Gospel Story Finder

I decided to compete in a marathon with work colleagues in Western Cape, South Africa. I trained and worked very hard in preparation for the race.
On the day of the race, I woke up, read my scriptures, and prayed. I was nervous, but I also felt that I needed to trust in the Lord. I knew that if I did, He would provide sustenance and support.
We were required to walk or run 40 kilometers (25 miles). We started at 8:00 a.m. The weather was cool and slightly rainy, so at first I enjoyed the walk and was doing well. But when I was about 10 kilometers from the finish line, the race became very hard for me. I had muscle pulls in one leg, and I had some blisters. I wanted to quit. Then I began singing a hymn:
Fear not, I am with thee; oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid.
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand, …
Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.
(“How Firm a Foundation,” Hymns, no. 85)
Over and over the words of the hymn flooded my mind and lifted my feet, and I finished the race in the strength of the Lord’s hymn.
This experience taught me that the gospel of Jesus Christ is about endurance. It is like walking or running in a race. We get tired sometimes, rest, and walk again. Heavenly Father does not give up on us no matter how many times we fall; to Him what counts is how many times we stand up and walk again. His gospel is about finishing the race.

As I have toured missions, many missionaries, as well as converts, have reported to me unusual missionary experiences or miracles. A stake president in California told me the following missionary experience.

A young man in his stake from a well-to-do family had been taught the gospel by missionaries. His interest in the Church was very displeasing to his parents. They endeavored to persuade him not to join, but he still declared that he had a strong testimony that this was the true church of Jesus Christ and that he must join. Then, in desperation, the parents took the drastic step of telling him that if he became a member of the Mormon Church, he would be disinherited. In spite of this warning, the young man joined the Church and his parents literally turned him out of his home.

He was invited to live with a Mormon family. While he was there, the bishop and stake president asked him to go on a mission. He accepted the call. Before he left, however, his parents heard through a mutual friend that their son was going on a mission. They sent word to him that if he did, they would never write him a word, nor send him money, and that he was not to contact them.

About a year later, when the young man was in the mission field, the stake president was called on the telephone about one o’clock in the morning. The gentle voice of a woman on the other end of the line asked if he would please give her that missionary’s address because she wanted to send him some money. Thus, it appears that the love of a mother had risen above her religious prejudice.

I was assigned to depict the Resurrection for the Coimbatore District open house during the Easter season. I was worried a bit about it, though I was pretty good at art and other work. My confidence was low since the suggested topic was on the final week of the Savior’s mortal life for me to portray. I was led by the Spirit to pray and ask for the Lord’s help and inspiration. This verse from the Holy Bible came to my mind as an answer to my prayer. It was Jeremiah 33:3.
I went on making objects like a crown of thorns, nails and whip, I pricked my finger many times while collecting the thorns. The pain I had and the few drops of blood which came out of my fingers made me to realize the love of our Heavenly Father, especially His unconditional love which is greater than anybody could give or receive on this earth. I felt so grateful that Christ had paid the penalty for my sins and has given me a chance to repent and to return to him. My daughter Saritha, along with the branch young single adults, helped me put our thoughts into reality.
On making the tomb to depict the Resurrection of Christ, I felt even happier that I can have my body restored to their proper and perfect frame [see Alma 40:23]. The Atonement helps me to prepare myself to meet God and the Resurrection helps me to live again. I know Jesus Christ is my Savior and Redeemer. I love Him for who He is and what He did for me.

Growing up, I thought my family history work was done. By the time I was old enough to go to the temple, all my recorded ancestors’ ordinances had been completed. It didn’t seem like there was anything else I could do.
Then I found the records for my great-great-grandma Elva Butler.
Elva was born in Utah after her parents moved there with the pioneers. She made all her own covenants while she was alive, so I didn’t think I could do anything for her. But discovering her records turned out to be a huge blessing—for me!
I never met Elva, but after looking through her photos, journal entries, and letters, I felt like I knew her. She loved books and poetry, just like me! I admired how she trusted God during her personal hardships.
Because of her faith, my faith has been strengthened. I feel that she and my other ancestors are watching over me.

Karina’s smile faded. She began to sweat—and not because it was unusually hot that week. She looked around for help. But in spite of the crowd at the open house, no one seemed to notice her alone with the reporter and all her questions.
Until that moment, 17-year-old Karina had enjoyed volunteering at the Kyiv Ukraine Temple open house. Now, with the newspaper reporter waiting expectantly, her tongue seemed stuck.
Karina was afraid that because of past mistakes she was trying to overcome, God wouldn’t help her.
Karina squared her shoulders and turned back to the reporter. Her smile brightened. Heavenly Father had done so much for her already that she knew He would help her now.
After the reporter finished asking questions, Karina smiled and waved. The reporter smiled back and walked away. Karina couldn’t remember much of what she said, but she would remember for a long time how she felt, knowing Heavenly Father is always within reach of those who choose to follow Him.

Charlie dropped the soccer ball on the grass and looked at Alex. “First one to five wins!”
Alex grinned. He liked the challenge of playing against his older brother. “You’re on!” He picked up the ball and threw it to the middle of the yard. Charlie ran and kicked it between the two trees in the back.
“That’s one!” Charlie shouted.
Alex laughed and ran for the ball. He kicked it down the yard, sidestepped Charlie, dribbled left, then right, and kicked hard toward the net at the other end of the yard. “Score!” he shouted.
The boys kicked the ball around, running and laughing. Soon Charlie had four points and Alex had two.
“This is it,” Charlie said. “One more point and I win.” He raced around Alex, dribbled a few feet, and kicked the ball hard. It bounced off the fence and soared into the goal. “That’s five! I win!”
“Wait, hold on,” Alex said, running to catch up. “You hit the fence. That’s out of bounds. It doesn’t count.”
“Oh, come on! We never said that,” Charlie said, tossing the ball in his hands.
“But it’s out,” Alex repeated. “You can’t do that. You’re cheating.”
“You’re such a baby,” Charlie said. “I don’t even like playing with you.” He dropped the ball and walked in the back door to their house.
“Oh, yeah?” Alex called after him. “Well, sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me!”
Alex sat down on the back steps and hung his head. Why had Charlie said that? They loved playing together outside. At least, Alex thought they did. He felt his stomach tighten as he remembered what Charlie had said. Words could hurt.
After a few minutes Alex tried to think about what Jesus would do. When people were unkind to Jesus, He was always kind to them. But it was hard! It was Charlie’s fault! Alex thought. I didn’t do anything wrong!
Alex kicked the ball around the yard by himself as he thought. Finally he glanced down at the ball, then looked at the house. It really wasn’t much fun playing on his own. He took a deep breath.
He opened the back door and walked upstairs to Charlie’s room. He peeked inside. Charlie was on his bed reading a book.
“Hey,” Alex said.
“Hey,” Charlie replied, staring at his book.
“Do you want to finish our game?”
Charlie looked up. “I guess so.” He set his book down and shrugged. “Maybe I could take back that last goal and not hit the fence again.”
Alex smiled. “OK.”
The two boys walked down the stairs and went back outside.
“I’m sorry I said what I did,” Charlie said. “I do like playing with you.”
“I know,” Alex said. “Thanks.” He smiled and kicked the ball down the yard. He had never realized what a little kindness could do.
Go to page 6 for an activity to go with this story!

Then there was the talent show where, for the first time, the students who could play the piano, sing, dance or act were recognized. “The best thing,” said Sue, “was that we have these very talented people and they never get recognized like the athletes do. That was our point. People you never hear about were excited to be in the show. We held a performance for the students and another for the parents.”

While pursuing his studies at age 18, he informed the university that he needed a two-year break to serve a mission for the Church. He was told that he could defer for only one year; deferring longer meant he would lose his place in his program. He decided not to serve.
A short time later, however, he heard President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) proclaim during general conference that every worthy young man should serve a mission (see “Planning for a Full and Abundant Life,” Ensign, May 1974, 87).
“It was like he was speaking to me. It just went straight through me,” Elder Meurs recalls. He decided to serve, after all. One week before he left, he received a letter from the university allowing him to defer for two years.
Peter returned to school after his mission, but his missionary service, he says, was “the best education I’ve had.” The gospel taught him that “helping people be successful is the most important leadership principle.”

May 12. At school today some children were being mean to Billy. They were calling him names and saying unkind things. Especially Cory and Timmy. It’s because Billy is, well, different. Mom says he’s “mentally challenged.” He has a harder time learning than most children his age. But he can still go to the same school as everyone else. The teachers just help him a little more.
Anyway, I remembered what Dad had taught in family home evening, so I sat with Billy at lunch today and shared my sandwich with him. His sandwich and potato chips were soaked. Cory and Timmy had filled his lunch box full of water, then laughed and said, “We’re doing you a favor, Billy. We know you have a hard time doing things. Your lunch should go down real easy—you won’t have to chew it at all!”
May 20. Billy asked me if I wanted to go with him on his paper route after school. The other guys wanted me to play ball. So did I, but something inside me said that going with Billy was more important.
We rode our bikes. I helped carry some of the papers in a sack. Afterward, Billy bought me a soda pop. Then we went across the street and lay on the grass in the park. After a while he asked me why I wanted to be his friend, why I liked to do stuff with him. I didn’t know what to say. Finally I told him, “I guess I just like you, that’s all.”
He looked sad. “Is it because you feel sorry for me because I’m … different? Some people make fun of me because I can’t do things like other people. And some are nice because they feel sorry for me.”
I told him that I get mad when other people treat him unkindly and that at first maybe that was why I wanted to be nice. “But after a while, I started liking you because you’re you,” I said. “I like how you sound when you laugh. It makes me feel happy inside. And I like how you treat other living things. Even little things. Like the pollywogs in the creek behind the school last week. You felt bad because the sun was drying up the little ponds of water, so you put the tadpoles in that applesauce jar and moved them farther up the creek where it was deeper. Most people aren’t that kind,” I told him. “You remind me of Jesus.” His eyes got full of tears, and he didn’t say anything. He just tapped me on the arm with his fist and kept looking the other way.
June 7. Billy’s mother called me and asked if I wanted to come over and have dinner with them tonight. Billy was too shy to ask, she said, and wanted her to ask me. (Mom and Dad said it would be fine.) She also said that Billy can’t stop talking about me, that the past few weeks he’s been happier than she can ever remember. “He thinks the world of you,” she said, and she thanked me for being so good to him.
I could tell that she was crying, because her voice started breaking up. I told her that it was easy to like Billy because he was so good. I didn’t tell her, but I had been starting to feel happier inside myself than I had in a long time, and I was already happy. Dad says, “When we open our hearts to others, like Jesus did, we feel a whole different kind of joy.”
June 18. Today Billy and I saved a wild bird. A big kid named Donny, who lives close to Billy’s place, caught it and was going to hurt it. We started yelling at him, and it made him jump and the bird got away. He pushed us down, but we felt so good on the inside that it made what he did to us on the outside kind of not matter.
July 11. Our family got back this morning from a three-day trip to Buck’s Lake. I called Billy to see if we could get together, maybe go to a Saturday matinee or hike in the hills or something. His mother said he could not play … because he’d died two days ago. She began to cry, and Billy’s father got on the phone. He told me that Billy had seen a neighbor’s puppy in the street, and when he ran out to carry it to where it would be safe, he’d been hit by a car. It wasn’t the driver’s fault, Billy’s dad said. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It just happened. I asked Dad if he could give me a blessing of comfort. I guess I’m having a hard time dealing with it.
July 12. I didn’t go to Billy’s funeral today. I just couldn’t. His parents said that they understood. I know that after we die, we will see our loved ones again, and, I believe, our close friends, too. But right now I miss him so bad! We were like brothers. I guess we are brothers. Spirit brothers. And blood brothers. I know we’re spirit brothers because we are all Heavenly Father’s children. And I know we’re blood brothers because we sat under the old fig tree in the field one day and made a pact.
Maybe we can play together in the next life. There might be creeks with tadpoles, but in heaven I’m sure there will always be enough water. Maybe a fence to sit on. And clouds to watch go by.
I know Billy’s happy where he is because he was always more of heaven than of earth. But right now I miss him so much! I will never forget him. Not ever. My mom says I will always have the memories, and so, in a sense, he will always be with me. Memories are eternal, she says, like our spirits. I guess I will always hear his laughter, then. I like that.
July 14. Billy’s parents came over today. They told me how much they appreciated what I did for him. They said that I had made the last part of his life happy and meaningful. “You were a gift from God to him,” they said. I couldn’t say anything back because it’s hard to cry and talk at the same time.
After a while, I told them that Billy was a gift from God to me. That he taught me by the way he lived the things Jesus teaches us. About loving. And caring. And showing kindness to all living things.
July 25. I checked on the tadpoles in the creek today. That’s what Billy would have done. They are doing fine. And so am I.

We challenge parents, home teachers, elders quorum presidents, and bishops that from today you show your concern for these young people. Flood them with affection, letters, tapes, cards, packages, birthday and holiday greetings of all types. Give your Young Adults, teenagers, and others in your ward a stimulating project. Sixteen-year-old Debbie Trujillo wrote a serviceman, “Hi. My name is Debbie Trujillo, and I’ve just been baptized in the Church. I don’t know much about you, but our class is doing this project, and I think it’s neat.” The serviceman said, “I hope my reply can be as sweet and uplifting as her letter.”

Many years ago there was a young woman, Baur Dee Sheffield, who taught in Mutual. She had no children of her own, though she and her husband dearly longed for children. Her love was expressed through devotion to her special young women as each week she taught them eternal truths and lessons of life. Then came illness, followed by death. She was but 27.

Each year, on Memorial Day, her Mutual girls made a pilgrimage of prayer to the graveside of their teacher, always leaving flowers and a little card signed “To Baur Dee, from your girls.” First there were 10 girls who went, then five, then two, and eventually just one, who continues to visit each Memorial Day, always placing on the grave a bouquet of flowers and a card, inscribed as always, “To Baur Dee, from your girls.”

One year, nearly 25 years after Baur Dee’s death, the only one of “her girls” who continued to visit the grave realized she would be away on Memorial Day and decided to visit her teacher’s grave a few days early. She had gathered flowers, tied them with a ribbon, attached a card, and was putting on her jacket to leave when her doorbell rang. She opened the door and was greeted by one of her visiting teachers, Colleen Fuller, who said she had experienced difficulty getting together with her visiting teaching partner and so had decided to come alone and unannounced in an effort to complete her visiting teaching before the end of the month. As Colleen was invited in, she noticed the jacket and flowers and apologized for obviously interrupting whatever had been planned.

“Oh, no problem,” came the response. “I’m just on my way to the cemetery to put flowers on the grave of the woman who was my Mutual teacher, who had a profound influence on me and the other girls she taught. Originally about 10 of us visited her grave each year to express our love and thanks to her, but now I represent the group.”

Colleen asked, “Could your teacher’s name have been Baur Dee?”

“Why, yes,” came the answer. “How did you know?”

With a catch in her voice, Colleen said, “Baur Dee was my aunt—my mother’s sister. Every Memorial Day since she died, my family has found on her grave a bouquet of flowers and a card inscribed from Baur Dee’s girls. They’ve always wanted to know who these girls were so they could thank them for remembering Baur Dee. Now I can let them know.”

Due to misunderstandings by persons who did not want The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints established in Ghana, the Church was banned. On June 14, 1989, the government of Ghana suspended all activities of the Church. The members of the Church faithfully ministered to one another. They did not assemble at meetinghouses, neither did they raise their voices to their Lord, but just like the people of Alma who were persecuted by Amulon they, “did pour out their hearts to him”3. The Savior, through the still small voice, asked these faithful, committed, covenant keeping members to wait and watch, and continue on the covenant path. The voice of the Lord came to them through their afflictions; “lift up your heads and be of good comfort, for I know of the covenant which ye have made unto me; and I will covenant with my people and deliver them out of bondage”.4
On November 29, 1990, after a period of 18 months, the freeze was lifted and the Church could continue as it did before. The members who were “anxiously engaged in a good cause, and [doing] many things of their own free will, and [bringing] to pass much righteousness”5, found joy in the 18-month journey rather than anticipating the arrival.

I would like to share a conversion story from my family history about another of my heroes. Her name is Agnes Hoggan, and she and her husband joined the Church in Scotland in 1861. Suffering great persecution in their homeland, they immigrated to America with their children. Several years later, Agnes became a widow with eight children to support and worked hard to keep them fed and clothed. Her 12-year-old daughter, Isabelle, was lucky enough to find employment as a servant to a wealthy, non-LDS family.

Isabelle lived in their large home and helped look after their younger children. In exchange for her services, a small wage was paid each week to her mother. Isabelle was soon accepted as a member of the family and began to enjoy many of the same privileges, such as taking dance lessons, wearing beautiful clothing, and attending the theater. This arrangement continued for four years, until the family for whom Isabelle worked was transferred to another state. They had grown so fond of Isabelle that they approached her mother, Agnes, and asked for permission to legally adopt her. They promised they would provide her with a good education, see that she married well, and make her an heir to their estate with their own children. They would also continue to make payments to Agnes.

This struggling widow and mother had a hard decision to make, but she did not hesitate for a moment. Listen to the words of her granddaughter, written many years later: “If her love had not compelled [her] to say no, she had an even better reason—she had come all the way from Scotland and had gone through tribulations and trials for the Gospel, and she did not intend, if humanly possible, to let a child of hers lose what she had come so far to gain.” The wealthy family used every possible argument, and Isabelle herself cried and begged to be allowed to go, but Agnes remained firm. As you can imagine, 16-year-old Isabelle felt as if her life was ruined.

Isabelle Hoggan is my great-grandmother, and I am most grateful for the testimony and conviction that burned so brightly in her mother’s heart, which did not allow her to trade her daughter’s membership in the Church for worldly promises. Today, hundreds of her descendants who enjoy the blessings of membership in the Church are the beneficiaries of Agnes’s deep-seated faith and conversion to the gospel.

My great-great-grandmother had a strong conviction that the gospel was more important for her children than all that the world had to offer in the way of wealth and comfort because she had sacrificed, endured, and lived the gospel. Her conversion came through living the principles of the gospel and sacrificing for them.

Family home evening is a time you can learn as a family and have fun! Jayden C. from Texas, USA, says, “One time we shot Nerf bows and arrows at each other for a family home evening activity. Dodging the arrows taught us about avoiding the fiery darts of the adversary. Now that I’ve been hit by Nerf arrows, I understand that the fiery darts of the adversary are not something you want to run into. These activities helped my siblings and me grow closer to our Heavenly Father and our family.”

When I was younger, I attended a private university in my home state in Mexico. I always got along very well with the teachers and university director. I was a great student and got good grades, and the director and I stayed in touch after I finished my degree.
One day in 2010, I was talking with the director. She told me that the university was short a few teachers, and she offered me a job because of my skills and experience.
It felt like such a blessing to me. I was out of work at the time, and we were struggling just to eat. It would be a dream for me to teach so I could provide for my wife and children.
I said, “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”
She said, “Great! The next semester starts in 15 days. We need you to fill out this paperwork and come to the orientation so that you can start working.”
When I went to fill out the paperwork, another teacher saw me and asked what I was going to put where it asked about my religion.
I said, “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
He said, “I recommend that you don’t put that down. If you do, they are going to reject your paperwork immediately.”
I asked myself, How could this be? It’s the twenty-first century. How could religion be an issue? Besides, I felt that I needed to be honest, so I was. I finished the paperwork and emailed it. The next day, I waited to receive information on my teaching schedule. Nothing happened.
The day after that, I contacted the director and asked her about it. She said, “You know what, it’s not going to work out.”
I asked, “Why, what happened?”
She told me, “Your class curriculum doesn’t satisfy the academic requirements.”
This made no sense because she was the one who had offered me the job in the first place. The administrators later told me the truth: I lost the job due to my religion.
Because the university had no written rule or policy regarding the beliefs or religion of the faculty, I had been unfairly discriminated against. It was very hard for me personally, but especially because I didn’t know how I would provide for my family.
One of the things that helped me was thinking about how Nephi was able to build a boat without knowing how to do it before he started (see 1 Nephi 17:7–55; 18:1–4). Knowing that God can guide me and provide the things my family needs helped me make it through this challenging time. As I considered my situation, Heavenly Father helped me so that I never felt angry, and I decided I should let it go. He helped me focus on my family and find a different job as a reporter, and that was a great blessing.

Presidency meetings can also be a time to evaluate and improve. “We had a sacrament meeting where not too many people showed up, and it was hard to know how to adjust when we were passing the sacrament,” says Bridger O., the deacons quorum president.
“As a presidency,” Bridger explains, we decided that the deacons should talk that through and be prepared if it ever happens again.” The presidency also decided to meet with each new deacon as he comes into the quorum and show him how to pass the sacrament.

When I went to Russia as a volunteer English teacher, I knew very little Russian. But as I lived among the Russian people, I began to have the desire to serve them and share the gospel with them. So I started working harder to learn the language.
I started by reading a children’s version of the Book of Mormon in Russian. Armed with a Russian/English dictionary, I struggled through a chapter a day, looking up nearly every word. Then I taught myself to pray in Russian, feeling foolish as the foreign words stumbled off my tongue. Finally, I started learning to bear my testimony. To practice, I would write it in Russian in my journal. It didn’t take long for me to decide that it was hard to learn Russian.
Nearly three months into my stay in Ufa, Russia, another English teacher and I planned a trip to a faraway city called Saratov. We were met at the train station by a wonderful Latter-day Saint family who opened their hearts and their home to us. Our time there was soon over, and we were once again on the train, ready for the 20-hour train ride back to Ufa.
We shared our small compartment with two businessmen who made us a little nervous. They were extremely polite though, so we soon felt safe. When we had left Saratov, the family we had stayed with had explained the importance of being an example: “Don’t forget that everyone is watching you. Everyone.” They gave us a few missionary pamphlets and challenged us to give them away before we got home.
Dubiously, I eyed the two men across from us. I sighed and decided they probably wouldn’t be interested.
But when I got out my scriptures to read, the men were curious and started asking questions. We gave them the pamphlets, which they read.
Later on the trip I started writing in my journal. The men asked why I wasn’t writing in Russian, so I showed them that I often did. The pages I happened to show them contained my testimony. They asked to read it, and I willingly obliged. They also eagerly started reading the Russian copy of the Book of Mormon I gave to them. As they asked questions, I felt as if the room would burst from the Spirit that filled it. One of the men asked if I could feel in my heart “the fire” that was in his and asked if I knew what it was. In my broken Russian I explained it was the Holy Ghost.
I had him read 3 Nephi 11. As we read of the Savior’s ministry among the people on the American continent, tears came to his eyes. He stopped reading and quietly asked, “Does Jesus Christ love me like He loved those people?”
With tears in my eyes I answered, “Yes, He knows you, and He loves you. That is why He wants you to know the truth about His gospel.” He looked at me for another moment and then dropped his eyes to read further. When we arrived in Ufa, we gave him the missionaries’ phone number.
It took a special 20-hour train ride to teach me that I don’t need to be on a full-time mission to serve the Lord and share the gospel. I don’t know if the little seeds that were planted that night have grown. But I do know that miracles occurred. I was converted, even if those men were not.

Mala opened one eye and saw that dawn had lighted the sky. Then she opened the other eye and carefully turned her head from one side to the other. All about her she could see the rest of the family still sleeping on the stone floor of the fale. This was good!
Holding the edges of her sleeping mat closely, she rolled like a cocoon to the open side of the fale. Last night she had put her mat close to the open side so that she could slip out early and alone. She even had a good-sized rock waiting to put on her mat so it would not blow away.
She straightened up and glanced around the village. No fire smoke yet rose, no dog had begun wandering, no pig was yet rooting, and only one chicken was out scratching.
Mala smiled her special secret smile as she silently stole past her friend Fea’s fale, and then just as she was about to slip into the dim shelter of the forest, she heard her mother’s voice, soft and clear, calling, “Mala.”
Instead of answering, Mala dropped to her hands and knees and disappeared under the broad taro leaves. Finally she stood up and reluctantly turned back toward home. By this time many people were awake, and Mala tried to slip back without being seen in order that no one would know she had left her fale early so she would not have to do her share of the work.
But she was too late. Her mother was already caring for the baby, and her big sister, Lila, was ready to scold. Mala hung her head in shame and embarrassment.
“You don’t like to tend the little ones or cut the grass or gather firewood or carry water or gather coconuts or learn to make mats and baskets. You’re a lazy girl, Mala! You don’t like to do anything.”
Mala’s head came up in a flash. “No,” she cried, “that is not true. I like to do many things.”
“Oh? What many things do you like to do?”
“I like to play with the baby. I like to serve my father his food and go to Church meetings in my white dress. I like to sing in the bus going to town, and I like to swim in the sami and try to catch fish. When it’s dark and the grownups are singing and dancing, I like to go in the shadows and dance siva siva too. And most of all I like—”
Mala faltered and stopped because everyone was laughing at her. Even Lila was shaking her head and saying in her grown-up voice, “I think with Mala it is useless to try. I give up on her.”
Embarrassed, Mala dived into her father’s arms and hid her face against his chest. She was glad she hadn’t finished telling her likes, for what she liked most of all was to climb high to the top of Mount Olotele in the early dawn and play with her friends, the little white birds. The birds were so used to her that they would swoop down in a soft flutter of wings and catch the crumbs she threw to them. Then they would play together, girl and birds, darting among the trees and chasing and calling one another.
“My father does not laugh at me,” Mala whispered to herself, safe in his arms. “He taught me how to be friends with the white birds when I was just a little girl.”
Then Father turned her face to his. “Eat some banana, child,” he said kindly. “Then do your work before you play. Today you are to go with your mother and sister and gather matapisu. The good matapisu are at Sliding Rock, but you know that is a very dangerous place.”
“I know,” Mala said, her eyes round with wonder that she would be allowed to go there. “I’ve never gone there before because you have told me I must not.”
“That is so,” Father agreed. “But I think you are big enough now. I am trusting you to be careful. I am also trusting you to work hard,” Father continued. “You can climb the rocks easily because you are small and utu. Go now and help your mother.” And Father gave Mala a hug.
The flat stretch of shore called Sliding Rock is a smooth rock shelf. A low cliff rises on the land side. On the sea side the ocean waves slap at the rock when the tide is low, but when the tide is high, the great waves bash like thunder and come churning hungrily up and over the rock all the way to the cliff. When the tide is high, only a strong swimmer can pull out through the wild waves and swim around the high jutting point, Black Rock, to the quiet tidal pool on the other side.
On Black Rock point Mother and Lila found matapisu most plentiful. Mala soon learned how to pry the little umbrella-shaped shells just right so that she could flip them into her basket.
Mother and Mala worked together.
“I will climb down the ledge, Mala,” Mother said. “You stay here to hand my basket down.”
When the basket was nearly full, Mother called for Mala to take the basket. “The tide is coming in,” she explained, “and I must climb back up before the waves reach me.”
But Mother soon discovered that climbing up was not as easy as getting down had been.
“It’s no use,” she called to Mala. “The tide is too rough. Call Lila to come quickly. Maybe she can reach her arms over to help me. I’ll get beneath the rock crevice out of the spray till she comes. Hurry, I’m afraid I’ve stayed too long.”
“Lila! Lila! Come quickly. Mother will soon be in the sami.”
Lila could not hear Mala’s words, but she knew that her younger sister was frightened. Lila scrambled up and ran to see where Mala was pointing.
The girls flung themselves down as Mother crept out and held herself against the rock. All three strained to reach each other’s hands, but it was no use!
“Run, Mala,” Lila screamed in her ear. “Run for Father while I stay with Mother; I can’t run as fast as you.”
Down over the rocks Mala dashed and scrambled, ignoring all the cuts and bruises on the way. Off across the watery Sliding Rock, slipping, skidding, falling, up and on she went. Finally she was over the treacherous Sliding Rock and racing up through the forest. Vines and bare roots seemed to reach for her nimble feet.
What a long way it is to Father, she thought, and the same long way back to Mother. And then Mala ran even faster—as if the sea were right at her heels.
As she came crashing through the forest, dogs began to bark, pigs ran squealing, and chickens squawked and flopped out of her path.
The people came running to see what was happening. Mala’s father dropped the net he was mending and caught her in his arms.
“Mother!” gasped Mala, “Black Rock! Go, Father—the sami will take her. Run! Run!”
Father let Mala go and ran, shouting to Grandfather without slowing down or looking around. Grandfather dropped the coconut he was husking and ran after Father!
Women and children babbled with questions, but Mala sank down exhausted and weeping in Father’s net. Then as if the net were hot, she sprang up again, gathering it frantically into her arms as she sobbed, “No rope! They have no rope!”
With the net held in a big wad against her chest, she staggered and stumbled away from the fale. Then, getting her balance, she fled through the forest, calling for Father and Grandfather to wait for the net. Already the two men with their strong legs were deep in the forest, and so Mala had to run with the net herself.
When she reached the sami, she could see them far ahead splashing across Sliding Rock, now awash with water. She could see Lila almost lost in spray at the top of Black Rock. Mala’s heart went stone cold, realizing that the waves must be beating at the rock where Mother crouched.
Taking no chances and praying with all her heart, she made her way carefully to the highest places and finally to the top of Black Rock. Looking like a straggle of seaweed, she flopped close to Grandfather.
Grandfather and Lila were holding Father’s legs while he slid farther and farther over the edge of the rock, trying to reach Mother’s hands. Seeing the net, Grandfather shouted and dragged Father back. In an instant the net flew up and out like a round wing of gauze. It flew over the cleft of the rock and landed between waves exactly at the right instant.
It seemed almost forever before Mother’s precious head finally appeared over the edge, and the two strong men carefully pulled her up as she clung to the net. Mother was scraped and cut and half-drowned, but she smiled gratefully.
In the cool dark that evening, friends came from all over the village to hear Lila tell the whole adventure again.
“And after Father and Grandfather pulled Mother out of the sami, we had to get away fast,” recounted Lila. “They carried my mother in the net, for she was sick and badly hurt. The doctor said she must stay in the hospital at least a week.”
“I’m going to help Lila take care of the children and the house,” spoke up Mala.
“Good!” Lila smiled and put her arms around Mala. “I’ll need my sister to help. She is a very brave and clever girl, this Mala. Besides, she’s not fat like me. She is skinny like a spider, and she can run very fast.”
“She can run faster than a spider,” one of the boys laughed. “When I saw her come out of the forest, scaring the dogs and chickens, I thought she was a crazy wild pig.”
Everyone laughed. Then Mala’s father lifted her onto his lap.
What a nice place Father’s lap was for his weary and aching little girl. Snuggling close, warm and happy and sleepy, Mala heard her father say, “I do not think this girl runs like a spider or even like a wild pig. When I saw her zooming out of the forest this morning, she was not running at all. She was flying through the forest like her little white bird friends on the top of Olotele.”

A few months after we got married, Norma and I went to live in Asunción, Paraguay. As young people full of energy and dreams, we moved forward starting from precarious conditions. We started living in a small room, until we got the resources to rent a small house for us and our first child. That little house had a large space in the back and a garden in front. We felt like we owned the world.
We began to embellish the place by planting trees and making a family garden. We planted mango trees in the front of the house, we painted the sidewalk curb white, as well as the walls that surrounded it. We painted the trunks of the trees to avoid pests and we put stones around them also painted white. There was no money to hire a painter to paint the house, so we both painted the house and took care of it even though it was not ours. The house was always clean and well organized. It was a refuge. A place of peace where our children spent the first years of their lives.
After we started painting the house and embellishing it, the neighbors began to do the same; soon, the whole block had sidewalk curb painted white and the houses painted. The block had been transformed.

During my last sacrament meeting at the MTC, an elder stood who was older than most missionaries. He apologized for his poor English, but hoped that he would be understood. His voice was deep and strong. He told of growing up in Cracow, Poland. He felt uncomfortable attending his family’s church and said that he “instinctively” knew some of its practices were not correct. He stopped going to his church and instead began to study the Bible. As he grew he became increasingly unhappy, and at age 18 asked permission to live in Austria. It was granted, and he left his home to find a life elsewhere. He spent nine very difficult months in a refugee camp near Vienna before going to the American Embassy to seek permission to come to the United States. He arrived and, while living in Massachusetts, was contacted by missionaries from many churches. “They were nice,” he said, “but I could tell they did not know everything I was looking for.” One day, he saw something about the Mormons on TV. Warmed by what he saw, he thought he should learn about them. He arrived at an LDS church and introduced himself. He met the missionaries, heard and accepted the gospel, and at age 25 was serving a mission. “It is a privilege to be here,” he said softly in his deep Polish accent. “I have been looking for a long time.”