Gospel Story Finder

The day dawned bright, hot, breathless. Perfect weather for planting, John thought as he jumped out of bed and dressed in his work clothes. It was the time of year he loved most. Days were getting longer, full of sunshine, and new things were beginning to grow.
John struggled to fasten the clumsy metal buttons on his overalls. “I have to hurry—I hear Grandpa outside,” he said to himself. His sleepy fingers finally managed to nudge the last stubborn button through the buttonhole. John was Grandpa’s helper now that his big brother, Mark, was serving a mission.
Today he and Grandpa were going to get the small south field ready to plant in wheat. After that, there would be weeks of work ahead for them—wonderful weeks of fertilizing, weeding, waiting. Then would come the biggest event of all, the harvest.
After a quick breakfast, a whoop of sheer joy, and a kiss on Mom’s cheek, seven-year-old John grabbed the knapsack his mother had prepared and bounded out the back door and across the yard. He scrambled excitedly up onto the well-worn metal tractor seat and settled down next to Grandpa. He surveyed the waiting field, then grinned his mile-wide, I’m-ready-to-get-down-to-work grin.
Today was a big day for John. Grandpa was going to let him steer the tractor all by himself for the first time. Grandpa trusted him to help with even the toughest jobs around the farm, and that made him feel grown-up.
John anxiously double-checked his gear. Yep, everything was there. Mom had sent along one man-sized lunch, a thermos of ice water, a hat to help keep the sun away, and. … Thrusting his hand deep down into his pocket, John fingered the coins he had brought along so that he could surprise Grandpa by taking him to town for an ice-cream cone after their work was done.
“Why, John!” Grandpa exclaimed over the noisy tractor engine, “I do believe you’ve forgotten something.”
“What, Grandpa?”
“You’ve forgotten your two front teeth,” Grandpa chuckled, tousling John’s hair and smiling into his freckle-splashed face.
Now both of them were laughing, and John, reaching up, gave Grandpa a mighty hug.
“You’ll be glad I lost those teeth, Grandpa, because the tooth fairy left me just enough money for …”
“Enough money for what?” Grandpa’s voice boomed over the rattle and roar of the tractor.
“You’ll see when we’re finished here, Grandpa,” John teased as they headed the tractor down to the field.
After forty years of farming, Grandpa had retired and John’s dad had taken over the farm. All of it, that is, except this one small parcel of land. “I won’t ever quit working this field,” Grandpa told John as they chugged along on the trusty old tractor. “This is our mission field.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” John giggled. “When Mark writes letters to me about being in the mission field, he isn’t talking about being out in a field of wheat.”
“John, I can see it’s time I tell you the story.” Grandpa reached over to shut the engine off. “When your dad was ready to go on a mission, almost twenty-five years ago now, your grandmother and I couldn’t afford to send him. We’d always tried our best to live the gospel, and we knew we could depend on the Lord, so we prayed that He would help us make enough money to send our boy on a mission.”
“Were your prayers answered, Grandpa?”
“Yes, John. Heavenly Father answered them in a surprising way. This little piece of land came up for sale, and your grandma and I felt inspired to buy it. It was a small field, nothing to rave about. But we had read in the scriptures that from small things great blessings come. So Grandma and I hoped that if we remained faithful and hard-working, the Lord might see fit to turn this small field into a great blessing.”
“Did you get your blessing, Grandpa?” John asked.
“Did we ever!” Grandpa answered, beaming. “We received enough money from our first crop to send your dad on his mission, and for as long as he was serving in England, we had a bumper crop. When he came home from England, the field’s production returned to normal, but as each of our three sons served missions, it thrived again. To this day, Grandma and I call it our mission field. Why, this very field is helping support Mark on his mission right now.” Grandpa smiled, giving John’s shoulder a healthy squeeze.
“And someday,” John whispered, “do you think that someday, Grandpa … ?”
“Yes, John, someday you’ll reap the rewards of our mission field too.”
It was time to work now. John and Grandpa dug right in, grateful for the fertile soil beneath them.
Under Grandpa’s watchful eye, John steered the tractor around the field, carefully overturning the hard soil. He tried hard to set his sights so that the rows would be straight and to concentrate on Grandpa’s instructions. He wanted to do his best, now more than ever before.
Dust swirled behind the tractor as John steered it, row by row, up and down the field. After the field had been plowed, they put the disk harrow onto the tractor and went over the field again to break up any large clumps of earth. Gophers, rabbits, and grasshoppers scurried ahead to avoid the harrow’s sharp disks. Seagulls swooped down from above in hopes of nabbing a succulent cricket or grasshopper as John and Grandpa made their rounds. Beneath him, John felt the soil break up, ready for them to plant the next day.
John imagined how it would be in early autumn, when the field would be beautiful with tall, golden wheat, ripe for harvest. Grandpa would pull a handful of wheat from the stalk, as he always did, and rub it hard between his strong, rough hands to separate the kernels from the chaff. Then he and John would stand together in the field, the breeze blowing waves of grain around them, while they tasted the wheat. Grandpa would chew slowly, deliberately, checking for texture and flavor. John would chew his handful of wheat until it turned to gum in his mouth. At last Grandpa would nod with satisfaction and say, “It’s ready, John,” and together they would harvest the crop.
John sighed contentedly as he and Grandpa climbed down off the tractor that day. This was going to be a most wonderful summer. John just knew it. There would be ice-cream cones to eat, laughter to share, and stories to tell. Best of all, he thought as he gazed out over the newly plowed mission field, this summer there will be a bumper crop!

There is a picture of another girl in that yearbook. She was not particularly beautiful. But she had a wholesome look about her, a sparkle in her eyes, and a smile on her face. She knew why she was in school. She was there to learn. She dreamed of the kind of woman she wanted to be and patterned her life accordingly. She also knew how to have fun but knew when to stop and put her mind on other things.
There was a boy in school at the time. He had come from a small rural town. He had very little money. There was nothing especially handsome or dashing about him. He was a good student. He had set a goal for himself. It was lofty and, at times, appeared almost impossible of attainment.
These two fell in love. People said, “What does he see in her?” Or, “What does she see in him?” They each saw something wonderful which no one else saw.
Upon graduating from the university, they married. Money was hard to come by. He went on to graduate school. She continued to work for a time, and then their children came. She gave her attention to them.
A few years ago, I was riding a plane home from the East. It was late at night. I walked down the aisle in the semidarkness. I saw a woman asleep with her head on the shoulder of her husband. She awakened as I approached. I immediately recognized the girl I had known in high school so long before. I recognized the boy I had also known. They were now approaching old age. As we talked, she explained that their children were grown, that they were grandparents. She proudly told me that they were returning from the East, where he had gone to deliver a paper. There at a great convention he had been honored by his peers from across the nation.
I learned that they had been active in the Church, serving in whatever capacity they were asked to serve. By every measure, they were successful. They had accomplished the goals which they had set for themselves. They had been honored and respected and had made a tremendous contribution to the society of which they were a part. She had become the woman of whom she had dreamed.
The life of the other had been difficult. It had meant working and struggling. It had meant simple food and plain clothing and a very modest apartment in the years of her husband’s initial effort to get started in his profession. But out of that seemingly sterile soil there had grown two plants, side by side, that blossomed and bloomed in a beautiful and wonderful way. Those beautiful blossoms spoke of service to fellowmen, of unselfishness one to another, of love and respect and faith in one’s companion, of happiness as they met the needs of others in the various activities which they pursued.

It was 11:00 at night, and I was in my bedroom after being out with a few high school friends. I knew I hadn’t made the best decisions that night. “But,” I reasoned, “I hadn’t made the worst ones either.”

Frustrated, I picked up a homework assignment. I was so tired that I just wanted to get it over with and go to bed. “I still need to read my scriptures. But I’ll just skip them tonight,” I thought.

I began thinking of everything I was expected to do. Read my scriptures, attend early-morning seminary, attend church and Mutual, get good grades, be involved in extracurricular activities, have a part-time job … The list went on.

I felt so much pressure in every area of my life, especially as the only female Latter-day Saint in my high school. I reminded myself again and again that I might be the only female Latter-day Saint my peers ever met, so I had to be a good example. Yet I knew I was starting to slip.

“I wish I could be carefree like my friends,” I thought. I also wished I didn’t feel so awful when I went to a party or said a bad word, but the truth was I did. It made me feel physically sick when I made choices I knew weren’t the right ones. For some reason, though, I continued to make them.

It was almost midnight when I finished my homework assignment. In five hours my alarm clock would be beeping. I would wake up, drag myself to seminary, and try to get through another day of high school.

Then it dawned on me. I didn’t have to obey all the rules. I could stop attending church, seminary, and Mutual if I wanted to. Just because my family went, it didn’t mean I had to.

It was such a liberating thought. I crawled into bed and was almost asleep when I had a strong impression to read the scriptures. “No,” I thought. “I’m done.”

Again I felt it. This time I thought, “Maybe just one last time.”

In seminary that year, we had been studying the New Testament. I turned to where my marker was in James chapter 1. This was the chapter Joseph Smith had read that inspired him to go to the Sacred Grove and pour out his heart to Heavenly Father. “How ironic,” I thought. I started reading.

Verse 5 was familiar to me: “If any of you lack wisdom …” But it was verse 8 that opened my eyes that night. It said, “A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.” I froze. Then I reread it.

I was being double-minded. I claimed to be a Latter-day Saint, but my actions were beginning to say otherwise. And if I continued, no matter what path I chose, I would be unstable and unsure and thus very unhappy.

I needed to know if the gospel was true. I needed to know if getting up every morning at 5:00 a.m. to study the gospel was worth it. I needed to know that I was trying to live my life to the best of my ability, despite at times being ridiculed, because it truly would bring me the most happiness and joy.

It was almost 1:00 in the morning then, but I knelt beside my bed and poured out my heart to my Father in Heaven. I asked Him to help me know what was right, to know which path to take, to lead me by the hand and take away the confusion I was feeling.

Simply, clearly, and peacefully, the thought came to my mind, “You already know.” And I did.

I got off my knees, shut off my light, and went to sleep. Four hours later my alarm went off. Sleepily, I shut it off. A minute later I was up getting ready for another day, early-morning seminary included.

It has been years since that wonderful midnight experience. My testimony still continues to grow. Sometimes it is stronger than at other times. The difference is I know and I have never once looked back.

When it came time for Micah to be baptized several years ago, his mom asked who he wanted to invite to his baptism. Micah invited seven friends, and they all came! “I was happy that I was supported by everyone,” he says.
During the next few days, Micah’s friends asked him about his baptism and the Church. “I brought scriptures and talked with them about what the Church is about,” Micah said. “It was really cool to tell them what the Church means to me and my family.”

I don’t look anything like my mother. I am short, muscular, and athletic, with my father’s dark eyes and curly hair. She is tall and thin, with long wispy hair, full lips and round eyes. She is the type of woman with color-coordinated fingernail polish. I never wear fingernail polish. First thing, the smell gives me a headache. Second thing, I also have my father’s hands: short and stubby and masculine. Polish just makes them look silly and fake, and I feel like I’m my 12-year-old sister, who tries way too hard to look chic by wearing blue eyeshadow. Besides, my left hand got slammed in a van door when I was 12 years old—at my first Mutual activity, in fact—and now my ring finger and my pinkie are permanently crooked. So, as you can see, fingernail polish has never really been my thing. Neither have Mutual activities.
Today I tried to slip out the door and get to school before my mom could catch me. I knew if she caught me, she’d make me go. And going to the annual youth canyon fireside was the last thing I wanted to do. Even though my mom says she only wants what’s best for me, and honestly thinks she’s trying to help, she just doesn’t understand how hard these things can be. Testimony meetings are the hardest, everyone breathing and shuffling around in silence, wondering what, if anything, I’ll say.
My mom was called to be the Young Women president in my ward last year, so when I skip meetings, it’s pretty glaringly obvious. When I was 13, I could get away with not going to Mutual because I would just conveniently forget to tell my mom about things, but now she knows everything. Everything. And so does everybody else. I can imagine the Young Women presidency discussing the less-active girls, all of them avoiding my mom’s eyes when they come to my name. I know that people talk. I also know that many of them think I don’t care what they say, but I do.
So today I walked extra carefully down the stairs, skipping the one that squeaked. And right as I put my hand on the doorknob and almost felt safe enough to breathe, I sensed her behind me.
“Leslie,” she said, and she put her hand on my shoulder. She was wearing dusty rose polish, and I could still smell it fresh on her fingertips.
“Leslie, honey, I really feel you should come tonight. You don’t want to miss this. I promise.”
I shouldn’t have glanced up at her face, because that’s when I saw the look. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it before. I see it almost every Sunday when I decide I want to stay asleep, those weekend nights when I come in late and she is wrapped up in the old blue blanket, waiting. I see it all the time. But at that moment, I looked up at my mom, and it struck me hard that she was a little bit scared. Of me. Of what I’d say. And you know, most teenagers like me would have thought they were powerful, making their moms look that way, but I didn’t like it at all. It must have really thrown me off, because somehow my mouth popped open and the words, “Okay. Okay, I’ll go,” came out.
I kicked myself throughout the school day for saying okay because now I was stuck—really stuck. I kept seeing the relief on my mom’s face when I said okay. I knew that I wasn’t terrible enough to change my mind on her, and the knowledge that I had gotten myself into something that I couldn’t get out of sat and simmered at the bottom of my stomach all day long.
As my mom and I drove to the activity, she hummed to the radio and tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. She kept looking at me and smiling, just barely, like she was excited but didn’t want to be too excited in case she’d scare me off. It was a look I remember from when I was a little girl and we went camping and she got a squirrel to eat out of her hand. She talked to it softly, smiled quietly, and tried to stay as still as possible so she wouldn’t break the spell. I remember the squirrel snatched the food from my mother’s hand but didn’t run away. His curious eyes were fixed on hers as they stood inches apart, his hands tucked up against his chest. I remember reaching out my hand to pet him, but when I moved, he scampered away. “They have to trust you quite a bit before you can touch them,” I remember my mother telling me.
When we stepped out of the car onto the gravel parking lot of the campsite, I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and studied the ground, avoiding all the eyes that I knew would be staring my direction. Then I heard my name being called. “Leslie!” “Hey, Leslie, it’s great you came!” “Leslie, long time no see!” Six or seven girls came toward me, waving their arms, smiling and squinting into the dusky sunlight. I remembered all the lessons—fellowship the less active. Let them know you care. When they came close enough for me to see their eyes, I searched them for the insincerity I knew I would find. Maybe it was the setting sun casting shadows across their faces, but I studied their expressions, and their smiles seemed genuine.
Megan and Natalie grabbed me by the wrists, pulled me over to the refreshment table, and started loading me up with chips and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and orange slush. They were my friends once, before I hit my “stage.” (That’s what my dad calls it, my stage.) As a matter of fact, they were the ones that took care of my hand when I slammed it in the van door. I still saw them at school, and they always said hi, but I was never sure if they meant it or if I was just another “service project.” I wasn’t sure now, either. In many ways, I wanted to sense they were being false. I remembered the countless Sunday mornings complaining to my father, “I know they don’t like me, Dad. Nobody likes me there.” I had used that justification so often that I had begun to believe it. But here they were, talking with me, laughing, like there wasn’t one thing wrong with me and never had been. Amazingly, I found myself laughing right along with their jokes, almost feeling like I belonged, a little bit afraid that I’d have to come up with a new excuse for my dad on Sunday mornings.
Night fell quickly, and the leaders managed to get everyone in a circle around the fire. Already huge and bright and hot, the flames cast themselves on everyone’s faces, lighting up their eyes. Shining in the glow of the fire, our faces seemed transformed, like we weren’t the teenagers who just 20 minutes before had been getting in water fights and toilet papering the bishop’s car. The dark and silent forest surrounded the circle of people, and all we could see or hear was each other.
For the first few minutes everyone was quiet and shifted in their seats, just like I’d expected. I sat as still as possible, staring at my hands in my lap, listening as the fire popped and crackled and everyone breathed. Then I heard a rustle, and someone stood up. I didn’t look to see who it was. But once I heard his voice, I knew. It was John Caldwell, the star football player. Big John, scary John, John who had been gone all summer so he could work out some problems and had just come home.
He cleared his throat. I could hear his feet shuffle nervously in the dirt.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I’m not too good with words, really. But I have something to say that you all need to hear.
“The last year of my life has been really rough. One night I felt really bad. So bad I didn’t think I wanted to see the morning. That feeling scared me a lot, so much that I did something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid. I got down on my knees.
“I was scared to pray, almost too scared to even try. I wasn’t sure if there was a God, and if there was, I didn’t know why He’d want to listen to me. But I needed to do something. Anything.”
I lifted up my head and looked up at John. He was staring straight out into the fire, and his face was lit up and shining. For the first time, I looked at his eyes. Dancing and sparkling, they reflected the light from the fire, and he looked more alive than I had ever seen him.
“I don’t know how to explain it, really,” he said. “I don’t know what to say except that it felt like a blanket. I didn’t even have to try to say the right words. I just got down on my knees, and I could feel Him, and He was all around me. Right then, I knew everything would be okay. Somebody loved me, even if I didn’t even like myself, and for the first time I felt like I had the strength to go on.
“Now I want to make something out of my life. I still have a long way to go, but there’s one thing I can say without a doubt. I know there’s a God. He watched over me that night, and He’s been with me ever since.”
John sat down and it was quiet again, but not the quiet like before. It was something more than silence. It was a hush. I felt a peacefulness surround my body that I hadn’t felt for a long time—a peacefulness I had forgotten how much I missed.
The rest of the night passed, and people stood up and bore their testimonies. I couldn’t stop thinking about John. I kept seeing the light in his eyes, the way he looked so powerful and so sure when he said, “I know there’s a God.” I was shocked to see what I had been trying to find for so long—real faith and conviction—embodied by a humble football star who learned how to pray.
At the end of the meeting, we all sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” I even remembered the words. As I sang, I looked across the fire at my mom. She looked around the circle at everyone, smiling, and I sensed how much she loved us all. I was glad for the chance just to watch her, to see her as a person on the outside would. She was so beautiful, and so happy, and for the first time in much too long, I was proud to claim her as my mother.
The drive home was dark and quiet. There was no radio. No sound, really, but the hum of the tires along the pavement. Then we turned up the hill that led to our street. I saw the light coming from the windows of my home, and I knew I had to say it. I hadn’t felt the love and peace and power of that night for so long, and I didn’t want to let those feelings go again. By saying four simple words I’d kept locked inside me for so long, I knew I’d soon find myself on the path I never should have left.
I laid my hand on top of my mother’s.
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
She was silent for a moment, and then I saw her smile.
“I know,” she said. Then she took my hand in hers and squeezed it, tight, and neither one of us tried to let go.

After Primary was over, I walked down the hall to the bishop’s office to wait for my dad, who’s in the bishopric. I noticed how clean the walls were. I didn’t see any stains on the carpet, or cobwebs in the hallway. The cultural hall was spotless, with all the tables put away and the chairs lined up neatly against the walls. The curtains on the stage looked perfectly fine.
As I passed the chapel, I stopped short. Sticking up behind the hymnbooks were sacrament meeting programs. The picture Sister Gentry described popped into my mind, and I quickly collected all the programs and papers that had been left there. I felt bad for those people who didn’t understand how special the Lord’s house is.
My arms were full, and I was looking for the nearest trash can, when I spotted my dad with a quizzical look on his face. I looked back at the clean chapel, and a happy feeling came into my heart. “I’m just doing my part to keep the church clean,” I told him.
Dad gave me a quick squeeze, and we both knew that the Lord’s spirit was there that day in our beautiful building.

“I had just moved to Atlanta, my first time away from home,” says Tara Towsley of the North Point Ward, Roswell Georgia Stake. “Needless to say, I was a bit intimidated. I remember sitting in sacrament meeting thinking about going home, when the most wonderful lady came up and introduced herself. She told me her name, said she was the Relief Society president, and told me where Relief Society was held. She said she was excited that I was there. I felt better immediately.”
“I’m so grateful for the Relief Society organization. I feel it has better prepared me for the next stage of my life,” says Tara Towsley. “It has given me the opportunity to befriend women older and wiser and has helped my testimony mature in so many ways. It took time for me to find my place, but with time Relief Society began to feel like home.”

“When I was about nine years old, I remember Grandpa sitting in his big overstuffed chair. He allowed me to stand behind him and comb his beautiful hair. I would part it in the middle then comb it back in different ways. Sometimes I would part his hair on the side and try a new style, and I would comb it down over his face in the process. He was very patient and let me comb it until my arms were tired.”

At age fourteen, Robert, a native of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, secured an apprenticeship as a moulder. His work involved pouring liquid metal into moulds to create tools and other implements.1 During this time, Robert got mixed up in the ways of the world until one day his conscience hit him. “I felt hurt because I knew I was not doing right; my conscience smote me many times. I often thought of the grave, and hellfire and brimstone, and the wicked living there forever and ever.”2
One of Robert’s cousins, a Methodist and teetotaller, helped him to change his ways. Robert also became a teetotaller and although he attended religious services, he “never could join” the Methodists. At work, Robert met a young man who abstained from drinking and was the only colleague who was kind to him. It emerged that this young man was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In their conversations Robert found himself agreeing with everything his colleague said. Finally, despite his family’s opposition, he was baptised on 25 May 1850 by Thomas Greener, his colleague who had introduced him to the gospel. Of the experience, Robert wrote: “I felt that I was changed from darkness to light and from the Kingdom of Satan unto the light of the Glorious Gospel.”

Many years ago I was driving along University Avenue near the mouth of Provo Canyon when I saw ahead of me the traffic slowing down. Up ahead there were police cars with their lights flashing, a fire truck, and several search and rescue vehicles all huddled together, blocking the road into Provo Canyon. At first I was annoyed since it seemed like we might be there for a long time. I was also curious—what was causing all the commotion?
As I looked up the rock face along the east side of the entrance to Provo Canyon, I saw some men climbing. I assumed they were the search and rescue people. What were they climbing to? Eventually I saw it. Somehow a ewe, a lost sheep, had made her way about 25 feet (8 m) up the rock face, and she was stranded there. She was not a mountain goat or mountain sheep, just a white ewe separated from a shepherd’s flock.
As I had nothing else to do, I searched the rock face for a way up to where the ewe stood. I could not for the life of me figure out how she ever got there. Nevertheless, she was there, and all the commotion in front of me was focused on her rescue. To this day, I don’t know the end of the story since the police figured out a way to get the traffic moving again.
As I drove away, a concern bothered me. While the search and rescue personnel were certainly well intentioned, how would the ewe react to them? I’m sure they had a plan for how they would calm her—perhaps they would shoot her with a tranquilizer dart from a close distance so they could catch her before she fell. Knowing nothing of their plan but knowing a little about how animals react to being cornered by strangers, I worried about the feasibility of their rescue effort. And then I wondered, “Where is the shepherd?” Certainly he would have the best chance of approaching the ewe without alarming her. The shepherd’s calming voice and helping hand were what the situation needed, but he seemed to be missing in action.
As members of the Church, sometimes we seem to be missing in action, just like this shepherd. Consider for a moment what President Monson told the newly called mission presidents at the 2008 seminar for new mission presidents. He said: “There is … no substitute for a member-oriented proselyting program. Tracting will not substitute for it. Golden questions will not substitute for it. A member-oriented program is the key to success, and it works wherever we try it” (“Motivating Missionaries,” June 22, 2008, 8).
Viewed in this light, member missionaries—both you and I—are the shepherds, and the full-time missionaries, like the search and rescue team, are trying to do something almost impossible for them to do alone. Certainly the full-time missionaries will continue to do the best they can, but wouldn’t it be better if you and I stepped up to do a job that is rightfully ours and for which we are better suited since we know personally those who are lost and need to be rescued?
I would like to focus on three objectives for members of the Church found in the Doctrine and Covenants. Each of these encourages us not to be missing in action when friends, neighbors, and family members need our help. This should include those who have fallen away, the less active. All of us should be better member missionaries.
In section 88, verse 81 of the Doctrine and Covenants, we read, “And it becometh every man who hath been warned to warn his neighbor.” I have had the privilege of traveling to many of the stakes of the Church to encourage the growth and development of ward missions. It has been a very rewarding and spiritual experience for me. I have discovered in these travels, and a recent survey has confirmed the fact, that over one-half of the people in the United States and Canada have little or no awareness of our practices and beliefs. I am certain the percentage would be much larger in other parts of the world. This same survey also showed that when nonmembers interact with faithful members of the Church over an extended period of time or are exposed to clear and accurate information regarding Church beliefs and doctrines, their attitudes become positive and open.
The Church has over 50,000 full-time missionaries serving around the world. Preach My Gospel has helped make them the best teachers of the gospel of Jesus Christ we have ever had in the history of the Church. Unfortunately most of our full-time missionaries spend more of their time trying to find people rather than teaching them. I view our full-time missionaries as an underutilized teaching resource. If you and I did more of the finding for the full-time missionaries and freed them up to spend more time teaching the people we find, great things would begin to happen. We’re missing a golden opportunity to grow the Church when we wait for our full-time missionaries to warn our neighbors instead of doing it ourselves.
It should be “with great earnestness” (D&C 123:14) that we bring the light of the gospel to those who are searching for answers the plan of salvation has to offer. Many are concerned for their families. Some are looking for security in a world of changing values. Our opportunity is to give them hope and courage and to invite them to come with us and join those who embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ. The Lord’s gospel is on earth and will bless their lives here and in the eternities to come.
The gospel is centered on the Atonement of our Lord and Savior. The Atonement provides the power to wash away sins, to heal, and to grant eternal life. All the imponderable blessings of the Atonement can be given only to those who live the principles and receive the ordinances of the gospel—faith in Jesus Christ, repentance, baptism, receiving the Holy Ghost, and enduring to the end. Our great missionary message to the world is that all mankind is invited to be rescued and to enter the fold of the Good Shepherd, even Jesus Christ.
Our missionary message is strengthened by the knowledge of the Restoration. We know that God speaks to His prophets today, just as He did anciently. We also know that His gospel is administered with the power and authority of the restored priesthood. No other message has such great, eternal significance to everyone living on the earth today. All of us need to teach this message to others with power and conviction. It is the still, small voice of the Holy Ghost that testifies through us of the miracle of the Restoration, but first we must open our mouths and testify. We must warn our neighbors.
This leads me to the second scripture I want to share with you from the Doctrine and Covenants. While verse 81 of section 88 teaches us that missionary work becomes the responsibility of each of us as soon as we have been warned, verses 7–10 of section 33 teach us to open our mouths.
Verse 7 leaves no doubt in anyone’s mind who has memorized section 4 of the Doctrine and Covenants that the Lord is talking to us about missionary work: “Yea, verily, verily, I say unto you, that the field is white already to harvest; wherefore, thrust in your sickles, and reap with all your might, mind, and strength.”
Then comes the injunction—three times—to open our mouths:
“Open your mouths and they shall be filled, and you shall become even as Nephi of old, who journeyed from Jerusalem in the wilderness.
“Yea, open your mouths and spare not, and you shall be laden with sheaves upon your backs, for lo, I am with you.
“Yea, open your mouths and they shall be filled, saying: Repent, repent, and prepare ye the way of the Lord, and make his paths straight; for the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (vv. 8–10).
What would each of us say if we had to open our mouth three times? If I may, I would like to offer a suggestion. First and foremost, we should declare our belief in Jesus Christ and His Atonement. His redeeming act blesses all mankind with the gift of immortality and the potential of enjoying God’s greatest gift to man, the gift of eternal life.
The second time we open our mouths, we should tell in our own words the story of the First Vision—that is, our knowledge of a boy not quite 15 years of age who went into a grove of trees and, after sincere and humble prayer, had the heavens open to him. After centuries of confusion, the true nature of the Godhead and God’s true teachings were revealed to the world.
The third time we open our mouths, let us testify of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. The Book of Mormon complements the Bible in giving us a greater understanding of the doctrines of our Savior’s gospel. The Book of Mormon is the convincing evidence that Joseph Smith is truly a prophet of God. If the Book of Mormon is true, there was a restoration of the priesthood. If the Book of Mormon is true, then with the power of that priesthood, Joseph Smith restored the Church of Jesus Christ.
I have just concluded the book of Alma in my current reading of the Book of Mormon. Near the close of Alma’s great message to the Church in Zarahemla, he said:
“For what shepherd is there among you having many sheep doth not watch over them, that the wolves enter not and devour his flock? And behold, if a wolf enter his flock doth he not drive him out? Yea, and at the last, if he can, he will destroy him.
“And now I say unto you that the good shepherd doth call after you; and if you will hearken unto his voice he will bring you into his fold, and ye are his sheep; and he commandeth you that ye suffer no ravenous wolf to enter among you, that ye may not be destroyed” (Alma 5:59–60).
The Savior is the Good Shepherd, and we are all called to His service. The ewe on the side of the rock face along the entry to Provo Canyon and these words of Alma remind me of the question the Savior asked in the 15th chapter of Luke: “What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?” (v. 4).
Usually when I think of herding sheep, I think of the requirement, or stewardship, of the shepherd to do everything he can for all of his sheep. This experience, however, reminded me that it is the parable of the lost sheep, and my thoughts turned to the precarious nature of that one lost ewe, all alone and unable to take another step up the rock face and equally unable to turn around and find her way down. How frantic and hopeless she must have felt, completely powerless to rescue herself, one step away from certain disaster.
It is important for each of us to ponder how it feels to be lost and what it means to be a “spiritual” shepherd who will leave the 99 to find the one who is lost. Such shepherds may need the expertise and assistance of the search and rescue team, but they are present, accounted for, and climbing right beside them to save those who are infinitely valued in the sight of God, for they are His children. Such shepherds respond to the final injunction to be a member missionary that I want to share with you from the Doctrine and Covenants:
“And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!
“And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me!” (D&C 18:15–16).
As the scripture also teaches, such shepherds experience inexpressible joy. I bear witness to this fact in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I stayed out of the race for popularity for the first half of high school—not because I wanted to, but because I knew I wasn’t cool enough to compete. I would watch from the sidelines and tell myself, “Oh, popularity is such a waste of time,” but deep down I wished the “cool kids” would see me.
As time went on, I got tired of having a small circle of friends. So I decided to change the way I looked and acted, hoping to catch the attention of the “cooler” kids I wanted to be friends with. I significantly moved up the social food chain, but it came at a price—I made a lot of bad decisions to finally get noticed.
For a little while, it felt good to be popular! But it honestly didn’t take long for me to see that popularity was an illusion—the people I was surrounding myself with didn’t actually care about me. They were all just trying to win the social race for themselves.
I felt lonely even among my “friends,” and when I finally took a break from this pointless race, I realized how thin my connection to God had become.
I’m not the first person to fall into the popularity trap, and I know popularity is not the only trap Satan sets to distract us from building and maintaining our relationship with God. Money, possessions, and worldly obsessions are all things I’ve seen Satan try to lure us with. His goal is to slowly lead us away until we’re so far that we feel unforgivable and undeserving of even being children of God (see 2 Nephi 28:21).
But even when we can’t see it ourselves, Jesus Christ sees who we truly are. He says to us, “Thou wast precious in my sight” (Isaiah 43:4) and “Thou art mine” (Isaiah 43:1).
Sister Amy A. Wright, First Counselor in the Primary General Presidency, says, “Often the scriptures give only a small portion of someone’s life, and based on that portion, we sometimes tend to exalt or condemn. No one’s life can be understood by one magnificent moment or one regrettable public disappointment. The purpose of these scriptural accounts is to help us see that Jesus Christ was the answer then, and He is the answer now. He knows our complete story and exactly what we suffer, as well as our capabilities and vulnerabilities.”1
This message was a huge reminder for me that although I’d made big mistakes and had wandered from the path, Jesus Christ saw me where I was, loved me still, and had a way back for me.
I believe Heavenly Father saw me heading in the wrong direction during high school and reached out to me by inspiring my parents. They noticed that I wasn’t myself anymore and that a lot of the light I used to have inside was missing. So, my mom asked if we could start having one-on-one scripture study together every night. I agreed, even though I hadn’t personally studied the scriptures for a while.
At first it felt like reading a chapter each night wasn’t making much of a difference; however, after a few months, I looked back and realized how far I’d come in strengthening my connection with God. I noticed an increase in my baseline level of happiness, and it became easier to let go of those friends who weren’t good influences.
Refamiliarizing myself with the scriptures has been a great blessing. I especially love the story of Alma the Younger and his incredible change of heart (see Alma 36:6–24). In my scripture journal I wrote this about his story: “God freely forgives anyone who repents. All we have to do is reach out. Those who leave the path are welcome back as soon as they make an effort to return.”
I know now that changing ourselves for the popular things of the world can be tempting but can also take us away from the path that leads to true happiness. The only changes that will give us the sense of belonging and fulfillment we seek are the ones that strengthen our connection to Heavenly Father. Like Brother Bradley R. Wilcox, Second Counselor in the Young Men General Presidency, recently taught, Heavenly Father wants us to change in righteous ways because “God loves us as we are, but He also loves us too much to leave us this way.”2 I still have a long way to go to be the person Heavenly Father wants me to be, but I’m choosing to change because I love Him.

The Lord Knew Where to Send Him
Prophets, seers, and revelators assign missionaries under the direction and influence of the Holy Ghost. Inspired mission presidents direct transfers every six weeks and quickly learn that the Lord knows exactly where He wants each missionary to serve.
A few years ago, Elder Javier Misiego, from Madrid, Spain, was serving a full-time mission in Arizona. At that time, his mission call to the United States appeared somewhat unusual, as most young men from Spain were being called to serve in their own country.
At the conclusion of a stake fireside, where he and his companion had been invited to participate, Elder Misiego was approached by a less-active member of the Church who had been brought by a friend. It was the first time this man had been inside a chapel in years. Elder Misiego was asked if he might know a José Misiego in Madrid. When Elder Misiego responded that his father’s name was José Misiego, the man excitedly asked a few more questions to confirm that this was the José Misiego. When it was determined that they were speaking about the same man, this less-active member began to weep. “Your father was the only person I baptized during my entire mission,” he explained and described how his mission had been, in his mind, a failure. He attributed his years of inactivity to some feelings of inadequacy and concern, believing that he had somehow let the Lord down.
Elder Misiego then described what this supposed failure of a missionary meant to his family. He told him that his father, baptized as a young single adult, had married in the temple, that Elder Misiego was the fourth of six children, that all three boys and a sister had served full-time missions, that all were active in the Church, and that all who were married had been sealed in the temple.
The less-active returned missionary began to sob. Through his efforts, he now learned, scores of lives had been blessed, and the Lord had sent an elder from Madrid, Spain, all the way to a fireside in Arizona to let him know that he had not been a failure. The Lord knows where He wants each missionary to serve. …
Elder W. Christopher Waddell of the Seventy

In the early 1980s, my family lived in West Germany, and we were members of the Kaiserslautern Germany Servicemen Stake. At the time, our local leaders were emphasizing missionary work. We were told that within our circle of friends, the Lord had placed some of His choice spirit children who were seeking the gospel of Jesus Christ.
My wife, Jenny, and I believed that to be true. Our leaders encouraged each of us to identify nonmember friends we thought would be interested in hearing the gospel. We were to make a list of about 10 people and then fast and pray about our list of friends and decide whom we were to approach first. We decided on contacting two men who were co-workers in my office. I spoke first to a young single man named Chris, but he showed little interest at the time. Next, we decided I would approach Bruce Hamby, a good and kind man with a young family.
However, several days went by and I found myself nervous about speaking to him about the gospel. Finally, one day Jenny called me at the office and asked, “Have you spoken to Bruce yet?” I said, “No, but I will soon.” She then asked if Bruce was in the office that day, and I said he was. At that point she said, “Scott, put down the phone. I will wait while you talk to him!”
I put down the phone and nervously went over to Bruce and asked, “Bruce, did you know that I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?” He said yes; and I said, “Would you be interested in learning more about the Church?” He answered, “Yes, I would.”
Over the next few weeks, Bruce, his wife, Ella, and their daughter, Tanya, came to our home for dinner and met with the missionaries. They were taught the lessons, attended church meetings with us, accepted the gospel, and were baptized. It was a gloriously wonderful and happy day. Bruce was thankful we had introduced his family to the gospel. Even Chris, the young man in our office, attended the baptism and was impressed. Later on, Bruce and Ella approached Chris about the gospel. With their fellowshipping, Chris was taught by the missionaries and joined the Church too.

There is another story about a little boy named Josh who was having terrible nightmares that were frightening him. He asked his father to kneel down and have a prayer with him to ask Heavenly Father to stop the dreams and nightmares.

Josh opened his prayer by thanking Heavenly Father for the blessings that were his. He then asked his Heavenly Father to have the nightmares stop and send him a confirmation through his feelings during the prayer. He said no more. He waited about a minute, said “thank you,” and closed the prayer. He had had his confirmation and comfort that his prayers were answered—that he would not have any more nightmares. What an important lesson for a young man to learn!

“Come on, Jennie. You’re an old slowpoke,” Tobie called good-naturedly to his little sister who ran to meet him every day after school. She could hardly wait to go to school with him and whenever Tobie declared that it wouldn’t be any time at all until she would be old enough, her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Most afternoons were so quiet that Jennie and Tobie could hear birds singing or wild geese honking overhead. But today there came a new and different sound. Tobie looked in the direction of the strange, rumbling noise and saw a group of men coming toward them, raising a cloud of dust as they traveled.
Quickly Tobie pulled his sister back into the bushes and warned her not to make a sound. A crooked line of tired soldiers soon came into view, shuffling by slowly like the ragtag end of a beaten army. Several mules were pulling old, creaky wagons filled with injured men who moaned hoarsely every time the wheels jounced over stones in the road. As the strangers passed, Tobie noticed ragged and torn uniforms, bandage-wrapped heads, crutches made of broken tree limbs, and sallow, staring faces, some not much older than his own. The men who could walk were silent as they trudged along, their eyes fixed on the dusty road before them.
When the last marcher disappeared around the bend, Tobie grabbed Jennie’s hand and they ran to their farmhouse among the trees. Mother was coming from the barnyard with a basket of eggs she had just gathered. “What’s wrong children?” she asked.
They told her about the men, and when Father came home from the fields later for their evening meal he listened carefully to their news. The previous day, a neighbor had told him that British troops had taken over the nearby city of Philadelphia after a victorious battle near the Birmingham meetinghouse several days before.
When Tobie described their woebegone appearance, Father knew the bedraggled men belonged to General Washington’s defeated army. Apparently the surviving soldiers were looking for a place to rest and care for their wounded companions.
“I’m sure we have nothing to worry about,” Father said. However, when bedtime came the doors were bolted securely and his rifle was placed within easy reach.
The next day was Saturday and Tobie got up early to help with the chores. Jennie stayed so close to her brother that he called her his “little shadow.” It was nearly noon when they saw a man approaching the garden where they were picking tomatoes. The boy pushed his sister behind him and grabbed a hoe that was lying on the ground. Trying to sound brave, he asked gruffly what the man wanted.
The stranger looked sadly at the two children and, probably thinking of his family so far from Pennsylvania, sat down wearily on an old tree stump. “Don’t be frightened,” he said, “I just need a drink of water and a place to rest for a while.”
Tobie put down the hoe and hurried to bring some water from a bucket near the pump. Looking more closely at the man’s ragged clothing, he could tell that the tall, thin figure was a soldier in the Continental army.
Jennie ran to the kitchen for her mother. When they returned, the soldier tried to get up but the effort was too much. “Ma’am, I sure hope I didn’t scare the young’uns,” he said, motioning to Tobie and Jennie.
Mother looked at the man’s tired, bearded face, and tears came to her eyes. “We’re glad you’re here,” she said. “We want to help you.” And within minutes she was busily cooking food for the hungry stranger.
As they watched him eagerly eat every crumb of food from the plate, he told them about his children in Virginia. When he finished eating, the soldier talked of the men who had passed by the farm the day before. “There will be thousands like them,” he said, “coming to camp in the hills of Valley Forge. They have very little food and many are sick or wounded. A few stronger ones like myself have come searching for help from the surrounding farms. Others are cutting logs to build huts for shelter. There is no way of knowing how long we’ll have to stay, perhaps all winter.”
Later when Father came home and heard about the suffering of the men in the army, he and the soldier rode toward the place where General Washington’s troops were struggling to build a camp, while Mother began searching for pieces of cloth that could be used for bandages for the wounded men. Tobie and Jennie laid clean straw on the barn floor and placed buckets of cool water inside the door.
As dusk crept over the rolling Chester County hills, Father returned with some of the wounded men. Before long they were lying on the comfortable straw, eating hot soup and having their dirty bandages replaced with clean strips of cloth. As the tired and homesick soldiers thought of their own children so far away, they smiled at Jennie and Tobie.
By nightfall all were cared for, quiet fell over the barn, and the weary family returned to the house. They were preparing for bed when suddenly they heard the sound of horses’ hooves followed by a knock. Cautiously, Father opened the door.
A man stood in the doorway—a quite different-looking soldier than those in the barn. “May I come in?” he asked quietly.
There was something about this man who walked so very straight and tall that thrilled Tobie. A long black cloak almost covered a threadbare officer’s uniform. An aide, holding the bridle of a beautiful white horse, stood outside while the stranger visited in the kitchen.
“I understand that some of my men are sleeping in your barn,” he began. “Did you give them permission to stay there?”
After he was told of the day’s events the tall soldier was quiet for several moments. Then he said, “For my men and myself, I am grateful to all of you. Thank God there are so many good people in this great land of ours.” And before anyone could answer he bowed to Mother, shook Father’s hand and left.
It wasn’t until the next morning that the men in the barn learned of their commander’s visit the night before. They were grateful that in spite of his many concerns during this trying period he came himself to see after their well-being. But no one could have guessed then that the night visitor, Gen. George Washington, would soon become the first president of the United States.

David sat on the front row of the chapel and bounced his leg. He was nervous. He had just left Primary and become a deacon. The older boys were going to show David and the other 11-year-old boys how to pass the sacrament.
David’s autism sometimes made it hard for him to learn new things. Moving out of Primary had been hard for him. And now passing the sacrament seemed so scary. What if he made a mistake and everyone laughed at him?
Jacob, one of the older boys, sat next to David. “We’re happy to have you with us,” Jacob said. He gave David a high five. “You’ll do great.”
David smiled. That made him feel a bit better.
The other young men showed the 11-year-olds what to do. They showed them where to go and which rows to pass to. They practiced walking down the aisles in the chapel. They showed the boys how to hold the sacrament trays.
“Mom, look!” David said when he got home. He held his arm up. “This is how I hold the tray. Carefully, like this. Because I’m representing Jesus, and I want to show my respect.”
The young men practiced with David and the other boys after church on Sundays and during weeknight activities. They walked through where they should go. David practiced holding the tray.
Soon, the day came when he would pass the sacrament for the first time.
“How are you feeling about it?” Dad asked.
“I’m still nervous,” David said.
“Let’s talk through what you’ve done to prepare,” said Dad.
“Well, we’ve read scriptures about the priesthood as a family,” David said. “Holding the priesthood means I represent Jesus. I trimmed my nails so my hands will look nice. And I’ve practiced a lot!”
“I think you sound well prepared,” Dad said.
When he got to church, David sat on the front row with the other deacons. Jacob sat next to him. David thought about how he was going to represent Jesus when he passed the sacrament. What if he still messed up? He glanced at Jacob, and Jacob smiled at him. David smiled back and took a deep breath.
When it was time to pass the sacrament, Jacob helped David pass the tray down the first few rows. David was glad to have someone with him.
David looked at the people as he passed the sacrament. Many of them were sitting with their heads reverently bowed. Some looked thoughtful. David felt peaceful. He was representing Jesus. He was grateful he could help others think about Jesus Christ.
This story took place in the USA.

The wood had broiled in the sun for so many years that it was now the color of faded cardboard. Wind and rain had warped and cracked its weary surface.

Slap! A brush drenched the crevice where the old board joined the fence post. Slosh! A roller dipped in its tray, then spread a thick layer of rust-red latex over the tired timber, which drank its fill and noticed that its neighbors, too, were being refreshed by some benevolent teenagers. The old corral would never look the same!

Across the road, weeds and grass, fed by 80-degree spring water, had clogged irrigation channels. Now young men and women toiled side by side, knee and elbow-deep in moss and slime. As they freed paths for water to make its way to the pastures, they smiled and laughed and joked and cheered each other on. At the same time, their counterparts in another field were clearing away piles of dead palm fronds trimmed by previous work crews, piling trucks high with debris.

It was not a typical youth conference.

True enough, when the young people from three of Las Vegas’ ten stakes had gathered for the conference’s opening session the night before, they had enjoyed a musical fireside, including an impromptu chorus starring the presidents of the Las Vegas, Las Vegas South, and Las Vegas Nevada Redrock stakes.

And it was also true that following the fireside there was a dance where young men and young women mingled and made new friends. And there were still a testimony meeting, meetings with featured speakers, and a ranch-style barbecue dinner to come. There would even be a game session featuring horseshoes, earth ball competition, a greased pig chase, an obstacle course, and a tug-of-war.

But the most impressive event was the all-day Saturday cleanup at the Warm Springs welfare ranch and farm, 60 miles northeast of town.

Following an early-morning breakfast at one of the stake centers, a dozen work crews (each identified by a specific T-shirt color) boarded a dozen buses (each labeled with a sign of the same color) and were conveyed across the sage-speckled desert toward the welfare property.

In transit, crew members, directed by captains of 10 and captains of 40 (to match bus capacity), were required to interview each other and fill out forms listing favorite foods, date of birth, hobbies, Church callings, and other get-acquainted facts:

“We purposely mixed people from different stakes so they would be able to make friends with new people,” explained Gary Tonks, 17, captain of the light blue bus. “We wanted them to work together at the farm, but we thought that would be easier if they knew each other first.”

The buses left the freeway and tooled along a lesser road, adrift in the barren mounds of an ochre, gray, and tan moonscape, dry enough to give a lizard thirst. Then, over one last rise, a patch of green! Green! Palm trees danced a wind-inspired hula, while streams, glinting like diamonds in the sun, encircled plants and fields in belts of silver.

Fortunately for the work crews, this was not some sand-weary traveler’s illusion, no mirage born of too much sun. Warm Springs, Nevada, is an oasis in every sense of the word. Thermal water gushes up here from an underground source, blessing the parched earth with life. A billboard beckons tourists to visit a privately owned recreational water slide; environmentalists on field trips inspect the warm-water canals for a fish species indigenous to the area; and the skyscraping palms converge in cavernous groves that offer seclusion and shade in summer and shelter from the harsh winter wind.

The property, purchased about four years ago, may eventually be developed to include pomegranate groves, grape vines, cottonwood trees (for firewood), range cattle, a dairy, a pig farm, a turkey farm, a catfish pond, a swimming pool, grain fields, and silos for storage. It is also used from time to time for camping and Scouting activities, and so many of the youth conference participants had been here before.

Each crew was assigned to a work area, again according to T-shirt color, and within minutes, the farm was engulfed by workers shoveling, carrying, hoeing, sawing, raking, hacking, and stacking. Invading mesquite bushes were whacked off at the roots, cut up, and carted away. Barbed wire was restrung and tightened. The farm manager’s yard was weeded and manicured until it looked professionally landscaped.

“We already had the bus leaders come out to the farm,” explained Jacie Summers, 17, of the 51st Ward, South Stake. “There were three or four sessions when they were allowed to come and practice doing all the jobs so that they’d be qualified to supervise. Now they’re in charge of groups, but they know what to have them do.” Her job? “Today we’re cleaning pig pens,” she said, grinning.

“Usually we go to a youth conference and sit in classrooms during workshops,” said David Brown, 18, of the 28th Ward, Las Vegas Stake. “We always have some people sitting alone, eating alone, not feeling involved. We felt like this was a way for them to feel part of the conference, for us to be able to work with others, and for everyone at the end of the day to feel satisfied with what we got done.”

“I like to work, and working with friends makes it fun,” said Andrea Hildreath, 17, of the South Stake’s 47th Ward. And Heather Rodriguez, 15, of the Third Ward, Las Vegas Stake, added that “it’s not the thing I’d normally anticipate doing for fun, but it’s what you make it. If you come in with a good attitude and make it fun, it will be. The best part was meeting lots of new people.”

“We explained at a fireside what we planned to do at the conference,” Jacie said. “We told them we were going to work and work hard, but we explained how they could help and how much good it would do for the farm.”

Evidently the appeal was convincing. “This is the biggest turnout we’ve ever had for a youth conference,” Jacie said. And Gary, who served on the steering committee with her, noted that more than 500 attended an activity originally planned for 300. “At first we were afraid people would be turned off by the idea of working, but it turned out to be one of the best ideas ever.”

A quick look around the farm would have been enough to convince anyone he was right. There were so many willing volunteers, one of the biggest problems was finding enough tools to go around. Another problem was distributing oranges to everyone for a morning break. There were plenty of oranges, but everyone was so involved working there was only a minimal distribution crew!

The strenuous labor made the juicy sweetness of the fresh fruit even more appealing, and the workers relaxed momentarily, leaning on the fence posts, hillsides, and even sides of automobiles. They talked, as they often do with those from out of town, about what it’s like to live in Las Vegas.

“Most people think you live in a casino,” said Bruce Tingey, 17, of the 51st Ward, South Stake. “They don’t realize that this is actually a home town for some, that people, especially Mormons, really live here. But there are lots of Church members in Vegas.”

“It’s easy to find good examples,” said Suzann Melaerts, 16, of the 31st Ward, Las Vegas Stake. “But it’s easy to find bad ones, too. You have to be strong. I’m glad for the opportunity to share with those who want to know about the gospel.”

“I’ve never lived anywhere else,” Andrea added. “But I’ve been other places. I love it here because the Church is so strong.” Bruce’s sister, Christine, agreed. “We have more opportunities to share the gospel here because a lot of people know about the Church already. It’s an ideal situation—plenty of chances to do missionary work, and yet there are enough members that you don’t feel like you’re all by yourself.”

Heather nodded her head. “About 50 percent of my friends are members of the Church. About 50 percent aren’t. I have an obligation to share the gospel. I want others to have the same happiness I do.”

Heather told of a friend who’s investigating the Church. “We talk a lot, almost every day,” Heather said. And others mentioned a young lady who was baptized shortly after last year’s youth conference. Looking around, they pointed out half a dozen nonmembers mixed in with the crowd around them.

“There were six or seven new members baptized last year in my high school,” Andrea said. “Three of them are on missions now.”

On another part of the ranch, Kristie Ferrell, a 16-year-old member of the Third Ward, Las Vegas Stake, sat chatting with a nonmember friend who accompanied her to the conference. They discussed the youth activities the Church sponsors, as well as Kristie’s active role in her ward. Kristie leads music for the Young Women and is second counselor in her Mia Maid class. She enjoys volleyball and basketball.

Soon others were describing fun activities, too. Suzann remembered girls’ camp hikes in the nearby mountains and seminary lessons that “gave me a good feeling and made me want to do right all day long.” Walter Wagner, 15, of the 19th Ward, Redrock Stake, mentioned the dances held each week at different chapels and the rappeling classes with the teachers quorum in Redrock Canyon. “lt was scary at first,” he said, “but we got used to it.”

Soon the break would be over, and while the laborers finished their chores, adult advisers and some of the ranch hands would be butter-basting potatoes in charcoal-heated dutch ovens and slicing roast pork for the feast to come. The testimony meeting and choral performance scheduled for early evening would eventually be postponed until Sunday because of rushing desert winds, though the testimonies borne would be fervent and tender after a day’s rest gentled the effects of fatigue. Even the games, though riotous at first, would be short-lived because nearly everyone was exhausted.

But for one small moment, no one worried about all that. For one small moment in the bright, clear winter sunshine, there was a near-unanimous contentment, a happiness at being united in service and companionship with fellow Saints. And there was a realization that here there was more than one kind of oasis—that through service, love, gospel-sharing, and reaching out, the Saints in Las Vegas are building a spiritual oasis that will invigorate the desert people for eternities to come.

The Vernal Utah Temple is built largely within the walls of the former Vernal Utah Uintah Stake Tabernacle, constructed in 1907. Thus, one of the newest temples was built, in part, by faithful Saints long dead. In a happy mingling of the old and new, children of today joined their ancestors in raising a temple to the Lord. At the groundbreaking, President Gordon B. Hinckley invited children to help turn over the soil. He said, “Every boy and girl who lives in these stakes would take pride through the years to come if he or she, through a little sacrifice, were to make a contribution of a dollar or two … or five or ten toward the construction of a house of the Lord, and each time he or she passed it or came into this building, he or she could say, ‘I had a part in the building of that sacred and beautiful structure.’”
The boys and girls of the temple district listened to the prophet and contributed not only their dollars but their talents and hard work as well.
Some of the bricks in the tabernacle were damaged and needed to be replaced. N. J. Meacher, who is not a member of the Church, donated a beautiful old home whose bricks matched those of the tabernacle. Matt Foley was assigned to supervise tearing down the house and salvaging the bricks. His three grandsons, Greg (7), Corey (10), and Dallen (11), volunteered to help him. The bricks had to be removed one at a time and carefully cleaned and tested for strength. The Foleys, along with many other volunteers, were able to save sixteen thousand bricks, which are now in the temple walls and the walls enclosing the grounds.
When the temple was completed, Greg attended the open house. “The Spirit was so strong!” he said.
“I’m eager to go back to the temple when I’m twelve,” Dallen stated. “I can’t describe how good it feels to know that we actually helped to build a temple.”
Their cousin Corey agreed. “It was a great experience, preserving the bricks for a temple. It’s a very special building that will help people for a long time.”
Forty-two children from the Altamont Second Ward, Altamont Utah Stake, traveled fifty miles to Vernal to sing for visitors waiting in line at the temple open house. They sang “I Love to See the Temple,” “Families Can Be Together Forever,” “Reverence Is Love,” and “Eternal Things” to an appreciative audience. It was an act of service and love. Haylee Toland (11) said, “The temple is a spiritual, peaceful place, and I’m glad we could set the mood for people’s visits.”
The Primary girls of the Vernal Fifth Ward, Vernal Utah Ashley Stake, created a beautiful and original design for tissue box holders to be placed in the temple where needed. They stitched plastic canvas with white yarn, making sure that the boxes were perfect. They donated many hours to this gift for the house of the Lord.
The girls also tied a beautiful white baby quilt to be used for the baby crib in the temple nursery, where children wait to be sealed to their parents. Amy Lefevre said, “I’m happy and excited because I know I’m making something important and special for the temple.”
The ward Primary leaders also decided to use a penny bank to collect money for the temple. A counselor in the bishopric designed and built a bank that looked like the proposed temple, with a window in the bank so that the children could see their money grow. They donated $350, mostly in pennies, for their gift of love.
Brother Brownie Tomlinson helped to demolish the interior of the old tabernacle and excavate the ground under and around it. His sons, Russell (13) and Shawn (11), assisted by hauling bricks and stones and doing other jobs that were safe for boys their age. They donated long hours and worked hard to prepare the site. Brother Tomlinson noticed that as Shawn became covered with white dust, it looked as if an angel were working among them. Although Shawn can’t remember feeling like an angel, he reported that it felt good to help build the temple. “I got to thinking about all the people who would be married and sealed and baptized there, and it was really special to be part of it.”
The Valiants of the Naples First Ward Primary, Vernal Utah Uintah Stake, started something big when they decided to collect aluminum cans from their families, the bishop, and along the road. They gave the bishop $9.51 for the temple. After that, at an Achievement Day activity, the girls made it their goal to collect cans everywhere they could. They made arrangements with Western Park to collect cans each night after the Dinosaur Roundup Rodeo. Wearing old coats and surgical gloves, they crawled around under the bleachers and in the dumpsters at Western Park. They and their advisers worked from 10 P.M. to midnight for three nights.
Many ward members donated cans to the project, and in July, Primary children brought cans to a pioneer activity. The total donation was $80. Inspired by the children, the whole ward gave generously, donating enough to pay for three chandeliers, the furniture, and the carpeting in the celestial room. When Stephanie Romane (11) went to the open house, she was so overwhelmed with the beauty of the celestial room that she just stood in the doorway for a while. “Who would have thought that those cans could turn into this elegant room?” she said.

Primary children in Perth, Australia, shared Jesus’s warmth by giving blankets to older women in their ward. At Easter time in Australia, the temperature starts to cool down for autumn before winter comes. Children often receive a new pair of warm winter pajamas with chocolate eggs on Easter morning. Warm pajamas and blankets can remind us of the warmth of Jesus Christ’s love.
1. They went to the store together to pick out the blankets.
2. They also made flower crafts, painted wooden Easter eggs, and decorated cards to go with the blankets.
3. Then they delivered the blankets. They enjoyed working together to bring the Savior’s love to others at Easter time.
Here’s the letter the children sent with the blankets!
We hope that through the winter you can use this small gift to feel the warmth of our love and to always remember that the Savior’s love wraps around you.
Love,
The Primary children
I enjoyed being able to join in and do something together. The shopping trip was the best, and we got to choose the colors of the blankets. It was a fun and happy experience.
Robert D., age 9
We liked seeing the smiling faces of the women in our ward when we gave them the blankets.
Micah and Hyrum M., ages 10 and 8
I had a lot of fun doing something nice for the older people in our ward.
Miley N., age 8
Illustrations by Sophie Loren Moran. May be copied for Church use only.

One day on the bus on the way home from school, I was telling my friend James how much I enjoy going to church. When I mentioned prayer, James asked me, “What is prayer?”
“It’s a way of talking to God,” I said. He asked me how to pray, and I told him, “First you bow your head, fold your arms, and close your eyes. Then you start with ‘Dear Heavenly Father,’ thank Him for your blessings, tell Him about your day, ask for anything you need, and then end in the name of Jesus Christ.”
James said his own prayer while we were on the bus. I felt happy inside that I had taught my friend how to pray.