting to see tomatoes on the first day; I was patient. Let me tell you, there has been a lot of watering and waiting between then and now.”
Christa knew she would have to add another guideline: “These seeds conform to the laws of biology. If you plant the seeds in the morning and expect to eat tomatoes later that week, you will be disappointed. You must be patient and wait for the work of nature to unfold before you.”
All went well until Christa received another complaint.
“I’m very disappointed in your seeds,” the customer began. “I planted them just as the package recommended. I gave them water, made sure they had sunshine, and waited until finally they produced their harvest.”
“Sounds like you did everything right,” Christa said.
“That’s all very fine,” the customer replied. “But what I got was zucchini!”
“My records show that those were the seeds you ordered,” Christa said.
“But I don’t want zucchini; I want pumpkins!”
“I’m not following.”
“I planted the seeds in my pumpkin patch—the very same soil that produced pumpkins last year. I praised the plants every day, telling them what beautiful pumpkins they would become. But instead of large, round, orange pumpkins, I got long, green zucchini. Tons of them!”
Christa knew then that guidelines might not be enough and that it was necessary to state a principle: “The seed you plant and the time of the planting determine the harvest.”

I was sitting in a wonderful house where I live opposite the Marriott Center—pop in and say hi, but don’t all come at once!—one sunny fall day, and I was praying and reading section 136 of the Doctrine and Covenants. It made me weep with joy. President Brigham Young—at Winter Quarters, on the west bank of the Missouri River—wrote after the martyrdom of Brother Joseph:

The Word and Will of the Lord concerning the Camp of Israel in their journeyings to the West:
Let all the people of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and those who journey with them, be organized into companies.10

Those six short words—“and those who journey with them”—were like a fountain of truth and trust. I sat knowing that this scripture was another testimony of Jesus Christ in this new world—after all that had happened unexpectedly and crowning as it were the massive kindnesses overwhelming me. Traveling alongside this restored church means being a part of a fluid, happy, and repentant community. I am constantly delighted by the wonder of that invitation, not only to know ourselves as loved (“I am a child of God,”11 as you sing—that’s a dignity that nothing temporal can ever take away) but to continue becoming and building up one another in love, not being afraid to keep on growing.

I grew up in Tahiti. My mother and father joined the Church when I was a child, but I was not baptized right away. When I was 11 years old, I went to Primary one Wednesday afternoon. We sat on a mat under a mango tree while my Primary teacher told us the story of the First Vision. As she spoke, my heart started to pound. I had a strong feeling that Joseph Smith’s First Vision was true and that he was a true prophet. After that spiritual experience, I told my parents, “I have a testimony, and I want to be baptized.”

Here’s a letter from one of these young ladies that gives an idea of what it’s all about:

Good things are happening at Phanat Nikhom. Some of us had a very special experience yesterday that Sister Edmonds asked me to write and share with you. We were walking down a road in the Holding Center. In the distance we saw a small group of people walking toward us. A little girl bolted out from the group, running toward us with outstretched arms. She stopped. She was so very cute. I bent down to take her in my arms and give her a big hug. I held her, and we tried to talk to her while the rest of the group joined us. We talked with the mother in Cantonese and learned that these were Vietnamese who just arrived three days ago from another camp. The little girl was five years old and had never seen Westerners before, yet, as her mother said, she so joyously welcomed us. Later we were talking with a Catholic father who is a wonderful man working in these camps. I said, “It’s easy for us to feel so strongly about these wonderful people, these refugees.” I told him about the experience we had just had with the little Vietnamese girl. He stopped me. He said, “That proves my point about you girls. She wouldn’t have done that to volunteers from any of these other fine agencies. She could see that you are different.”

And with this our lovely representative finishes:

I am so happy that I can be here sharing with these precious people. I’m glad the light of the gospel helps us to be different. Thank you for your prayers and support.