Gospel Story Finder

As we left Anchorage with the 24-foot river boat in tow and the bed of the pickup truck full of camping gear and food, the heavy rain clouds common during Alaskan summers were gathering over the mountains. It was July 1974. I had just met my 14-year-old son Craig and one of my university colleagues, Dr. Robert Whitmore, at the airport, and now we were headed for the Yukon River to undertake another research project.
We would head down the mighty Yukon, beginning at the point where the Trans-Alaska pipeline crosses this wild and magnificent river. In 1970 and 1972 I had surveyed parts of this region by helicopter in order to gather information on the falcons prior to the pipeline construction. Other portions of the Yukon River had been explored, but this part of the river was virtually unknown as far as the status of falcons was concerned. We would now have a chance to complete a check of the region by boat.
The salmon had just started their run upriver from the sea; they would continue their journey another 800 miles or so before spawning and dying. The July days were normally calm and sunny while the nights were crisp and cool. It is a lonely but satisfying feeling to stand around a crackling fire on a northern midnight, when it is still light enough to read a newspaper, and listen to the distant loons uttering their frenzied and maniacal calls. Sometimes, however, we were forced to remain in our tents for most of the day while the blustering winds whistled up the river and across the gravel bars where we camped. At one of our camps we found a small creek unnamed on the geological survey map, and we called it Molly Creek after my colleague’s baby daughter.
As the next three weeks passed, we visited cliff after cliff where there was evidence that falcons had at one time nested. Yet what we saw tore at our emotions. Based on the nature of the habitat, our previous years of knowledge from other portions of the Yukon River in Alaska and the Yukon Territory, and scattered information from other reports, we judged that about a dozen pairs of falcons should have been nesting on this stretch of river. Almost surely there were that many a decade ago. Now just half that number were present, and of those only two pairs had young. Some pairs still occupied their breeding places in silent splendor—but they were not producing young. Some pairs produced eggs so fragile they broke before hatching; others were not even producing eggs.
One nest we knew about had been continuously occupied for several decades. However, as we landed the boat beneath the nesting cliff, a sudden tightness gripped me, for a strange quietness seemed to surround us. Only the lap of water on the shore, the whisper of a light breeze through the ragged spruce trees, and the occasional twitter of some small bird along the river’s beach could be heard. Fearful of what we might find, we raced up the hill, scrambling over the broken talus beneath the cliff, and climbed up onto the nesting ledge. Except for a few old feathers, it was empty and lifeless. As we sat overlooking the great river flowing noiselessly beneath us and the wide expanse of the forest beyond, the outlines of two falcons came into view. Their high call, usually evoking in us a sense of the wild and the free, now seemed to carry with it a feeling of mournfulness and melancholy. They were giving the distinctive and peculiar wailing call that one soon learns to associate with deserted nests. We watched now as the two birds drifted slowly off into the arctic summer’s twilight, and all was silent again. The gallant, vigorous, and noisy defense of the nesting cliff, typical of the peregrine as it makes swoop after swoop at the intruder, was not here. Cold stones alone remained along the ledge where once there had been birth and life, low wails where once there had been loud calls of affection and anger, and only ghostlike shadows glided off into the sunset.

Taylor seems to have a special “gift” for playing basketball and has been shooting hoops ever since he could walk. In 2001, he and his family moved to a town near Atlanta, Georgia, where they have been glad for the opportunity to share the gospel with many new friends and neighbors.
Since moving there, Taylor has had the opportunity to play on both a city and an all-star basketball league. He enjoyed playing on both teams but decided it would be more challenging to try out for the city Elite Basketball Team. Knowing that only twelve boys would make the team, he practiced hard. He was thrilled when he made the team. His parents were happy for him and were committed to his schedule of practicing two hours a day, three days a week for the next five months, when the season would be over.
Then his mom received a phone call from his new coach. He told her that one of the three practice days each week would be on Sunday and that attending all practices was mandatory. He knew that Taylor was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and said that he was sorry that one practice day was on Sunday. He knew that Taylor was one of the best players on the team and had been looking forward to being his coach. Even so, he would try to understand if the decision was made to not attend the practice and have to leave the team.
Taylor was heartbroken. He wanted very badly to play on the team. He had earned his position and felt it was unfair to have practices on Sundays. However, he was a baptized member of the Church and had covenanted with Heavenly Father to choose the right and keep the commandments. He knew that if he kept the Sabbath Day holy, Heavenly Father would bless him.
He decided to keep the Sabbath Day holy. His dad called the coach, and the coach was sorry but said that he understood.
Later that evening, Taylor’s dad received a phone call from the coach. The high school basketball coaches who oversee the city Elite Team were running the drills during Taylor’s tryouts. When they learned that Taylor was giving up his place on the team because of his religious beliefs, they decided to make an exception to the rule for him. They allowed Taylor to miss every Sunday practice and still be eligible to start in the games as the point guard.
Taylor was overcome with happiness—and gratitude, for he knew he had witnessed a miracle. He had set a wonderful example for his family, friends, coaches, and team. Best of all, he knows in his heart that he truly did make the right choice, whether he was on the team or not.

Jessica P. and Nory A., two young women who live on Santa Cruz, know this personally. They are both converts and have both seen the difference keeping the commandments makes. There aren’t very many members in the Galápagos Islands (only 125 members in their branch out of around 25,000 people on their island). It can be difficult to stay on the strait and narrow path (see 1 Nephi 8:20; 2 Nephi 4:33; 31:17–19; Alma 7:19) with temptations such as alcohol and drugs all around.
Nory has seen the challenges in her own family. A year after her family was baptized, they were sealed in the Guayaquil Ecuador Temple. Not long after, however, several members of her family fell away. For a time she and her mom were the only ones who participated in church. How did she stay strong?
“Family home evening,” she says. “For a while, just my mom and I would hold it. Later my older brother and my dad started coming. And every time we study the gospel, my dad says, ‘This is for me.’ Now he is getting stronger and my brother too.”

In 1989, when I was called to the Philippine Islands to serve a mission, the main language of the Philippines—Tagalog—was not taught in the Provo Missionary Training Center. I arrived in the Philippines to a warm welcome by an English-speaking Filipina companion but understood virtually nothing that was said in Tagalog.
Although she translated the discussions for me and each thing I said, I was eager to learn the language. I asked her questions about the language over and over, and she never hesitated to help me. I gradually began to understand and speak a little Tagalog. About eight months into my mission, I could understand almost everything said in Tagalog, but I still spoke mainly English with a little Tagalog in nearly every sentence.
My companion and I visited a new convert, Sister Salvation, who, like many other converts, had become converted through her love of the Book of Mormon. She had eight children, with two still at home. She had lived through multiple typhoons that had destroyed or damaged her palm-leaf hut each time. She was a widow and over her lifetime had experienced the loss of three husbands.
One day we stopped by her home during a difficult time in her life. As she spoke in Tagalog, my mind was filled with answers to her concerns, all passages from the Book of Mormon. These were passages I had not previously memorized but had impacted me and now were coming to my mind word for word. The more she spoke, the more I longed to be able to communicate in Tagalog directly to her rather than through my companion. She finished talking, and I found myself talking to her, in fluent Tagalog, saying everything I had thought and felt prompted to say.
Tears flowed freely from her and my companion, in part because they knew they were witnessing a miracle. I spoke for about 20 minutes, nearly all my words coming word for word from the Book of Mormon in answer to her concerns. Words cannot describe what we felt that day.
After we left Sister Salvation, I reflected on what had just happened. I had been asked to speak in church that coming Sunday and thought, “I’ll just say some of what I said today now that I can speak Tagalog and quote passages from the Book of Mormon.” I recalled what I said but found that I couldn’t remember the passages word for word or the language! It was then that I realized how the Lord had given me “the gift of speaking with tongues” (Omni 1:25).
In the weeks that followed I continued to have similar experiences, though on a smaller scale. The language came to me more rapidly, and about 10 months into my mission I could speak the language fluently. I found that as I taught the gospel, passages of the Book of Mormon would come into my mind and heart to share with the people, in fulfillment of President Ezra Taft Benson’s powerful vision of missionary work (see sidebar).

When a service opportunity came up at the Food Bank of Mexico, three young women (including myself), one young man from our youth group, and 10 others decided to participate.
At first, I had no idea what we were going to do. But soon people at the food bank explained that we were going to separate perishable and non-perishable foods into grocery bags to make food packages for people in need. Our group divided the tasks, and then we started packing. We worked quickly as a team and put together more than 500 grocery bags!
From this experience I learned that even if we don’t have many resources ourselves, we can still help others who have even less. Little by little, we can all help in different ways. I know that we are blessed when we serve.
I really liked serving at the food bank. If I were given the opportunity to do it again, of course I would! It was great to be able to serve others. If you have the opportunity to serve, do it! And do it with all your heart and good cheer.

As a 26-year-old, Robert G. Ellis Jr. was working as a police officer in a Senate office building in Washington, D.C., USA.
“I spent a lot of time pondering what I had learned about Jesus,” he recalls. “My father and mother didn’t attend any church, but they had allowed me to go, and I had enjoyed attending more than a dozen denominations.” As a newly married young adult, he felt that he should be baptized—but in what church?
“My spirit was troubled. I wanted to find a church that was true to Christ’s teachings. People would say that all the churches were the Lord’s Church, but they did not hesitate to say that another denomination was wrong. I prayed, ‘I want to be baptized, but I don’t know which church to join.’”
Remembering that Jesus Christ said, “Ask, and it shall be given you” (Matthew 7:7), Robert kept pleading. One day while he was at work, Robert again felt troubled, and tears came to his eyes.
“I felt frightened and did not know if my thoughts were right or wrong. Then a peaceful feeling came over me. Without totally realizing why I was doing it, I walked over to an elevator operator and asked, ‘What church do you belong to?’”
The elevator operator was Norman Maxfield, a returned missionary attending Georgetown University.
“He looked up from some books. I could tell he was surprised. He said, ‘I’m a Mormon. Why?’
“I said, ‘I want to be baptized, but I don’t know which church to join.’
“He asked, ‘What do you believe in?’
“‘Jesus Christ,’ was the answer I proudly gave.
“He asked, ‘May I tell you about my church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?’ As he told me that Christ’s Church had been restored to the earth, I knew that my prayers had been answered. The feeling within me was wonderful.”
That was in 1977. Today Brother and Sister Ellis are members of the Church in Virginia, USA.

Bryan stared at his cereal and twirled his spoon around. “I can’t eat, Mom. My stomach hurts.”
“Bryan,” said Mom. “I know that it’s hard to move and go to a new school, but you’ll do just as well here as you did before.”
“But, Mom,” said Bryan, “all my friends are in my old school. I won’t know anyone here.”
“You’ll make new friends,” Mom reassured him.
“But the school year’s half over,” Bryan complained. “The kids know each other and have chosen their friends. They won’t have room for me to fit in.”
Mom put her arm around Bryan’s shoulders. “Remember last week in family home evening when we talked about how we can find answers to many of our problems by reading the scriptures?”
“I remember,” Bryan answered. “But I don’t remember any scriptures about kids having to make new friends in a new school.”
Mom smiled. “Maybe not,” she agreed, “but I can think of a scripture that will help here.”
“What scripture?”
“It’s about the Savior. John wrote, ‘We love him, because he first loved us.’ * In other words, Jesus didn’t wait for people to be friendly to Him. He just loved them and was a friend first. It’s like the song in the Children’s Songbook, ‘Kindness Begins with Me.’ If you take the first step, I promise you that you’ll soon have lots of friends.”
“I’ll try, Mom,” Bryan told her. “But it’s not easy when you’re new.”
“I know,” Mom answered, “but by lunchtime you should feel better. I packed your favorite lunch.”
“Thanks, Mom,” said Bryan. “I’ll see you later,” he added as he kissed her good-bye.
Mrs. Bishop, the teacher, was expecting him. As soon as the bell rang, she said, “Class, we have a new boy this morning. This is Bryan Wright. Bryan, we’re glad to have you with us.”
Although the children smiled, as the morning went on, Bryan could tell that they had already settled into groups. Then, after recess, he found a note stuck in his desk! Bryan was surprised. Who would write a note to him? Bryan unfolded it and read:
DEAR BRYAN,
I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND. BUT FIRST YOU HAVE TO FIGURE OUT WHO I AM. I’LL GIVE YOU A CLUE EACH DAY TO HELP YOU. HERE IS YOUR FIRST CLUE: I AM A BOY.
YOUR MYSTERY FRIEND
The children were working on an assignment, and no one was looking at Bryan. As Mrs. Bishop called on children that afternoon, Bryan listened carefully, trying to learn each child’s name. On the way home, he caught up with a group of boys, and as he walked with them, he wondered, Could it be Jason? Larry? Maybe it’s Tony? Or Jeff?
The next morning, Bryan gobbled down his breakfast.
“Slow down, Bryan,” Mom laughed. “Yesterday you couldn’t eat a bite, and now I’m afraid you’ll swallow the spoon!”
But Bryan couldn’t wait to get to school. As soon as he arrived, he checked his desk. Sure enough, there was a folded piece of paper. He opened it and read:
DEAR BRYAN,
ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR NEXT CLUE? HERE IT IS: I HAVE BLOND HAIR AND BLUE EYES. GOOD LUCK!
YOUR MYSTERY FRIEND
Bryan looked around the room carefully. About half the boys had blond hair. During the day, Bryan tried to talk to as many of them as he could so that he could see what color eyes they had. He learned more names and discovered that there were many friendly children in the class. But he still did not know who his mystery friend was.
The next day was Friday. Bryan was anxious to solve the mystery so that he would not have to wonder about it the whole weekend. But Friday’s clue was more mysterious than ever:
DEAR BRYAN,
YOUR CLUE FOR TODAY IS: I LOVE TO PLAY BASEBALL. IF YOU CAN’T SOLVE THE MYSTERY TODAY, DON’T WORRY. HERE’S AN EXTRA CLUE FOR YOU TO THINK ABOUT OVER THE WEEKEND: SHOELACES.
YOUR MYSTERY FRIEND
Shoelaces? Bryan was confused. Not only did he still have a mystery—nearly every boy in his class loved baseball—but now he had to figure out what shoelaces had to do with it. Again he talked to as many children as he could, including the girls, hoping that someone would give the Mystery Friend away. But in spite of getting to know many children better, Bryan still did not solve the shoelace mystery.
The weekend seemed long. Mom and Dad were really happy that Bryan was excited to go back to school, and they did their best to keep him busy. Finally Monday came, and Bryan found another note stuck in his desk:
DEAR BRYAN,
THIS IS THE LAST DAY OF THE MYSTERY. REMEMBER THE FINAL CLUE: SHOELACES. SEE YOU SOON!
YOUR MYSTERY FRIEND
Bryan thought about shoelaces so much that when Mrs. Bishop asked him what five times nine was, Bryan answered, “Shoelaces.”
During art, when everyone was supposed to draw some type of transportation, Bryan drew a train riding along shoelace tracks. When lunchtime came, he walked down the line of waiting children, looking at their feet. He saw white shoelaces, black shoelaces, and blue-and-white-striped shoelaces. He saw brown shoelaces, pink shoelaces, and even purple polka-dot shoelaces.
And then he saw them—yellow shoelaces covered with black question marks! Question marks are for things you don’t know, he thought. And things you don’t know are mysteries, so these are the mystery shoelaces! He looked up to see a smiling face with blue eyes and curly blond hair. “So you’re my Mystery Friend, Jim,” he said.
“Yep. You figured me out. Now we can be friends!”
“I think we already are,” Bryan told him. “And you did me a real favor too.”
“What favor?” asked Jim.
“I was so busy trying to figure out who you were that I forgot to be shy and I got to know everybody in the class. My mom was right. By being a friend first, now I have a whole classroom full of friends—and one very best one, besides!”

As we drove to the old hotel on Main Street, Debbie asked, “What are your parents like?”
“They’re super-Mormons.”
“What does that mean?”
“My dad doesn’t do anything but take care of his business and work for the Church. No golf, no bowling, no country club bridge games. He’s either opening a new gas station or attending some Church meeting.”
We pulled into the parking lot along side the hotel.
“I remember a few years ago he took the family to Yellowstone Park where we lived in a trailer. ‘No phones, no meetings. A chance to get where nobody can get ahold of us,’ he told us. But about Wednesday he wandered over to the MIA they have there for the park employees. By the end of the week he was up to his neck in Church work again, showing them how to improve their home teaching.”

Not long ago I read about an incident that occurred in the life of President Harry S. Truman after he had retired and was back in Independence, Missouri. He was at Truman Library, talking with some elementary school students and answering their questions. Finally, a question came from an owlish little boy. “Mr. President,” he said, “was you popular when you was a boy?” The President looked at the boy and answered, “Why, no. I was never popular. The popular boys were the ones who were good at games and had big, tight fists. I was never like that. Without my glasses, I was blind as a bat, and to tell the truth, I was kind of a sissy.” The little boy started to applaud, and then everyone else did, too” (Eugene W. Brice, “Good News about Failure,” Vital Speeches, 1 Feb. 1983, p. 236.)

“Sarah! Sarah, wake up!” five-year-old Christiana Larsen said to her little sister. “It’s time to leave.”
Three-year-old Sarah struggled to open her eyes.
“But it’s still dark outside,” she complained sleepily.
“I know, but Mama says we have to get an early start. The ship to America leaves soon.”
The Larsen family had joined the Church in Denmark. Now they would be making the long journey to join the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley.
Christiana helped Sarah get dressed. Then the little girls tearfully took one last look around their comfortable bedroom. They knew it would be a long time before they would sleep in a real bed again.
“Don’t forget your parasol, Sarah,” Christiana said as she picked up her own lacy silk parasol. “Mama said she would pack them with the bedding.”
Mama and Papa had said they couldn’t take anything besides necessities on the trip to America. After the bedding, clothing, and tools were packed, there wouldn’t be much room for anything else. But Christiana and Sarah had begged to take just one favorite thing to their new home. After all, they were leaving behind their dolls, books, and toys. Each girl chose her pretty parasol.
As the sun rose, Christiana and her family boarded the ship that would sail to America. They were excited to go to Zion, even though they had to leave friends, family, and their home.
The ocean voyage was long and tiresome. During the hot afternoons on the ship, the two girls used their pretty parasols to keep the sun off their heads. If the wind blew in the right direction, the ship sailed steadily on. But if it changed course, the ship was forced back, often as far as it had already come.
When the Larsens landed in America, they bought a wagon and oxen and began the long journey to the Salt Lake Valley. The ride in the wagon was bumpy and hot, so Christiana and Sarah often walked instead.
Like many other pioneer families, Christiana’s family experienced hardships and tragedy along the way. Christiana’s newborn brother died during their journey and was buried on the plains.
After the Larsen family reached the Salt Lake Valley in 1857, Christiana loved to go to church with other children her age. Christiana and Sarah happily carried their parasols to church every Sunday to keep the hot desert sun off their faces.
As the days and weeks went by, the family’s money and food began to run out. One night Christiana heard her parents discussing the problem. Her father said he knew of a family who had been blessed with a good harvest of grain. The Larsens could trade something they had for some flour. But what did they have to trade?
Christiana spoke up. “You can trade Sarah’s and my parasols, Papa.”
“But you love your parasols, Christiana. I couldn’t do that!”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Christiana said. “We need the food more than we need the parasols.”
The next day Christiana’s father traded the beautiful lacy parasols for some flour. The flour provided food for the whole family.
That night, as Christiana got ready for bed, she looked sadly at the corner where her lovely parasol had stood. But as she remembered the wonderful bread she had eaten for supper, her sadness turned to gratitude. As she said her prayers that night, she thanked Heavenly Father for her lovely parasol, which helped to feed her family.

Just a couple of days later Stubbs and I were playing ball. I cracked a good one with my bat, and the ball sailed over the fence. Old Stubbs bounded through the open gate after the ball.

Suddenly I heard car brakes screeching and a yelp from Stubbs. I shot through the gate like lightning just in time to see a man getting out of his car. Stubbs was lying still in the street.

“Stubbs!” I cried. I ran over to him and felt sick to my stomach when I saw the blood.

“I’m sorry,” said the motorist. “I tried to stop. Have you a blanket? I’ll be glad to take you and your dog to a veterinarian.”

I nodded and ran home, sobbing and yelling “Mom” all at the same time. She grabbed a blanket and ran outside right behind me.

We put Stubbs on the blanket and carefully carried him to the man’s car. While we rode to the animal hospital, I gently stroked Stubb’s head.

It seemed like hours later when the doctor finally came out and told us that Stubbs was still alive. He had stitched him up, but Stubbs had lost a lot of blood.

“Can I take him home?” I asked. I was really scared that if I left the animal hospital without him, I’d never see him again.

The veterinarian talked to Mom a minute, then disappeared and came back carrying Stubbs, who lay very still in his arms. “You take good care of him, and call me if there’s any change.”

That night I told Dad that I wanted to sleep next to Stubbs and take care of him during the night. I filled Stubbs’s bowl with water, in case he woke up and was thirsty. Then I got a blanket and lay down next to him.

Dad came to say good night, and then he said gently, “Mark, Stubbs is pretty sick. I want you to prepare yourself in case he doesn’t make it.”

“Dad, can we please say a prayer.”

“Of course, Mark. We can pray and exercise our faith in Heavenly Father’s goodness and in His ability to heal Stubbs.”

“Dad, … how do we do it? I’m not sure I have any faith to exercise.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Mark, we exercise our faith by believing that God loves us. We tell Him our problems, then have faith that whatever happens is really for the best.”

“You just let Him decide?” I asked. It didn’t seem quite enough.

“Well,” Dad answered, “we have to do our part. We have to do everything possible to help.” Dad gave me a kiss and then put his arm around me as he said a prayer for Stubbs.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pleaded with God to help Stubbs get better.

After Dad left, I thought about what he’d said concerning faith. I wished I’d listened better to Sister Higgins’s lesson. I needed to know all I could about faith, because Stubbs needed all the help I could give. I did remember writing “Faith without works is dead” on my paper in Primary. So I thought about that each time I patted Stubbs and checked to see if he’d changed at all. Maybe if I did the “works” part really well, it might make up for the faith part a little.

I spent the night checking Stubbs—talking quietly into his ear, patting him, and praying over and over.

The next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to the morning sun. My hand was holding Stubb’s paw. I squeezed my eyes closed one more time and pleaded with Heavenly Father to please help Stubbs get better. That was when I felt something wet on my fingers. I raised up and stared at Stubbs. One eye looked up at me, and his tongue licked my hand again.

“Dad! Mom!” I yelled. I didn’t care if it was 6:00 A.M. “Stubbs is better!”

I think now that I must have had beginner’s faith—you know, like beginner’s luck, when you first learn how to do something. Heavenly Father must have helped Stubbs get better. Maybe I helped a little too. The veterinarian said that I had a miracle dog.

One day in April 2024, I was looking through one of the family history pages on Facebook when I saw a post which caught my eye. It mentioned a William Cross living in the Hafod, which is part of Swansea where I live and grew up. I thought: William Cross? That’s my great-grandfather.
Cross isn’t a common name in Swansea and my great-grandfather was originally from Huntingdonshire. The lady who wrote the post was looking for relatives of William Cross. She had a Bible and she wanted to return it to the family. From what I could gather she and her family had moved into the house in Grandison Street where my grandparents had lived. She’d found the Bible in the house.
I phoned her and explained who I was and we arranged to meet. She gave me the Bible and I was in tears. When I saw it, I thought: I’ve seen this before. I must have seen it when I was a youngster.
William Cross was born in 1840. I couldn’t find out when he came to Swansea, but my daughter and I found him there in the 1871 census. He married Mary Thomas in 1871 in St Mary’s church. She was from Walton in Pembrokeshire and was working in Swansea, I’m assuming as a domestic. He was living in the same area of the town. They moved into 11 Grandison Street where all the children were born. My grandfather, Walter, was their youngest child.
I was thrilled to have my great-grandfather’s Bible, because it’s part of him. It was given to him. On the front page is written: “William Cross, his book, a present from his loving mother.” The Bible is very frail. I’m almost afraid to handle it. I would like to have it re-bound, but it wouldn’t have the same character. Even though it’s all dog-eared and broken, you can still make out who it belonged to. It gives me a bit of insight into my great-grandparents. They died before I was born.
The Bible has a list of the children in the front. I knew who they were because I’d heard of them. And my grandfather was there, so it was my close family. But among the list of children there were two I didn’t know anything about. I’ve since taken their names to the temple, so I think the family is now complete. And I think that’s why the Bible came to me.

It is related of Spinola and Richardet, the ambassadors sent by the king of Spain to negotiate a treaty at the Hague in 1608, that one day they saw some eight or ten persons land from a little boat and, sitting down upon the grass, proceed to make a meal of bread, cheese, and drink.
“Who are those travelers?” asked the ambassadors of a peasant.
“These are our worshipped masters, the deputies from the state,” was his reply.
Spinola at once whispered, “These are not men to be conquered.” (From Happy Homes and the Hearts That Make Them by Samuel Smiles.)

During my tour aboard the USS West Virginia, a call came for an officer who spoke Portuguese to go on a three-week exchange with the Brazilian Navy. I was the only one in the submarine force who spoke Portuguese.
My initial feeling was not to go. I had just finished a three-month patrol and was looking forward to seeing my family, but the exchange would not leave my mind. I turned to Heavenly Father in prayer, received a strong answer that I should go, and accepted the assignment.
The arrangements proved fraught with hurdles. At one point I felt like giving up. I thought, “How important could this be?” The Holy Ghost, however, prompted me to push ahead.
Illustration by Allen Garns
Finally, after several delays, I arrived on a Brazilian ship. When I was escorted to the officers’ dining room, the ship’s captain was yelling and pointing his finger at a young officer. The captain saw me, stopped, and said in broken English, “Ah, my American friend has arrived. Welcome. May I offer you something to drink?”
I responded in Portuguese that I would love a popular Brazilian soft drink I hadn’t tasted since my mission. He told me the ship had all kinds of liquor on board, but I stated I did not drink alcohol.
Later a knock came at my cabin. When I opened the door, there stood the young officer from the dining room.
“You are an American,” he said. “You do not drink alcohol. You speak Portuguese. Could it be that you are a Mormon?”
“Yes, I am,” I responded.
He threw his arms around me and broke down sobbing.
This officer, Lt. Mendes, was a fairly new convert and a recent graduate of the Brazilian Naval Academy. On board the ship, he quickly learned that the captain expected him to share in the wild lifestyle of the officers when visiting ports. Instead, Lt. Mendes constantly volunteered for “in-port duty” and otherwise skipped port-of-call activities. The captain grew weary of this. When I entered the dining hall, he was yelling at Lt. Mendes for not joining in.
“You will go out with the officers during our next port of call,” he had ordered the lieutenant. “You will show the visiting American officer what it is like to have a good time. He will expect that of us.”
For months, Lt. Mendes had been praying that his captain would understand and accept his principles. With my arrival, discussion of the gospel became the center of most conversations in the dining room. We talked with the other officers about Joseph Smith, the Restoration, the Word of Wisdom, and the law of chastity. Feelings toward Lt. Mendes soon changed. The officers removed the openly displayed pornography, and at the next port we all enjoyed a meal together at a restaurant instead of going to a club.
Near the end of my three weeks onboard, and after many discussions with the captain and officers about our beliefs, the men softened their hearts. “Now I understand,” the captain told Lt. Mendes before I left, adding that he would no longer ask him to go against his principles.
I will never forget this experience. Lt. Mendes and I learned that our Father in Heaven knows us individually, loves us, and is concerned with our personal lives.

I remember when I was about 16 years old overhearing Mom talking to Dad. She was concerned about some choices I was making. I was not guilty of any sin more serious than the immaturity of youth, but Mom was worried. What Dad said seared into my heart. “Don’t worry,” he said to Mom. “I trust Sharon, and I know she’ll do the right thing.” Those hours in the hayfield paid off then and there. From that moment on I was bound to those loving, trusting parents.

Neo and his mom, Nelly
I also started small with sharing the gospel. At first, I was very nervous—extremely nervous—to share the gospel with my friends. I thought my friends wouldn’t be interested in church. And I just didn’t want to disappoint them in some way or for it to be awkward.
Neo and his friend Mangaliso
But to get me started, my mom gave me a card from the missionaries with the meetinghouse address on it. I gave my friend the card and said, “Come to a youth activity. It’s the best thing ever.” He came to the activity. On the drive home, he was quiet the entire way. Then the next week he asked, “Are we going again?” I was like, “Oh, you really want to come?” And from then on he kept coming to activities, and eventually to church.
When my friend told me he was ready to be baptized, I was like, “Sure, just give me a second to process that.” Then he invited our other friend to church, and then it was the two of us helping him. And badda boom, badda bam—now two of my friends have been baptized! And the three of us are trying to help another friend come to church and be baptized as well.
Neo and his friends Lucky and Mangaliso
I’ve seen my friends’ faith in Jesus Christ grow incredibly. I think they even have more faith than me sometimes. When I see us passing the sacrament together, I think, “This is so great. This is the best gift I could be given.” It all started with that small card and then led to two people being baptized.

Another incident that has touched my life recently happened when a young man with a terminal illness passed away. He knew that his illness would first take away his manual dexterity and his ability to walk, then its progression would take his ability to speak, and finally his respiratory system would cease to function. But he also had faith that families are forever. With this knowledge, he spoke to each of his children through video recordings for use when he was gone. He produced recordings to be given to his sons and daughters at important, sacred occasions in their lives, such as baptisms, priesthood ordinations, and weddings. He spoke to them with the tender love of a father who knew that while his family was forever, for a time he would not physically be able to be with them, but spiritually he would never leave their side.

Jeffrey just started kindergarten and is making lots of friends. One day, his teacher told me that the day before, one of the students in his class was having a bad day and was very unhappy. The teacher said that Jeffrey stayed by this student’s side during recess and tried his best to be a good friend. He put his arm around her and comforted her the best he could. At lunchtime, he made sure that he sat next to her, and he helped her open her milk carton and other items in her lunch. Jeffrey’s teacher said that she was very proud of Jeffrey for being a good friend to the girl.

Although most of the Saints had left Nauvoo by summer, some remained because of poverty or sickness. This made anti-Mormons very angry. On 10 September 1846, about 800 men with six cannons began to fire on the Saints still in Nauvoo. The attack continued for several days until an agreement was reached that every Mormon would leave except five men and their families, who would stay to sell the remaining property.
Five or six hundred of these remaining Saints crossed the Mississippi and camped on the riverbank in Iowa. They had only blankets and brush bowers for shelter. None of them had food for more than a few days, and many were very sick.
On 9 October, a miracle occurred. Flocks of quail flew into their camps, landing on the ground and even on the tables. The hungry Saints were able to catch the birds. The meat saved many people from starvation and stirred their hearts as they realized that the Lord was caring for them.
Their fellow Saints had not forgotten them, either. Many came back from the Missouri River to help. Others went into neighboring cities to seek money to aid the poor and sick. In the end, the refugees were rescued and divided among the various camps in Iowa, a few even reaching Winter Quarters.

Seminary began as it usually did: we sang a hymn, recited the scripture-of-the-week, and said the prayer. Then I began telling Grandma’s story about service. As I spoke, I kept noticing my seminary teacher, Brother Olsen, in one of the desks on the back row. He looked really serious.
Great! I thought. I hope he’s not mad at me. Maybe this wasn’t what he had in mind when he asked me to do the devotional. I finished the story by saying, “I hope we can all take time to serve others like my grandma did, because we never know how much good one small act of service can do.” Then I quickly sat down in my desk.
My seminary teacher didn’t say anything. He just sat there in the back row. Everyone started looking at him.
“Man, I must have really blown it,” I thought.
Finally Brother Olsen spoke. “Lindsay, what is your grandma’s name?”
“Mary Lois Gunnell,” I answered. What was he going to do—call her and make sure I hadn’t made up the story?
Brother Olsen continued, “Do you know who that sergeant was? That was my sergeant while I was in the service myself, and I was very close to him.” Everyone in the class started whispering.
“No way!” said one of the boys. He thought we had planned this all out before.
“Really,” Brother Olsen said sincerely. “I knew him before he was wounded and after he recovered. He told me that same story himself and said how much that meant to him to have a stranger care enough to bake a birthday cake for him. He wanted to thank the woman, but never knew her name.” Brother Olsen looked right at me. “Lindsay, that cake wasn’t just a birthday cake. It was the beginning of a whole new life for my sergeant.”
I couldn’t believe it, and I couldn’t wait to tell Grandma.
“Class,” Brother Olsen continued, “I want you to know that Lindsay’s Grandma’s act of service literally changed that sergeant’s life. Before he was wounded, he was pretty mean. Every other word out of his mouth was a swear word. After he received that cake in the hospital in Colorado, he decided to change. He told me he was going to try harder to be a better person, and that’s just what he did.”
Until hearing about Brother Olsen’s sergeant, I never realized how much just one kind deed could affect another. My grandma sweetened a bitter man’s life with as simple a thing as a cake. Her story gives me hope that my small acts of service—a smile or a kind word—may also add richness to other people’s lives.