Gospel Story Finder

The Naidus have been inspired by Gurcharan S. Gill, a retired professor of mathematics from Brigham Young University and former and first president of the India Bengaluru Mission from 1993 to 1995.

President Gill is from the village of Dhudike outside the town of Moga in the Punjab. Although he has lived in the United States for 65 years, he is still very connected to his Indian heritage.

As a young man, he lost his older sister Nasib to hepatitis in 1953 and then his youngest brother to bone disease in 1954. “I wondered what happened when people die,” he said, “but found no satisfactory answer.” His questions were answered when, as a young graduate student in California, he came into contact with the Church.

President Gill described his spiritual journey. “In 1955, I went to a lot of churches in Fresno, California, and asked these questions but found no satisfactory answers. The mother of my classmate suggested that I should look for answers at [The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints]. Another LDS classmate invited me to attend a stake conference. I went to the stake conference and heard about the plan of salvation. A miracle indeed! At the stake conference I met the stake and full-time missionaries and they taught me the true gospel. It took eight months of learning. In January of 1956, I was baptized and shortly thereafter I received a wonderful patriarchal blessing. The patriarch promised me that my mission in this life is to help redeem my ancestors.”

“In 1986,” he said, “I went back to India with my parents to visit relatives and found my four generations. I also found tax revenue records for my ancestors who were landowners. Using those records, I went back eight generations.”

Since 2003, he has devoted most of his time to family history. “This is missionary work!” he said.

In 2010, he received permission to photograph tax records in 320 villages where his family was from. “Using those records,” he said, “I have found the names of 250,000 ancestors and relatives and have traced my genealogy back to 2200 B.C.”

Now he spends six to eight hours a day poring over digitized land records researching the Gill Clan. “If you seek, you shall find,” he said.

As a young man just returning from military service, I anxiously looked forward to attending BYU, completing my degree, beginning my life’s work, and getting married. I had been away nearly two years and saw many of my friends getting married and doing the things I wanted to do. While in the service I had saved my money, worked an extra job on the army base several evenings and weekends, and begun my college training by taking several classes at the local college. I was really enthused about the prospects for the future and, now that I had completed my military commitment, I could move forward without further interruptions.
On returning, I purchased the car I had worked and saved for and entered BYU. Life was good. I was living at home among friends of many years, and the prospects for the future were excellent. At BYU I became involved as a cheerleader, joined several service agencies, worked part-time, and became totally immersed in the Church. My life was full to overflowing.
Then, one day several months later, my bishop tapped me on the shoulder and asked me in for an interview. What did he want, I wondered. I had just recently come home, and I was already teaching Sunday School and serving as president of the M-Man class. And then I learned: he wanted me to accept a call to serve a mission. Oh yes, the thought had crossed my mind several times, but very few young men went on missions in those days following the end of World War II because of years away from home and also because of age and a desire to settle down and complete their education.
My first thoughts were, I don’t have time now; there is so much to do, so many years of education ahead. Then I remembered several things. First, my patriarchal blessing said that I would be a missionary; and second, I had been taught by parents that the Lord would bless me as I accepted any calling that came to me. I must admit today that those were anxious moments for me, being pulled in one direction by the life I enjoyed so much and contemplating leaving all that to serve a mission. I enjoyed every day and awakened with enthusiasm for the many things that lay ahead that day and week. And yet, there I was with a patriarchal blessing—“your own personal plan of salvation,” as President Harold B. Lee used to say—and a request from a bishop to go and serve the Lord.
I thought that two and a half years would cause me to forfeit many of the goals that were important to me, all of which I thought were creditable and acceptable to the Lord. I would be behind so many of my friends, some of whom were already married. But the Spirit of the Lord continued to work upon me, and after much supplication unto the Lord I knew, by the Spirit, what I must do and began to develop an anxiousness to serve the Lord in the mission field.
I would be the first, the very first Paramore ever to serve a full-time mission and would be setting the example for others of our family to follow. It would be little repayment indeed for the blessings that had come to our families—the Paramores from England, the Nielsens from Denmark, the Maxwells and Lamonts from Scotland—because of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the eternal sealings that had been done for our families and the principles of truth which had come to be ours. I would go and take these blessings to others, first, because I was asked to go, and then, because I wanted to share these blessings with others.
The weeks passed and finally an interview (in those days this was always done by a General Authority) with Elder Marion G. Romney, who was then a member of the Council of the Twelve. And finally that special day arrived when my call came to serve the Lord in the French mission. That day will always live in my mind, and, as I have reflected hundreds of times since in my life, it was one of the most important days and one of the most important calls to ever come to me to serve here upon the earth. I have thought many times, suppose I hadn’t served? There would have been some testimony I would not have received, people I would never have known and helped to love the gospel and receive its blessings.
That time in the mission field was one of the most dramatically important experiences of my life. It gave me hundreds of witnesses that the gospel is true, that it was established by the Lord Jesus Christ upon the earth, and that it brings joy, health, peace, progress, and eternal blessings to every person who fully embraces it. I would have the witness in my life forever, and it would propel me to serve the Lord all the days of my life. What a foundation for the future, for my family, to know from missionary service what the gospel can do for all who are involved.
How did I know then how the Lord would use me in the future? What were his plans for me here upon the earth? The mission was the first crossroad that I had to walk through, and since then it has been easier when faced with important decisions to ask, “What would the Lord have me do?”
I have since had the privilege of returning to the French, Belgians, and French-speaking Canadians many times. Each time I thank the Lord for my first call to these great peoples. I have friends and know members in literally a hundred of those cities, and I have seen the gospel change thousands of lives in the past 30 or more years. In the past few years while working with missionaries throughout Western Europe, I have had the blessing several times of having missionaries stand in a testimony meeting and say, “Because of Elder Paramore I am here today, for he took the gospel to my parents,” in Paris, France or Liege, Belgium.
One of the most important, wonderful Christmas presents I have ever received was a letter that came in December of 1980. Sister Young, who had joined the Church in Paris, wrote me and gave an account of what had happened since her family’s conversion 30 years earlier. She described what had happened to each member, how dozens had served missions, and that more than 170 persons had been baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Someone, I think Elder LeGrand Richards, had said it, but I thought about it tearfully that day, “The blessings of a mission continue into the eternities.”
My dear young friends, the most glorious of all service in the Church begins in the mission field. It exacts from each missionary a commitment to know the Lord and his gospel and then to share it with profound appreciation. It is the Lord’s way to bestow his blessings upon all his children and in rich abundance forever upon his missionaries. I bear you my testimony that those blessings are there and invite you young people, in spite of the challenges (for there will always be some), to serve him and the great family of mankind in the mission field. You will be the greatest beneficiaries of all.

Looking at the Grand Canyon rim far above filled my mind with anything but ease. I was with my dad and six other kids from my ward. We left our camp in the bottom of the Grand Canyon at dusk to avoid the heat of the Arizona sun as we climbed out. My pack was lighter than it had been hiking in, and Dad had lovingly given first aid to my blistered feet with moleskin, so I was feeling fairly capable of handling the hike ahead.
After two miles, we reached a small Indian reservation as darkness fell. After a rest break, we filled our canteens, dug out our flashlights, did some general regrouping, and resumed our trek.
As the night wore on, fatigue and aching muscles were not the only causes of my problems. I had learned to deal with physical exhaustion in competitive swimming. There were times when swimming one more length seemed impossible, yet I could do it because I knew that it was only one more lap. But to continue hiking without knowing how far I’d gone or how far I had left to go was entirely demoralizing.
We walked for four hours. My flashlight carved a hole in the blackness just large enough to show my dad’s shoes and the trail’s edge. There was no moon to see by, and nothing to look at on either side. It reminded me of the nightmare I have where I run as hard and fast as I can but get nowhere. At that moment I hated that canyon more than I have ever hated anything. I felt as though it was something personal, as if the canyon were gloating at my struggle to escape.
I never would have made it out of that canyon without my dad. Watching his feet, I methodically placed my own in his tracks. We stopped to rest more often than he needed; and while I drank the water he carried, he quietly lashed my bedroll to his pack. At one point, after stopping to share what little water was left, I somehow became separated from my dad by a few people. I could no longer see his shoes or hear his voice. I was frantic. Holding back the tears, I stumbled ahead until I resumed my place behind him. Slowly I regained my composure.
I suppose it was because of my weakened physical state that the last few miles of this monotonous journey seemed miraculous. Walking behind my father as we started our ascent of the switchbacks, I began to reflect. This was the hardest thing I had ever done, and at that point, I was not getting myself up the canyon trail. My dad was. Without his footprints to walk in, I felt lost. The side of the canyon became insurmountable without him.
The parallel became clear at that moment. Dad made the trek up the mountain so much easier just by his being there. I followed him without question. I knew he loved me and that he knew I was struggling. He wanted to get me to the top so I could look back and say, “I made it. I am here where I wanted to be. Let’s go home.”
If life is the trek up a mountain, and trials add to my humility and willingness to follow, then isn’t Father in Heaven, like my dad, there to make it easier if I but follow him? Isn’t it his great wish for me to be able to say, “I have fought the good fight. I am where I want to be for eternity. It is wonderful to be home”?

As ward missionaries, my wife and I fellowshipped a young couple. We loved them and their children. Eventually, they accepted our invitation to come to church.
When we arrived to pick them up one Sunday morning, however, they apologized because they weren’t ready. But their six-year-old son, Keaton, pleaded with his parents to go. So, with their permission, he got dressed and came with us to church.
Arriving late, we slipped in the back of the chapel. Suddenly I felt a tug and turned to find Keaton gripping my suit coat. With an anxious expression and his eyes fixed on the front of the chapel, he asked, "Who died?"
"What?" I responded, following his gaze. "No one died."
As I pondered Keaton’s question, I looked at the sacrament table. For a boy with little experience in the Church, it would be easy to see what seemed to be a body lying under the cloth covering the sacramental bread and water. Then it hit me: someone had died. The sacred emblems representing Jesus Christ’s body were right in front of us. With so much experience in the Church, why hadn’t I seen the sweet symbolism?
I thanked Keaton for his question and explained that the sacrament cloth covered bread and water and what they mean to us. His simple question had reminded me that the Savior really did die so we could live.
Since that day, Keaton’s question has continued to resonate in my soul. It has helped me approach the sacrament table more focused on the Savior. The emblems of the sacrament have become more vivid, and their meaning lingers with me longer throughout the week. I’ll be forever grateful for Keaton’s innocent question.

I recently visited my optometrist for an annual eye exam. My exam took longer than usual, and afterward he told me that I wasn’t seeing very well out of my right eye. At first, I was bewildered and frustrated. I thought, “These are my eyes! How does he know how I’m seeing?” You would think that I would not need someone else to tell me how I was seeing things out of my own eyes!

But once he informed me of this, the recent headaches and eye strain I had been experiencing came to mind. I could tell that he was right. It had happened so gradually that I hadn’t noticed I wasn’t seeing optimally. My doctor had helped me catch this early, so the fix was fairly easy, and my vision improved in the course of a few weeks. Some light intervention and a new prescription later, and I can see all of you again.

Similarly, as we move through life, the effects of sin and living in a fallen world creep in gradually. Before we realize what has happened, we are working from a disadvantage that we can’t recognize without some self-examination or the intervention of the Spirit, Church leaders, or loving friends and family. The sooner we are made aware that we are wandering from the covenant path, the easier it is to be restored to the path with minimal effort on our part and a lot of grace and mercy through the power and Atonement of Jesus Christ.

Sheets of postage stamps wait to be affixed to a pile of envelopes. But Rebecca is only one person. A Laurel in the Allerød Ward, Copenhagen Denmark Stake, Rebecca has a few thoughts about pornography and its damaging influence, and she’s doing something about it. But the work—stuffing envelopes with antipornography literature—is tedious and time consuming.
As she addresses the envelopes, she talks of her involvement with a program organized to protest pornography in Denmark.
“Pornography has such a large effect on our values, but Denmark is quite a liberal country and I can see that people almost get used to the pornography. But instead of getting used to it, we should be startled by it,” Rebecca says.
At Rebecca’s school, a fellow student started a protest against pornography and enlisted Rebecca’s help. These students gathered signatures for a petition they hope will gain them a voice with the government—especially with Denmark’s minister of culture, who oversees public television in the country.
“We can’t stop people from looking at pornography,” Rebecca explains, “but we would like to see pornography removed from public places where children can easily see it. You can’t just put children to bed early and expect them not to see those things on television.”
As she thinks about the Young Women values and considers what she represents as a member of the Church, Rebecca is glad to be involved in something she hopes will effect a change.
“You have to make a statement in your life. I think it’s important for us, especially as members of the Church, to do something to make the world a better place,” she says. “That thought has always been important to me, but a couple of months ago when I received my patriarchal blessing, I realized even more that I had to do something.”
When Rebecca’s group completed the project and sent the petition to the government, she allowed herself to think about the small part she played in getting more than 22,000 people to sign the petition and how the project strengthened her resolve to make Denmark a better place. She also smiles. Her group easily exceeded their goal of 15,000 signatures.
Rebecca knows things are not going to change overnight. But you have to start somewhere, right? “I think a lot of people out there hate pornography and its effects,” she says. “But many people are not willing to do or say anything. Sometimes I think people just need a little reminder once in a while.”

When I was 11, my family moved to West Germany. My father and my mother ran a laundry to make a living, and I was the laundry delivery boy. I saw some shiny red bicycles, and I wished I could have one to make my deliveries. But I needed a heavy-duty bicycle to pull the cart with the laundry on it. I rode around pulling that heavy laundry cart before school and after school. It was hard seeing the other children play. But everyone in our family had to work hard, and I was an important part of the family business.
As I grew older, I learned about the blessings of doing things that at the time you don’t realize are important and good for you. When I was very little, I came down with a lung disease, but no one knew it at the time. When I grew older, I joined the air force. The doctors saw spots on my lungs. Because of the hard work of pedaling that heavy load, somehow my body had healed itself. I had built up endurance. I had built up strength. The doctors said that the disease took care of itself and that I passed my physical. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to become a pilot.
As a pilot, I flew all over the world. I never tired of looking at the stars, the clouds, the landscapes. I saw the beauty of the different countries with their different cultures. I know from going to those places and seeing the people and seeing the Church in those different places that the gospel is for everyone, no matter what nation you live in or what your traditions are. It is the gospel of Jesus Christ. The word of God—whether it is written in the scriptures or spoken by the living prophets, whether we read it in Church magazines or hear it at general conferences—is for everyone.

Sister Whang taught her girls to help spread the gospel. When President Till arrived in Korea in 1974, he learned from a survey that only 10 percent of the people in Seoul were aware of the name of the Church. During his three years as mission president, he and his missionaries concentrated on changing that. With Sister Whang’s permission, President Till assigned several elders—who formed a singing group known as “New Horizon”—to work directly with the Tender Apples choir to put on a musical show that would introduce the people in Korea to the gospel.
The group became immensely popular. Through it all, President Till remembers, Sister Whang “taught the girls that they shouldn’t be too proud of themselves, because they were just doing what they were supposed to do.” At the end of three years, more than 70 percent of the people in Seoul recognized the Church’s name.

My mom’s calling is to help set up for Relief Society activities. One night she needed to help set up for an activity. When I found out she was leaving, I was in a bad mood. Then she asked me to serve with her. At first I didn’t want to, but I agreed. Once we got there I helped set up different stations. I liked making things look nice for the women. I forgot why I had been in a bad mood and began to think about others. If our Lord Jesus Christ washed the feet of His disciples, then it should be clear to us that He expects us to follow His example. When I helped my mom I wasn’t washing feet, but I was doing something for someone other than myself. It makes me proud to be a part of a church where members follow Jesus Christ’s example.

Carter opened the back door and felt the wind blow him into the house. Brrr! He reached into his pocket. There it was—the money Sister Campbell had given him for shoveling snow.
“Hey, Madison,” Carter called to his sister. “Look what I have for the Christmas jar!”
“Cool,” Madison said. She reached on top of the fridge for the jar. Last year, when their jar was full of money, they’d left it on the front porch of a family whose father had lost his job.
Madison handed him the jar, and they both frowned at the coins inside.
“Where did all the money go?” Carter asked. “There’s barely anything in there.”
“There hasn’t been much all year,” Madison said.
Carter nodded. He knew money was tight for their family this year. “It’s almost Christmas,” he said. “What are we going to do?”
That night Mom got down the almost-empty jar. “Dad and I have been talking about Christmas and how we won’t have as many gifts this year,” she said.
“That’s OK,” Carter said.
“Yeah, we’ll still get presents from our aunts and uncles,” said Carter’s sister Kennedy.
“Well, actually,” Dad said, “we’ve been thinking about a new way to help others who have less than we do.”
“We thought we could ask Aunt Stephanie and Uncle J.J. to join us in giving this year,” Mom said. “We would use the money we would have spent on gifts for each other’s families and buy presents for a family in need instead.”
“You mean we won’t get anything for Christmas?” Kennedy asked.
“We’ll still have some presents,” Dad said. “But more important, we’ll have the gift of helping someone else.”
On Saturday the whole family—aunts, uncles, grandparents, and a few cousins—met to go shopping.
“Kennedy and Carter, we’ll shop for the little girl. She’s seven,” Mom said.
They walked past the sleds and scooters. Carter tried not to think about how much he would like to open those toys on Christmas morning. Instead, he picked out a pretty doll for the little girl.
Back at home, Carter couldn’t wait to show Grandma and Grandpa what they had found. “We got some boots and a doll and some pink gloves too!” he said.
“Very nice,” Grandma said.
“Never saw you get so excited about shopping before,” Grandpa laughed.
On Christmas Eve, Carter looked at the small pile of presents under the tree. Then he thought of all the gifts for the little girl, wrapped in shiny paper. He imagined her smile when she saw them under her own tree.
Just then Carter heard a knock on the front door. He jumped up to open it.
“Hi, Bishop Black,” Carter said. “Come in.”
The bishop stepped into the front room, smiling. He held a bag in his arms.
“This is from some people in the ward,” the bishop said, handing the sack to Dad. “We all love your family so much, and we want to wish you a merry Christmas.”
“Thank you,” Dad said. His eyes were filling with tears, and Mom was crying too.
Carter could hardly wait until the bishop was out the door to ask, “What’s in the bag? Can we peek?”
“We’ll see on Christmas,” Mom said. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”
“But what’s more wonderful,” Dad said, “is that other people care about us and want to help.”
“Like we helped that little girl,” Carter said.
“Right,” Mom said. “Because helping each other, and remembering how Jesus helps us, is what Christmas is all about.”

The shipping industry is a major employer, and it would have employed Richardt Andersen, Copenhagen’s stake president, if his commitment to the Lord had not changed his plans.

“I had served in the Danish Navy and wanted to be trained as a navigator,” President Andersen recalls. But after completing his mission in Denmark in 1970, he married Helmi, and they had the first of their six sons. Instead of Esbjerg and a life on the sea, he was called as bishop of the Copenhagen Second Ward and became a policeman. For the past nine years he has been the stake president.

For the past three years the number of convert baptism in the Copenhagen stake has doubled, growing from twenty-seven in 1988 to one hundred in 1990. “We stand on the shoulders of those who’ve gone before. We’re working to finish the building on the foundation they laid,” he says. His work includes Saturday jobs with his sons, who are earning money for their missions; whatever he earns while working with them goes into the fund.

One day I went to the beach with my brother and my mom. When our mom sat down to rest for a minute, she told us to wait for her, but my brother and I kept walking. Suddenly, we realized we were lost. We went back to where Mom had been, but we could not find her. I started to cry, and some people tried to help us. Finally our aunt found us.
While we were lost, I said a prayer. Our dad taught us that if we do not know what to do, we can say a prayer. I said one, very quietly, and then we were found. I learned that we should always obey our parents. And I know Heavenly Father hears us when we pray.

Seventeen-year-old Kathryn Broadribb loves to dance. She finds freedom in the flowing movements of classical and modern ballet, tap, jazz, contemporary, and national dance. Kathryn also finds a different kind of freedom in living the gospel.

Since Kathryn studies at the Northern Ballet School in Manchester, she lives away from her home in Norwich. Living away from home as a teenager might be too much responsibility for some people to take. But, like most other things, Kathryn handles it gracefully.

“The other girls from the ballet school live in a hostel and go pubbing and clubbing,” says Kathryn. “I don’t live close enough to be involved, and my friend Kate and I prefer church dances.”

Following the Word of Wisdom and keeping other commandments, like reading scriptures, helps give Kathryn the physical and mental strength to handle the rigors of her dance training.

“Often the pressure of it all is too much. I’ve wanted to give up a couple of times,” she admits. But it is what she wants and perseverance wins.

“All the pain is worth it when things go well and you pass your exams,” says Kathryn.

Lester and his mother were in their backyard, raking leaves. Actually, Lester’s mother was raking leaves. Lester was leaning on his rake.
“Lester,” Mother said as she continued to add leaves to her large leaf pile, “when I was a little girl—”
“I know, I know—don’t tell me, Mother.” Lester loved to tease his mother. “When you were a little girl, you didn’t have three maple trees in your backyard—you had three thousand, so there were zillions of leaves all over the place. But you never stopped raking. Not even for a minute. Not even if it started to rain. Nope, you didn’t stop until every single leaf was in your pile.”
Lester’s mother smiled. “Three thousand maple trees! Goodness, Lester, I didn’t grow up in the woods! No, what I was going to tell you was that when I was a little girl, I used to love jumping into leaf piles.”
“What? Didn’t that mess the leaf piles up?”
“Well, I suppose it did,” Mother said. “But it was sure a lot of fun!”
“Fun?” Was this the same mother who ordered him to stay away from mud puddles and who wouldn’t let him bring worms into the house? Was she teasing him?
“Yes, fun. Why don’t you give it a try?”
“All right.” Lester shrugged, trotted over to his mother’s leaf pile, and took a half-hearted leap.
Scrunch! Crackle! Crunch! The leaf pile had become a king-size, autumn-scented pillow!
Lester giggled. His mother was right. Jumping into leaf piles was a lot of fun. In fact, it was so much fun that Lester kept jumping, and jumping, and jumping, until Mother, who’d jumped in a couple of times herself, stopped and said, “Say, Lester, when I was a little girl—”
“I know, I know—don’t tell me, Mother. When you were a little girl, the instant your mother told you to stop jumping into the leaf pile, you picked up your rake and started raking all over again. And you never stopped. Not even for a second. Not even when a hurricane blew through and you had to chase your leaves all over town. Nope, you didn’t stop until you were absolutely sure that every single one of those leaves was in your pile.”
Lester’s mother smiled. “A hurricane! Goodness, Lester, I didn’t grow up on the coast! No, what I was going to tell you was that when I was a little girl, I used to love making leaf houses.”
“What?” Lester scratched his head. “Didn’t that mess the leaf piles up?”
Lester’s mother laughed. “Well, I suppose it did,” she said. “But it was sure a lot of fun!”
“Fun?” Where in the world was the mother who scolded him for playing with his food, the one who nearly hit the ceiling the last time he tried out one of his original cake recipes? Why, she hadn’t even let him put his mustard-marshmallow delight into the oven! She must be teasing him!
“Yes, fun. Watch.”
Then, as Lester looked on in amazement, Mother began to rearrange her leaf pile. Before he knew it, the leaf pile had completely vanished, and his mother was standing in the center of four leaf-walls. Oh, the walls were no more than a foot high and a foot wide, but Mother seemed satisfied. “Well, Lester,” she asked, “what do you think of the house?”
“Hmmmm,” Lester said. “I’ve never seen a leaf house before, so I suppose it’s OK. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Why, how thoughtless of me!” Mother quickly raked an opening in the wall closest to Lester. “I thought someone was at the front door,” she declared, smiling. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.” Lester entered the leaf house.
“Could I offer you something to drink?”
“Oh, yes,” Lester said. “I’d love a chocolate milk shake. But where are you going to make it? I don’t see a kitchen.”
“A kitchen!” Mother said. “Why, Lester, you’re absolutely right. I don’t have a kitchen. Would you like to help me make one?”
Lester raced out the front door of the leaf house and grabbed his rake. Then he and Mother began to add on to the leaf house. They raked a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a front porch, and a back door.
The leaf house sprawled across the entire backyard. Lester had never raked so hard or so long in his life. “This is really some kind of place!” he said as he drank his imaginary milk shake. “Don’t you think so, Mother?”
“Lester, Lester,” replied his mother, who was leaning on her rake, “did I ever tell you that when I was a little girl—”
“I know, I know—don’t tell me, Mother. When you were a little girl, right after you finished building your leaf house, you started tearing it down. You had to, because in your heart you knew that those leaves didn’t belong all over your yard. They belonged in a nice, neat pile. So once again you began to rake. And you raked, and you raked, and you raked. You never stopped. Not even when it was after midnight and the worst blizzard of all time howled into your town, and two hundred polar bears wandered into your backyard and started fooling around with your leaves and you had to tell them to cut it out, because there was no way you were going to let perfect strangers mess things up, and the polar bears started blubbering, but you didn’t give a hoot, you just told them to scram and kept right on raking until every single leaf was in your pile.”
Lester was out of breath.
Mother smiled. “Two hundred polar bears! Goodness, Lester, I didn’t grow up that close to the North Pole! No, what I was going to tell you was that when I was a little girl and it started to get dark and I started to get hungry, I’d rake shut the front door of my leaf house and head for the backdoor of my brick house.”
“You’d just leave your leaf house?” Lester said, his eyes as big as full moons.
“Yes—I always liked to play in my leaf house the next day.”
“Wow!”
“Well, of course,” Mother said, “there was that one year when the strongest winds ever to blow across the face of the earth carried off one of my leaf houses while I was sound asleep. I couldn’t find a trace of it the next morning, even though I looked everywhere. But,” she chuckled, “other than that time, I always enjoyed playing in my leaf house the following day.”
Lester grinned. “You know, Mother, I think that I might have liked playing with you when you were little.”
“Why, thank you, Lester.”
Lester and Mother shut the front door of their leaf house, put their rakes away, and walked in the back door of their other house, where their dinner just happened to be in the oven.

Do you recognize this struggle? The date is 14 July 1943.
No peace had yet come, though I had prayed for it almost unceasingly. . . . I turned toward the hills. I had no objective. I wanted only to be alone. I had begun a fast. . . .

My weakness overcame me again. Hot tears came flooding down my cheeks as I made no effort to mop them up. I was accusing myself, and condemning myself and upbraiding myself. I was praying aloud for special blessings from the Lord. I was telling him that I had not asked for this position, that I was incapable of doing the work, that I was imperfect and weak and human, that I was unworthy of so noble a calling, though I had tried hard and my heart had been right. I knew that I must have been at least partly responsible for offenses and misunderstandings which a few people fancied they had suffered at my hands. I realized that I had been petty and small many times. I did not spare myself. A thousand things passed through my mind. Was I called by revelation? . . .

If I could only have the assurance that my call had been inspired most of my other worries would be dissipated. . . .I knew that I must have His acceptance before I could go on. I stumbled up the hill and onto the mountain, as the way became rough. I faltered some as the way became steep. No paths were there to follow; I climbed on and on. Never had I prayed before as I now prayed. What I wanted and felt I must have was an assurance that I was acceptable to the Lord. I told Him that I neither wanted nor was worthy of a vision or appearance of angels or any special manifestation. I wanted only the calm peaceful assurance that my offering was accepted. Never before had I been tortured as I was now being tortured. And the assurance did not come. . . .

I mentally beat myself and chastised myself and accused myself. As the sun came up and moved in the sky I moved with it, lying in the sun, and still I received no relief. I sat up on the cliff and strange thoughts came to me: all this anguish and suffering could be ended so easily from this high cliff and then came to my mind the temptations of the Master when he was tempted to cast Himself down—then I was ashamed for having placed myself in a comparable position and trying to be dramatic. . . . I was filled with remorse because I had permitted myself to place myself . . . in a position comparable, in a small degree, to the position the Saviour found Himself in when He was tempted, and . . . I felt I had cheapened the experiences of the Lord, having compared mine with His. Again I challenged myself and told myself that I was only trying to be dramatic and sorry for myself.

. . . I lay on the cool earth. The thought came that I might take cold, but what did it matter now. There was one great desire, to get a testimony of my calling, to know that it was not human and inspired by ulterior motives, kindly as they might be. How I prayed! How I suffered! How I wept! How I struggled! [Edward L. Kimball and Andrew E. Kimball, Jr., Spencer W. Kimball (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1977), p. 192–95]

Now at this very hour 38 years and a mountain of tumors and troubles later, this sweet and godly man clings to life not because that life has been convenient but because he feels there might be one more mountain to climb, one more obstacle of body or spirit that needs to be overcome. The spiritual odyssey of Andrew Kimball’s son has been anything but easy.

Testimonies abound in Tonga of the power of the priesthood as a means of bringing comfort or healing to those in distress. When 44-year-old Sione Siaki of Tongatapu fell ill with fever and pain, many feared he would die. The hospital in Tonga was full, but a nurse brought medication to his home. Day after day he suffered, for more than a month. “I was waiting to die,” says Brother Siaki. “Then our Relief Society president suggested a ward fast. She talked with our bishop, and twice our ward of 300 members fasted for me. Before the fasts, I couldn’t move. Two weeks after the second fast, I sat up and gradually got better. Now I am a temple worker. When I am in the temple, it comes straight into my mind that maybe this is why I was saved.”

Following my marriage to a wonderful companion, our home was blessed with the arrival of children. In the space of a few years we found ourselves the parents of ten children—all girls but eight. We knew as our children grew older they would need to assist with family finances. This became evident when our four older children expressed a desire to learn to ski. One Christmas we bought four pairs of used wooden skis and some poles, and we acquired some used boots. On Christmas morning our children were delighted to receive their skis, and they accepted the responsibility for most of their future expenses.

May 1
Dear Sarah,
Or should I say Sister Evans, now that you’re a missionary? How is New York? Big, I imagine. Are you meeting lots of people who want to learn about the Church?
I guess Dad wrote to you about Lindsay’s operation next month, Mom and Dad will have lots of hospital bills, so I’m going to figure out a way to earn some money to help pay for your mission.
Have you seen the Statue of Liberty?
Love,Angela the Thinker
May 15
Dear Sarah,
This is it! I’m really excited. Do you remember Mr. and Mrs. Trujillo over on Cottonwood Lane? I haven’t seen them at church, so I guess they’re not members. But remember how Mr. Trujillo always had that enormous garden in the field next to his house? He sells his vegetables at the farmer’s market.
Well, I went by there and saw him working and stopped and talked to him. He said he was having some trouble with his arthritis and couldn’t handle such a big garden this year. I told him I was looking for a way to earn money, and he said I could have some of the space there and raise some vegetables to sell. In return, I’ll help him irrigate and things like that. I should have some money for your mission by August.
Lindsay’s pretty scared about her operation, but if it’ll mean she can eat regular food, it’ll be worth it.
I loved your letter. Do you only teach Spanish-speaking people?
Love,Angela the Gardener
May 22
Dear Sarah,
A Baptism already! That’s great!
I have some pretty bad blisters on my hands. Mr. Trujillo hired someone to plow the field, but then we raked, and that was pretty hard. Next Saturday we’re going to plant. That should be fun. Mr. Trujillo says there’s no use planting before memorial day. Things just freeze. I’m learning a lot. Mrs. Trujillo said to put ice packs on my hands, so I did. She also said to wear gloves. I hate gloves.
Thanks for the postcard of the Statue of Liberty.
Love,Angela the Wounded
May 27
Dear Sarah,
Mr. Trujillo said he likes my name because it sounds Spanish, and his parents came from Mexico. I told him my ancestors came from Wales, and we laughed. Then I told him that my sister is on a Spanish-speaking mission, and he asked a lot of questions about that. I explained to him that that’s what I want the money for—to send to you—and he seemed pretty surprised about that and asked if I wouldn’t rather buy myself a bicycle, since he noticed I didn’t have one.
Anyway, the planting wasn’t exactly fun. He made the furrows and holes, and I did all the bending over to drop in the seeds. My back really ached, but no blisters. Then we set out some little plants.
I’m growing tomatoes, green beans, zucchini, pumpkins, and watermelons!
Love,Angela of the Aching Back
June 15
Dear Sarah,
Thanks for your letter. I’ll remember to pray for the Gonzales family. I’ll be praying for Lindsay, too, because her surgery is next week.
Lots of things have come up in the garden!
Lindsay loved the stuffed penguin you sent. She’s going to take it to the hospital with her.
Love,Angela the Prayerful
July 1
Dear Sarah,
So much has happened that I don’t know where to start. The home teachers came and helped Dad give Lindsay a blessing. After that, she wasn’t so scared. But she looked so little standing there with her bag in one hand and that big stuffed penguin under her other arm. I guess Mom and Dad told you in their letter that the surgery went fine. They let me go see Lindsay the second day. She still looked pretty sick.
After Lindsay came home, Mom had to spend a lot of time caring for her, and I helped a lot around the house, I didn’t have much time for the garden. I didn’t go all week, and when I finally got over there on Saturday, Mr. Trujillo was really sad. About half of our tomato plants were gone. Gophers got them. They just burrow underneath and pull the plants down—one day you see them, and the next day you don’t. He said he didn’t know how to get rid of the gophers. He was afraid to put out poison because pets might get into it. And he didn’t want to flush the gophers out and bash them over the head the way some people do. He’s really a nice man.
I told him I’d pray about it, and he kind of smiled and patted my head. On Sunday I fasted and prayed for Lindsay to get all well and for a solution to the gopher problem.
Monday morning I thought of Billy Swenson who lives down by the river. Remember him? He’s the kid who has live traps and catches squirrels and stuff up in the canyon. I went to see him, and we made a deal. He said that he’d come and trap the gophers and turn them loose down by the river if I would give him some tomatoes, three pumpkins, and two watermelons when they’re ready.
Mr. Trujillo was pretty surprised and happy. He looked at me in that puzzled way he does sometimes.
It took Billy four days to get all the gophers, but they’re gone. Yesterday we set out more tomato plants.
Love,Angela the Problem Solver
July 15
Dear Sarah,
How great to hear that the Gonzales family was baptized!
Guess what we had for dinner—zucchini squash that I grew myself! Mrs. Trujillo gave me a recipe, and Mom cooked it. Even Lindsay ate some of it. Mr. Trujillo says we’ll have beans in two more weeks.
I thought raking and planting were bad, but this week we’ve been hoeing weeds, and I have blisters again (not as bad as before because my hands are tougher) and a backache. But Mrs. Trujillo made lemonade and cookies, and we sat under the peach tree and ate them. They told me some stories about Mexico, and they asked about you. I told them about the Gonzales family. So it was kind of nice, even though I had aches and pains.
Love,Angela the Contented Gardener
August 10
Dear Sarah,
Nothing has been worse so far than picking beans. Mr. Trujillo can’t bend over now, so I picked all the beans, my rows and his. Your back aches, and the leaves make your skin itch, and the sun is beating down on you. Mrs. Trujillo gave me an old straw hat to wear. We got three bushels! Mr. Trujillo smiled and said, “There’ll be this many again in about ten days.” I could have cried. But by then it was cooler, and Mrs. Trujillo brought out ice cream with fresh peaches sliced on it. Then you’ll never guess what happened—Mr, and Mrs. Trujillo took me into their garage and gave me one of their kids’ old bicycles. It was all clean and shiny, with new paint and new tires and the chain all oiled. I gave them both a hug.
I took a big, juicy peach home to Lindsay, and she ate it all!
Have you found any new people to teach?
Love,Angela the Cyclist
August 20
Dear Sarah,
Mr. Trujillo and I took the beans to the Farmer’s Market and sold them. I got $8.00! After tithing, that’s $7.20 I have ready to send you, but I’ll wait till I get some more.
Yesterday I picked beans again. It was easier this time.
Do you remember the Claybourne family? The ones with all those kids? Well, he lost his job, and they’re having a hard time. Mom said they’re trying to get by on their food storage, so she wondered if I would mind giving them the beans from this picking to freeze for the winter. Mom said she’d like to freeze some, too, and that would help us have more money for bills and for you.
So I told Mr. Trujillo why I wouldn’t be selling my beans this time, and he looked at me sort of funny again, then gave me a bushel from his rows too. We gave the Claybournes zucchini also.
I hope you won’t mind about the bean money.
Love,Angela the Delivery Girl
September 2
Dearest Sarah,
We sold some tomatoes this week, and I got $13.00. They’re easier to pick than beans, and I like the way the vines smell. I also like to stop every now and then and eat one—all juicy and warm from the sun. I wish I could send you one in the mail.
I hope that you’ll understand this part. I was in a store last week, looking for notebooks and pencils for school, when I saw this little sweatshirt just Lindsay’s size with a penguin on it. She needs school clothes. I knew it would remind her of you; she still adores the penguin you sent her. It was $9.99, and so I bought it for her. Lindsay was thrilled. She put it on and wouldn’t take it off, even for bed. But after tithing and the notebooks … well, I hope you understand.
School starts Monday.
Love,Angela the Spendthrift
P.S. I promised the Claybourne kids some pumpkins for Halloween and a watermelon.
September 15
Dearest Sarah,
Thanks for not minding about the sweatshirt. Enclosed is a money order for $7.20.
Mom says having the vegetables is helping. The bills for the operation are getting paid gradually, and Lindsay’s eating fine now, and Mom and Dad always seem to find the money to send you.
Now for my surprise! The Trujillos are having the missionaries come and teach them! They came over last night, and the elders taught them the first missionary lesson. Mr. (Brother) Trujillo gave the prayer and thanked Heavenly Father for “the flower”—he meant me!—“that bloomed in his garden and showed him a more beautiful way of life.” Wasn’t that beautiful? And they’re coming back next week for another lesson.
We served watermelon from the garden!
Love,Angela the Missionary

One day during my senior year in high school, a strong feeling came over me that my grandfather wanted to see me. So after school I got a notebook from my locker and walked over to Uncle Jacob Cline’s house, where grandpa had been staying since grandma’s death.
When I arrived, grandpa was sitting up in bed. “Come in, Ray,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He wanted to tell me the history of his family, and I was to write the information down. I knew then why I had brought my notebook along with me. Over the next hour, he told me the history of his family four-generations back—names, dates, places, and stories. When he finished, he laid his hand on my shoulder and said very quietly: “Ray, I give unto you a charge to preserve this information, for someday you will need it. And when that day arrives, you will hear my voice and know now is the time, and this is the reason.”
I felt a shiver go down my spine and a warm feeling in my chest as my eyes remained riveted to the penetrating eyes of grandpa. I promised I would, even though I had no idea why I was writing down or preserving the information. Grandpa died two weeks later.

Once, on a business trip, I landed in predawn darkness at an airport in Asia and wearily found a car and driver. The trip would take a couple of hours, so I used my overcoat as a cushion and positioned myself in the left corner of the back seat, planning to sleep for a while. But my attention became riveted on the moonlit landscape of that exotic place, with its mysterious wooded hills and shadowy open expanses.

As the morning sky gradually lightened, I saw evidence of an estuary on the left and an approaching bridge. As we drove onto the bridge, I was disappointed to find that the view was blocked on both sides by tall concrete-slab walls that apparently had been erected to contain the traffic noises of the expressway. I absently stared at the wall opposite me, wondering what was beyond as I whirred by it at high speed.

As we left the bridge and the barricade ended, I glanced back at the vista that I had not been able to see and noted that it was just as I had imagined: a large body of water with a forested far edge and a few boats coming and going.

I found myself leaning forward to see farther behind us to confirm that, through the morning fog, a large sailboat was approaching the seaway under the far end of the bridge. Suddenly my jet-lag-muddled brain snapped into a moment of clarity as I wondered, “How did I know to look for that sailboat?” I could not have known it was there, but somehow I did. Somehow I had been looking for it.

In fact, I realized, none of what I saw in the fully revealed vista had surprised me. I seemed to know where to find the wooded outline of the far shore, the barges, and the building on the distant rise. But how?

It dawned on me that the slabs of the massive concrete wall on the bridge had small gaps between them of a fraction of an inch. As we had sped across the bridge, my eyes had been fixed upon the blur of gray concrete punctuated by minute flashes of bright light from the morning sun through those narrow slits—slits too small for me to detect anything but bright flickers and flashes. Yet somewhere in my mind, undetected information had been transmitted in those bursts of light that was apparently compiled and subliminally stitched together into a latent vision of what lay beyond. I knew what was there before I knew that I knew. And I would have missed the marvel of it all if I had not turned back to look.