Gospel Story Finder

One day when Tommy was about eight years old, he and his grandfather were sitting on the front-porch swing. An elderly man from England lived on the same street. His name was Robert Dicks, but most of the neighbors just called him “Old Bob.” He was widowed and poor.

Old Bob came over and sat down on the porch swing with Tommy and his grandfather. He said that the small adobe house where he lived was going to be torn down. He had no family, no money, and nowhere to go.

Tommy wondered how his grandfather would respond to the sad story. His grandfather reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather change purse. He took out a key and put it in Old Bob’s hand. “Mr. Dicks,” he said tenderly, “you can move your things into that empty house of mine next door. It won’t cost you a cent, and you can stay there as long as you like. And remember, nobody is ever going to put you out again.” Tears filled Old Bob’s eyes.

Several years ago, while serving as a bishop, I witnessed a group of youth discover their significance and divine purpose. They learned that “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.”1
Through ministering visits, these youth had become acquainted with Sister Orpha Cutler. She was a sweet elderly sister with failing health who lived alone in a small trailer. Her many needs provided a wonderful opportunity for young men to find themselves through serving her. Several activities included washing her windows, cleaning her trailer, and sitting in her front room and visiting with her. Over time, these young men formed a lasting bond with Sister Cutler. She had won them over.
Then one day, she received shocking news. She was diagnosed with terminal cancer and was given only a short time to live. This development was devastating! Within weeks, her condition worsened, and she was unable to attend sacrament meeting on a consistent basis. These young men became a spiritual lifeline for Orpha as they made ministering visits to her home and administered the emblems of the sacrament to her. She loved her time with them and especially the opportunity to renew her covenants.
As her condition progressively deteriorated, she moved to a nearby community and into an assisted living center where she received the care she needed and where a small group met each week for sacrament service. One day I received a telephone call from the center. A worker asked if I would bring the priests, or in Sister Cutler’s words “the boys”, to visit her and administer the sacrament. I told the worker we were honoured with the opportunity.
On Sunday, I informed the priests of Sister Cutler’s request. Without hesitation, they accepted the invitation.
Following our Sunday meetings, we made our way to the care center. During the drive, the young men spoke about recent sporting events, their upcoming exams, and mostly about the young women they wanted to take to the next school dance. It was a typical teenage conversation.
When we arrived at the center, we were greeted at the door by Sister Cutler’s concerned caregiver. With tears in her eyes, she frantically said, “Bishop Nattress, Orpha is getting weaker and weaker. She fades in and out, and I am afraid we are going to lose her!” She continued, “Her one desire has been to partake of the sacrament.”
She then eyed the young men standing behind me. They were dressed in white shirts and ties—worthy young men of God, holding His priesthood, honouring that priesthood. They were on the Lord’s errand. Through her tears, this worker said, “You look like angels!” She then led us to Orpha’s room.
Orpha’s condition was critical. She was lying very still in her bed. I knelt at her bedside, took her hand in mine, and said, “Sister Cutler, this is Bishop Nattress; I am here with the priests quorum. We have come to administer the sacrament.” She offered a faint smile and nodded positively.
The priests formed a semicircle as they knelt around her bed. One tiny piece of bread was placed on a small saucer. It was blessed, and the morsel was carefully placed in the side of her mouth. We knelt again. One sacrament cup full of water was then blessed, and a small drop of water was carefully administered.
This was a sacred moment. As we concluded the ordinance, Sister Cutler smiled and softly whispered, “Thank you.”
I looked around the room at these fine young men. They were not so different from the sons of Helaman. The words of Isaiah best describe them as they were, in fact, “mount[ed] up with wings as eagles.”2 They were truly on the Lord’s errand.
We all left that care center changed. We had participated in a sacred event. Sister Cutler had for the last time during her mortal existence covenanted with God that she would always remember Him. By so doing, the heavens were opened, and she was blessed again to have His promise to have His Spirit to always be with her—in sickness and even in death.
Our drive home was filled with silence. Eventually one young man broke the stillness when he simply said, “That was really good.” We returned home with a renewed understanding of what it truly means to take upon us the Saviour’s name.
Sister Cutler passed away a few days later—faithful and true to her covenants.

Michael ran straight toward the huge maple tree. He needed to work up a little speed if he wanted to reach the bottom branch.
Step … step … jump! GRAB!
His fingers curled around the branch. Michael swung his legs up to hook an ankle over the limb.
Soon he was perched on the branch. Just like a panther! he thought with a smile. This was the perfect hide-and-seek spot! Why hadn’t he used it before?
“Ready or not, here I come!” his friend William yelled from down the street.
Michael grinned again. William wouldn’t find him for a long time.
“HEY!” a voice yelled. “Get out of my tree!”
Michael jumped and nearly fell out of the tree. He looked down. His stomach flip-flopped when he saw Mr. Gates. He was holding a rake and hurrying toward the tree.
“I’m sorry!” Michael said, scrambling down as fast as he could. The rough bark scraped his arms.
“STAY OFF my property!” Mr. Gates shouted.
Michael dropped and hit the ground hard. He didn’t stop running until he got home.
The next day, as Sister Stiles was giving the Primary lesson, Michael couldn’t stop thinking about mean Mr. Gates. He was the grumpiest person Michael knew. Michael leaned back in his chair and sighed.
Suddenly something Sister Stiles was saying caught Michael’s attention.
“We can usually love people who are nice to us,” she said. “But Jesus was kind even to those who hated Him.”
Michael let the front legs of his chair drop back down on the floor. Did that mean Jesus would be nice even to Mr. Gates?
Yes, He would, Michael thought. Suddenly he had an idea. He couldn’t wait to tell his family.
“You want to do what?!” his sister Molly asked after they got home.
“I want to make some cookies and take them to Mr. Gates,” Michael said.
His sister Wendy looked at him like he’d said he wanted to eat worms for dinner. “Why? He’ll just chase you away!”
“We’re supposed to be nice to people,” Michael said. “Even the ones who are mean.”
Even Mom and Dad looked a little unsure. “Well, yes,” Mom said. “But Mr. Gates might not like the gift, just to warn you.”
Michael still knew it was a good idea. All week he kept asking his family to help him make cookies. But nobody did. Finally, on Sunday, Michael was done waiting. He was going to figure out how to make cookies, all by himself, and deliver them today!
“Hold on,” Wendy said when she saw him getting out the chocolate chips. “I’ll help. But I still say it’s a bad idea.”
After the cookies came out of the oven, Dad offered to go with him to deliver them.
Michael was excited. He was doing what Jesus would do! As they walked under the big maple tree, though, Michael started feeling nervous. Maybe he should just forget the whole thing.
No, he decided. This is what Jesus would do. Michael stepped up to the door and knocked.
As the door opened, Michael quickly said, “Hello, sir. I made these for you.” He held out the cookies. Mr. Gates looked down at them. Then at Michael. And then his whole face lit up.
Michael almost fell over. Mr. Gates could smile?
“Well, thank you, young man!” he said. “But tell me … how on earth did you know that today is my 80th birthday?”
Michael smiled back at Mr. Gates. He thought Jesus would have smiled too.

The day of your release will teach you a great lesson. On the day I was released as a bishop, one of the ward members came to my home afterwards and said: “I know you are no longer my bishop, but could we talk just one more time? You have always spoken words I needed and given me such good counsel. The new bishop doesn’t know me the way you do. Could we just talk one more time?”

Reluctantly I agreed. The member sat down in a chair opposite mine. It seemed to be just as it had been in the hundreds of times I had interviewed members of the ward as a judge in Israel. The conversation began. There came the moment when counsel was needed. I waited for the ideas, the words, and the feelings to flow into my mind, as they always had.

Nothing came. In my heart and mind there was only silence. After a few moments, I said: “I’m sorry. I appreciate your kindness and your trust. But I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

When you are released from your calling, you will learn what I learned then. God magnifies those He calls, even in what may seem to you a small or inconspicuous service. You will have the gift of seeing your service magnified. Give thanks while that gift is yours. You will appreciate its worth more than you can imagine when it is gone.

As the organist played prelude music, Keeley looked around the chapel. She smiled when she saw some of her friends she had left behind when her family moved to a small town in eastern Colorado.
Her family had returned to Loveland, Colorado, for the blessing of her aunt and uncle’s baby girl. All of her dad’s family had come for the special event.
She liked her family’s new home, but she was happy to be back in Loveland, where she had lived most of her life and had so many relatives and friends.
After the opening song and prayer and announcements, the bishop announced that there would be a blessing of a baby.
Keeley watched as her dad, uncle, grandpa, and other family members gathered to bless baby Kaitlyn.
Uncle Mark gave his daughter a name and a blessing. She knew that the men who stood in the circle held the priesthood. Keeley’s dad had explained how important the priesthood was when he had baptized her and confirmed her a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints a year ago. In another year, her oldest brother, Samuel, would receive the Aaronic Priesthood and be ordained a deacon.
Keeley felt tears sting her eyes as she heard Uncle Mark’s voice quiver during the middle of the blessing. She reached up to brush them away.
When the blessing was over, Uncle Mark held up Kaitlyn so that the congregation could see her.
After sacrament meeting, Keeley and her brothers went to Primary. The chorister invited them to choose their favorite songs for the children to sing.
Keeley chose “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”* The Primary children had sung it for the Primary sacrament meeting program a year ago, and it had remained one of her favorite songs.
Following opening exercises and sharing time, she went to class. When class let out, Keeley said good-bye to her friends. Once again, tears gathered in her eyes.
Everyone in the family went to Uncle Mark and Aunt Celeste’s home after church. Keeley took a turn holding the new baby. All too soon, it was time to leave.
“It was like going home,” Keeley said during the drive. “All of our family and friends were there and were glad to see us.”
“That’s how it is in heaven,” Dad said. “Family members and friends who are already there are happy to see those they left behind on earth.”
“Like when Grandpa Munson died?” Keeley asked. Her mother’s dad had died before Keeley was born. She had heard Mom talk about Grandpa and what a great man he was.
“Exactly like that,” Mom said. “We were sad that Grandpa had to leave us, but we knew there were lots of people in heaven waiting for him.” She took Keeley’s hand and squeezed it. “I know you were glad to see your old friends, and they were glad to see you. We’ll see them again. In the meantime, you have friends at our new home who will be happy that you’re back.”
“Just like in heaven,” Keeley said. She liked the comparison.
“Just like in heaven,” Mom agreed.
After family prayer that night, Keeley kissed her parents good night. She thought of her friends back in Loveland and her friends here at home, then she imagined how many more friends and family members must be waiting to see her again in heaven. A sweet warmth settled over her like a comfortable blanket as she got ready for bed.

This story happened in Venezuela.
Ivette ran up the front steps to her abuela’s (grandma’s) house. Her parents came in behind her. It was Christmas, and they were going to celebrate with the whole family.
The house was crowded and noisy. All around her, Ivette’s family members laughed and joked with one another. They loved gathering together to make hallacas, a Venezuelan holiday food. This year, Abuela had promised Ivette that she could help make them. Ivette weaved through the maze of uncles, aunts, and cousins, looking for Abuela.
“Ivette?” Abuela called. “Ivette, where are you?”
“I’m right here, Abuela!” Ivette ran to Abuela and hugged her. Then she looked up, bouncing on her toes with excitement. “What’s my special job this year?”
“We’ll get to that!” Abuela chuckled. “First, let me show you everyone else’s jobs so you can see how hallacas are made.”
Ivette followed Abuela to the table. The delicious smell of onions, meat, and spices filled the air. She couldn’t wait to get started!
“First,” Abuela said, “Aunt Carmen will prepare the masa.”
Aunt Carmen placed a ball of soft corn dough onto a green banana leaf. Then she squished it into a flat circle.
“Next, Ana will add the stuffing,” Abuela said.
Ivette’s older cousin, Ana, tipped a scoop of meat stew onto the dough. She added olives, peppers, raisins, and shredded chicken on top.
“Now your mom will fold the leaves.”
Mom’s fingers gently wrapped the leaves into a perfect rectangle.
“Our job is next, Ivette.” Abuela passed the folded hallaca to Ivette. “We’re going to tie it closed.”
Abuela picked up a piece of cotton string. With careful hands, she crisscrossed the string around the hallaca. “Put your finger on top to keep it in place while I finish the knot.”
Ivette’s shoulders dropped. They’re making this job up, she thought. They don’t actually need me.
“Why can’t I have an important job like you or Mom?” she asked, feeling frustrated.
“Your job is very important, Ivette.” Abuela gently placed Ivette’s finger on the string. “Without you here to keep the string in place, we couldn’t tie the hallacas closed. Then they would fall apart while they cook. Everyone’s hard work would be wasted. We all play a special part in making hallacas—just like we all play a special part in Heavenly Father’s family.”
A special part just for her? Ivette thought about that as Abuela tied the knot over her finger. She slipped her finger out of the knot so Abuela could pull it tight.
“We are all needed in this family,” Mom added. “It’s how we stay strong.”
Ivette looked at her family gathered around the table. Everyone was different. Her aunt told the best jokes. Her mom gave amazing hugs. And Abuela always knew what to say to make things better. Heavenly Father had given them all different gifts, but that was what made them special.
Abuela placed the hallaca in a basket with the rest. They were all perfectly stuffed, folded, and tied by Ivette’s family members, each helping in different ways.
Ivette smiled. Each of her family members had a special place in Heavenly Father’s family, just like they had a special part in making Christmas hallacas. Even Ivette!
She placed her finger on the next hallaca as Abuela tied the knot.
Illustrations by Denise Damanti

About the same time that Paul found out he was diabetic, his father, also a diabetic, started having serious health problems because he wasn’t taking care of himself. One day Paul was with him when he had a seizure, and Paul had to call 911 for help. Dan realized then that he had to set an example for his son.
Paul also helps his father stay in control. Together, and with the help and support of Mom and Jimmy, they know it’s a battle they can win. It makes it easier that Mom, Carol, is a great cook who fixes all the right things for them to eat, and that there is sugar-free ice cream to celebrate special occasions with.

In the mission presidents’ seminar last June, Elder Thomas S. Monson told of the great faith and trust in the Lord of Randall Ellsworth, a missionary who, in Brother Monson’s words, “was crushed under that devastating earthquake in Guatemala, pinned for, I think, twelve hours. Found himself totally paralyzed from the waist down. Kidney functions, not present. No hope to ever walk again. …

“He was flown to … Maryland and … interviewed in the hospital by a television reporter. The television reporter said to him, ‘The doctors say you will not walk again. What do you think, Elder Ellsworth?’ He said, ‘I’ll not only walk again, but I have a call from a prophet to serve a mission in Guatemala, and I shall go back to Guatemala and finish that mission.’ …

“He exercised twice the [requirement] outlined by the doctors. He exerted his faith. He received a blessing from the priesthood and his recovery was miraculous. It astounded the physicians and the specialists. He began to be able to stand on his feet. Then he could walk with crutches, and then the doctors said to him, ‘You may return to the mission field if the Church will permit you to go.’ He went. We sent him to Guatemala. He returned to the land to which he had been called, to the people whom he dearly loved.

“While there he was walking, proselyting a full schedule with a cane in each hand. [His mission president] looked at him and said, ‘Elder Ellsworth, with the faith that you have, why don’t you throw those canes away and walk?’ And Elder Ellsworth said, ‘If you have that kind of faith in me [take the canes].’” He put down the canes and has never used them since. (Mission Presidents’ Training Seminar, June 1977, tape recording, Missionary Department.)

Tim leaned on the dented fender of his old Honda and scowled at his barren surroundings.
Lanely, the sign had said. What a dump, he thought.
Another hot wind carried a dust cloud across the road. The town’s only gas station sat a hundred yards off the interstate. During the tourist season, you could sit outside the garage and watch car after car fly by on the freeway, but hardly any of them stopped in Lanely.
Tim had stopped there but not to take pictures or admire the three-block skyline. Behind him, the station’s owner, a man old enough to be Tim’s grandfather, examined the engine in the hot shade of the hood.
Tim’s tan face looked angry and exhausted. Red, matted hair, drenched in sweat, added to his tired appearance. He scowled at his watch. Great, he thought, I’ll be late for the game. He had never missed a football game. Now here he was, stuck in some dump, for no good reason. Why did Mom make him go to his uncle’s funeral anyway? It wasn’t like he’d seen him in the last 10 years. And he had wasted his morning with a bunch of other people he hadn’t seen in 10 years. He didn’t want to do that again.
“Well,” said the owner, emerging from under the hood, “it looks like you might be here for a while. Your water pump’s bad. That’s why your engine keeps overheating.”
Tim rolled his eyes and threw up his hands at the news. He fumed for a moment then kicked the car’s front tire angrily.
“Great,” he grunted. “How long is that going to take?”
“Oh, a couple hours, I reckon.” The owner wiped his greasy hands on a rag that looked even greasier. “I think I have the part here. But my other mechanic is home sick today. If you want to lend me a hand, it would move things along a little.”
He pulled a red handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. The boy’s face was very familiar; the strong nose and the firm, square jaw awakened a shadow in Jack’s memory. “Where are you headed, anyway?”
Tim let a second drift by before answering. “Over to the coast. A town called Cranston.”
Jack hadn’t thought about Cranston for a long time. It reminded him of …
He took a closer look at the young man. A surprising resemblance, he told himself. Maybe it was just his imagination. “C’mon,” he said, gesturing toward the car. “Let’s get this thing in the garage.”
Tim stood still for a second, then moved to help push the car. The sooner it was fixed, the sooner he could get out of here.
Jack was under the hood again. Tim leaned on the fender and peered down at the engine, but it was just one greasy, tangled mass to his eyes, and he slipped into daydreaming. He had lost track of time, but it seemed like they’d been in there a while. Occasionally Jack would ask for a certain tool, and Tim found most of those indistinguishable too.
Inside the garage, they were out of the sun, but the heat still bore down on Tim, squeezing more sweat from his body. Soiled auto manuals filled a rickety bookcase on one wall. The odors of gasoline, motor oil, and something mildewy blended to give him a headache. It was the silence that Jack found intolerable. He wiped his shiny forehead with his sleeve.
“So you’re from Cranston,” he said, not looking up from the engine. “Does the name Nate Vaughan mean anything to you?”
Tim answered without moving. “He was my grandad. Never met him. I think he died when my mom was really young. How did you know him?”
“Why, he used to live here in town,” Jack said. He glanced at Tim. “There’s a strong family resemblance, I might add.”
Tim let out a flat grunt. “I think I remember my mom saying something about that once, but she hardly talks about him.” He went back to staring at the engine.
Jack resumed working but tried to continue the conversation. “Yup, he and I were friends for years before your mother was born. We worked as ranch hands together, and he was best man at my wedding.”
Tim glanced at his watch. He didn’t care for reminiscing, but he was going to be here for a while. When the old man paused, Tim said, “I heard he went crazy.”
To Tim’s surprise, Jack didn’t even look up but kept loosening a certain nut. For a moment Tim thought he hadn’t been heard, but then Jack replied calmly, “Did your mother tell you that?”
Tim thought he felt tension hovering in the air. “Yeah, a long time ago. She said that’s why my grandma left him and moved to Cranston.”
The owner handed Tim his wrench. “Give me that one second from the end,” he said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve again. He didn’t speak again until he had resumed work on the engine. “Well, son, you’re not getting the whole story there. I knew your grandma, and she was a fine woman. I knew your mother, too, when she was really young. Your Grandpa Nate loved them both very much; he was a wonderful husband and father.”
“Then why did he leave them?”
“Now, see, that’s what I want to set straight.” He extracted himself from the engine and leaned against a nearby workbench, wiping his hands on a rag. “You see, all three of them used to live here in town. One day your grandpa met two traveling preachers, and they showed him this.”
He stepped over to the bookcase and pulled a volume off the shelf with a worn hand. He handed it to Tim, who examined the book briefly. It was old but not dusty, bound in worn, brown leather. The yellowed title page read, “The Book of Mormon.” The name sounded familiar. Tim shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. So what? People don’t up and leave their families over a book.”
Jack slowly turned the wrench over his hands. His eyes stared off into space. “The first time Nate met the missionaries and saw the Book of Mormon, he knew it was true. He asked the missionaries to baptize him that same week. I still remember how excited he was when he first told me about it.” He gripped the wrench firmly in his hands and looked thoughtfully at Tim. “Your grandma, on the other hand, didn’t like the whole deal at all. Among other things, she said she didn’t believe someone should change religions. Nate was sad that it upset her, but he couldn’t just stop believing what he believed to be true. Eventually your grandmother took your mother and moved in with relatives in Cranston. I don’t think Nate saw them much after that, and I didn’t either. Nate passed away not long after.”
Tim shrugged again. “I don’t get it. What made him do that?”
The owner tilted his head a little to the left and pondered for a moment. Then he drew in a deep breath and said, “Tim, it’s not easy to explain in a few words, and I don’t know exactly how Nate felt or what he experienced. I’m not him.”
They were quiet for a moment. Tim wanted to say something, but waited. Jack continued.
“That was a very busy time for both of us, but I remember how one day we were out fishing not far from here. I knew that Nate and his wife were having some troubles then, though I didn’t understand all the circumstances and everything. Eventually we started talking about it. I told him that I thought he was risking a lot for this religion, with his marriage and all. He nodded, said he knew that. So then I asked him straight out why he was doing it. He was really quiet for a minute, and then he said, ‘Jack, do you remember those nights out on the trail when we slept under the stars?’
“We used to stay awake for hours talking about God and life and what we were supposed to be doing with our time. We put a lot of thought into it, but never got very far. Anyway, Nate told me, ‘I finally found answers for those questions we always wondered about.’ Sometimes Nate had told me that he was afraid of being alone. He was afraid that one day his friends and family would all be gone, and he’d be alone. But now he said that he knew that God knew and loved him. He said that God would help him in his hard times, that he was helping him right then.
“I remember being amazed at the excitement and passion he spoke with. He was a changed man, and there was something in his voice that gave me hope.”
Jack paused. A placid thoughtfulness had settled over his face. “Now, I didn’t understand everything he told me right then, and it was actually a long time before I did, but by the time he finished speaking I had this beautiful, peaceful feeling that made me want to believe everything he’d said. I never doubted Nate after that.” Jack looked at the engine, then handed Tim the wrench. “I think we’re done.”
Tim took the wrench and stepped back from the car. He stood silently, staring at the tool. Alone. Or not? The idea hadn’t occurred to Tim before, but now it made him think. Jack’s words carried a power. They stirred up questions too. Did his grandad have any more relatives here? Where was he from? How did he meet grandmom?
Tim’s trance was snapped by the slamming of the hood of his car. “You’re ready to go,” the old man told Tim. “That’ll get you to Cranston, no problem. Just a little late.”
Late. The game. Tim had forgotten it. “Ummm, great. Sounds good,” he finally mumbled.
Tim wrote a check while Jack cleaned up. Neither said much until Tim was about to climb into his car. He offered the owner his hand and thanked him.
The owner shook his hand and nodded. Then he handed him a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it. “My pleasure. Listen, I’ve got a lot of pictures and stuff from when I used to work with your grandpa. Why don’t you come back up and take a look at them sometime? Or you’re always welcome just to come and talk.”
Tim nodded and got into his car. As he started the engine, he leaned out the window and said, “Thanks. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

I was a new missionary about to leave the missionary training center, and I didn’t know if the Book of Mormon was true.

I believed it was true. I had read it many times and prayed about it repeatedly, just as Moroni directs (see Moroni 10:3–5). But I had never received an answer! Without that knowledge, how would I be able to teach and testify to the people of Romania? I needed to know for myself, and I needed to know now.

During one evening of quiet study time in our MTC classroom, I gripped my scriptures and bowed my head.

“Heavenly Father,” I prayed silently, “I have read this book many times. If I am going to continue as a missionary, I need to know: Is it true?”

With my eyes still closed, I flipped open the book.

My finger landed on Mosiah 1:6: “O my sons, I would that ye should remember that these sayings are true, and also that these records are true. And behold, also the plates of Nephi, which contain the records and the sayings of our fathers from the time they left Jerusalem until now, and they are true; and we can know of their surety because we have them before our eyes.”

Those words struck me as no passage of scripture ever had before or since. Every instance of the word true leaped off the page. As Joseph Smith said about his own experience, the words “seemed to enter with great force into every feeling of my heart” (Joseph Smith—History 1:12). I felt suddenly full of peace and purpose instead of fear or worry.

In an instant, I knew that the Book of Mormon was the word of God and that Heavenly Father was sending me that message. It was like He was telling me, You already know. Now get to work.
And I did.

Houston reported to the Nigeria Lagos Mission in April 1994. His first proselyting area, Agege, covered an expansive territory. The closest branch was in Ogba, four kilometers away. Because of the distance between the two towns, it was difficult for investigators to attend the number of Church meetings required for baptism. Houston and his companion completed almost four months of persistent hard work without a single baptism. But after redoubling their efforts, they found and prepared a family of five for baptism.

“One Saturday afternoon, as my companion and I were waiting to board a vehicle to witness my first convert baptism,” Houston recalls, “the assistants to the mission president drove up and informed me that I was being transferred. A new companion replaced me immediately, and I proceeded to Benin. I initially felt quite unhappy that I didn’t see the baptism of my first converts, but I later realized that what mattered most was their conversion.”

"My parents were both musical, though untrained. While we had no musical instruments at home except my father’s ukulele, the family enjoyed singing together. I was in my teens when my parents first acquired a record player. And I remember what a great experience that was and how much we all enjoyed it. When I was older, the family did acquire a piano, and some of the younger children took lessons. My wife was a music major, and that was one of the things I enjoyed about her when we were dating. I loved to sit and listen to her play the Bach Inventions.

“The name Poelman is a Dutch name,” Elder Poelman explained. “My paternal grandfather was born in Holland, and as a young man in his teens, he left Holland and went to South Africa. There he married my grandmother, a Scottish girl. She was working at the time as a governess for an English family living in South Africa. My grandparents had one child born in South Africa, then they went back to the British Isles. Another child was born in England, and then they moved to Glasgow, Scotland, where my father was born. It was to their home in Scotland that the missionaries came tracting, and my grandmother answered the door. They were on the third floor of a cold-water flat in the working-class section, and a man named A. Z. Richards was one of the missionaries. He stayed close to our family until he died, and I have always been very fond of him.

“Subsequently, I was called to serve as a missionary in Holland, as were all three of my younger brothers. My father also served a mission in Holland. That missionary experience was a valuable one for me, because I had an opportunity to meet some of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters, and I was able to learn the language.”

I asked Elder Poelman what message he wanted to share with the children of the world, and he replied, “Your Father in heaven knows who you are and loves you unconditionally. Even when you do things that are bad, He loves you. It makes Him sad, of course, but it doesn’t mean that He stops loving you. I would encourage you to pray to our Heavenly Father often, knowing that no matter what you’ve done or how you feel about yourself, Heavenly Father will listen to you.

“Sometimes we may think that the Lord loves us only if we keep His commandments and that if we disobey His commandments, He loves us less. That isn’t true! This is something Satan would like us to believe because then we feel estranged from our Father in heaven. Remember, He loves you all the time wherever you are and whatever you are doing.”

Years ago, I arrived home from work and was startled to see white paint splattered everywhere—on the ground, the garage door, and our red-brick house. I inspected the scene more closely and discovered the paint was still wet. A trail of paint led toward the backyard, and so I followed it. There, I found my five-year-old son with a paintbrush in his hand, chasing our dog. Our beautiful black Labrador was splattered almost half white!
“What are you doing?” I asked in an animated voice.
My son stopped, looked at me, looked at the dog, looked at the paintbrush dripping with paint, and said, “I just want him to look like the black-spotted dogs in the movie—you know, the one with 101 Dalmatians.”
I loved our dog. I thought he was perfect, but that day my son had a different idea.

As a young married couple, my wife and I were expecting the birth of our first child. I was studying law at the university and working nights in a gasoline station. We had very little money. We had furnished our small basement apartment with some used furniture and many wooden boxes.
As the time of the birth approached, we had assembled everything we would need, except we had no bed for the baby and no money to buy one.
It was our practice at that time to pay our tithing each month on fast Sunday. As that day approached, we discussed the possibility of postponing the paying of our tithing so that we could make an initial payment on a baby bed. In the spirit of the fast, and after praying, we decided to pay the tithing and trust our Heavenly Father.
A few days later, I was walking in the business district of the city and unexpectedly met my former mission president, who asked if I was in school or working at a job. I replied that I was doing both.
Was I married? “Yes!”
Did we have children? “No, but our first child will be born in just a few weeks.”
“Do you have a bed for the baby?” he asked. “No,” I replied reluctantly, startled by the direct question.
“Well,” he said, “I am now in the furniture business, and it would please me to have a baby bed delivered to your apartment as a gift.”
A great feeling of relief, gratitude, and testimony came over me.
The gift filled a temporal need but is still a poignant reminder of the spiritual experience that accompanied it, confirming again that the law of tithing is a commandment with a promise.

After a couple of years, we graduated from advertising packets to telephone directories. During several summers, we loaded up our station wagon with books and children. The days were hot, the hours were long, some streets were hard to find, some addresses couldn’t be found, the books were heavy, some driveways were long and went uphill, some dogs were mean; but we had fun. Sometimes two children would go to a home, one to play with the dog and the other to take the books.
One summer one of the boys broke his foot while on the job. Within a few days he realized that he didn’t want to be left out of the summer work; besides he loved to ski. Soon he was in the back of the station wagon unwrapping the books and giving directions to the children as to how many books were to go to each house.
At the end of a day’s work, there were stories to tell, experiences to laugh at, accomplishments to brag about—and no one had any trouble sleeping. Yes, we were having fun and experiencing a sense of accomplishment.

Brigham Young was in Peterborough, New Hampshire, when he received news that the Prophet Joseph Smith had been killed. He immediately left New England and returned to Nauvoo. Within two years, he would start leading groups of Mormon pioneers to the West.
Not far from Peterborough—in an area that today is in the Nashua New Hampshire Stake—Latter-day Saint youth had their own pioneer trek in 2009. But the journey began long before anyone started pulling a handcart.
To gain spiritual strength, many of the pioneers sought temple blessings before leaving Nauvoo. Like those early Saints, members of the Nashua stake took the opportunity to participate in temple work and other activities that would strengthen them. They focused on preparing for two journeys: the 17-mile handcart trek they were about to make and the spiritual journey they would undertake.
They did this through the “Trail of Faith Award,” which stake leaders invited all members of the stake—not just the youth—to participate in. Many of the goals of the program, which began in January, overlapped with requirements from Duty to God, Personal Progress, and the Brand New Year fireside. Other challenges were specific to the stake. All of them helped participants draw closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
“Trail of Faith helped me realize that we weren’t just going on a 17-mile hike or having another youth conference,” says Alexander Petrie, 16. “This was something a little bit different.”
One of the things that made it different for Alexander was memorizing several hymns, including “Press Forward, Saints” (Hymns, no. 81). “Later, when I was on trek and it was getting a little bit tough, the words of that hymn kept going over and over in my mind,” he says. “I really felt strength from its words. I’ve realized that hymns are a good thing to memorize and to have in our mind anytime we encounter something difficult. I’m so grateful that the Trail of Faith Award helped me prepare.”
Alden Durham, 12, was not yet old enough to participate in the trek, but, along with his family, he completed the Trail of Faith Award. Two of his most memorable goals involved daily scripture study and journal writing. “When I do these things, I feel the Spirit more, and I definitely act different when I feel the Spirit. I try to be a better brother to my four sisters.”
Alexander Jeffrey, also 12, said his favorite goal was performing baptisms for the dead at the Boston Temple, something he had done only once before. “Doing the Trail of Faith gave me a new understanding and got me better prepared for doing some of these goals and habits on my own,” he says.
Participating in temple work was meaningful for Julia Parker, 16, as well. “It was really neat to take names of people who were related to us—our own ancestors,” she recalls. “When I went to the temple, I thought about them as individual people with individual lives and individual interests. I thought about their testimonies and their experiences and their trials. It was really cool to feel connected with them.”
Upon completing the Trail of Faith Award requirements, stake members were given a small medallion so they could remember things they had experienced and felt. “I came out with a medallion at the end,” says Emily Durham, 17, “but I also came out with a stronger testimony.”
After months of preparation through the Trail of Faith Award, firesides, and other stake-wide activities, the group was ready to embark on its three-day, two-night, 17-mile journey.
The area they live in is rich in American history, so in many ways, the trek experience wasn’t much different from things that youth in the Nashua Stake participate in regularly at school. After all, Emily points out, “Those of us who grew up here have gone on walks at Walden Pond and taken field trips to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery,” she says. But remembering pioneer heritage at youth conference was somehow different.
Elizabeth Jeffrey, 15, agrees. “You dress up, pull handcarts, and have a fun, spiritual experience with your friends,” she says. “I expected that. What I didn’t realize was how hard it would be—the actual, physical pulling over hills and rocks and things.
“We were only walking 17 miles; the pioneers walked over a thousand miles to Utah,” she continues. “I think about them differently now. Instead of a Sunday School story on a page, I believe I can now feel a little bit of their struggles and their pains and their great joy. It all became more real when I went on trek.”
As the youth and their leaders completed the trek, other stake members gathered at a local park for a “Welcome to the Valley” celebration. McKenna Gustafson, 14, remembers feeling “so happy” when she was greeted by the cheering of more than 900 people.
“I saw my younger brothers and sisters running toward us, and I started crying,” she remembers. “I thought about what it will be like in heaven when we see our family and friends who have gone before us and what an awesome reunion that will be.”
As exciting as “Welcome to the Valley” was, it wasn’t the end of the trek experience—not really. In many ways, the trek started friendships with neighbors and community members who had watched the youth over the last 72 hours or heard about the trek through local news coverage.
Anna Parker had an opportunity to connect with neighbors as she and her peers passed through one community. Anna immediately noticed that some of the women there were on horseback, so she told them how much she loved horses. She also explained to them what the youth group was doing and then invited the women to join the youth that night for country dancing. One of them came and even stayed for a short devotional afterward. She was so impressed by the youth that she asked to learn more.
Other youth shared the gospel by telling their friends how they were spending three days of their summer vacation. Others got to know people in the community who had made the trek possible. Youth and adults became friends with kind community members who agreed to let the 150 youth and adults camp on their private property; one of the couples who did so came to a testimony meeting, shared their own feelings, and invited the youth to return.
“In planning trek, we wanted the youth of the stake to recognize that they can do hard things,” says President Mark Durham of the stake presidency. “Trail of Faith and trek were both part of that.
“What the pioneers did is just unbelievable, but they took it a little bit at a time, and they had their testimony and their faith as a foundation. We can also move one foot in front of the other foot, just like they did.”
James Parker, 18, says that his experiences last summer have helped him to be more diligent in living the gospel and to have a better attitude about the things he is asked to do as a Church member today.
“The pioneers had to get up every day and make a conscious decision to pull their handcarts miles and miles. Trek was a good reminder of the sacrifices they made for the gospel,” he says.
“We’re not asked to do anything as dramatic as that, but I can get up every day and consciously decide to pray and read my scriptures and be reminded of what the gospel is worth to me. Because of trek, I know how much the gospel of Jesus Christ was worth to the pioneers, and their sacrifice makes it more valuable to me.”

As I drove to work through our neighborhood in Puyallup, Washington, I began to notice a young girl among a group of children waiting for the school bus.
Washington is well blessed with rainfall, and there were many cold, wet mornings when the kids would huddle together. But I could always count on her to ignore the elements and come up with a big smile and wave as I passed the bus stop.
The young girl was tall and slim and about 13 years old. She wore a mouthful of braces and I could see them glisten in the glare of my car lights.
Somehow her little effort to be friendly helped me get my day started right and became something I looked forward to.
I told my wife about the little friend I had, and how without fail she would always be there with that sweet smile and friendly wave. We didn’t know who she was, but she seemed to be an outstanding young girl.
It wasn’t very long after this that our own 13-year-old daughter, Cheryl, asked if she could go to an activity that a local church was having. She called it MIA. She was going with a neighbor girl, Vicki, and promised us that there would be parental supervision.
Cheryl began to attend MIA regularly, and after a few occasions she told us that Vicki was a Mormon. Cheryl also said Vicki was my friend from the bus stop.
Discovering that Vicki was a Mormon gave us a good feeling. I was aware of the reputation the Mormons had of being a good and family-oriented people.
A short time later Cheryl came home from school and relayed a message from Vicki. She was sending two young men over, missionaries, to tell us about her church.
“Tell Vicki that I have been waiting for 30 years to know what a Mormon is,” I told my daughter.
The elders arrived and we heard about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith. I will never forget when those young men bore their testimonies of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith being a true prophet of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Over the next few weeks we began to read and were soon captivated by the new scriptures.
I finally met Vicki—she was at church our first time and was in the audience, smiling, when the three members of my family were baptized. We moved away from that part of the state soon after and have not seen Vicki since. I recently heard she is married now and has a family of her own.
Through her actions and those of the young people we have known since, my wife and I are thoroughly convinced that the greatest potential for missionary work lies in the youth of the Church. We have served as stake missionaries and have served a full-time mission in Pennsylvania, and each time have relied upon the referrals and good example the youth have supplied.
We will never forget Vicki and will be forever grateful to her.

I love to read my own grandfather’s missionary journal. His first entries are classics. He wrote: “Today I married in the Salt Lake Temple the girl of my dreams.” The very next night the journal entry read: “Tonight the bishop called at our house. I have been asked to return to Scandinavia for a two- year mission. Of course I will go, and my sweet wife will remain at home and sustain me.” I am grateful for a missionary heritage.

Several years ago I wanted to plan a family home evening focused on family history. Our children, then ages 9 through 13, were only vaguely aware of some of their ancestors, so I came up with a game that helped us all become better acquainted with our ancestors.
I prepared a six-generation pedigree chart on a large piece of paper, filling in only the children’s names and leaving the other spaces blank. (I made a key to the whole chart so I would know how it should look when completed.)
For each blank space on the chart, I made a separate card containing the ancestor’s full name and listing some information about that person. For example, one card read, “Ira Walter Gardner. I was born in 1849 in Sweetwater, Wyoming, while my parents were crossing the plains.”
As I passed out the cards, I explained the rules. Using the information on the cards, each person would deduce where on the chart his or her cards would go. At each turn they could ask me yes or no questions about their ancestor. As long as they got yes answers, they could continue to ask. If they put their card in the wrong space or got a no answer, their turn was over. The children caught on quickly, and soon the chart was complete.
We all enjoyed the game, and the children began to develop a greater appreciation for their forebears.

A passage from the novel Les misérables illustrates how priesthood holders can treat those individuals viewed as strangers. Jean Valjean had just been released as a prisoner. Exhausted by a long voyage and dying of hunger and thirst, he arrives in a small town seeking a place to find food and shelter for the night. When the news of his arrival spreads, one by one all the inhabitants close their doors to him. Not the hotel, not the inn, not even the prison would invite him in. He is rejected, driven away, banished. Finally, with no strength left, he collapses at the front door of the town’s bishop.
The good clergyman is entirely aware of Valjean’s background, but he invites the vagabond into his home with these compassionate words:
“‘This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry and thirsty; you are welcome. … What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me [your name], you had one which I knew.’
“[Valjean] opened his eyes in astonishment.
“‘Really? You knew what I was called?’
“‘Yes,’ replied the Bishop, ‘you are called my brother.’”