Gospel Story Finder

Like scarlet-robed noblemen and silken-gowned ladies-in-waiting, we paraded up the stone staircase to the turrets of the castle ramparts. There, we gazed out on a meadow where, in our minds at least, armor-clad knights awaited our signal to begin a joust.
Actually, as the Young Men and Young Women of the North Shields Ward, Sunderland England Stake, gathered inside the portcullis of Warkworth Castle, we had many such images in our minds. Swallowed in the immensity of the building, now mostly a rocky skeleton of the once regal residence, we wondered what it would have been like to roam the corridors, feast in the cavernous banquet hall, or dwell in the cold, stone chambers. It was one of the best history lessons I’ve ever received.
But then, in northeastern England, you could say history’s on the doorstep. A short ride in a minibus had taken us from our homes to the banks of the River Coquet, over which Warkworth’s turrets preside. Across the stream, the hermitage also offered a lesson in history, a lesson of a different sort. We had to row across the current to visit what had been used as a chapel and as living quarters for monks supported by the locals of the town. On rock face ruins, carved markings indicated the river level during the floods of 1831 and 1900, marks well over the head of an average person. Inside, the altar, vaulted roof, and wall decorations were all hewn from the same rock that formed the shell of the hermitage. It must have taken years to carve all that detail!
Even in Tyne and Wear (our home shire, or “county”), however, history lessons don’t last forever. We had to wait at one point for the next boat to cross the river, so we played rounders (which somewhat resembles baseball) and quoits (which resembles horseshoes), and some of the group walked an “invisible dog” to a nearby shop. Sister Ann Wilkinson, first counselor in the Young Women presidency, went strolling and found an unexpected mishap when she slipped on the riverbank. “The funniest part of the day was when my mam fell in the mud!” joked her 15-year-old daughter Linda.
Besides those adventures, we also had to take time for photos, and for lunch, and to admire the remarkable trees, ancient and mangled as they intertwined. After a full day of peering at fantasy armies through castle windows and storming up steps despite the worst foes our imaginations could muster, we reluctantly piled in the bus again to head for home, thinking that the weeks of gardening, stripping wallpaper, and doing odd jobs to pay for the excursion had been worthwhile. We had grown closer to each other as brothers and sisters in the gospel. We had taken an opportunity to explore and get to know the part of the world where we live and serve our Heavenly Father. And we had learned a little about history and geography as well.
On the way home, we paused at Druridge Bay to collect shells we intended to make into gifts for our Autumn Fayre. Kevin Murphy and Helen Loynes couldn’t resist the lure of the cold North Sea, and even persuaded a few of the hardier souls, who had been jumping in the sand banks, to join them, fully clothed, for a dip in the waves. Some shivered and others smiled as we rushed, teeth chattering, back to shore, and collapsed in the rocks and sand. We knew we had to get warm, and we knew we had to get back in the bus and head for home, and we knew we had to stop giggling and laughing. But the moment seemed to last forever, and we knew that the memories formed in one day would last us until the next time we got together for a Latter-day Saint weekend in the land that is our home.

Problem: “The Black Students Union has been propagandized into giving us opposition. How can we help them to better understand our true position?”
Nothing melts friction so quickly as does getting together to discuss so-called problems. One group of Latter-day Saints asked for a private, informal meeting with black organizational leaders, at which time mutual needs were discussed. The atmosphere was constructive and polite, and the result was greater understanding and even cooperative friendship.

During a performance of O’Neill’s Ah, Wilderness at Brigham Young University, a young man became so moved that he had to leave his date and go out to cry in the men’s room. Seeing the play examine family relationships had forced him to examine his own relationship to his family in a more intense and poignant way than he ever had before. He faced some things, admitted some things, learned some things. Sometimes two hours in the theater can do for us what years of professional counseling might not.

In March 1989 I was seriously ill in a hospital in Wismar, in what was then the German Democratic Republic. At the age of ninety-four, I felt completely helpless and had lost all desire to live. In my prayers, I constantly asked God to take me home.
Seeing my pain, my daughter visited me from Hamburg. On each visit, she tried to give me new hope, encouraging me to hold on. Eventually, she and my son-in-law checked me out of the hospital and brought me into their home.
I had always admired my daughter’s strength and confidence. When I asked about her strength, she said that it came from attending church every Sunday. She had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints years before, but I had not felt any interest in her new religion. I didn’t want to abandon my Protestant church.
Now that I was in her home, my daughter began telling me about the Church and reading to me out of the scriptures. She also invited two lady missionaries to tell me more. I enjoyed the visits of these sweet sisters, and through our discussions I eventually gained a conviction that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is indeed the only true church.
So I let myself be baptized on 27 August 1989. There I was—ninety-four years old and born again!
The change I felt was immediate and wonderful. I knew that I would still have to suffer pain but that I could ask the Lord to help me stay faithful to the end. I also knew that our Heavenly Father knows when we will return to him. It was his will that I make the baptism covenant with him in this life.

Riley and Ted were not only frightened when they heard voices and saw the light from flashlights darting about at the Indian digging grounds, they were angry too.
Grandfather had never plowed nor planted the south slope because he had discovered that the area was the site of an ancient Indian village. For many years he had tried to preserve the land even though he was poorer because of the loss of crops he might have raised there.
As a boy Grandfather had found a number of arrowheads and pieces of flint-edged tools on the slope. When he was older he had written many letters trying to interest scientists into exploring the area. Finally, a university archaeology team became interested in excavating the slope.
After a preliminary investigation, they had sent several crews of students to work under the direction of two experienced archaeologists. As various layers of earth were carefully stripped away, the teams became excited when they discovered that more than one ancient civilization had occupied the slope at different times.
Every arrowhead and fragment of bone or clay pot had to be tagged as they were removed so that the separate cultures could be studied. And now, looters were endangering the project!
The students and professors went home on weekends and Grandpa had gone to town to deliver a load of grain. He had not yet returned and Riley and Ted were the only ones left to protect the ancient site. They wondered how they could possibly stop the looters.
“If only we had a telephone, we could call the police,” Ted suggested as he watched the looters’ light.
“But we don’t have one, so there’s no use iffing,” Riley said. “Maybe I could slip through the trees and try to see who the thieves are while you run over to Mr. Howard’s and have him call the sheriff.”
“Okay, Riley,” Ted murmured uneasily, “but be careful. They might be armed.”
“I’ll be careful,” Riley assured him and then continued, “Lots of people have come to watch the digging, but I’ve noticed it’s Jim White and his friends who keep asking Professor Jackson how much money a war club or spearhead is worth. Maybe they’re the looters. They wouldn’t care about reconstructing history. They’d only want to find a two-dollar arrowhead or a bone knife they could sell. Wouldn’t it be great if some Indian ghosts showed up to haunt them? I’ll bet we’d see some hard-running thieves take off then!”
“Yes,” Ted said quietly as an idea began to form in his mind. That would beat running all the way to the Howard’s, he thought. But he didn’t mention it to his older brother who had already disappeared into the trees.
Grandfather had left a wide wooded area between the excavation site and his cultivated land that provided cover for Riley as he climbed the slope. Three-fourths of the way up the hill he stopped. The flashlights had converged on the canvas-covered area where boxes of tagged artifacts were stored before being taken to the university. It was Jim White and his friends all right. One of the lights passed over Jim’s face as he used a rock to hammer at the lock on a toolbox.
“Take the shovels and dig like crazy all along the trenches where those students work with tiny brushes and metal picks,” Jim ordered. “Don’t bother with junk like fragments. We just want stuff we can sell. We’ll show Professor Jackson how to grub out Indian relics!”
Riley felt sick as he thought of the slow, painstaking work of the students. They knelt in cramped positions for hours, hardly noticing the hot sun as they brushed soil away from a potsherd. And he was helpless to prevent the destruction of months of hard work!
Not only was he outnumbered, but the looters were much bigger than Riley. When the sheriff arrested them he could identify all the looters, but that wouldn’t restore the relics Grandpa had protected for so many years.
Suddenly Riley’s breath caught in his throat and he felt the hair stir on the back of his neck as an eerie moan sounded in the darkness. A voice rose and fell in angry waves but Riley couldn’t distinguish any words. In a few seconds he realized it was drifting down from the summit of the hill and not from the young men who had frozen in a huddle around the battered toolbox.
Riley shuddered and his heart began to thud like a tom-tom when Jim’s flashlight picked out a figure coming down the slope. It was an Indian dressed in a loin cloth and an elaborate war bonnet, astride a brown horse! His bronze skin glistened in the dim ray of light.
“A ghost! He’s gotta be a ghost!” someone shouted. No one took time to argue about it. The terrified group broke up and ran off in all directions, leaving behind any thoughts of looting.
Riley ran too, going as fast as he dared down the steep slope. He had never believed in spooks, but he was convinced he had just seen his first! And his last, too, he hoped.
“Wait a minute!” Riley gasped, tripping over a log and rolling against a tree. “That horse looked exactly like Grandpa’s Benjo! And the war bonnet is the one I wore in the Thanksgiving Day play at school!
“It worked, Riley! It worked! They thought I was a real Indian ghost!” Ted cried, as he caught up with Riley. “You said you wished a ghost would scare them away, so I rubbed brown shoe polish all over myself and got your old school costume out of the trunk. Did you see the way they took off? I guess those guys were really scared.”
“Yes, they were,” Riley agreed. Then with a sheepish grin he added, “And you had me fooled for a minute too.”

As the only Latter-day Saint student at my high school in Anglesey, North Wales, I knew that my peers found my religion a bit strange. But as time went by, most of them seemed to accept me and my religion.
By the time I was in my last couple of years at school, I noticed that some of my peers not only accepted but respected my lifestyle. This became even more evident during my advanced English classes.
Much of the literature we studied fueled discussions about religious and moral issues. One of the last books we read was Paradise Lost. It was my first exposure to John Milton’s work, and I was amazed by his insights. I was twice amazed, however, by the doubts and lack of scriptural knowledge my classmates showed. Often I found that I was the only student willing to venture an opinion in class. I bore testimony of the reality of the premortal existence, of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, and of Their divine roles in our lives.
Our teacher, Mr. Brown, was rather a cynic, and he rarely let me have the last word. But I had no way of knowing how my ideas were being taken by the rest of the class, whose silence left me feeling a little lonely in my convictions.
Then one day Mr. Brown walked into our classroom wearing a glower that signaled he was having a bad day. He asked us to turn to Milton and opened the discussion with a question on yet another moral issue. I slowly raised my hand. Mr. Brown looked up, rolled his eyes, then sneered, “And what does our goody-goody Mormon girl have to say this time?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I couldn’t believe it. I felt tears coming as I lowered my head, bit my lip hard, and tried to gain some control over my emotions.
Suddenly all around me I heard chairs being scooted back and angry voices. I looked up. Several of the students were on their feet.
“Hey, you take that back,” yelled Andrew.
“That was unfair,” echoed David.
“You have no right to say that to her,” came another cry.
I started to tremble. I looked up at a couple of my classmates. Andrew leaned over and gave my shoulder a thump. I smiled gratefully, then turned to Mr. Brown. His face was alternating between beet red and sheet white. He raised his hand to try to bring order back to the room and said, “All right! All right! That’s enough!”
Gradually everyone sat down, and Mr. Brown turned to me. “Siân, my comment was out of line. I apologize.” My hands were shaking, but my heart sang with gratitude for my loyal classmates. Quietly I accepted his apology. The lesson continued, but I made no more comments that day.
As we exited the classroom, Mr. Brown pulled me aside and apologized once more. “I don’t know what came over me,” he said, “but I do want you to continue to comment in class. I think we’ve all learned a lot from you. Many of us wish we had the peace of mind you have.” He sounded unhappy, and my heart went out to him.
“If you really want to know what I know,” I suggested, “I’ll bring you a Book of Mormon tomorrow.”
Mr. Brown groaned. “Oh, brother. I guess I asked for that, didn’t I?”
“You most certainly did,” I agreed with a smile.

The Wilkinsons attend Church in Wolfeboro, about 10 miles (16 km) away. Though there are a few other Latter-day Saint families in Alton, they don’t have children Rachel’s age, so her many friends are of other faiths. Friends often ask her to go out on the lake or join them for a barbecue on Sunday, but she always says no and explains why. None of them has taken offense. “It was hard saying no at first, because sometimes you really want to go,” Rachel admits. “But it’s getting easier every time.”

For example, when I was called to be a mission president, my wife, Lucie, was called as my companion. We wanted to be united as we served. We knew that meant it was important for us as a couple to be aligned with the will of the Lord. What’s more, our children would also be affected by our calling since they would accompany us. They were young, ages 14, 11, and 7. Leaving home for three years would be a big adjustment in their lives, so being aligned with the will of the Lord would be important for them too.
We decided as a family that we wanted to serve the Lord together. As my wife says, “We all wanted to be pointed in the same direction.” And as a family we were blessed as we served together in the Democratic Republic of the Congo Mbuji-Mayi Mission.
Serving together strengthened our unity and capacity to face challenges related to a new culture, in a new city, with a new local language. It helped us to be more resilient as we responded to the need to attend leadership seminars and zone conferences and still meet the needs of our children. Our family prayers and scripture study became more meaningful, and our testimonies grew stronger as we watched converts, members, and missionaries love and embrace the gospel.
As a family serving together in the mission field, we witnessed the truth—for ourselves and for others—that we come to know Jesus Christ by doing His will. We saw what happens in the lives of those who hear His voice, obey His commandments, and accept His will in their lives. We received blessings as we fulfilled our own callings, and we watched the spiritual growth of missionaries and local Church members, including recent converts, who accepted callings, shared His gospel, and ministered to one another. We learned that doing His will is simple. It means doing what we are supposed to do to help God fulfill His work and His glory “to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man” (Moses 1:39).
When we accepted the call extended by President Russell M. Nelson to serve as mission leaders, my wife and I knew we were doing what the Lord wanted us to do. And we were delighted when our children joined us in that service. We left everything behind, but we knew that wonderful blessings were ahead. We were eager to share the Savior’s promise: “And this is the will of him that sent me, that every one which seeth the Son, and believeth on him, may have everlasting life: and I will raise him up at the last day” (John 6:40).

A number of weeks later, we had another conference, this time with our new mission president, Elder Gene R. Cook. In my interview with him, he told me he felt that I had a good spirit and that God expected much of me. He also said he knew I could do more and be a better missionary.
I thought deeply about his words, and about those left us by our former mission president. I sought the inspiration of the Spirit and told the Lord that I would work hard during the rest of my mission to bring souls unto him. I dedicated my efforts to fulfilling the mission that God had given me. I worked hard. Even so, as my mission neared its end, I had not yet felt what my first mission president had felt: confirmation from God that my work was accepted.
I continued to work hard, and on the last day of my mission—our preparation day—my companion and I baptized a special young family.
When I returned to the mission home in Montevideo, President Cook interviewed me for the last time. After we prayed together, he asked me if I had anything I wanted to discuss with him.
I thought about it, but decided not to burden him with my desire for a confirmation from the Lord that my work was accepted. Then, as if he read my thoughts, he looked me in the eyes and said, “Elder Acosta, the Spirit tells me that the Lord is pleased with you because of your labors, and I feel that you may return home reassured. I feel that this is troubling you.”
With tears in my eyes, I told him that it had been troubling me but that now I could go home happy because I knew the Lord was pleased with my missionary labors. An inner peace came over me, confirming that it was so.

Last summer when I was going to school in Manchester, England, I had to ride the bus into town every day. Then I had to walk several blocks through the worst part of the city to get to my college. I remember that the most corrupt street of all was right next to my bus stop. The walls of the street shops were covered with obscenities, pornographic posters, graffiti, and vulgar swear words. There were several bars, where open doors sent out loud, suggestive music. People inside called out crude things to me as I walked. The first time I went into town for classes, I got off the bus and walked right down this street. About halfway down, I was so sick, offended, and afraid, that I didn’t think I could make it the rest of the way. I did, with my eyes shut as much as possible, but I decided at that moment that I would never walk down that street again.
Being far away from our home and family, I had plenty of things to worry about and more temptations than I could ever list. I certainly didn’t need to add this street to my worries. So, everyday when I got off the bus to go to school, I would walk an entire block out of my way to avoid that street. Sometimes on rainy mornings when I was late to an eight o’clock class I would want to forget what I had resolved and take the shorter route. But I knew I would feel sick inside if I let myself be exposed to unclean things.
Crossing that street to take the long way around every morning just became a habit. After a while, I didn’t even think of why I was doing it. Then one afternoon a friend of mine, Bob, offered to show me a new music store close to my bus stop. As we left the college together, I automatically crossed the street.
“What are you doing?” Bob asked.
Without thinking, I answered, “I can’t walk on that street.”
“Why not?” he laughed.
Suddenly I heard myself blurting out the whole story. I was far from home and didn’t want to return to my family with a lot of junk in my mind that didn’t belong there. I was uncomfortable on that street.
Bob was several years older than I and much more worldly-wise. I fully expected him to laugh again, and I felt foolish for even telling him about my feelings.
Waiting for his laughter, I looked up to find a very subdued expression on his face. After a few minutes of silence (very uncomfortable ones for me), he told me he wished he’d had a commitment like mine when he first came to school. “I wish I had crossed a few streets, Viv,” he said. “I’m ashamed to go home and see my family. I can’t look Mom in the face after some of the things I’ve seen and done.” We stood in silence for a few more minutes, but it was a comfortable one now. Then he took my arm, and we crossed the street together. We found our music store in no time at all, and had a chance for a wonderful conversation because of our roundabout route. He is now a friend I will always treasure.
I didn’t have to preach a sermon on moral and mental cleanliness. All I did was cross a street when there was something I wasn’t supposed to be exposed to on the other side. He didn’t sneer or criticize or think I was weird. By doing what I knew to be right, I actually earned his respect and friendship.

In August 1986, at 19 years of age, I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In August 1987, a year later, I was called to serve as a missionary assigned to the Alabama Birmingham Mission. I did not know a lot about the Church or the scriptures when I left on my mission, so I was catching up as best I could.

As I learned about our Church history, I was surprised about some of the things I learned. At times, I was confused and did not understand some of the past policies and practices of the Church. This lack of understanding led to self-doubts and worries. As a result, I was resisting to become the kind of missionary the Lord needed in Alabama because I was struggling to understand my place in the gospel plan.

It was as if the Spirit of the Lord had left me, and I felt alone. Each night during the midst of my frustration, my companion ministered to me. He did not try to answer any of my questions or concerns but said at the end of each night, “Elder Johnson, I love you.” He repeated these words every night until finally my heart softened, and I began to feel that my companion truly did love me.

With a softened heart and in a quiet place, I knelt down to pray out loud to God. As I prayed, a scripture came to my mind that before this moment I had never read or studied. It is Doctrine and Covenants 6:21–23, which reads, “Behold, I am Jesus Christ, the Son of God. I am the same that came unto mine own, and mine own received me not. I am the light which shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not. Verily, verily, I say unto you, if you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things. Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?”[1]

I remembered. I cast my mind upon that night during my own conversion a year earlier when I simply asked, “Heavenly Father, is the Book of Mormon true, and is Joseph Smith a prophet?” On that day, feelings of love and joy filled my heart, and I gained a personal witness that the Book of Mormon is indeed another testament of Jesus Christ and that Joseph Smith is indeed a prophet of God.

Heavenly Father wants us to serve others. My Primary teacher was a great example of service. When we came to Primary, Sister Antonietti always brought a chocolate cake. I hated chocolate cake! Everyone else liked it. But I never ate it.
One day she asked me, “Why don’t you try a little piece? This cake is made with a special ingredient.”
I agreed to try it. And guess what? I liked it!
Many years later my mom told me what Sister Antonietti’s secret ingredient was. “Sister Antonietti didn’t have much money,” my mom said. “Each week she had to choose between paying for a bus ride to Primary or buying the ingredients to make the chocolate cake for your class. She always chose the chocolate cake. So instead of riding the bus, she walked more than two miles [3 km], each way, regardless of the weather.”
Sister Antonietti’s secret ingredient was the love she had for others!

A number of years later, the eternal importance of having—and bringing—our family together became clear to me after I accepted the teachings of two young men who knocked on the door of my husband’s chocolate factory. They introduced themselves as missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
My husband, Gerard, had arranged to meet them at home after work, but he forgot to tell me. When I saw these two young people arrive, I had them sit in the living room and wait for Gerard. I wasn’t very nice to them.
I was religious, but my faith didn’t require much of me. I had been living blissfully with no need to study or ask questions. The thought of questioning my faith troubled me, and I didn’t feel brave enough to change my religion.
For a long time, Gerard went to church without me. The small branch he attended held meetings in a trailer while the Church’s first meetinghouse in France was being built. Gerard even helped dig the foundation.
He would come home happy and try to share his impressions with me. Finally, I took the missionary discussions, asking questions mostly intended to embarrass those two poor missionaries. With great patience and total honesty, they admitted their ignorance on certain doctrinal points, offered to research my questions, and returned the following week with unassailable answers.
When a visiting parish priest found out we were receiving the missionaries, he tried to expose Church teachings as false. His efforts, however, had the opposite effect. Even as he tried to paint Church members in the worst possible light, I decided to accept the principles taught by the missionaries and be baptized.
Gerard had been ready for baptism for a long time but did not want to be baptized without me. In May 1964, the missionaries set up a portable canvas pool in the middle of their apartment’s living room and filled it with water from a pipe running from a sink. All our Church friends were there. I was so emotional that I was afraid my tears would make the pool spill over!
One year later in the Bern Switzerland Temple, my husband and I were sealed to each other and then our two daughters were sealed to us. While we were there, we did temple work for our ancestors. I love what the Church teaches about family history and sealings and the gathering of Israel. I love the focus on bringing families together.
It wasn’t easy to do family history in France at that time, but I felt inspired to do it. No digitized records existed, so I often traveled to the hometown of an ancestor to request physical records. I felt such a special feeling when I held documents written by humble people who had been present at the birth, marriage, or death of one of my ancestors.
“I love what the Church teaches about family history and sealings and the gathering of Israel.”
I am somewhat limited now by age, but I’m so grateful I can continue to do work for my ancestors through FamilySearch, both by indexing and finding new names. With the tools available to us, I have indexed more than 35,000 names and found more than 5,000 names to take to the temple.
The happiness we find in the gospel is complete when we can enjoy it with our families. I’m grateful for the chance to bring them together—to bring them home forever.

I was at my friend’s house, and he wanted us to ride our bikes to the church. One of our family rules is that if we go somewhere other than where we told our parents we would be, we have to call and let them know.
I told my friend that I needed to call my mom, and he told me not to. He didn’t want to wait, and he said, “Let’s just go.”
I said I needed to call my mom first, and then he started calling me names and being mean to me. I didn’t go with him. I went home instead, even though I felt left out. I knew that I was supposed to obey my mom.

One time I was conducting a conference in Salt Lake City and President George F. Richards of the Council of the Twelve was there. I invited him to speak, and he said, no, he didn’t care to speak but to go ahead. So I began to speak, and I told them that if they ever told a story about anybody, that story would stick to that person no matter how long he lived, and it would be believed by most people, and therefore they must not bear false witness.
While I was speaking, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there stood President Richards right behind me, and he said, “I’ve changed my mind. I want to speak.”
He said words about like this: “Once upon a time I was a high councilor in a stake, and somebody made a serious accusation against a man. We debated whether to have him in and try him. Finally, the stake president decided he would talk to him privately, and apparently he did, and the man proved to the satisfaction of all of us that not only was he not guilty of the accusation, but he hadn’t even been in the country when it was supposed to have taken place. He was away somewhere, and he couldn’t possibly have done it.”
He said, “Forty years went by, and that man’s name came up for a very high appointment in the Church. In spite of myself, I caught myself wondering if the story told about the man was true, even though it had been proven false.
I had to get hold of myself to keep from voting negatively against that man on a false story told forty years before that was proved false.” Then he sat down, and I continued speaking.

It has taken me eight years to get around to writing and telling you how much I appreciate your fantastic magazine, but I’m finally repenting of my procrastination. I come from Perth, Western Australia, and eight years ago my family came to the New Zealand Temple. Just before we left home I grabbed several New Eras because I thought it would be good to have something a bit spiritual to read while we were traveling to the temple. Before that time I had rarely bothered to read much more than the Mormonisms. (I still love those!)
In the week and a half it took me to drive to Sydney before flying to New Zealand, I read each of those magazines from cover to cover. Many articles I read two or three times. By the time we got back home again I was totally hooked, and I have been ever since. Mom often used to complain that she’d never see the New Era, because as soon as it arrived it would disappear to my room to be read in the next day or two and then be added to a pile under my bed to be reviewed whenever I had spare time. Now I am back in New Zealand serving in the New Zealand Auckland Mission. In the years I was preparing for my mission, and also during my past 19 months in the mission field, the New Era has always been a great source of strength, encouragement, and inspiration to me.
There’s one thing I’d like to ask, though. Could you publish a book of favorite poems, stories, articles, and music from the New Era so that those who have missed out or lost earlier copies of the New Era don’t have to miss out on the great things they contained? Keep up the great work. You’ve got a bonger (Aussie for great) magazine.
Elder Grant O’NeilNew Zealand Auckland Mission

“During the St. Petersburg concert,” said James B. Kennard, “I kept making eye contact with a man in the audience. I found him afterwards and invited him to the fireside the next evening. He and his two sons came to the fireside and then invited us to their apartment, where we held a gospel discussion. They happily agreed to read the Book of Mormon and visit with the missionaries. At the evening’s end, our wives embraced and hugged each other.”

A few years ago I had the opportunity to teach seminary at Timpview High School in Provo, Utah. I was excited to begin a new year and looked forward with great anticipation to what the future held.
I was somewhat apprehensive, however, about going to Timpview because it would be my first experience of teaching or attending school without spending my afternoons playing football or baseball or coaching. I knew I could do it, but I worried nevertheless. I suppose that is why I enjoyed pep assemblies so much. It was an opportunity to feel many of the same feelings I had had as a player and as a coach. You have probably had the same experience—chills running down your arms and the back of your neck when you enter the gymnasium while the band is playing and the cheerleaders are cheering. It’s exciting!
I remember one particular assembly before a big game. The cheerleaders had planned a special class competition involving cream pies. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember that some of the athletes, you know the type, the ones who all sit together and won’t cheer except on rare occasions, got an idea to liven things up by throwing some of the pies at the cheerleaders. Somehow the activities the cheerleaders had planned were left in a barrage of pies being thrown, hairdos being ruined, and the student body cheering for the athletic culprits. I must admit, it was quite an experience.
Very little was said to these young men, that I am aware of, by the cheerleaders. Each girl allowed the boys to think they had really gained the upper hand and gotten away with a fast one.
The pies were soon forgotten, and another pep assembly greeted us a few weeks later.
This time, as we entered the gym, there were 12 caramel apples on center court. Big, beautiful, brown caramel apples, waiting for someone to eat them.
When everyone was settled down and the band had ceased playing, the head cheerleader walked to the microphone and began to explain that morning’s class competition. From the small piece of paper she read the names of six football players and challenged them to a candied-apple-eating contest. As each name was read the responding young man came down to the basketball court with confidence, raising his hands as if in triumph, knowing that he could eat an apple faster than any girl.
Myself and another teacher were called upon to judge this historic event. The cheerleaders explained the rules to me, and I then explained them to the young men. The young men, however, were not overly concerned because each was proficient in eating and eating quickly. The only two rules were (1) every apple on each team must be completely devoured and (2) the girls were to be allowed a ten-second head start.
After hearing the rules, the young men decided on a game plan: they would not chew—just bite, swallow, bite, swallow, until each apple was gone. With such strategy the contest began.
The whistle blew, and the girls began to eat with great care and deliberate actions. The boys, on the other hand, stood watching, waiting for their winning opportunity.
When the second whistle blew, each young man, without any hesitation or forethought, lunged toward the caramel apple before him. With no table manners evident, they began to devour them with great haste—bite, swallow, bite, swallow. Then suddenly, in unison, as if a light switch had been turned on inside each boy, heads raised in shock and disbelief as they realized they were not eating candy covered apples but candy-covered onions! The crowd roared when they realized what had happened. The cheerleaders, on the other hand, stood calmly, hands signaling the peace sign in recognition of their sly plan to deceive the football players.
By now these poor boys were looking as white as sheets and trying to get rid of the large bites of raw onion which were now floating throughout their systems.
I’ll never forget it! Those poor guys smelled like onions for quite some time, and it was not an easy task to rid themselves of the stench.

My teachers were heaven-sent. May I mention but a few: our former stake president, Harold B. Lee; President Marion G. Romney; and President J. Reuben Clark.
President Clark too was a master teacher. It was my privilege during those years to assist him in the preparation of his manuscripts that they might find their way into printed volumes. What a unique and profitable experience to be with him frequently. Knowing that I was a new bishop presiding over a difficult ward, he emphasized the need for me to know my people, to understand their circumstances, and, in the spirit of tenderness, to minister to their needs. One day he recounted the example of the Savior as recorded in Luke, chapter seven, verses eleven through fifteen:
“And it came to pass … that he went into a city called Nain; and many of his disciples went with him. …
“When he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. …
“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not.
“And he came and touched the bier. … And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.
“And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother.”
When President Clark closed the Bible, I noticed that he was weeping. In a quiet voice he said, “Tom, be kind to the widows, and look after the poor.”

One evening in April 1836, for example, Elder Parley P. Pratt had retired early with pressing worries and a heavy heart. He didn’t know how he was going to meet his financial obligations. His wife had been seriously ill, and his aged mother had come to live with him. A year earlier the house he had been building had gone up in flames.

While he was deep in thought, a knock came at the door. Elder Heber C. Kimball entered and, filled with the spirit of prophecy, told Elder Pratt that he should travel to Toronto, Canada, where he would “find a people prepared for the fulness of the gospel” and that “many [would] be brought to the knowledge of the truth.”

Despite his worries, Elder Pratt departed. When he arrived in Toronto, at first no one seemed interested in hearing what he had to say.

Among those he met was John Taylor, who had been a Methodist preacher. John received Elder Pratt courteously but coolly. John Taylor had heard distorted rumors about a new sect, their “golden bible,” and stories of angels appearing to an “unlearned youth, reared in the backwoods of New York.”

A wise man, John Taylor had been seeking the truth all his life. He listened to what Elder Pratt had to say. Among other things, the stranger from America promised that anyone who investigated the gospel could know for himself, through the influence of the Holy Ghost, that it was true.

At one point John Taylor asked, “What do you mean by this Holy Ghost? … [Will it give] a certain knowledge of the principles that you believe in?”

The Apostle replied, “Yes, … and if it will not, then I am an impostor.”

Hearing this, John Taylor took up the challenge, saying, “If I find his religion true, I shall accept it, no matter what the consequences may be; and if false, then I shall expose it.”

Not only did he accept the challenge, but he “received that Spirit through obedience to the Gospel.” Soon he knew for himself what millions of others have since known, that the gospel of Jesus Christ has been restored to the earth.

Eventually this man who had devoted his entire life to seeking the truth became the third President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.