Gospel Story Finder

I was baptized when I was 18 years old and I never thought about serving a mission. Missionaries and members of the Church use to ask me about it whenever we met. I used to say, “I will think about it, let me finish my studies.” I finished my studies. The members continued to ask, “When are you going to serve a mission?” I would answer, “Let me make some money then I will think about it.” Every time, I used to give excuses for not serving a mission.
One day I sat on the rooftop, thinking about what I should do, wondering why God had given me challenges. Just one thought came into my mind: “Go on a mission.” A few days later I watched general conference with lots of questions. The main one was about my mission. I was waiting for the answers, when I heard President Dieter F. Uchtdorf say, “Those who love and serve God and fellowmen and humbly and actively participate in His work will see wondrous things happen in their lives and in the lives of those they love”1. I felt very strongly that it was the perfect answer from Him that I needed. The next moment I spoke to my mom. She did not want me to serve a mission. She had said many times, “I can’t live two years without you.” That day I thought she might say no, but she said, “I am happy to send you on a mission.”
I submitted my papers and waited for my call letter for almost one year. Meanwhile I went on exchanges with missionaries and learned a lot from them. This preparation helped me to gain a strong testimony to never give up on my mission and taught me how important it is to serve the Lord. Eventually the wait was over. The call letter came. When I opened it and saw that I was called to serve in the India New Delhi Mission, I was shocked. I read the letter again and saw at the bottom, “your purpose will be to invite others to come unto Christ.” I felt joy and happiness. I was prepared to leave my home, family, and friends.
There is no other place I would rather be than in the India New Delhi Mission where I have come to know who I am and why God sent me here. Because of Jesus Christ, I have the power to deal with the burdens, obstacles, and temptations. He had delivered me from physical and spiritual danger. The mission field is like a washing machine where we, like a dirty cloth, can be put in it, to be twisted, spun and knocked around and come out brighter, cleaner and better than before.
The Lord demands our whole soul on the sacrificial altar. That is the price we must pay, and when we do, we become instruments in his hands. We are all answerable to Him in this life, and in the next, we will be held accountable when we are called before Him to make our report. When that time comes, I will stand before Him to give an account of my stewardship. I pray that I may be able to do so without embarrassment, apology, or excuse. I am not perfect, I do have my weaknesses, but I can say that I have tried to do what the Lord would have me do as his servant disciple.

Hi! I’m Jackson, from Germany, and this is my brother, Josiah, and my sister, Cora Jade.
Lots of people come to Germany when they’re not safe in their countries anymore. They’re called refugees. The kids don’t have any toys, so I gave them some of mine. Then I had a great idea. I asked my mom if we could make dolls for them.
I love to sew with my mom. I pushed the pedal on the sewing machine and put the stuffing in the dolls.
My family collected some clothes and toys to give to the refugees here. We drew pictures for them of things that make us happy.
We took the dolls to the refugee camps and gave them to kids there. I like making new friends!
They sang songs for us, and we played our instruments for them. Some people who were sad smiled when we played “I Am a Child of God.” It felt really, really, really good.
The kids we met are like us in lots of ways. All of us like to sing and get toys and play outside. I know Jesus loves them, and He loves me.
For more ideas on serving refugees in your area, visit lds.org/go/61775.

Corey had a plan. Not just an ordinary plan, but a terrific plan. His dad had put a platform on the biggest branches of their old sycamore tree, and now Corey was going to build a clubhouse on the platform. For weeks he’d gathered old boards and leftover wood scraps given to him from the construction site at the end of his street.
“It’s going to be a big job,” Mom told him after inspecting his woodpile. “How do you plan on making it?”
Corey just shrugged and smiled. “You’ll see,” he said.
That afternoon Corey got out the little red toolbox that was given to him for Christmas the year before. He frowned as he hefted the hammer. It was smaller than he remembered. He sighed, put the hammer back, and closed the toolbox lid. It would have to do.
Mom gave him a handful of nails from the large can on Dad’s workbench, and Corey went to work, being extra careful not to hammer his thumb. It was much harder than he had expected it to be. But while he arranged the boards and hammered the nails, he thought about what a great clubhouse it was going to be.
By the time Dad arrived home that evening, Corey had two walls finished. The boards teetered precariously, but Corey was sure that the branches would help keep them up. He imagined his friends and himself having very important meetings in the clubhouse.
Dad came out to inspect Corey’s work. “Hey, pal,” he commented, “that’s quite a project. What’s it going to be?”
Corey’s eyes sparkled. “A clubhouse! I’m going to start a club, and I’m only going to invite my very best buddies. No one can come into my clubhouse without an invitation.”
Dad nodded thoughtfully. He left for a few minutes, then came back with his big toolbox. “Need a hand?” he asked.
Corey grinned. “All right!”
Corey and Dad worked together, straightening the crooked spots and securing loose nails. They built the other two walls, a fine roof, and a sturdy, pull-up ladder. When they were finished, Corey looked proudly at their work. It was even better than he’d hoped—it was perfect!
“Now I’m going to make the invitations to my club,” he told Dad as they sat down for dinner.
“I want to be in your club,” Sara pleaded as she picked at the casserole on her plate.
Corey looked at his little sister. “This is a club for my closest friends,” he told her. “You can’t come without an invitation.”
As Corey lay in his warm bed that night, he thought about his clubhouse. All at once, he knew who he would give the first invitation to. He couldn’t have built such a terrific clubhouse without Dad. There probably wasn’t a better buddy in the whole world. He would be a super club member. Corey fell asleep wondering whom else to invite to join his club.
After school the next day Corey colored bright invitations and tucked them into envelopes. Mother set a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies on the counter where he was working, and she kissed him on the cheek.
In his very best handwriting, Corey spelled Dad on the first envelope. He picked up a cookie and took a big bite. He frowned a little, trying to decide which of his friends to invite. After all, the club was only for his best buddies.
Corey watched Mom folding clothes at the table. He looked at the delicious cookies she’d baked for him. It was pretty certain that nobody did more for him than Mom. He smiled as he thought, I’ll invite Mom to my club too. And as he left the invitations on their pillows, Corey imagined how happy Mom and Dad would feel to be invited to his club. He felt happy himself, just thinking about it.
While Corey was doing his chores that night, he was still trying to decide whom else to invite to his club. As he rinsed the dinner dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, Sara came in the kitchen. “Can I help?” she asked.
Corey pulled a stool to the counter so that Sara could hand the dishes to him. They laughed together when warm water splashed across a plate and sprayed both their faces. Sara was a pretty good pal. Later that night, after she had gone to bed, he wrote Sara’s name on the third envelope and left it in her shoe.
Little Benny, Corey’s baby brother, was doing a funny dance when Corey realized that his club just wouldn’t be complete without Benny. He left Benny’s invitation next to his stuffed lamb.
The next evening the family began arriving at the clubhouse. First Dad, then Sara, then Mom and Benny. They brought their invitations with them and showed them to Corey at the bottom of the ladder.
Sitting in a circle on the floor, they laughed and sang and munched on popcorn that Mom had brought from the house. It was probably the best family night ever. And Corey was certain that his club was the greatest club in the universe because he had the best buddies a guy could ask for.

Name: Billy Matthews
Age: 18
Sport: Track and field (discus)
Location: Washington, USA
Major Achievement: 2007 Washington State high school discus champion with a throw of 164 feet, 8 inches.
“In track two of my goals were to earn a scholarship and to win the state title. I had also set the goal to serve a mission. During my senior year I was offered two scholarships. I worried about which school to attend, and my throwing marks began to suffer as well. Eventually another school offered a scholarship, and athletically I was sure this was the school for me. But once again my marks decreased, and I began to question my decision. I finally realized something I had learned from one of my seminary teachers: ‘Don’t give up what you want most, for what you want now.’ That’s what I had been doing. I decided that I needed to put the Lord first in everything. Shortly after making this decision, my marks rapidly improved, and I went up in the state rankings, and soon I won the regional and state titles. By putting the Lord first, I had no worries and felt comforted. I was blessed for sacrificing what I wanted ‘now’ for what I’ve always wanted.”

Once again the Lord guided me to be in the right place at the right time. When the Americans had cleared the mountain and were gone, we left the house and marched on again toward home. A few days later, we were stopped once more by the Americans. At first I didn’t speak. I wanted to act like I didn’t know English. I heard them say, “Well, we’ll just let them sit here, and we’ll put them on the next truck that comes to transport them to a camp.” Trucks had been going by every two to three minutes.
We sat there waiting for a truck to come by any second. We waited and waited, for an hour or longer, but no truck came. I finally went up to one of the military policemen.
I told him who we were, and he said, “Oh, all of a sudden you speak English.”
“Yes, I speak English. I learned it in school. I was just scared.”
“How old are you?” he asked me. I told him I was 17-and-a-half years old.
“Where have you been?”
I explained the whole thing—what we had done, why we had civilian clothes on, where we wanted to go—home. He called up on the phone and checked the outfits where we had been to see if the information I had given him was correct. Then he looked at me for a long time and said, “I have a boy about your age, and if he would say to someone, ‘I’d like to go home to Mother,’ I hope they’d give him the chance. If you take this road, there is an American headquarters; but if you take that road, they can’t see you. Good luck.”

What an uplift President Kimball’s August message on testimony was to me. I have been a member of the Church all my life but never have I enjoyed such an upliftment. I have spent the whole summer in the hospital, so I have not been able to attend my meetings like I always do. The meeting I have missed the most is testimony meeting. This meeting seems to do me the most good. I grow so much from others’ testimonies. However, as I lay in my bed one day, I had a strong urge to bear my testimony. I felt a strong feeling that my Heavenly Father was with me, so I poured out my heart to him. I shared my testimony with my best friend. I lay there and cried because I knew that my testimony had been heard. It needed to be shared, and my Heavenly Father knew it.
I am still in the hospital, but I know God lives and I know that we have living prophets guiding us today. The gospel is so marvelous, and this is a wonderful time to live. I have felt lonely at times in this hospital room, but I have learned many lessons, and the Lord has always been with me.
The power of the priesthood has also been an uplift in my life. My dad and my brother have brought the sacrament to me with my bishop’s approval.
The gospel is marvelous and has been such an inspiration in my life. Thank you, President Kimball, for your most beautiful article. It was one I needed right now in my life.
Jo HendricksApple Valley, California

After the First Presidency’s announcement that the groundbreaking for the Neiafu Tonga Temple would be held on September 11, 2021, everyone who had a part to play went to work immediately under the wise guidance of our leaders from the Pacific Area and Church headquarters. It was not smooth sailing, but we witnessed the hand of the Almighty God guide us. From working on the building permit, to negotiating the environment internal assessment fees required by law, to the final preparation of the site, and to the actual temple groundbreaking ceremony, there were challenges.
An excerpt from a report prepared by Brother Tukia and Sister Linda Havea, the temple groundbreaking organizing committee coordinators, best explains this faith-promoting and miraculous sacred event.
On the night of September 10, 2021, the members were trying to complete the preparation of the temple groundbreaking site. It was raining nonstop. Even into the wee hours of the morning, it continued. However, the Saints awoke as this was the day that their forefathers had envisioned, prayed, and sacrificed for. They hurriedly flocked to Saineha, synonymous with the sun, a source of energy and spiritual healing. This was the site of the new temple.
What a great calming feeling. It was so serene that many wept silently in humility and gratitude. The Saints were seated to the right of the royal shelter. All members, choir and church leaders in the program were exposed to the elements with no shelter. The sound of the Tabernacle Choir certainly settled all despite the menacing and cumulonimbus clouds looming above. The program proceeded as planned without rain, for the clouds had receded. The wondrous moments occurred as Elder Kupu began the dedicatory prayer for the groundbreaking; the sun shone through, bathing the site with its brilliance, enhancing the Spirit that was abundant and prevailing. All wept for joy in admiration for the Omnipotent who had wondrously and gloriously revealed to ALL present that this groundbreaking was indeed, a heaven-sent undertaking!
Glory be to the Almighty, who is a “God of miracles.”5 I testify that if we allow Him, who is without beginning of days and end of years to prevail in our lives, we will continue to witness the workmanship of His hands,6 just as I have witnessed for myself His miraculous power and intervention during the sacred groundbreaking of the Neiafu Tonga Temple.

The European trip was one of the first professional ventures the family undertook. It consisted of 28 concerts in 10 countries, many of them given for local Church groups in areas they visited.
“In England the missions used the concerts for fellowshipping,” Brother Phelps said. “They told us, ‘We’ve had people attend who haven’t been to church in 15 years!’ One of the mission presidents invited the entire town to hear the concert, had the mayor speak, and then had our family present the mayor with a Book of Mormon. During the intermission of a concert in France, a missionary came dancing back to tell us, ‘I’ve got my first contact, my first investigator!’”

Isn’t Christmas exciting! Don’t you relish the time with friends and loved ones, fun gatherings and gifts, and especially the reason to celebrate it all? Have you ever wished you could celebrate the whole year long? Well, if you happen to live in West Plains, Missouri, you can.
During the month of July, West Plains is like the rest of the Midwestern states—hot and sticky. Not exactly the time of year when most people are thinking about singing carols or wrapping gifts. But the youth decided it would be the perfect time to begin their preparations for a holiday celebration. Since they hosted their stake’s youth conference, they decided to include all the youth in a project that is ongoing in West Plains. Every year, members of the West Plains Ward find a way to help their local hospice, a program that provides support services to terminally ill patients and their families.
“The Relief Society in our ward has made lap quilts and other service projects for hospice,” says Stephanie Jones, a Laurel. “We decided that it would be fun to do some service projects that the youth could be involved in.”
So a few of the Laurels in the ward spearheaded the youth conference efforts as value projects, and everybody got to work.
The youth and their leaders decided that one of the nicest things they could do for the hospice patients and their families was to provide a simple Christmas decoration to brighten their homes. They decorated small, tabletop-sized Christmas trees, complete with ornaments and tinsel.
“When you or someone you love is ill, things like decorating for the holidays are sometimes forgotten,” says Angie Periera, the liaison from the hospice program who helped the youth put their project together. “But if someone else will do it for you, it makes it feel like Christmas. It’s a small thing, but it makes a big difference.”
Next, they decided that a message of love and hope would also be a great boost to people’s spirits, so they made personalized Christmas cards for each person who would be receiving a tree. Kyle La Brue and Buddy La Rue, two young men from the Osage Beach Ward, wrote “The Lord loves you and so do we” in their cards. Other youth used scriptures or wrote brief testimonies.
“Doing a project like this makes you think about your own family and friends,” says Mia Maid Julia Jones. “When we did our cards, we tried to let people know that we really did care about them, even if we didn’t know them.”
After the last tree was decorated and the last card was signed, the youth set out to show the hospice patients how much they cared through their actions. They spent the afternoon doing yard work, scraping and painting houses and sheds, even doing housework.
“Helping people at their homes can be awkward at first,” says Priest Justin Saunders. “But they really appreciated it and seemed glad to have us. It turned out to be fun.”
Apparently, people were more than appreciative. They were ecstatic. One woman, whose husband had been bedridden for some time, took pictures of the youth scraping and painting the shed outside their home. She wanted him to see them in action, even though he couldn’t get outside.
Another woman, Mrs. Estelle Conquest, needed a wheelchair ramp built outside her home to help her get out for simple things like collecting the mail.
“You have no idea how much something like this helps me,” says Mrs. Conquest. “These kids are just the greatest.”
After the projects were complete and youth conference was over, the gifts were stored and forgotten—but not for long.
Marie Taylor, a Laurel, spent a lot of time on her Laurel project. She coordinated the collection and wrapping of several large boxes—giant Christmas containers to be filled with food and delivered to hospice patients and their families. During youth conference, the boxes were wrapped and made ready to go. They wouldn’t be filled with food until the holidays, so they needed to be in storage for a while before they were used. But after being transported a few times, some of the boxes looked a little worse for the wear.
“I did a lot of crazy things to get those boxes,” says Marie, who rounded up her friends to help and then asked local merchants to let her take boxes they no longer needed. “Most of the store owners were nice, but I had to work for those boxes! At one place, with the permission of the owners, I actually climbed into the Dumpster to get a bunch of boxes out.”
So you can imagine her dismay when, just before the holiday season, she discovered that some of the carefully wrapped boxes had come unwrapped or were otherwise unready to be used for food.
“It was discouraging to do things over again,” says Marie. “But we really wanted them to look good. So the other girls in the ward and I had a wrapping party to re-do the damaged boxes. It turned out to be pretty fun.”
After the boxes were prepared to go again, they were finally ready to be given to the coordinators at the hospice office, which was just down the street from the business where the boxes were being stored. But this time the youth decided that loading piles of boxes into a car for transport wasn’t such a good idea. After all, that was what had damaged many of the wrapping jobs the first time around. They decided that since the boxes had such a short way to travel, they would form a human chain from the location where the boxes were being stored to where they needed to go.
There aren’t too many LDS youth in West Plains, so they invited Primary children, adult leaders, and anyone else who wanted to help. They donned elves’ caps and spread out right through the heart of downtown West Plains. The boxes were handed from one person to another, and soon they were all safely at their destination, ready to be filled with food from the West Plains Ward and other community groups.
The group attracted a bit of attention from passersby, who were invited to join in. They didn’t have many takers, but several people did find out where they could donate food to go inside the boxes.
“Doing a project like this really makes you feel good,” says Heather Camier, a Beehive. “It’s great to work together as a group for a good cause. It’s the best this time of year; it really makes it feel like Christmas.”
Most of the food boxes and gifts were delivered by hospice employees, but a few were given to the youth to deliver on Mutual night. Bundled in coats and singing carols, they carried food boxes, trees, and cards to a few of the people they had been able to serve in July. Of course it was a lot colder that night than it had been during the summer, but the warm feelings that come with service are the same no matter what time of year it is.
“Delivering the gifts and seeing how happy it made people was a lot of fun,” says Joe Jones, a priest. “It was also great to see how our service during youth conference really paid off.”
Soon after Mutual was over, the youth were at home, preparing to spend Christmas with their own families and loved ones. But the good feeling of helping others is hard to forget. It’s the kind of feeling they’d like to enjoy all year, not just at Christmas. And with youth conference coming up again this summer, they won’t have to wait till December.

Not all battles are waged on foreign soil. Nor do the participants always bear arms, throw grenades, or drop bombs. I witnessed such a conflict on the fourth floor of a California hospital. There were no shrill sounds of mortar fire to be heard, no fields of men or equipment to be seen. Yet a life or death struggle was in progress. Happy, handsome Paul Van Dusen, age fifteen, had just lost the first fight with the feared enemy called cancer.

Paul loved life. He excelled in sports. He and his parents hoped, then prayed that the doctors” fears would not be confirmed—that his precious right leg would not be amputated. Devastated, they accepted the sad news. To save his life, he must lose his leg.

The surgery completed, Paul rested.

Entering the room after Paul’s surgery, I was attracted immediately by his cheerful smile. He radiated a spirit of hope and goodness.

The crisp, white sheet lay noticeably flat where once there had been a leg. Flowers from friends surrounded his bedside. Parents, grateful for his life, stood close by.

Paul invited me to read the get well cards he had received. One carried the message: “We love you, Paul. We’re praying for you.” It was signed by members of his Sunday School class. From his classmates at school, “May you get well soon. We think you’re great.” Still another from home teachers had the inscription, “May god bless you. Tomorrow we’ll visit you again.”

What did the Carpenter from Nazareth say of such people? “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.)

The spirit of prayer came easily that day. A perfect peace filled the room. Smiles of confidence crept across lips moist with tears. From distant Capernaum we seemed to hear the echo, “Be not afraid, only believe.” Then Paul said, “I’ll be all right.”

We beheld a faith-filled heart and a countenance that reflected gratitude. Faith in whom? Gratitude for what?

Jesus of Nazareth,
Savior and King!
Triumphant over death,
Life thou didst bring,
Leaving thy Father’s throne,
On earth to live,
Thy work to do alone,
Thy life to give.
(Hymns, number 86.)

Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?
From Nazareth came example.
From Nazareth came sight.
From Nazareth came strength.
From Nazareth came life.
From Nazareth faith.
From Nazareth came peace.
From Nazareth came courage.
From Nazareth came Christ.
To him Nathanael declared, “Thou art the Son of God; thou art the King of Israel.” (John 1:49.) I testify that he is Lord of Lords, King of Kings, precious Savior, dear Redeemer. Jesus Christ of Nazareth. There is no other name under heaven given among men whereby we can be saved.

May we live his teachings, may we emulate his example, may we follow in his footsteps to life eternal.

And now, my brothers and sisters, I would like to tell you about another feature of this wonderful building. If I get a little personal and even a little sentimental, I hope you will forgive me.
I love trees. When I was a boy we lived on a farm in the summer, a fruit farm. Every year at this season we planted trees. I think I have never missed a spring since I was married, except for two or three years when we were absent from the city, that I have not planted trees, at least one or two—fruit trees, shade trees, ornamental trees, and spruce, fir, and pine among the conifers. I love trees.
Well, some 36 years ago I planted a black walnut. It was in a crowded area where it grew straight and tall to get the sunlight. A year ago, for some reason it died. But walnut is a precious furniture wood. I called Brother Ben Banks of the Seventy, who, before giving his full time to the Church, was in the business of hardwood lumber. He brought his two sons, one a bishop and the other recently released as a bishop and who now run the business, to look at the tree. From all they could tell it was solid, good, and beautiful wood. One of them suggested that it would make a pulpit for this hall. The idea excited me. The tree was cut down and then cut into two heavy logs. Then followed the long process of drying, first naturally and then kiln drying. The logs were cut into boards at a sawmill in Salem, Utah. The boards were then taken to Fetzer’s woodworking plant, where expert craftsmen designed and built this magnificent pulpit with that wood.
The end product is beautiful. I wish all of you could examine it closely. It represents superb workmanship, and here I am speaking to you from the tree I grew in my backyard, where my children played and also grew.
It is an emotional thing for me. I have planted another black walnut or two. I will be long gone before they mature. When that day comes and this beautiful pulpit has grown old, perhaps one of them will do to make a replacement. To Elder Banks and his sons, Ben and Bradley, and to the skilled workers who have designed and built this, I offer my profound thanks for making it possible to have a small touch of mine in this great hall where the voices of prophets will go out to all the world in testimony of the Redeemer of mankind.

The church’s cultural hall is decorated with streamers of pink, blue, and yellow crepe paper. Near the entry is an arch of balloons. From the ceiling hangs a large mirror ball, slowly rotating and reflecting the colored lights.
The floor is occupied by groups of teenagers. I am 14. It is my first official church dance. Earlier that day, I had spent hours climbing ladders and taping streamers. We had blown up balloons and twisted tissue paper. After taking a moment to admire our work, I hurried home to get ready.
I had carefully chosen my material and sewn my dress to fit the Hawaiian theme. Tiny flowers nestled on a creamy background. While decorating, I had made a multicolored flower. This I would wear in my hair.
I had showered and “borrowed” some of my mom’s Chanel No. 5 after-bath powder. I put on a little bit of lipstick and curled my hair. Every strand was perfect.
Now my heart pounds as I slip off my coat and enter the dimly lit hall, anxious to begin dancing.
But nothing is how I imagined it. For most of the night, I stand on the sideline with a group of girls pretending to be fascinated by the conversation.
The music starts, and I glance over to see a boy making a nonchalant zigzag towards us. My heart starts to race. Maybe this time I will be asked to dance. No. He chooses the girl next to me. The music announces the start of another dance. Everyone in our group is being asked to dance except me.
I look around, intently studying the decorations closest to me. A few boys who aren’t dancing awkwardly gulp the watery punch. Slowly I walk over to one of the chairs arranged at the side of the dance floor. I sit, staring down, not daring to look up for fear the tears that sting my eyes will escape.
Gently, a strong, comforting arm slides around my shoulders. There, beside me, sits my father. Usually he keeps his distance, knowing that parents are sometimes a burden at these functions. However, he knows that this time he’s needed.
For a few minutes we both gaze out at the couples dancing on the floor. Then, with a huskiness in his voice, he says, “I have never complained about being handicapped. I have never regretted it except for times like this. I hope the Lord will forgive me, but how I wish I could dance with my girls!”
As I turn to my father, sitting there in his wheelchair, I see tears in his gentle, loving eyes. My father had been a graceful dancer before his accident. His regret, though, isn’t for himself; it is for me.
The rest of the dance is a blur as I sit, with tears running down my cheeks, next to a father who cares about me.

Paul and Mar Jean Lewis from Utah had already served three missions together (Palmyra New York Temple; Hong Kong China Temple; and Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia with seminaries and institutes). They were preparing to serve another when their stake president asked, “Would you be willing to serve right here in our own stake, supporting the mission we live in?”
“We’re new here, so it was a wonderful opportunity,” Sister Lewis says. “We serve with the young elders and sisters, have a close association with the mission president, go to district and zone meetings, and work with ward mission leaders.” They also visit investigators and those who are less active.
“We have met wonderful people we would never have known otherwise,” Sister Lewis says, “including some who have drifted off the path. To see them come back, receive ordinances, and go to the temple is a wonderful blessing.”
“Many couples, when they think about serving a mission, are worried about what they’ll do with their home and their car or what they’ll miss out on with their family,” Elder Lewis says. “We’ve been able to live in our own house and drive our own car. We are encouraged to go to family activities, as long as they don’t interfere with missionary responsibilities. And we were even here for the birth of a grandchild.”

Marta worked the pump handle one final time. Then she carried the grapefruit soda bottle full of water into the two-room house, located on the outskirts of a small coastal town in Uruguay. “The water’s awfully bitter today, Alicia,” Marta said, handing the bottle to her younger sister. “You’d better squeeze a lemon into it to freshen it.”
Alicia selected one of the wrinkled lemons from a bowl on the shelf, cut it in half, and the tingly aroma filled the room as she trickled the juice into the bottle of water. “We didn’t get any fresh bread today,” Alicia complained. “Can’t we buy some for dinner?”
“No, Alicia,” said Mama, turning slightly on her bed to face the girls. “The bread from yesterday will do fine if Marta toasts it, won’t it, Marta?”
“Yes, Mama.” Marta moved the kerosene burner they used for a stove into the middle of the room. “It’s getting dark, Mama, should I turn on the light?”
“Not yet, querida (dear). Wait until your father gets home.”
Marta cleared off the plank table that stood in the middle of the small room and began preparing supper. She mixed eggs and flour and shredded chard together. Alicia huddled close to the burner, warming her hands and watching Marta’s skillful hands pat the chard cakes into shape and place them into the frying pan to be warmed and browned. “Don’t fret so, Alicia, tomorrow we’ll go to the panadería (bakery) and buy the fresh crusty loaves you love.”
Alicia smiled at the thought of the large golden brown rolls the panadería baked fresh every morning. She glanced dreamily out the window just as her father entered the front gate. “Papa’s home!” she shouted gleefully.
Papa came into the house and gathered the girls into his arms and gave them each a kiss on the cheek. “And how have you been today? Have you taken good care of your mother?”
“They have been angels, as always,” Mama said as she took Papa’s hand.
Papa reached up and pulled the dangling string that turned on their only light. “And how is dinner coming?” he asked. “I’m very hungry!”
“It will be just a minute, Papa,” Marta said as she set out the plates and cups. Papa and the girls sat on the narrow bench and ate, facing the bed where Mama lay.
“When do you go to the doctor again?” Papa asked as he handed Mama her dinner plate.
“On Friday,” she replied. “It won’t be long now until the baby is ready to come.”
“This baby is having such problems in getting here that it will be all the stronger for having made it. But you must stay in bed as the doctor said,” Papa warned.
Just then someone clapped outside. Marta rose to go and welcome the visitor. “Wait, Marta,” her father said, “I’ll go. It’s starting to rain and I don’t want you to get wet.” He grabbed his jacket and held it over his head as he ran out to the front gate. “Hello, Omar!” he called. “Come in out of the storm.”
“No thank you, Daniel. I just came to tell you that the station manager called our house and left a message for you. He wants you to go back to work as soon as you can. Someone drove a car right through a railroad crossing barrier, and they need you to direct the traffic.”
Papa grimaced a little. “One day, Omar, we will get our own telephone and then you won’t have to be the one to always bring me the news.” Omar grinned, then hurried off down the muddy road toward his own home.
“Who was it?” Mama asked when Papa reentered the house.
“Omar. I have to go back to work.” He put on his jacket that was already shedding streams of rainwater and then topped it with a light plastic cape. “I’ll probably be all night. Keep the windows shut tight, Marta, and make certain that you stuff rags in the window jamb over Mama’s bed if the rain starts coming in.”
“Yes, Papa,” Marta answered. Papa kissed each one goodbye, grabbed an ancient umbrella from the corner of the room, and was gone.
Marta began heating water to wash the dishes, and Alicia sat on the bed next to her mother. “Can I do anything for you, Mama?”
“I’m fine, Alicia, but you could get me my medicine.”
Startled, Marta dropped a fork. “Oh, Mama!” she cried. “I meant to pick up your medicine, but I forgot.”
Mama looked out the window at the billowing black clouds. “It will have to wait until tomorrow then.”
“No, Mama. I’ll go and get the medicine now,” she insisted.
“It is dark and raining much too hard, Marta. Besides, it’s Tuesday, so only the pharmacy on the Avenida de Los Treinty y Tres (Avenue of the Thirty-three) will be open late. That is much too far for you to go on such a stormy night.”
How could I have forgotten something so important as Mama’s medicine? Marta agonized.
“Come here, querida,” Mama motioned to Marta and then enfolded her in her arms. “Don’t worry. You have had much to do while I’ve been in bed. It has been a lot to ask of a daughter who is only eleven years old.”
Marta left her mother’s embrace and quietly finished the dishes. Afterward she checked the window above her mother’s bed and found some rainwater seeping in. She got some rags and stuffed them into the cracks. Just as she finished her task, the light went out.
“It’s just as well,” said Mama. “It’s time for my two children to go to bed anyway.”
The girls kissed Mama goodnight, then went into the second room of the house where they slept. “Don’t worry, Marta,” said Alicia. “We’ll get the medicine first thing in the morning. Mama will be all right.”
Marta only nodded and then crept into bed. What if Mama gets sick because I forgot the medicine? she worried. And maybe even dies. After sleeping fitfully for several hours, Marta suddenly awoke. Someone was calling her name. It was Mama! Marta struggled out of the entangling blankets and ran into the next room. “What is it?” she asked, staring at the drawn white face of her mother.
“The baby. I need help, Marta,” Mama gasped.
Without taking time to think, Marta headed for the front door. At the same moment Alicia shuffled into the room and collided with her.
“Where are you going, Marta?”
“To Omar’s. He can telephone and get an ambulance for Mama. You stay here with her.” And Marta rushed out the door. She did not take time to put on her sandals and the road was a muddy mire. Every few steps Marta slipped and often fell, covering herself with a fresh coat of mud. Stray dogs whined at the wind from behind the bushes at the side of the road, but only once did one brave the rain and come far enough into the street for Marta to see his bared teeth as he gave a long throaty growl. But even this did not slow Marta’s pace.
It seemed as though it took much longer to get to Omar’s house than it usually did. When Marta finally reached the gate she clapped her hands loudly but no one came. She pushed through the gate and began pounding furiously on the door. Awakened by the racket, Omar opened the door and stared sleepily at the small mud elf before him.
“Call an ambulance for Mama. Quick!” Marta cried, tugging at his sleeve.
Omar reached down and wiped some of the mud from Marta’s face. “Marta! Come in.” The worried girl waited inside until Omar had called the hospital, and then she quickly slipped back out into the night.
Marta arrived home a few minutes before the ambulance came and sat on the bed holding her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry about the medicine, Mama. Please be all right.”
“Everything will be fine, Marta, you’ll see.” But then Mama started to moan again and could say no more.
Omar arrived at the same time as the ambulance. “I will go with your mother to the hospital,” he said. “When I know that she is being taken care of, I will go tell your father. Can you both be very brave and stay here alone?” Marta nodded and grasped Alicia’s cold hand more firmly.
After the ambulance left, the two girls huddled together on top of Mama’s bed and waited. It didn’t take long for Alicia to fall asleep. After Marta had tucked a quilt around her sister, she gently cried as she wondered about Mama. Finally her quiet tears and the sound of the wind lulled her to sleep.
It was late in the morning when Alicia woke at the sound of the door opening. “Oh, Papa! I’m so glad you’re home. How’s Mama?”
Marta stirred and smiled at the comforting sight of her father. But then lowered her eyes to the floor. “Oh, Papa, I have been so terrible. I didn’t get Mama’s medicine and that is why she got so sick.”
Papa sat down on the bed between the two girls and held them tightly. “Your Mama’s fine. Her suffering had nothing to do with your forgetting the medicine. The baby just decided to come a little sooner than we had expected. I’m proud of my two daughters and the way they helped out. I know it wasn’t an easy time for you. And now I have one more thing I would like you to do.”
“What’s that, Papa?” asked Marta.
“I would like you to help teach your new brother to be just as good and helpful as both of you are.”

While working on the pioneer film 17 Miracles, my team and I created several scenes to convey this threat of wolves. We brought in a wolf trainer, and one day he left his wolves in a trailer while we looked for some good places to shoot scenes in the heavily wooded outdoor studio. Even though they are “trained” wolves, they are still wolves and can be very aggressive. They have natural instincts to attack and kill.

We returned a couple of hours later and were amazed to see a deer standing less than 15 feet from the trailer. Her ears were out, her eyes alert, and she was staring at the trailer. She seemed mesmerized.

Normally when you see a deer in that wooded area, the deer sees you, bounds off, and disappears within seconds. This time, not so. The deer was so focused on that wolf-harboring trailer that she didn’t even notice us until we were about 15 feet away. She finally noticed our presence and then seemed to come out of her trance and ran off. I asked the trainer if he’d ever seen anything like that before. He hadn’t, and he couldn’t explain it.

The next morning when the trainer approached his trailer to begin the day’s work, to his astonishment he saw close to 15 deer standing in a circle, all the way around the trailer. Like the first deer, they too were transfixed and stared intently at the trailer. Their circle grew smaller and smaller as they each continued to move closer to the trailer. The trainer could hear the wolves inside, pawing and clawing away as they seemed to be saying in wolf language, “Let me at ’em!”

Again the trainer moved very close to the deer before they became aware of him and ran into the nearby woods.

I joined the church with my family in 1978 while I was just 16 years old. My parents were strong second generation Protestants and our family grew up familiar with the Bible. So while the missionaries were teaching us, we struggled to accept Joseph Smith as a prophet and the Book of Mormon as another testament of Christ. The love and patience of the missionaries, however, brought my parents and all of us five children to the waters of baptism. We all voted to become members for we felt it to be right for our family. But it wasn't until I was about to go on a mission years later that I realized that I had to know for myself, independent of my family. I knew I could not depend on what others know; nor could I live on the light I had borrowed from them. I had learned enough at the time that I could not share with others what I did not have.
So one night, I took Moroni at his word. After reading from the Book of Mormon, I knelt and asked God. And I testify to you that did I earn my own witness. On many occasions since then, I have repeated these same steps of receiving a witness. I learned that I can follow this process of revelation to know what God would have me do in my life.

Moving can be a scary thing, especially when you go from sixth grade in an elementary school to sixth grade in a middle school, as I did.
My mom took me to school on my first day to get me enrolled. After a quick tour of the school with the school counselor, we were taken to my classroom. My teacher wasn’t there when we arrived, so the counselor said he would find her and let her know I was new in the class. Then he left us with a class full of kids busy with schoolwork.
I was becoming nervous when one boy turned around and said, “Are you new?”
I said, “Yes.”
He stood up, walked over, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Chase.”
“I’m Zack,” I said, shaking his hand. To my surprise, several other boys lined up with outstretched hands and introduced themselves. I didn’t dare look at my mom because I thought she might be crying because these boys made me feel so welcome. I felt good the rest of the day because a group of boys noticed someone who needed a handshake.
After school, my mom asked me how it felt to have a welcome like that. “It felt good!” I said. She told me that if I ever noticed a new person, I would know what to do to make them feel good, too.

My commitment to evening prayers has always been there but I struggled to gain the habit of consistently saying my morning prayers. During my mission and college days, I always said morning prayers, but during my thirties with so many pressures and responsibilities, I often forgot to say morning prayers. We always had morning and evening family prayers but so often I would get up quickly, get ready for work, have family scripture reading and family prayer and forget my morning prayers. But a mighty change came in 1981 through an experience in a Stake Presidency meeting as our President told us of an interview he had had with a good brother and how he had asked him if he was faithful in saying his evening and morning prayers. As he related that story it came with great force into my heart. I needed to repent. So in mighty prayer I made a covenant with God that I would from that time forward say my morning prayers. I have kept that covenant. I cannot tell you all the blessings that have come from consistent morning prayers.

A year before the experience related above took place, before he had even heard of the Latter-day Saints, Parley was newly married, had a fifty-acre farm, comfortable house, productive orchard, and beautiful garden. But he sensed something lacking. He studied the Bible and wanted to know more; there must be a restoration of the gospel, he believed. He did not know that it had already occurred but decided to leave his farm and his home to search for the true Church. His older brother William remonstrated with him. “How will you live?” he asked. Parley said he had enough bank notes to sustain himself and his family. These notes, he said, were “founded on capital that will never fail, though heaven and earth should pass away.” His brother asked to see them. Parley records:
“I then unlocked my treasury and drew from thence a large pocket book, full of promissory notes like the following: ‘Whosoever shall forsake father or mother, brethren or sister, houses or lands, wife or children, for my sake and the gospel’s, shall receive an hundred fold in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting.’ ‘If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, you shall ask what you will in my name and I will give it you.’ ‘All things are possible to him that believeth.’”9
Parley then asked his brother if these were genuine notes, if the “signer” of the notes, the Lord Jesus Christ, was able and willing to meet his promises. “Yes” was the only reply William could give. So in August of 1830 Parley settled his affairs, and with ten dollars in his pocket, took his wife and set out in search of the kingdom of God.
He discovered, as all missionaries can, that the Lord does pay off his notes.

As our family prepared to be sealed in the Logan Utah Temple, we recommitted ourselves to living the gospel of Jesus Christ. In particular, we made a commitment to the Lord that we would always pay tithing. Shortly after our sealing, we moved to Wyoming, USA, to try our hand at farming.
It was late April when we started preparing our 300 acres (121 ha) of land. We burned the sagebrush, leveled the land, and dug ditches. When we finally started to plant, it was late in the planting season. I decided to plant barley, which has a short growing season.
I had planted several acres when a local rancher came over and said, “You are wasting your time, energy, and money in this endeavor. It’s too late. Your crop will freeze by August 21!”
He scooped up a handful of soil and continued, “You have dried out the ground with all your raking, burning, and leveling. Your seeds will not germinate without moisture.”
I knew the soil was too dry, but we had already invested much of our money in the crop, so I decided to keep planting. I had faith that because we had done our best to prepare the land and because we were full-tithe payers, Heavenly Father would assist us. After planting everything, I knelt in prayer with my family, asking for His help.
The next day it began to rain, a perfect rain that was gentle enough that it did not wash away our seeds or the soft soil on the hills. Our fervent prayers and long, hard days of work had not been in vain.
Throughout the spring and summer, we worked 12 to 14 hours a day, six days a week, irrigating, fencing, and preparing for the harvest. We also kept our promises to the Lord by paying tithing and serving diligently in our ward callings. The grain grew beautifully and bountifully; the barley plants seemed to jump out of the ground. As the end of the season drew near, however, we worried that it would become too cold for our crops to survive. We prayed that God would preserve our crops, and we had faith that He would fulfill His promise to those who pay tithing: “I will rebuke the devourer for your sakes, and he shall not destroy the fruits of your ground” (Malachi 3:11).
The dreaded day, August 21, came, and so did the frost. But as I went into the fields the next day, I saw that our crops had been preserved. Several weeks later our barley harvest filled many truckloads, which we were able to sell for a considerable profit.