Gospel Story Finder

Illustrations by Katie McDee
Ooh! This looks good. Can I check this one out, Mamãe?
Sure!
How’s your book?
I thought I would like it, but I didn’t feel good when I was reading it. There were some bad parts, so I decided to stop.
I think that was the Holy Ghost! He was helping you know that it wasn’t good to read.
I’m proud of you for acting on your feelings. We can get a new book next week, OK?
OK. Thanks, Mamãe.

Records show that she preached on priesthood authority, the Book of Mormon, and other gospel topics. After hearing Emma preach on the life and mission of Joseph Smith, one missionary wrote, “I enjoyed her remarks very much; and was sorry when she stopped speaking.”

Sadly, Emma contracted elephantiasis late in her mission and received an early release. When the women and girls at the school learned that she was returning to Utah, they wept. The Malaela branch held a farewell meeting for her, giving her one last chance to preach. She “spoke quite forcibly,” the minutes of the meeting indicate, “and exhorted all to be true to the gospel.”

Emma herself remained true to the gospel—and her covenants—for the rest of her life. In Utah, she continued her education, participated in the state’s Polynesian community, and consulted on the first Latter-day Saint hymnal in Samoan. At some point, she also met a Hawaiian Saint named Henry Kahalemanu. They were married in the Salt Lake Temple on January 31, 1907.

Three years later, Emma passed away at age 26 and was buried at Iosepa, a settlement of Polynesian Saints 60 miles (97 km) west of Salt Lake City. Although her life was brief, her devotion to the restored gospel of Jesus Christ remains a powerful example for Saints around the world, especially young women who answer the call to serve today.

The first time I paid tithing, the amount was five cents. With my father, I went to the office of the bishop, who solemnly accepted my five pennies and wrote out the receipt. Then he stood and, coming from behind his desk, sat next to me. With his hand on my shoulder, he gave me the small but significant slip of paper and said, “Ronald, you have made a good beginning, and if you continue as you have begun, you can be a perfect tithe payer.” The idea of being perfect at anything seemed well beyond my ability. I was trying hard just to be a good boy. But with those words, the bishop inspired me to strive for perfection in that one basic aspect of the gospel. The blessings, both temporal and spiritual, have been abundant.

There was a time before we were married when my wife, Kristi, was struggling to feel Heavenly Father’s love and to understand His plan for her. As she prayed for guidance, an impression came that she should attend institute, so she enrolled in a New Testament class. The way her institute teacher taught from the scriptures, even the way he held them, showed how much he loved the word of God. As she attended, the Holy Ghost whispered to her that there was something in the scriptures that she needed. Her teacher’s love for the scriptures and the promptings of the Holy Ghost gave her a desire to begin a serious study of the word of God—which became a lifelong journey of deep conversion and consecrated service.

In a recent Sunday Relief Society meeting, I listened to a young mother share part of her journey of conversion. She had grown up in the Church, with parents who taught her the gospel. She attended Primary, Young Women, and seminary. She loved to learn and discover truths. Her constant quest was to know why. Elder Russell M. Nelson has said, “The Lord can only teach an inquiring mind.”4 And this young woman was teachable.

After high school she attended a university, was sealed in the temple to a returned missionary, and was blessed with beautiful children.

With the spirit of inquiry, this mother continued to ask questions. But as the questions grew harder, so did the answers. And sometimes there were no answers—or no answers that brought peace. Eventually, as she sought to find answers, more and more questions arose, and she began to question some of the very foundations of her faith.

During this confusing time, some of those around her said, “Just lean on my faith.” But she thought, “I can’t. You don’t understand; you’re not grappling with these issues.” She explained, “I was willing to extend courtesy to those without doubts if they would extend courtesy to me.” And many did.

She said, “My parents knew my heart and allowed me space. They chose to love me while I was trying to figure it out for myself.” Likewise, this young mother’s bishop often met with her and spoke of his confidence in her.

Ward members also did not hesitate to give love, and she felt included. Her ward was not a place to put on a perfect face; it was a place of nurture.

“It was interesting,” she remembers. “During this time I felt a real connection to my grandparents who had died. They were pulling for me and urging me to keep trying. I felt they were saying, ‘Focus on what you know.’”

In spite of her substantial support system, she became less active. She said, “I did not separate myself from the Church because of bad behavior, spiritual apathy, looking for an excuse not to live the commandments, or searching for an easy out. I felt I needed the answer to the question ‘What do I really believe?’”

About this time she read a book of the writings of Mother Teresa, who had shared similar feelings. In a 1953 letter, Mother Teresa wrote: “Please pray specially for me that I may not spoil His work and that Our Lord may show Himself—for there is such terrible darkness within me, as if everything was dead. It has been like this more or less from the time I started ‘the work.’ Ask Our Lord to give me courage.”

Archbishop Périer responded: “God guides you, dear Mother; you are not so much in the dark as you think. The path to be followed may not always be clear at once. Pray for light; do not decide too quickly, listen to what others have to say, consider their reasons. You will always find something to help you. … Guided by faith, by prayer, and by reason with a right intention, you have enough.”5

My friend thought if Mother Teresa could live her religion without all the answers and without a feeling of clarity in all things, maybe she could too. She could take one simple step forward in faith—and then another. She could focus on the truths she did believe and let those truths fill her mind and heart.

When members of one family began to feel unusual contention invading their home, they called a family council to discuss the situation. The father and mother explained to their children what they had observed and asked how each felt about it. The mother and father learned that since their two oldest children had left home—one to be married and one to go to college—an unfair burden of responsibility had been shifted to the two oldest children remaining at home, and they were becoming resentful. By counseling together and listening, the children shared what they were feeling, and a more equitable distribution of responsibility was made, resolving much of the frustration and tension in the home.3

When I finished primary school, my father taught me to make decisions for myself. I had to travel more than 150 km to reach the city center of Mweka in the Kasai province of DR Congo, where I started secondary school in humanitarian studies with priests of the Catholic diocese of Mweka.
Once I finished secondary school, I had to follow the Catholic faith to continue my humanitarian studies; hence from the fifth and sixth humanitarian year we were prepared to embrace the Catholic faith. After completing the humanitarian cycle, we had the privilege of preparing ourselves as aspirants with the Josephite fathers.
When starting my first year in philosophy, my older brother who was my tutor informed the priest that I should not continue as an aspirant among the Josephite fathers. Not accepting the opposition, the Josephite fathers, through my godfather, asked me to abandon the path of consecration in the Catholic Church for something else.
It was then that I moved to Kinshasa to commence my studies in law. Once I arrived in 2007, I enrolled at the University of Kinshasa. In my first year in 2008, we experienced a total strike at the University of Kinshasa. During the strike, I left the neighborhood where I lived to go to the commune of Masina to stay with my older brother.
And once in Masina, during the strike, I discovered The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the neighborhood where I lived with my older brother.
I made the decision to go to a meetinghouse of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on a Sunday. When I arrived at the building, a brother greeted me at the door and invited me to come inside. I then participated in the Sunday service and afterwards I was placed in contact with the full-time missionaries.
I took the missionary lessons for two weeks. After being taught, I had a strong desire to be baptized.
However, this was the beginning of strong opposition from within my family and my older brother who was like a guardian to me. He told the village to inform everyone that I wanted to become a member, that it is a bad church, and that no one should support me or contribute money to support my academic studies.
Consequently, I dropped out of law school and began preparing for a full-time mission. Thanks to Bishop Mutambay’s advice and direction, I remained a member of the Church despite opposition and began preparing for my full-time mission. I served in the Lubumbashi DR Congo from June 2013 to June 2015.
After serving as a full-time missionary, I came home and was fortunate to find the Church’s inspired Perpetual Education Fund program which allowed me to achieve my goals in completing my law studies through this program instituted by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008).
Today, I am a lawyer. My wife, Mireille, and I are parents of four children: Ross Power Kongo Kongo, Ron Cross Kongo Munemeka, Blacke Prestones Kongo Ibula, and Brian Lesser Congo. I accepted adversity by relying on my faith without knowing what was going to happen to me when I was abandoned for having chosen the restored Church.
I know that God is our Heavenly Father and despite difficulties and opposition He is there to help us. I will never be disappointed with the path I took and my decision to join His church.
I know this was the best decision I ever made. I will be forever grateful. Joseph Smith is the prophet of the Restoration, and I am grateful to be in the Church of Jesus Christ.

When I got home, I told Grandma all about camp. I told her it was the best Scout camp ever and that it was really fun being Bryant’s buddy. Grandma read Mosiah 2:17 to me. It says, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.” She said that when I helped Bryant, I was serving God too. I’d never thought of it that way before, but I felt the Spirit tell me that it was true. It’s awesome that I could serve God and help my friend.

Danny clutched his new sailboat tightly as he walked with his mother toward the pond in the park. Today he was going to sail his boat for the first time. Carefully he set it on the water. Then, holding onto a long string attached to the boat, he watched as a breeze caught the sail and moved the boat across the water.
On the other side of the pond, another boy was also watching the sailboat. Danny felt proud when he saw his sailboat skimming easily across the pond, and he wondered if the other boy wished that he had a sailboat too.
Before Danny realized it, the string attached to the boat slipped from his hand. He looked at his boat getting farther and farther from him. “Mom! Mom! My boat’s getting away!” he shouted.
“Don’t worry,” Mother said. “The wind will probably blow it back to where you can reach it.”
Danny waited, but the breeze stopped, and the sailboat just sat in the middle of the pond.
Suddenly the boy on the other side of the pond picked up some rocks and began throwing them into the water near the boat.
Danny ran to the water’s edge and yelled. “Stop it! Stop it! You’re going to sink my boat!”
The boy ignored Danny and kept throwing rocks.
Danny’s eyes filled with tears as he watched his new boat moving wildly up and down in the splashing water. “Oh, Mother, I hate that boy. I hate him!” he cried.
Suddenly Danny realized that his boat was getting closer to the opposite shore. Finally the boy reached out with a stick and pulled the boat to him.
“Now he’s going to steal my boat!” Danny wailed.
The boy picked up the boat and ran around the pond. To Danny’s surprise, the boy handed him the sailboat.
“Hi. My name’s Bobby. I thought I could get your boat back for you by throwing rocks into the water and making the water ripple to move your boat.”
Danny felt his face get hot. He was sorry he had shouted at the boy, and he felt ashamed for saying he hated Bobby.
Danny smiled at the other boy and said, “Thanks, Bobby. Would you like a turn at sailing my boat? I just got it yesterday.”

Two days before Christmas I was in Miller’s Department Store buying my mom’s Christmas present. I saw The Embalmer over in the sporting goods department, but I pretended not to see him and went on. When I got to the cashier to pay for Mom’s scarf, I reached into my pocket for the money. But as I pulled my hand out of my pocket, out fell the new Cub Scout knife that I had bought for my brother Jimmy the day before.

On the way home from buying it the day before I had dropped the bag in a puddle, so I had taken the knife out of the bag and put it in my pocket and forgotten all about it. It still had the red price tag on it and, of course, the sales slip had gone into the trash with the bag. Boy, did I feel dumb for a minute, and then I felt scared because I realized what the cashier was going to think and there was no way I could prove what had really happened.

The cashier called the manager and, of course, he didn’t think much of my story. I didn’t know the clerk who had waited on me the day before, and with the Christmas rush there wasn’t much chance she’d remember me. Besides, she didn’t seem to be working that day.

The manager was just calling the police when Mr. Palmer came up to the counter. Great, I thought. With him as a character witness, they’ll put me away for life.

Mr. Palmer asked the manager if he could talk to him for a few minutes first, and they went off together to the manager’s office. I must have lost five pounds in sweat while I waited. There was a stool by the counter, and I sat down on it to wait. My knees were shaking so hard I couldn’t have stood up. I thought about how Mom would cry and how Dad wouldn’t say much, but would get that funny pinched look around his mouth. I thought what kind of example this would make for Jimmy, the Cub Scout. I wondered if I would be expelled from school and if any college would accept me now. I had just resigned myself to scrubbing floors for the Foreign Legion when Mr. Palmer and the manager came out of the office, smiling. Oh, sure, I thought, you can smile. It’s not your life that’s being ruined.

The manager just looked at me and said, “You can go home now, son. After what your teacher has just told me about you, I think we can forget about this, but I hope that we won’t have any reason to regret this decision in the future.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with one of Mr. Palmer’s chemistry exams. I don’t quite remember what happened next, but I guess I paid for Mom’s gift and walked home. I was sort of in a trance all the next day. In fact, I didn’t come out of it until Christmas morning when I was watching my family enjoy Christmas and thought about what it could have been like that morning if Mr. Palmer hadn’t taken my side at the store.

I realized then that I hadn’t even thanked him for what he’d done. I just had to call Mr. Palmer to thank him and to apologize for being so late with my thanks. But there was no answer at his house. I tried all day and all the next week with the same results. I found out later that he had gone out of town for Christmas.

I didn’t see him until third period on the day school started again. He didn’t seem any different, but I couldn’t forget what he’d done for me and I kept wondering why. After school I stopped in at the chemistry room to thank him.

He was in the back of the room cleaning out the caustic chemical cupboard and didn’t see me come in. Seeing him there when he didn’t know anyone was around, I thought he didn’t look like such a bad guy. He was humming “Clementine” off key and a lock of his blond hair had fallen down over his forehead. I realized suddenly that he had freckles. You know it’s funny, but I had never noticed those freckles before. I guess I’d been too busy hating him to think of him as a real person.

“Mr. Palmer, I came to thank you.” I could hear a tremble my own voice. “I don’t know what you told that man at Miller’s, or why you would do that for me, but I wanted to thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t sooner. I guess I was kind of shook up, and then when I remembered you were gone.”

“Why, David, I didn’t hear you come in. Sit down.” I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Mr. Palmer’s eyes were wet.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I just told Ernie what kind of student you are and that I had never known you to be dishonest in any way. I told him about that time when you had been absent for the chemistry exam and I forgot to have you leave when I started to hand back the papers. Remember? You reminded me so that you wouldn’t hear the answers. I know that some of your friends have tried to get you to help them cheat by leaving your answers uncovered during the exams, but you won’t do it.”

I swear, I don’t know how he knew about that, but he did. Suddenly I felt a little braver. “Mr. Palmer,” I asked, “Why did you do it? I mean, I never thought you cared …” That wasn’t the right thing to say. I stopped, embarrassed.

“Oh, David.” There were those wet eyes again. “You’ll never know how much I care about all of you. It’s hard for me to show it, but I do. I really want what’s best for you. That’s why I’m so hard on you sometimes. I don’t mean to hurt anyone. I guess I do, but please believe me, most of the time I don’t even know what I’ve done unless someone tells me.”

When I left Mr. Palmer’s room that afternoon the sun was going down and the halls were deserted. I had learned a lot in that time. I found out that when he was a kid Mr. Palmer stuttered because he was so scared of everything. I found out that one of the ways people hide their feelings is to act like they know everything. I found out that Palmer the Embalmer had gone to Danny Lewis and apologized last September, because he hadn’t known until he saw him walk across the room to his desk that Danny had a problem. Danny doesn’t talk about his triumphs any more than he does about his problems.

Mr. Palmer is still called The Embalmer by the kids at Central High. And I guess a lot of them still hate him. I know better now. I’m in the honors chemistry class at the university and doing well, thanks to Mr. Palmer’s chemistry class.

As a seven-year-old boy living in the Arabian Peninsula, I was consistently told by my parents to always wear my shoes, and I understood why. I knew that shoes would protect my feet against the many threats to be found in the desert, such as snakes, scorpions, and thorns. One morning after a night’s camping in the desert, I wanted to go exploring, but I did not want to bother with putting on my shoes. I rationalized that I was only going for a little wander and I would stay close by the camp. So instead of shoes, I wore flip-flops. I told myself that flip-flops were shoes—of a sort. And anyway, what could possibly happen?
As I walked along the cool sand—in my flip-flops—I felt something like a thorn going into the arch of my foot. I looked down and saw not a thorn but a scorpion. As my mind registered the scorpion and I realized what had just happened, the pain of the sting began to rise from my foot and up my leg. I grabbed the top of my leg to try and stop the searing pain from moving farther, and I cried out for help. My parents came running from the camp.
As my father battered the scorpion with a shovel, an adult friend who was camping with us heroically tried to suck the venom from my foot. At this moment I thought that I was going to die. I sobbed while my parents loaded me into a car and set off across the desert at high speed toward the nearest hospital, which was over two hours away. The pain all through my leg was excruciating, and for that entire journey, I assumed that I was dying.
When we finally reached the hospital, however, the doctor was able to assure us that only small infants and the severely malnourished are threatened by the sting of that type of scorpion. He administered an anesthetic, which numbed my leg and took away any sensation of pain. Within 24 hours I no longer had any effects from the sting of the scorpion. But I had learned a powerful lesson.
I had known that when my parents told me to wear shoes, they did not mean flip-flops; I was old enough to know that flip-flops did not provide the same protection as a pair of shoes. But that morning in the desert, I disregarded what I knew to be right. I ignored what my parents had repeatedly taught me. I had been both lazy and a little rebellious, and I paid a price for it.

The moon was big and round and bright, just as it should be on the night of the Moon Festival. I held my glowing paper lantern higher, hoping that the Old Man in the Moon would see me amid the other children. The whole park gleamed with our brilliant Chinese lanterns.
I ran up the hill to where my parents and sisters sat on a blanket, eating moon cakes. My eldest sister, Mei Lai, was gazing at the moon. I knew that she was probably dreaming about that boy who took her to the dance last Saturday. That’s a girl for you! I thought. I’m glad that I’m not a girl.
Not that Mei Lai didn’t have a right to think about love tonight. Everyone thought about love during the Moon Festival, or Mid-Autumn Festival, the proper name that my sister preferred to call it. On this night the Old Man in the Moon supposedly wove an invisible red thread around couples who would one day get married.
Even I was thinking about love. But not that kind. I was thinking about how I could love my neighbors.
My Primary teacher had told us last Sunday that we should, and ever since then, I had been wondering how I could ever do it. I couldn’t think of any neighbors in our apartment building that I even liked—especially not that new boy down the hall! He didn’t even speak Chinese! The first time I saw him, I just kept looking at his eyes. I had never seen such blue eyes!
Once I had tried talking to him in the English that I was learning in school. “Where are you from?” I asked.
Looking at me oddly, he lifted up his large nose and declared, “I’m an Aussie.”
Whatever an Aussie was, I certainly didn’t know. I went home and asked Mei Lai, who knew English well.
“An Aussie is someone from Australia,” she told me.
My mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Sun Ling, it will soon be time to go home.”
“Oh, let me run once more through the park.”
“Well, you be careful with that lantern. Remember that you have a lighted candle in it.”
“I will.” As I sprinted down the hill, I looked up at the Old Man in the Moon to see if he was still watching me and my shining paper lantern. I ran and ran, with my eyes turned upward toward the beautiful full moon.
Suddenly—CRASH! Was it a wall? No, it was a body. Another person and I tumbled over and over each other. It was the Aussie. When we finally stopped, we raised our tousled heads and looked at each other. I blurted out, “What are you doing here? This is a Chinese holiday!”
It was a good thing that he couldn’t understand my Chinese. I indignantly grabbed my lantern, which miraculously lay unharmed on the grass. In my mind I grumbled, Even if I wasn’t looking where I was going, it wasn’t really my fault because he’s the one who doesn’t belong here.
A sizzle and a flare made us both jump up. His colorful paper lantern was in flames. My mother’s words flashed through my mind, “Be careful with that lantern.”
I looked at him. Then I tilted my head in amazement. There were tears in those blue, blue eyes! It had never occurred to me that an Aussie could cry too.
The boy’s lips began to quiver, and he said, “My dad gave me that Chinese lantern.”
I didn’t understand all his words, but I understood what he meant. And I felt awful! I tried to remember how to say I’m sorry in English, but all my words came out in Chinese.
Suddenly, in Chinese, he said, “I’m sorry too.”
I blinked with surprise. He did know some Chinese words. He smiled at me. I smiled back.
The next day I strode into the house, banging the door happily behind me.
“What’s that huge grin for?” Mei Lai asked.
“Oh, I’ve been learning to love my neighbor. Jim is my friend now.”
“Who’s Jim?” she asked.
“He’s the Aussie I told you about,” I replied, perching myself on a nearby stool. “Do you know what? Before he came here, Jim had never even heard of moon cakes. So I gave him one with an egg-yolk center. When he bit into it, he sort of wrinkled up his nose and tried to smile. I could tell that he didn’t like it.”
“So, do you think he’s still your friend?” Mei Lai laughed.
“Well, I did let him try a lotus seed moon cake after that, and he ate every bit of it and smacked his lips.”
“I’m glad that you gave him something he likes,” said Mei Lai.
“I did give him one other thing that I hope he likes. I gave him my Book of Mormon.”
“Your Book of Mormon!” exclaimed my sister. “Why did you do that?”
“Well, because it’s the most special thing I could share with a friend,” I answered.
“But how do you expect him to read it?” she said. “He doesn’t even read Chinese.”
I looked at my sister intently. “I don’t know, Mei Lai, but I’m still glad that I gave it to him.”
It was the week before Christmas. Someone knocked at our door, and Mei Lai opened it to blond-haired Jim. My friend didn’t see me sitting in the corner, so he spoke in English to my sister. “I read your book,” he said, holding up a blue book with Chinese characters Book of Mormon engraved on it.
“You read it!” she gasped. “But—but you don’t know Chinese, do you?”
“No. What I meant to say,” Jim explained, “was that my tutor read it to me. He comes every day to teach me Chinese, and so we have been reading it together. In fact, my tutor was wondering if he could get a copy of his own. Also, would it be possible to get a copy in English for my father?”
My sister finally closed her mouth from her astonishment. She smiled, motioning to me.
Jim turned and saw me. “Oh, Sun Ling,” he said in halting Chinese, “this book you gave me is very interesting. I am curious to find out more about it. Can you help me?”
“I’ll be happy to help you,” I replied slowly to make sure that he understood my words. “I can think of no better way to love my neighbor from Australia.”

Probably no one took a greater interest in the recent dedication of the Ogden (Utah) temple than did a group of fellows and girls from the Layton Stake who raised $16,000 to help build it! Dave Preece, chairman of the students, says the effort was called Mission Y-Bat (Youth Build A Temple), and the young people raised funds by delivering telephone books, taking inventories, selling wax remover, and doing yard and farm work. Some found jobs and made contributions from their salaries on a pledge basis.

“Oh no, it’s Asa’s turn to drive to the bishopric meeting,” I heard my dad grumbling to my mother.
“He’s just trying to do his share,” Mom said.
“I know. But it’s always so uncomfortable to ride in that old truck of his. There are springs in the seat that stick out and rip my slacks, and cat hair all over. He’s just too proud to skip his turn and let one of us drive.” He was still grumbling when he went into the bathroom to tie his tie.
Asa Newcomb was my father’s counselor in the bishopric. He was a middle-aged farmer, and the years had not been kind to him. His old truck was a ’49, rusty-blue cab, with a wooden bed and rails that went halfway down along the sides. My father and Asa had been counselors together before Dad was made bishop, and so Dad had been riding in the truck to meetings for quite a few years.
As a kid I had enjoyed riding with Asa’s boys when we went on Cub Scout outings, and later when we were Scouts his was the easiest truck to load with our equipment. But now I understood more of what Dad felt. It was not too pleasant to show up at the movies or a dance in that big, old truck that rattled your teeth during the entire ride and tore small holes in the back of your pants.
Maybe it was because of the truck that Dad had such a thing about pride. He was always lecturing us on being too proud or not having enough humility. In fact, we were a family of six children, and Dad was a history teacher at the local junior college, so we all felt we had plenty of humility. It was perhaps a humility imposed upon us by circumstances, but it was humility all the same. Dad always felt that Asa was “too proud” in insisting on taking his turn to drive. “A more humble man would recognize the problem and not insist on making us all uncomfortable,” he would say.
That night while Dad was at his meeting, our furnace blew up.
My two younger brothers, Ned and Phil, and my three-year-old sister, Amy, and I were in the living room watching a special on TV. My two older sisters, Beth and Ann, were in the kitchen doing dishes. My mother had just gone out to deliver a loaf of newly baked bread to a neighbor. Almost as soon as we heard the explosion, fire ripped through the corner of the kitchen above the furnace. My sisters screamed, and Ann was hit on the head by a piece of flying debris. The shock of the explosion threw all of us to the floor, and the youngest ones started crying.
“Get them outside,” I yelled at Ned. He lifted Amy, grabbed Phil by the arm, and then ran out the front door. I ran to the kitchen doorway. Beth, with tears streaming down her face, was trying to pull Ann away from the flames that were already starting up the walls. I ran in and helped her lift, and together we dragged Ann through the front door and onto the lawn. Mother and our neighbors all along the street were running toward us. In a few moments I could hear the wail of the fire siren in the distance and remember thinking that either the explosion had been heard all over town or someone had called the fire department in a hurry.
Even with the speed with which the fire department arrived, most of the house was in flames. The paramedics checked Ann and then took her to the hospital for observation even though she was now conscious. She had a big gash in the side of her head, and she kept saying, “My new haircut! It cost me $7.50.” My mother was holding Amy, Phil was huddled close to her side, and we were all crying.
The firemen poured water onto the house, and by the time Dad rushed out of his meeting and home, the fire was out.
That night we slept at Aunt Verna’s. We heard that the living room structure was all right, and part of the upstairs, but all the furniture was ruined by water and smoke damage, and Dad’s study containing his books and papers was completely destroyed. I think that was what hit him the hardest.
We had the clothes we were wearing, and maybe, after some rummaging, we would be able to find a few other things. It rained hard all night, and Mother said it was a blessing because that would mean the fire was really out.
The next morning we held a family council around Aunt Verna’s kitchen table. The first thing Beth said was, “I’m not going to wear someone else’s hand-me-downs!”
“We don’t know yet that you’ll have to,” Dad said.
And Phil said, “And I don’t want any old broken toys like they fix up at Christmastime.”
“I think we’re all rushing things,” Dad said. “We need to get out to the house and see what’s there first.”
“Helen, telephone,” Aunt Verna called from the living room. My mother had been answering the telephone all morning; usually it was someone calling to offer help or food.
This time it was Ann. Mother had called the hospital twice during the morning to see how she was. Ann could come home anytime we could go get her. Aunt Verna and Mother went in Aunt Verna’s car, and the rest of us got into our car and went back to our house to begin salvaging what we could.
The first thing we saw when we rounded the corner on our block was Asa’s truck. It was parked in front of our yard, and there was Asa and his oldest boy pulling the charred furniture into the driveway.
We got out of the car, and Dad walked up to Asa. “Asa,” he said, “you can’t take time away from your spring planting to do this today; we can manage.”
“No, Robert,” Asa said, slowly. “I knew where I was needed today. You’ve got a good, strong family, but I want to do whatever I can.”
That became the phrase of the day. Whenever anyone else showed up to help, it was always with the phrase, “I want to do whatever I can.”
The Relief Society president was there when my mother burst into tears over the exploded fruit and vegetable bottles and the melted wheat containers. The president must have said something to someone, because soon people started coming to the house with cases of canned goods. They would stack them in the garage, which was pretty much intact, and then shake Mom and Dad’s hands and leave. Dad was obviously running out of things to say to people and seemed to be repeating over and over, “You shouldn’t have. How can we ever repay you?” And all day that truck of Asa’s was in front of the house—except for the times that Asa and Dad would decide that a load should go to the dump.
My junior league baseball team showed up about the time that school let out and helped clean up the mess in the front yard. We were invited to dinner at three different homes and finally ended up at our next-door neighbor’s. After dinner Dad went back to the house to work while the rest of us watched TV and tried to relax. I followed him to the house a few minutes later.
He was sitting on the empty back steps with his face burrowed in his hands. I sat down beside him, and he looked up.
“John,” he said. “I don’t know how we can accept all this charity. Something inside me says that we should do these things ourselves.”
“But, Dad,” I said, “everybody seems to want to do something for us.”
“I know,” he answered, “but we’ve got to do for ourselves, too.”
Just then a little gray-haired lady came around the corner of the house. She was Sister Adams, a widow I had home taught. She had a cloth shopping bag in her arms.
“Bishop Andrews,” she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I had to finish these things first.” She opened her bag and got out three pairs of homemade pillowcases, the kind with embroidered girls wearing big skirts on the front and flowers and crocheting around the edges. “I think you’ll need these when you get back into your house. I’ve heard that insurance never goes far enough to cover things like linens.”
Dad stood up. “Sister Adams, you shouldn’t do this. Aren’t these the kind of things you sell to that store downtown? You can’t afford this.”
“Why, Bishop Andrews,” she said, almost indignant, “after all these years of doing for others, haven’t you learned that one needs to do these things? I need the blessings, and this is something I can do.” She turned quickly to me. “And you, John, you’ve been over to my place dozens of times to rake leaves or shovel snow. I need to do something for this family.” Then she turned to go. “You of all people should know, Bishop, that sometimes it’s better to receive than to give.” She walked away and left us there, and Dad sat down again on the steps, the pillowcases in hand.
That night in our prayers Dad thanked the Lord for all the blessings that the day had brought and especially asked that we could accept with love all the things that others wanted to do for us.
The next morning when we drove over from Aunt Verna’s, Asa’s truck was in front of the house again. He was standing and surveying the damage, and there was a big bag of potatoes on the back of his truck.
“With the help of a couple of men in the ward, we ought to be able to get things roughed in and part of your roof on, Robert, before too long. That way the insurance money will go further.” I could see Dad was thinking this over.
“Asa, why are you doing all of this?” he asked. “You don’t have the time to spend away from your work and your family.”
“I’m a proud man, Robert,” Asa said slowly, “and things have been hard for us for a long time now.” He turned away for a moment. “And, Robert, you’ve allowed me my pride. And you’ve taught me what a humble man is. You’ve always been open with me and accepted me on my terms. Now I have to try and be a little like you. A humble man helps his neighbor, like you’ve helped me. You remember that year you helped me get the potatoes in after I hurt my back? Well, understand that I’m not repaying that kindness. I’m trying to duplicate it; and because you’re a humble man, I know you’ll accept my attempt at being a servant for once.” His speech finished, he turned back to studying the house.
Dad sniffed twice, and I had to wipe the moisture from my own cheek. On his way down to the truck to get the potatoes, he called back, “Asa, I wonder if you could give me a ride in your truck over to the college. I need to check my mail and things, and my wife needs the car.”

The story of two equally fine young men will illustrate the PEF’s impact. They have recently served missions in a less-advantaged country. Both of these elders served obediently. But when one returned home, he enjoyed the means to attend a great university, thanks to parents who have saved enough through self-reliance and provident living to pay for his education. He would not even have to work during school. The other missionary, equally worthy and obedient, returned home to face the same poverty from whence he came.

Anguished at the situation, the returned missionary from better financial circumstances sent a letter to the PEF office. Following inner promptings, he took the money his parents provided for a year of college, donated it to the PEF, and found a job to earn his own way through school that year. Clearly he sought to become one with the Savior by becoming one with his brother. (See D&C 38:25–27.)

It’s tough to be the only member or active member in your family. It seems as if the ward is full of ideal families who have family home evening, prayers, and scripture reading—all of which you want to have too. Meanwhile, you sit alone at church or go with another family to the ward party. It’s not that you want to change families, but you want your family to change, because you love them and want eternal blessings for them: you don’t want to sit alone in the congregation in the hereafter. Yet you get discouraged when their answer to your pleas is no. At times you might even feel sorry for yourself. But always you cling to the hope that someday they will join. Susan also had that hope.
Susan, 16, is a pretty and talented girl, pretty because she’s self-assured, and talented because she’s self-motivated. Rather than cautiously and worriedly dipping her toes into the stream of life, she figuratively plunges in head first, perhaps becoming blue-lipped and spluttering for breath at first, but having a good time anyway. After her baptism three years ago, Susan aimed her efforts toward home: she wanted her father baptized.
“I knew if my father was baptized, mother would come into the Church, too. So that was my number one goal,” Susan recalled. “I thought I could accomplish it by myself because I knew my parents kinda liked me, so I reasoned they’d want to do this,” she said with bold confidence. “I tried everything,” she added more humbly.
“I tried being forceful, but that didn’t work. Then I tried making them feel sorry for me. I told them that I had to sit in church by myself and sing by myself, and that everybody else was with their families. That didn’t work either.”
Although she sometimes felt discouraged, Susan would not give in. “After I learned more about missionary work,” she continued, “I tried a different approach: I invited them to come to my church meetings. I gave talks in sacrament meeting, and mother would come. One time I sang in stake conference. I even got a new dress. Mother was going to come, but she got sick, so I went with no hope that either mother or father would be there. We were singing our song when I looked at the back of the chapel and saw my father coming through the door. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t because I had to sing.
“Another time that father came with me was at the ward father-daughter social. While we were sitting there eating our breakfast, I looked at father, and the thought came to me that someday he was going to be baptized. Right in the middle of the meal, I knew it, and I wanted it more than anything.”
But the baptism didn’t happen overnight, and Susan learned more about missionary work. “I knew I couldn’t do it by myself,” she admitted.
One day while walking home from school, Susan saw two parked bicycles on her street and two missionaries knocking on someone’s door. The missionaries had been to Susan’s home five times before. Usually they had just come once. But Susan wouldn’t let that block her new excitement. Maybe this time her father was ready.
“I had hoped the missionaries wouldn’t get in to the house they were knocking at because I wanted to talk to them. They didn’t, so I told them about my father. They told me that they had prayed that morning about where they should tract and were sent to my street. I think the Lord knew that my father was ready to hear the gospel. Whether anyone else knew it or not, the Lord knew it, and that is all that matters.”
But all wasn’t perfect and easy. There were times when Susan got very discouraged, wondering why things weren’t happening faster. “Then I would have to remember that getting ready for baptism was a slow process for me also. I would look around and see other young people who sat by themselves in church or whose circumstances seemed worse than mine, but they didn’t seem discouraged. Their example helped me to stop feeling sorry for myself.”
Meanwhile, realizing that her example was crucial, Susan also reaped one of the blessings of missionary work—that of preparing and growing herself.
“I had to be as ready as father did. I had to do a lot of praying, some fasting, and even some repenting. I realized that missionary work is love and service, that it is telling your mom and father you love them even if your little brother and sister are listening. I also tried to follow the missionaries’ example of showing love for father.
The missionaries came to Susan’s home seven times over a five-month period. Each time she could tell that her father was getting closer.
“One night in April I went for my birthday interview with the bishop. Father came to pick me up after.” Susan continued mischievously, “I hid down the hall so he would have to come in and find me. When he came into the church, he asked if he could see the bishop alone. He was in there for about 30 minutes, and I was out in the foyer wondering what in the world they were talking about!
“On the way home I was anxious to hear what happened in his meeting. All of a sudden father said, ‘Well, Susie, I guess I’ll get baptized.’ I just sat there. I wanted to cry, but I knew I shouldn’t because father doesn’t like us to get emotional. All I said was, ‘Oh, I think that’s wonderful.’ That was kind of a silly thing to say, but what do you say when your biggest goal has just been realized?”
Susan’s father was baptized on April 14th.
But Susan realizes that her missionary work isn’t over yet. “I still get impatient and discouraged at times, but I’ve come to realize that becoming a celestial family is a step-by-step process. And I must understand my parents. I try to do my part. When I’m spiritually low, it shows in the home. So I try to keep my testimony strong by doing what I’m supposed to do; I feel better when I do.”
Susan has learned a lot about missionary work, mostly through trial and error. She has learned that timing and responses are different for different people, that force and pity aren’t successful, that true service is far more important than just talking about service, that the Spirit must touch the person’s life, and that desire—well, as for desire, Susan isn’t lacking; she keeps on trying, regardless of mistakes, to boldly live the gospel, although it’s sometimes awkward, frightening, and even downright hard.
But positively, Susan summed it up: “My father wanted absolutely nothing to do with the Church 20 years ago, but after going through a lot of visits from our home teachers, and after many different sets of missionaries, and after he had a daughter who wouldn’t leave him alone—my father is a member of the Church.”
And when asked about her recent goals, Susan enthusiastically replied, “To have family home evening, family prayer, and to be sealed in the temple to my family—that’s my number one goal now!”

Sometimes the tables are reversed. A dear and cherished young friend, Wendy Bennion of Salt Lake City, was such an example. Almost seven years ago, she quietly departed mortality and returned “to that God who gave [her] life.” She had struggled for over five long years in her battle with cancer. Ever cheerful, always reaching out to help others, never losing faith, her contagious smile attracted others to her as a magnet attracts metal shavings. While ill and in pain, a friend of hers, feeling downcast with her own situation, visited Wendy. Nancy, Wendy’s mother, knowing Wendy was in extreme pain, felt that perhaps the friend had stayed too long. She asked Wendy, after the friend had left, why she had allowed her to stay so long when she herself was in so much pain. Wendy’s response: “What I was doing for my friend was a lot more important than the pain I was having. If I can help her, then the pain is worth it.”

I have been thinking of one of our emeritus General Authorities, even Elder Marion D. Hanks, who has excelled in teaching seminary, institute, and the Church generally. He has utilized many different teaching methods.

On one occasion, Elder Hanks toured a mission, interviewing each of the missionaries laboring in that particular area. I had been on an assignment in an adjoining area and was given a ride to the airport with Elder Hanks and the mission president.

Elder Hanks told the mission president what a privilege it had been to visit with and interview each of the missionaries. He said he had felt prompted to ask one sister missionary, “Please tell me about your mission and how you felt about being called as a sister missionary.”

She told him that her humble father, a farmer, had willingly sacrificed much for the Lord and His kingdom. He was already sustaining two sons on missions when he talked with her one day about her unexpressed desires to be a missionary and explained to her how the Lord had helped him to prepare to help her.

He had gone to the fields to talk with the Lord, to tell Him that he had no more material possessions to sell or sacrifice or to use as collateral for borrowing. He needed to know how he could help his daughter go on a mission. He felt the inspiration to plant onions. He thought he had misunderstood. Onions would not likely grow well in this climate; others were not growing onions; he had no experience growing onions.

After wrestling with the Lord for a time, he was again impressed to plant onions. So he borrowed money from the bank, purchased seeds, planted and nurtured, and prayed.

The elements were tempered; the onion crop prospered. He sold the crop; paid his debts to the bank, the government, and the Lord; and put the remainder in an account under his daughter’s name—enough to support her during her mission.

Elder Hanks then told the mission president, “I will not forget the story or the moment or the tears in her eyes or the sound of her voice or the feeling I had as she said, ‘Brother Hanks, I don’t have any trouble believing in a loving Heavenly Father who knows my needs and will help me according to His wisdom if I am humble enough.’”

Elder Hanks was teaching a most important lesson: each child in each classroom, each young man or young woman, each student in seminary or institute, each adult in Gospel Doctrine classes, each missionary—yes, every one of us—has a story waiting to be told. Listening is an essential element as we teach and as we learn.

It was a hot day. I was excited and a little nervous. Today was a big day for me and other members of the Royal Canadian Military Force. It was the day of the endurance test.
We’d heard a lot about this test. It was tough. Sixty-pound packs would be strapped on our backs; then we would have to run five miles without stopping! And that wasn’t all. Next, we would have to turn around and walk/run five more miles back to camp.
But I was in good shape. I had been a starter on the high school basketball team. I also enjoyed many other sports. I had grown up active and healthy. But the best thing that I had done to prepare for this big test was to obey the Word of Wisdom.
The officers conducting the test signaled the beginning of the run, and we were off. Several men dropped out before we had gone two miles. As I ran on, I saw many of my friends quit. Some even passed out. They all had to be taken back to camp in a truck. But I was determined to do my best. I was tired, but I ran on.
When I reached the five-mile mark, I was exhausted. Sweat dripped down my face and drenched my clothes. Then I had to turn around and head back to camp. Even though those of us remaining were allowed to walk occasionally, it was arduous!
I had always tried to do what was right. I tried to listen to and obey my parents and Primary teachers as I grew up. They taught me that smoking, drinking, and drugs would hurt my body, and I believed them. (See D&C 89.)
I know that the Lord blessed me with the health and strength to pass that test because I kept the Word of Wisdom. Obeying the Word of Wisdom—and all the Lord’s commandments—is important for everyone. If we are obedient, the Lord will bless us.

As returned missionaries, Brother Dante and Sister Liaa Nicolas of Camiling 2nd Branch, Camiling Stake were concerned about missionary work during the pandemic. The family decided to help by inviting the full-time missionaries and their investigators to attend sacrament meeting with them. They also helped invite the Spirit of the Lord as they gathered to worship by playing prelude hymns and eliminating distractions like mobile phones.
“The people the missionary sisters were teaching had no wifi connection or gadgets to access church meetings, so we had them experience the Lord’s day right inside our house,” Sister Liaa relates. The Nicolas family continues to host the missionaries, investigators and new converts until conditions improve and face-to-face worship services can resume fully unhampered.