Gospel Story Finder

It was a tough decision for me to confront my parents about the Church, but after my baptism on May 27, 2017, I got to know people who helped me stay on the covenant path despite the difficulties and plagues I faced. However, I was still concerned about my family. On June 3, 2021, I was called to serve the Lord in the Democratic Republic of the Congo Kinshasa East Mission. When I entered the temple on June 12, 2021, for my own endowment, I prayed to our Heavenly Father in these words, “Heavenly Father, I have come to serve Thee, my request is that Thou may assist my family so that someday we may all become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and may enter the temple.”
My mother, my elder and my younger sisters all got baptized when I was on my mission. We lived with my mother for 10 years without my father’s love, and my sisters and I had our mother by our side all the time. I had all the love for my father despite the fact that he had distanced himself from us for 10 years. When I was on a mission, I knew I shouldn’t change the lives of others while my family perished, so I did everything I could to get back in touch with my father.
As I got in touch with my father, I knew I had a huge responsibility to introduce him to the missionaries. I attended his first meeting with the missionaries through a WhatsApp video call, but the first time, the missionaries and I faced a lot of criticism and backbiting. My father didn’t believe that there can be a true church of God in the world today. I asked my mission president for a favor to go to the temple. On my way to the temple, I prayed and fasted for my father.
Two months after I returned from my mission, on August 5 and 6, 2023, I was privileged to baptize and confirm my father and today we are all members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints through prayer, fasting and meditation in the holy house of the Lord. Today all the members of my family are with me, and we share the same faith and the same gospel of Christ.
As we follow the example of Christ, we can bring about the conversion of the whole world.

I was born and grew up in Burley, Idaho, USA. My father had a farm and a ranch there, so I spent my time working in the out-of-doors. My family had been members of the Church for generations, and I was raised in a faithful home. But while I was in high school, my testimony was tested by an opportunity I had sought out.
I knew of a person from our high school who had been an exchange student. I thought it sounded like an interesting experience, so I researched the idea of becoming an exchange student, found out the procedure, and applied. I was accepted. I was then 16 years old. I had taken one year of German, so I assumed, as did my adviser, that I would be assigned to go to Germany. This particular exchange program took all your information, matched it up with families willing to act as hosts, then assigned you to a country.
When I was accepted, I was assigned to Brazil, and I agreed to the assignment. I lived with a wonderful family in São Paulo. They had six boys and one girl, just like my family at home. Fortunately, they spoke English. It turned out to be a great experience, even though I was there only for the summer.
During my time in Brazil, I made some friends who were in that stage in life when they were experimenting with things. They started inviting me to go out with them to have fun with some girls they had met.
I was thousands of miles from home in a country where nobody knew me except my host family. The friends who would invite me to go out with them used the line “No one will ever know.” In many respects that was true. Certainly, none of my American family would ever know. I was a teenager, far from home, with an invitation to do what was wrong, and nobody would ever know.
But I knew that I would know. I knew the Lord would know, so I said no to their invitations and continued to say no. They asked repeatedly, sure that they could persuade me. It was not a one-time challenge, but every time I declined, I grew more determined to stand my ground.
“No one will ever know” is a rationalization that Satan uses against us in our lives. It’s a lie. I discovered that for myself during my summer in Brazil. Falling for Satan’s lie is, in fact, how many people get into such things as Internet pornography. They think they can do it in a way that no one will ever know. But in every case, they know and God knows.
Please don’t ever buy into that lie in any aspect of your life. I’m thankful that I was able to see the false reasoning for what it was and not give in. The Spirit helped me feel the truth. I also relied on the fact that because of what I had learned in my family, I knew what was right. My parents had taught me the truth. I learned the truth in Primary, in Sunday School, in Aaronic Priesthood, and in seminary. That foundation of the gospel was in my home, in the upbringing that I had had, and in Church lessons.
My experience with temptation as an exchange student came from the outside, from persistent friends. It was an external challenge to the things I believed, and I was able to stand firm. But as additional experiences came to me, I learned that we are going to be tested from all sides. Some of the most difficult challenges are internal ones, when the temptations that have to be resisted take place in the quiet of our own hearts and minds.
One of these challenges came when I chose to pay an honest tithe when I was away from home. Every year my dad would take us to tithing settlement. He would help us calculate our tithing, and we would pay it. All during the time I was growing up, I developed this habit of paying tithing. If you had asked me at the time, I would have told you that I had a testimony of tithing.
When I finished high school, I had been admitted to Harvard University, so I worked that summer and earned money to pay for the expenses that weren’t covered by my scholarship. By the end of the first semester, I had foolishly spent all the money that I had earned to get me through the whole year.
At the start of the second semester, I got a job. I couldn’t work very much because I was a full-time student, but I worked a few hours a week and received my first paycheck. Of course, it wasn’t very much, but it was all I had to get by until the next paycheck.
Then the question arose in my mind, “What about tithing?” I had been in the habit of paying my tithing but had always had sufficient money to pay the tithing. Here I was faced with the challenge: do I pay my tithing when I don’t know if I’ve got enough money to get through the next two weeks?
As I thought about it, I remembered the scripture in Malachi 3:10, where the Lord promises, “Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”
So I realized that was my answer. I would leave it up to the Lord. I paid my tithing, not sure if I had enough money to carry me until the next paycheck. And a miracle happened. I made it through that two weeks.
It came to me so powerfully that the Lord keeps His word. The Lord came through the way He promised. Just as the scriptures say, if we pay our tithing, He will bless us. That same miracle happened every two weeks throughout the rest of the semester. Before, I had thought I had a testimony of tithing, but now, because of my correct decision, I had a powerful testimony of tithing. The Lord always does what He says, so my testimony continued to grow step-by-step.
I would encourage you, while in your teen years and as you develop your own testimony, that you need to take the Lord at His word. When the Lord promises something, we can count on it because, as the scriptures teach us, God cannot lie. The Lord keeps His word. Whenever the Lord makes a promise either through His prophet or directly through His scriptures, we can count on it.
In the scriptures we are encouraged to turn to the Lord. “Ask, and ye shall receive; knock, and it shall be opened unto you; for he that asketh, receiveth; and unto him that knocketh, it shall be opened” (3 Nephi 27:29).
I learned through these and other experiences that this scripture is true. Heavenly Father is always there for us. Whether our challenge is external or internal, His plan, His scriptures, His love, and His gift of the Holy Ghost will see us through.

I’ve had many blessings in my life—spiritual blessings. I had good parents, a good education, material blessings like a good home. I always had enough to eat, always a bed to sleep in, and many, many other blessings. I had the opportunity of working in business capacities, and in this capacity, of seeing the world, seeing many people. I have had many opportunities, but the greatest blessing that has come to me came through humble missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I want to express gratitude for all that I have to these young men that came to our home—not only that they came, but that they had love enough not to give up. I was a very hard case. I had thought that through my education, and through my background, and my history, and my family that I would be superior. I felt pity for the missionaries. I said, “Well, this fine young man, with such a poor message!” They didn’t give up. They came again and again and again. And I felt an authority radiating through them that was stronger and more than all the knowledge that I had in my previous life—the authority of the true love of Christ. I want to give thanks to this generation of missionaries who did not give up and to the mission president who had concern enough not to withdraw the missionaries from me. It was Elder Theodore M. Burton. I will never forget that.
I will tell you that I’m deeply convinced that this is in my life the most important blessing I have ever received. It changed my life totally. I began to realize that a man can know nothing important in this world unless he has knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ restored by his prophet, Joseph Smith, and follow-through by a living prophet, Spencer W. Kimball. Without this message I would not have a family like I have now. I would not have the love for my lovely wife that I have now, and I would not be able to be so proud of my children.

One of the greatest challenges Tina faces is resisting peer pressure. In her school, many students engage in activities that go against gospel principles, such as vaping. “When I started high school, I was unsure if I should be friends with some people because they didn’t always make good choices,” Tina shares. Instead of giving in, she decided to surround herself with friends who support her standards. “I wanted to be in an environment that helps me choose the right. I didn’t want to be pressured into stuff that I know isn’t right,” she explains.

When I first received a call to serve as a health missionary, I knew very little about the program. I had a vision of myself heading into the deep, dark jungle, mounted on a carabao, laden down with an eighteen-month supply of Band-Aids, aspirin, multi-colored fly swatters, rubbing alcohol, shoe-laces, insect repellent, obsolete snake-bite kits, bouillon cubes, and various first-aid manuals collected from MIA and physical education classes.
This dream has been shattered in the months I’ve been serving in the Philippines as a health missionary, but the vision that has taken its place is so beautiful, I don’t miss the carabao at all!
The health missionary program of the Church has been underway for two years now, but still many are asking, “What is a health missionary?” “How do you get called to serve?” “What do you do?”
Contrary to what many of us believed when we first heard of the program, we are not sent out to cure all the diseases on the face of the earth. We are not even called to treat the illnesses of the members of the Church but rather to teach them principles of good health that will help them prevent disease. What a beautiful program!
We are called, as are other missionaries, to serve at our own expense for eighteen months or two years. Our calls come from President Harold B. Lee through our bishops. We go to the Missionary Home in Salt Lake and then spend time in language learning and/or our health program orientation. And then it’s away! We’re off to the islands, or the Lamanites in the Dakotas, or south of the border to Uruguay, or all the way to the Philippines!
This is a unique country. There are many varieties of beautiful plants, trees, flowers, fruits, and sunsets. And some of the most friendly, humble, wonderful people in the world—40,000,000 of them in this country of 7,100 islands. They speak 87 different dialects. They are remarkably gifted, particularly in music and handiwork.
This is also a developing country and a land of many health problems. Manila is a crowded city with many people living in poverty. Thousands of families live on a salary of 50 pesos per month (about $8.00) or less. There are typhoons and floods and flies and garbage. Pneumonia and tuberculosis are serious health problems.
Where and how do we begin to change this trend in the lives of our Church members and have some impact on their basic health? We have the advantage of a perfect organization already established and the direction of the priesthood. What a perfect way to reach the family and the individual—through the Church program, which is already functioning all over the world! We will work with and train leaders who will then share with the members. Under the direction of the district and branch leaders and our mission president, we will help to gather resource material, determine health problems in specific areas, and formulate lessons, programs, and activities that can be adapted to various teaching situations. Because of the way our program will work and the emphasis on health care rather than sick care, we can establish something that will endure long after we’ve gone home.
Happily we have found that active members of the Church are generally in better health than their countrymen. I attribute this to their keeping of the commandments, including the Word of Wisdom, and the purposeful living that comes with activity in the Church. These members already understand that their bodies are temples and must be kept clean and healthy. One humble sister who lost her husband and must work to have enough for herself and her children said to me with tears in her eyes, “Sister, I don’t have enough money to buy what I know my children should eat; but you know, I always express thanks to my Heavenly Father for the food I do have and ask him to bless it to give us health. And that makes all the difference.”
We have opportunities to proselyte along with our work in the health program. There are probably few experiences in life that bring the same quality of joy as that of bearing witness to a family that God lives and that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world. Even if it happens in a humble, two-room home, with mice running around on the floor, the rain coming in on your back, one light globe to light the room, and a big mother pig bursting in in the middle of your testimony, it still can be one of the most beautiful experiences life has to offer.
Some of our proselyting opportunities come in connection with our health work. We’ve had discussions with many interesting and interested people and have placed tracts and copies of the Book of Mormon in such places as the Department of Health, the World Health Organization, the Nutrition Foundation of the Philippines, and with taxi drivers, people on the bus, people at the post office, and even with Sister Ester, a delightful Catholic nun I met on a plane between Manila and Cebu. It was thrilling to see Sister Ester reading Alma.
One of the best things about a health mission is the association with the tremendous young people who serve on regular missions. Part of our work as health missionaries is concerned with keeping all 250 of them healthy. We start with simple things like “boil your water and wash your hands.” Then, somehow, you get the flu, and an elder asks innocently, “Did you forget to boil your water, Sister Edmunds?” We give the missionaries injections of the “gamma goblins” (gamma globulin), and many have laughed about “finally getting the point of the program.” Sometimes we’ll be engrossed in a book on the nutritional value of rice, and a missionary will ask humbly, “Are you sure that’s one of the standard works?”
Hymns begin to have different meanings sometimes when you’re singing them as a health missionary. “Thou flowing water, pure and clear” (no. 4); “With healing in thy wings” (no. 20); “With sleep refresh my feeble frame” (no. 59); “In every condition, in sickness, in health, In poverty’s vale or abounding in wealth” (no. 66); “Feed us with knowledge and daily bread” (no. 43).
Scriptures, too, take on a new meaning. “And ye shall serve the Lord your God, and he shall bless thy bread, and thy water: and I will take sickness away from the midst of thee.” (Ex. 23:25.) “Thou shalt not eat any abominable thing.” (Deut. 14:3.) “I have … drunk strange waters. …” (2 Kgs. 19:24.) “And there were some who died with fevers, which at some seasons of the year were very frequent in the land—but not so much so with fevers, because of the excellent qualities of the many plants and roots which God had prepared to remove the cause of diseases, to which men were subject by nature of the climate.” (Alma 46:40.)
You grow a lot on a mission. Your feet grow flat, your leather books grow mold, your clothes grow thin, and your heart grows bigger. You learn a lot of things you didn’t know before, like how to live without milk. You learn to make exotic noises with wet Hush Puppies as you walk down the street. You become better acquainted with Nephites, Israelites, and parasites. And through it all—the study sessions by candlelight, the rain on your bed in the middle of the night—you’re thankful to be here and thrilled at all the things you have to write home about as you try to put into words the best two years of your life.
What or who is a health missionary, then? Someone who’s going to learn and share a lot for a few short months. Someone who will gain much more than he or she will ever be able to give. A health missionary is not necessarily a nurse or a doctor. It is possible for Church members with many different skills to participate in this great, beautiful, inspired program. The potential is exciting.
This is a labor of love and an opportunity to represent the Savior. And he is our greatest example, for truly he was ever concerned with both the physical and spiritual health of all he met.

This story took place in the USA.
Janie closed her book and sighed happily. This book was her favorite! She had already finished it three times. She loved to read!
“Do you think I could build a little library?” Janie asked Mom and Dad later that day. She wanted to help others by sharing books with them.
“What’s a little library?” Dad asked.
“It’s a box that you put outside with books in it,” Janie said. “People can borrow them for free. Or they can leave books for others to read.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” said Mom.
Dad nodded. “We can help you build it.”
“Thanks!” said Janie. “Maybe we can have a bake sale to earn money for the supplies!”Janie and her sister, Carli, made signs announcing the bake sale. They placed them around the neighborhood. Mom and Dad let people know about the bake sale online. Janie was so excited!
Janie had a lot of fun making the treats. She made cookies, crispy cereal bars, and snowball cakes.
Soon the day of the bake sale came. Janie, Carli, and their friend Bella put a table in the front yard. They sold treats to a lot of their neighbors. Some people donated extra money too. Janie put all the money in a special jar.
After the bake sale, Janie had another idea. She entered some of her favorite treats into a contest at the county fair and won a prize! She put the prize money in the jar with the other money for her little library.
Now that Janie had the money for the little library, she needed books to fill it with. She went from door to door and asked her neighbors to donate books they didn’t need anymore. Some friends came by to give Janie their books too.
It was finally time to build her little library. Janie used the money she’d earned to buy supplies. She drew a design of the box and made measurements. Dad helped her cut the wood, and Janie helped him put the pieces together.
Mom filled in the cracks and seams to keep the water out when it rained. Janie helped hang up a sign telling people to take a book or share a book.
Finally Janie and her family took the box out to the front yard next to their big, shady tree. Dad put a post in the ground, and together they put the box on the post. They had made a little library!
Dad placed three heavy rocks around the post. “That should keep it from blowing over,” he said.
“I love it!” Janie said. “Now we can put the books inside.” They filled the little library with the donated books.
After that, Janie went to check the little library every day. She loved to see what books people added or took out. One day she saw a little girl choose one of Janie’s own favorite books! She was so glad she could help her neighbors by sharing books in the little library.
Illustration by Barbara Bongini

Champion Koruea Kaburara estimates that she and her husband assist about 100 people every month. She is very careful to help those she gives her seedlings to by providing instruction and supervision.
Sometimes she helps them by giving them soil or compost that she produces.
Koruea gives her tender plants to those who are serious about following through. “Many members come to me and so do people at my work and in my community. I feel like I want to help both. They are happy to get the plants.”
When the champion has seedlings left over, they can transplant them into their own garden for their personal use or they may sell their excess produce to neighbours.
Koruea is able to feed her family and to generate some extra income through her skillful management. Her neighbours are grateful to be able to purchase the fresh vegetables from her. The creative system benefits all involved and can be sustained.

Many years ago, while on vacation with my family, I had an experience that taught me a great lesson. On a Saturday, my wife and I decided to take the children for a drive and to do some shopping. During the drive the children fell asleep, and not wanting to wake them, I volunteered to stay in the car while my wife ran into the store.
While waiting, I glanced at the car parked in front of me. It was full of children, and they were looking at me. My eyes caught the eyes of a small boy, six or seven years old. As our eyes met, he immediately stuck his tongue out at me.
My first reaction was to stick my tongue out at him. I thought, What have I done to deserve this? Fortunately, before I reacted, I remembered a principle taught in general conference the week before by Elder Marvin J. Ashton (see Conference Report, Oct. 1970, 36–38; or Improvement Era, Dec. 1970, 59–60). He taught how important it was to act instead of react to the events around us. So I waved at the little boy. He stuck his tongue out at me again. I smiled and waved again. This time he waved back.
Soon he was joined in his enthusiastic waving by a little brother and sister. I responded by waving this way and that until my arm became tired. Then I rested it on the steering wheel and continued with every creative wave I could muster, all the time hoping their parents would quickly return or that my wife would soon come back.
The parents finally did come, and as they pulled away, my newfound friends continued to wave for as long as I could see them.

Illustration by Toby Newsome
I will never be able to think about Christmas without thinking about my dad. The two seem inherently connected after years of his meticulous gift giving, tree-chopping, music-playing, cookie-decorating, and utterly festive spirit. So when he died just a few months before last Christmas, I had a hard time feeling anything but sadness and resentment about the wonderful man I had lost. Nobody could parallel his spirit, his enthusiasm, his Christlike love. Or so I thought.
Eventually Christmas Day came around with what seemed to me to be insincere fanfare since my dad wasn’t there. I simply didn’t want to get up: I missed my dad, I missed my family, I missed those nostalgic, apparently perfect Christmas mornings filled with laughter and love and everything I couldn’t imagine feeling without him.
But over the next 12 hours, I discovered exactly how meaningful the holiday could be despite my loss. My entire family got gifts from anonymous members of our ward, everything clearly picked out intentionally. I experienced an outpouring of love from numerous friends and ward members wishing me a merry Christmas through texts or phone calls or surprise presents. I received a dozen assorted homemade gifts from my siblings. I spent time interacting with the family which I had somehow forgotten had experienced the exact same loss I had and which I had frankly ignored for too long.
And somehow every part of the day came together, not just materially but emotionally. I felt people thinking of me, praying that my day would be amazing, and somehow, it was. I felt like my dad was rooting for me, the closest connection I’d had with him since he passed. I felt Jesus Christ’s love permeating every moment of that afternoon. I felt joyful and grateful, and I felt good for the first time in weeks.
I know that my Heavenly Father was looking out for me on that day that initially brought such painful memories. I know my fellow Church members felt impressed to reach out to me because of Heavenly Father’s love. I know that though a crucial part of my family is now gone, it is only temporary, and I will see my dad again. I have a testimony of Jesus Christ that grows ever stronger because of those experiences. And I will never forget the gratitude and love I felt on that incredible Christmas day.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

In this childhood setting—one he later often called “ideal”—Ezra Taft Benson learned how to sacrifice to reap a spiritual harvest. He was just twelve when his father, George Benson, was called to serve an eighteen-month mission in the midwestern United States. There were seven children in the Benson home when their father left for the mission field, with the eighth soon to be born. And Ezra, as the oldest son, had to carry much of the responsibility for the farm. One of President Benson’s most vivid memories of his father’s absence was of gathering around the kitchen table to hear his mother read her husband’s weekly letters. “There came into that home a spirit of missionary work that never left,” recalled President Benson. All eleven Benson children later served missions.

The next morning I was up a little before five, tossing bundles of the Herald onto the back seat of the car. During the night the snow had stopped and the world was buried under its wet cottony mass. I glanced down the driveway and wondered if I should take a few minutes to push some of the snow away before pulling out. Blowing on my numb fingertips and stomping the snow from my feet, I shook my head. I didn’t have time, I reasoned. And I was sure I could get out without getting stuck.
The first stop I made was at Sister Rencher’s. With most people I didn’t make the effort to set the paper inside the front door. I just tossed it in the general direction of the porch. But with Sister Rencher I made an exception because it was so hard for her to get around. I snatched a paper off the back seat, stepped from the car, and sprinted for the front steps. I stopped at the end of the walk and stared in disbelief. The front walk and steps were swept completely clean. I glanced at my watch—5:15 A.M. “Boy, somebody’s sure been up early this morning,” I muttered, hurrying up the clean walk and setting the paper inside the storm door. “Maybe Sister Rencher can get around with that walker better than I thought,” I grinned.
“That was quick,” Dad called to me as I burst in from the cold 90 minutes later. He was just putting on his coat and stuffing papers into his briefcase before heading out the door for work.
“There’s a ton of snow out there,” I remarked. “It must have snowed another four inches after we went to bed.”
“I guess you cleaned off the walks and driveway,” Dad joked.
“What did you want me to do, get up at three o’clock?” I grinned back. “I was lucky to get the papers delivered. But somebody was sure up early. Sister Rencher’s walks were clean as spring.”
Dad smiled. “What about Sister Hatch’s and Sister Ballard’s?”
“Dad, I was delivering papers, not home teaching. I don’t go over that way.”

During my last sacrament meeting at the MTC, an elder stood who was older than most missionaries. He apologized for his poorly-spoken English, but hoped that he would be understood. His voice was deep and strong. He told of growing up in Cracow, Poland. He felt uncomfortable attending his family’s church and said that he “instinctively” knew some of its practices were not correct. He stopped going to his church and instead began to study the Bible. As he grew he became increasingly unhappy with the government, and at age eighteen he asked for political asylum in Austria. It was granted, and he left his home to start a new life. He spent nine very difficult months in the refugee camp near Vienna before seeking permission to migrate to the United States. Once he arrived he was contacted by missionaries from many churches. “They were nice,” he said, “but I could tell they did not have the answers I was looking for.” One day he saw a television program on the Mormons. He felt good about what he saw, and he decided to learn more of the Church. He met the missionaries, heard and accepted the gospel, and at age twenty-five was serving a mission. “It is a privilege to be here,” he said softly in his deep Polish accent. “I have been looking for a long time.”

16-year-old Spencer Liriano Navarro, a priest in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Stake, loves to draw. Recently a book he illustrated, I Am Safe, was published.
When Spencer was about a year old, his parents encouraged him to draw during sacrament meeting so he would not make a fuss. Then, when he was 4 or 5 years old, his parents put paper on some of the walls in their home for him to draw on, since he drew all the time.
Spencer drew pictures for family members as well. One day, an editor of a publishing company visited Spencer’s aunt and uncle’s home and saw a drawing that Spencer had given them hanging on the wall. The editor asked for Spencer’s contact information, then called him and asked him to make a portfolio to present to authors when they were looking for illustrators. This led to him being selected to illustrate I Am Safe.
Spencer is grateful for this opportunity. He said, “I feel that if I am part of an artistic project, like this one to illustrate children’s books, I am contributing in my unique way. Children who see my illustrations feel part of the book, and they can have significant changes in their lives. For example, the book I Am Safe helps children know that when they feel dark thoughts come to their mind, such as fear, anger or sadness, they can feel safe. In a way, by expressing Mrs. Randa Canter’s ideas in an image, I help these children feel safe.
After he successfully graduates from high school, Spencer plans to serve a mission and then enroll at BYU-Idaho majoring in graphic design or illustration so he can continue to work doing what he likes most—drawing. He also wants to serve the Lord in whatever callings he receives.
Many times, teachers and friends told Spencer that he would not get very far drawing, but he knew that his talent was a gift from God and that he should not hide it. He continued drawing with the support of his family. Spencer said, “When I draw, I really like listening to music. I am a rock fan and a donut fan too. My favorite superhero is Spiderman, and when I saw him on television, I wanted to draw him. That’s how I began to develop my talent.”
When asked what advice he would give to a young person, Spencer said, “If you have a dream, never give up. Because I know that God is there with you to help you in everything you need. If you obey the commandments and are faithful, you can become as great as you want.”

I recently had the opportunity to travel with Elder Donald L. Hallstrom to visit five cities in the great central area of the United States. In each city we visited, we would hold a meeting with the full-time missionaries, followed by a meeting with the stake and ward leaders regarding missionary work. Between each of the two meetings, the stake Relief Society would prepare a light dinner for us to afford us time to meet with the stake presidents. When we reached Milwaukee, Wisconsin, two young families appealed to the Relief Society to let them prepare and serve the dinner. The two husbands manned the kitchen. The two mothers supervised the table arrangements and the serving of the food. Three young children handled the table setting and the serving of the food under the supervision of their mothers. This was an opportunity for the mothers to have a teaching opportunity with their children. It was very special to watch the children respond to every detail as they were taught by their mothers. They carried out their assignments completely and fully.

Thomas hoed a stubborn weed out of the corn as the sun beat down on his back. Wiping the sweat from his face, he lifted his eyes longingly to the cool mountains. How he wished he was in the whispery shade of the trees there!
He loved the rustle of the white pines and the cool breezes that created soothing music among their branches. He loved the smell of the fresh wind filtering through the pines. Those ancient trees standing straight and tall seemed to him like soldiers on guard.
How he loved it when it was time to head for the hills! Every fall they took their team up to the mountains to cut firewood. He knew that they needed the wood to keep their family warm, yet every time one of those giant pines fell, he hurt inside. He felt a reverence for them. They had lived so long. They were so tall and straight.
When they brought the wood down to their farm, they sawed and chopped the logs into firewood. Thomas had a natural love for good wood and saved any exceptionally nice pieces. Then, during cold, snowy, winter days, he carefully sawed, carved, and fitted wood pieces together to make fine furniture. He loved the feel of this good wood in his hands.
Thomas remembered Grandfather Heiler. He, too, had a feel for wood. Before he had left Germany, Grandfather was a master cabinetmaker. He had planned to teach Thomas his craft but died in Winter Quarters before he could teach the boy much. Crossing the prairies was not a good place to learn woodworking. Still, it made Thomas feel good to turn this beautiful white pine wood into pieces of furniture that his grateful mother lovingly polished.
Returning to his hoeing, he stopped dreaming of cool pine forests. It wasn’t likely that he’d get up to the mountains for weeks. There was too much to do here. Even craftsmen had to delay their work to grow crops. There were no stores to buy food at in this pioneer land. His family must grow what they ate, and they worked hard to get it.
As he hoed, he spotted a carriage pulling up to their home. He watched as their neighbor, Brother Erickson, got out. Ether, Thomas’s little brother, ran to the fields to fetch his father. What was happening? What would bring a neighbor out during farming season on a Tuesday morning?
Thomas kept one eye on his hoeing and one eye on the house. When his father came in from the field and greeted Brother Erickson, Thomas worked his way closer to hear their conversation.
“The word is out that Brother Brigham [President Brigham Young] is looking for some fine wood to help build an organ for the new tabernacle,” Brother Erickson told Father. “I thought you’d like to know that.”
“Yes,” Father said slowly. “That’s interesting. But what has it to do with me?”
Brother Erickson pointed to their cabin. “Just look at those logs. The finest logs I’ve seen anywhere. They’re long and smooth, and there is not a knothole in the whole of it!”
“That’s true,” Father said. “Those logs made a snug cabin for us. Are you thinking we should let Brother Brigham know about the pine we have around here? It’s over three hundred miles to Salt Lake City! Couldn’t they find some closer?”
“Brother Robert Gardner and his son William have been traveling all over the territory, searching out good wood. Brother Brigham charged them with that responsibility. I don’t think the distance would be a problem if the wood was good.”
Father nodded. “Pine Valley would be proud to help with the furnishing of that great building. Let’s do it! Let’s send a piece of one of our very best logs.”
Over the next weeks, several men from the valley gathered at their cabin to help select and cut just the right wood to send to Salt Lake City.
Thomas wished that he could be the one to take the wood there. He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the pine chest he was making. He knew that when the Gardners saw this wood, they would want it.
“We’ll send it with one of the missionaries heading that way,” Bishop Johansen told the men. “There’s no need for a special trip.”
Hanging his head, Thomas went back to work. He longed to travel to Salt Lake City and see how the work on the organ and the tabernacle was getting along. But he knew that his family still needed every spare moment they had to provide a living for themselves. There just was no time for trips anywhere.
Over the next months, Thomas waited to hear if their beautiful white pine had been chosen for the organ. No word came. Then in the spring, men came with ox teams to haul the superb logs to Salt Lake City.
“Dad,” Thomas exclaimed happily when he saw the teams snaking up the mountain, “they’re going to use our wood!”
His father smiled at him. “It was the best they found in the territory. They’ll use our wood for some of the pipes. The metal pipes are being made back East by the Simmons company. But the largest of the wood pipes are of our wood. And they’re encasing some pipes in pine that comes from a canyon close to Salt Lake City. They’ll paint that wood to look like oak.”
Thomas grinned from ear to ear. “I sure would like to hear that organ when it’s completed.”
His father put his hand on his shoulder. “I think we could manage a trip, even one that far, to attend general conference one of these years.”
It was a promise he kept, but Thomas had to wait two whole years for the organ and the Salt Lake Tabernacle to be ready for a conference. However, in September 1867, after the crops were safely in their bins, Thomas’s family began the slow wagon ride to Salt Lake City. They arrived in plenty of time for the conference on October 6.
That morning, Thomas slid into his seat. He listened in awe to the partially finished organ. He knew that it would take Brother Ridges several more years to finish it, but he loved the sound.
Here in the wilds of Deseret, beautiful music was forming. The organ would someday be world famous. Thomas knew that as it was completed, it would only become better. For now, he was happy just to listen to its beautiful strains.
Later that day, his father introduced him to Joseph Ridges. When he found that Thomas was interested in the instrument, he showed him what they were doing. Then he introduced him to Niels Johnson, Shure Olsen, David Anderson, William Pinney, and John Sandberg, men he had been training to work on the organ, too. They were all there that day to hear its beautiful tones.
The following Wednesday, as his family traveled home, Thomas was still marveling at what he’d seen and heard. Here in the wilds of Deseret, the Lord had helped his servants use what materials they had, and what skill they had, to begin building one of the greatest organs in the world. He had felt the Spirit very strongly as its music flowed through that great building. He thrilled at the messages of the prophets. He loved the music the choir sang, accompanied by the organ. How proud he was that some of the wood inside it came from his valley.

In elementary school, I always heard about the “popular” kids. Being popular wasn’t something you did, it was who you were—and by the beginning of my first year in middle school, I was at the top of the middle school popularity chain. I hung out with the popular kids in the popular part of the hallway, had the same popular brand clothes, and most importantly, ate lunch with them at the exclusive Popular Table in the cafeteria.
The Popular Table had the perfect location, right by the lunch line but far away from the teachers. Even better, it was the only table where boys and girls sat together. I felt so cool as I sat with them, and we talked about our TV shows and our clothes.
But one thing was just a little off—these popular kids weren’t really that nice. When I was with them I felt popular, but I didn’t feel happy. Sometimes we all gossiped or made fun of others. There was a lot of swearing and talking about things I knew were not appropriate, and I didn’t feel like they cared about me. My “friends” rarely did anything really nice for me, and eventually I began to feel like a doormat.
“You should try to make some new friends,” my older sister said. “By the time those kids get to high school, they’ll probably be drinking and maybe even doing drugs. That’s what happened to a lot the popular kids from my middle school.”
I was shocked. “These are my friends,” I thought, “and they’re not going to do anything that would bring me down. Besides, even if they aren’t that nice, at least they still let me hang out with them.”
One day, as I was walking to my lunch table, I saw Cindy, a girl from church who was in the grade above me. She sat on the complete opposite side of the cafeteria.
“Hey there!” Cindy called to me. “Do you want to sit with me and my friends?”
“Ah … no thanks,” I said, “I have my own lunch table.”
But one day, at the Popular Table, one of the girls was rude to me. She hurt my feelings, and I was tired of feeling like my friends just tolerated me. But where else could I go?
Then I remembered Cindy’s offer.
“All right,” I thought. “I’m going to sit with Cindy. But just today.”
I picked up my lunch tray and tried to hold back the tears as I walked away from the best table in the cafeteria.
Cindy saw me, smiled, and said, “Hey, Meredith! Want to sit with us?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Sure,” I said and sat down at her table.
Cindy and her friends welcomed me to their table and were really nice. It was a completely different feeling from sitting with the popular kids. I was surprised. Not only were these girls nicer, but we also had similar standards, and that made it easier to go through lunch without having to listen to swearing or crude stories.
I decided to eat with them the next day, and the day after that, until eating with Cindy and her friends became routine. I was still nice to the popular kids, and we got along fine in class, but I stopped hanging out with them in the hallways.
One day, at the end of the year, Cindy and her friends had a field trip and were gone during lunch. I walked over to the popular side of the cafeteria and sat with my old friends again. During lunch, there was all the old swearing, telling crude jokes, and making fun of people, but now they were also talking about drugs and immoral activities. I couldn’t believe how much they had changed over the course of the year, and I was so grateful I had moved to the other side of the cafeteria when I did.
My sister was right; their standards were different from mine, and it would have become more difficult to follow the counsel of the prophets and stay close to the Lord if they had been my only friends. That year I made friends who were not of my faith but who shared a lot of the same standards and made it easy for me to practice my beliefs. They stayed my friends all the way through high school.
I’m grateful for my friend Cindy, who invited me sit with her, and to the Lord for giving me courage to change lunch tables. It seemed like such a big deal, but having friends with different standards was an even bigger deal.
The Lord blessed me to find friends who were fun, encouraging, and shared my standards. Trading being “popular” for being happy was definitely worth it.

From my infancy I had heard the Word of Wisdom stories about tea and coffee and tobacco, etc. Nearly every Sunday School day and Primary day we sang lustily, I with the other boys:
That the children may live long,
And be beautiful and strong,
Tea and coffee and tobacco they despise,
Drink no liquor, and they eat
But a very little meat;
They are seeking to be great and good and wise.
We sang it time and time again until it became an established part of my vocabulary and my song themes, but more especially my life’s plan. Occasionally some respected speaker said he had never tasted the forbidden things we sang against and then I made up my mind. Never would I use these forbidden things the prophets preached against. That decision was firm and unalterable. I would not and did not deviate.
In 1937 my wife and I were touring in Europe. In France I sat at a banquet table of the Rotary International convention in a fashionable hotel. The large, spacious banquet room held hundreds of people. The many waiters moved about the tables, and at every place, besides plenteous silver, linen, and fancy serving dishes, were seven wine glasses. No one was watching me. The temptation nudged me: Shall I drink it or at least sip it? No one who cares will know. Here was quite a temptation. Shall I or shall I not?
Then the thought came: I had made a firm resolution as a boy that I would never touch the forbidden things. I had already lived a third of a century firm and resolute. I would not break my record now. …
Now is the time to set your life’s goals. Now is the time to set your standards firmly and then hold to them throughout your life.

Then, shortly before school was to begin, I was playing “see-who-can-leap-over-the-most-stairs” on the front porch with Polly and Philip, my ten-year-old brother. I took a wild jump and landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, my sparkly pink glasses shattered at my side.

But the real tragedy occurred when I went shopping for replacement glasses with my father and Philip. They had about as much fashion savvy as my mother in the second-hand store. And even if I’d had a little savvy of my own, it wouldn’t have made much difference because I couldn’t see without my glasses.

I only knew I was tired of sparkly pink frames. This year I would wear sophisticated black. The frames I selected had wings curving elegantly upward on both sides. Cocking my head to achieve an air of mystery, I glanced at my fuzzy reflection in the mirror.

“How do you like them, Daddy?”

“How much do they cost?”

“On sale this week,” the saleslady said.

“In that case, they look terrific.”

Two weeks later we returned to pick up my cosmopolitan frames. I was trembling with anticipation. But as my face appeared in sharp focus in the optician’s mirror, I stared in horror. The longer I stared, the sicker I felt. The curving black wings that had seemed so sophisticated in my hands looked garish on my thin face. They threatened to leave me and fly around the room. I wished they would.

Mom gave Dad a hard look when we got home but told me I looked nice. Nobody else said anything until Polly came flying down the stairs.

She stopped abruptly and gaped.

“You look like Catwoman on the Batman show!” (For the next two years, I was Catwoman.)

Finally, school started. I had dreamed about the new friends I would meet. But I spent the first few weeks of junior high curiously surveying the school and waiting for classmates to befriend me. The other seventh-grade girls seemed so much older and superior. They wore nylons, earrings, makeup. Some of the rowdy ones smoked and had boyfriends.

Weeks went by, then months. A few kids said hi and asked what it was like to live in Hawaii, but no one seemed interested in being my friend. I was puzzled. Was it my clothing or my personality? In Hawaii we had always been friendly to the new kids.

Still, life was such an adventure that I didn’t have time to feel sad. Each day after school I’d explore the house and the yard. On weekends, my parents packed all of us into our cream-colored station wagon and took us on journeys of discovery.

One weekend we visited the Ford plant and watched cars being assembled. Another weekend we discovered the Kellogg’s cereal factory in Battle Creek and saw them make Fruit Loops and Corn Flakes. Another time we had a picnic in Kalamazoo.

On Saturdays when we had to stay home, we thought up excuses to walk to Bolgos Drugstore a mile down the road, where we would squander our allowance on candy.

And of course there were other adventures all week long. With the heavier chills, our stately trees turned breathtaking crimson, yellow, and orange, just like they did in the books. It was a fascinating contrast to the perpetual green of the islands. No other home possessed such enthusiastic rakers. Naturally I tried jumping into the fresh piles, but all I did was hurt myself and get dead leaves stuck inside my clothes. The books had glamorized the experience.

And I woke up early to wander the brightly colored farmers’ market. Father could never get enough fresh produce. Bushels of Golden Delicious apples, orange pumpkins, and shiny gourds spilled from the booths. Bananas, coconuts, and guavas paled in the face of this display.

It was in the farmers’ market that I tasted my first pat of maple sugar. Wrapped in cellophane, the sugar was molded into fancy leaf and star shapes. I nibbled it slowly, reveling in its smooth texture and the way it melted in my mouth.

On some afternoons, we’d help my mother put up pears. The shimmering jars, pink from the tiny red cinnamon candies Mom dropped into each bottle, were beautiful.

Then one day it was cold enough to show off our winter clothing at school. The thrill was short-lived when I saw the other girls in their snappy, thigh-length coats and knee boots. Skinny, with the weirdest eyeglasses east of the Mississippi, I looked like somebody’s eccentric grandmother. Transparent galoshes and a bag lady coat didn’t enhance the image. Polly in her fuzzy red and I in our plaid were undoubtedly the misfits of Forsythe Junior High. We stared at each other in disgust, yet clung to each other for support.

Lunch period was the worst. Polly and I ate at different times, so we had to eat alone. It was also embarrassing to have to bring a sack lunch. Every day I sat by myself, reading a book so I didn’t have to look up.

One day a girl from one of the tough groups sauntered over on a dare from her friends. Her heavily made-up eyes jeered at me.

“Whatcha readin’?” she said.

I could hear the laughter of her friends. My heart pounded. Maybe if I kept reading she would just leave.

“Is it good?” she tried again, turning to look at her friends. Loud laughter. I kept reading.

“Man, are you dumb,” she said as she walked away.

I was too embarrassed to mention the incident to my parents. I don’t think they ever realized I had no friends at school. I don’t know if it was just the clothes we wore or that we didn’t know exactly what to say or do to be like everyone else, but we never did feel like we fit in.

I wrote in my journal, “I don’t know what to wear. White socks and shoes are out in the winter, and I have the wrong kind of coat and boots. Styles are so different here!”

Church and home were the only two places where I felt accepted. The kids at church didn’t seem to care about my eerie eyewear or my outdated clothing. I loved activity nights. An industrious seamstress, I modeled several of my creations in an MIA fashion show. Another time I participated in an impromptu speech contest and did terribly, but no one seemed to mind. Virginia Webb became a good friend, but she attended a different junior high.

I began to live for weekends and the hours after school spent playing with my brothers and sisters. In Hawaii we had had scores of friends and rarely played together. But here my brothers and sisters became my closest friends. They were there when that long-awaited snow finally fell. We frolicked in it like kittens in catnip. We held our mouths open as it fell. Each flake was a miracle, every snowball another excuse to giggle.

Eventually it dawned on us that we were the biggest kids on the sledding hill across from our home. In Michigan sledding was only for kids. But Alan didn’t care. At age 16, he was six feet, five inches tall, and he loved sledding. Every day after school, he went sledding alongside the grade schoolers. They gawked at him, but since he was so much bigger, no one ever said a word.

The rest of us, still trying to fit in, bought used ice skates. I’d been a good roller skater in Hawaii and ice skating came easy. With all the ponds and lakes in Michigan, we never had to settle for endless circling in a stale old rink. I loved the exhilaration of skating hard and fast across a frozen lake.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

I wish I could say that there was some magic turning point, that we discovered a key that made us popular, that we found friends at our school, and that we became leaders and trendsetters ourselves. Of course we didn’t. In a year the sabbatical was over, and we returned to Hawaii, our scores of friends, our waves and mountain fruit, our mild weather and perpetually green foliage. Never was I happier than when we returned to our beloved island.

And yet now, 20 years later, when I think of Michigan, I smile. With fondness I recall Alan running barefoot in the snow. I grin at the memory of Philip and me raking autumn leaves. My heart soars when I remember skimming across a frozen lake with Polly or strolling through the farmer’s market with my father. Tears come to my eyes when I think about the whole family piling into our cream-colored station wagon, off for a picnic in Kalamazoo.

It isn’t easy to move when you’re in junior high school. It’s even tougher when you’re poor and you’re exchanging a provincial paradise for a bustling college town. There were times when I was sure I would never make it.

But now, given some time and distance, I know what the secret was. I leaned on my family. And because of them I survived.

It was a morning like most. I couldn’t find two socks that matched. The pitcher of orange juice was empty. There were only quarters and nickels in the family lunch-money can. Like most mornings I was running late and could hear the school bus roaring up the street before I was ready. I grabbed my backpack, forced on shoes still tied from the last wearing, and raced to the front door.
And, like most mornings, Dad was standing at the door with a look that said, “You missed family prayer again. How do you make it through your day?”
So before he could say out loud what his face was already shouting, I said, “Bye, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you more,” he teased.
Then, as I raced past him, he grabbed my hand, stopping me for a split second. “And your Father in Heaven loves you even more. Think about Him today, will you, sweetheart?”
“Sure, Dad,” I grinned and ran to the bus.
It wasn’t that I was the stupidest person at my high school. I averaged B’s. If every class had been dance or drama I would have been a straight-A student. But they weren’t, and I wasn’t. Drama was only 55 minutes a day, and dance came after school. Except for those brief moments when my spirit could soar free, I found myself in a sort of academic prison camp.
I felt my jaw clamping tighter and tighter. By sixth hour I wasn’t just ugly about school—I was ugly about me. As my math teacher began to explain a story problem that had no business being in a book, I sank even deeper. That’s when the voice in my head started repeating: “Why isn’t this making sense? Is it just me or is this a math class death march? How will I ever make it to graduation? I hate this class. I hate this teacher. I hate this school. I hate math. I hate my brain for not getting this. Why can’t I get this? Why am I so dumb?”
There, I said it, the thing I hated most about school. It made me feel dumb—worthless. So I sat there wanting to cry, but knowing if I did, I’d feel even more dumb. If I could have stood and recited Shakespeare or shown them my running split-leap in the air, then they would have known the real me, how talented I really was.
My whole day—okay the whole rest of the school year—would have been totally lame but for the strangest thing happening. Out of nowhere, my father’s words came rushing into my head.
“And your Father in Heaven loves you even more. Think about Him today, will you, sweetheart?”
Now I wasn’t the most obedient 15-year-old, but I knew undoubtedly that my dad loved me. And I knew I didn’t like how I was feeling about myself, math, and my future in public education. So I listened to his words. I followed my dad’s advice. And right there in algebra, I closed my eyes and let my mind rest on my Father in Heaven. I saw Him in some ways very much like my own dad—gentle and kind and deeply caring about me as his daughter. He loved me.
The remarkable thing was that as I held on to that image, my stress vanished. I felt like what it talks about in the Book of Mormon, like I was “encircled … in the arms of his love” (2 Ne. 1:15). I knew in that moment that I could do all things with God, even making it through algebra without causing permanent damage to my psyche. In fact I felt completely free from my stress. In that moment I felt His love.

On March 11, the Dominican Republic celebrated the Day of the Firefighter, so in the spirit of voluntary service and love, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints wishes to recognize Sister Raquel Oleaga for her more than 37 years of service to the country’s firefighters, and for being an educator for more than 30 years. At the age of 91, she still honorably holds her position as Colonel Krauner of the fire department that has she has been part of.
Sister Oleaga told us of her vision of service that caused her to move quickly in an ambulance to give assistance to sick or injured people whom she regularly cared for, and she expresses that being a firefighter was one of the most wonderful experiences that allowed her to fully express her testimony of the gospel.
She expressed her concern for the children who do not have parents to provide them with healthy rearing, stating that she always gave a special follow-up to these street children, and that something she did for years was to gather the children of her community into her home every Friday to comb their hair and to tenderly clean their nails. Even with her voice weakened by the passing of years, we feel the great love that surrounds her from her very large family, with many grandchildren and great-grandchildren who honor the precious example that she represents in her home.
Sister Oleaga still expresses her concern for not being able to attend church due to her advanced age and health, but she shares her testimony that the years she served in the Lord’s temple in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple changed her life forever. She invites children and young people to read about and visit the Church, and even today, at the age of 91, she observes the love of many members who bring the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper to her home every Sunday.
Wonderful examples like those of Sister Oleaga strengthen our testimony, elevate our faith, and invite us to be better Christians wherever we are every day. She heeded the words of Jesus Christ and put them into action in her life, serving her fellow men like the Savior in every need with admirable acts of love for others.