Gospel Story Finder

For several years, I’ve been writing to a young man in prison. Knowing him to be an avid reader, and in preparation for this opportunity, I asked him to estimate how many books he’s read since his incarceration. His answer: “Luckily for you, I keep track of every book I read. In the last five years, I’ve read 443 books.” On average, that’s about one book every four days.

His fiction reads include The Count of Monte Cristo, Les Misérables, The Great Gatsby, 1984, and Huckleberry Finn. As for non-fiction, because he’s married and the father of two sons, he prioritizes books on relationships and parenting. Circumstances permitting, he reads books with his boys—an activity that, he says, “binds him to his family.”

Other reading material includes magazines: “I’ve maintained subscriptions to [about thirty of them, including] about a dozen food magazines because it’s the only time I get to see decent food.”

Best of all, he’s read Jesus the Christ, and continues to read the standard works and the Liahona. Perhaps like you, I wondered how he obtained Church publications. Answer: “As part of its humanitarian efforts, the Church donates more than 50,000 volumes of Church literature to prisons every year.”

He also listens to parenting podcasts, which he believes fulfills the Savior’s hope that we “teach one another words of wisdom.” He takes notes that he then shares with his wife when she visits. He says, “I figure [it’s] a way I can help parent from in here.”

He even reads to his cellmates when their reading levels are inadequate. Many inmates have told him that they’d never read a book before coming to prison. Additionally, he’s helped several others finish their high school equivalency diploma. As for himself, he’s earned two associate degrees—one in horticulture, the other in small business management—in hopes of supporting his family upon his release.

Lastly, if I may make a selfish admission, he’s actually helped me live the gospel a little bit better. Every time I drop off his letter at the post office, I recall those tender scriptures from Matthew 25 in which the Savior says, figuratively: “I was in prison, and ye came unto me” and, a few verses later, “inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

Now, back to that book number: 443. As impressive as it is, it’s not just about the number. Much more meaningful is that my friend has chosen to spend his time wisely and productively. If anyone has an excuse to be discouraged or detached, it’s him. But his faith, family, and friends—along with his reading—sustain him.

Recently a prominent family in my neighborhood suffered a great tragedy. Their troubled teenage son committed suicide. Under the influence of drugs and alcohol, he apparently sought peace in this desperate way. His fine family felt his loss intensely. Despite an enormous level of effort and outpouring of love to this son throughout his life, his parents agonized, wondering if they’d done everything. His siblings probably wondered the same. Neighbors and friends, in and out of the Church, responded with love, sympathy, and support.
The family sat together at stake conference just days after this tragic experience. The main speaker, who knew of this incident, gave a long talk about the problems families get into when they spend too much time on Church duties and not enough time with each other. Some members of the congregation visibly winced as they thought of this family and how the message might affect them. Right message. Wrong time. How we wished our speaker had taken off the blinders and seen the needs of our brothers and sisters.

When I woke up the first morning of summer vacation and remembered where I had to go, I felt nervous. I was going to visit a man named John.
My Primary teacher, Sister Chichenoff, had asked each person in our class to “adopt a grandparent at a nearby nursing home. She told us if we learned to love one another like Jesus taught, we would find real joy. At first I thought her idea was good.
Sister Chichenoff had made it sound like a privilege. “Hey, Nick,” she said. “I assigned you to a special person. This man could really use a friend.”
“You can count on me,” I said. “I’ll be his friend.”
“He doesn’t mix with other people much and he only has one leg. He could use someone who cares about him and will push him around in his wheelchair.”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
Sister Chichenoff reached out and took hold of my arm. “This man doesn’t like people,” she said. “He doesn’t like to talk to anyone, and he doesn’t like to go in his wheelchair. In fact, they tell me he is quite a grouch.”
“Why give him to me?” I asked.
“Because John needs someone to talk to,” Sister Chichenoff said. “He is a lonely man, and I told the administrator you were the person John needs.”
I was afraid to meet someone who didn’t want me to be there. I wondered if he’d yell at me. By dinnertime, I was so afraid to meet him that I went in my room and prayed. I knew Heavenly Father wasn’t afraid of John.
Sister Chichenoff met us that evening with her husband. Brother Chichenoff was funny, so I asked him to stick with me. He was also big, and I planned to hide behind him if John yelled at me.
When we walked into John’s room, he did not yell. He didn’t say anything. He sat in his bed and ignored us.
My friends and I liked monster riddles so I decided to try one.
“What do sea monsters eat?” I asked.
John glared.
“Fish and ships.”
Brother Chichenoff broke out laughing but John kept glaring. I changed the subject. “Um—how about a ride through the nursing home?”
To my surprise, John nodded yes. The evening didn’t turn out as bad as I thought it would.
The next week I didn’t want to go back, but I wasn’t afraid. When we got to the nursing home, John was already in his wheelchair.
“Been waiting for you,” he said.
“How about a ride?” I asked.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
Brother Chichenoff and I still did most of the talking, but John grumbled a few words. When it was time to go home, he motioned for me to come closer.
“What happened to the apples on the monster’s apple tree?” he asked.
“Well, I … um, I don’t know.”
“They all grue-some. You know—g-r-e-w-some.” John chuckled at his joke. Brother Chichenoff and I laughed.
After that, I looked forward to Thursdays. John’s face lit up like a lightbulb when I walked in. And each week he had a riddle for me.
John told us stories of fishing and hunting years ago. He told us how he cut his leg on an old camper door and it got infected, and that’s why he had only one leg.
Several months later, John told me a secret. “Hey, Nick. Guess what’s two weeks from tonight? My birthday. I’ll be 88.”
“Wow! Let’s do something special” I said. “What would you like to do?”
“I’d like to go somewhere and have a big chicken dinner.”
“OK,” I said. “It will be my birthday present to you.”
My parents agreed to drive us to the restaurant, and then take us back to the nursing home after dinner.
The next week when I visited John, he was walking with crutches all by himself. All he talked about was going out next week for his birthday dinner. He was so excited. I was too.
A few days later, the phone rang early in the morning. It was Sister Chichenoff calling to say that John had died during the night.
On John’s birthday, I sat in the nursing home with the Chichenoffs, my parents, and some of the kids from my Primary class. It wasn’t evening and it wasn’t time to visit our adopted grandparents. It was the middle of the afternoon and we were attending John’s funeral. We were the only people there besides a few who worked at the nursing home.
As I sat there and listened to the story of John’s life, it was hard not to cry. The nursing-home workers said his life had changed and gotten better after the children from the “Mormon Church” started coming to visit. I knew my life had changed because of those visits.
I wish John and I had gone out for that chicken dinner, but I’m glad we had the chance to become friends. I discovered the real joy my Primary teacher talked about when people love one another.

I'd like to illustrate the importance of this by beginning with a story. There once was a father who had four sons. One day he sent his sons to their cabin to ready it for the winter. The cabin was located some distance away from their home, and was without phone connection, but the father didn't worry, because he had given each son a cell phone and knew that he could contact them in case of an emergency. Not long after the sons' arrival to the cabin, the father learned that because of heavy rains in the nearby mountains, the cabin was in the path of a potential flash flood. He called the first son to warn him to take his brothers and evacuate the cabin. The first son had not even turned on his cell phone and didn't receive the message. He then tried to call the second son. His phone rang, but the music he was listening to was so loud, it drowned out the phone and he didn't receive the message. He then tried to call the third son. The third son actually heard his phone ring, but he was so busy working on the cabin he didn't take time to answer it and didn't receive the message. When the fourth son's phone rang, he heard it and tried to answer it, but he wasn't used to working with a cell phone and didn't know how to get an incoming call, so he did not receive the message.

The father was grieved for he had done all that he could to warn his sons, but for various reasons they would not receive his message.

In a virtual family home evening a few weeks ago, our daughter described a scenario that helped her to feel love from God by feeling love from her earthly father. Even though it happened over twenty years ago when she was a teenager, it was indelibly imprinted in her heart. At a moment when she was struggling, John enveloped her in an understanding hug. As she prayed that night, she distinctly felt that same reassuring hug from her Heavenly Father.
Feeling this kind of love from Him, provides comfort—even joy, and keeps one pressing forward.

When some of the other Smiths chose to stay in Nauvoo, Mary Fielding Smith chose to go west. Her son was now getting older. He was now eight years old. She expected him to act the part of a man, so much so that when he was asked, “What is it like being a child?” he replied, “I really don’t know. I think I was born an adult.”

Mary and her son left Nauvoo and worked their way across the territory of Iowa. They were hoping to go west, but before leaving they needed to find a Captain of Ten. As you read Section 136 in the Doctrine and Covenants, you read about captains of tens, fifties, hundreds, and five hundreds. It was important for Mary to find a captain of ten who would take her family to Zion, which meant the Salt Lake Valley. Mary found a captain of ten who took them only part of the way. He did not want to be responsible for getting them all the way to Zion because he thought they were slowing down the rest of the company. Mary refused to turn around and go back to Iowa or Nebraska. She determined to go on to the valley. She actually arrived in the Salt Lake Valley before that particular captain of ten. She greeted him as he arrived.

From Oyo, Nigeria. Likes to play football (soccer).
I knew a boy from church who was a bully before, but one day he suddenly changed. I decided to ask him, “Why did you change?” He told me that he prayed, read his scriptures, had faith, and worked hard to change his behavior. It helped me because now when I want to make a decision, academically or spiritually, I usually pray for God to guide me.
My friend might not be perfect, but his behavior touched my heart. Now I usually read the scriptures before I take any step in my life. My friend’s example has brought me closer to Christ because any time I sin, I can go back to the Lord in prayer and repentance. Going to the Lord has helped me set aside my burdens.

A true story from Argentina.
“Can we go to the plaza?” Ivan’s sister Cristal asked.
Ivan looked outside. “I want to,” he said. “But maybe we should wait until the sun goes down. It’s really hot.”
The plaza was a big field of grass near their home. They loved to play tag or hide-and-seek there with their friends. But the plaza didn’t have any shade for them to rest from the heat. And this summer, it was a big problem.
Cristal was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “What if we planted some trees? That way the plaza would have shade. Then we could play even when it’s hot!”
Ivan smiled. “I love that idea!”
Ivan and Cristal told Papá all about their plan. “I’ll ask the city for permission,” he said.
A few weeks later, they had the permission they needed and were ready to start! Papá took Ivan and Cristal to the big tree that grew behind their house. Under the tree, a bunch of little trees were growing.
“When the big tree blooms, it drops seeds to the ground,” Papá explained. “Then little trees grow from them. They’re like tiny miracles of nature!”
Papá showed them how to carefully dig up the little trees. Ivan and Cristal gently planted them in flower pots.
Then, one Saturday afternoon when the sun was hidden behind the clouds, Ivan and Cristal loaded the little trees onto a cart. Slowly, they pushed it to the plaza. Ivan’s younger brothers and sisters helped carry buckets of water. Mamá and Papá brought some shovels.
Together, they picked out a spot for each tree. They dug holes and planted each tree with love. Mamá showed them how to dig trenches around the trees to water them. “Trees need sunlight, water, and lots of nutrients to grow strong,” she said. “Just like kids!”
Ivan thought of the tree behind their house and imagined what the trees would look like someday. “Can you believe it?” he said. “Someday these trees will be taller than us!”
In the spring, the trees would dazzle everyone with their beautiful, bright pink flowers. In the summer, their shade would stretch across the plaza. And in the fall, the leaves would cover the ground in a yellow carpet.
Every day, Ivan and Cristal visited the plaza to check on the trees. They made sure each tree had enough water. And every time a new leaf or branch sprouted, they felt so proud. Their hard work was paying off!
Ivan felt happy thinking of all the people who would enjoy the shade at the plaza someday. He had helped make the earth a more beautiful place for all of Heavenly Father’s children.

I knew the Prophet. While I was nine, I attended a school kept by a Miss Mitchell in his brother Hyrum’s brick office.
I was passing the Prophet’s house one morning when he called me to him and asked what book I read at school. I replied, “The Book of Mormon.” He seemed pleased. Taking me into the house, he then gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon to use at school. It was a gift I greatly prized.
Jesse N. Smith

There are some who have difficulty forgiving themselves and who dwell on all of their perceived shortcomings. I quite like the account of a religious leader who went to the side of a woman who lay dying, attempting to comfort her—but to no avail. “I am lost,” she said. “I’ve ruined my life and every life around me. There is no hope for me.”

The man noticed a framed picture of a lovely girl on the dresser. “Who is this?” he asked.

The woman brightened. “She is my daughter, the one beautiful thing in my life.”

“And would you help her if she were in trouble or had made a mistake? Would you forgive her? Would you still love her?”

“Of course I would!” cried the woman. “I would do anything for her. Why do you ask such a question?”

“Because I want you to know,” said the man, “that figuratively speaking, Heavenly Father has a picture of you on His dresser. He loves you and will help you. Call upon Him.”

A hidden wedge to her happiness had been removed.

A sister who comes to mind is Sister Caroline Masiliso Sifaya. She, her husband, and their children were baptized in the Lusaka, Zambia branch in 1994. A year later, they were sealed in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple.

Five years later in 1999, I visited Sister Sifaya at the Lusaka, Zambia University Teaching Hospital. She sat next to the bed of her eight-year-old son, Mwini Butala, who was in a critical condition. Mwini had survived an accident which had claimed the life of Sister Sifaya’s husband, Sondo Sifaya, who had been serving as the branch president in Lusaka.

I had traveled from Zimbabwe to console and to give a word of comfort to Sister Sifaya who was serving as the institute of religion instructor. Upon greeting her and extending my deepest sympathy to her for the loss of her husband and for a son who was lying almost lifeless on the bed, she smiled and said, “Brother Dube, I am grateful for the privilege we had as a family to be sealed in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. The Atonement of Jesus Christ is a great blessing in our lives.”

Sister Sifaya’s reliance on the Atonement of Jesus Christ enabled her to carry on when her burdens seemed too heavy and too intense to bear. She truly depended upon “the merits, and mercy, and grace of the Holy Messiah”2.

Sister Sifaya seemed very confident and hopeful for what lay before her. Like a tree planted near the water, she did not fear when she was faced with almost insurmountable challenges, because she placed her hope in the Lord for strength and deliverance. As a covenant person, the Lord fulfilled His promise to her as He did to Alma and his people: “I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders, that even you cannot feel them upon your backs.”3

Sister Sifaya’s son Mwini died a few years after my hospital visit. She assumed the role of a single parent in the most amazing way. She managed to triple her modest schoolteacher’s income by converting part of her house into a preschool and enrolling children from a nearby community. She worked day and night to ensure that her children got the necessary education in life. She continued serving faithfully in the Church, inspiring the institute students who attended her class to serve missions.

Her children excelled in education, furthering their studies to university level both locally and abroad. Sister Sifaya now has three grandchildren and is currently serving as a stake Primary president in Lusaka. Sister Sifaya’s “leaf [has been] green; . . . neither [has it ceased] from yielding fruit.”4 She has assisted her children to be like a tree planted by the water, and she is doing the same for her grandchildren. Can you imagine what her posterity will be?

“How could you not tell me how horrible it is?” I wrote to Elder Newman, one of my instructors at the Missionary Training Center. When I arrived in the mission field 20 years ago, it was hard, and I was hating it. I would stick it out because I wasn’t a quitter, but I would never tell anyone it was the best 18 months of my life.

Elder Newman wrote back: “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sister Betz. Actually, Elder Bradford and I tried to tell you. All of you. We always do, but no one ever wants to believe it. Don’t worry. It will get better. And by the time you get home, you’ll be glad you went.”

I decided to make the best of it. After all, I was sure Heavenly Father wanted me to come, and I couldn’t deny the Spirit I had felt when I had approached Him with my decision to serve a mission. Many of my friends had served missions or were serving, and they seemed to have insights into the gospel that I felt I was missing. Every one of my missionary friends told glowing stories of people whose lives were touched by the gospel and of miracles they witnessed on a daily basis. They all said that serving a mission was the greatest thing they had ever done, and their experiences had helped me choose to serve.

Yet there I was in northern Germany with jet lag, a senior companion who was almost as green as I was, and cool weather in June. We were soaked to the skin at least twice a day and generally looked like we had been dragged through large puddles. Riding bikes didn’t make matters any better. We lived at the top of one of the few high hills in northern Germany, and our investigators, it seemed, all lived at the top of another. Most discouraging, however, was my awareness that I had not yet learned to recognize the subtle influence of the Spirit. I worried that I was doomed to failure as a missionary. And I hadn’t even been in Germany two months yet.

Incredibly, however, I came to find out that Elder Newman was right. It did get better. None of the hard stuff went away, but I learned to see and savor the good times.

Elder Newman was right. By the time I left Germany, my heart had expanded to include an entirely new world full of people, ideas, traditions, and customs—not to mention spiritual impressions—that will remain inscribed on my heart forever. I learned to love, to give, and to suffer for people I had once thought of as strangers.

One of the most spiritual experiences of my life occurred when my Mom was first diagnosed with cancer. As anyone who knew her would attest, my Mom was one of the most vibrant, loving, selfless persons on earth. If anyone deserved to live, and would have the will to live, it was Mom. We were all hopeful she would beat the cancer. I went to the hospital to see her and give her a blessing. I fully expected to bless her that she would overcome the cancer and be made whole. However, shortly after starting the blessing, I had an overwhelming feeling that many of Mom’s loved ones who had passed on were in the room, surrounding her with loving arms outstretched, welcoming her to their Heavenly home. I knew instantly that Mom wouldn’t survive the cancer, but would be welcomed home when she died. I didn’t share this experience with anyone except maybe Bonnie until after Mom passed away. I didn’t want to discourage anyone from having hope and sharing their hope with Mom. My Aunt Lucy, who was a nurse, and my Grandma Jones were particular sources of hope. Their hope that she would continue to live in this life wasn’t granted, but we all knew that Mom had hope for a better life.

A year ago at Flagstaff, Arizona, a special banquet for Eagle Scouts was held. There were 1,150 Eagle Scouts. John Warnick, the director of Mormon Relationships, invited all those who would commit to go on a mission to stand. All 1,150 stood.
Later, one of the young men, a Catholic boy, went to the bishop and said, “I am not a Mormon, and I committed to go on a mission. What do I need to do?”
The bishop said, “Let’s talk to your parents.” During the visit with the family, it was decided that the family should hear the discussions. The family, including the Eagle Scout, are all members of the Church now.

A few days before Christmas, I went to a busy shopping area in Buenos Aires to do some errands. Like everyone else, I stopped to look at the Christmas decorations that seemed to be everywhere. “If only I had those decorations to get my house ready for Christmas,” I thought.
On the way home, my bus stopped at a small square. On a bench sat a well-groomed young man with nice clothes and shoes. He was smiling, talking to, and most of all, listening to an old man with long hair and a beard. The old man’s clothes were dirty and torn, and he had no shoes. The bench seemed to be his home.
I thought about the stark contrasts between the two men—in appearance, age, and walk of life. What a pleasure it was to see them talking together, especially because the old man had a lot to say and really seemed to be enjoying the conversation. At that moment I felt that Christmas had arrived. There were no twinkling lights, no ornaments, no wreaths, no Christmas trees—just someone giving the gift of his time, just listening to another with respect. There was no disdain, no prejudice, no selfishness, no discrimination, no arrogance.
It was then that I realized we can give such gifts of love all through the year. We can kindle little lights of hope for those who need them.
I vowed never again to allow getting ready for Christmas to keep me from living Christmas.

When my Great-Grandma Edwards died, my sister, Mia, and I were sad. Even though my parents told us we would see our great-grandma again someday and be a family forever, we were worried.
My dad told us that we could pray to have our questions about Grandma Edwards answered at general conference. I prayed to know if Grandma Edwards was happy. Mia prayed to know if Grandma Edwards was with her husband and daughter, who had already died.
During the Sunday morning session of conference, we listened, and we heard the prophet answer our questions! President Monson said that when people die, it’s as if they go into a room filled with all the family members they love who died before them. So Mia knew that Grandma Edwards was with her husband and daughter. Then President Monson read a part from the Book of Mormon that says the spirits of the righteous go to a state of happiness (see Alma 40:11–12).1 Grandma Edwards had always tried to choose the right, so I knew she was happy.
Mia and I were so happy to know that the prophet speaks for God and that God answers our prayers. We aren’t worried about Grandma Edwards anymore. We know that if we follow her example of choosing the right, someday we will see her again.

But I did not like being called an “investigator,” and I didn’t like to be pushed. When members asked if I would like the missionaries to teach me at home, I said no. But I invited the sister missionaries for dinner the following Saturday. They came and showed slides of a refugee camp where they worked, but nothing about religion was discussed. Before they left, they gave me several pamphlets, which I promised to read.
The next week, I went to visit my mother in Manila. I asked her where I could find a priest to answer my questions. She suggested that I go to a Bible class my brother and sister were attending. I did as she said, praying in my heart that I would be able to ask my question. To my surprise, the priest began to explain the importance of baptism. I wasted no time, but raised my hand and asked, “Was there baptism for the dead before, as stated in 1 Corinthians 15:29 [1 Cor. 15:29]?” He read the verse aloud, then looked at his watch and dismissed the class. He said, “I will talk to you in my office.” He got his Greek translation of the Bible and other books, then started explaining the Resurrection. I said, “That is not the issue; I believe in the Resurrection.” After more than two hours of discussion, I was still not satisfied. He lent me two books to read.
The next day I asked the same question of an older priest. He told me that baptism for the dead was no longer necessary.
On April 1, the paper mill was temporarily shut down. I was reading a pamphlet called The Plan of Salvation when I began to feel a certainty that what I was reading was true. The Holy Ghost was bearing witness, making everything clear to me. I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet, that the Church was true. I was crying. I had found something so precious. I wanted to tell my co-workers, but they would not understand. I went home early and found Karen at my home. “I know that the plan of salvation is true,” I told her, “and I want to be baptized.” She arranged for the missionaries to teach me.
The following day, I had my first discussion with Elder Johnson and Elder Barangan. I had such a strong desire to be baptized that I went to their home very early the next morning. When I told them of my desire, Elder Johnson told me that to be baptized I must obey the Word of Wisdom and attend church. I said, “I started obeying the Word of Wisdom when I saw the filmstrip, and I have attended the church several times.” They taught me three more discussions. Then on Easter Sunday, 7 April 1985, I was baptized. I felt that this was the very moment I had waited for since I was born.
That day was also Fast Sunday. I fasted, shared my testimony in sacrament meeting, and paid my tithing for the first time. After sharing my testimony, I had an even stronger conviction that I had made the right decision. I felt complete—no longer drifting, but with sure direction. I know that the Spirit bore witness to me.
Since my baptism, I have served a mission and have been an ordinance worker in the Manila Philippines Temple.
I feel so blessed to have the gospel in my life. I know that the Book of Mormon I rescued from the trash is the book that rescued me.

When Bill and I decided we would like to go to college, we found it would take almost all we had saved since graduation from high school to pay the modest tuition required at the state university located about one hundred miles from our home. On a visit to the campus we did locate a place where we could get board and room for 20 dollars a month apiece but, to our dismay, found that even part-time jobs at less than 25 cents an hour had many takers. The fact that Bill and I had graduated at the top of our high school classes apparently did not qualify us for the few scholarships available; our mother was undergoing expensive medical treatment (she would die within the year), and our father’s small coal mine, still under development, could not be counted on for consistent support. Our determination to attend college seemed hopelessly blocked.
Then Boyd, who was still in high school and a truly extraordinary student, came home to announce that a local transfer company had offered him a job as bookkeeper for their entire operation at a salary of 40 dollars a month. He would have to work long hours after school and all day Saturday, but I can still hear the delight in his voice as he said, “Now Bill and Bob can go to school.”
How our parents and brother managed to send us the 40 dollars we needed each month I still can’t figure out; but, obviously, most of it came from Boyd. My guess is that he spent almost nothing on himself to be sure we had what we needed. Happily, over the years, Bill and I have had a chance to help Boyd, but the very essence of total sharing is that there is no attempt to balance the books. Gifts of pure love are never a sacrifice, and losing one’s life completely in the service of others is to find it completely. Now, after all these years, I understand the deeper meaning of what Mother was trying to instill in us: Unconditional love within the family can prepare us to appreciate the Savior’s gift of eternal life, for he is our brother.

The branch in Broken Hill is small, and Jared is the oldest Aaronic Priesthood bearer. He’s conscious of the example he has to set for the younger boys, to show his brothers and the other boys “the right things to do.” And the priesthood itself? “It just feels good. You feel special—a lot more confident when you have to do hard things, like tests at school.”
One of those right things to do is home teaching. “I like to home teach,” Jared says. With his senior companion, Lee Robertson, Jared visits five families, offering the prayer when asked. Jared likes people, and home teaching helps him get to know these families better. (It doesn’t hurt that Brother Robertson is also an outdoorsman. He and Jared sometimes talk about hunting wild pigs in the bush, and Jared is looking forward to getting his own compound bow, maybe doing some hunting himself.)
Jared has struck it rich in Broken Hill, all right, but he would also be the first to admit that he brought his greatest treasure with him. The Kowalski home on Cobalt Street is modest, but it’s filled with family and love. As Jared puts it, “We have heaps of fun. We have family home evening, go to the movies. I go camping with my dad.”
The family also reads the Book of Mormon together. Sometimes it makes Jared feel inspired; sometimes it’s hard to understand. But it does help contribute to his growing testimony. “I’ve already got a big testimony of prayer,” he says.
When Jared’s mission call comes a few years from now, it may not be to the jungles of the Amazon. But you know that wherever he goes, he’s going to be happy and successful.
Some people look at a place and think of it as nowhere. Then a guy like Jared comes along and turns it into his own personal somewhere. Like those first prospectors, Jared has found a vein of treasure. He’s rich in the best possible way.

In the village where my wife grew up, her parents, who were good churchgoing people, embraced the gospel as a young married couple with my wife as their two-year-old daughter and only child at that time. Their decision to become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had a great impact on their lives as they were shunned by the villagers and by their family. It took many years, loving notes to family members, and service to the community before they were finally accepted.
On one occasion when my wife’s father was serving as a bishop, he was falsely accused of something and was immediately released. My mother-in-law was so hurt that she asked her husband if they should continue to go to church. He answered that they of course would continue to go to church since this is not the church of men, but this is the Church of Jesus Christ.
It took some time before the truth came to light and apologies were made. What could have been their breaking point just added to their strength and conviction.