Gospel Story Finder

I love to read my own grandfather’s missionary journal. His first entries are classics. He wrote: “Today I married in the Salt Lake Temple the girl of my dreams.” The very next night the journal entry read: “Tonight the bishop called at our house. I have been asked to return to Scandinavia for a two- year mission. Of course I will go, and my sweet wife will remain at home and sustain me.” I am grateful for a missionary heritage.

More than 10,000 people visited the temple during its open house. Among the comments from visitors was this: “One feels a peace there, a tranquillity. It is heavenly!” One member, after touring the temple, said with tears in his eyes that he knew “the Lord loves us very much, and having this temple in our city now makes it seem He has come closer to us.”

Late one night lying in a hospital bed, this time as a patient and not as a physician, I read those verses over and over again. I pondered: “How is it done? For whom? What is required to qualify? Is it like forgiveness of sin? Do we have to earn His love and help?” As I pondered, I came to understand that during His mortal life Christ chose to experience pains and afflictions in order to understand us. Perhaps we also need to experience the depths of mortality in order to understand Him and our eternal purposes.13

I felt the encircling arms of His love that night.15 Tears watered my pillow in gratitude. Later, as I was reading in Matthew about Christ’s mortal ministry, I made another discovery: “When the even was come, they brought unto him many … and he … healed all that were sick.”16 He healed all that came to Him. None were turned away.

That night when the family gathered around the fireplace for the evening prayer, Father told again the story of why they lived in a small village high in the north Italian Alps. Their grandparents many generations back had had homes in the lovely valleys at the foot of these lofty mountains. There the people lived simple happy lives, basing all they did on the teachings of the apostles who had lived at the time of Christ. The Vaudois (meaning people who live in the valleys of the Alps) even sent forth missionaries two by two to teach. Many people from other lands were converted to their faith.

News of their success reached Rome, and word went to the Vaudois valleys that they must give up their own church and abide by the dictates of the larger ruling church in Rome. This they refused to do. In fact, the Vaudois clung with even greater faith to the authority and teachings of the New Testament as handed down to them.

Angered, Pope Innocent VIII proclaimed a general crusade for the extermination of every member of the Vaudois church. Soon the peaceful valleys where they lived were filled with tragedy and destruction. There was hardly a rock that did not mark a scene of death. Those who survived were driven from their homes. They retreated higher and ever higher up the steep mountains.

The many years of unbelievable suffering resulted in the death of all but three hundred members of the Vaudois church. These people settled high in the Piedmont valleys of the Alps, their villages seeming to cling to the mountainsides. They were surrounded by inaccessible crags and cliffs.

It was hard to eke out a living. Each spring the women and children went down the steep mountains and in baskets carried the soil that had been washed down in the winter storms back up to their terraced fields and gardens. But in these craggy mountains they were quite isolated, and here they raised their hands to the sky and solemnly swore to defend their homes and their religion to the death, as their fathers had done before them.

Madeline’s family had heard this story many times, but they never tired of it. Even the youngest children thrilled to hear of the courage of their tall strong grandparents. The older children often expressed gratitude for their home and for their church with its motto “The Light Shining in Darkness.”

About eight years after Madeline’s dream, the king of Sardinia, pressured by England and other countries to stop persecuting the Piedmont protestants, granted his Vaudois subjects freedom of religion. The tragic 800-year war ended in February 1848.

“In our family we have someone who has used his power of the priesthood and magnified it. But then, even when he was small he believed in the power of the priesthood.” The warmth rushed to Jack’s head again as he realized his father was talking about him. “I have a special story about Jack that’s important to our family, and I’d like to share it with you. It’s special because …”
Jack looked up to see why his dad was pausing so long. He saw that his dad had taken his hand out of his pocket and was grasping the podium.
“It’s special because …”
“Not that story, Dad. Please. You can’t ever get through it.” Jack was writhing in his seat now, but not for himself. He knew the story well. His dad had blessed him after the automobile accident, and it had saved his life. But his dad had never tried telling it in public. Why now?
“My boy was only three, but he asked for a blessing …” Bishop Miller’s voice was coming out in spurts and his fingers were turning white. This time the pause was longer. “You’ll … you’ll have to excuse me. I shouldn’t try to tell this story. I …” Two more times he began the story, but emotion overcame him. Two more times he stopped, each time pausing longer than before. “I’m sorry … I … The doctors had said …” His father stood at the podium silently now, unable to control his voice. Jack sat behind him on the edge of his seat, grasping the arm rests. He had only one thought: “I’ve got to help Dad.”
As if all emotion had transferred itself, Jack felt curiously calm as he stood up straight and walked the few steps to the pulpit. There he put his arm around his father. “Bishop, I mean, Dad, let me finish the story for you.” His father turned to him in surprise, the tears still trickling from underneath his glasses. Then he nodded with relief and sat down.
It was strange how courageous he felt as he told the story that was so important to their family. Some of the members of the congregation wiped their eyes at its finish.

Shortly after the October 2010 general conference, Jared and Kathleen Smith of Utah, USA, decided to take a drive around the neighborhood with their three children to enjoy the colorful autumn leaves. Before leaving, Brother Smith put a vial of consecrated oil in his pocket. The words of President Henry B. Eyring’s priesthood address to be ready for priesthood service at all times had been on his mind (see “Serve with the Spirit,” Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2010, 59).
On their way home, the Smiths happened upon a crowd gathering around a little girl lying on the ground, apparently suffering from some kind of head trauma. They heard a woman shout, “Please, does anyone have consecrated oil? Please!” Brother Smith quickly pulled over and handed his oil to the girl’s father. After a priesthood blessing, the girl regained consciousness and began talking to her parents. Moments later, paramedics arrived and took her to the hospital.
“We felt a warmth and a peace in our hearts for having been in the right place at the right time, for having brought oil, and as President Eyring spoke of, having been ready,” says Brother Smith. “Our children saw the blessing of priesthood power, and we left feeling Heavenly Father’s love for both us and this young girl and her family.”

Hollywood and television have discovered a theme the public loves: happy-ending stories about angels and life after death. In one recent hit, a man dies, then finds his family in a colorful “heaven”—after going through an ugly “hell” to save his wife. The story’s message is that love can outlast death—and the hearts of most people want to believe that message is true.

To help explain what the Savior has done for us, President Boyd K. Packer, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, told the story of a man who borrowed a great deal of money. He bought something he had always wanted. But when the bill came due, he could not afford to pay it. He knew that his creditor would take away his possessions as payment and throw him in jail.
Then the man’s friend came to rescue him. The friend asked, “If I pay your debt, will you accept me as your creditor?” The man gratefully agreed, and his friend told him, “You will pay the debt to me and I will set the terms. It will not be easy, but it will be possible.”
Because the friend was willing and able to pay, the creditor received the money that was fairly owed him. At the same time, the man was able to keep his possessions and not go to jail. (See Ensign, May 1977, 54–55.)

In Blackfoot, Idaho, Laurels in the Fifth Ward started from scratch—literally, for that’s what happens when you work with freshly sheared, washed, and dried lamb’s wool! Then came a whole summer of carding the wool, and with only one carder. But the resulting batting was light and fluffy. These Laurels also decided red, white, and blue were the appropriate colors for this year. Since they had a special recipient for their quilt in mind, they added illustrations depicting Young Women’s six areas of awareness—spiritual, cultural, social, service, recreational, and homemaking activities. The quilt was tied with lazy daisy, blue-yarn stitches, and each girl added her name in a corner. Then the whole activity was sewed up with a trip to Salt Lake and a visit with the quilt’s new owner—President Spencer W. Kimball.

Joseph Smith had a humanizing influence on others, like Parley and Orson Pratt and Orson Hyde. Orson Hyde, for example, began one of his sermons by admitting that he had sometimes spoken too loudly and energetically, and promised:
“I shall endeavour, the Lord being my helper, to modulate my voice according to the Spirit of God that I may have when speaking, and not go beyond it, neither fall short. At the same time, I do not want my mind so trammelled as brother Parley P. Pratt’s once was, when dancing was first introduced into Nauvoo among the Saints. I observed brother Parley standing in the figure, and he was making no motion particularly, only up and down. Says I, ‘Brother Parley, why don’t you move forward?’ Says he, ‘When I think which way I am going, I forget the step; and when I think of the step, I forget which way to go.’”11

“This one’s for Valerie,” I said with a grin, and held up the tiniest valentine in the whole package. It was just one small heart with “Have a heart—Be my valentine,” printed across it.
Mom looked at the valentine and asked, “Who’s Valerie?”
I scooted my chair a little closer to the kitchen table and wrote Valerie’s name on the back of the tiny card. “Oh, she’s a new girl in the class,” I mumbled. “At least, she was new a month ago.”
Mom took the valentine from me and looked at it again. “Why does Valerie get this one?”
I heaved a big sigh. “Mom, she’ll be lucky to get any valentines. I bet I’m the only kid in the whole class who gives her one.”
I reached for the valentine, but Mom held it back. “So if this is going to be her only valentine,” Mom asked, still holding the tiny heart, “why give her this one?”
“Well, after I picked out the cards for my friends and the rest of my class, that was the only one left.”
For a long time Mom didn’t say anything. She just looked down at the small valentine, with her lips pressed together. Finally she asked, “Don’t the kids like Valerie?”
I squirmed a little in my chair. “I didn’t say that they didn’t like her,” I answered. “I just said that nobody would be giving her a valentine. And they won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, Mom,” I moaned. “They just won’t. Valerie’s kind of different. Some kids just are.”
“Different? How?”
“Well,” I mumbled, “she doesn’t ever say anything. Even when Miss Willis talks to her, she just whispers or nods her head. And she’s not very cute. She always wears the same sweater, and most of the time her hair isn’t even combed. Bobby Richards says she has fleas.” Mom glared at me, so I added quickly, “But he’s just joking. She really doesn’t. She eats her lunch alone, and she—”
“So after everyone treats her like that,” Mom cut in, “you’re going to give her your very worst valentine?”
“Well, what’s wrong with that. Like I said, she’ll be lucky to get any.”
“Jared,” Mom sighed, “is that what Sister Hansen teaches you in Primary?”
“Aw, Mom, this is for school, not Primary,” I pointed out, trying to sound like I believed it. But I got a funny twitching inside, and I knew that Valerie’s valentine had a lot to do with Primary.
“Jared, if what you learn in Primary doesn’t help you in school, then what good is Primary? And what about everything that your dad and I have been trying to teach you all these years?”
I stared down at my hands and shrugged my shoulders.
For a long time we just sat there. Then Mom spoke quietly, “Have you wondered what it would be like to go to a new school and not have any friends? All the time you’d be thinking that there wasn’t a person in the whole world who liked you. And then on Valentine Day, when everyone else is expecting to get lots of valentines, you only get the tiny ones that nobody wanted to give to their friends. How would you like to be Valerie?”
“All right,” I mumbled, reaching for one of the nicer valentines in the package, “I was going to give this one to Brad, but I guess I can give it to Valerie if you want me to.”
Mom shook her head. “Don’t do it for me, Jared. Do it for Valerie.”
“All right,” I growled, “I’ll do it for Valerie.” I reached for a pencil so that I could write Valerie’s name on it.
“Wait,” Mom said suddenly. “Let’s give Valerie a special valentine.”
“This is a special valentine!” I protested, holding up the one I’d planned to give to Brad. “It’s the best one I have!”
“But there will be others like it. Let’s give her one that is the very best of all, one that will make her smile for the rest of the day.”
Before I could say another word, Mom headed for the cupboard and began pulling down flour and sugar and salt and other stuff.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“We are going to make a valentine for Valerie.”
“What do we need all that for?”
“This isn’t going to be just an ordinary valentine.”
At first all I did was watch, but soon my hands were covered with flour and sugar, and Mom and I were having a great time.
Mom and I mixed up a whole glob of dough. Then we rolled it out on the table and shaped it into a giant heart. Mom popped it into the oven, and I began getting out ingredients for the frosting. Then, when the giant heart came from the oven and was cool enough, we set to work, decorating it with white, red, and pink frosting and some jelly beans. We gave the heart a face, and across the face in fat red letters we wrote, “Have a heart” and “Be my very special valentine.”
When we were finished, I licked my lips and grinned. “Let’s eat it now,” I said.
“Don’t you dare!” Mom threatened, shaking her finger at me and trying hard not to laugh.
“But it’s too good to just give away—to anybody!” I exclaimed.
“It’s too good to keep!”
“But, Mom, I can’t give this to Valerie,” I objected. “What will everybody think? They’ll say that she’s my girlfriend.” I could feel my cheeks burning. “Even if I do want to be nice to her, I sure don’t want everybody saying that she’s my girlfriend.”
Mom thought for a minute. “Don’t tell anyone. When no one is looking, you can slip it into her envelope. She’ll know that someone in the class gave it to her. Just knowing that she has a friend, even if she doesn’t know who it is, will make all the difference in the world. And I can promise you that tomorrow Valerie will be the happiest girl in your whole class.”
The next morning, with Valerie’s valentine tucked in my backpack, I headed for school. All morning I kept the valentine hidden in my desk, waiting for a chance to slip the giant cookie into Valerie’s valentine envelope. But I never had a chance. Someone was always around.
Just when I’d given up hope, the lunch bell rang and everyone rushed to the cafeteria. I was alone! Snatching the valentine from inside my desk, I sneaked to the back of the room and slipped it into Valerie’s envelope. It barely fit. There were a few other valentines there, but they were just little ones like the one that I had planned to give her before Mom had talked to me. I was glad that Valerie would have at least one good valentine.
It wasn’t until the middle of the afternoon that Miss Willis let us start our valentine party. We played games and had cookies and punch before Miss Willis went to the back wall and took down each of the valentine envelopes and called us up one at a time to get them. Valerie’s was the second to the last. When Miss Willis took it down, she exclaimed, “Valerie surely has some heavy valentines in her envelope!”
Valerie shuffled shyly to the back of the room and took her envelope from Miss Willis. As soon as she felt how heavy it was, a smile tickled the corners of her lips. Everybody watched Valerie as she returned to her seat and sat down. At first she just left the envelope unopened in front of her. Then Martin Turner shouted, “Come on, Valerie, let’s see what’s inside.”
Valerie’s face turned red, and she ducked her head. She carefully opened the envelope and peeked inside. Then she slowly pulled out the giant valentine cookie that I had wrapped in red tissue paper. Everyone in the whole class was quiet and stared at the mysterious package. As Valerie pulled away the paper, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
“How beautiful!” Miss Willis exclaimed. “Who’s it from?”
Valerie searched for a name, but there wasn’t one. Finally she shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s a secret valentine.” Miss Willis smiled. “That’s the very best kind.”
Valerie nodded and smiled. Then suddenly she said, “Thank you, whoever you are. It’s the best valentine in the whole world!” She was absolutely glowing!
After school I ran all the way home. “She loved it!” I shouted as I charged through the front door and raced for the kitchen, where Mom was peeling potatoes. “Everybody loved it. They all said that it was the very best valentine they’d ever seen.”
Mom smiled. “And did she find out who gave it to her?”
I shook my head. “She never guessed, so she she thought we were all her friends. And shared it with the whole class. And she talked, Mom! And after school I saw her walking home with Amy and Sylvia and Tara. It was like magic.”
“And was she the happiest girl in the class?”
“The very happiest!” I grinned.
“And who was the happiest boy?” she teased.
I grinned. “Me, of course.” And I was.

Montauban. With arched bridges spanning its waterway, the picturesque village of Montauban is located in the south central part of France on the Tarn River. The branch here is small but vibrant—about 40 active members and four full-time missionaries. Members meet in an immaculate new building on the main street of town. As is true in many small branches, several strong families serve as the backbone of the branch. In Montauban, the VanTonders are one such family. Basil VanTonder, from Johannesburg, South Africa, met Paulette, from France, at a stake ice skating activity in Johannesburg. They married two months later.

Now the parents of eight children, the VanTonders have lived alternately in South Africa and France. Warm and spiritual, they share the Spirit generously with others. Basil is the branch president, and he and his family bake bread, feed the missionaries, care for the elderly, and invite others to their home for holidays. Their tenderness and spiritual depth carries over into the meetings. People from the community love to come to activities at the church and formally honored the VanTonders as an outstanding family in Montauban in 1992.

Restless and excited. Eager, yet uncertain. These were my feelings as the train sped closer to our destination.
It was June 1961, and I was journeying with sixteen other students on a Brigham Young University travel study tour to study French in Quebec, Canada. We would be there tomorrow, and it was natural that our anticipation was increasing.
As my anticipation grew, so did my apprehension: for I had two problems facing me. The first and most important was the challenge I felt to be a missionary, an exemplar of gospel living. Since the Church had begun stressing that every member should be a missionary, I had thought a great deal about it.
I had been brought up as a member of the Church in a small Idaho town where all the townspeople were Latter-day Saints. In fact, all of the surrounding communities were also predominantly Latter-day Saint, and most activity, social and civic as well as religious, centered around the Church. From there I went to the wholesome atmosphere of Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. The result was that at nineteen I had never really had any close associations with nonmembers.
On the few occasions when I had met nonmembers, I had wanted to tell them about the Church, but I would suddenly feel self-conscious and unable to speak, almost embarrassed to steer conversation in that direction. The Golden Questions “What do you know about the Mormon Church?” and “Would you like to know more?” would seem to lodge like a lump in my throat, and my voice would tremble when I wanted to speak with conviction. It was difficult to speak of what I felt so deeply, and I believed I was prying if I asked someone about his religion. Afterward, when the opportunity had passed, I would be angry with myself. If, like the apostle Paul, I was “not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth” (Rom. 1:16), then why was it so difficult for me to tell others about this good news?
My second problem was a much simpler one. After we arrived in Quebec, Canada and registered at the Universite Laval, we would be expected to speak French for the duration of our summer-long stay. I had studied French only one year, and my command of the language was far from skillful. However, this problem was one that most of my fellow students shared, and I knew that one purpose of the travel study tour was to help us improve our French.
I was not the only restless one that day. Night had fallen, and the other occupants of the passenger car in which we rode were beginning to settle down for sleep; but our group was too full of expectation to think of sleep.
“Let’s go into the dome car and sing some French songs and practice our French,” someone suggested.
We filed out of our car and into the connecting dome car. A railway dome car consist of two levels: a lower level similar to a regular passenger car but with fewer seats, and a stairway leading to the upper level, or dome. The dome features a panoramic view through large curving windows from this lofty height. As we entered, we noticed that the lower level was completely empty. We climbed the steps into the dome and here found only two occupants, a young mother and her tearful little son.
After the mother assured us that our singing would not disturb them, we began to sing, hesitantly and with many misuses of French accents and stumbling over words. Quickly our meager repertoire of French songs was exhausted, and we drifted comfortably into the familiar music and language of our Latter-day Saint hymns.
It was comforting and strengthening to sing the hymns I’d sung since childhood, and I noticed the little boy stopped crying as we sang. Soon he fell asleep across his mother’s lap.
I don’t know how long we sang, but I recall the lifting of my spirit and the deepening of my conviction as we sang “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” and “O My Father,” and the happiness we felt as we sang “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Finally, we ended with “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” and as the last strains of “All is well” faded, we began to move quietly out of the dome.
I was first to leave the dome to descend to the lower level of the car, and I was unprepared for the sight that met my eyes. Dozens of upturned faces were looking toward us. Every seat, which had been vacant when we entered the dome car earlier, was now filled, and people were even standing and sitting in the aisles. Unknown to us, these people had gathered to listen as we sang.
A woman standing near the stairway touched my arm, and I saw that there were tears in her eyes. “You young people sing so beautifully,” she said, “because you sing from your hearts. Who are you, and where do you come from?”
“We’re Mormons, ma’am,” I replied. “We are students from Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah.”
“Mormons … ,” she murmured.
She was right. We had sung from our hearts, and my heart was still singing. I heard myself saying, “What do you know about the Mormons?”
“Well, I have heard your lovely Tabernacle Choir,” she replied.
“Would you like to know more about the Mormons?” I asked.
“Yes, I really would.”
“What do I do now?” I thought in panic. “I’ve finally asked the Golden Questions, but now where do I begin?”
Then a calm, sure voice behind me spoke, and I turned to see a returned missionary from our group reach out and take the woman’s hand in a warm, firm grasp.
“Perhaps you have heard of a man named Joseph Smith,” he said. “Let me tell you more about him.”
Soon he was telling of Joseph Smith’s first vision and explaining the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Several people who had listened to us sing stayed to hear what this earnest young member of our group had to say, and some left their names and addresses with requests for missionary contact or for copies of the Book of Mormon.
I was filled with peace and joy. I had asked the Golden Questions, and my friend, the returned missionary, had shown me where to go from there. Only a short while before, we had sung about Joseph Smith’s first vision in “Oh, How Lovely Was the Morning.” From their earliest years in Primary, children in the Church hear the story of “the boy’s first uttered prayer.” What better way to introduce the gospel than to relate that beautiful story? This experience was to guide me many times throughout the summer ahead.
In years to come I was to learn to follow up the Golden Questions with an invitation to my home to see a film and meet the missionaries. And I have learned that there are many other effective ways to introduce the gospel to others. But I like to remember that night on the train when we sang from our hearts, unaware of our listeners. We truly did have something to sing about, and our message had been heard.

One place that the group was looking forward to seeing was the town of Kirtland where the Newell K. Whitney store has been restored by the Church and opened as a visitors’ center. The store is significant because the first First Presidency was formed and the School of the Elders was organized in one of the upstairs rooms. Only 14-by-14, the room holds about 20 people. Travis Fordham, 18, of the Dublin Ward, said, “You could feel the Spirit really strong up there. Those men were told there that they would be missionaries and would be sent to preach the gospel that would fill the whole world. It was the first missionary training center.”

When I was called to Tahiti on my mission, I remember thinking, “What am I going to do there?”
I was a new member of the Church. I didn’t know a lot about the gospel. I hadn’t read the Book of Mormon cover to cover, though I knew it was true. And I would have to learn two languages: Tahitian and French.
I felt inadequate.
Thankfully, I had two things going for me: I knew how to work, and I knew how to obey. Knowing how to work came from my father; knowing how to obey came from the gospel.
So when I got to my mission, I worked hard and I obeyed. As a result, the Lord blessed me with some wonderful experiences, and He taught me to rely on the Spirit. In the process, He also taught me patience, because I was not the most patient missionary. If I had a senior companion who didn’t want to work hard, even though I was the junior companion, I would say, ‘C’mon, let’s go! We’ve got to work!’”
When I became a senior companion, I thought, “Finally, I’ve arrived. I can control the work now.”
But my mission president assigned me a companion who didn’t want to work. By that point in my mission, thankfully, I had learned enough that I knew I had to love my companion, be kind to him, and be patient with him. I knew I couldn’t push him.
One night in the little village of Fare on the island of Huahine, we were at an investigator’s home. Instead of teaching, my companion was playing a board game with a family member and I was sitting there alone, feeling that nobody wanted to listen to me. It was my first assignment as a senior companion, and I felt that I was failing.
As I was having these thoughts and feelings, an outpouring of the Spirit came into my heart. I knew I was not alone. That stayed with me the whole night—not just for a moment. When I awoke the next morning, the feeling was still with me. I knew Heavenly Father loved me. I knew He cared about me. I knew He was with me. Knowing that gave me the strength I needed.
That was a key experience for me. My mission president knew that I needed to have experiences that would humble me and help me recognize my dependence on the Spirit. From that point on I had an incredible mission.

I knew the Prophet. While I was nine, I attended a school kept by a Miss Mitchell in his brother Hyrum’s brick office.
I was passing the Prophet’s house one morning when he called me to him and asked what book I read at school. I replied, “The Book of Mormon.” He seemed pleased. Taking me into the house, he then gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon to use at school. It was a gift I greatly prized.
Jesse N. Smith

For their part, Toshiko and her husband, Tokichi, struggled with aspects of being Latter-day Saints—especially paying tithing. Tokichi did not make much money, and sometimes they wondered if they had enough to pay for their son’s school lunch. They were also hoping to buy a house.

After one Church meeting, Toshiko asked a missionary about tithing. “Japanese people are very poor now after the war,” she said. “Tithing is so hard for us. Must we pay?”3

The elder replied that God commanded everyone to pay tithing, and he spoke of the blessings of obeying the principle. Toshiko was skeptical—and a little angry. “This is American thinking,” she told herself.

Other missionaries encouraged her to have faith. One sister missionary promised Toshiko that paying tithing could help her family reach their goal of owning their own house. Wanting to be obedient, Toshiko and Tokichi decided to pay their tithing and trust that blessings would come.4

She and Tokichi also began to see blessings come from paying tithing. They purchased an affordable lot in the city and drew up blueprints for a house. They then applied for a home loan through a new government program, and once they received approval to build, they started work on a foundation.

The process went smoothly until a building inspector noticed that their lot was inaccessible to firefighters. “This land is not land that is suitable for building a house,” he told them. “You cannot proceed any further with the construction.”

Unsure what to do, Toshiko and Tokichi spoke to the missionaries. “The six of us will fast and pray for you,” an elder told them. “You do the same.”

For the next two days, the Yanagidas fasted and prayed with the missionaries. Another inspector then came out to reassess their lot. He had a reputation for being strict, and at first he gave the Yanagidas little hope of passing the inspection. But as he looked over the lot, he noticed a solution. In an emergency, the fire department could get to the property simply by removing a nearby fence. The Yanagidas could build their house after all.

“I guess you two must have done something exceptionally good in the past,” the inspector told them. “In all my years I have never been so accommodating.”

Toshiko and Tokichi were overjoyed. They had fasted and prayed and paid their tithing. And just as the sister missionary had promised, they would have a home of their own.6

I am a footballer [soccer player]. At football practice, my coach has us do lots of endurance tests and exercises. I feel good when I set goals and reach them.
I made a spiritual goal to stay awake when I say my prayers at night. I used to lie down in my bed while I prayed, but now I sit up or kneel down. I also try to change up what I say in my prayer and not just repeat the same things. This new goal has helped me feel better at night because I actually complete the prayers!

When I was a boy, our family lived in the Sixth-Seventh Ward of the Pioneer Stake. The ward population was rather transient, which resulted in an accelerated rate of turnover with respect to the teachers in the Sunday School. As boys and girls we would just become acquainted with a particular teacher and grow to appreciate him or her when the Sunday School superintendent would visit the class and introduce a new teacher. Disappointment filled each heart, and a breakdown of discipline resulted.

Prospective teachers, hearing of the unsavory reputation of our particular class, would graciously decline to serve or suggest the possibility of teaching a different class where the students were more manageable. We took delight in our newly found status and determined to live up to the fears of the faculty.

One Sunday morning a lovely young lady accompanied the superintendent into the classroom and was presented to us as a teacher who requested the opportunity to teach us. We learned that she had been a missionary and loved young people. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She asked each class member to introduce himself, and then she asked questions which gave her an understanding and insight into the background of each. She told us of her girlhood in Midway, Utah, and as she described that beautiful valley she made its beauty live within us and we desired to visit the green fields she loved so much.

When Lucy taught, she made the scriptures actually live. We became personally acquainted with Samuel, David, Jacob, Nephi, Joseph Smith, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Our gospel scholarship grew. Our deportment improved. Our love for Lucy Gertsch knew no bounds.

We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic Christmas party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys with typical appetites, we converted in our minds the monetary totals to cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious event. Never before had any of our teachers even suggested a social event like this was to be.

The summer months faded into autumn. Autumn turned to winter. Our party goal had been achieved. The class had grown. A good spirit prevailed.

None of us will forget that gray morning when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sincere sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.

The lesson this Sunday was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” At the conclusion of the presentation of a well-prepared lesson, Lucy Gertsch commented on the economic situation of Billy’s family. These were Depression times, and money was scarce. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked: “How would you like to follow this teaching of our Lord? How would you feel about taking our party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted so carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope. A beautiful card was purchased and inscribed with our names.

This simple act of kindness welded us together as one. We learned through our own experience that it is indeed more blessed to give than to receive.

The years have flown. The old chapel is gone, a victim of industrialization. The boys and girls who learned, who laughed, who grew under the direction of that inspired teacher of truth have never forgotten her love or her lessons. Her personal influence for good was contagious.

A senior missionary couple in Andrainarivo, Madagascar, recently received the country’s highest civilian honor for their humanitarian service.
During their 18-month mission, Elder Robert and Sister Susan Bird, from Fruit Heights, Utah, USA, helped provide humanitarian aid, including projects that provided potable drinking water to approximately 100,000 people.
The Minister of Water in Andrainarivo, the honorable Nhiry-Lanto Hery Andriamahazo, presented them with the Medal of Honor and offered kind words regarding the Church, saying missionaries in Madagascar are recognized as part of the Malagasy society.