Gospel Story Finder

One of the most exciting experiences of my life was the first time I shared my testimony with a friend. Jan (pronounced like yawn) was an exchange student from Germany. Jan wasn’t a religious person and told me that he didn’t believe in God or any supreme being. He said he believed that after this life, there was nothing; death was the end.
I, of course, had a much different view of life. During our many conversations about religion, Jan was receptive and interested in my ideas. But Jan was adamant. He didn’t believe in God. His convictions were just as firm as mine.
I gave him a Book of Mormon with my testimony written inside. He started to read 1 Nephi, but after two weeks he said he lost interest.
My excitement turned to disappointment and concern that I had done something wrong. I talked to my seminary teacher about it. He told me that I was taking the first step in the process of bringing Jan home, and sometimes the person who introduces someone to the gospel isn’t the person who sees them accept it. He assured me that I hadn’t done anything wrong; Jan just wasn’t ready yet.
This experience taught me a lot. I am beginning to understand why bringing even one soul to Christ (see D&C 18:15) is so important. Heavenly Father loves all His children and He wants us to return to Him.
What I had initially thought of as a failure actually turned out to be one of the greatest blessings of my life. Sharing the gospel with Jan made me realize how much the gospel is worth to me. Knowledge of the gospel plan is something I wouldn’t trade for anything.
Sometimes I wonder if I could have said or done something that would have brought Jan into the Church. I pray for him, that someone can touch his heart in a way that will help him know that the gospel is true. But no matter what Jan does, he has touched my heart in a way that I will always remember.

In 1998, during a trip with my family through the state of Utah, in the United States, we visited the Monticello Utah Temple. As we walked around the temple, my wife and I discussed the words we had heard regarding the construction of more temples in Mexico. We thought that if one day a temple was built in Oaxaca, it would be in a long time, and we might not see it.
How wrong we were and how short our vision was. Thus, saith the Lord: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.”1 Two years later, on March 11, 2000, the Oaxaca Mexico Temple was dedicated by President James E. Faust (1920-2007).

I appreciate President Uchtdorf's words, and I know they are true. In 2009, I experienced them for myself as I had the opportunity to work at Walt Disney World as part of the Disney College Program.

When the opportunity first came up, I thought it sounded fun but did not expect to go. However, I was surprised at how direct of a prompting I received about accepting a position. I traveled down to Orlando, Florida, on my own and was assigned to work as a Jungle Cruise Skipper. For those of you who do not know what a Jungle Cruise Skipper is—I wore safari attire, drove boats, and told cheesy jokes. It was awesome!

Actually, it was not quite so awesome at the beginning. My name tag said Brigham Young University-Idaho, and the first few days at the Jungle Cruise, many of my coworkers asked if I was Mormon. I had no problems confirming the question, but it seemed that many of them were uncomfortable and didn't want to talk to me afterwards.

One moment in particular, I walked into the break room in time to hear a girl say, "I don't want to hear about their golden bible." With that, the room went silent, and people avoided eye contact with me. Needless to say, things were a little rocky.

A few days later, I was scheduled to work all day on a Sunday. It was a long, discouraging day, and at the end of my shift, I sat alone at the bus stop waiting to get home. I was confused as to why I had felt so strongly that I needed to come when it seemed like I would be missing church often and I felt like no one wanted me around because of my religion. What was I doing here?

In my moment of despair, I felt a flood of courage come into my heart, and I thought to myself, "This will not break you." I made a choice that I would do all that I could to feed my spirit each day. I would study my scriptures more intently, attend all the meetings I could, and be an active participant in my ward even though I would only be there for a few months. I also decided that regardless of how my coworkers treated me, I would choose to love them and pray for the gift of charity every day.

I did have to work on most Sundays, but I was blessed with late-night shifts that allowed me to attend all of my church meetings, for which I am grateful. I look back on that summer with great fondness. I saw the hand of the Lord in my life, and I made wonderful friends at work. Even though our beliefs and our choices differed, we had fun being together and I knew how much the Lord loved them. I hope they felt that love through my love for them.

I was also blessed to make wonderful friends from my ward with whom I shared many adventures. That summer was a spiritually enriching and fun experience for me. I am still grateful for the opportunity, mostly because I learned so much about how my personal choices for righteousness helped me overcome challenges and increase in happiness.

When Australian Latter-day Saints Bob Love and Maggie Henry were married in 1929, they had the ceremony performed by the local Presbyterian minister in his church. Then the bridal party traveled to the Enmore Latter-day Saint branch chapel, where Mission President Clarence H. Tingey held what was called, in the mission’s year-end report, a “confirmation service” to bless their marriage.
Brother and Sister Love did what circumstances forced many young Latter-day Saints to do. The nearest temple was almost 10,000 kilometers away in Hawaii, and the round trip passage for two was the equivalent of several years’ wages. The state government of New South Wales would not license Latter-day Saints to officiate at marriages, so the Loves and others like them had to have a civil marriage, in another church or at a government registry office. It was not until 1952 that the Loves were able to take their five children to the Salt Lake Temple to be sealed.

Tommy and Betsy were down at the creek scrubbing the breakfast dishes with clean white sand when they heard Brigham Young call the Saints to the central square. They barely had time to rinse the dishes in the boiling water their mother had ready before the five thousand people at Sugar Creek camp gathered to hear what Brigham Young, their leader, had to say. His message was brief: “I propose to go forward on our journey. Let all who wish, follow me.”
Tommy was jubilant. He grabbed Betsy by the hand and whirled her around, saying, “We’re going out west. At last we’re going out west.” Suddenly he stood still and said, “We can’t go out west now! Pa isn’t here.”
Tommy’s mother could see the disappointment in his face. “Your father will probably be here by noon tomorrow,” she said. “He expected to finish up his work in St. Joseph today, and if we have everything ready, we can leave as soon as he arrives.”
Tommy felt better, and by the time President Young gave the signal for the long train of five hundred wagons to start moving, he and Betsy happily waved good-bye to many of their friends and neighbors. When the wagon train was out of sight, they hurried back to ask Mother what they could do to get ready to go.
“You can churn,” Mother told Betsy.
The wooden churn was like a small barrel with a lid on it. Through the hole in the center of the lid Betsy pushed the handle of the dasher up and down until the cream was churned into yellow butter.
While Betsy was churning, Tommy filled the water barrel and secured it to the outside of the wagon so the family would have fresh water to drink when they could not camp by a spring or near a river. As Tommy was coming up from the creek, he saw a wagon drive into camp.
“It’s Pa!” he cried, and he dropped the bucket he was carrying and ran to greet him.
“Can we go out west now you’ve come?” questioned Tommy. “Over half of the people have already gone.”
“I’ll have to finish my churning before we can go,” said Betsy.
“And we must wait until the bread is baked,” added their mother.
Tommy’s father laughed. “I guess we won’t be going this afternoon,” he answered. “I bought another wagon and yoke of oxen in St. Joseph. That’s why I was able to return today; the men I went with won’t be back until tomorrow. The wagon is loaded with corn and wheat, and we must fix a cover to put over it.”
“Who’s going to drive the new wagon?” asked Tommy.
“I think your mother can drive it,” replied Father.
“I could drive it,” said Tommy.
Tommy’s father did not reply for a moment; then he said, “I think you could. We’ll let you try.” And before the oxen were unhitched from the wagon, Tommy’s father taught him how to hold the reins and how to crack the whip so as to startle the oxen but not to hurt them.
Tommy was so anxious to drive the oxen that he worked all afternoon so they could be sure to start early the next morning. He soaked in the creek the six strips of special wood his father had brought from St. Joseph. When they were soft and pliable, he helped Father secure them to one side of the wagon box, bow them over, and secure them to the other side. Together they lifted the big canvas cover up and over the top of the bows and stretched it tightly before securing it to each side.
Afterwards Tommy helped his father make a long deep grub box, and together they secured it to one side of the wagon. The small chicken coop Father had brought from St. Joseph was attached to the other side for the six hens he had brought with him. Betsy hoped that one of the hens would want to set so they could have some baby chicks.
Betsy and her mother packed the grub box with the dishes and the food they would use each day, then hung the big iron kettles on the outside of the wagon. When the dough was ready, Mother rolled some of it into loaves and Betsy made some biscuits to be baked over red hot coals in the dutch oven. When the biscuits were light and fluffy and toasty brown and the family was just getting ready to eat supper, the sound of music filled the air.
“It’s Pitt’s Brass Band!” exclaimed Tommy.
“So it is,” cried his father. “Let’s invite some of them to share supper with us.” He grabbed Tommy’s hand and started running toward the Nauvoo Road. Most of the two thousand people left in Sugar Creek joined them to greet the band.
When the band leader saw Tommy’s father, he handed him a trombone. Tommy was happy when his father started to play, for it reminded him of the good days in Nauvoo when Father was still a member of the band, before he had sold his trombone. The band marched straight to the square and the people followed like a giant parade, keeping step to the music. After the band members had eaten a warm meal, they gave a concert in the square.
The next morning Tommy got up especially early. He was too excited to sleep, thinking about driving the oxen. Finally the wagons were ready and he climbed onto the seat by the side of his mother to wait for the signal that would start the small train of thirty-two wagons toward the West.
At last the signal came. At that moment the band started to play, and with a flip of the reins and a crack of the whip, Tommy’s wagon began to move. The people in the wagons started to sing, and they did not stop until they reached the main camp of Israel ten miles away.

At youth conferences, you always expect a crowd, but more than 200 million people attended the Knoxville Tennessee Stake youth conference on family history.
The workshops would have been very crowded if all of them had needed a seat; however, all but about 150 of those millions of people were actually on computer disk—a copy of the computerized ancestral file that the Church has compiled of people and their ancestral lines.
The 150 living, breathing attendees were young people and their leaders from the Knoxville Stake who decided on a rather unusual theme for their youth conference—family history. They wanted to follow the spirit of Elijah as they learned to “turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers” (Mal. 4:6).
How do you keep genealogy from being a dead subject? This group found a way. Each participant rotated through four workshop sessions, conducted by entertaining speakers who talked about doing genealogical work to prepare names for temple work, learning how to keep personal records, writing in journals, and understanding pedigree charts.
As part of the youth conference, a miniature family history library was set up in one room complete with microfiche and microfilm readers plus the best part—a computer with a small cabinet full of disks that could be used to call up an amazing amount of information. Some of the young people were just itching to get their hands on that computer and the disks to see if they could find some of their family names. They got their chance. During free time, a small crowd gathered to put the computer through its paces.
As the youth learned, family history is a lot more than just looking at pedigree charts. They found out that part of genealogy is keeping journals and working on personal histories. Mandy Smith, of the Cumberland Gap Branch, is just 15, but she was the expert invited to speak about keeping scrapbooks for a personal history. As she puts clippings, certificates, and snapshots in her book, she also writes captions under each item, explaining a little about what she was feeling. Mandy pointed out, “Personal history is not just for your children someday. It can also be good for you. Lots of times when I’m feeling down or in a bad mood, I look back at the good times I have had. It helps me remember the things that are important to me.”
At least for a little while, genealogy came to life in Knoxville. These youth already knew that they loved their families at home, and they discovered that their hearts were turned and the love extended back in time to include thousands of relatives. Now they were interested in finding out more about relatives who may not yet be included in the Church’s records.
If they all continued with their interest in family history, as one girl mentioned in testimony meeting, “There are going to be a lot of happy spirits.”

When she was 21, she married Marcus in the Salt Lake Temple. Soon after their marriage they traveled east to Chicago where he entered school to become a dentist. He was in school during the Great Depression, and in order to help him achieve his goal, Ruth decided to find a job. There was a typing job open, but she couldn’t type.

She could, however, make her fingers fly over those piano keys, and she felt she could make her fingers learn anything. So for two solid weeks she riveted her fingertips to the keyboard of a manual typewriter and taught herself to type. Out of the 81 applicants for the job, she was selected!

Then World War II began and Marc was sent to sea. Ruth decided to wait in her parents’ home, and it proved to be a long, frightening vigil. But Marc was preserved to see his and Ruth’s family expand to three daughters and a son. And as Nancy, Allyson, Judd, and Jennie Jo each entered the Funk home and the family began sinking deeper roots in Salt Lake City, Ruth was given responsible callings in addition to being a good mother and supportive wife.

Part of keeping the commandments is serving the Lord. President Lugo, the president of the Ilagan Stake, is a tiny little man with great faith. He has the image of the Savior in his countenance. I learned that he had been in a serious cycle accident and had been in the hospital. It was nearing the time in their stake for their yearly trip to the temple to do baptisms for the dead. He was devastated at the thought of not going with the youth, but he could not walk.

His wife said, “You cannot go. If you go, the youth would have to carry you, and that would be asking too much.”

President Lugo said, “If they will carry me into the temple, I will walk out.”

And that is exactly what he did. How can we possibly draw limits on our service to the Lord?

I slammed the plate into the dishwasher and cried in frustration.
“Erin, you can go to that pool party,” my dad said. “You can take a break.”
“It’s not about that!” I yelled as I stormed from the room.
My tantrum wasn’t about Adriane’s pool party. My mom and my youngest sister, Abby, were sick with pneumonia. My dad and I had spent the last week caring for them and trying to keep the household functioning normally. This meant cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, doing laundry, and driving my other two sisters around.
All of these things muffled my nagging worries and fears. I was worried about my family and nervous about leaving for college soon. So I kept myself busy and tried to ignore my fears. I had even planned on skipping Adriane’s party, but I was tired and the thought of a carefree evening, hanging out with friends by the pool, pushed my emotions over the edge. I exploded and took out my frustration on my dad.
I cried for a while in my bedroom. Then, feeling guilty, I went upstairs to see if my mom or Abby needed anything. I found my mother giving medicine to my fever-flushed sister. My mom was barely able to breathe and had been bedridden for days. My dad and I urged her to return to bed. We told her that we could take care of Abby. She wouldn’t listen.
“I’m all right. You two get some sleep,” she said. “Abby needs me.”
I tried not to cry as I watched my mom comfort my 10-year-old sister. She checked her temperature, helped her into bed, then crawled in after her and held her shaking body. Abby stopped moaning and calmed under my mom’s protection.
My mom was more ill than she had ever been. The pneumonia would eventually send her to the hospital for several days. Yet in the middle of her trial, she forgot about herself. Rather than complaining about her own illness, she found a way to ease her daughter’s pain.
I had planned on becoming the martyr that night by staying home to help. Instead, I was embarrassed by my outburst and humbled by my mother’s actions. Watching her, I knew she would do anything to help my sisters and me.
I felt her love that night and wanted to follow her example. I resolved to show those I love that I will be there when they need me, regardless of the personal sacrifice required.

In time, when the children are away from home and family, prayer can provide the shield of protection the parent will want so much for them to have. Parting can be hard, particularly when the parent and the child know that they may not see each other for a long time. I had that experience with my father. We parted on a street corner in New York City. He had come there for his work. I was there on my way to another place. We both knew that I probably would never return to live with my parents under the same roof again.
It was a sunny day, around noontime, the streets crowded with cars and pedestrians. On that particular corner there was a traffic light which stopped the cars in all directions for a few minutes. The light changed to red; the cars stopped. The crowd of pedestrians hurried off the curbs, moving every way, including diagonally, across the intersection.
The time had come for parting, and I started across the street. I stopped almost in the center, with people rushing by me. I turned to look back. Instead of moving off in the crowd, my father was still standing on the corner looking at me. To me he seemed lonely and perhaps a little sad. I wanted to go back to him, but I realized the light would change and so I turned and hurried on.
Years later I talked to him about that moment. He told me that I had misread his face. He said he was not sad; he was concerned. He had seen me look back, as if I were a little boy, uncertain and looking for assurance. He told me in those later years that the thought in his mind had been: “Will he be all right? Have I taught him enough? Is he prepared for whatever may lie ahead?”
There were more than thoughts in his mind. I knew from having watched him that he had feelings in his heart. He yearned for me to be protected, to be safe. I had heard and felt that yearning in his prayers—and even more in the prayers of my mother—for all the years I had lived with them. I had learned from that, and I remembered.

There is one more journey that my heart holds dear. It happens to be a story within a story: my family’s journey of conversion. In the book of 1 Kings is an account of the faith of a widow in Zarephath, who in time of drought and famine gave up her family’s remaining food for the prophet Elijah: “As the Lord thy God liveth, I have not a cake, but an handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse.”18

The gospel came in our lives at a time when we had been sufficiently humbled by trials. The most that we literally could offer at the altar was not even a morsel of bread, for we had none but our very faith. It was all that we had. Thus, I liken the widow of Zarephath to a widow in the Philippines, the widow of Tondo with seven children. She is my mother. Let me tell you our story.

There are six girls and a boy in our family—a mix that does not bode well in a society where women are not regarded as men’s equals. I am the fifth child in that brood of seven. I was six when my father died of cancer. Our eldest had just turned 18, and the youngest was two years old. The memory is still vivid in my mind as though it happened just yesterday. My mother was by my father’s bedside, exhausted and with her face drenched in tears. Each of the children was summoned by name to approach our father’s side. With my mother holding my father’s right hand, each of us, from the oldest to the youngest, placed our right hand on top of our parents’ hands. There are seven children. There were seven right hands placed atop each other in a solemn act of promise. It was our father’s dying wish that we look after each other. Then there was silence—a silence broken by my mother’s wailing, then by her defeated sobs. My father had passed away.

Without a stable breadwinner and with seven children left to a mother without a job or a college degree, our finances were tenuous. We grew up in poverty—not just income poverty but also a scarcity of opportunities. We were too poor to get an education, but my mother persisted in her dream to have each of her children complete a college degree. She believed in the power of education to enlighten and transform lives, to equalize social standing, and to be the vehicle out of our dismal circumstances. She borrowed money even at high interest rates to keep us in school. I remember rejoicing in being able to take exams (yes, those were joyful, not dreadful, moments), because it meant that my mother was able to pay our tuition. Eventually, the only way for us to go beyond high school was to qualify for scholarships.

Four years after my father died, two young American men knocked on our door looking for my mother. They introduced themselves as missionaries. Behind them was a throng of Filipino children fighting for their attention and calling out, “Hi, Joe.” Under the sweltering Philippine heat, these young men stood out in their white shirts, ties, and black briefcases; to us they looked like a toss-up between James Bond and CIA agents. I was about to say to them that my mother had told me to tell them that she was not home when my mother’s friends and their children, who came with the missionaries, showed up. My mom overheard and motioned to me to let them in. I quietly asked myself, “What are we getting ourselves into?” Inviting these Americans in was social suicide, as my mom was known in our community for her staunch devotion to the dominant faith.

When my father was alive, he had always invited the missionaries. Not my mother. When my father died, we knew that any opportunity to hear these missionaries died with him. “What could they possibly offer that we still do not have?” was my mother’s quick retort to any previous attempts at having our family taught. The year after my father died, martial law was declared in the Philippines. On top of that there was a national shortage of rice—the country’s staple food. To stave off the shortage, rice was combined with corn and rationed to five kilos per family. Food and jobs were scarce. For us to survive, my mom marshaled every inch of strength she had. She talked a friend into allowing her to be paid a meager sum for helping to deliver rice. She would leave at 4:30 in the morning and would come home at 11:00 at night. At the end of the day she would pick up grain after grain of rice and corn that had spilled on the floor of the delivery truck. She would not stop until she had several handfuls for tomorrow’s meals. Our life was already at its worst. How could listening to these Americans help? What could these missionaries offer that would make our life better?

To our surprise, our mother listened to the missionaries. She even attended an area conference at the Araneta Coliseum presided by President Spencer W. Kimball. That was an act of boldness to go against the predominant religion. This was the 1970s. People’s minds were strongly averse to changes. It must have exacted much willpower from my mother to stop drinking coffee and to stop smoking—just because two foreigners barely in their twenties said so—at a time when nicotine patches were unheard of. It must have taken real faith to part with a widow’s mite for tithing.

It was only out of politeness for my mom and the missionaries that I listened. My elder sisters did not want any part of this. Despite our obvious annoyance with the missionaries, they continued to visit and responded to us with love and patience. My mother, my younger sister Ruth, and myself were the first to be baptized. My older sisters followed months later. My brother was baptized when he turned eight. It took years and a temple in the Philippines for our father to be baptized by proxy and for us to be finally sealed as a family.

What did the missionaries offer? They offered us the opportunity of knowing that families can be together even beyond death—something my father had always hoped we could be. The missionaries taught us that we have a Heavenly Father who knows each of us by name and who loves us dearly—a concept so foreign to us, for the God that we knew lashed out with punishments and heard only memorized prayers. The missionaries taught us that our bodies are sacred. They taught us the value of preparedness—temporal and spiritual. The missionaries taught us about where we came from and where we are going. The missionaries offered a message so sweet that it was “most desirable above all things.”19 It filled us with joy—not just momentary bliss, but peace and radiance that continued to sustain us through difficult times.

The fruit of the gospel is remarkably sweet, and we paid a high price for it. Following our baptism, relatives and friends distanced themselves from us. They charged my mother with blasphemy and insanity. Some refused to extend any help despite our needs. The loss of that social safety net was economic suicide for a family already living on the edge of poverty. Even as young children we were not spared from many trials, and we had to grow far beyond our years. When I was attending a private school of another religious faith, a nun confronted me in front of my sixth-grade class for choosing to be baptized as a Latter-day Saint. I came home that day in tears. My sister and I were eventually disqualified from receiving the highest academic honors. We were denied the very measure of success that we had worked hard for. This was not the end. Many more challenges came.

How did we keep the faith? First, it was never because we were smarter or stronger, nor were our lives easier. With the help of the Holy Ghost, a conversion rooted within our hearts drove the change. What helped us was that we stayed on course. We did not give up at the very first sign of adversity. We kept going even when the tempests in our lives were raging.20 We kept paying tithing even when the choices came down to not having enough to eat. We kept coming to Church with the thought that if we continued to do so, eventually principles that were once unclear would make much more sense. We kept going with the understanding that people around us were not perfect but were putting forth the effort to be better.

Second, while it is true that our happiness now and forever depends on the degree of spiritual change in our personal lives, we still needed others’ support. We were not always brave or fearless, nor could we clearly see even a step ahead into life. We had to rely on borrowed light until we mustered the strength to light our own lamps. We could not have made it this far without the love, understanding, encouragement, and kindness of members and friends.

Has the Lord been mindful of our sacrifices? Yes! He is continually involved in our lives. There was no way that a mother widowed at age 41, without a job and a college degree, could have possibly raised seven children from two to 18 years of age without divine help. Heaven must have heard her many pleadings and interceded in so many ways that it amazes us even to this very day. Through the Lord’s design and blessings, each of us was able to complete our studies: two doctors, a nurse, a lawyer, an accountant, a hotel and restaurant manager, and an IT support specialist. Thus was the promise of Elijah also fulfilled to the widow of Tondo:

And she went and did according to the saying of Elijah: and she, and he, and her house, did eat many days.
And the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord, which he spake by Elijah.21

One would not understand how tenderly, patiently, and lovingly the Lord tended our family if I were to skip the sad parts. This is a story of struggles; but, most important, it is a story of faith, hope, and hard work. This is a legacy of faith that we want to leave to our children and their children’s children. The best help heaven extended to us was giving us missionaries who were motivated, who were willing to work long and hard until our hearts were ready to listen and to be touched by the Spirit. These were missionaries who were able to recognize hearts as though the Lord Himself was there. I cannot thank these missionaries without thanking those who lent them to the Lord: their mothers and fathers. To parents of missionaries and their families, thank you for lending your sons and daughters to the Lord. Thank you for your sacrifices.

Gene Perrett, comedy writer and humorist, said, “Humor is serious business.” He is a writer for many of the top comedians. He shared an experience Bob Hope had:
Bob Hope was to present an award to a gentleman by the name of Charlie Boswell. . . . Charlie Boswell was this country’s outstanding blind golfer. That’s what the award was for. These gentlemen play a great game of golf. They have an assistant line the club up, but they swing themselves, and they hit the ball a ton. They really play a great game.
When he got to the podium, Bob Hope couldn’t resist kidding him a little bit. He said, “Outstanding blind golfer, huh. I’d like to play you sometime.” Charlie Boswell said, “Mr. Hope, I would love to play you a round of golf.” Hope said, “I don’t think you understand. I only play for money.” Charlie Boswell said, “I like to have a little side bet going, too. It makes things more interesting.” And Hope said, “But what kind of a handicap would I have to give you?” Charlie said, “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Hope, I’ll play you even up.” Hope was delighted. He said, “What time?” Charlie Boswell said, “Midnight.”. . .

“Jerome Mooney!” his mom scolded from the back porch. “Stop spitting at your sister!”
“It’s OK, Mom,” said Mary Beth as she put the last spoon on the picnic table. “Jerome is showing me how he’s going to win a blue ribbon at the 4-H fair.”
“By spitting?”
“No,” Mary Beth explained with a grin, “by whistling. Jerome is entering the whistling competition. Talented, isn’t he? Last place is in the bag.”
“Oh, yeah, smartie?” Jerome retorted. “Just listen to this.”
But for all of Jerome’s effort, his whistle was no louder than a whisper.
“Jerome,” said Dad, handing him a hamburger, it takes a lot of practice to be able to win a blue ribbon, and the fair is only two weeks away.”
“That’s right,” said Mary Beth. “Practice in your room or when I’m not around,” she teased, “and I’ll call you when the two weeks are up.”
Jerome practiced and practiced. Every morning he played records and whistled along with them. Every afternoon he watched TV and whistled along with his favorite commercial jingles. And every time Grandpa called, Jerome whistled his best tunes into the telephone. Even while he got ready for bed, he whistled the songs he heard on his radio.
The more Jerome practiced, the better he became. By the end of the first week he was sure he could win first prize at the fair. Even Grandpa said he’d never heard anything like Jerome’s whistling. Just to be sure, though, Jerome chose “Yankee Doodle” as the tune he would whistle at the fair. He was positive that everyone loved it.
“A blue-ribbon tune if ever I heard one,” agreed Grandpa.
Mom made Jerome a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume out of a pair of Grandpa’s old pajamas. Dad gave Jerome a haircut and shined his Sunday shoes. “I don’t see how you can lose,” he said proudly.
“Jerome will find a way,” said Mary Beth.
But Jerome was determined to win. He had one more week to polish up his act. So, for six days straight, he whistled nothing but “Yankee Doodle.” Around and around through the house he marched, whistling the tune in time to the beat.
Mary Beth went around with cotton in her ears. Mom and Dad went to the store a lot, and everyone wished fair day would hurry and arrive.
On the night before the fair, Dad insisted that Jerome would do better if he didn’t whistle again until just before the competition. So Jerome put on his pajamas, kissed Mom and Dad goodnight, and went to bed early.
At breakfast Mary Beth rolled a penny across the table. “It’s for luck,” she said, “because you’re really going to need it. Just don’t forget to give it back to me after the contest.”
“I won’t need it,” said Jerome, but he took the penny and slipped it into his pocket—just in case.
Mom carefully packed Jerome’s costume into a bag. Then they all got into the van and headed for the fair.
At the fair they went to see all the exhibits of homegrown fruits and vegetables, handmade clothes and quilts, baked goods, and livestock. Jerome and Mary Beth pretended to drive some brand-new tractors while Mom and Dad set out their lunch of sausage-and-pepper sandwiches, ice-cold lemonade, and chocolate cake. After lunch they watched race cars roar around the track, and they munched on hot roasted peanuts.
At two o’clock the whistling competition was announced over the main loudspeaker. Jerome ran to the van to put on his costume. When he got to the grandstand, it was already filled with spectators. The contestants were divided into age groups, and each competitor was given a badge with his name and number on it. Jerome was number thirteen. Mom pinned the badge onto his costume and wished him luck.
After a short speech the emcee announced, “Number one, Abigail Potter, will whistle ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”
Jerome listened as the whistlers performed. Some were very good, but Jerome knew that he had the winning tune and a wonderful costume and that he wouldn’t make a single mistake because he had practiced so hard.
When the emcee called, “Number twelve,” from a far corner of the tent a boy appeared in a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume! Jerome could not believe his eyes.
The emcee announced, “Theodore Buzby will now whistle ‘Yankee Doodle.’”
“Hey, you can’t do that!” yelled Mary Beth.
“Shhh,” chided someone in the audience.
Jerome felt his palms get clammy. Perspiration ran down his face. He couldn’t do “Yankee Doodle” now, and he didn’t have a second-best tune.
“You’re up next,” the emcee said to Jerome when Theodore Buzby finished his performance. “What’s the name of your song?”
“I want to go home,” whispered Jerome.
As Theodore Buzby bowed, the audience clapped and cheered. There goes my blue ribbon, thought Jerome.
“Number thirteen, Jerome Mooney,” the emcee informed the crowd, “will whistle ‘I Want to Go Home.’”
Jerome found himself at the podium staring at the faces staring back at him. His costume felt like it was glued to his skin. His throat ached, and he searched frantically in his pocket for Mary Beth’s lucky penny and rubbed it. But he needed more than luck.
The audience was still waiting for him to begin. He stared desperately at his family in the stands. Mom looked worried, but she managed a comforting smile. Dad looked nervous, but he held up his fingers in a victory sign. Mary Beth was making ugly faces at Theodore Buzby.
The tent grew hotter by the minute. Jerome’s throat was parched—too dry, maybe, to whistle anything. He spotted a grape Popsicle in the front row and watched as it dripped down the arm of the small girl holding it. One by one the cool drops plopped onto the dusty ground.
Suddenly, from somewhere, came a familiar little tune. Jerome couldn’t remember its name or where he had heard it, but it was sort of catchy. He took a deep breath and whistled softly into the microphone. He’d give it his best even if it wasn’t a blue-ribbon tune.
Soon Jerome noticed smiles throughout the audience. Everyone loved his tune! And more and more fairgoers were coming into the grandstand to listen. He whistled louder and faster. Children clapped their hands in time to the music. He whistled the mystery song better than he had ever whistled before, and when he had finished, the audience stood and applauded. Even Theodore Buzby.
The judges’ decision was unanimous. Jerome Mooney was the best seven-to-twelve-year-old whistler at the fair. The blue ribbon was his. Jerome gazed at it happily.
“I knew you could do it,” said Mary Beth, closing the van door. “Now can I have my penny back?”
“I’m proud of you, Jerome,” said Mom. “I didn’t know what you were going to do. What was that little song? I know I’ve heard it somewhere.”
“It certainly was popular with the crowd,” said Dad.
“Listen,” said Mary Beth, and in the distance Jerome’s blue-ribbon tune was playing softly. It got louder and louder as it came closer and closer. The catchy tune brought dozens of kids running to the curb as an ice-cream vendor turned the corner.
“Oh, no,” said Jerome. “I didn’t win at all. The ice-cream truck did.”
“You silly,” said Mary Beth. “The ice-cream truck wasn’t even at the fair. Besides, it was a blue-ribbon tune only because you were a blue-ribbon whistler. Now please hand over my penny.”
And Jerome did. Whistling happily, he could hardly wait to get home to call Grandpa.

Jeff wanted to be a missionary just like his older brother who was on a mission in Colombia. But how can I be a missionary when I’m afraid to talk to people? Jeff wondered.
Just last week the Primary president asked all the children to be missionaries and bring somebody new to Primary.
“We have a wonderful Primary,” she told the children, “but think how much better it would be if we had more children to share our Primary with.” Then she asked the boys and girls to raise their hands if they thought they could bring a friend the next week. Jeff raised his hand. Now he wondered why he had done it. How was he ever going to get the courage to talk to anyone at school about the Church?
Jeff and Jimmy were the only two LDS boys in the fifth grade. They were also the only Blazer boys in the Primary. They had a good teacher and Jeff knew that one of the reasons why he had raised his hand to be a missionary was to please her. He knew that if other boys came, they would like Sister Fillmore and the good lessons she gave.
Jeff remembered two full-time missionaries in their sacrament meeting one time telling them about the good feeling they had when they shared the gospel with others. Jeff wanted that good feeling too. But how was he ever going to have it when he was so timid?
Jeff walked into the kitchen and slumped down in a chair by the table where his mother was decorating some dish towels with her textile paints. Jeff asked, “Won’t that paint wash out of the cloth, Mom?”
“No, Jeff, the paints are made to stay right in the fabric.”
“Hey, that’s neat. Can you paint anything on the towels you want to?” asked Jeff.
“Sure, son. You sound excited about something,” replied Mother.
Jeff was excited. He had an idea. “Mom, can I paint something on my yellow T-shirt?” he asked.
Mother laughed. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but go ahead.”
Jeff was back in a few minutes, grinning and waving his shirt. He laid it on the table and smoothed out all the wrinkles. Then, with Mother’s black painting pen, he drew on the front of the shirt a great big face with two round eyes and a large smile. Underneath the face he wrote, HAPPINESS IS GOING TO PRIMARY.
When the paint was dry, Jeff turned the shirt over and on the back he printed in large letters, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT PRIMARY - WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE? He could hardly wait to wear his shirt to school.
The next day when he walked into the coat hall there were several boys there already. As Jeff took off his jacket and hung it on the hook, one of the boys was quick to notice the bright yellow T-shirt with the big face painted on the front and the letters on the back. “What does your shirt say, Jeff? Let me read it.” said Andy.
Jeff stood still, his heart pounding. All of a sudden he thought, What if they make fun of me?
Andy read the words on the shirt out loud. “Primary?” he questioned. “What’s Primary?”
Here was Jeff’s big chance. He prayed inside that he would say the right thing. “Well, in Primary we learn to—” Jeff’s voice tightened up on him and the words got stuck in his mouth.
All of a sudden, Greg, one of the other boys, interrupted. “Hey, Jeff, isn’t Primary where you learn about Scouting and other neat things you were telling me about the other day?”
“Scouting?” questioned Andy. “My dad was an Eagle Scout and he wants me to be one too. Can I go to Primary with you Jeff? Can just anyone go?”
Before Jeff could answer, Greg said, “Me too! I never have anything to do after school. My parents both work and nobody’s ever home.”
Jeff could hardly believe what he was hearing. His voice came back and he felt relaxed and happy. “Sure,” said Jeff, “anybody can come—the more the better. It’s on Tuesday and we learn lots of neat things besides Scouting. You’ll really like our teacher. She’s just great.”
The bell rang and the boys filed into the classroom. Jeff’s seat was by his Primary friend Jimmy. As Jeff sat down, Jimmy looked at Jeff’s shirt and said, “Do you think that’s going to work?”
Jeff’s smile got bigger and bigger as he whispered, “It already has!”
At recess Jeff told Jimmy about Andy and Greg. He could hardly believe what had happened. Jimmy became excited about painting a missionary T-shirt too.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “If we can get the whole Primary wearing these shirts to school, a lot of kids will soon be interested. Our Primary will grow bigger and bigger.”
Even shy boys can be missionaries. It just takes some doing, Jeff concluded.
Already Jeff was beginning to have that good feeling that the missionaries had talked about. Wouldn’t they be surprised when they heard about the first T-shirt missionary!

Ryan Nelson was born with spina bifida, a birth defect that causes different degrees of paralysis. Ryan gets around mostly in a wheelchair, but he will often sit on his legs and scoot around the house. In fact, he uses this method when he plays football in the front yard with neighborhood kids. Ryan loves sports. He enjoyed watching his older brother and wanted to be on sports teams too. He started wheelchair basketball when he was about 5 and tennis when he was 12.
What has tennis done for you? It has opened up a lot of opportunities. I have found success. I went to England and played on the world team cup for tennis. Here at home I play for the Brighton High School tennis team. I think I am the first wheelchair athlete to make a regular high school sports team in Utah. Wheelchair players use spin rather than power. I can play against able-bodied players, but it’s hard to beat them. I love playing doubles.
How about basketball? I play point guard for both of the teams I am on. I’m pretty fast. Most of the other players are in wheelchairs because of injuries, so they sit regular height. I’m shorter, so I have to use my speed.

The story I have chosen for you today comes from a selection of letters called "Letters from my Windmill."[3] In one of those letters, the author, Alphonse Daudet, speaks of a Master-and his secret. Master Cornille, as he is called, lives in a village in southern France where there are windmills. People from all around bring their wheat to be ground at those mills. You can see the windmill sails turning thanks to the wind. There are strings of tiny donkeys loaded with sacks of wheat going up and down those windmills.

Now the world is changing. Entrepreneurs from Paris decide to build steam-powered mill-plants in the area. Windmills fall out of favor with the locals. They now bring their wheat to the more performant machines. All the neighboring windmills shut down. All, that is, except for one. The one windmill continues to whirl courageously. The Master of the windmill, Master Cornille, who has spent more than 60 years perfecting his craft, does not like the new machines; in fact, he detests them. He believes the Mistral wind that powers his windmill is the breath of God. So he touts the praises of the windmill-but no one listens.

In resentment, he decides to shut himself up in the windmill, and leaves it on occasion to take walks with his granddaughter, Yvette. Often, he walks five kilometers, on foot, in bright sun light, just to see her at her place of work. He observes her working there, all day, with tears in his eyes. Many people in the village think the Master is stingy for not taking better care of her; her parents, you see, have died years ago. On Sundays, Master Cornille sits in the back of the church, with the poor folks, with no shoes of his own, and worn down clothes.

For a long time now, no one from the village has brought any kind of wheat to his windmill. The blades of his windmill, however, are turning just as before. Something is amiss. Something is not right. Something isn't quite clear. At times a village farmer comes around and asks him "Good evening Master Cornille, the work is going well, is it? And the master always responds, while the door behind him is shut, "Praise and Glory, I am not short of work". So the people get more curious. At times, when asked the same question, he replies: "I am into exports, please keep this quiet". Now rumors are spreading like wild fire. Everyone has an explanation for Master Cornille's secret. Perhaps he has more money in his bags than he has wheat.

One day, a villager attempts to enter the windmill to discuss wedding arrangements between his boy and Yvette, but Master Cornille does not open the door. He, instead, responds rudely. The villager, however, is able to keep calm. The villager returns to the couple bearing no good news. The couple decides to go up to the windmill by themselves. By the time they arrive, Master Cornille has left the place and, by a stroke of inattention, has forgotten to take away the ladder on the side of the structure. The young couple climbs up and enters the windmill.

Once inside, they discover the secret. The milling room is empty. Not a bag of wheat, not the slightest trail of flour on the ground. No sweet smell of freshly ground grain. Everything is covered with dust. The couple now knows Master Cornille's secret. Master Cornille was hauling plaster on his donkey every day, to save his honor, to make people think he was still in business. But the steam powered plants had long ago taken away his last customers. The blades, you see, continue to turn, but the stone is grinding-nothing. The couple returns to the village in tears from the ordeal and tells the secret.

Once the secret is told, and without waiting so much as a minute, the villagers gather together and agree, right then and there, to take all of the grain that they can find in all of their homes and to bring it to Master Cornille's windmill.

A huge procession of donkeys comes up to the windmill, loaded with wheat. The Master, who is now back, sits on a bag of plaster, and greets them with tears in his eyes, praising God, and dissing the power of steam mills and their greedy owners, saying: "I knew you would come back, the steam mills people are too greedy aren't they?" The villagers desire to carry the Master around the village in a triumph procession; but he refuses. He wants to stay behind to feed his windmill, at last. And they all have tears in their eyes, looking at the old man working the mill masterfully.

Since that day, the villagers never let the old miller go without work. Then, one morning, Master Cornille passes away, and the wings of the windmill cease to turn. The breath of life has returned home.

An interesting way to practice what is preached about etiquette was discovered by the youth of the Murray Third Ward in Utah. An evening’s lesson on social awareness was given to Laurels and Explorers. A week later a full-scale formal dinner was hosted by MIA leaders and the bishopric. In a lovely home a long table was covered with fine linen, and crystal, silverware, and complete china settings were laid. Guests came in their party best. Boys had called the girls on the telephone properly for the date. Boys attended to the girls’ needs and even gave their “orders” to the waiters (members of the bishopric!). At the end of the evening each was warmly appreciative, seeking the hosts out to express thanks. (An extra touch of niceness is a note of thanks the following day.)

It was such a successful event that now everyone is wondering what they can learn next that they can put into practice with as much fun.

An adventurous three-year-old, one day I wandered out to visit my father in the fields. We lived on a farm in Kaysville, Utah, and I walked about a quarter mile down the road past our neighbor’s house and then headed out to find Dad.
I didn’t know it, but my dad was already headed home another way. So there I was, out in the middle of the field, surrounded by oats taller than I was. I had no idea how to get home.
I don’t remember being scared. I don’t even remember trying to find my way home. I just played in the fields until I got tired, then lay down and went to sleep. I didn’t know that I was lost at all.
Of course, my parents were not so calm. They began frantically searching for me, and when they couldn’t find me, they called others for help. The whole town of Kaysville spent the entire night looking for me. People drained the ponds and tramped down the crops and waded through the ditches. I had no idea I’d created such a stir!
The next morning, Ben Webster, a friend of my father’s, visited my folks. “I’ll find your boy,” he promised them. Then he headed out into the fields and walked right to where I was! I remember him picking me up and carrying me home to my mother. I learned at that young age that the Savior cares about little children—even when you’re three years old and not sticking very close to home!
The Savior knows each one of you individually. He loves you and watches over you. He knows where you are and what you need. There is no doubt in my mind that He knew where I was in that field. He also knew Ben Webster and how to guide him to where I was.
Children, know that your Heavenly Father loves you. So does Jesus Christ. They are there for you, and They will take care of you. Just as They sent Ben Webster out in the field to find a lost three-year-old, They will send you the help you need!

A true story from the USA.
“Action!”
Evan’s little brother Ethan pressed record on the tablet, and Evan began his speech. “Hi, my name’s Evan. I was looking for more service opportunities and found our town’s food pantry.”
Evan and Ethan loved making movies together, but this video was special.
The pantry gave food to families who didn’t have enough money to buy groceries at the store. Right now, the pantry was all out of jelly. They were asking people to donate more.
Evan always felt happy when he did service, so he decided to gather some jelly to donate. He was making a video to ask his neighbors to help too.
“If you wanna help, you can drop off jelly at my house. Or you can send money, and I’ll buy the jelly for you!” Evan said as Ethan filmed.
When they were done filming, Evan edited the video until it was just right to share. After Mom posted the video online, people started dropping off jelly and sending money to buy even more!
At the store, Evan stacked jelly jars into a cart. “This would be even more fun with more kids,” he said. “Maybe the kids at my school can help.”
“Great idea!” said Mom.
The next day at school, Evan asked to see Principal Sanchez. He explained his idea to collect jelly for the food pantry.
“It can be like a game,” Evan said. “We can call it the Jelly War.”
“That’s a great plan!” said Principal Sanchez.
Evan made special flyers to pass out to all the fourth graders telling them about the Jelly War.
The next week, the whole fourth grade competed in the Jelly War. Each class tried to bring the most jars of jelly.
At lunch, everyone was excited about the Jelly War. “I’ve never done a competition like this,” said Evan’s friend Maria. “I hope my class wins.”
“I bet my class wins!” said their friend Isaac. “I brought three jars today.”
Evan watched the donation boxes in each classroom start to fill up with jars.
At recess, Evan dug in the sand with his friend Gabe. “Have you brought any jars of jelly yet?” he asked.
“My dad gave me five to donate! I put them in the box this morning,” Gabe said.
“Wow!” Evan couldn’t believe how many kids were joining in the Jelly War.
Soon the jelly boxes were filled to the top. All the fourth graders and teachers gathered in one classroom to hear Evan announce the winners of the Jelly War.
“Together we collected over 200 jars of jelly!” said Evan. The kids all cheered.
“Everyone did such a good job, but only one class can be the winner,” Evan continued.
Everyone held their breath to hear who won.
“Mrs. Child’s class is the winner!”
The kids in Mrs. Child’s class jumped up and down and clapped their hands.
After school, Evan met up with his friends to walk home.
“My class didn’t win, but I just feel happy that I got to help other people,” Maria said.
“Me too,” said Evan. “Who knew kids could make such a big difference?”
Evan couldn’t wait to take all the jelly to the food pantry. He felt warm inside when he thought of all the people who would have food because of their donations.
Best of all, he knew he had followed Jesus Christ by helping others. Evan wanted to feel this way all the time.
“Hey, Mom,” he said when he got home. “When can we do our next service project?”

One day while studying for my seminary class, I had a beautiful and distinct impression. As I was reading over the lesson for the next day, I saw the face of a friend from school and had the strong feeling that I should share my testimony with her.
Despite the clarity of this impression, I was afraid. I was worried that my friend might reject me, particularly because she didn’t seem to be the kind of girl who would be interested in joining the Church.
I thought back to a talk by Sister Mary N. Cook of the Young Women general presidency in which she challenged us to work hard and be valiant.1 I wanted to be like this, so I wrote this girl a letter and testified of the truthfulness of the Church and of my love for the Book of Mormon. The next day I slipped a copy of the Book of Mormon, together with my letter, into her bag.
To my surprise, my friend was very receptive to the gospel. Starting that day, she would tell me about what she had learned in her study of the Book of Mormon. A few weeks later, I introduced her to the missionaries. Almost immediately, she received a confirmation from the Holy Ghost that what she was learning was true. The missionaries and I cried as she told us of her feelings. My friend was soon baptized, and her parents were amazed to see the changes that had occurred in her.
I am so happy I was able to overcome my fears and help bring the gospel into her life.