Gospel Story Finder

One by one tiny droplets hit the windshield of the bus. Soon a silver mist formed on the glass. The driver reached over and turned a knob. Carlos watched the rhythm of the slim wipers as they flung the droplets into the wind.

Carlos brushed away the tears that had formed in the corners of his dark eyes. It will be lonesome this Christmas without Papa, he thought. He remembered last Christmas, with Papa laughing and bouncing little Maria on his knee. Now Mama worked, Carlos went to school, and Maria stayed with a baby-sitter.

Carlos sighed. Two days till Christmas, he mused. I haven’t a present for Mama or Maria, and I’ve spent my last quarter for the bus.

Carlos had wanted to buy the flowered scarf he’d seen his mother admire. And for Maria he’d seen a fuzzy white lamb in a toy shop window.

The boy felt inside his pocket one more time. There was the strange-looking button he had found on the sidewalk today. And, of course, the silver dollar. The dollar had been a tenth birthday present from Papa. But Carlos couldn’t spend that. It was the last thing his father had given him before his death. Whenever Carlos felt the coin, he thought about Papa.

The bus hissed to a stop, the front doors snapped open, and a man wearing a mud-spattered raincoat got on.

What a mess! Carlos thought. Mr. Raincoat’s hat is squashed too. Maybe the car that spattered mud on his coat ran over his hat. And he looks tired.

As Mr. Raincoat paused to shake the water from his coat, the bus lurched, and he plopped into the seat next to Carlos. The man settled into his seat, and Carlos heard him mumbling to himself: “Why did my car have to break down on a rainy Sunday when the garages are closed? I enjoy walking in the rain, but not pushing a car on a busy street.”

Then, relaxing a little, Mr. Raincoat looked at Carlos and smiled.

Carlos watched the water spray up from the passing cars, then glanced at Mr. Raincoat’s window reflection. The man has the same smile Papa had, he thought. As he gazed at the shimmering lights through the wet window, Carlos breathed a long, shaky sigh.

“What a deep sigh,” Mr. Raincoat ventured. “With Christmas only two days away, I suppose you’ll have a big family celebration.”

“Yes,” Carlos said, folding his arms. Every time the man spoke, Carlos felt more lonesome for Papa. He felt relieved when he saw his stop coming up. Carlos reached up and pulled the signal cord. “Excuse me,” he said.

Mr. Raincoat stood up and said, “I’m getting off here too.”

Several people stepped off with Carlos and Mr. Raincoat. A cold wind ruffled Carlos’s thick hair. He turned up his jacket collar, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and fingered the silver dollar as he started down the street. Something made him stop when he heard someone say to Mr. Raincoat, “Mister, did you know you have a button missing from your raincoat?”

“Yes, thanks, I do,” Mr. Raincoat answered. “I’ve looked all over for it. After church I even stopped at my office. I thought I might have lost it there. I often walk this way, so I’ll look for it again as I walk home.”

Carlos paused for a moment to tie his shoelace. He heard their fellow passenger continue: “I hope you find it. Your coat buttons are very unusual. It would be a shame not to have a complete set.”

“Yes, it would. They’re antique silver. My wife gave them to me last year,” Mr. Raincoat responded.

Carlos retied his other shoe and waited until the two men strolled closer. He raised his eyes so he could see Mr. Raincoat’s buttons. Then he stood up and pushed his hand deep into his pocket. His fingers found the button. Carlos knew it matched the buttons on the man’s raincoat. It must be valuable if it’s an antique, he decided. It’s silver, too, so that means I could get a lot of money for it.

Carlos imagined how pleased Mama would be when she unwrapped her scarf and how Maria’s eyes would sparkle when she buried her face in the fuzzy lamb’s wool.

In the middle of his happy thoughts he heard Mr. Raincoat saying, “My wife bought these buttons when we were in Spain last year. As a surprise last Christmas, she sewed them on my favorite coat. Every time I button my coat I think of her. She died shortly after Christmas last year. Because of these buttons, I’ve had some interesting conversations and made many new friends. Her gift has helped me in my loneliness.”

Carlos’s throat tightened. Pulling the silver button out of his pocket, he strode toward the two men. He handed the button to Mr. Raincoat. “Merry Christmas, sir,” he said. Then he hurried down the street toward home.

Mary anxiously shifted back and forth in her seat as she listened to the other children in her Primary class take turns reading from the scriptures. She hoped her turn would never come.
Mary had a learning disability called dyslexia. When she looked at letters on a page, they seemed to run around and switch places. When she read out loud, her words were slow and sometimes out of order. Often she read words that weren’t there at all.
The closer Mary’s turn came, the more scared she was. When it was finally her turn, Mary couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said suddenly as she jumped up from her chair, sending her scriptures tumbling to the floor. Mary ran down the hallway to the bathroom. She was glad it was empty. She stood in the corner and began to cry.
A few minutes later, she heard Sister Smith call her name as she came into the bathroom. “Mary, what’s wrong?”
Mary didn’t know what to say. She was so embarrassed. None of the other children had this problem. “I can’t read!” she cried as she tucked her head into her folded arms.
“You can’t read?” Sister Smith asked, puzzled. “I’ve seen you give talks in Primary. I know you can read.”
Mary shook her head. “I memorize my talks. I practice them over and over so I don’t have to try to read them in front of people. When I read out loud, I make lots of mistakes. I don’t want the other kids to laugh at me.”
“Oh, Mary, I’m sorry. I won’t call on you to read out loud until I know you’re ready,” Sister Smith said. “And I don’t believe anyone in our class will laugh at you. They are your friends.”
“Kids at school laugh at me,” Mary whispered.
Sister Smith wiped Mary’s tears away. “Come back to class. You’ll see,” she said.
They walked back to the classroom together. Mary’s friend Betsy sat in the chair next to Mary’s, smoothing the ruffled pages of Mary’s scriptures. Mary sat down, and Betsy handed her scriptures back to her.
“Who would like to read next?” Sister Smith asked.
“It’s Mary’s turn,” a boy in the class said.
Mary hesitated, but she looked around at her classmates and saw their kind faces. Sister Smith nodded and smiled too. Mary was nervous, but she found her place and began to read.
Her words came slowly. She made some mistakes, but when she got stuck, Betsy quietly whispered the right word in Mary’s ear. Mary did not read as well as the other kids in her class, but no one laughed or made fun of her. Then it was someone else’s turn, and the lesson went on.
As they walked to the Primary room after class, Sister Smith whispered to Mary that she was proud of her. Mary was glad she didn’t have to try to hide her trouble reading anymore. “I’ll just keep practicing,” she thought. And she smiled, knowing she had good friends at church to support her along the way.

Now, as I have pondered and prayed about what I might say to you, my thoughts have taken me to an experience I had in Sun Valley, Idaho, when I was your age. Being a Logan boy, I chose to go to school at Utah State University, and, following in my father’s and friends’ footsteps, I joined a fraternity. That fraternity had a tradition of holding what they called the “Spring Formal,” a dance held on a long weekend that was always held off campus. It was an exciting time, a chance to get away, and for me that year it was also a chance to spend some time with Mona, whom I had fallen in love with. We had a great time on Friday and Saturday exploring the sights and surroundings, and the weekend culminated with a dance at the Sun Valley resort on Saturday night. Of course, we were up late. After we dropped off our dates and returned to the condominium some of us returned missionaries were staying at, someone asked about going to priesthood meeting early the next morning. Well, I said I was going to go. There were no other takers. In fact, there were a lot of excuses about it being so late and needing to sleep in, and there were a few pokes about my being self-righteous. Nonetheless, I determined I was going to go.

Priesthood meeting started at 7:00 a.m. That made for a pretty short night. I got up early, quietly got ready, and left the extremely dark and quiet condo alone. I drove to the meetinghouse, and as I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed there were no cars there. I thought, “Well, I must be early, and everyone is running on Mormon standard time.” As I approached the door, I saw a piece of paper taped to the glass with a hand written message that read, “No meetings today. Stake conference in Ketchum.”

I got in the car and started to drive back to the condo. I thought, “Boy, am I going to take a ribbing for getting up so early to go to church only to find that there were no meetings to go to. I’ll be laughed at, and my friends will feel justified in their decision to sleep in.”

Even now I find it difficult to describe what happened next. An overwhelming feeling of love came over me, and a voice seemed to whisper to me that my effort, my willingness to be obedient, and my sacrifice were recognized by the Lord. He knew what was in my heart, and He accounted it unto me for righteousness.

Well, I did take a ribbing. My friends laughed at me, and they felt justified in their decision to sleep in. But I knew the Lord knew what was in my heart and He had confirmed this to me in a very personal, special, and sacred way.

I have since pondered that experience and cherished the memory of the feelings that I had at that time. I call it my “Sun Valley experience.”

A poignant experience with a former patient shows how gratitude for generosity and compassion can transform us. In 1987, I became acquainted with Thomas Nielson, a remarkable man who needed a heart transplant. He was 63 years old and lived in Logan, Utah, in the United States. Following military service during World War II, he married Donna Wilkes in the Logan Utah Temple. He became an energetic and successful brick mason. In later years he especially enjoyed working with his oldest grandchild, Jonathan, during school vacations. The two developed a special bond, in part because Tom saw much of himself in Jonathan.
Tom found waiting for a donor heart frustrating. He was not a particularly patient man. He had always been able to set and achieve goals through hard work and sheer determination. Struggling with heart failure, with his life on hold, Tom sometimes asked me what I was doing to speed up the process. Jokingly, he suggested avenues I could pursue that would make a donor heart available to him sooner.
One joyous yet dreadful day, an ideal donor heart became available for Tom. The size and blood type were a match, and the donor was young, just 16 years old. The donor heart belonged to Jonathan, Tom’s beloved grandson. Earlier that day, Jonathan had been fatally injured when the car in which he was riding was struck by a passing train.
When I visited Tom and Donna in the hospital, they were distraught. It is hard to imagine what they were going through, knowing that Tom’s life could be extended by using their grandson’s heart. At first, they refused to consider the proffered heart from Jonathan’s grieving parents, their daughter and son-in-law. Tom and Donna knew, though, that Jonathan was brain dead, and came to understand that their prayers for a donor heart for Tom had not caused Jonathan’s accident. No, Jonathan’s heart was a gift that could bless Tom in his time of need. They recognized that something good might come out of this tragedy and decided to proceed.
The transplant procedures went well. Afterward, Tom was a different man. The change went beyond improved health or even gratitude. He told me that he reflected every morning on Jonathan, on his daughter and son-in-law, on the gift he had received, and on what that gift had entailed. Even though his innate good humor and grit were still readily apparent, I observed that Tom was more solemn, thoughtful, and kindhearted.
Tom lived an additional 13 years after the transplant, years he otherwise would not have had. His obituary stated that these years allowed him to touch the lives of his family and others with generosity and love. He was a private benefactor and an example of optimism and determination.

Before my conversion, I used to read novels and magazines that did nothing for my spirituality. But following my baptism, I happened to find a copy of L‘Etoile (French) with an article “Come unto Me” that seemed to be written just for me. The Spirit inspired me to read the article several times. Since then, worldly books and magazines no longer interest me.
I read each issue of the magazine, and I especially enjoy the articles and testimonies of Saints all over the world because their testimonies help to increase mine.
I would encourage everyone to read and use the Church magazines to improve their lives and feel of the Spirit.
Bokota B. LouisonKinsuka First Branch, Kinshasa Zaire Masina District

What I said about failing any classes was technically correct, but on one occasion I came close, at least in my perception at the time. One of the key premedical courses was comparative vertebrate anatomy, and it was well known that an A was absolutely essential to medical school admission. I was a serious student and worked hard but consistently received C’s on my tests, and that was my final grade. Incidentally, I was naïve enough not to know that the third of the class that did exceptionally well had old tests from the course and the professor always used the same tests!

I was crestfallen and felt that my aspirations had been trashed. Happily, a wonderful premed counselor helped me understand that this was not necessarily the end of the world and probably would not be unless this level of achievement became a pattern. Fortunately, it did not.

About 10 years after this comparative anatomy course trauma, I became the admissions dean of a medical school. I then learned that the common wisdom of my undergraduate years was a myth. In fact, the admissions committee was well aware of the testing practices of this anatomy professor and thus tended to discount the importance of his grades, rather than giving them the prominence that others, including possibly the professor, had attached to them.

Joseph Smith said that our loved ones are around us all the time. I believe that. I believe it with all my heart. And I’m sure that our loved ones loved us even before we or they were born. One day I helped one of my little grandsons in the bathroom with his needs. Perhaps feeling a bit embarrassed at my invasion of his three-and-a-half-year-old privacy, I hugged him up to me and said, “You know, it is good for me to help you because I’m big and you are little.” He looked up at me with his big brown eyes and said, very seriously, “I helped you when you were little.” I remembered my training in childhood education and I replied with confidence, “Yes, I know. You were big when I was little, and I am big when you are little.” But he shook his little head and looked up at me again; there was seriousness and wisdom in his eyes. He paused a moment, and then said sweetly and clearly, “No, Grandpa. I mean before I was born, when you were little, I helped you.” And he added, “I liked to help you.” Then he turned and ran off to his playthings and I remembered how Jesus opened the mouths of the little Nephite children and they told their parents things of the spiritual dimension which were unspeakably beautiful and impossible to write.

Some years ago I had the opportunity to address a business convention in Dallas, Texas, sometimes called “the city of churches.” After the convention, I took a sightseeing bus ride about the city’s suburbs. Our driver would comment, “On the left you see the Methodist church,” or “There on the right is the Catholic cathedral.”
As we passed a beautiful red brick building situated upon a hill, the driver exclaimed, “That building is where the Mormons meet.” A lady from the rear of the bus asked, “Driver, can you tell us something more about the Mormons?” The driver steered the bus to the side of the road, turned about in his seat, and replied, “Lady, all I know about the Mormons is that they meet in that red brick building. Is there anyone on this bus who knows anything about the Mormons?”
I gazed at the expression on each person’s face for some sign of recognition, some desire to comment. I found nothing—not a sign. Then I realized the truth of the statement, “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.” For the next fifteen minutes I had the privilege of sharing with others my testimony concerning The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Eternal perspective and temple covenants have also strengthened Knud and Bodil Christensen’s marriage. Knud manages an electronics and appliance store, and Bodil teaches school. Health problems brought one trial after another, recalls Bodil, now Relief Society president of the Herning Branch.

“There have been many mountains for us to climb, but we could always count on each other for support,” says Bodil. This understanding alludes to her difficulty with childbirth, Knud’s struggle with cancer and subsequent chemotherapy and recovery, their infant daughter Katharine’s meningitis, and the faith and gratitude these have all brought to the Christensen household.

“Going to the temple for strength has provided a spiritual core to our marriage,” adds Knud. He is a man of quiet strength, yet he and his outgoing wife are equally yoked.

Dad doesn’t care much for my drawings. “Waste of time,” he calls it. I try to leave sketching until he’s not around, but it doesn’t always work out too well. Like the other day. I was sure he was down the bottom field fixing fences. I’d noticed a bunch of tiny pansies poking bravely through cracks in the concrete by our goat shed and waited my chance to copy their soft power.
It was a gentle spring morning. Scents of dew-covered grass mingled with fresh hay. Even the whiff of goat skin added a satisfying flavour to the feel of the day.
I was just relaxing, content, penciling in the lines of shape and shadow, when Dad’s furious roar sent my papers flying.
“Can’t I leave you alone for ten minutes without you letting me down?” His muddy boot slammed into the upturned page. “Now get up. If you’ve no jobs to do and your schoolwork’s finished, then at least turn your hand to something useful. This’ll get you nowhere!”
I sensed his frustration. I don’t fit his image of a son.
Picking up the ruined work, I headed slowly for my room. My thoughts were not worthy ones. It’s all very well learning how to handle these situations in church, but when it comes to real life—first it’s hard recognising the feelings I should be having, and when I do, then it’s even harder to make them happen. Wonder if anyone else has this problem? I mean, whoever wants to feel friendly and loving when someone’s shooting rotten thoughts back at you? There must be some secret to it. Trouble is, I’m not sure I really want to find it.
I’m not even sure I really want to stay around here any longer. Maybe Mum’s brother down at Portsmouth would take me in. Mind you, sharing the Church with him could be even more difficult than with Dad. Oh well, who cares?
That was Monday. By the time Wednesday came round, I’d done some deep thinking. I’d carefully avoided conflict with Dad, three and a half quarters decided to pack my bags the following Friday (Dad’s night out at the pub), and given in to the recurring idea that I ought to attend seminary this one last time, if only to thank Teacher for the card.
I edged my way into the back row, taking a long look round. I would miss this crowd, especially Sharon, third row from the front. Her smile always seemed sweeter for me than for anyone else. Pity I wouldn’t be getting to know her better.
The lesson didn’t start too exciting—you know, all that talk about reaching the highest degree of glory. My mind kind of switches off when those “Sunday” words begin, going into neutral with other thoughts creeping in, like working out a different way to milk the goat. (It’s all this growing that’s causing trouble. My head used to rest comfy on the bulge of her stomach, so I could milk with my eyes shut, dreaming a little about this and that. But now my head pokes out above her bony back, and my chin won’t rest easy on that ridgy spine.)
As I was saying, Teacher was going on a bit. Her long black hair swung, glinting in the sunlight as she moved around. I was leaning back, half following the words and enjoying the expressions crisscrossing her face. Then all of a sudden, she produced this piece of pie, oozing bubbly juice, and thick with chunky apple piled between covers of tawny, crumbling pastry. Now, if there’s anything I’m partial to, it’s apple pie—and there was a dollop of cream on top.
“Whatever is she going to do with that?” I asked myself, sniffing a sweet cinnamon smell. “There’s not enough for us all.” I glanced at the others. Everyone’s eyes had opened wide. They were definitely paying attention.
“I’m about to give this to one student,” Teacher continued. “Let me see now … Thomas? Looks like all that farm work is stretching you fast. I’m sure your stomach could manage this pie?”
Couldn’t it just? I hardly dared believe my luck. I had been sure she’d give it to James—he’s the smartest lad, the one whose hand flies up at every question and who knows every scripture the week before we’re asked to learn it. It was his Mum who sent the elders down our way a couple of years ago.
If not him, then surely Sarah? Sarah does everything right. Her work’s neatly handed in on time. Teacher has a special sort of smile for her, I’ve noticed.
But me! I didn’t need asking twice. Did I eat that pie fast? Every crumb tasted like it knew exactly where it should be. And I could feel 22 eyes watching every mouthful. I sat back, rubbing my stomach. She’s right—it has stretched lately.
Then she asked a kind of weird question. “How do the rest of you feel at this moment?”
I mean, how would anyone be expected to feel? Slightly sick, I should think—like they’d been cheated out of something worth having. At least, that’s what James said, and the others nodded. They weren’t too cheerful.
“Good,” said Teacher. “Remember that feeling every time you’re tempted to go astray, because it’s the kind of sensation you might get, only worse, if you don’t make it past the terrestrial kingdom.”
You know, that pulled me up short, making prickles creep up and down my spine. The feelings I’d enjoyed, munching that pie, were great. No way would I have wanted to be the one missing out. Maybe there’s something to all this.
I never did leave home. Weeks went by, and the apple pie memory faded, slipping into a corner somewhere in my mind. Something like my drawing collection—the best ones are treasured and stared at now and again but lie shut in my cupboard most of the time.
If it hadn’t been for the accident, the apple pie corner would probably have stayed closed for a lot longer.
It was a Saturday morning. I know, because Dad had been drinking at the pub the night before. I was down the yard at 5.30 milking Mrs. Nephi. (I call her that because Nephi found wild goats in the promised land. I’ve often wondered whether he liked them as much as I do. I mean, he seemed to care for outsiders, and no one else in the scriptures ever seemed to reckon much to goats, did they?)
I’d just found a good spot to rest my chin—there’s an extra lump of gristle to one side of Mrs. N.’s backbone that’s softer than the rest—when all of a sudden this fox appeared, right out of nowhere, rushing in front of us.
Well, old Mrs. Nephi went crazy, staggering sideways, then stumbling across the stand. I hadn’t bothered to tether her. She never moves an inch normally. Simply gazes into the distance, grinding her teeth round and round like some old lady thinking and thinking.
But this time, back legs bucked, hooves clattered down into the bucket, milk splattered all over … and me? My head snapped back, and I fell off the stool, crashing into the heavy gate beam wedged up against the goat shed.
The beam toppled, missing my neck by inches but hitting my arm, crushing the bone with wicked pain. I remember screaming in agony until things went swimmy and black.
My shrieks must have been right powerful. Only something dreadful could waken Dad on a Saturday morning. Next thing I knew he was leaning close, yelling at me.
Somehow he got me to the hospital, ten miles away. I never, ever, want to try to drive in that condition again. The pain was so terrible, bumping over those country roads, I wanted to cry and whimper like a child. Only the sight of Dad’s tight-lipped face forced back the anguished gasps.
Come to think of it, Teacher could have used an experience like mine when we did that scripture on suffering in the Doctrine and Covenants—19 something-or-other. I need to go over that one. And to think my agony was nothing compared to His. I daren’t begin to imagine His pain—and all for the likes of me and my dad. So I pulled out those apple pie thoughts to check them through again. I don’t want to miss knowing someone who loves me that much.
The day after my accident, Teacher appeared on the doorstep. I could just about see and hear from my makeshift bed on the sofa.
“Why, hello, Mr. Bell.” She didn’t give him a chance to slam the door but kept right on talking. “I’ve brought this pie to cheer up Thomas. I know he’s fond of apples. Could you help him eat it?”
If there’s one thing Dad and I have in common, it’s appreciation of apple pies.
“I … er … I, that’s right good of you, Miss … er …” He was lost for words—my dad was actually tongue-tied. My eyes bulged, and I couldn’t keep the grin away.
“The name’s Jenny, Mr. Bell. I’m Thomas’s seminary teacher, I …”
She got no further. Dad’s tongue loosened fast. “Kind of you—yes, most kind—but I’m sorry, you can’t see the lad. He’s … er …”
Guessing the lie he would offer, I quickly waved, calling out, “Sister Summers, hello! Thanks for coming. Is that for us? Can you stop a minute? How’s Sharon? How’s the class? How’s …” I’d run out of questions, but Dad had opened the door again by this time, sheepishly stepping aside.
She came again and again. Each time Dad softened more. I didn’t realize Teacher cared for animals so much. She could even milk Mrs. Nephi!
Good job she got on the right side of Dad though, because he wouldn’t have let the home teachers round for anyone else but her. And that blessing they gave me—that I don’t remember getting a feeling like that ever before in my whole life. The comforting warmth rushed clear through to my toenails.
Now I’d heard Teacher mention miracles before, but I’m not kidding, I never thought it could happen to me … me, Thomas Bell! I healed all right. So fast that the doctors weren’t sure what was going on. And they were convinced that such a messy break could never mend straight. But it did.
Dad was equally amazed. And incredible as it may seem, he actually looked at my seminary booklets one day while I worked on them. I wanted to keep going, despite the arm. I mean, I couldn’t let her down, could I, not after she had gone to so much trouble. Besides, she makes me feel kind of important. I enjoy that feeling—belonging, somehow.
I’m planning on watching her mouth drop open one day soon. Now that my arm’s in use and I’m milking Mrs. N. again, I’ve made myself a promise. With each squeeze and squirt I’ll repeat a scripture reference until they’re all glued in my brain.
Today our class finished for the year. I gave Sister Summers a box of chocolates.
She looked sort of choked, and I heard her sniff as I turned away to hide my red cheeks. On thinking it over, though, perhaps it was the words, not the chocolates, that made her cry.
“Teacher,” I said, “I’ve decided to start saving for a mission. I want to take part in all the blessings of eternity. Not only that, but I want to help others feel they’re important to someone—you know what I mean?”
She nodded, her lips wobbling a little, and she dabbed away at her eyes with a tissue.
“Oh, and by the way,” I finished in a bit of a rush, because my own eyes weren’t staying too dry either, “Dad says, if I earn half, he … he’ll pay the rest.”
I had to leave the room quickly. But not before I caught a glimpse of her face—it was glowing with such a strange look. Could that be the joy she’s always on about?
Maybe her mind has a “chocolate corner.” I like the idea of being a memory that’s pulled out every now and again.

To site one of many personal encounters, I noticed on the rolls one day a detainee with the first name Omni. I thought, “Oh, he is LDS” and my prompting was “see him now.” When meeting with him, I found out otherwise. He was raised by a loving mother, without a father, in a tough neighborhood with no religion.
I asked, “How did you get your name, Omni?” He said, “Before I was born, my late grandfather had a dream in the night and told my mother, I was to be called Omni and that through my name I would find the truth to save myself, my family and ancestry.”
Wow! I told him that there was a Book of Omni (Book of Mormon) and would he be interested in reading it? “YES.” He also committed to me to read what comes before and after the Book of Omni.
In short, a young life, with a starving spirit, was transformed by the Gospel through the converting powers of the Book of Mormon. May I say, if we are willing to do our spiritual promptings, the Lord has many ways of pouring wisdom into our mind to prompt us, to guide us through new learning experiences, to give us more wisdom, help us expand our potential, and prepare us for what He wants us to become.

“Wake up, girls. The neighbor just came with a message that we need to go to the ranch right away.”
Mom’s voice was quiet but filled with urgency. We were in the process of moving to a ranch several miles away, and Dad was living there by himself until we could join him.
“Why do we have to go to the ranch?” I thought. But the reason for going didn’t really matter as I pulled my nine-year-old body into the pickup truck and went back to sleep.
As Mom pulled the truck up to the house I woke up and saw Dad coming out. He went to Mom and in a low voice told her something that made her gasp, then cry. What was it? There was a stillness in the air that seemed to shout at me, a deathly stillness. My heart began to beat a little faster though I couldn’t understand why.
We walked into the house to find Grandpa seated on the couch. Why was he here, and where was Grandma? Suddenly I knew, without being told, why the stillness was so empty and why my grandfather was sitting there without my grandmother. I found myself hoping against hope that I was wrong.
The next few minutes were spent in listening to my father call the mortuary (a foreign word to me) and trying to get rid of the big lump in my throat. I wasn’t going to cry; I was simply scared. Soon Dad took us upstairs to put us to bed. I silently waited for what was coming, still hoping I was wrong.
“Girls, something happened to your grandma today. She was in a car accident, and she was killed. We won’t see her anymore.”
Simple, quiet, direct, and powerful. Oh, how powerful! I started crying but not just for the loss of my grandmother. Something more consuming had entered my mind. The lump returned to my throat and my heart began to beat even faster.
Was she really dead? Of course she was. But was she really? What was death? Could she feel anything now? Could she see me thinking about her? Was she just floating in space? I couldn’t imagine her life just ending and nothing more. Something inside me told me it wasn’t right for death to be so permanent. I imagined myself dying, and panic seized me. It didn’t seem possible that when I died I wouldn’t feel, hear, think, smell, see, or anything. The thought was unbearable to me, and I slammed a door against my fear, locking it away.
Six years later as I lay in bed, my thoughts wandered aimlessly back to that quiet June night. I could almost hear my father’s voice telling us Grandma was dead. Grandma! Like lightning the door of the mind opened, and my fear was released. “No!” I screamed silently, turning over in bed and closing my eyes. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to imagine what death was like. There were no pictures to imagine, only darkness and emptiness. And again something inside me told me that darkness wasn’t right.
I arose, went to my window, and gazed into the night, concentrating on the shadowy forms of trees and distant sounds of crickets and cattle. Soon the fear was behind its door again. But for how long?
Summer passed, school started, and before I knew how it happened, my best friend had introduced me to the missionaries, I had no prior religious affiliation, and I was not really aware of who they were, but they were friendly and I couldn’t help but like them.
One day, late in the fall one of the elders approached me. “We have a movie we’d like you and your family to see,” he said. “Could we set up a time when we could come to your home and show it?”
“Well,” I hesitated, “I don’t know if my dad would like that or not.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” continued the missionary. “We’ll only come if he wants us to. We’d like to show it next Monday night if we can.”
“Okay,” I said, inwardly eager for my parents to meet these two young men. I was sure they would like them if they met them. But would they want to meet them? I approached my father cautiously that night, expecting a negative reply to my request, but to my surprise and delight, he consented to have the missionaries come the following Monday evening. The next day I contacted them and told them the good news. I then began to look forward to their visit wondering what kind of movie they were going to show, having no idea of the effect it would have on my life.
Monday evening came, and at the appointed time there was a knock on our door, I let our guests in and introduced them to my parents. The two young men talked easily with them while setting up their equipment. I was disappointed as I watched them prepare a filmstrip projector instead of a movie projector. “This looks like something we’d see in history class,” I thought.
“Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going?” The words rang through my mind. As I watched the movie and my fears were let loose again, there were answers to greet the fears. I imagined death, and this time there were pictures in my mind—pictures of people, waiting together. There was no more darkness, and the something that had been telling me all along that darkness wasn’t right was now telling me that the pictures in my mind were right. I felt a burden lifting.
“What did you think?” asked one of the elders at the conclusion of the filmstrip.
“Very nice,” my parents commented politely. I had no comment. I was still thinking of all I had just heard. I felt a peacefulness I had never felt before, and I wanted to know more.
The missionaries returned to our home with the discussions, and within a few weeks I was baptized. A whole new life began for me. No longer was I living from one day to the next, wondering when my fear of death would overtake me. No more did I feel terror at the thought of death.
Now I knew that end was only another beginning.

Eighteen-year-old Keri Ainge of Sutton Coldfield, England, barely caught her breath after baptism before she was totally immersed in missionary work, both for the living and for the dead.
Keri helped the missionaries teach her own mother, and then together she and her mother started sorting out their family history. They’ve researched six generations back into the 1700s. “We searched one graveyard at Hockley, Birmingham, for three days hunting for one great-grandparent’s grave,” said Keri. “It was amazing when we found the right one.”
Keri has also spent several weeks helping the sister missionaries in Coventry and Northampton. This helped her love the work so much she’s determined to serve a full-time mission of her own just as soon as she turns 21.

October 3, 1984, began as an ordinary day. The sun rose, the colors of autumn sprinkled the Midwest, and it appeared as the garden spot of the nation. The day was somewhat uneventful until the telephone rang. “Elder Sonnenberg?” the voice inquired, and then intoned, “The office of the First Presidency is calling. President Hinckley would like to speak with you.”
After a brief exchange of kindnesses, he invited me to become a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy and a General Authority. It has been, and yet remains, overwhelming. The day took on new meaning and an entirely different dimension in my life as I pondered the challenge and invitation. I will do my best and serve with all my heart. My lovely wife and children and their wonderful families surely sustain me, as they have always done.
Men’s lives have been clearly and completely changed by such invitations from men of God. This acceptance was acknowledged by asking when and where the Lord would have me go.
Men and women the world over are invited each day to come and join with us. The Savior invited men to “come, follow me.” (Luke 18:22.) It was not an ordinary invitation—to follow Jesus. The commitment had everlasting and eternal consequences. Peter was invited to “launch out into the deep.” (Luke 5:4.) He was a strong, suntanned, ordinary fisherman until he was invited “to let down [the] nets.” (Luke 5:4.) Thereafter he would never be the same because the Savior was steering his soul more than the ship. Yes, he was an ordinary fisherman until he heard the voice of Jesus and accepted His invitation.
Another time Peter was invited to walk on the water, and when he couldn’t continue he learned that when our faith falters we fail. (See Matt. 14:28–31.) Accepting the invitation requires unconditional faith.
In the presence of arrogant and angry men who were eager to accuse, the Master inscribed in sand and dust that which is now cast in concrete. The crowded courtyard of anxious accusers was cleared, and a sinner was saved from stoning because the Savior was interested in the person more than the problem. (See John 8:3–11.) He invited us to not judge, and then He demonstrated that forgiveness fosters love and that casting stones simply wouldn’t solve the problem or bring about a solution.
If we are to be as He is, we must be as He was. We must even invite with interest those who show disinterest and hope that somehow they will recognize the divine discourse described as a testimony.
He invited us to seek after the singular sheep that was lost. He made us to understand that a lost sheep is really a lost soul that we need to seek and search for, that a lost coin is one who needs to be counted and then converted, and that a prodigal son is one that can be saved by serving and then giving service himself.
He invited little children to come unto Him and each of us to become as one of them. He invited men to love one another as He has loved us, and then He would call them His disciples. He extended His love to His Apostles on condition that they understood what unconditional love for their fellowman was.
He invites men to receive the priesthood of God and to magnify it by service. He invites us to pay our tithing and fast offering, to teach the gospel, and to be baptized, and receive the Holy Ghost. And He invites us to preach the gospel in all the world because we are a worldwide church.
Last month my faithful and youthful companion, Timmy Manners, and I did our home teaching. Sixteen-year-old Timmy was born in the British Isles, I was born in the DDR [German Democratic Republic], and we teach a family from France. We visit them in Germany, and speak English—and we all understand each other.
Each of our families were converted to this, the Lord’s true church, by dedicated missionaries in different lands. We were taught by the sweet Spirit of the Lord. As we meet monthly in the lovely home of Jean Collin and his wonderful family, we have the opportunity to enlighten one another in our home teaching visit by that same sweet Spirit.
We invite the Spirit of the Lord on bended knee in the attitude of prayer. On this wise shall ye pray. What an invitation to communicate in the name of Christ! We are invited to cry repentance and bear our testimony, and then as a crown of commitment He allows us to go to His Holy House and be sealed for eternity.
Before 1830, April 6 was also just an ordinary day. Since the coming of the Book of Mormon and the organization of His church, the Spirit of the Lord has touched men and women around the world. Apostles and prophets and fellow Saints have borne witness of the divinity of the restoration of the gospel. Light, knowlege, and truth have been restored, and the Spirit of the Lord has been felt by members of His Church.
My beloved brothers and sisters, I testify that the Book of Mormon is true, that Jesus is the Christ and that Spencer W. Kimball is a prophet of God, and I invite you to follow them and enjoy the Spirit of the Lord, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Sixteen-year-old Jason Hunter works for McDonalds in Ayre, another small town up the road. Some employees bring a healthy appetite to this workplace; Jason tries to bring a healthy attitude.
“I decided to learn everything I could about my job—how to make the food, how to work the cash register, everything. And I set a standard of honesty for myself. I’ve seen others look around and then take food. I get hungry, but because I set that standard I wait until after work and buy the food.”

My testimony of the Book of Mormon came when I was a seminary student in high school. Our teacher challenged us to read the entire book—something I had not done before. As I read, I remember how tears would stream down my cheeks as the Spirit testified to me that the words I was reading were true. I wanted to be worthy so that the Lord could say to me just as he did to Nephi, “Blessed art thou, because of they faith, for thou hast sought me diligently.” (1 Ne. 2:19.) Three years later I received my patriarchal blessing, which admonished me to read the Book of Mormon with a prayerful heart that my testimony would be strengthened. That promise has been fulfilled year after year as I have continued to study this holy book of scripture.

As my mother grew into her twenties, she prayed longingly to be able to marry a member of the Church and somehow be sealed in the temple.
Our family of five was sealed together in the Cardston Alberta Temple in October 1976. My mother had set her sights on this day over 20 years earlier and finally, in a country and language that she would have never imagined as a youth, her prayers were answered. I was then almost eight years old, and I have wonderful memories of my parents’ sparkling eyes and smiles as we children entered the sealing room.

When I was a bishop, being obedient meant sacrificing to attend the temple. My wife and I were invited to attend general conference in Salt Lake City, Utah. We did not have enough money to make the trip, but we greatly desired to be sealed for eternity in the Lord’s house. We asked Heavenly Father to provide a way for us to answer His invitation to all Saints to go to the temple. We were blessed to find additional jobs. We earned enough to make the trip to Salt Lake City. Kneeling in the temple, all in white, with my wife, Cristina, was one of the most special experiences of my life. Our marriage was different after we went to the temple and felt the Holy Spirit of the Lord seal us for eternity.

Here’s a fun puzzle game called Chinese Writing.
Trevor carefully eyed the odd collection of a dozen kitchen utensils on the floor.
“Who drew this picture?” he asked.
“I’m the artist,” volunteered Ken. Trevor looked carefully at Ken sitting cross-legged with head in hands. Trevor walked cautiously around the strange piece of artwork somewhat resembling a stick person.
“Well, judging from the cheese grater used for hair I suspect this is a drawing of a girl.” He carefully examined the large group of people surrounding him in the circle. “Because of the potato masher used for the mouth it must be someone with a pretty smile.” He glanced at Carol intently sitting cross-legged and head in hands. “I say it is none other than Carol Parkins.”
The group gasped in amazement. “How did you know?”
“I think I know how he did it,” boasted Cheri. “I’ll leave the room next and try.”
Do you know how Trevor did it? Did you catch the trick? That’s right. The artist gave away who the subject was by simply sitting in the same pose in which the subject was sitting. Trevor had only to see who in the room was sitting exactly like Ken. It was obviously Carol. Obvious? Well, only if you know the trick. You’ll be surprised how long it will take your friends to figure it out. Try it on them at the next birthday party you go to.

In addition to the strength they find in seminary, youth in Guyana fortify themselves from other sources as well. For example, 16-year-old Michael Ramgobin of the Demerara Branch says that For the Strength of Youth is a great help to him.
“Everyone should have this,” he says, holding up his copy of the pamphlet. “It really helps you make decisions that are right.” He recommends reading it over and over again, “because it seems like every time you do, you find something new to help you.”
The only member of the Church in his family, Michael says family members support his membership because they see such a difference in him since he became a Latter-day Saint. “I feel a lot more confident as I keep learning more and more about the gospel,” Michael says. He particularly enjoys listening to general conference and attending youth conferences. “I feel I have become part of something real.”
What else has strengthened Michael in the year since he joined the Church? “Reading the scriptures. As you read, the Holy Ghost helps you see things you didn’t see before. Then with the faith you have in Jesus Christ, you find your way. That’s why my testimony keeps building every day.”
The youth in the branch help each other, too. “We share our concerns and encourage each other,” Michael says. In fact, he feels similar encouragement from everyone in the branch, and was particularly impressed when some of the missionaries presented him with a white shirt and tie.
“When I walked into church the next Sunday, everyone said, ‘Wow, you look like a real missionary.’ I feel a difference when I’m dressed that way.” A full-time mission sounds exciting, he says. It would be a good way to continue the great day that dawned when he joined the Church.