Gospel Story Finder

by Lynn Radnedge
Having just landed a part in one of the London West End theatres’ newest and most lavish productions, “Bugsy Malone,” 15-year-old Amy Wilkins knows she is on the threshold of something really exciting. She was selected out of 10,000 who auditioned for one of the three parts. But she is emphatic about one thing: nothing is going to endanger her church life.
Declares talented Amy, a member of the Wandsworth Ward in the London England Wandsworth Stake, “If my participation in the play threatens my church activity, I’ll give it all up.”
She has enormous confidence in the faith that has kept her and her family of five brothers and sisters firmly rooted in gospel principles all of their lives.
Already she has refused to participate in certain forms of dancing at the world-famous Italia Conti Stage School in London, where she studies. “Surprisingly, my teacher didn’t mind,” said Amy, whose father Reg is a former bishop at the Wandsworth Ward and is an international photographer. “I told her my reasons, and she just accepted my decision.”
Amy is convinced that the path she is treading towards success in show business is the right one because she and her family discussed it at great length and prayed about it before she set out to audition for the stage two years ago. Two thousand young hopefuls auditioned for the school and only 20, including Amy, were accepted.
“Most of my friends are members, and those at school know I am a Mormon and know what I stand for,” she continued. “I hope it’s always going to stay this way, and I’ll certainly do my best to see that it does.”

For a long time after we moved to Salt Lake City, I felt I didn’t fit in. When we lived on the ranch, we would buy jeans that were too long, then roll them up at the bottom. That way we could wear them longer. But in the city, if someone wore his jeans that way, people made fun of him and called him a hick. People wore expensive brand-name clothes. My mother and father didn’t have much money. Father was working two jobs. Although he worked hard, he couldn’t afford to buy me stylish clothes. When I got older, I was able to get my own job and buy my own clothes.
From that experience, I learned that the way one dresses isn’t what really matters. It is important to be well-groomed, of course, but it’s much more important to be a person of character—someone who can be relied upon and who stands up for his or her beliefs, no matter what others are doing.

All these experiences were a fulfillment of a blessing I had received before leaving on my mission that said I would bring many people into the Church who would become great leaders. But now I was facing a transfer that I was not excited about, completely unaware of what was in store for me in my new area. The transfer was to Agoura Hills, California. I believed my mission president was an inspired man, but why Agoura Hills? The area was very affluent but very low in baptisms. You could count on one hand the baptisms in that area for the past several years. I had been one of the top baptizers in the mission for several months, but now all that would probably change. Then I remembered the words from a song that was sung at my farewell: “I will go where you want me to go, dear Lord.” So I went.
It is every convert’s dream to find the missionaries who baptized him and let them know about the change they brought to his life with the gospel. I also had that dream, especially because so many members of my family had been baptized after the elders left our area. I was now serving a successful mission. I had a sister attending Ricks College, another sister on a scholarship at BYU, and a brother and a sister both preparing to go on missions. I had lost track of the elders who had converted me. I wanted to find them and let them know how many lives they had touched.
My second Sunday in Agoura Hills, just before sacrament meeting started, a man in the ward came up to me and asked me about myself. I told him I was from Wyoming, and he said they had sent a son on a mission to Wyoming. A sensation of electricity ran through my body, but I knew it was not likely that this was one of the elders that I knew. So I asked, “What mission? The Colorado, Utah, or Montana mission?”
He said his son had served in the Billings Montana Mission, and when I asked him if he had ever been in Lander, Wyoming, where I was converted, the man answered yes again. I asked him a few dates and names and soon discovered that the man I was talking with was the father of one of the elders who had converted me. I said, “Your son is one of the elders responsible for bringing me and my family into the Church.” The man immediately introduced his wife, and tears filled her eyes as she realized that she was seeing a direct result of the sacrifices she and her family had made to send their son on a mission. Brother Miller introduced me to other members of the ward, and every time he told them who I was he choked up. I sat in sacrament meeting with tears streaming down my face as I thought of the mysterious ways the Lord had worked in my life. Who could have predicted that Elder Miller would come to my home and I would go to his almost nine years later?
I was able to see Elder Miller again, and he looked the same except for the three little daughters clinging to his leg. I finally had the chance to tell him thank you. He too was overcome with emotion as he told me what a feeling of satisfaction he had, seeing someone he had taught having as much success in the gospel as my family and I were.

As I think of the consecration of missionaries, I can’t help but think of one of our elders who came into the mission field leaving a terminally ill mother at home, with the anticipation that she probably wouldn’t be there when he completed his mission. This elder loved his mother very much and promised her that he would be a good missionary and complete his mission. Shortly after arriving in the mission field, he fell and broke his foot. Fearing that he might have to return home for it to heal and fearing this might break his promise to his mom, he determined to not tell anybody about it and for two years he limped and hobbled on a foot that required surgery when he did return home. “Take my feet and let them be, swift and beautiful for thee . . . ” That’s a beautiful phrase and I believe it describes why the Prophet, Isaiah, said, “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those that bring glad tidings of good things . . . ”

Klarie dribbled hard and fast down the court. This is it, she thought. The tallest, fastest girl on the team had been guarding Klarie the whole game. But now she was guarding someone else. This was Klarie’s chance!
She quickly spun away from another player and set her feet. Then she jumped and took her shot. The ball sailed through the air as Klarie held her breath. Please go in.
The ball swished through the net.
Klarie’s team members gave her high fives. Then Coach Garcia looked down at the timer and blew her whistle. “And that’s the end of practice! Good job, everyone! I’ll see you all tomorrow. Make sure to rest up because we’ll be doing a lot of sprints.”
Klarie groaned and walked over to gather her stuff. Then she saw Coach Garcia waving her over.
“Hey, Klarie,” she said. “Good job today. I know you work really hard in practice, and I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Klarie said with a big smile.
She was still smiling as she walked out to her mom’s car. And as they drove home, she replayed her last shot in her head. Especially the swish of the ball through the net. She hardly even noticed the conference talk Mom was listening to.
But then something caught her attention. The speaker said, “We must take time to actively exercise our faith.”* The words “actively exercise” sounded like something she would hear at basketball practice. How do you exercise faith? she thought. Do you run with faith? Or dribble faith like a ball?
Klarie turned to Mom. “How do you exercise faith?” she asked.
Mom smiled. “How do you get better at basketball?”
“I practice,” Klarie said. “My coach tells me how to get better. And when we do drills, I try really hard to do them right.”
“Is it easy?”
“No!” Klarie said, remembering how tired her legs felt after sprints. “I have to practice a lot.”
Mom nodded. “Heavenly Father wants us to have faith in Him, but we have to work on it. He gave us ways to practice and get better.”
“Like what?”
“He asks us to talk to Him in prayer. He’s kind of like our coach. He gives us scriptures. They’re like His playbook. And He inspires prophets to encourage us to learn as families. Our family is like—”
“Like our team!” Klarie interrupted.
“Exactly! Our family team works and practices together,” Mom said. “So what happens when you go to practice, Klarie?”
“I get better,” she said. She thought of how good it felt to make her final shot after working hard in practice for weeks.
“That’s right. When we practice, we’re exercising our faith. That helps our testimonies get stronger. And it makes us happier.”
Klarie had never thought of faith like that. She had heard faith was like a seed. But she’d never known it could be like playing basketball! She thought about how her coach made practice plans for their team. Maybe I can make a practice plan too, she thought, but for faith! As soon as she got home, she found a big notepad and started writing:
Prayer—morning and night
Scripture study—every day
Church—every Sunday
Maybe exercising faith wasn’t exactly like practicing basketball. But practice was practice. She felt warm and happy inside as she looked at her plan. She trusted Heavenly Father and knew He would help her!

Maybe this move won’t be so bad after all, Tanya thought as she watched Josh Tartello walk to the front of her fourth period creative writing class.
It was Tanya’s first day at Washington High, but she’d already met Josh in early-morning seminary. It was a small class—only seven kids strong, and they represented the entire LDS population at Washington. The interesting thing was that they all seemed to stand out in something. The Mormons were well known. Let’s see, there was the president of the jazz band, the captain of the swim team, the school newspaper editor—she couldn’t remember them all. But there was no way she could forget Josh, the junior class president with curly black hair and crystal blue eyes to die for.
What luck to come across him in creative writing—especially since it was a subject she felt confident in. She’d feel relaxed with the subject matter, and maybe be more relaxed about getting to know Josh. Was that a smile he flashed at her as he began to read his most recent fiction composition?
“Hey, Matt, where’d he come from?” Josh began, reading the first line from his story. Beginning with an interesting question—not a bad lead, Tanya thought, as she settled down to listen to the rest. The story was set around a basketball game and involved two guys—one with a bad mouth, and one with a bad attitude. They ended up resolving their problems. It was a good story, but it sounded vaguely familiar. Had she heard it before somewhere?
Just as the teacher congratulated Josh, Tanya’s stomach lurched. She realized where she’d seen the story. It was the fiction piece from the New Era a couple of months back. She was almost sure. Before she jumped to any conclusions though, she would go home and check it. After all, there was the remote possibility she was imagining things.
“Hey, Mom, do you know where the box with all the old Church magazines is?” Tanya called as she walked into the living room of their new apartment. There were boxes stacked everywhere, and her mom was kneeling over one of them, looking exasperated.
“I can’t even find my purse, and you want to know where the Church magazines are?” she asked incredulously. “Looks like you’re going to have to find them on your own, and if you come across my purse, let me know. Otherwise I don’t know what we’ll do for dinner tonight.”
Tanya realized that helping her mother unpack all those cartons was probably a little more important at the moment than checking to see if Josh had copied his paper. In a way, Tanya didn’t want to know. Mom had stayed home from work that day to try to get things organized, so Tanya decided to dig in and help.
With a new school, a new ward, and a new apartment to get used to, checking on Josh’s story soon dropped to the bottom of Tanya’s priority list. Besides, Josh was being friendly to her and had introduced her to all his friends. She almost forgot about the plagiarism issue entirely—until it was Josh’s turn to read another paper in front of the class.
“There they were again. Those ten white pins—staring straight at me,” he began.
This time there was no doubt in her mind. Tanya remembered well that story about bowling. She’d identified with it when she read it in the New Era, because she’d had a similar experience. Now she was positive Josh was lifting his stories from the New Era. What should she do?
She was too agitated to let it drop this time. She waited for him at the door of the classroom and walked into the hall with him. “Uh, Josh,” she began, not really knowing what direction she would take. “Your story—it was good, but it sounded kinda familiar.”
“I had a feeling you’d catch on to what I was doing,” Josh said, looking very apologetic. “There are only seven other people in this school who read the New Era, and it’s just my luck to have one of them in my class. I know it looks bad, but let me explain. Buy you lunch?” he asked.
How could Tanya resist? As they made their way to the cafeteria, Josh tried to explain.
“It’s not like I lifted it directly,” he said. “I took out all the parts that talked about the Church so it wouldn’t confuse Ms. Dougherty. She doesn’t know anything about the Church, and I didn’t want to have to explain.”
“She’d get a pretty bad impression of the Church if you had to explain that one of her star LDS students was plagiarizing.”
“Exactly!” Josh cried. “Well, not exactly. I don’t really feel like I stole it, since I did change it a little bit. Besides, you know the LDS kids are pretty well respected at this school. How would we look if one of us was caught cheating? You know the story would be all over the campus in five minutes.”
By that time they’d made their way to the cafeteria line and students were crowding everywhere. By mutual understanding, they dropped the conversation for a while as they chose their lunches. Tanya really wasn’t hungry, so all she took was yogurt and corn chips. She felt strange about letting Josh pay.
As Josh carried their tray to a table in the corner by a window, Tanya said, “You know, in the time it took you to copy those stories, you probably could have come up with something pretty good of your own.”
“You might be right,” Josh agreed. “But I just didn’t have the mental energy. Look, with all the things I have to do for church, for seminary, for student council, for the soccer team, for my family—I’ve got to coast somewhere. I need a good grade in this class. For my sake, and for the sake of the LDS reputation at this school, couldn’t you please just let it drop for now?” Josh was almost pleading.
And Tanya was almost taking it in—almost. What bothered her was the fact that Josh had worked long and hard to come up with every reason imaginable to justify what he was doing and to keep the truth from getting out. At this point, he seemed more worried about getting caught than about being honest.
“What’s the worst that could happen to you if you tell Ms. Dougherty you copied those stories?” Tanya asked. “Maybe she’d be so happy with your honesty that she’d let you do those assignments over again.”
“You’re dreaming,” Josh replied. “I’d probably get an F in the class, which would blow my whole GPA, I’d get suspended for a couple of days, and I’d get kicked off student council and the soccer team. That would look great on my record. I’d probably never get into college.”
“You feel good about cheating to get into college?”
“C’mon, everyone cheats once they get there. You can hire people to write your papers for you. Fraternities have files of tests and papers you can use any time. Borrowing ideas from the New Era is small-time stuff compared to that.”
“I guess everyone starts somewhere,” Tanya said quietly, more to herself than to Josh. She’d finished her yogurt but hadn’t touched her chips. She stood up.
“So what are you going to do?” Josh asked, looking up at her with those crystal blue eyes to die for.
“I’m going to start doing what’s best for everyone,” she replied, as she slowly walked away.

It is easy to be selfish.34 Let me share with you a story from my marriage. Since Sister Clark does not have a selfish bone in her body, this is another story about me.
Sue and I met here on this campus. I am so grateful to Heavenly Father that He helped us find each other. We were married in June 1971.
Fast-forward a few months. One day I came home from school and turned on our tiny black-and-white TV to catch the Red Sox game. I sat down and opened up a book I needed to read. Soon Sue came home from work. We said hi to each other, and then she went into the kitchen. Then I heard cupboard doors being slammed with great force.
I walked into the kitchen and asked her what was wrong.
She looked at me and said, “Nothing.”
I persisted, and then she taught me the lesson of a lifetime. I had acted selfishly, and I did not even see it. I had been raised in a home where I had always been given a list of chores to do. I had been taught how to iron, cook, sweep, do dishes, and clean, but I thought Sue would just tell me what to do. She helped me understand that she wanted our marriage to be a full partnership, and she wanted me to step up and take some responsibility for our home. I realized that sitting around watching the Red Sox in the afternoon must have seemed pretty selfish to her. That was literally a life-changing moment.

Six-year-old Catherine sang as she followed Joseph and his plow down the long brown furrows, dropping yellow kernels of corn into the newly turned soil:
One for the cutworm,
One for the crow,
One to rot, and
One to grow.
Joseph called over his shoulder, “If Alvin doesn’t get back with some money, all that corn will go to the land agents. And from what I hear, they’re not about to share it with a cutworm or a crow or anything else.”
Catherine had heard her father talk about land agents, but she wasn’t sure just what they were. “What are land agents, Joseph?” she asked.
Her brother pulled the ox to a halt and explained, “They’re men who sell property. If there is a drought or your crops don’t sell and you can’t pay the mortgage money, they come and take the farm back.” Then he paused for a moment, remembering his father’s dawn-to-dark labor when they’d first cleared the land of trees to plant crops.
The whole family had helped tap the thousand sugar maple trees in the spring. Joseph also remembered the split-wood chairs and baskets and the straw brooms his father had made to sell to help pay for the farm. His father had even hired out as a hand for other farmers to bring in precious money. But still there wasn’t enough.
Catherine brought her brother back from his recollecting. “Are they going to take our farm, Joseph?”
“It looks like it, unless we can raise some more money. Alvin is still out on his job as a carpenter’s helper with a crew that’s building log houses, and Mother has been selling a lot of her painted oilcloth covers.”
“I’ve helped Mother sell cakes and gingerbread and root beer on public days,” Catherine said, beaming.
“Well, we’ve all helped. But it hasn’t been enough.” Joseph sighed as he slapped the reins against the rump of the ox. “I wish I could do something more.”
“You’ve been helping to clear trees and plowing and planting the corn and pumpkins. That’s a big help.”
“Sure. But we need money. And we need it right away.”
Catherine let out a deep breath and sat down on the broken black earth. “Will we have to let the land agents take our farm?” she asked.
“If we can’t pay all the mortgage money, we will. And the law backs them up. But it just doesn’t seem right after we’ve spent two years clearing trees from sixty acres of land and planting crops and building a four-room log house besides. They’d only turn around and sell it again for a heap of money, and we wouldn’t get a penny for all the improvements we’ve made.”
Catherine understood now why some folks said the land agents were really land robbers. The thought was still in her mind when a large black crow flew down and began to scratch for the newly planted corn. Her frustration erupted. Skirts flying, she chased after the bird, shaking her fist.
“Get out of here you old domineker!” she yelled as the bird flapped off in panic. “I won’t let you take our corn!”
Young Joseph had to laugh at the sight of her, and his laughter skipped across the clearing into the open window of the house. His mother was just lifting the lid on the cooking pot in the fireplace when she heard it. She smiled and felt a sudden sense of relief. How she wished she could stir some of it into the venison stew. They needed all the laughter they could get these days.
She left the stew sputtering against the pot lid as she called to her family. “Supper’s on!”
Later after supper, Joseph’s father, as always, felt for his spectacles. When his hand found the lower right-hand pocket of his vest, that was the signal for a reading from the Bible and for family prayer.
That night the family had an extra long prayer. Father Smith thanked Heavenly Father for His “mercy which endureth forever.” Then he pleaded for help in somehow obtaining the money that was needed. When all members of the family had added their amen, they sang the usual hymn:
Another day has passed and gone,
We lay our garments by—
The song was interrupted by a loud knock. Mr. Smith opened the door and invited a neighbor from down the road to come in.
“Much obliged, Joe. I came to ask if you’d let me hire one of your boys for a few days. I need to dig a well.”
Alvin was away working and young Joseph knew his father needed Hyrum to help cut trees. “I could do it, sir,” he said eagerly.
His father smiled. “Joseph’s able. He’ll give you a good day’s work for a day’s pay.”
“I know your boys are good workers. They’ve worked alongside their pa until they’re better than most men. That’s why I’m here. Young Joseph will be fine.”
Joseph was so happy that he had to take a big breath to keep from shouting out loud: The Lord is surely opening up the way. Things are going to work out. I’m sure of it. He was so sure that he wasn’t a bit surprised when Alvin arrived home a few days later with the money he had earned. Just the same, it was a tense moment when the whole family gathered to count their savings. Is it enough? they wondered.
Joseph held his breath as the cash was totaled. It was enough; they’d made it. Tears and laughter mingled as they realized that Alvin’s earnings added to what Joseph and the others had been able to raise would save their farm!
(To be continued.)

They’ve been running together since they were eight years old. At first, Nachelle and Natalie Stewart would run around the neighborhood together. Today, they run in state and national track championships—and win. They helped the Spanish Fork High School track team become state champions three times, and in 2008 they were invited to compete in the exclusive Nike Outdoor Nationals, where Nachelle took home the bronze in the 800m and Natalie took home the silver in the 400m. Although they often compete against each other in the same events and each tries her best to come out on top—often breaking the other’s record—Nachelle and Natalie remain best friends and are happy to see each other succeed.

While in college, our oldest son was hired into a very desirable part-time student job that had the potential to lead to a wonderful, permanent job after graduation. He worked hard at this student job for four years, became highly qualified, and was well respected by his coworkers and supervisors. At the end of his senior year, almost as if orchestrated by heaven (at least to our son’s way of thinking), the permanent position did open up, and he was the leading candidate, with every indication and expectation that, indeed, he would get the job.
Well, he was not hired. None of us could understand it. He had prepared well, had interviewed well, was the most qualified candidate, and had prayed with great hope and expectation! He was devastated and crushed, and the entire episode left all of us scratching our heads. Why had God abandoned him in his righteous desire?
It wasn’t until several years later that the answer became very clear. Had he received the dream job after graduation, he would have missed a critical, life-changing opportunity that has now proved to be for his eternal benefit and blessing. God knew the end from the beginning (as He always does), and in this case the answer to many righteous prayers was no, in favor of a far superior outcome.

Christian loves his grandmother very much and visits her every Sunday afternoon. “He is very special to me,” she says. “He is always obedient and kind.” She recalls an incident that happened several years ago, while she was tending Christian and Itzel. A pot on the stove exploded. Seeing Itzel’s fiery-red face, Sister Chavarín thought that her granddaughter had been badly burned, so she threw cold water on her. Christian calmly explained that his little sister wasn’t burned at all. Her face was bright red because she had gotten into her mother’s makeup.

One extraordinary example of sharing comes from LDS history. We frequently hear of the faith and determination of the members of the Martin and Willie Handcart companies--more than 1000 poor immigrants who fought all sorts of hardships to make it to the Salt Lake Valley in fall 1856. As most of you remember, they were caught in early snowstorms, and having a horrible time crossing the plains. After hearing of their plight, President Brigham Young stood up in October general conference and told the members there "Go and bring in those people now on the plains."[8] He didn't stop to ask, as we often do: Have they worked hard enough? Do they really need my help?
And the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley heeded the call to help. Right there in general conference, people volunteered to go get the immigrants stuck on the plains. Within three days, sixteen wagon teams had set out and within three weeks, there were 250 wagons.[9] Here's the thing to remember. The people in the Salt Lake Valley weren't having an easy time. The harvests of 1854 and 1855 had been horrible, followed by an even worse winter. One historian put it this way: "The famine of 1855-56 had impoverished [Utah] Territory in its agricultural resources; the handcart emigration had brought to the country several thousand poor people, destitute, after their terrible journey, of even the barest clothing."[10] Remember, that same year three handcart companies full of the poorest saints had already arrived to the Salt Lake Valley, needing help. And there wasn't a lot to go around. Heber C. Kimball wrote to his son that they were rationing food in early 1856. By fall, things weren't much better. By early October, when the call came to help those stuck on the plains, some people didn't even have their own harvests in because winter had lasted so long into the spring.[11] And yet when hearing that there were saints in trouble--somewhere on the trail between Utah and Nebraska--they didn't even know where--they just went.
And what supplies did they take? Their own. Their own food, their own clothes, their own blankets, their own wagons and teams. They took things from their own kids to give them to people they'd never even met. They left their families to get someone in trouble--someone they didn't even know.[12] And those who went traveled from the Salt Lake Valley for Eastern Wyoming. They went back 350 miles. In fact, from Winter Quarters, Nebraska to Salt Lake is 1000 miles. The members of the rescue party made that 1000 mile journey for their families. And then they 700 more miles--350 there and 350 back, in an early winter, to go get people they didn't even know.
When I think of the story of the handcart companies, I think about the people who went back. They risked their own lives and really the lives of the own families to help others. Can you imagine doing that?

Before long, life was back to normal—school, playing, and, of course, church. On fast Sunday, just as she had said she would, Mimi bore her testimony. When she stood to speak, her knees trembled and her tummy did flip-flops. She never knew so many people could fit in the chapel, and they were all looking at her! She almost wanted to sit down again. But then she saw her family smiling at her.
She took a deep breath and began, “I know that Heavenly Father is really there and that He listens to our prayers. I know that because when I talked to Him about something really important, I felt all warm and calm inside. And I believe in the priesthood and in blessings, because everything my dad promised in Ben’s blessing happened just the way he said it would. And I believe in the scriptures because they promised that Heavenly Father will answer our prayers.” She looked at Ben. “I know that He answered mine. And I love Him. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Mimi felt an even greater love for Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ as she walked back to her seat. She saw tears in Mom’s eyes, but she was smiling. Daddy slipped his arm around her and whispered, “Now that, sweetheart, is what bearing testimony is all about.”

I had a friend at the University of Iowa who was a psychologist. He once brought to me some optical illusions. The interesting thing about them is that they don’t depend upon translation; they don’t depend upon language. They look the same to all, no matter what language they speak. “Lael,” he said, “What do these look like?”

I said, “They look like a bunch of scratches on a piece of paper.”

He said, “I know, but if you were forced to a decision, what figures would you say these look like?”

I said, “Well, I don’t know. They look like squares—just a group of squares to me.”

Then my friend got a grant from the government, went to South Africa, went deep into the bush as far from civilization as he could get, and he held these same optical illusions before the people there and asked, “What do you see when you look at this?”

In whatever language they use, they said, “We see essentially vertical forms.”

Then he came back and said, “I don’t know how to understand this. People in America tend to see rectangles when they look at the optical illusion; people in Africa tend to see vertical structures when they look at it. Why is this so?” He concluded that it is due to the fact that people in America live in what he calls “carpentered societies.” Americans live in a world of rectangles. You’re looking at one now. You’re seated in one. The floor is one, the shape of the proscenium arch is square. This is an easy way to build. It’s the cheapest form of construction. You and I are used to seeing rectangles, whereas those who live in jungles, I suppose, are used to seeing vertical forms. This illustration lends emphasis to the concept that we see, not really what we see, but what we know. In other words, what we think we see is determined by what we know, or what happens in front of the eye is not as important as what happens in the back of the eye.

Often as a young girl I would accompany my bishop father to the church and wait until his meetings or interviews were over. I would busy myself by exploring. I knew every nook and cranny of that building. One of my favorite rooms was the tower room. It was a large room at the top of some steep steps. Inside there was a picture of the Savior, which hung over a large fireplace. I was always drawn to that room. I would ascend the steps and reverently go inside. I would sit on a chair and look at the picture of the Savior and pray to Heavenly Father. These were simple prayers. But always when I prayed, a very special feeling seemed to engulf me, and I knew that He heard my childlike prayers. This is where I began to believe.

I used to have nightmares every night after hearing a scary story at Scout camp. I was very scared—it was hard to go to sleep. I prayed every night for Heavenly Father to help me, but I still had nightmares. Then one night I told my dad. I was shaking a little when I told him because it scared me to talk about it. We said a prayer together. Dad suggested I sing a Church hymn to myself, because I share a room with my brother. My favorite hymn is “There Is a Green Hill Far Away” (Hymns, no. 194). Every night after that I wasn’t scared, and I stopped having nightmares. In my personal prayers every night I ask Heavenly Father to continue helping me with my fears, and I still sing my favorite hymn to myself every night.

Also, when you listen to children’s questions and comments, you can give feedback to clarify their understanding. A child visited a dairy farm with his school class and observed the cows being milked with the use of machinery. As the group was leaving, he tugged at the farmer’s arm and asked, “How can you tell when the cow is full?” The wise farmer turned around and took the machinery off one of the cows; then he milked the cow by hand so the children could see that milk was coming from the cow.

No matter what age children are, when parents or other adults really listen to them and then talk with them, offering insights to their questions and comments, children will grow in their understanding and desire to learn and seek answers.

I got to know of the Church in 1993 through a classmate while a law student at Rivers State University of Science and Technology (RSUST) Port Harcourt Nigeria. I visited with him and saw the book Jesus the Christ by Elder James E. Talmage. I read a portion of the book titled “Christ’s Tabernacle in the Flesh.” I was touched by the gospel insights in the book and asked where I could get one. He then told me about the Church that he joined in 1987.
I asked Brother Amadi more about the Church. I was desirous to find answers to questions I had as a young man. I eventually arrived at the nearest meetinghouse, the Port Harcourt 3rd Ward, located close to the university entrance which was also within walking distance from my hall of residence. I arrived late and sat at the Sunday School class, which was the first meeting of the day, as was the pattern then. A few moments later, I was invited to the Investigators class. The bishop later gave me a copy of the Ensign magazine, and specifically referred me to a talk by Elder Russell M. Nelson, attending the Parliament of the World’s Religions. I read the story and it changed my attitude about marriage and family as he brought with him Primary children who sang “I Am a Child of God” in the meeting.
In the investigators’ class, I was taught about the Prophet Joseph Smith and was asked if I had heard about him. The name seemed familiar, but I could not recollect where I had come across it. But now I know that it was the Spirit telling me about the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Bishop Kalu was a source of strength and inspiration and a great gospel teacher. I sincerely wanted to teach the restored gospel with a testimony like his. I eventually got baptized on December 26, 1993. The following Sunday, I was ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. And during sacrament meeting, I was asked to bless the sacrament.
The message of the restored gospel appealed to my heart, though born Anglican to humble parents and, as the tradition of the Anglican Church, was given infant baptism with my other siblings in 1973. The Book of Mormon changed all that as the copy I was given in the investigators class and with marked portions to read, I tried my best in reading it not with a desire to obtain a testimony but with my student legal mind. I was searching for faults because nothing compares to my Holy Bible. I had been doing critical Bible study before coming to the Church. I finished the Book of Mormon in no time and diverted my love for secular books to love of scriptures, particularly the Book of Mormon.
My bishop extended a call to me the Sunday after my ordination in the Aaronic Priesthood as a Sunday School teacher. I was also called as a seminary teacher, and I enrolled in an Institute of Religion class. While I taught the Old Testament in seminary, I studied the Book of Mormon in the institute class. This connection to the scriptures changed my life as that was the beginning of a lifelong love for the standard works of the Church and other writings that I have accumulated over the years a large library of Church literatures and scriptures. I even went on to teach institute classes for years even as a stake president.
While I was in Lagos, Nigeria, where I did my National Youth Service, I received the strong feeling that I had a mission to establish the Church in my hometown. I felt inspired and decided to fulfill the mission. I began with my wife, who was not a member at the time. With her unique testimony, she joined the Church and I baptized her like I did our five children.
We went to church in Port Harcourt from Omoku, our hometown. It was about two-hour drive. We did this every Sunday until sometime in 2001 when the Port Harcourt West Stake Presidency authorized me and family to stay back and worship in Omoku under the supervision of the Rumueme Ward. We reactivated some members of the Church who resided in our town and surrounding towns, two of whom were old schoolmates at the university. We started worshipping in my one-room apartment and later moved into a three-rooms flat in the city center where, on the 9th of January 2005, the Church was officially organized with me as the first branch president and my wife as first counsellor in the Relief Society. We had 36 members of our branch.
Missionaries who taught us the gospel of Restoration and eternal families inspired us tremendously and helped to inspire our infant children to love missionary work.
The gospel of Jesus Christ means everything to me and my family. The principles of the gospel are true and life-changing when we apply every word therein. As a branch president in a new place, it naturally imposed a new life on me. They must see the change in me to believe and follow. This is a religion with everlasting promise, hope, and blessings.
The Aba Nigeria Temple was dedicated on August 7, 2005, by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008). Our family of five then—me, my wife, Justina, and our children (Joy, Daniel, and Gabriel)—were overjoyed. We got sealed as a family on September 22, 2005. Our sons John and Joseph were born in the covenant. My life is about family, Church, and community.

I stayed at school for the next few weekends taking midterms. The next weekend I was home, I was curious to see how Todd was doing. Mom said he still worked the fun house job and was still working in the nursery, along with Carlie Maxwell. I was amazed, especially since Jolene Sparks had moved back east in preparation for her first semester of college.

On Sunday, I peeked into the nursery just before church let out. Carlie was rocking a child who had fallen asleep. I saw Tara come up and swing her arms around Todd’s neck, planting a big wet kiss on his cheek. Todd was wearing a bunny hat and hopping around, and all the children had on paper bunny hats, too, with wildly scribbled ears.

The bell rang to dismiss classes, and parents started coming in. Paul Myerson started to cry. He wanted to stay with Todd.

Sister Jensen came in for her little boy, beaming at Todd.

“I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but keep doing it!” she said. “Tyler loves to come to nursery now. I’ve been able to get to my class and get set up to teach my lesson instead of being late all the time.”

Other moms and dads were similarly impressed.

The nursery emptied until there was just Todd, Scottie, and me.

“Wow,” I said, stunned. “You’ve done a great job with these children.” The toys were put up, and the floor and the table and tiny chairs were clean.

“This is the best calling I’ve ever had,” Todd said. “It’s a lot of work, but these little kids are worth it.” He tickled Scottie and swung him in his arms.

In 2006, I attended a general priesthood meeting in our stake. A senior missionary couple—I’ll call them the Gardners—came to talk to our stake.

Elder Gardner spoke about the blessings of paying fast offerings. He explained how, throughout his life, he had learned that when he didn’t have any ideas on how to make more money, he received the following counsel from his wife: We need to increase the amount of fast offerings. Elder Gardner told his wife they needed more money, not less! Nevertheless, he decided to follow her advice and increase the amount of fast offerings. During his powerful and profound message, I received an impression to triple our fast offerings. I even wrote the total in my notes.

At dinner that night, I explained to Andrea the experience I had, told her my feelings, and showed her the number I had written in my notes. She stopped eating, looked at me, and asked, “Do we have the money to pay that amount?” I said, “That’s what I felt,” and she immediately said, “If you felt it, let’s do it!”

So, the following day, on Sunday, I grabbed the donation envelope and tripled our fast offering.

The next day at work, I received a call from the human resources manager, who told me, “Mr. Spannaus, we had miscalculated some of the deductions we take from your salary, and we need to reimburse you this amount of money.” To my surprise, the amount was the new fast offering amount for an entire year.

Perhaps some of you may think that it would have happened anyway. To me, this was another testimony that the Lord does not need our money; He needs our heart and will, and He can multiply our blessings any number of times—according to what He determines is expedient for us.

I want to testify to all of you that fasting develops generosity, and when you develop this generosity, he blesses you abundantly. I promise you that if you try it, you will see the hand of the Lord in your life.