Gospel Story Finder

José Humberto González Garza, 69, a member of the Campestre Ward, serves as patriarch in the Monterrey México Roma Stake and has seen patriarchal blessings change lives. He remembers an older woman who was promised she would be able to serve in the temple. She thought it could not happen because of her age and the distance to a temple. But a temple was later built nearby, and she found joy in serving.

“I feel so satisfied doing my duty,” Brother González says. Because he is partially blind, he uses a cane to help him get around. He also uses a hearing aid. And at times he feels he can’t do as much as he used to. But, he says, “when my children ask me, ‘Are you giving blessings, Dad?’ I tell them, ‘No, I’m receiving blessings.’”

As you read, you will discover new insight and meaning even in stories you have heard before. No scene in Church history is better known than Joseph Smith’s First Vision, but Saints helps us better understand how Joseph struggled to reconcile what he felt in his heart with what he thought in his mind.

Joseph’s heartfelt desire to feel the Savior’s forgiveness had gone unfulfilled because he observed that none of the existing churches taught “the gospel of Jesus Christ as recorded in the New Testament.” [16] In his mind, Joseph pondered which church was right or if they were all wrong. In his heart, he desperately hoped that one of them was right so he could find the peace he sought. With his head and his heart at odds, Joseph discovered that he could ask of God. He went to the woods to pray. There he saw the Father and the Son, who forgave him and resolved his dilemma in a way he had never imagined. [17]

I recall just a few years ago seeing a drama enacted at the Salt Lake Airport. On this particular day, I got off an airplane and walked into the terminal. It was immediately obvious that a missionary was coming home because the airport was full of conspicuous-looking missionary friends and missionary relatives.

I tried to pick out the immediate family members. There was a father who did not look particularly comfortable in an awkward-fitting and slightly out-of-fashion suit. He seemed to be a man of the soil, with a suntan and large, work-scarred hands. His white shirt was a little frayed and was probably never worn except on Sunday.

There was a mother who was quite thin, looking as if she had worked very hard in her life. She had in her hand a handkerchief—and I think it must have been a linen handkerchief once but now it looked like tissue paper. It was nearly shredded from the anticipation only the mother of a returning missionary could know.

Two or three younger brothers and sisters were running around, largely oblivious to the scene that was unfolding.

I walked past them all and started for the front of the terminal. Then I thought to myself, “This is one of the special human dramas in our lives. Wait and enjoy it.” So I stopped. I moved to the back of the crowd to watch. The passengers were starting to come off the plane.

I found myself wondering as to who would be first to breakaway from the welcoming group. A look at the mother’s handkerchief convinced me that she would probably be the one.

As I sat there, I saw the returning missionary start to come down the stairs from the airplane. I knew he was the one by the squeals of excitement from the crowd. He looked like Captain Moroni, clean and handsome and straight and tall. Undoubtedly he had known the sacrifice this mission had meant to his father and mother, and it had made him exactly the missionary he appeared to be. He had his hair trimmed for the trip home, his suit was worn but clean, his slightly tattered raincoat was still protecting him from the chill his mother had so often warned him about.

He came to the bottom of the steps and started out toward the airport building and then, sure enough, somebody couldn’t wait any longer. It wasn’t the mother, and it wasn’t any of the children, or even the girlfriend standing nearby. It was father. That big, slightly awkward, quiet and bronzed giant of a man pushed his way past an airline attendant and ran out and swept his son into his arms.

The missionary was probably 6?2? or so, but this big father grabbed him, lifted him off the ground, and held him for a long, long time. He just held him and said nothing. The boy dropped his briefcase, put both arms around his dad, and they just held each other very tightly. It seemed like all eternity stood still, and for a precious moment the Salt Lake City Airport was the center of the entire universe. It was as if all the world had gone silent out of respect for such a sacred moment.

And then I thought of God the Eternal Father watching his son go out to serve, to sacrifice when he didn’t have to do it, paying his own expenses, so to speak, costing everything he had saved all his life to give. At that precious moment, it was not too difficult to imagine that Father speaking with some emotion to those who could hear, “This is my Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” And it was also possible to imagine that triumphant returning son, saying, “It is finished. Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Even in my limited imagination, I can see that reunion in the heavens. And I pray for one like it for you and for me. I pray for reconciliation and for forgiveness, for mercy, and for the Christian growth and Christian character we must develop if we are to enjoy such a moment fully.

I am the only member of the Church in my class at school. One day I had a substitute teacher, and she asked a question about a Christian religion in a different country. I thought the answer was Mormons, so I answered her question. She told me that she wanted to know a Christian religion because she thought that Mormons were not Christians. I told her that Mormons are Christians because we believe in Jesus Christ. I had just been baptized, and I knew that I believed in Jesus Christ. Our church is His Church. I bore my testimony of the Savior to my whole class. Many people have asked me questions about my religion since that day, and I have been able to be a missionary and share the gospel because I stood up for my beliefs.
Tate M., age 8, Virginia, USA

When I was a little boy, I lived on a ranch in Firth, Idaho. I had fun doing all the things a little boy could do on a ranch—feeding the chickens and petting the sheep, ducks, rabbits, and pigs.
My parents had often warned my older brother and me to never play with the farm machinery. But one day we started playing near the combine, which is a big machine that cuts grain. My brother discovered the crank that made the blades move to cut the grain. While he turned the crank, I started putting grass and leaves in the machine and watching the blades cut them.
Then I saw something shocking. Lying among the grass and leaves was my own finger! The very sharp blades of the machine had cut my finger off. My finger hurt a lot, and so did my conscience. I knew that I had lost my finger because I had disobeyed my mother and father.
Just as our parents give us guidance to keep us safe, so does Heavenly Father. As a young man, I was in the National Guard. I went to Fort Knox, Kentucky, to learn all about tanks and helicopters so that I could be an officer in an armored cavalry unit. While I was there, I made friends with a soldier who was not a member of our church. My friend often teased me because I did not drink or smoke, as he did. I told him about the Word of Wisdom and about other Church teachings.
One day our troop had to run a special kind of race. Every so often along the ten-mile course, we had to stop and pass a test. For example, we might have to figure out why a tank wasn’t running, adjust a machine gun, or do something else we had been learning in our training. My friend and I agreed that this race would be a good test of whose lifestyle was healthier—his or mine.
The men started the race one at a time in alphabetical order, with about a minute between each man. My friend’s last name started with A and mine with C, so he started the race a few minutes before I did. About a third of the way through the course, I saw a truck with a red cross on its side. Inside the ambulance was my friend. Because he did not take good care of his body, he was not physically fit and could not finish the race. I finished in good shape because I had always lived the Word of Wisdom.
I am so grateful that the Lord cares for us so much that He tells us how to take good care of our bodies and our spirits. Living the Word of Wisdom will truly give you strength. It will help you run and not be weary and walk and not faint—all because the Lord loves you.

A recent experience illustrates the importance of each of these little children. One Saturday morning I was preparing for an activity with one of my grandsons. But before we could make our exit out the door, I heard another small voice inquiring, “Can I go too, Grandpa?” Did you ever try to say no to such a request? That activity would not have been the same without that someone else who really wanted to “go too.” Just as surely, heaven will not be heaven if some of our children who want to “go too” are left behind.

Some years ago I was working with the missionaries in Korea. We walked into a furniture store in downtown Seoul and were soon introduced to the proprietor. He was very kind to the elders. I listened to them encouraging him to accept a copy of the Book of Mormon. I do not speak Korean, but I understood enough to know the proprietor was friendly and open to the missionaries. In a few moments he invited us upstairs to his apartment. He walked over to what we thought was a window, where he drew back the curtain to reveal a bookshelf. It held at least 12 copies of the Book of Mormon in the Korean language. Obviously, someone had been there before us. My thought at that time was, “We need to place a copy of the Book of Mormon in this man’s heart, not on his bookshelf.”

I recently received a letter from a sister serving a mission in Siberia that showed how a small group of Russian sisters was engaged in this active kind of love. Sister Okelberry said:
“I am proud to report that the women of Siberia have caught the vision of the Relief Society. Sister Kappenkova, a six-month Church member, has risen to the mighty challenge of Relief Society president of this northernmost group in Russia. She, along with her counselors, understands the importance of visiting teaching and is helping these sisters serve each other and build each other—saving them from the dangers of inactivity. They are teaching each other precious gospel principles and valuable skills in leadership as mothers, wives, and women in the Church. Conditions are not easy for them. Yet they understand and have already embraced those immortal words ‘Charity Never Faileth.’ It has been an honor to watch this develop right before my eyes.
“With only one short and very precious week left of my missionary time, I know that my sisters will be left in good hands—they are all taking care of each other” (letter from Michelle Okelberry, 31 Jan. 1996).

One afternoon my younger sister Camilia and I were playing while my dad was mowing the lawn. We decided to help him. Even though it was very hot, we had fun working together. When we finished, we went with my dad to return the lawnmower to our elderly neighbor. When we got to her door, my dad offered to mow her lawn too. My sister and I decided to help too. While he mowed, we picked up the grass and put it in a bag. When we finished, the neighbor said, “Thank you so much, Sofia and Camilia, for cleaning my yard. You are very sweet and caring girls.” Then she gave us some candy. We went home very happy, not just because we had candy but because we had served our neighbor.
Sofia Carolina P., age 9, Argentina

My brothers and sisters, I begin by sharing an event from a large ward in Provo about 20 years ago. During a sacrament meeting, a little boy made a big disturbance. After several minutes of trying to quiet this noisy three-year-old, the mother desperately handed him to the father, who was seated on the aisle close to the front of the chapel. By this time the noise distracted the speaker and audience, and everyone was very conscious of the parents’ plight. The father’s patience was much shorter than the mother’s. In a few moments he put the little boy over his shoulder, stood up, and started for the back door. Looking back over his father’s shoulder and sensing his determined steps, the little boy became quiet and apprehensive. Just as the father approached the rear door of the chapel, the little fellow reached his arms out toward the stand and shouted, “Bishop, help!”

“Visits to this house are certainly a waste of time,” my visiting teaching companion said as we knocked on the weather-beaten door of a small and sagging house located behind another house. “We never find anyone home.”
I glanced at her and nodded, as the peeling paint dug deep into my knuckles with the repeated firm raps; but we lingered, hoping today might be different. It wasn’t, and we finally walked back along the heavily overgrown path to the street.
“Well, we’re really (see Matt. 5:41) trying to see this woman,” I said as we climbed into the car. “Even locating her place was a monumental accomplishment.”
Hidden from view by a larger house in front of it, the shabby little place had been difficult to find when we had made our first visit six months earlier. Altered ward boundaries had brought a few new families into our ward from another ward, and this sister had been added to our district. When the address seemed incorrect, we had persisted, and after stopping at two service stations and inquiring at several doors, we had finally followed the overgrown path and discovered the small house. But that discovery was followed only by disappointing silence.
Since no telephone number showed on Judy Kearns’s information card, we had checked the directory service, only to learn that she had an unlisted number. A look at the ward records showed us that she was an inactive convert of three years who was supporting two small children by herself.
With each visit we had left a friendly note asking her to telephone us, but there was no response. We had even left some fruit at her door and had stopped by on a weekend, but we were always met by empty silence.
“Just another lost cause,” I thought as we drove down the street toward home, but my conscience nagged. Had we really gone the extra mile? What was the extra mile? By gospel standards, it was not just filling an assignment, I remembered, but caring enough to magnify an opportunity to successful fulfillment. True, we had put our toes into the extra mile, but that was only a tiny distance, and full steps could be taken.
That night, after four telephone calls, I managed to locate the visiting teacher from Judy’s previous ward. The information I got was vague, but I did get the unlisted telephone number. As I hung up, a little stirring of excitement lifted my spirits, and I eagerly dialed her number, only to be met again with the disappointment of prolonged, hollow, unanswered ringing. I tried again the next day and evening, but with no success.
While I was on my way home from a late-afternoon dental appointment several days later, the thought flashed into my mind that Judy, too, might be on her way home. It was the end of the normal working day, and she must go home once in a while. Would she resent a visit at such an inconvenient time? On a quick impulse I swung the car in her direction and decided to take a chance. Stopping my car at the curb and looking down the long driveway, I could see the usual empty car stall, so I switched off the motor to wait. When twenty-five minutes had ticked by I shifted nervously, knowing my own family would be arriving home wondering where Mom and the usual dinner aroma was.
Uneasily I waited another fifteen minutes and was just getting ready to leave when an old, weather-beaten Volkswagen pulled into the driveway and filled the stall. By the time Judy had unloaded two small children from the car and located her house key, I was on the porch explaining who I was and expressing delight in finally having the opportunity to meet her. She responded with a cool, uncomfortable attitude, but my friendliness won and she invited me into her small living room.
I initially centered my attention on her young son and daughter, while they showed me their art work from nursery school and described in detail the skinned knee under Gary’s bandage. This gave Judy a chance to relax and observe me. Slowly she warmed up to my interest in her children, and she hesitantly began sharing some of her struggles to protect them from the ravages of a shattered marriage. I learned that her husband had left her and the children to find what he called his “personal freedom.” In her determination to survive, she began working at a job that did not pay much and was taking night classes to become a dental assistant. She had placed the children in a neighborhood christian church school, and was attending Sunday services there as well. It really didn’t matter where they went to church, she said, as long as they went.
My visit was short, but I had established a relationship and made an appointment for another visit on her day off. At the door, I looked straight into her eyes and bore my testimony to the truthfulness of the gospel, and begged her not to deprive her precious children of the chance to share in its beauty. Her eyes filled with tears and I squeezed her hand as I left.
Anxious to take another step for Judy, I tried to communicate with her home teacher. After three telephone calls devoted to locating someone with the latest list of assignments, I learned that the ward executive secretary would be the one with whom to talk. He wasn’t home when I called, and after repeated attempts all evening, I finally gave up.
Two nights later, I tried again, only to find he had left her records at church and that I should call the clerk’s office in a few nights to get the information. I called as suggested, but no one answered, and I began wondering if it really was important to contact the home teacher.
My visiting teaching companion was delighted when she learned I had actually made an appointment with Judy, and she brought new enthusiasm to our efforts as we approached the little house in the rear. Judy was waiting for us and received, with appreciation, the still warm cookies we had baked for her. The first part of our visit was light and friendly, but then Judy began sharing her fears and concerns for her children, the devastating feelings of inadequacy she had, and the agony of her financial struggles. We offered sympathy and dried her tears, but I knew more must be done. At the door I asked about her home teacher and learned she had never seen one since coming into our ward boundary. I was indignant! How could six months have passed without an assignment?
Sunday morning I was at church early to talk with the executive secretary. On investigation, we found that Ray Greer, a responsible, dedicated elder, was Judy’s assigned home teacher. I was baffled, and tried to locate him at church, only to learn he was on a two-week vacation. I was amazed at how many obstacles cluttered this extra mile I was trying to walk and I determined not to let them stop me. With that in mind, I contacted Ray on the day he arrived home. As I asked my questions, he looked at me in blank confusion. He knew nothing of Judy Kearns, or of an assignment to be her home teacher, and we quickly realized that the communication chain had dropped a link someplace along the way. I handed him Judy’s unlisted number, gave him notes on my information, and told him my urgent concern for her. He expressed appreciation for my help and seemed eager to correct the situation.
In a few short weeks the extra mile had turned into a miracle mile. It was the miracle of God’s organized plan in operation, the miracle of dedicated men honoring their priesthood, the miracle of women who care. It was thrilling to see the process in full operation, to see people eagerly following the Lord’s outlined programs. It was exciting to know that I belonged to his church.
Ray not only had an immediate visit with Judy, but he also invited her to share dinner and home evening with his family that week. At that gathering the children responded to each other, and soon Judy was enjoying the deep interest of Ray’s wife, who offered to come and drive them all to Sunday School. Judy was hesitant, but the children were eager, and she finally agreed.
Coming back to church gave Judy a new awareness of the importance of the restored gospel, and before leaving she had met the bishop, talked with the Relief Society president, and agreed to let one of the Primary officers pick up her children from nursery school to attend Primary. When the bishop learned that Judy would soon be a trained dental assistant and was concerned about a job, he asked the ward employment director to start looking for dentists who might be prospective employers. By the time Judy was certified, he had three good interviews waiting. She was offered all three jobs and chose the highest salary offer.
A few weeks later the Relief Society president visited Judy to request her help in giving some information about dental care to the night Relief Society. Judy responded and enjoyed meeting other working sisters who shared many of her same problems. She became a steady supporter of Relief Society. Then the bishop decided it was time for a Church calling. Junior Sunday School seemed to fit her schedule best, and in a short time Judy was one of its outstanding teachers.
Then Ray Greer, who had been concentrating on finding her a better place to live within the ward boundary, found an excellent home for them. While the elders moved her belongings, the night Relief Society put paper on the shelves and the Sunday School officers prepared food to make it a party. Judy had become special to a lot of people and a very vital part of our ward.
On the fast Sunday when Judy stood to bear her testimony for the first time, the chapel was especially quiet as we all listened closely. She humbly acknowledged her new-found security in the knowledge that the Lord walked with her and that his gospel brought the serenity to overcome fear and inadequacy. Tears of gratitude flowed down her cheeks as she expressed love for all those who had helped lift her life with their caring. As she finished, most of us reached for our handkerchiefs and sensed the elation of shared victory. Wiping my eyes, I marveled at the beautiful process that had brought about Judy’s transformation. And I knew, incredible as it seemed, that it had all begun with some meager efforts to go the extra mile in my visiting teaching assignment.
I realized that day with a new clarity that, insignificant as we may feel in the service of God, each of us possesses the ability to put His great plans into operation, to release marvelous power that changes and builds lives, to provide the outlet for dedicated, vibrant service. But this tremendous potential can move ahead only when we create the momentum, when we release the dams and allow God’s magnificent glory to go forward and make the extra mile a miracle mile!

As a teenager in Matsumoto, Japan, I was very interested in learning English. At age 17 I joined the English club at my high school. At the start of the school year, the club decided to find a native English speaker to teach us English conversation. We searched and searched, but the English instructors we spoke to charged a fee, and the club couldn’t afford to pay. Discouraged, we almost gave up.
Then one day, as I rode my bicycle to school, I saw some young American men in suits handing out flyers. I took one and put it in my pocket. After school I examined the paper and found that it was an invitation to attend a free English conversation class. On the flyer was the name “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” I had never heard of such a church, but I was excited; I had solved the English club’s problem!
On the day of the next class, about 30 club members attended with me. The missionaries taught the class, which we all enjoyed very much. From the very first day of class, I noticed that there was something different about the missionaries. Their warmth, love, positive attitudes, and cheerfulness deeply impressed me. There seemed to be a light around them—I had never before met anyone quite like them.
After several weeks I began asking the missionaries about their church, and they invited me to learn more. I accepted, and they taught me the missionary lessons. At the time I did not fully understand or appreciate the importance of what I was learning, but I felt the Spirit, and I understood that the principles the missionaries were teaching me were good. When they invited me to be baptized, I accepted.
Before I could join the Church, however, I had to receive my parents’ consent. At first they were very much against it—the teachings of Christianity were foreign and strange to them. But I was not yet ready to give up. I asked the missionaries to come to my home and explain to my parents about the Church, what they had been teaching me, and what would be expected of me. The Spirit softened my parents’ hearts, and this time they gave me permission to be baptized.
After I was baptized and confirmed, I attended the little Matsumoto Branch of 12 to 15 active members. I made friends, and it was fun to attend every week. About a year later I graduated from high school and moved to Yokohama to attend the university. The nearest branch was the Tokyo Central Branch, which had more than 150 active members. When I attended this new branch, I felt like a country boy in the big city. I had a hard time making friends. One Sunday I stayed home from church. Soon I stopped attending altogether. I began making friends with my nonmember classmates, and the Church drifted further and further from my mind.
This continued for several months. Then one day I received a letter from a sister in the Matsumoto Branch. “I heard you have stopped attending church,” she said. I was surprised. Apparently someone from my new branch had told her I was not attending church anymore! The sister continued her letter by quoting Doctrine and Covenants 121:34: “Behold, there are many called, but few are chosen.” Then she wrote, “Koichi, you have been baptized a member of the Church. You have been called, but you are no longer among the chosen.”
As I read these words, I was filled with regret. I knew I needed to change somehow. I realized that I did not have a strong testimony. I wasn’t sure if God lived, and I didn’t know if Jesus Christ was my Savior. For several days I grew anxious as I thought about the message in the letter. I didn’t know what to do. Then one morning I remembered something the missionaries had taught me. They had asked me to read Moroni 10:3–5, promising that I could know the truth for myself. I decided that I must pray. If I felt nothing, I could completely forget about the Church and the commandments, and I would never go again. However, if I did receive an answer, as Moroni promised, I would have to repent, embrace the gospel with all my heart, go back to church, and do all I could to follow the commandments.
As I knelt and prayed that morning, I pleaded with Heavenly Father to answer me. “If Thou live—if Thou are real,” I prayed, “please let me know.” I prayed to know if Jesus Christ was my Savior and if the Church was true. As I finished, I suddenly felt something. I was surrounded by a warm feeling, and my heart was filled with joy. I understood the truth: God does live, and Jesus is my Savior. The Lord’s Church was truly restored by the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Book of Mormon is the word of God.
Needless to say, I prayed for forgiveness that very day and resolved to follow the commandments. I returned to church and promised the Lord that I would do whatever it took to remain faithful.
A short time later the Church began making plans to build a chapel in Yokohama. At that time members of the branch were expected to contribute money and provide labor for the building’s construction. When the mission president challenged the branch members to contribute all they could, I remembered my commitment to do whatever the Lord asked of me. So every day for nearly a year, I helped with the construction after my university classes were over.
About this same time, Elder Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, visited Japan and encouraged the youth of the Church to achieve four goals: (1) receive as much higher education as possible, (2) serve a full-time mission, especially the young men, (3) marry in the temple, and (4) gain skills to support a family. Until that point I had never planned to accomplish these four things. But I later knelt and prayed: “Heavenly Father, I want to accomplish those four goals. Please help me.”
I knew that in order to stay on the path of the chosen, I needed to follow the counsel of the Lord’s servants. I committed to do all I could to follow Elder Kimball’s advice and to work hard to build up the Church.
For the next several years I continued to work toward my four goals. I served as a construction missionary for two years, helping build two chapels in my home country. Then I was called to serve a full-time proselytizing mission. Soon after returning home, I married in the temple the woman from the Matsumoto Branch who wrote me the letter. Later I landed my dream job in a foreign trading company. As I followed the word of the Lord and the counsel of the prophets, I felt that again I was on the path of the chosen. And I am striving to stay on that path today.
My young brothers and sisters, the Savior calls continually to all of us, bidding us to follow Him. The Lord taught, “My sheep hear my voice, … and they follow me” (John 10:27). You have heard the Lord’s voice; you have followed Him by being baptized into His Church. Indeed, you have been called. However, to be chosen is a very different matter.
Decide now that you will do whatever it takes to remain faithful. Decide to endure to the end by following all of God’s commandments. Set righteous and worthy goals for yourself. Gain an education, serve a mission, marry in the temple, and support your family both spiritually and temporally. If you have not yet gained a testimony, please get on your knees and ask Heavenly Father to help you gain a knowledge of the truth. Then, when the answer comes, commit yourself wholeheartedly to the work of the Lord. Do whatever it takes to get on the path of the chosen.

Shelly sat on the front steps with her big pink elephant. “Remember when we went to Mr. Bin’s farm?” she asked. “He let us ride the pony, and you were scared. I was a little bit scared, too, but not really.”
“Hello, Shelly,” called her neighbor Mrs. Lee. “Are you talking to your toy elephant? I remember how I used to talk to my doll when I was your age.”
“I’m talking to Jojo,” Shelly replied.
“Jojo’s a nice name for an elephant.”
“He’s not an elephant! He’s a boy,” Shelly explained.
Mrs. Lee smiled and nodded her head. “Whatever you say, dear.”
Shelly watched Mrs. Lee drive away in her car. She giggled. “She thought you were an elephant.”
The mailman came up the walk. “Are you and your elephant having a nice chat on this beautiful day?” he asked.
“He can’t talk,” Shelly said.
“No, but you can talk to him. I remember talking to a teddy bear when I was little.”
“I was talking to Jojo,” Shelly said. “But he doesn’t talk much to me.”
The mailman looked around. “Jojo, eh?” he chuckled. “No, I’d guess he wouldn’t have much more to say than the elephant does. What’s your elephant’s name?”
“Just elephant,” Shelly replied.
The mailman chuckled again. “Well, have a good day.”
“You have a good day too,” Shelly said.
Shelly set the elephant down on the step. “I’ll be back,” she promised, “after I take the mail to Mom.”
When she returned Shelly sat down beside the pink elephant and flipped its trunk up and down. “Mom baked a chocolate cake. Pretty soon we can have cake and milk. Ummm, I can taste it already.”
She got on her knees and watched an ant crawling along the sidewalk. “Wow, that tiny little ant is dragging something bigger than it is. Ants are fun to watch, you know. Hey, look at that. Wow! There’re millions of them I bet.”
Billy Hale skidded to a stop. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Looking at some ants,” Shelly answered.
Billy got off his bike and came to look. “You think those ants understand what you’re saying?”
Shelly snorted. “I wasn’t talking to the ants.”
“Yeah? Who were you talking to then?” Billy slung a leg over his bike.
“Jojo,” Shelly replied.
Billy looked all around. “Jojo? Oh, the toy elephant.”
“No, silly. Jojo is a boy.”
Billy laughed and shook his head. “Oh, Shelly! You’re something else.” He rode away laughing.
“What’s the matter with him?” Shelly sputtered.
“Milk and cake!” Mother called.
Shelly’s cousin Jojo, who had come last night for a visit, crawled out from under the porch. His face and hands were covered with dirt. His hair was full of cobwebs.
“Did you find it?” Shelly asked.
The boy raised his left hand, holding a red ball.
“Oh, thank you, Jojo,” Shelly said. “I thought sure it was lost.”
Jojo smiled and said, “Let’s go get that milk and cake!”

She was raised in a cultured Church of England home in South Molten, Devonshire, and she was confused when she was a teenager by the contrast of Bible’s teachings on baptism with those of her Church and she “could not enjoy attending church after that.” She married William Williams at age fifteen, and after their first daughter was born, she began hearing about the Mormons.

Initially, Elizabeth was not interested. Even though she was not satisfied with her old church, “it was very respectable, at least.” However, she was too polite to refuse a tract when it was offered, and on a rainy afternoon began reading it. Soon she was absorbed in the account of a debate between Elder John Taylor and some French ministers.

“When I had read it all, I said aloud ‘praise the Lord. I have found the right way at last.’” She attended a meeting where Joseph Smith’s mission was explained. “To say that I was thrilled with joy but feebly expresses my feelings at that time. I could see no other way but to repent of my sins and to be baptized. I knew my people would bitterly oppose it when they knew it, and that my former friends would treat me coldly but they were worse than I ever anticipated.”

That one sentence, “It was worse than I ever anticipated,” contains an agony of heartbreak. What it meant was that her mother forbade her to reenter her childhood home. Her husband told her she must choose between her family and her faith; weeping in anguish, she refused to deny her testimony, and he abandoned her and her four little girls. Elizabeth found work in a woolen mill, laboring with the baby in a basket by the loom, and managing to support them all. Seeing her undefeated, William returned and took all four children to London. Under the law, there was nothing she could do to stop him or reclaim them.

She did not falter. Her last moment of hesitation had come on the very brink of her baptism when she looked down into the dark river water at midnight, 4 December 1851, and “felt as though I could not possibly go in it, But a Voice seemed to say ‘There is no other way.’” In faith, she took that step. “It seemed after that everything had changed. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and the gospel plan was glorious, and I covenanted with My Heavenly Father that however dark the clouds may be, if friends turned to be foes that by His help I would serve Him. And I have tried in my faltering way to do so. I have often made mistakes, and said and done things I have been sorry for, but I have never doubted the truthfulness of this gospel or hindered others.”

She spent the next six years in Bath, living with the family of a missionary, Thomas Yates, and spending her small earnings on a fruitless search for her children. “After years of fasting and prayers, and many tears, the Lord opened the way for me to come to Zion,” with the Yates family and their son Thomas, just back from his 6 1/2 year mission.

We do not know what it cost her to leave England. She only says, “I prayed earnestly to God to help me in the long tedious journey that was before me, that I might not murmur on the way, or complain if a lion should be in my path, and he answered my prayers, for I saw nothing to murmur at. My heart was filled with gratitude all the way.”

Her son tells us what she, in the patience of her faith, omitted. She nearly died of seasickness, which lasted the entire voyage. She and Thomas were married on the morning of July 22, 1863, in Florence, Nebraska, and began the trek westward that afternoon. When Elizabeth discovered that there was not room for both her and her trunk in the wagon, she thought of her carefully packed china, the loveliest things she owned, and walked every step of the way, “my heart filled with gratitude.”

“Many shed tears of joy,” she says, “on first beholding the City of the Saints.” She does not say if she was among them, but she must have been.

That same patience and gratitude deepened the love in her marriage. One daughter, Louise, who later became the seventh general president of the Relief Society, says that the only time she saw Elizabeth cry was when a cat knocked down the shelves in the cabin and broke that precious china. Thomas ordered the first set of Haviland that ZCMI shipped into the territory to replace it—a measure of love indeed, for they were struggling to make a living in Scipio, Utah, where he served as bishop and she as Relief Society president.

One of the tenderest moments of their marriage is a letter he wrote her when he was working on the railroad in Echo Canyon to pay off his loan with the Perpetual Emigration Fund. We do not know what fears she had shared in a letter to him, but we have his loving reassurance:

“Another thing my darling that I feel sorry about is that you should think I stay out here on account of something you might have said in the past in the way of complaint at not being provided for as well as you could wish, believe me my own darling that such is not the fact at all. I do not remember that at any time you have said anything that could be mistaken for complaint … My darling I love my dear humble home and you my darling wife and our dear little children. I love your society the best of all on earth, and never expect to meet with as much pleasure and happiness in this world as I get in your company.”

The love they had for each other and their five children could not, however, heal the ache in her heart. Her only son, Thomas, remembers hearing her sob in the night and, when he asked why, she said simply, “I was thinking of some little girls I left in England many years ago.”

But her children had not forgotten her, either. Susan, only seven at the time of the separation, ran away when she was eleven and sought refuge with a Mormon family, hoping to find a trace of her Mormon mother. The baby was already dead; another daughter would die a few years later. But about 1870, a missionary met Susie Williams and mentioned her to the Yates family in Scipio. With so fragile a clue, mother and daughter were reunited in Utah.

Susan did not stop searching for her sister. William, determined that the last daughter should never see her mother, took her away from England—ironically, to America, where Susan found her in Michigan through a newspaper advertisement. She joined them in Utah; all four daughters were sealed to Thomas and Elizabeth. “I have never,” Elizabeth seems to repeat, “seen the righteous forsaken.”

In Boise, Idaho, several years ago I taught seminary. Our class decided to sub for Santa. We had one of the girls in the class prepare a quart bottle and a sign that would remind the class members to contribute. Then they selected a family, semi-active, who lived in the stake. This family had eight children. They weren’t doing very well financially; in fact, we were quite certain that they would not have much of a Christmas without us. We assigned each class member to bring suits, shirts, skirts, and blouses that they had outgrown but were still very nice. We invited them to bring toys and other gifts they would like to share. Our goal was to raise $75.00 to buy new toys for the children and food for Christmas dinner. Everything went fine until a week before school let out for the holidays. We had raised $65.00 and had it in a jar in our seminary cupboard at the ward. We met each morning for seminary at 7:00 A.M.

A week before school let out we went in one morning to get the quart jar and put it on the table, but it was not there. Someone had stolen it. These wonderful young students could not believe that anyone would steal it. I said to the class leader, “President, what are you going to do now?” He said, “We will start all over again and raise the money.” Then I saw a miracle take place. These choice young people who had been going without lunch once or twice a week to raise the first money now decided to go without lunch every day. They worked to earn money that last week, and by the Friday when school let out for the holidays, we had raised $73.00.

Arrangements were made by the class to meet Christmas Eve at 3:00 P.M. We were going to wrap all the clothes and toys and put name tags on everything. While some of us were doing that, several others went out in the nearby neighborhood and asked neighbors to contribute a can or bottle of food for a food basket. And the president of the class took his vice-president and secretary and bought a turkey and toys for the whole family. They drove across town to save 10¢ or 15¢ on an item so that every penny would be used to its maximum purchasing power. These things were wrapped. The turkey was placed in one of several food boxes, and then a panel delivery truck was loaded with the Christmas packages. One of the students had volunteered her father to be Santa Claus. He was with us. We drove over to the area where the needy family lived and then down a long, dark, dirt road to their home near the Boise River. When we got close to the home, we could see a woman and two children standing on the back porch. The porch light was on. The dog began to bark. We had three cars of seminary students, and all the car lights were off so no one could see us. The woman held her hands up to shade her eyes from the porch light and peered out into the darkness. I could see she was becoming concerned over the unseen visitors. I was in the first car, and I yelled across the lawn to the woman, “Don’t be afraid! It’s old Santa Claus who has come to see your family!” Santa Claus jumped out of the car and headed across the lawn. His bells were ringing, and he was saying, “Ho, ho, ho!” One of the little boys, about five years old, was standing by his mother and said, “It’s him! It’s really him! It’s old Santa Claus!”

Santa Claus went right in the house and into the living room. He later reported that the whole family was there. They had a scrawny little tree with a few decorations on it, half a box of oranges under the tree, and nothing more. They would not have had a Christmas had it not been for the seminary class. While Santa was inside, we began to unload all of the gifts onto the back porch. We each took two or three arm loads. One of the younger children could hear us out back, and he came out and watched us load the large, screened-in back porch with gifts. He signaled his brothers and sisters, and soon Santa Claus was all alone with the mother and father. The children were lined up watching us unload gifts and food boxes.

We went back to the car and waited for Santa Claus. When he came we drove in silence back to the chapel. When we arrived we stood on the church lawn and talked about the experience. The class president said, “When that little kid stood on the back porch and said, ‘It’s him! It’s really him! It’s old Santa Claus!’ I had a feeling I’ve never had before in my life.” The tears came to his eyes and he couldn’t say anymore. We all felt the same way. We stood together, offered a prayer, and then we went home. Many of our students had learned for the first time what it really means to give.

Were they blessed for giving? Of course they were. But what about the family who received? Were they blessed for their attitude of gratitude at being on the receiving end? Indeed they were, not only by the gifts of toys and food but also by a sweet Heavenly Father who would bless them for not offending those who gave. You see, the father of the family could have let false pride or lack of gratitude spoil the experience for the givers. He did not. He and his wife and the children accepted it with such childlike excitement and uncontained joy that it was a joyous experience for all.

We have received many letters from young women who are seriously trying to stand as a witness and say what He would say and do what He would do.
Cathy wrote a letter telling about a “good Samaritan” named Michelle. Cathy had been hospitalized much longer than she had expected to be. Some friends dwindled away, busy in their own lives; but Michelle came often and brought fun and cheer. She decorated the dreary hospital room with Mormonad posters, balloons, and other paraphernalia. One day when Cathy was particularly low, Michelle thought to bring her scriptures. Cathy said: “Bringing her scriptures and reading them to me made me want what she had. I wanted to love the scriptures like Michelle does. Without that act of kindness and caring from Michelle, my testimony wouldn’t be what it is today.”

At the time of our arrival in Florida, each missionary companionship had their individual pagers and my pager received lots of action since there were about 200 missionaries. I always kept my pager tuned to "vibrate" so there was no audible sound. However, I quickly became used to the feeling of the vibration from the pager. Even at night I would leave the pager on the night stand where the vibration from the pager would awaken me. It was several weeks before Sister Munson and I felt that we could take a P-Day. We were about 45 minutes away from the mission home when that familiar vibrating feeling occurred. I reached for my pager only to find that I had failed to attach the pager to my belt! Nevertheless, there was no doubt that the pager was vibrating. I mentioned the feeling to my wife and she knew as I did that one of the missionaries needed to get in touch with his or her mission president. We arrived at the mission home and found that the pager had vibrated off the night stand and on to the floor. A call to the telephone number shown on the pager received an instant answer. The Elder said that he paged me several times and had been praying that I would call because his specific problem could be handled only by his president. There was no doubt in my mind that the Holy Ghost functioned in an unusual but effective manner that day.

“Mom, what are we doing for family night?” Benjamin asked as he and his younger brother, Sammy, walked into the kitchen for a drink.
“Do you mean Pioneer Night?” Mom said with a smile.
“What?” Benjamin asked. “I thought today was Monday. You know, family night.”
Mom nodded. “It’s Monday all right. But tonight we’re having a special Pioneer Night.”
Benjamin frowned a little. He liked family night. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do anything different.
“What’s Pioneer Night?” Sammy asked.
“Well,” Mom said, pulling out a kitchen chair and sitting down at the table with them, “one hundred and seventy years ago, Mormon pioneers crossed the plains in wagons and handcarts to get to Utah. On July 24, 1847, the first pioneers arrived in the Salt Lake Valley.”
“Wait. Isn’t today July 24th?” Benjamin asked.
“Exactly! It’s Pioneer Day. In Utah it’s even a state holiday,” Mom said. “There are parades and fireworks to honor the pioneers.”
“But we don’t live in Utah,” said Benjamin.
“Well, that just means we have to think of creative ways to celebrate,” said Mom. “So we’re having Pioneer Night. Will you help me get ready?”
Benjamin and Sammy nodded. As they helped Mom, Benjamin felt more and more excited. Soon Dad got home from work.
“What’s this?” he said when he saw the kitchen table set with checkered napkins, glass jars, and pie tins.
“It’s Pioneer Night!” Benjamin said, handing Dad a red bandana to tie around his neck. He and Sammy were both wearing cowboy hats from their costume box.
“This looks fun!” said Dad. Then he sniffed the air. “And something smells really good.” Mom was stirring a pot of stew at the stove.
“Before we eat, we have to make butter for the cornbread,” said Sammy.
Mom poured cream into a jar and screwed the lid on tight. After shaking for a few minutes, she handed the jar to Sammy. They all took turns shaking until there was a lump of butter inside!
After dinner they had a special family night. Dad showed them a black-and-white picture.
“This is Joseph Francis, your great-great-great grandpa,” Dad said. “He came to the United States with his family when he was 13 years old.”
Dad talked about how Joseph sailed from England and then worked in a factory to earn money to cross the plains. Benjamin couldn’t believe a boy who was just older than he was had done so many hard things.
Then Mom shared a story from her family history. “My mother, your grandma Hunsaker, met the missionaries when she was 13 years old. When she prayed to know if their message was true, she felt the Holy Ghost tell her to be baptized. Because of her decision, I grew up knowing about the gospel. My mother is a pioneer because she set a righteous example for others to follow.”
Benjamin liked that. Maybe there were ways he could be a pioneer! He was still thinking about it when Dad said it was time for the closing song and prayer.
“Now we can have the treat!” Sammy said. Mom handed everyone a cookie, some candies, and a few other yummy things. She showed them how to make wagons with marshmallows like white canvases on top.
“These wagons sure taste good,” Sammy said as he took a big bite. “I’m glad the pioneers went to Utah.”
Go to “Family Night Fun” to see how to make your own wagons!
“And I’m glad we don’t always have to make our own butter!” Benjamin said with a laugh. His life was different from the early pioneers, but he knew they all had one thing in common: they all believed in the gospel of Jesus Christ!

In Australia, when players turn 20, they are old enough to play professionally in an adult league. Even when Will was 18, offers came in left and right. He was a prime recruit. One team offered him a contract worth 1.5 million Australian dollars—an offer not made often to players his age. But that wasn’t what Will saw in his immediate future. Will had decided to serve a mission.
When Will had to announce whether he was going to serve a mission or accept a rugby league contract, the decision was easy for him. “I set a mission in my mind and heart while I was in my youth, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t let the worldly desires take over me,” he says.
The world may ask, What about the money? the contracts? getting to play rugby professionally—his lifelong dream? How would his life have been different had he accepted a professional contract? “It would have helped out my family financially. It would have set my future as well for the next few years,” he admits.
So why didn’t he accept the offer? “A mission is something the Lord requires of me, of young males in the Church,” he says. “It’s a way to say thanks to the Lord for everything He has done for me in my 19 years here on earth. And at the end of the day, I don’t think I would have been as happy if I had stayed. I made the choice to serve a mission because footy will always be there.”

“The missionary work of the Church is a panorama of more than a century of service and privations and hardships and sacrifices. The closer one is to the program, the more completely one can understand and appreciate it. When my grandfather Heber C. Kimball left for his mission, he and Brigham Young left their families destitute and ill and they themselves needed help to get into the carriage which took them from their homes. As they started off they raised themselves … and waved back to their weeping wives and children. Thousands of people came into the Church as a result of those missions, and tens of thousands have been benefited indirectly and are now enjoying the blessings of the gospel because of those sacrifices. To one who did not understand, such devotion and sacrifice on the part of those men would have been considered foolhardy and silly. But to the Young and Kimball families it was a mark of great faith. And to the thousands who will, through the eternities, call the names of those missionaries blessed, the privations and sacrifice were not wasted.”President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), The Teachings of Spencer W. Kimball, ed. Edward L. Kimball (1982), 253.