Gospel Story Finder

An Expression of Kindness
Two young missionaries knocked on a door, hoping to find someone to receive their message. The door opened, and a rather large man greeted them in a less-than-friendly voice: “I thought I told you not to knock on my door again. I warned you before that if you ever came back, it would not be a pleasant experience. Now leave me alone.” He quickly closed the door.
As the elders walked away, the older, more experienced missionary put his arm on the younger missionary’s shoulder to comfort and encourage him. Unknown to them, the man watched them through the window to be sure they understood his message. He fully expected to see them laugh and make light of his curt response to their attempted visit. However, as he witnessed the expression of kindness between the two missionaries, his heart was instantly softened. He reopened the door and asked the missionaries to come back and share their message with him.

Mom also taught me to be mindful of others. On my first day of kindergarten, she took me to my class, pointed to the teacher, and said, “Look! You get to be in Mrs. Merrill’s class. Your brother Rick was in her class last year. She’s a very nice teacher.” This relieved some of my nervousness. Then Mom saw another little girl sobbing with her face buried in her arms. Mom whispered, “Go be her friend.” I did. When the girl stopped crying, I noticed that Mom had left. But I wasn’t nervous anymore.

When I was twenty, I went into the army. In basic training, I was exposed to many things I had been warned against. I was very grateful for the teachings I had received at home and in Primary. They were a lifesaver for me. I saw some of the young men who changed their way of life in the army and chose to not follow God’s teachings. After basic training, one of these young men talked to me privately. He was sobbing because he had picked up a lot of bad habits, and now he had to go home and he didn’t want to face his parents. I was grateful that I had been prepared to face those challenges and had remained faithful to the truths that I had been taught.

Something was different about nine-year-old Heidi after school that cold afternoon. Instead of flinging her jacket like a Frisbee, she carefully hung it on the hook. Rather than pouncing at the refrigerator like a hungry tiger, she stared quietly out the window as if she was looking at something far beyond the border of the yard.
“Well, hi there!” Mom said, hoping to get her attention.
Like a person awakened from a dream, Heidi looked at her mom and smiled. “Oh, uh, how was your day, Mom?”
Mom wiped her hands on her apron and studied Heidi’s face. “My day was fine. How was yours?”
“Well … ,” Heidi began slowly, “it was … different.”
“I believe you. You seem to be a million miles away.”
“Well, maybe not a million. But at least as far as Arkansas.”
“Arkansas is a long way from California. What started you thinking about Arkansas?”
Mom cut an apple into four pieces and offered one to Heidi, who just cradled it in her hand.
“There’s a new boy named Billy coming to join our class tomorrow. The teacher told us his parents were both in a car accident in Arkansas. His mother died, and his father is in a hospital, not expected to live. Billy was sent here to California to live with an uncle.” Heidi looked down at the apple she was holding. “Can you imagine being that boy, Mom?”
“No, but you’re really trying to, aren’t you?”
Heidi nodded. “I just wish that there was something I could do for him. He’s going to feel so alone tomorrow.”
“I’m sure that there are some things you can do to help. Let’s think of some.”
“I can smile at him.”
“Good idea.”
“I can show him around the school and tell him about our classroom routine.” Heidi put her chin on her hand and looked up at her mother. “But it isn’t enough. Isn’t there something special I can do?”
“Well, there is something special we can do for Billy. Something that just might be ‘enough’.”
“What?”
“You and I can fast and pray for him. We can ask Heavenly Father to bless him to feel at peace in his new home and at his new school. We can also pray for his father to get well. What do you think about that?”
Heidi thought a moment about fast Sundays. She had been taught that fasting would help her feel the Spirit, but she usually just felt hungry and grumpy. She hesitated, but then something inside made her feel that it was going to be OK. She smiled at her mother. “I like that idea. Let’s do it.”
Just then, Heidi’s thirteen-year-old brother, Chris, entered the kitchen. Hearing Heidi’s last sentence, he asked, “Do what?”
Mom briefly told Chris about Billy and explained their plan. Chris said, “I’ll fast with you.”
“Wow! Really?” Heidi asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he answered, reaching for some cookies. Stopping his hand just above the cookie jar, he asked, “When do we start?”
“After dinner,” Mom answered.
The next day, Heidi came home, looking a little pale but happy.
“Wow! I thought fasting on Sundays was hard! Try playing kick ball and watching everyone else eat lunch! But you know, I believe our fasting and prayers helped Billy.”
“Oh good! Tell me about it.”
“Well, when I smiled at him, he smiled back at me. The other kids were pretty nice to him, and he seemed to have made friends with a couple of boys by the end of the day.”
“That’s great,” Mom said.
“And then—it was weird,” Heidi added. “You know how the language on the playground has been really bothering me lately?” Mom nodded, and Heidi continued, “Well, it was amazing, because I heard those same swear words but for some reason, they couldn’t get inside my mind. It was as if my brain was protected all day from getting dirty! Neat, huh?”
“That’s wonderful, Heidi,” Mom said, smiling.
“I’m really tired, but I feel happy. I hope Billy feels as peaceful as I do right now.”
Mom gave her a little hug. “I have a feeling he does.”
Chris came home, flopped into the nearest chair, and let his heavy pack thud to the floor. He leaned his head against the big cushion and closed his eyes. “When do we eat?”
“Let’s finish our fast together with a prayer. We’ll have dinner soon,” Mom suggested. “But first, tell me how your day went.”
“Well, you know how I’ve been dreading P. E. for weeks because a certain guy has been trying to shorten my life span?”
“Yes,” Mom answered, wondering what new form of violence this “gym enemy” had tried on Chris.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but today I didn’t feel any anger toward him, and he left me alone.”
As the three of them knelt to say one more prayer for Billy, Mom put her arms around her children’s shoulders. Was it her imagination, or had they both grown a little taller that day?

What about the kindness we show to our own family members? The most important and sometimes the most difficult place to show kindness is in our own homes, to our parents and to our brothers and sisters. When our son Mitch was 10 years old, he wanted to help our family, especially if he could make it fun. When no one was looking, he put a bell on a string around his neck and pretended to be a bellboy as he helped with family jobs. When family members noticed things were done, he would just say, “It must be the bellboy.” Mitch was a great help to us and also brought fun and delight to our family.

Traci and her family were preparing to move to a new house. Before they moved, she wanted to do something special for the people in her old neighborhood. She thought of many things she might take to her neighbors—cakes, cookies, or other treats. But she wanted this gift to be something they would always remember. Six-year-old Traci wanted to share her testimony with them. With her mother’s help, she wrote down her testimony. She made a copy for each neighbor. Then she visited each house on her street, leaving her love, her smile, and her testimony.

The ballerina glides across the stage—spiraling, spinning, then springing into the air so easily it’s as if she caught gravity napping. She is in every movement a fluid expression of freedom.
Like many little girls, when Maria Victoria Rojas Rivera of Chile—Mavi to her friends—was four years old, she decided she wanted to become a ballerina. And like all of those other little girls, she quickly discovered that the grace and freedom she saw on the stage came at a pretty steep price. The effort and discipline required to become a professional ballerina are too much for many young dreamers.
“When you’re little, you don’t understand the sacrifice it takes,” Mavi says. “When I started studying at age 10, our teachers told us that half of our lives would be spent dancing. We’d have to give up a lot of things.”
Things like free time and certain foods. Mavi would have to put a lot of time and effort into exercising and practicing. She’d have to watch carefully what she ate. And after schoolwork and dance, there wouldn’t be much time for friends.
Mavi decided that her dream was important enough to her to try.
“The teenage years can be a complicated time,” she says. “My friends didn’t always understand why I wouldn’t eat certain things or stay out late with them.”
Mavi learned early on that what appeared to be restrictions on her freedom were actually the only way she could free herself from things that would keep her from her goal.
“I chose not to stay out late, and I chose to spend time practicing instead of going to the mall with my friends,” Mavi says. “If I was tired because I stayed out too late or if I didn’t know the steps because I didn’t practice, I couldn’t dance.”
That kind of discipline isn’t easy, but Mavi says it is worth it.
“Everyone has moments when you want to give in,” Mavi confesses, “but you have the power to choose. Discipline can appear restrictive, but self-discipline is a choice. And I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to dance.”
At some point during her drive to become a ballerina, Mavi realized that dancing was not the only goal she had or the only worthwhile thing she would need to sacrifice for.
Along the way, she gained a desire to follow Jesus Christ, and she realized that what ballet had taught her about discipline applies to gospel discipleship as well. Just as her friends had wondered why she would do what she did for dance, they asked why she lived such restrictive gospel principles.
“I explained that we have the liberty to choose, and I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to be free from sin and have the Holy Ghost with me,” she says.
Or as the Savior said it, a disciple must “take up his cross,” meaning to deny oneself all ungodliness and every worldly lust and to keep God’s commandments (see Joseph Smith Translation, Matthew 16:26). Such self-discipline brings us to “liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator,” while trying to live outside the commandments leads to “captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil” (2 Nephi 2:27).
“Obedience brings greater freedom and peace than anything,” Mavi says. “My goals aren’t limited to this earthly life but include eternity.”
Mavi floats across the stage like a leaf carried by the current, stretching and flowing from one move to the next—développé and pirouette, glissade and grand jeté.
A ballerina can make her body move in ways that would hurt most other people. This freedom of movement is essential for communicating with the audience. But even though a good ballerina makes every move look effortless on stage, she has put in a lot of effort off the stage.
After eight years of sacrifice and hours of training almost every day, she was living her dream on stage—and in the gospel.
“People think it looks so beautiful and graceful,” Mavi says. “But the movements are very controlled. It takes a lot of strength to control yourself like that.”
The gospel parallel is important. Following Christ takes strength. And the rewards are sweet.
“The rewards from so many sacrifices are that I can dance,” Mavi says. “I feel strong, and I feel the guidance of the Holy Ghost in every step I take—on stage and off.”
According to Nephi, once we’ve felt the desire to follow Christ and have been baptized and confirmed, we must still endure to the end (see 2 Nephi 31:19–20). For Mavi, ballet requires similar dedication.
After dancing in Paraguay, she returned to Viña del Mar, Chile, to teach for a few years. Now she wants to take her dancing to the next level. She has set new goals that have taken her to Argentina, Germany, Ireland, and Spain to study and audition with different ballet companies.
She knows she must continue to strive—both on the stage and in the gospel. She must continue with discipline if she wants the freedom to dance. And she must continue in faith if she wants the freedom that comes from discipleship. “If ye continue in my word,” the Lord taught, “then are ye my disciples indeed: and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” (John 8:31–32).
Mavi has to put in a lot of effort off the stage to stay healthy and in shape. Aside from watching what she eats and getting enough rest, Mavi exercises a lot, and she dances at least five hours almost every day. But she doesn’t take care of herself just because she’s a dancer.
“As a member of the Church, I understand that my body is the temple of my spirit. As an artist, I need every part of my body to work right, so I protect it as best as I can. But as a member, I already knew I should do that.”
Her testimony of the Word of Wisdom’s inspired nature has been strengthened by her experience with ballet. “When you treat your body right, you can tell,” she says.
You have to take care of yourself to be a ballerina, but Mavi says, “We should all take care of our bodies, even if we aren’t dancers. We don’t get to choose our bodies, but we should all be grateful for and take care of what we have been given. They are gifts from God, and we’ve each been given our body for a purpose.”

When you are 12 years old, life is hard enough. Caught between being a child and being a teenager, you struggle to really know who you are. I was in the middle of that struggle when my parents announced we were moving to the small town over the hill. The move was only a few miles away, but to me it was a world away.
I grew up in a suburban town of 30,000. I walked to school. The playground and the youth center were a block from home. And I went to the movies every Saturday.
Our new home was different. It was a rural town of 6,000—and planned to stay that way. I was a mile and a half (2.4 km) from school and had to ride the bus. My playground would become the woods and hills nearby. Saturday matinees would become only an occasional treat.
The move itself wasn’t so bad. I was adventurous and loved exploring. But I had a hard time fitting in at school. The other students had all grown up together, and I was the outsider. To make matters worse, I didn’t hide my emotions and was an easy target for bullies.
One of the biggest bullies I had to deal with was Tracy. That wouldn’t have been so bad, except Tracy is a girl.
I had dealt with boy bullies before. You either faced them or learned to avoid them. But Tracy seemed to be everywhere: in the hall, at lunch, in my classes. She had a way with insults that just chopped you to pieces. I dreaded seeing her anywhere.
Since it seemed I couldn’t avoid her, I had to face her, but I didn’t know how. A talk I heard at church changed all that. I don’t remember who was speaking, but I remember what was said. The speaker was talking about dealing with difficult people. He said, “If you can’t beat them, try loving them to death.” He got a laugh out of the congregation, but I thought about it for some time. I finally decided what to do with Tracy. I would “smother her with kindness.”
I started looking for Tracy the next day. When I saw her, I said, “Tracy, you look nice.” She looked shocked and stammered a thank you as we passed in the hall. I kept it up. Every time I saw her, I would pay her a compliment before she had a chance to say anything. The insults stopped, and my life gained a little peace.
A few months later, the school year was coming to a close. One of the closing activities was a dance in the gym during school hours. I went to it but didn’t feel like asking any girls to dance. Frankly, I had never asked a girl before. But then a girl came up to me and asked me to dance.
I was shocked to see that it was Tracy. I said yes, and we went out onto the floor. When the song was over, I said, “Thank you,” and Tracy went on her way.
I never did see her again. She moved away that summer. I hope she fit in at her new school more easily than I had. But I learned that day that my plan had worked. Where I had an enemy, I found a friend.

I love him for other things, for other places walking in his footsteps has taken me. I love him for a phone call from Idaho. A young couple had just had twins prematurely. One of them was doing fairly well, but the other was brought into the University of Utah Medical Center, weighing just a little over a pound and a quarter. Think of five cubes of butter, if you would, and you’re talking about the size of this little soul. I received a call from Idaho: “He has been administered to, but would you mind going to the hospital and giving him a blessing?” I found that about the only hour available that particular day was at 5:00 A.M. I went up to the medical center, went into the room, and found the oxygen canopy. I put my fingers—all that would fit—on the forehead of this little soul, gave a blessing, and had the impression from God that one day this boy—182 cm. tall, ninety-one kilograms—would be a young ambassador for the Lord.

There are other experiences. Once as I was leaving a conference, a sweet family stopped me. They knew a nonmember man who was having severe problems, and they wondered if we would give him a blessing. We went to his apartment. In the living room were two pieces of furniture, a bean bag chair and a stereo set—and nothing else. A little girl, nine years old was taking care of her father because the mother, when she heard her husband had cancer, had abandoned him and the girl and her younger brother. The girl took us down the hallway into his room, and there on the bottom of two bunk beds we saw this man, 182 cm. tall, thirty point four kg. We administered to him, feeling he would not live. But we felt impressed to bless him with the thing that would be of most worth to him: that his son and daughter would be protected, that angels would walk through this life with them, that they would be protected when he wasn’t there to do it any longer. You can’t buy those kinds of experiences with all the money in the world.

Seeking to walk in the Lord’s footsteps recently brought me in contact with a young man and his father. The young man and a friend were up hiking in the lower foothills near Cody, Wyoming. The friend jumped across a high-power line that was down, but the young man got tangled in it and was electrocuted. The friend turned and ran all the way back down to where the father lived—and it wasn’t a short distance—and told the father that his son had been electrocuted and that he was dead. The father, who was not a young man, ran all the way back up, taking about fifteen minutes. When he got up to where the boy was lying across the wires, he somehow removed the boy from the wires with a board or a large branch. Then he picked his son up in his arms and held him, saying, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power and authority of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I command you to live.” The dead boy opened up his eyes in his father’s arms and was taken to the University of Utah Medical Center, where he recovered.

One day, my brother Rick and I decided to go goose hunting. That day we had success and both of us shot a goose. With the two geese in the car, we dreaded what was to come. Our father had taught us that we hunt for food. We knew that meant we would have to pluck both of these large birds and prepare them to be put in the freezer.
As we drove home, we talked about how hard it was to pluck a goose. We tried to find ways to get out of the job.
“Wait a minute,” said Rick. “Didn’t Brother Owen lose his job?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Maybe they need food,” said Rick.
We decided it would be a good deed for us to deliver some food to their door. (Of course, we were much more interested in getting out of the work than in doing a good deed.) We dumped the geese on the Owens’ doorstep, rang the doorbell, and ran back to the car as fast as we could. As we drove away, we were excited that we had found a way to avoid the work of plucking the geese.
The next day was fast Sunday. Brother Owen was the first one up to bear his testimony. He explained that he had lost his job and his family was struggling to get by. The night before, he was getting his three daughters ready for bed. They were crying because they were hungry and there was no food. His oldest daughter, still in Primary, explained that if they prayed, Heavenly Father would bring them food.
Brother Owen was overcome by the faith of his daughter. With tears in his eyes, he asked his daughter to pray. He explained that she had said a simple prayer, explaining to Heavenly Father that she and her family were hungry. Then she asked Heavenly Father to bring them food. As the prayer ended, the family was surprised by a knock on the door. They opened the door and found not one, but two large geese sitting on the doorstep. They thanked Heavenly Father for such a quick answer to their prayer. Brother Owen testified that God answers prayers and sat down. Rick and I had tears in our eyes.
From then on, every time my brother and I went hunting, we would drop our birds on the doorstep and run to the car. We left pheasants, ducks, quail, doves, and even some fish.
One day, as we were emptying the birds from our vests onto the Owens’ front porch, the door opened. Brother Owen stood in the doorway.
“I thought it was you,” said Brother Owen.
We apologized for leaving the birds there without cleaning them. He assured us that he was happy to clean the birds, and he was thankful for all the food we had left him. He told us how much he appreciated our thoughtfulness.
Initially, my brother and I had been trying to avoid the responsibility of cleaning after a hunt. But our loving Heavenly Father was able to use us to bless the lives of others. Now I look for opportunities to bless the lives of others—not to get out of work, but to be an instrument in God’s hands.

Illustrated by Dilleen Marsh
WELCOME! I’m Sister Simon.Hi! I’m Ramón.Hello. I’m Cathlyn.I’m Mei Lin.Hi! I’m David.And I’m Joshua.
Cathlyn, we’ve waited till we were in this beautiful place to tell you some wonderful news.You’re going to be a big sister in December. I’m going to have a baby girl.
Oh.
Are those sad tears, Champ? What’s wrong?I guess you’ll enjoy having a perfect little daughter who isn’t defective.
Defective? Oh, darling, you’re the least defective person I know. You’re as strong as Esther and as kind as Ruth. The baby will be so blessed to … have you as a sister!Maybe she’ll be ashamed of a sister in a wheelchair.
Or maybe she’ll be proud of a sister who’s the best basketball player on the block.I guess I could teach her to hit the outside shot.Or to hit a fastball—or cook an omelet. But mostly I hope you can teach her to be as good a person as you are.

I will never forget that family night. My dad taught the lesson. He sat down at the piano, raised his hands in the air, and then brought them down hard on the keys, banging out a terrible sound. We all covered our ears and frowned. The noise was terrible.
After a moment, he lifted his hands to the keys again. This time he played a beautiful melody. The sound was lovely and refreshing. Then he turned and faced us.
“Harmony,” he said, “is a group of notes working together. It creates a beautiful sound.” We all agreed. He challenged us to make our home a house of harmony—working together, avoiding contention, and creating beautiful music.
That lesson left a profound impact on me. Even today when I hear quarreling among family members, I remember the terrible noise he made on the piano and the beautiful contrast of harmony.

As to what extent that difference is, let me quote to you a letter. It was written a few months ago by a person who had a friend who thought enough of him to do exactly what we have been talking about. That is, the writer is a convert to the Church. He had a friend who brought him the gospel of Jesus Christ.

A few years ago, after this person became a member of the Church and received the priesthood, he took a girl to the temple. He was married for time and eternity. A few months ago a terrible tragedy struck. His wife died suddenly. There was no warning. This is the letter that he wrote while in the depths of his sorrow. He has given me permission to share this with you.

I am so miserable and lonely. I loved her so much, and the separation is so painful. I know the gospel is true. I know she is alive and working on her new assignment, but I do not find as much comfort as I thought I would.

I see good in all this. I see that my character can be strengthened. I see that my testimony has increased. I am grateful that I am a Latter-day Saint. I am appreciative that I have a knowledge of the truth and that I hold the priesthood.

If I did not have my testimony or my temple marriage, life would be so cumbersome. But the gospel is true, God lives, and Jesus the Christ, his Son, lives. Because he lives, she lives; and I will live. Because of my priesthood and the sealing powers of that priesthood, we will be reunited. That I know with a certainty tested in the flames of sorrow. But I miss the girl, my sweetheart. We were one, and half of me is beyond the veil.

A few weeks ago while I was in Southern California visiting our daughter and her family, I was picked up at their home by an airport van. Usually there are several passengers traveling, but on this day I was alone with the driver for an hour and a half as we drove up the beautiful California coast. The driver was friendly and asked where I was going. I explained I was going to meet my husband who was speaking at a conference for religious educators.

The driver seemed interested so I asked him if he had ever heard of the Mormon Church. I have to admit that my heart started beating a little faster as I thought about being a missionary and sharing my testimony. The driver explained that he didn't really know much about Mormons except that his older sister had married a man who professed to be one, but now they were divorced. I gulped, hoping this would not be "strike one!" I learned that the driver had grown up in Peru in a Catholic family, but now he attended the Presbyterian Church with his wife. He acknowledged that he really didn't know much about any religion.

I explained that in the Mormon Church there were religion classes for college-age people to help them understand our doctrine and I added that my husband taught such classes at a university. And on this very day we would be attending a conference for such teachers in Southern California.

He finally asked the question I was hoping he would ask. "What do Mormons believe?"

I ask you my friends. . .What would you have answered?

I knew the driver wasn't looking for a long explanation of doctrine--my response needed to be short and yet meaningful.

I remembered that as a young Primary girl I had used the fingers on my hand to remind me of the things I wanted to say when I bore my testimony. Five simple things that would be easy to understand and would explain what I believed. As we rode along in the van I looked down at my fingers in my lap to help me remember.

As I answered the driver's sincere question by sharing those five truths, I felt that warm confirming feeling of the Holy Ghost whisper, "It is true, it is true."

I could tell that the driver sensed how strongly I believed what I shared, because he asked, "Do all Mormons believe as you do?"

I struggled to answer his question because in my mind I saw many people who are dear to me, who once believed those truths but who have let the light of their testimony die. I thought of my college roommate who many years ago was baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost when we were living together in the dorm. But recently I learned that she has drifted into inactivity and lost the light she once enjoyed. I even know returned missionaries who once were filled with the Holy Ghost and with conviction bore their testimony every day for 2 years. But after returning home they neglected to nourish that precious testimony. And what inevitably follows? Little by little, the light that once illuminated their souls has grown dim.

... (addressing how to keep testimony alive in the remainder of the talk) ...

Someday you may find yourself riding along with someone who wants to know what you believe. I have sent more material to the van driver but I do not know the end of his story. But this I do know. Whenever we share our testimony and bear our witness of the Savior, the light within us shines brighter than before.

Her last acts were so typical of her. She was up preparing breakfast for her family. I heard her drop a dish and give a little moan. As I rushed from my study, thinking she had injured herself, I found that she was suffering from a stroke that was causing her to lose the use of her right arm. I quickly picked her up and carried her in to a little couch I had just recently convinced her that she should have near her kitchen so she could rest during the day.
There was terror in her eyes as the paralysis started to spread down her side. I told her I was going to rush a call to the doctor. She said, “First, give me a blessing.” As I laid my hands on her head that morning, the Lord in his great mercy let me know that her time had come. As I left the room to call the doctor after that blessing, she was literally fighting to move her right arm and her right leg. And the last words I heard her utter were, “I will not live as a half a person.”
Her next two hours, her last in mortality, were the only two I know of in her life that she was not carrying her full load and a little extra for someone else. The Lord in his mercy has let her pass through the veil and relieved her from her anxiety and pain. Now she is whole again, and I am certain paradise is a much more joyful place because she is there.

Some branch members and their families live in the lush highlands of Santa Cruz. It is here that the branch leaders decided to host a service project on September 4, 2010.
“As an elders quorum, each month we try to host one or two mingas,” or service projects, says Oswaldo. “We hold them for the person who most needs the service. This time we are going to build a house for a sister.”
Half of a house, actually. A week or so before, members had built the first half. This day over 20 of them spent six hours or more building the other half, including a kitchen, a water-collection system, and a walkway around the house. The modest home provides a place to live for Elena Cedeño and her children, who were not members of the Church at the time. All were extremely gratified by the time and effort the members gave. (Sister Cedeño and her son Sebastián were baptized in January 2011.)
“There is nothing better than serving the people who need it,” Oswaldo says. And the look in his eyes, as well as that of the other branch members and the sister they served, testify of the unity such service yields.

When Perla gained a witness of the Book of Mormon, she wanted to be baptized. But her parents wouldn’t hear of it. She was twenty-eight years old and didn’t need their permission, but she didn’t want to hurt them. Finally, she crocheted her own baptismal clothes and was baptized.

How to pay tithing was her next dilemma. For years, Perla had taught elementary school. As the only breadwinner in her father’s family, she had always given him her entire paycheck. And now she would not consider withholding either the paycheck or the tithing amount from him. Instead, she started crocheting for people after school, paying her entire earnings from crocheting as tithing on both salaries.

After serving a mission in Manila, Perla returned to teaching and met Luciano de Guzmán, a forty-seven-year-old bachelor who also taught elementary school. He studied the gospel and was baptized. They were married and now have two young daughters, Ruth and Esther.

Later, we walked back into Pam’s sister’s classroom. The teacher asked Pam to help her with something, so I sat down and quietly observed. There were about ten students, ages and handicaps varying widely from child to child.

Several of the children had the physical characteristics of Down’s Syndrome. One of these students watched me for a few minutes, then smiled. I smiled back. A little boy with curly red hair and rosy cheeks, he looked about eight years old. He was plump and he rubbed his palms together as he walked toward me. Sitting down in the chair next to me, he wiggled back and forth for a while before he put his hand up to my ear and whispered something.

He told me a corny joke, and I couldn’t keep myself from laughing. Slapping his knees and tilting his head back, the little boy laughed with me. He told me his name before he ran off to play again.

A few moments later the classroom teacher walked over to me and quietly said, “You mustn’t laugh at the students.”

“But why?” I asked. “He told me a joke, and I thought it was funny. He enjoyed it.”

The teacher seemed taken back by my response. “Well we mustn’t encourage them when they’re acting silly,” she added as she started walking away. “I’ve been working with mentally retarded children all my life. I know how to handle them.”

I noticed the little joke teller, Kenny, out of the corner of my eye. He was rubbing his palms together and rocking back and forth at his desk. Then he turned to the student next to him and whispered in his ear. Both of them burst out laughing, slapped their knees, and flung their heads back.

“Shh!” the teacher said.

Suddenly I noticed the principal. He was standing in the doorway and had heard and seen everything that had just taken place.

“Don’t judge her too harshly,” the principal said sitting down next to me. “She was taught that way, and she has done a lot of good over the years.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well that teacher was taught to help these children become as ‘normal’ as she could. But the longer I work with these kids, the more convinced I am that we should become more like them, not make them more like us.”

I looked at the principal as he was speaking. He was middle-aged and balding.

“You’re different,” he continued, looking at me. “Most of the people who come through the school are afraid. As soon as one of the students touches them, they go wash their hands. But you’re different.”

I didn’t know what he was getting at.

“Will you be coming with Pam from now on? We could use some more help.”

I stammered around awhile, “Actually I hadn’t planned on it. I work and go to school both, so I don’t have much free time.”

“I understand,” he said, disappointed. “But if you ever have a free afternoon, please feel welcome.”

I assured him that I would.

The next time Pam was ready to leave for her sister’s school, I was busy studying for a midterm. Then I thought about Kenny and his chapped red cheeks and corny jokes and I had to jump up, slip on a sweater, and go too.

I will never forget a lesson that my dear wife, Sister Mutombo, taught me on the first day of our marriage. I remember that Sunday as if it was yesterday. We had no food in our home and no money to buy food. As a newly married husband, I truly wanted to provide for my new wife, but I had no means to do so. I felt very alone.
I looked at my wife lying on the mattress that we had put on the floor because we had no money for a bed. She was exhausted and hungry. I decided to visit a good friend of mine to find a solution to my trial. I left my wife alone in our small two-square-meter room and went to see my friend. He told me that he had no money to help me but gave me one dollar to use for transportation to get home. I saw this as an answer to many sincere prayers to my Heavenly Father, asking for His help and support. I decided to walk home and use the dollar to buy food for my wife because that is the only money I had.
On the way back home, I used the dollar to buy a small piece of meat and some bread and put it in a black plastic bag. I was so excited that I now had food to give to my wife and walked home quickly. It was after 9 p.m. when I got home, and my dear Nathalie was tired, exhausted, hungry, and probably wondering about her future. Can you imagine going without food on your first day of married life? When I arrived home, I proudly presented food to my wife, saying, “darling, I got some food for you, please wake up.”
She woke up and took the plastic bag and saw the piece of meat and bread. She asked, “where did you find the money to buy this food?”
I told her. She looked at me and asked an unexpected question. “Have you paid tithing on the one dollar you received?”
I replied, “Nathalie, this is just one dollar, do you think we need to pay tithing on it?”
She took the piece of meat and bread that I brought home to her, put it back in the bag and said that she would not eat the bread of a man who does not remember his covenant with God. I weep when I remember this experience. I repented immediately and promised my wife that never ever again would I make such a poor choice. She taught me what it means to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ who keeps his covenants with God. I have since found great joy in paying an honest and full tithing. As President Russell M. Nelson said, the Church was not any different because I paid a full tithe, however becoming a full-tithe payer changed me as my faith in my Savior Jesus Christ increased.

A young man tumbles from his sled into a snowdrift. Friends run to offer help. Waving his snow-covered arms and legs, he laughs, “No, no, I like the snow!” He is part of an enthusiastic group of young people in Rexburg, Idaho, who meet together for outdoor activities—snowmobiling, cross-country skiing, horseback riding, ice fishing, scuba diving, and water skiing.
But this is no ordinary group. Most of its members suffer from profound physical handicaps—spina bifida, cerebral palsy, deafness, and blindness. They are part of the Ricks Outdoor Cooperative Handicapped Association—a program pioneered in 1984 by Brother Steve Anderson.
Steve knows firsthand about meeting the challenges of physical handicaps. Steve himself is a victim of severe cerebral palsy. After earning a master’s degree in educational psychology, he found it impossible to convince an employer to hire him. Finally, he approached two of his former professors from Ricks College, a Church-owned college in Rexburg, Idaho. They agreed to supervise him in developing an activities program for handicapped students at Ricks and handicapped people from the Upper Snake River Valley in Idaho.
Through the program, people confined to wheelchairs now take part in a bowling league, using a ramp made especially for them. Those with limited use of their legs can ski with “sit-and-ski” sleds. “Handicaps do not stifle a desire for recreation,” says Steve. “We are helping people overcome a built-in reluctance to participate.”
Accompanying the handicapped people on camping trips, river runs, and skiing trips are Ricks College students volunteering as aides. “Both the able-bodied and the handicapped give and receive service, spirit meeting spirit,” says Steve.
Steve loves the Hopi Indian story of a great bird who fell from the heavens, too weak to fly. As time passed, the bird gathered strength, stretched his wings, and one day began to fly. It flew with such beauty and grace that even stones wept with joy.
Steve considers it a miracle that he and his friends have been able to stretch their wings and begin to fly. “Our Father in Heaven has promised to make weak things strong,” says Steve. “In this promise lies our hope.”