Gospel Story Finder

I count it as a great blessing that I was able to serve a mission in Italy at a time when the Church was very young there. Our branches met in rented halls, and we hoped that someday stakes and wards might exist there. I watched brave pioneers come into the Church and lay the foundation for the gathering of Israel in that great land.

One of these was Agnese Galdiolo. We all felt the Spirit powerfully as she was taught the missionary lessons. But, even feeling that Spirit, she knew that her family would be strongly opposed to her being baptized. At a certain point, however, filled with the Spirit, she agreed to be baptized. But she changed her mind the morning of her scheduled baptism. She came early to the rented hall where she was to be baptized to tell us that because of family pressure, she could not do it.

Before leaving, she agreed that we could talk for a few minutes. We went to a classroom where we suggested that we pray together. After we had knelt, we asked her to say the prayer. After the prayer she stood up in tears and said, “All right, I will be baptized.” And a few minutes later she was. The next year she married Sebastiano Caruso, and they raised four children, all of whom served missions and have continued since to serve in the Church.

Elder and Sister Curtis with some members of the Caruso family

Agnese and Sebastiano also served a mission, with Sebastiano as mission president. When I served a second mission in Italy, 25 years after the first, I was able to see what the Carusos and other pioneers had done to expand the kingdom of God there. My missionaries and I worked to build the Church, dreaming that someday a temple might be built in Italy. Imagine my joy in the fact that we now have the Rome Italy Temple.

This story happened in Finland.
Jonas laughed as he raced his brothers to the living room for home evening. He could still smell the yummy roasted lamb from Easter dinner. And he could still taste the sweet pasha, their traditional Easter dessert.
After the family was sitting quietly, Jonas’s older brother Tristan stood up.
“Happy Easter!” Tristan said. He started their home evening with a song and prayer. Then it was time for their special music program. Everyone had prepared a song about Jesus Christ to share.
Tristan played the guitar, strumming each string carefully. Then his brother Einar played the piano. His fingers moved across the keys. Mom, Dad, and Jonas’s other brothers also played songs. Jonas loved hearing his family’s music.
At last it was Jonas’s turn. He took a deep breath and started to sing.
“At times I am tempted to make a wrong choice, but I try to listen as the still small voice whispers, ‘Love one another as Jesus loves you.’”
As Jonas sang, his heart filled with love. His eyes filled with happy tears. It felt like the Holy Ghost was telling Jonas that Heavenly Father and Jesus loved him.
“Thank you all for sharing your talents,” Dad said. He held up a picture. It showed Jesus Christ kneeling and praying next to a tree. “Who knows what’s happening in this picture?”
Jonas raised his hand. “That’s Jesus praying in Gethsemane.”
Dad nodded. “Yes. That’s where He felt all of our hurt and sadness.”
“He went to the Garden of Gethsemane before He died,” Mom said. “After He died, He lived again. This is all part of His Atonement. Jesus did all of this because He loves us.”
Mom turned on a video about the first Easter. When the video ended, everyone was quiet for a minute. Jonas felt Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ’s love again.
“Now is it time for our activity?” Jonas asked.
Mom stood from the couch and went to the cabinet. “Yes! Jonas, will you help me?”
Jonas and Mom got out glue, scissors, and a pile of Church magazines. They spread them out on the floor. Then Mom gave everyone their special Easter journals. “Let’s make picture art of Jesus Christ in our journals for Easter.”
Jonas sat on the floor and opened his notebook.
Dad picked up a pen to write in his journal. “Next to your pictures, you can write down what you will do to follow Heavenly Father and Jesus so you can become more like Them.”
Jonas turned the pages of one of the magazines. He found a picture of Jesus Christ smiling.
Jonas cut out the picture and glued it in the center of his journal page. He thought about all the love he had felt from the Savior that day. Then he wrote, “I will follow Heavenly Father and Jesus by listening to Dad and Mom and helping with chores. I will love my brothers more.” He held it up to show Mom. She read what he had written and smiled.
Jonas would remember this Easter for a long time. He felt Jesus Christ’s love when he sang and learned about Him. And he felt Jesus’s love when he tried to be like Him.
Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ really did love Jonas. And Jonas loved Them too.
Pasha is a sweet custard dessert. Do you have an Easter treat you eat each year?
Illustrations by Steliyana Doneva

Elder Ronald A. Rasband visited Oklahoma just after a huge tornado struck the area. He was especially touched by a fifth grader he met there named Tori. She had huddled in the restroom with her friends as the tornado roared through her school. Tori said a prayer that Heavenly Father would protect them. Suddenly the roof tore away! Tori kept praying. “All of a sudden it got quiet,” she said. “When I opened my eyes, I saw a stop sign right in front of my eyes!” Later Elder Rasband gave Tori a blessing. He told her that angels had protected her in the storm. (See “The Joyful Burden of Discipleship” from the Saturday morning session.)

For the first time ever, a youth conference was held in the Republic of Kiribati, a group of islands straddling the equator in the central Pacific. The islands are part of the Fiji Suva Mission, and there are branches of the Church on some of the islands.
For two days, 500 young people gathered on the campus of Moroni High School on the island of Tarawa. The first day was spent getting acquainted in games, races, and field events. Everyone enjoyed participating in the activities regardless of who won. A dance was held in the evening.
The next day started with a testimony meeting, the highlight of all youth conferences. The testimonies expressed dealt with the depth of feeling the youth had for the gospel.
One of the outstanding stories about the conference took place before the conference began. Youth from the North Tarawa Branch, which is separated from South Tarawa by a strip of ocean half a mile wide, were not able to get transportation. They waded through the shallow water at low tide, then hiked 15 miles through much of the night to arrive at the conference on time. They were so pleased with the conference that they said the effort they made to get there was well worth it.
The youth enjoyed the conference and getting to know each other better. They tried to persuade the adult leaders to hold another conference the following month.

“Lowell, can you stay a few minutes after class? I’d like to talk to you,” Mr. Taylor, my tenth-grade history teacher, asked. He addressed me directly, which drew the attention of the other students, something I didn’t want, but I answered with a reluctant nod that I would stay.
My schoolwork had suffered in the past few weeks. My sense of self-worth had practically disappeared, and I had developed an inferiority complex. I had a bad case of acne and had become self-conscious because of the blemishes on my face. There was no way I could hide them. I imagined everyone was looking at me and saying, “Look at that ugly, pimple-faced kid.” I didn’t feel there was any place for me, in or out of school.
I tried not to associate with anyone. What did it matter if I didn’t get good grades in school or participate in the sports I used to enjoy? Even my church duties became unimportant.
I felt especially bad about letting my grades drop off in history because I liked Mr. Taylor. He wasn’t a trained philosopher or psychologist, just a good teacher who was genuinely concerned about his students.
I stayed in my seat when the others left the classroom. Mr. Taylor came and sat in a desk opposite me.
“Lowell, your schoolwork has fallen off lately. You have gone from a B student to a D. But I don’t care about that as much as I care about what’s happening to you.” He paused, waiting to hear a comment from me, then continued.
“Maybe we could find a solution to get you back on track. Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you,” he said.
“Mr. Taylor, you see this acne on my face. I want to stay away from people. I don’t want anyone to see me. I really want to do as well as I can in school, but I don’t want to draw attention to my looks.” I stopped and waited for Mr. Taylor to speak.
“Do you think Coach Forsberg would say, ‘That kid has pimples, so he can’t play for me.’ No. If you can’t play for Coach Forsberg, it will be because you don’t put forth the effort. Do you think Coach Worthington is not going to let you high jump because your face doesn’t look just right? He doesn’t care if your nose is in the back of your head, as long as you are a good high jumper and can help the team,” said Mr. Taylor.
“Do you think if you work hard in my class and earn an A or a B, I’m going to say, ‘That kid has acne, so I’ll give him a D?’ Absolutely not, nor will any of your other teachers,” Mr. Taylor finished.
I gave what he told me a lot of thought. With my present self-conscious attitude, I wasn’t realizing any of my goals. I left the classroom with a determination to raise my head a little higher and test out his ideas.
I wasn’t a great football hero, but I made the team. I high jumped in track, and my grades improved. I even did my church duties again. I wasn’t a loner anymore. I had friends.
I was still conscious of my appearance, but I wasn’t letting it rule my life.
“Let what’s on the inside outshine what’s on the outside, and you’ll come out a winner,” Mr. Taylor used to say.
Thanks, Mr. Taylor.

Several weeks after we broke up, I returned to school late one spring afternoon. I searched through the mess in my locker and soon found what I was looking for. The little black paperback was slightly dog-eared but still readable. Maybe it would answer some of my questions. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me carrying an LDS book, tucked it inside my jacket, and went home.
When I got home I hurried upstairs with my secret bundle and hid it in my desk drawer. I knew my parents wouldn’t approve of me reading Mormon “propaganda.”
Two weeks passed before I had a chance to be alone with the book. When I had the opportunity, I took the book out of my desk, stretched out on my bed, and started to read.
I opened the book, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, and skimmed its pages. A section about the Joseph Smith story caught my eye, so I read it carefully. As I read the story of Joseph Smith’s vision, I knew that it was true. I also knew that if his story was true, then the church he founded must also be true.
A little later I agreed to take the missionary discussions, and I rapidly gained a testimony of the principles of the gospel. After the discussions, I knew that I should join the Church, and after much fasting, praying, and soul searching, I was baptized. Liz was there. She cried.
A little more than a year after I was baptized, Liz and I again visited the temple, this time to be married for time and all eternity. That was 13 years ago. Today, and every day, as I watch our family blossom and grow, I’m grateful for the strong testimony of that cute little Mormon girl. I’m thankful that she was courageous enough to refuse to compromise on an issue that meant eternal happiness for her, and eventually, for me too.

They had seen it all before. The Ahuna kids of Kaneohe, Hawaii, would be sitting at a ward dinner minding their own business when someone would stand up and inform the audience there would be some impromptu entertainment.

The four oldest, Joseph, Ruth, David, and Angela, would look up, utensils in hand. They were pretty sure what was coming next.

"We’d like to invite the Ahunas to come forward and do their Polynesian dances," the man holding the microphone would say.

With knowing looks at each other, the four would set down their forks, their rice would get cold, and outside to the car they’d go, pulling out grass skirts and hoops and all the other things they needed for their show.

Dad had struck again.

"He’d just volunteer us," says Ruth of her father, Joseph. "We never knew when we were going to perform. But my dad thought the more we shared our talents, the more we’d grow."

Ruth and her brothers and sister would step on stage, they’d spend about an hour putting on their song-and-dance show, and in the end they’d bring down the house.

And there was Dad, smiling as big as ever.

War on the European front had ended in May 1945. But months later, even though Christmas was approaching, the dreary nightmare of years of hate and destruction still stretched a shadowy hand over much of Europe. Austria’s city on the Danube, Vienna the beautiful, lay largely in ruin.
Prized public monuments like Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, the Opera, and the Burgtheater were virtually destroyed. In the city where the Strausses played their waltzes, where Mozart and Beethoven performed The Magic Flute and the Eroica Symphony, where the Fine Arts Museum housed the Hapsburg collection of paintings by the old masters, it was a time for starting over.
It was also a time of want. Food and clothing were scarce, water purity uncertain. Nearly 270,000 Viennese were homeless. Bombed out buildings hovered like specters over potholed streets. And Vienna was a city divided, with Allied forces each patrolling the areas under their jurisdiction. People didn’t venture out at night; there was still a lot of fear in the air.
A number of Latter-day Saints were stationed in the American sector. Local Church members made contact with us and invited us to attend services they were organizing, which we did with joy. We were happy to see them and glad for the fellowship. As Christmas approached, we Americans wrote home to our families and suggested they send us food and other presents we could share with our fellow members of the Church.
A plan was laid out so that all of the Austrian members would have servicemen visit them to celebrate Christ’s birth. Captain Gibson and I were assigned to spend an evening with the branch president’s family, over in the Russian sector.
Captain Gibson had been there before, but I had not. As we crossed the bridge over the Danube, I was impressed that the damage on the eastern side of the city, which included much of the port area, was particularly heavy. Vacant ruins gave no indication of street names or house numbers. There were no street lights to help us find directions.
After several minutes, however, Captain Gibson said, “Stop here. Pull over to the side,” and I did.
He leaned out of the jeep, cupped his hands around his mouth, and clearly, firmly whistled the Primary song, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.”
We waited. The dark, empty street was terrifying. I had misgivings about being in the wrong location. I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if we’d ever get back.
Then, across the street and three floors up, shutters on a window opened. In soft, clear notes that sweet little tune was whistled again, and when I heard it my fears evaporated. It was the response we’d arranged ahead of time. We were to whistle a Church song and the members were to whistle a response if everything was okay.
A minute later we heard footsteps, then saw the branch president’s daughter running across the cobblestones, accompanied by a trusted neighbor. They opened a gate to an inner courtyard, and we pulled the jeep in off the street. They closed the gate behind us and locked it.
The daughter’s excitement was apparent. She nearly danced up the three flights of stairs, where we met her parents and another daughter. We looked around the meagerly furnished apartment. Though the family was in dire circumstances, it was, after all, Christmas Eve, and the table was set for dinner.
It seems strange to say we feasted on salmon loaf and artificial orange drink, but feast we did. And more than food, we feasted on love and companionship. We feasted on the knowledge that God’s son was born into a weary world to bring it hope and light. We feasted on the firm belief that with war’s end the gospel would again be preached in Europe and that the Saints would again be free to gather and worship.
We sang the songs the Saints all sing, hymns and Christmas carols. The family gave us each a handmade Christmas card. We gave them some food and clothing. Together we knelt in a prayer of thanks, and then Captain Gibson and I returned to our quarters, enriched and strengthened.
That was 40 years ago, and the horrors of postwar Europe seem long past and far away. Vienna is once again the beautiful city on the Danube, where Saint Stephen’s, the Opera, and the Burgtheater, all rebuilt, stand as monuments to man’s commitment to overcome the bombs and flames of war.
Even now, though, whenever I hear “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”—especially when it’s almost Christmas—my mind floods with memories of a dark street where a gentle whistle reminded me that wherever the Saints gather, there is always faith, rejoicing, fellowship, and hope.

Mom and Dad have called Hannah and her siblings for a family meeting.
Our Church leaders have asked us to prepare for emergencies. But we don’t have much extra money. We’ll have to make a sacrifice.
We’re giving up cereal for one month. We’ll use the money to buy supplies. OK?
What will we eat for breakfast?
Oatmeal! We have lots in our food storage.
Oatmeal? Blegh!
The next morning
Try mixing something in. I like raisins in mine.
*sigh* OK …
Day 1: Raisins
Gross!
Day 2: Banana
Yuck!
Day 3: Coconut
Ew!
Day 4: Berries
Nope!
Try this. It has apples, cinnamon, and brown sugar. It tastes like apple pie!
Mmm, that’s good! I’m having this tomorrow too.
I bought first aid supplies for our emergency kits yesterday. Thanks for being good sports. I know giving up your favorite cereal was a sacrifice.
I guess all this gloppy oatmeal was worth it.
Besides, it’s not so bad after all!

Early one summer morning a mother and father quail with their brood of thirteen little chicks came out of the bushes in our backyard where they had been nesting. The little chicks looked like tiny balls of fur, and the parent birds were clucking and scolding.
The father quail went first, strutting and moving his head mightily from left to right. When he was far enough into the street that he could see clearly in both directions, he gave a call and the mother quail started across the street. Then, like little soldiers, the baby quail lined up single file and followed her, running as fast as they could. The father fell in line after the last chick, and the family scurried safely across the street.
The baby quail showed great obedience and devotion to their parents. The little ones had faith in their parents’ leadership. They knew they would be protected and guided to a place where they could safely hunt for seeds they liked to eat. The parents expected obedience from their tiny chicks. They did not want them to stray, and yet they led them with tenderness.

Many years ago I was in a professional association with two older, more experienced men. We had been friends for many years and found it mutually beneficial to help one another. One day, one associate sought our help on a complex matter. As soon as the issue had been explained, the first thing the other associate said was, “What’s in it for me?” When his old friend responded so selfishly, I saw the look of pain and disappointment on the face of the one who had invited our help. The relationship between the two was never quite the same after that. Our self-serving friend did not prosper, as his selfishness soon eclipsed his considerable gifts, talents, and qualities. Unfortunately, one of the curses of the world today is encapsulated in this selfish response, “What’s in it for me?”

Squeezing the last box into the back of my station wagon, I slammed the door shut and checked my watch. I was on schedule. My last batch of exams was graded, and the car was packed. If I left immediately, I would have to drive only the final hour or so of my trip to Louisville, Kentucky, in the dark.
The last two weeks had been long and unbearably dull in South Bend, Indiana. My husband, Mark, a law student, had already started his summer internship in Louisville. But as a high school teacher in South Bend, I had spent two more weeks finishing the school year before I could join him.
Relieved to be on the road, I drove fast, but about an hour into my five-hour trip, I began to think about Sara and her daughter, Betsy. We had first met in Relief Society nine months earlier. Standing in the back with a baby in her arms, she had introduced herself saying, “Hi, I’m Sara. I’m from Utah. And this is Betsy. She’s from heaven.” I laughed, liking her immediately. Just like me she was the wife of a law student, and I was pleased when she was called to be my visiting teacher.
About a month before my departure, Betsy had suffered a seizure. Tests revealed a large brain tumor that appeared almost inoperable, but doctors insisted that without an operation Betsy had no chance of survival.
My heart ached for Sara. Along with the rest of our ward and stake, we had fasted and prayed for a miracle. Betsy underwent brain surgery and amazed the doctors, who had not expected her to survive the operation. Still, only part of the tumor had been removed, and Betsy progressed slowly. Her parents, meanwhile, faced impossible decisions on how to treat the remaining tumor without destroying her infant body.
The operation had taken place in Indianapolis, the halfway point in my journey to Louisville. Sara was still there with Betsy, while her husband had returned to South Bend to take the final exams he had missed.
I checked my watch. I could think of plenty of reasons to drive through without stopping, but none of them did anything to silence the voice inside telling me I needed to stop. So I pulled off the freeway and called the hospital from a pay phone. My call was directed to Betsy’s room, and Sara answered. I could hear in her voice that she was happy I had called. She would be thrilled to have me stop by. I felt the peace and relief of having followed the Spirit’s prompting.
As I drove toward the hospital I realized I had my violin wedged between a suitcase and a box of books in the backseat. With a measure of guilt I remembered that I had not touched it in weeks, even though I had studied violin from the age of three. Music had always been a source of happiness in my life.
The thought came that I should take my violin with me and play for Betsy. Normally I would never have considered the idea. It seemed a little arrogant to arrive unannounced with my violin and subject all those within listening range to an impromptu recital. But I quickly recognized the feeling that accompanied this thought as the same Spirit that had prompted me to make the visit.
When I arrived, Sara was weary but happy to see me. Betsy had a large tube in her head and another in her throat. As I looked at her tiny body and then into her eyes, I wondered how much pain she had suffered and how much more she would have to endure.
Sara was thrilled that I had brought my violin. For more than an hour I played hymns, Primary songs, classical music, and anything she requested that I could play by ear. As I played, Betsy stared at me, wide-eyed. Sara insisted it was the most alert Betsy had been since her surgery and was eager for me to keep playing. Several patients—children and their parents—stopped by the room and listened for a while.
Time passed quickly without my noticing. And as I stood at the foot of the bed playing “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301), I was overwhelmed with the intensity of Heavenly Father’s love for this sick little girl. I knew as I played that He loved Betsy dearly and wanted her to find relief from her pain through the music.
As I left the hospital in the dark that night to complete my trip to Louisville, I remembered the words from my patriarchal blessing that I had not thought about for some time. I had been blessed with musical talent and was expected to develop it so I could bring joy to others.
Through Betsy I was reminded of the Lord’s purpose in giving us gifts. “All these gifts come from God, for the benefit of the children of God” (D&C 46:26). By listening to the Spirit I was given the opportunity to share my talent as the Lord intended and to feel the tremendous compassion He has for His children.

Over the years, Kumar met two other mission presidents and occasionally had the opportunity to take some couple missionaries on tours which also had a positive influence on him. After talking with some good members, Kumar decided to take the missionary lessons.

Kumar remembered the first lesson when President Roshan, Negombo branch president, told him he shouldn’t worry if a tour group commitment prevented him from coming to church sometimes. He assured him that this church is not for perfect people but those who are striving to become perfect.

Kumar exclaimed, “This was wonderful to my ears,” as this issue of missing church after committing himself to Christ weighed heavily on his mind. Now he could progress with a clear conscience and learn more about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

“The Book of Mormon was very nice to read. It helped me feel closer to my wife and more comfortable with my family,” says Kumar. In December of 2019, Kumar was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Brian felt very proud. He had built a birdhouse with a feeder tray that was just right for sparrows. Brian poured birdseed on the tray before he hung the birdhouse up in a tree where he could see it from the kitchen window. Then he waited.
About a week later a mother and father bird moved into the house. They carried small twigs and pieces of grass and string into the house to build a nest. Then the mother bird laid some eggs. Brian watched them every day. He always checked to make sure there was birdseed in the feeder.
One day Brian heard chirping. The baby birds had hatched! All day long the mother and father birds flew out of the house, then came back with a worm or a bug. They landed on the perch in front of the door and poked their heads in. When they pulled their heads out, their beaks were empty, and they flew away again.
A few days after the baby birds hatched, Brian saw some bees near the birdhouse. After the mother and father birds left to find food, the bees flew into the birdhouse. The bees buzzed and buzzed, and the baby birds chirped like they were scared. The mother and father birds came back, but they could only sit on a tree branch and watch.
Brian was scared. The bees buzzed like they were getting angry, and the babies were chirping frantically. He didn’t know what to do. “Those bees are going to sting the babies and kill them!” he cried.
He ran into the house to tell his mom. After she saw the bees, she called a teacher at the university. Brian sat in the kitchen, listening to his mom on the phone and watching the birdhouse out the window.
“Are you sure?” Brian’s mother said into the phone. “Well, all right, then. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and said, “He said there’s nothing we can do.”
Brian started to cry. He reached up and hugged his mom. Then he said a prayer in his heart. He asked Heavenly Father to help his mom save those little birds.
In about a minute, Brian’s mom ran over to the fridge. She quickly pulled a great big white onion out of a drawer and chopped it in half. Juices started oozing out of the onion and tears started rolling out of her eyes.
“Here,” she said, handing half to Brian. “Go put this on the bird feeder. Maybe it will scare the bees away.”
Brian took the onion and ran out the door. His eyes had started to water and his nose had started to run by the time he got the onion on the feeder. The bees suddenly swarmed out of the birdhouse and were gone. Brian was relieved, but the mother and father birds still wouldn’t come feed their babies. They stayed on their branch, staring at Brian. One had a worm in its beak; the other had a bug. Brian took the onion off the feeder and threw it away. Then the birds came back to the nest and fed the babies.
Brian smiled and silently thanked Heavenly Father for answering his prayer.

As most of you are aware, I am a convert to the Church, having been baptized in Tokyo, Japan, back in 1952 while serving in the U.S. Navy during the Korean conflict. I was born and reared in Missouri, where much of the early history of this church took place. But I had never heard anything about the Mormon church. I was looking for the truth, and although I had read the Bible and believed that Jesus Christ had lived on the earth and had been resurrected, yet I had so many unanswered questions—questions such as: Why doesn’t God speak to man today as he did anciently when the Bible was being written? How can Jesus be his own father and the Holy Ghost too? Why did Jesus have to be baptized when he had no sin? Where was I before I was born, and where do I go when I die? How can just believing in Christ save me when I haven’t kept God’s Ten Commandments?

I knew there must be answers that I had not heard. The answers came when Elders Ted Raban and Ronald Flygare knocked on my door in San Diego, California, in July 1951. My wife, Connie, let them in and accepted a copy of the Book of Mormon from them. I was in Hawaii at the time, attending a fourteen-week training course preparatory to deployment to Korea.

When I returned home, Connie gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon, and I began to read. I knew the book was true before I had finished 2 Nephi—Nephi had converted one more—and began to attend church in the old Valencia Park Ward in San Diego. Because of my preparation for deployment, I was not able to study and attend church as I wanted to and longed for the time when I could. The time came aboard the aircraft carrier Philippine Seas, where I read fourteen of the best books that have ever been written. They included the standard works of the Church, plus the writings of each of the Presidents of the Church from Joseph Smith, Jr., to David O. McKay, plus Parley P. and Orson Pratt and a few others. I was like a starving man who had found food and drink for the first time. I loved it. When we arrived in Japan, the LDS group aboard ship decided I should be baptized. So we traveled to the Tokyo mission home, where I requested baptism. I was informed that I had not been an investigator for the required one-year time period; therefore, I could not be baptized. However, I persisted. I asked to be interviewed. The interview took an hour and a half, but in the end I received a recommend for baptism and confirmation. McDonald B. Johnson, the LDS group leader on the Philippine Seas, baptized me, and Fred Gaylord Peterson confirmed me, and I became a member of the Church on February 26, 1952. I was ordained a deacon that day and subsequently to another office in the priesthood each time the ship returned to Japan, until on July 26, 1952, I was ordained an elder and returned to San Diego in August, where my wife had been baptized on March 1 of that same year. We were a united family in the gospel of Jesus Christ and were looking forward with much anticipation to being sealed together with our three children in the Mesa Arizona Temple, which happened in May 1953.

I love the hymns that our primary children sing. One of my favorite songs as a child was "Give, Said the Little Stream." The text of this hymn was written in 1860 by Fanny Crosby, one of the most prolific hymnists in recorded history, who composed over 8,000 hymns. Now Fanny had several circumstances that could have prevented her from contributing to society. When she was six weeks old, an inflammation of the eye and its resulting treatment left her blind. Her father passed away when she was only one year old, leaving her mother to find employment in various towns, and leaving some of the care of Fanny to her grandmother. Because she was blind, Fanny did not receive a public education. It wasn't until she was 15 years old that she enrolled in the newly-opened New York Institute for the Blind. She could have been hindered in acquiring knowledge because of her limited access to printed material. Yet Fanny did not let her disability prevent her from helping others. She dedicated her life to serving others, as a poet, hymnist, teacher, lecturer, and provider of assistance for the sick, poor, and needy in blighted neighborhoods and missions.[14]

As a young child, Fanny loved being outdoors where she could feel the sunshine and the wind, and listen to the songs of the birds and the flowing brooks. She would often play "among the shallow streams that fed the Croton River."[15] On long walks her grandmother vividly described nature to her-the shapes and colors of leaves and trees, birdcalls, flowers-so vividly that Fanny could distinguish among them. Fanny experienced firsthand how streams are a life-giving resource, and her Biblical training gave her perspective that "there is something all can give." At age 8 she reflected on her condition:

Oh, what a happy soul I am, Although I cannot see, I am resolved in this world Contented I will be.
How many blessings I enjoy That other people don't! To weep and sigh because I'm blind I cannot nor I won't.[16]

Fanny's love of nature and her optimistic attitude in spite of challenges make the meaning of "Give, Said the Little Stream" more powerful. This hymn teaches us three important messages. First, there is something that all can give. Second, when we give, we lift others. Third, living for God and others will bring such joy that we might be "singing all the day, 'give away, oh, give away.'"

The glacier glows from deep within, pulling scarce light from a gray day and turning it an eerie blue. Mostly, the glacier is dirty white. But from parts of the vertical face comes faint, cold blue fire. “Ice blue” is a real color.
At the glacier’s foot a shallow lake of ice melt is dotted with an occasional miniature iceberg. A stream of glacial water tumbles into the lake with a distant, dull rumble. It’s the only sound you hear until—
Splash! “Whoop!” Someone has just jumped into the lake. Or fallen. Or been pulled. Youth of the Juneau Alaska District are holding their annual games on the sandy shore. Relays rage back and forth across a shallow inlet. Put on hip boots, wade-run through thigh-high ice water, take off the boots and hand them to a teammate for the return trip. Splash! Someone else has tried to run too fast. Again, a sharp intake of breath and “whoop!”
Soon, a stout rope is drawn across the same inlet and the teams take sides, muscles straining, heels dug into the sand. Rhythmic chants of “pull … pull … pull” echo across the lake. Inch by inch the losing team is drawn toward the incredibly cold water.
Incredibly, too, some of the youth who didn’t get wet in the relay or tug-of-war give berserk yells and wade into the bone-chilling water for the sheer daring of it. Afterward, when everyone has dried off and is back at the chapel warming up, the kids explain. It’s not insanity, just enthusiasm.

“Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.” I had seen this little sign a million times and never thought anything of it. It was only one of many strategically placed thoughts and quotes that dotted the walls of our home. This one happened to be in the best location of all—right above the kitchen table.
When friends came over, we naturally congregated in the kitchen. Dates, late night movies, and quick lunches almost all involved the kitchen. Mom knew this and planned her attack accordingly. Years later I realized what a direct hit Mom had scored.
I was blessed with a lot of friends who are also members of the Church. We went to church and school together, and most of us went on missions at about the same time. However, there was one who was not exactly like the rest of us. His parents were divorced, and he was shuffled between their homes and the homes of friends. As a result, I think he always felt a little isolated and alone. He wore his hair long and always had at least one earring. Regardless, we loved him, and he was one of us.
During high school we witnessed him change; it was great. A short time after his 19th birthday he submitted his mission papers and received a call. A couple of months later we really understood the significance of this event.
The realization came on a cold, crisp Sunday in January. My friends and I had gathered to hear this young man speak in sacrament meeting. I had been invited to perform a musical number, so I sat on the stand. As I gazed over the crowd, I saw all of our friends, as well as my family; it was a wonderful sight. As my friend ventured to the pulpit, his eyes were a little red.
His talk opened with a question: “Do any of you know why I am here? Well, it is really very simple. I am here because of the many meals eaten at a friend’s table, a table with a sign above it that reads, ‘Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.’ I want my friends to know that without their influence and love I wouldn’t be here today.”
As I looked down into the crowd, I saw my mother with tearful eyes and a smile.
From that day on, I have also thought about the effects my friends have had on my life. I don’t know if I would have served a mission without their example. I don’t know what kind of a person I would be today if it hadn’t been for the strength and love I received from such wonderful people. For that, I will be forever grateful, both to them and to my Heavenly Father.
I know that no one has forgotten the message shared from that pulpit. I also know that that sign, to this day, still hangs above our kitchen table.

Pornography can jump out at you when you least expect it. Some years ago, after checking into a hotel late at night, I started unpacking my suitcase. I opened the hotel room drawers, only to find three or four pornographic magazines, the kind by just looking at the cover you knew that they were tools of the devil.

I had already changed into my pajamas and was ready for bed. Now I had a dilemma. What if I left the magazines in the drawer and were to die in the middle of the night of a heart attack? Of course, my room would be searched and there in the drawer would be these filthy magazines. But, I was not in my street clothes and didn’t want to change again. Yet, fearing the worst could possibly happen, I begrudgingly dressed again, took the magazines into the hallway, and cast them where they belonged, into the garbage. The Lord has told us to “let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly.”[6]

The center of St. Petersburg, crisscrossed by canals, is full of palaces, monuments, statues, churches, gardens, and museums. For seminary students from the Obukhovskii Branch, it seemed a perfect place to talk about their love of seminary, their love for the scriptures, and their love for their city.
Julia Shaikhulina reminisces about returning from a trip to the Stockholm (Sweden) Temple. “I wondered how I’d feel coming home, since going to the temple is such a wonderful experience. But it was autumn, and as our bus drove across the city, the trees and the buildings were bathed in a golden light. It made all of the buildings look beautiful. And I said to myself, I know that I love my city. It made me feel like I wanted to share the gospel with everyone.”