Gospel Story Finder

Most recently I have returned from spending two and a half years in West Africa, where I was sent to help with a research project.
As I lived among the Nigerian people, I thought, “Wow! Imagine living like that!” I often watched my neighbor, Violet, a 16-year-old Latter-day Saint. It was hard not to think about the life I lived at age 16. My life had been extremely extracurricular. I was a member of almost every high school club I could find time for, I was very involved in sports, I was a student-body officer, I sang in a choir, I attended early-morning seminary, and I fulfilled Church callings. My life was a whirlwind of activity—fun activity.
Violet’s life was very different. She was the oldest of five living children. Three younger family members had died in infancy. Her mother had married at age 14, and Violet was born a short time later.
Violet’s parents spent most of their time doing farm work. As the oldest child, Violet was expected to help with the work needed to sustain the family. Because of family needs and the expense of school fees, Violet was not able to attend the village primary school every year. Some years she had her turn; other years her brothers and sisters had their turn. Violet completed about four or five years of schooling, and she probably would not receive more, as she was at the age when most Nigerian girls are given in marriage.
The village area Violet and I lived in had no electricity or running water. The walls of her home were made of mud clay packed between bamboo poles. The roof was of palm thatch. A wall made of sticks and thatch separated her compound from mine. As I lived by and learned from Violet, I discovered a principle that has had a profound impact on my life. I call it my principle of Difference Relativity.
When I was first asked to go to Nigeria, I was under the impression that I would be going into the bush of Africa to save the dying children. My colleague and I arrived on the scene with our cases and boxes of supplies and comforts and equipment and stuff. And in our books and materials, we thought we had all the answers to the world’s problems. We were ready and willing to find and point out all of the problems of the Nigerian people so we could proceed to solve them.
It didn’t take us long to realize that we were the ones that needed help. We were the ones having a hard time surviving. We were the ones having a hard time coping with life in Nigeria, not the Nigerians. I began to realize that differences are relative. Slowly, as the months went by, I began to see that I was just as different from Violet as she was from me, and I discovered an equality in our differences.
The differences in our lives started first thing in the morning, every morning. My co-workers and I had access to generated power each morning for two hours, and during that time, we bustled and hustled to use our electric typewriters, our computer, and our copying machine to record collected data and to prepare materials for the coming work day.
While we were doing this, Violet and her brothers and sisters were making their way back from a small stream about a half mile away. Every morning, at first light, they went to collect water for their family’s daily needs. Much of West Africa is a tropical rain forest, and so during the wet season, the children don’t have to walk quite so far to collect water. Violet could powerfully hoist a ten-gallon container on her head and then gracefully carry it all the way home without spilling a drop. I could just as gracefully make an entry in my computerized journal describing that feat.
Several times in the week Violet and her brother went out into the bush with their machetes to collect firewood. They usually returned at dusk with large bundles of sticks and wood balanced on their heads. This wood was used for the cooking fire. And then Violet and her mother prepared their usual gari and soup, made almost entirely from ingredients grown in their compound and on their small farm. Violet and her mother knew what it meant to be self-sufficient. My limited experience in such survival skills was a result of a week spent at girls’ camp several years before. I had much to learn from Violet and her mother.
I loved to go over to Violet’s compound on Saturday evenings while her family was preparing for the Sabbath. The children took turns helping each other bathe, the older ones would pour the water while the younger ones lathered themselves with soap. Violet’s father prepared the iron by filling it with hot coals from the fire, and Violet would press the clean white shirts and their dresses and wrappers so they would look their best at church in the morning. Water for the sacrament was boiled and cooled. And by the light of a bush lantern, scriptures and lessons were studied and prepared.
The more I observed Violet, the more I saw the differences between us. But I gained perspective and understanding. I imagined how hard it might be for Violet to live in my home environment. I thought of all the wonderful things she would miss—the sunsets decorated by lacy palms, the quiet of night where the only interruptions are made by choirs of frogs singing and distant drums, the daily contact with family and extended family who lived in the surrounding village. I thought about Violet’s physical strength and her young, supple body and what might happen to it if she were introduced to junk food and lazy habits. I thought of her cooking skills and farming skills and her ability to care for her younger brothers and sisters, and wondered how much of that would be lost if she were transplanted into my home environment.
And most often, I wondered about our thoughts and our feelings about our heavenly home. Violet’s world was different from mine. Our differences were great—she did things I couldn’t do, and I did things she couldn’t do. But we did have one most important thing in common: we were both daughters of our Heavenly Father. And because we both knew that, our differences didn’t separate us; they drew us together, and we learned from each other and we shared with each other, and both of our lives became fuller. I am a better person because of Violet’s differences, because she shared them with me. And I hope Violet is a better person because of my differences.

Muriel’s life started out normal enough. She was a young child in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. She had a happy family, a safe and comfy home, a warm bed, and plenty to eat.
Then war broke out.
After that, things got bad in a hurry. Her low point came when angry men dragged her loving father—“The strongest Christian I know”—away from the family at gunpoint.
Thankfully, her father was reunited with them later on. But life was no longer safe for Muriel or her family. They fled to a refugee camp in Uganda.
Muriel was five years old when her family fled to a refugee camp in Uganda.
Photograph courtesy of Muriel B.
Refugee camps are temporary settlements for people who are forced to leave their home because of war or other reasons. They’re meant to offer safety, and this one did so, but life for Muriel and her family was still a long way from easy.
“We were grateful to be away from the war,” Muriel says. “And the people who ran the camp did the best they could to help us, but there wasn’t enough.”
Not enough food, not enough shelter, not enough medicine—not enough of anything.
“Insects would bite us at night,” she remembers. “And we would be without food for days at a time. There was also a lot of disease in the camp.”
The refugee settlement camp today.
Photograph from Getty Images
Muriel and her family were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at the time, but they were devoted and practicing Christians. They had rock-solid faith in God and in His Son, Jesus Christ. “My parents kept telling me that I can always pray and fast.”
So that’s what she did. As a child in a refugee camp, at an age when many kids are learning to read and write, Muriel was praying every day for survival. She prayed for food. She prayed for safety. She prayed for the strength and courage to keep going.
And she saw God work miracles in their lives.
“God got us away from the war,” she says, “so I knew I could trust Him. Whenever we needed Him the most, like when we had nothing to eat for so long, He always blessed us. He worked small miracles that built up my faith in Him.”
By helping to raise her younger siblings, Muriel has many skills to call on now as she raises her own child.
After nearly two years in the refugee camp, her life took another turn. Muriel and the rest of her family moved to the United States to start a new chapter in a new land. For all she had seen and lived through, Muriel was still only eight years old.
That’s when her parents decided to find a new church to attend.
“I learned to care for young children when I was still a child myself. I had to! My parents needed my help.”
“My Mom and Dad always wanted to worship God and give thanks to Him,” Muriel says. “One Sunday, not long after we arrived in the United States, they said, ‘Let’s go look for a church.’”
They didn’t have to look far. While walking around town they came across two missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on the street.
Before long, Muriel was baptized along with her parents. Muriel’s younger siblings were baptized once they were old enough.
Muriel with her mother and youngest sibling.
A lot of what she learned at church was familiar to Muriel, who’d been taught about God and Jesus Christ her whole life. Other topics were new. “I’d never heard of Joseph Smith or Brigham Young or the Book of Mormon,” she said.
Those weren’t the only new things. There was a whole new culture to learn. Here, Church members made a big difference. They taught the family how to use some of the electronic devices and appliances that were different from back home. They helped with the language. And they helped most of all by simply being friends.
Muriel encourages youth today to do the same thing. “Refugees need friends too. Our family didn’t have any friends when we came to this country, but once we joined the Church, we had so many people visit us! Now we have many friends.”
Over the years, Muriel has been able to help serve those same friends who blessed her life early on.
After she entered Young Women, Muriel served in class presidencies and assisted with all kinds of youth activities. She served and taught and shared her testimony.
Through faith in the gospel, Muriel and her family continue to find hope even during life’s struggles.
But one of the best ways she continues to help her friends is by lending her strength in the gospel and her faith in God.
“Some of my friends are struggling to find hope right now,” she says. “But I always tell them, nothing bad lasts forever. For me, I feel like there’s nothing God can’t get you through.
“Sometimes all I can pray for is courage to hold on longer. To keep pushing on. God has always helped me find that courage. For the most part, the blessing of courage to keep pushing ahead is all you really need.”

Beep! Beep! Beep!
I slipped my hand from underneath the warm cover and gently tapped the alarm clock. Since I had received that old clock as a Christmas present years ago, that same, resounding “beep” became the clue to start each day of my life. Today, though, my new life was beginning, and the sound of the clock became the introduction to the course my life would follow.
As I sat up on the edge of my bed, I stared at my old clock. A friend had given it to me, and I smiled as I thought of Rebecca. Only a short 18 years ago, Rebecca and I had been born three days apart in the same local hospital. She lived two houses down, and I remember vividly the many times we would play together in the neighborhood park.
Some days, we became world-famous explorers. Other days, Rebecca was transformed into the fairest of all princesses, and I, of course, became her knight in shining armor. Most days, though, I would teach Rebecca about the chirping noises the robins made in spring, the sound of the lawn mower trimming the summer grass, or the rustling sound of blowing leaves in fall. She was always full of questions.
“Rebecca, the red bird,” I would say, as I flapped my arms and pointed to the treetops, “sounds like this.” Then, I’d chirp as loud as I could. Rebecca would laugh with delight as she witnessed my performance; then she’d brush two of her fingers across her nose a few times to tell me I was funny.
I laughed, too, then began my next impression of the water flowing beneath the bridge.
“Water sounds like this,” I’d explain. Then, moving my hands in a wave formation, I’d curl my lips and create a loud gurgling noise. “Do you understand, Rebecca?” I was proud of my ability to conjure up various noises and became a sort of maestro of noisemaking.
Rebecca would smile and bring her forefinger close to her head, then move it up and down to show she understood. In my mind, I set Rebecca apart from the other girls because she didn’t communicate like everyone else did. But she was my favorite because she made me feel comfortable and needed. She taught me to enjoy the simple things of life, and out of those small things, to find the great things within. Rebecca was deaf, but that alone didn’t set her apart. She was also a Mormon, and at school, I saw the Mormon kids as such a life-loving people. Something about them and about Rebecca intrigued me.
I smiled as I thought about our friendship and all those days we’d spent together in the park. Sometimes I felt like her protector, especially when the other kids teased her about her hearing aids or how she used her hands to talk. My role of “knight in shining armor” became real when I’d rescue Rebecca from her tormentors.
The past didn’t seem so distant now. Just after entering high school, I went to the annual Christmas concert in the town square. Rebecca had asked me to go with her family.
As we sat listening to the familiar carols and arrangements, I studied Rebecca’s mother with envy. Because she was Rebecca’s interpreter, she would sit in front of the audience and use sign language to illustrate the music. Her facial expressions melted from one emotion to the other helping Rebecca to actually “hear” the meaning of the songs. And although at the time I didn’t realize it, I, too, “heard” a distinct voice as the choir sang about the Christ child that night.
The clock flashed to 8:43. I grabbed my towel and stumbled to the shower, still thinking about the days after that Christmas concert. Until a few months ago, there was a time when I refused to allow Rebecca to be a part of my life. As high school activities began, I was so involved with the basketball team, student council, and trying to be “cool” that Rebecca no longer was a priority. I occasionally joined with the other kids, ridiculing and tormenting my old playmate behind her back. Sometimes, Rebecca would wave across the lunchroom, but I’d pretend I didn’t see her, turn, and walk the other way.
Throughout the next three years, Rebecca sometimes invited me to church dances, firesides, or to summer youth conferences, but I never accepted her invitations. I always felt like I had an image to uphold, and being seen with Rebecca would destroy that. The differences that had attracted me to her when we were young were the same differences that kept me away from her now.
My friends would tease me, “So, Rebecca asked you to another church thing, huh, Drew? When she uses her hands to talk, she looks like a bird ready to take off the runway. She’s so weird.”
The whole crowd would laugh, and on the outside I would laugh, too, but, in my heart, I knew Rebecca wasn’t weird. Yet my integrity weakened, and my “shining armor” lost its sparkle.
My clock flashed to 9:32. I concentrated on what had taken place during the past few months. During the spring of our senior year, Rebecca invited me to her church worship services, but this time, I couldn’t come up with a ready excuse, so I consented to go. I recollect that day in the hall.
“Drew,” Rebecca yelled as best she could at me.
I was about to continue down the hall, but something told me to turn back and talk to her. I had “heard” this voice before at that Christmas concert. The strangest feeling pulled me back to talk to Rebecca.
She greeted me with her warm, enthusiastic smile, and using her hands in various gestures, she asked me to a sacrament meeting. “Drew, I teach little children, and I taught them a song that I think you’ll like. Will you come with me Sunday?”
“Um, well, I …” I stammered.
“It’ll only last an hour, and I promise, I’ll never ask you again,” she tried speaking while her hands created each word.
“Well, I guess I can go, but I don’t …” I tried to conjure up another excuse, but a powerful feeling of “Drew you need to go” overwhelmed me.
“Great!” she grinned. “I’ll pick you up at 10:45.”
When we were younger, I had gone to church with Rebecca, but it had been ten years since I’d been inside a chapel. I remember that following Sunday well. Rebecca promptly rang the bell at 10:45, and within 15 minutes, I was sitting in the middle section of the chapel waiting for sacrament meeting to begin. This week would be the Primary program, and Rebecca’s CTR class had a special part.
Through the prayers, announcements, and sacrament, I kept feeling that same strange sensation I had encountered in the school hallway and at the Christmas concert, and I puzzled over the joy and warmth that the congregation seemed to create. These people really enjoy being here, I thought.
After a few talks and scriptures, it was finally Rebecca’s turn. She marched to the front with five eight-year-olds trailing her heels. She looked like a mother duck with her ducklings. They took their positions, and the melody of “Teach Me to Walk in the Light” seeped from the piano. My heart began to pound as the children formulated the words with their tiny hands. They grinned from ear to ear as they followed Rebecca’s slow and cautious signals. Then the song ended, leaving the chapel in complete silence. A flood of memories filled my mind, and I felt at peace as when I used to play with Rebecca. The feeling of being needed was back.
After the meeting, I approached Rebecca to ask her about the meeting, the song, and the strange feeling I was experiencing.
“You did a good job. Those kids are amazing,” I said while trying to sign the words I knew. It had been quite a long time since I’d talked with Rebecca in her language. She beamed.
“Could you come to dinner?” she asked. “Then I will explain more about the Church.”
I agreed. I truly wanted to know why I was feeling this way. After all, I hadn’t felt like this since that Christmas concert years ago, and now, suddenly, Rebecca asked me to church, and the feeling was back and I wanted to know why.
I went to dinner and met Elder Dial and Elder Burningham for the first time. They immediately became two of my best friends, and my friendship with Rebecca began to strengthen again. Through months of study, discussions, going to church, and praying, I decided to join the Church, and last night, my decision became reality as I dressed in white, went into the water, and was baptized. Now, I “hear” that familiar voice, and my friend and confidant Jesus Christ is always with me as I do my part.
At school, my integrity began to blossom, my rusting armor gleamed again, and my friendship with Rebecca was as strong as when we were younger. My friends eventually softened their hearts and began including Rebecca in our circle. She started teaching them various signs, and throughout classes and in the halls, this became our secret code.
For years, I felt sorry for Rebecca because she couldn’t hear the sounds I heard, but when it came to what was truly important, she had full hearing, and I was the deaf one trying to find the true voice to follow. When I began meeting with Elder Burningham and Elder Dial, along with Rebecca’s testimony, I received my “hearing aids” through scripture study and prayer. Ultimately, my “hearing” began to improve. Last night, I received the most precious of gifts when my spiritual ears were restored.

Sunshine was coming through the windows at Jonnie’s house, and everyone was still sleeping, except Jonnie.
Mother opened her eyes as Jonnie bounced into the bedroom.
“Hi, Mom,” he said happily. “I bet you can’t guess what I am.”
“Hi, Jonnie,” Mom answered as she rubbed her eyes.
Jonnie climbed over Mom and put his face in front of Dad’s.
“Hi, Dad,” he grinned.
“Hi, Jonnie,” Dad mumbled. Then he rolled his sleepy face to the other side.
Jonnie climbed over Dad’s back. “I bet you can’t guess what I am,” he said as he bounced up and down on his hands and knees.
Dad decided to give up trying to sleep. He opened his eyes. “You must be a tickle, tickle, tiddlemouse,” he said as he tried to tickle Jonnie.
Jonnie wiggled away and climbed back on the other side of the bed by Mom.
“Can you guess what I am?” he asked. Mom grabbed him and tried to kiss his cheek. Jonnie wiggled away from Mom too.
“Now I know what you are. You’re a wiggle, wiggle, wiggle worm,” Mom guessed.
“No, I’m not a wiggle, wiggle, wiggle worm,” declared Jonnie, bouncing some more.
Daddy rolled his head back toward them and said, “You must be a jump, jump kangaroo.”
“No, I’m not a jump, jump kangaroo,” said Jonnie and he laughed because no one could guess.
Mom leaned her head way over by Dad’s. “I think he’s a bouncing bunny rabbit,” she whispered.
“I heard you! I heard you,” Jonnie shouted as he jumped up and down. “I’m not a bouncing bunny rabbit.”
“I give up,” said Dad. “I can’t guess what you are.”
“I give up too,” added Mom. “What are you?”
Jonnie stood up tall on their bed. “I’m a big cowboy,” he said in a deep voice. “And I’m riding my horse.” Then he galloped away to the other room.

One day at work, I felt heartbroken and alone. I believed I had failed my ancestors because of the many mistakes I had made. I pleaded with my Heavenly Father for strength.
A week or two later, a sister came up to me after church and asked if I was Jenny Casama. She introduced herself to me as Michelle (Mich) Bautista, one of our temple and family history consultants in the ward. She explained that she had a dream in which three women dressed in white and surnamed Casama had come to her for help. They pleaded with Sister Bautista, “Please help her.”
Sister Mich understood that these women were asking her to help their relative—me—to learn more about temple and family history work.
Sister Mich said to me, “Let’s see if we can find those women in your family tree.”
On the FamilySearch website, we discovered records for my grandmother Damasa Casama; her sister Emiliana Casama; and my great-grandmother Eugenia Casama. Without any doubt, we knew they were the women in the dream. A sweet feeling of peace passed over me, and I felt my ancestors’ love overflowing at that very moment. We wept because of the happiness we felt in our hearts. I felt that they cared much about me, and in return, I had a deep feeling of love for them.
I then realized my responsibility to help them and my other ancestors to receive the ordinances of the temple. Our ancestors have been waiting—some for a long time—for us on the earth to perform these sacred ordinances for them.
Later that year, I was baptized in the temple for these three ancestors. I testify of the beauty of family history work and of the power it brings into my life.

What’s different about family home evening at the Murphy house? At first glance, not much, you might think.
Seventeen-year-old Mandy (short for Amanda), from Vashon, Washington, is sitting relaxed with her stepmom and dad in the living room of their home, discussing current events and how they tie in to a gospel topic. The scriptures are ready for reference, and they are really paying attention to each other’s thoughts and feelings.
But that’s where much of the similarity to many Latter-day Saint families ends. You see, Mandy is a Church member, and her father, Brian, and stepmother, Robin, are not.
“This is quite a change for our family,” Mandy explains. “It started when I joined the Church. I was led to the Church at the appropriate time, when it really appealed to me. It was so comforting and the families in the Church were so strong, and I really needed that.”
According to Mandy, no particular person really initiates family home evening each week, but after she explained the concept of family home evening to her parents, they were willing to try it.
“We spent time together before, but now it’s more organized. We don’t usually stress studying scriptures because my mom’s not really comfortable with that yet, but every once in a while, my dad and I do. We play games, and sometimes my dad will read us articles from the newspaper and we’ll discuss them.
“We also try to get to know each other better. We do that by just basically sitting down and looking at each other, talking with each other. I’ve come to respect and love my parents a lot more since we’ve started having family home evening.
“Because of the Church, the influence of the Spirit, and the time we spend in family home evening, I have a much better relationship with my parents than I ever could have imagined.”

Prodi sat up in bed with a jolt. His heart was beating fast.
Rain pattered on the roof as he sat in the darkness. He could hear water dripping from the African fig tree outside his window, and the air felt sticky and warm. Prodi took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was just a dream.
He crawled out of bed and peeked at his parents. Mama and Papa were sleeping peacefully. His little sister, Célia, was curled up in her bed too. Everything was OK. His family was safe.
Prodi climbed back into bed and tried to go back to sleep. He tossed and turned, then tossed and turned some more. He knew his dream wasn’t real, but it had been so scary! Even though he was tired, he was afraid to fall asleep again. What if he had another nightmare?
Prodi lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. He tried to think of happy thoughts. Heavenly Father, are you really there? And do you hear and answer every child’s prayer? A wave of warmth came over Prodi as he thought of the words of his favorite Primary song. Sister Kioska had taught them that Heavenly Father was always watching over them. They could pray to Him anytime, anywhere.
Prodi knew what to do. He got out of bed and knelt down to pray.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “I’m really scared. Please keep my family safe. And please help me to go to sleep and not have any more bad dreams.”
Prodi finished his prayer and climbed back in bed. His body relaxed, and his mind felt peaceful. Soon he was asleep.
When morning came, Prodi woke up to the warm sun shining through the window. He could hear pots clanging in the kitchen. Célia was at the table eating leftover cassava. Mama was warming some up for him to eat too.
“Bonjour,” Mama said. “How did you sleep?”
“I had a really scary nightmare,” Prodi said. “But then I said a prayer. Heavenly Father helped me feel safe.”
“I’m sorry you had a bad dream,” Mama said. She hugged Prodi close and didn’t let go for a long time. “But I’m so glad you said a prayer. It sounds like praying really helped you.”
“It did,” said Prodi. “I was able to fall asleep again, and I didn’t have any more bad dreams.” Prodi hugged Mama tight. He was glad to know that no matter how scared he felt, Heavenly Father was just a prayer away.
Go to page 15 to meet the boy from this story!

While raising our young family in Hawaii, my wife and I were grateful for the wonderful Latter-day Saints who assisted us. These dear members embraced us and treated us as their own family. On several occasions men in the ward would take my young son on ocean fishing adventures. These excursions did not involve boats but rather ancient fishing techniques developed by the early Hawaiians.
Using one such method, a skilled fisherman would meticulously fold and layer a circular net that had weights attached to the perimeter. He would then carefully carry the net to a location along the rocky shore above a clear pool of water. As he would see fish entering the pool, at just the right time and with great skill, he would throw the net, which would unfold to its full capacity and land in a large circular pattern on the water below, quickly sinking to the bottom and enmeshing the gathered fish.
While the skill of any such fisherman is impressive, he will be the first to tell you that without a good net that is clean, mended, and in full repair, his efforts would be futile. Experienced fishermen know that their success is contingent upon the integrity of their fishing nets and that effective, productive fishing does not begin until the nets are inspected and in good order.
We see an understanding of this principle among the original Apostles, several of whom were fishermen by trade. We are introduced to these fishermen in the early chapters of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, where they are casting, mending, and washing their nets when they first encounter their future Master (see Matthew 4:18, 21; Mark 1:16, 19; Luke 5:2). These men fed their families and the families of others by toiling daily to catch fish. Their fortunes and their families depended on their preparation and skill and on the integrity of their nets.
When Jesus invited them to “follow me, and I will make you fishers of men,” “they straightway left their nets,” “forsook all, and followed him” (Matthew 4:19, 20; Luke 5:11; see also Mark 1:17–18).
I have thought of this example many times as I have considered that those who stand at the head of the Church have responded with similar faith to the invitation to “follow me.” Like the ancient Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is led by prophets and apostles, who have forsaken their nets and their hard-earned professions and have developed new skills in order to serve and follow the Master.
What does it mean to become “fishers of men”? In His simple words of invitation to the early Apostles, the Savior introduced what was to become His common and powerful form of teaching—teaching in parables. He knew that those called to follow Him would understand, to a degree, what He meant by the words “fishers of men.”
President Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) taught, “To become ‘fishers of men’ is just another way of saying ‘become leaders of men.’ So in today’s language we would say … : ‘If you will keep my commandments, I will make you leaders among men.’”1
A leader of men is someone who is called to help others become “true followers of … Jesus Christ” (Moroni 7:48). Handbook 2: Administering the Church says, “To do this, leaders first strive to be the Savior’s faithful disciples, living each day so that they can return to live in God’s presence. Then they can help others develop strong testimonies and draw nearer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.”2
All who have accepted the call to lead in the Church have accepted the Savior’s invitation to become fishers of men.
From the highest level of leadership in the Church to Aaronic Priesthood quorum and Young Women class presidencies, leaders are organized into councils. Leaders are instructed to prepare spiritually, participate fully in councils, minister to others, teach the gospel of Jesus Christ, and administer the priesthood and auxiliary organizations of the Church. Additionally, they are to build unity and harmony in the Church, prepare others to be leaders and teachers, delegate responsibility, and ensure accountability.3
Just as the early Apostles applied their knowledge of fishing to become fishers of men, we can apply the principles found in their use of nets to the councils of the Church. Like a net, these councils are organized and prepared to gather Heavenly Father’s children—each council member acting as an important and integral strand of the net. Just as a net is effective only if it is in good repair, so are our councils compromised when council members are not organized, focused, and functioning as they should.
Leaders of councils follow the example of the ancient Apostle fishermen by regularly inspecting and mending these “nets.” Council leaders do so by providing regular training, leading out in council meetings, giving timely and appropriate feedback to council members, and offering love, encouragement, and praise. There is no substitute for the effective strength and gathering capacity of properly functioning councils.
Perhaps the council with the greatest opportunity to influence individual members of the Church is the ward council. Men and women in this council are truly called to be fishers of men with the charge of leading the work of salvation in the ward, as directed by the bishop. They live and serve in their respective wards, where they can know and associate with those they have been called to lead.
“Members of the ward council strive to help individuals build testimonies, receive saving ordinances, keep covenants, and become consecrated followers of Jesus Christ (see Moroni 6:4–5). All members of the ward council have a general responsibility for the well-being of ward members.”4
Members of ward councils play an integral role in hastening the work of salvation. When the ward council is not functioning as it should, the work slows. The gathering capacity of the “net” is compromised, and council efforts yield limited results. But when the ward council is organized and focused on strengthening individuals and families, the results can be astonishing.
I am familiar with a ward that struggled with an ineffective ward council. It was difficult for the bishop to embrace the direction found in Handbook 2 because he was comfortable in his ways and liked his old patterns. After much counseling and training by a loving stake president, however, the bishop softened his heart, repented, and began in earnest to organize the ward council as instructed. He watched training videos available at LDS.org, he read sections 4 and 5 of Handbook 2, and he acted upon what he learned.
Members of the ward council quickly embraced the changes, and a spirit of love and unity settled on them as they focused on strengthening individuals and families. In every meeting, they spoke at length about investigators, new converts, less-active members, and members with needs. Their hearts began to be drawn out to these brothers and sisters, and miracles began to happen.
The bishop reported that almost immediately after these changes were made to the ward council, previously unknown less-active members began to attend church. These members said they suddenly felt moved upon to return to the Church. They said they had received a clear and compelling impression that they needed to once again associate with the Saints. They knew they would be loved and that they needed the support members would offer.
The bishop shared with me that he is certain Heavenly Father was just waiting for him to follow the counsel he had received and organize the ward council as instructed before He could put the desire into the hearts and minds of these less-active members to return to activity in the Church. The bishop realized that he needed to create the loving, nurturing environment these members needed before the Spirit would lead them back. His words remind me of the experience of Peter the fisherman:
“And [Jesus] entered into one of the ships, which was Simon’s, and prayed him that he would thrust out a little from the land. And he sat down, and taught the people out of the ship.
“Now when he had left speaking, he said unto Simon, Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught.
“And Simon answering said unto him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing: nevertheless at thy word I will let down the net.
“And when they had this done, they inclosed a great multitude of fishes” (Luke 5:3–6).
As we listen to and follow the counsel given us by modern-day prophets, seers, and revelators—true “fishers of men”—and as we inspect and mend our nets while serving, our capacity to hasten the work of salvation will be greatly increased and we will become instruments in Heavenly Father’s hands to gather His children.

I moved from Samoa to the United States last summer. I didn’t want to leave my island and my friends. Going to a new high school made me very nervous. In spite of being new, I tried out for the girls’ basketball team. I made it! I love basketball! As you’re running down that court, everyone is counting on you to make that basket. When you make it, a feeling of happiness comes to you, and if you don’t make it—well, that is a whole different story!
Anyway, I was on the team and couldn’t go to seminary because I had practice every day after school, and I had seminary after school as well. I missed seminary for the whole second quarter and forgot all about it.
One day my mom asked me about it. I told her that everything was OK. But she knew what was going on. My seminary teacher had sent her a letter. She told me: “Fono, you know that what you are doing is wrong. I’m just going to advise you, but it is your decision. Remember, your decision can give you happiness, and it can also put you into a lot of misery.”
I thought about this for several weeks and came to my final decision. I decided to quit basketball and go to seminary. I knew that if I chose basketball over seminary it would be pretty sad and embarrassing at seminary graduation. I didn’t want to watch others graduate when I couldn’t. Maybe that was the misery my mom was talking about. I decided that I should get my priorities straight. Even though I love basketball so much, first things first. I am hoping to make the basketball team next year. As I plan my schedule, I am making sure that I won’t have to drop seminary again in order to practice.
Right now I’m back in seminary. I have a great teacher, a fun class, and I’m very proud of myself for making the right decision. This experience reminds me of a scripture found in Matthew 6:33 [Matt. 6:33]: “But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.”

The bell rang. The first-grade students raced for the door.
“Quietly!” Mrs. Mills said.
Eric stayed at his desk.
“Aren’t you going out?” asked Mrs. Mills. Eric didn’t look up. “Recess is fun. Don’t you want to play?”
“Not really,” Eric whispered.
Eric didn’t like recess. Usually he just wandered around by himself. The other kids already had lots of friends. One boy called him names. He didn’t want Mrs. Mills to know.
“I’m sorry, but we have to go outside,” Mrs. Mills said. “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”
Eric felt like crying. He looked out the window again. He saw someone he knew. Eric smiled and waved.
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Mills said.
“That’s my brother, Pete,” said Eric. “He’s in fourth grade.”
Eric ran outside.
“Why aren’t you playing football?” Eric asked. The older boys always played out on the field.
“Because I’m going to the swings with you,” said Pete.
“Really?”
Pete led the way. They walked past kids hanging on the monkey bars and jumping rope. Eric loved being with his brother. Then they walked by the field where the boys were playing football.
“Hey, Pete,” one of the boys said. “Who’s the kid with the glasses?”
“He’s my brother, Eric. I’m showing him around today.”
“So you’re not playing with us?”
“No,” said Pete. “Today I’m with him.”
Eric smiled as they walked to the swings. A kindergarten girl was standing nearby.
“Want to swing?” Pete asked.
She walked over. “I just lost a tooth!” she said. She showed Eric.
“Cool,” said Eric.
Eric climbed on one swing. The girl climbed on another. Pete pulled back the first swing and gently let go. Then he pushed the other one. Eric felt the wind on his face. The girl was laughing. Pete made sure the swings didn’t go too high.
“You could play together again tomorrow,” Pete said.
“That would be fun,” the girl said.
Maybe, thought Eric, recess would be better from now on.

High wind warnings for northern Utah were making a lot of people nervous, but not Matt Hansen, 17, and his dad Barry. To them, it sounded like perfect weather. They shared a love of windsurfing, and the news that high winds were coming was like music to their ears.
“When a windsurfer hears that the wind is going to be blowing hard, that’s when you drop everything and go. In Utah, the wind rarely blows over 40 miles per hour. So when we heard the wind would be blowing, we packed up and went.”
Barry called his brother Drew, and they made plans to go to Utah Lake. Barry also took his two daughters, Nicole and Natalie, because they liked to play on the beach.
When they arrived at the lake, it was disappointing. “We got there and the water was almost glassy,” said Matt. “I wasn’t even going to rig up my sail or put on my wetsuit.”
Barry decided to go out because he is not quite as good a windsurfer as his son and his brother. He has fun with the winds blowing between 10 and 15 mph. “It finally started blowing hard enough for Matt. He’s quite a bit better than I am, so he likes to be out in 20 to 40 mile-per-hour winds. I was tired, so I went in and was lifting my board up onto the beach. By then Drew and Matt were about three-quarters of a mile out. In a matter of two or three minutes, the wind shifted, going from 20 mph to what I estimate was about 60 mph. I knew they were in trouble. There was no way they could sail in that kind of wind. The waves went from three-foot swells to so high I couldn’t see over the tops. It was blowing hard and kept building and building. I could occasionally see my brother, but I couldn’t see Matt.”
In the water, Matt felt the wind shift. When the high winds hit, he saw his uncle heading in. “I was in the water waiting for a gust so I could water start. That’s where your sail pulls you up. Then the wind started picking up. I tried to hold on, but it was too strong. I thought it was a microburst, and I could wait a minute for it to pass. Usually the wind won’t blow that hard that long. I looked at the clouds coming from the mountains. I knew it wasn’t a microburst, and it wasn’t going to stop.”
Matt was right. The wind was not going to stop for several hours. In fact, the wind wreaked havoc, blowing down dozens of trees, toppling trucks, shearing power poles, and ripping apart roofs throughout northern Utah. The wind would be clocked as high as 86 mph in places, hurricane velocity.
On the lake, Matt was just a speck on the water. “Quick as I could, I tried to save my boom; that’s what you hold onto on your sail. I got it off and detached my sail from my board and let my sail take off. I went to grab my boom to put it on top of my board to swim it in. The wind caught my board, and it took off. I dropped my boom and went after my board. It’s my best flotation device besides my life jacket. I looked back and my boom and sail were gone, so I started swimming with one hand on my board. I would get glimpses of the shore, but it was blowing so hard that if I tried to look at the shore, the spray off the waves would hit me in the eyes and face.
“I had been swimming for half an hour, and I felt like I wasn’t making any progress at all. I thought to myself, Any decisions I have to make, I have to make them right now before hypothermia kicks in. After a while I won’t be able to make the decisions very well or very wisely. I told myself everything I was going to do, over and over.”
The situation was similar to what Matt had been taught in church. Make your decisions before the moment of crisis. Make your decisions when you can think clearly. Then when faced with the critical moment, the right decision to carry you through will already be made.
“After an hour of swimming, I felt I was a little closer to shore. It never crossed my mind to stop. I had a life jacket and board. I was not stopping. Wherever I ended up, it was not going to be in the water. I was starting to get cold. I knew hypothermia was coming. It was getting harder to think. I had to concentrate and keep swimming. Then I felt ground underneath me. I thanked the Lord and thought, Now all I have to do is walk.”
In the meantime, Drew had gone to a marina to get a boat, but the high waves swamped the boat when they attempted a rescue. They had to turn back. The sheriff’s office could not send a helicopter up because of the high winds. At home, Matt’s mother, Barbara, was trying desperately to stay calm: “I kept saying, ‘Matt, hang onto the board. Hang onto the board. Keep your strength.’” Then she felt the comfort of the Spirit.
There was nothing to do but wait. Barry drove down the beach and stared at the most horrifying sight he had seen, waves crashing and no trace of Matt. “That’s when I felt absolute despair,” said Barry. “I knew Matt was in very good condition. I knew he knew the rules of safety. But it was getting dark. I knew he couldn’t last too much longer in the cold water. I pleaded with the Lord to temper the elements and bring my son back.”
Just when darkness was about to set in, Barry saw a figure walking toward him. It was Matt. He ran to his son, hugging him. Matt, his face purple with cold, said, “Dad, I love you.” Barry was crying on his son’s shoulder.
That evening, after Matt was reunited with his sisters and mother, the Hansens knelt in family prayer. Matt’s father is his bishop in the Parkview Ward, South Jordan Utah Stake, and rarely had the prayers of thanksgiving been so sincere and given with so much joy by the Hansens and other ward members as those that night.
The Hansens still enjoy windsurfing, but needless to say they are very cautious about weather conditions, particularly on Utah Lake. And Matt knows what it means to make decisions ahead of time, then to keep his eye on his goal and never ever stop until he reaches it.

A young woman named Brooke writes: “This past summer I had the opportunity of attending a leadership conference. It only took a couple of hours to find out that the LDS kids were in the minority there. I ended up [rooming] with two girls who were very nice but definitely didn’t have the same standards. At night when I read my scriptures they stared at me like I was some kind of weirdo. While they were talking about their drinking parties, I was talking about [parties] with punch and cookies. They laughed but were always curious.
“Although I was scared sometimes, I never failed to stand up for what I believe in. At the end of the conference, one of my roommates [said], ‘I guess Mormons can be cool,’ and that she would think about our religion and maybe even learn about it. I [learned] that I could make a difference by simply standing up for what I believe.”

Young Spencer Kimball spent many hours helping his father on the family farm. He tramped hay, planted seeds, weeded the garden, and painted the barn and house.
And every day young Spencer milked the cows. There were no milking machines in those days, and it took him quite a while to finish this chore.
3. Spencer liked to learn. He decided to use his “milking time” to memorize many of his favorite scriptures. Neighbors often joked about those cows being the most spiritual cows in the area!
4. He memorized hymns the same way. He copied the words from Church hymns onto small pieces of paper and sang to the cows while he milked them.
5. Spencer W. Kimball learned at a young age to be dedicated to the gospel and to seek after righteousness. He was well prepared to become the twelfth President of the Church.

Restoration of the Vernal Temple went carefully, brick by brick. However, some of the native brick was damaged and needed to be replaced. What’s more, additions to the building itself needed to match. A long-time Vernal resident had a pioneer home built of the same brick as the tabernacle. Though not a member of the Church himself, he graciously agreed to donate it to the temple. So two years before the temple was completed, youth groups from all the wards in the four stakes surrounding Vernal spent service time dismantling the house and cleaning the brick. Each small effort toward the restoration gave joy and satisfaction to those who helped.

When David had enough cartoons for a portfolio, he began sending them to cartoon publishing syndicates, hoping to sell them to other newspapers. He got some good feedback, but no takers. That’s when David and his wife, Sage, decided to try syndicating his cartoons on their own. They had brochures printed up with some sample cartoons and mailed them out to hundreds of regional and college newspapers. So far, his cartoons are running in 17 newspapers. Not enough to make a living, but a start.

The leaders were nervous about the steady rain because they had planned a nighttime hike through the woods. The 45-minute hike would simulate the journey described in Lehi’s dream and lead to the “tree of life” (see 1 Ne. 8). A rod of iron had been constructed to help guide the youth along the path.

The teens set out in the dark, rainy night wearing plastic garbage bags as ponchos and with only one flashlight per group of five to seven people.

In Lehi’s dream, those who made it to the tree had to hold to the iron rod to navigate the mists of darkness. Others wandered off “in strange roads” and “were drowned in the depths of the fountain” (1 Ne. 8:32).

Similarly, these youth had their own obstacles to deal with on the way to their “tree of life.” In addition to the rain and darkness, they walked in mud and around stones and logs. Looking for a shortcut or an easier way, some lost their way in the darkness. Even those who stayed on the path stumbled, and many fell, having to let go of the iron rod. Members of the youth committee were asked to try to tempt their peers to leave the safety of the path. A “spirit prison”—a place off the trail where the teens had to wait—detained those who left the path.

After clinging to the rod of iron and singing hymns on the way, those who endured to the end finally saw a large tree with white fruit. “Father Lehi,” standing at the “tree of life,” offered them the fruit of the tree.

In the Book of Mormon, Nephi describes eating the white fruit: “As I partook of the fruit thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy; … it was desirable above all other fruit” (1 Ne. 8:12). An imaginative youth committee had made desirable fruit. Caramel apples, dipped in white chocolate, rewarded those who reached this “tree of life.”

“Mom, will you make me a hard-boiled egg to take to the park?” Nathan asked.
“Sure,” Mom said. “Pull out the pan, please.”
Nathan took a pan out of the cupboard and carefully filled it with water. Mom helped him carry it to the stove, gently placed an egg in the water, and turned on the flame. Nathan loved hard-boiled eggs. Mom set the timer and then hurried to gather the other things they needed for the park.
“Please put your shoes on,” Mom told Nathan and Aria.
Nathan helped his little sister tie her laces. “We’re going to the park!” he told her. He held her hand and led her to the car. Mom helped them get their seat belts on, and they were on their way.
At the park, Aria liked following the ducks. Nathan threw sticks into the stream on one side of the bridge and watched the water carry them out the other side.
“Can I have my egg now?” Nathan asked.
Mom’s face froze with fear. “Oh no!” she said. “Your egg!” She jumped up from the bench and picked up Aria. “Nathan, I need you to run really fast. We left the egg on the stove and it could start a fire! We need to get home right away.”
Mom started running back toward the car. Nathan ran as fast as he could. As he ran, he thought about something he learned in Primary: “I can pray anywhere. I can pray anytime.”
“Well, I guess I can pray even when I’m running,” Nathan thought. He kept running, and inside his head he thought, “Dear Heavenly Father, please bless our house to be safe. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
As soon as Nathan finished his prayer, he felt a warm feeling in his heart. He knew that it was the Holy Ghost letting him know everything would be all right.
“Mom!” Nathan said.
“What?” Mom slowed down a little.
“I just said a prayer in my heart and I felt a really warm feeling. I think our house is going to be OK.”
Mom stopped running and smiled. “Nathan, I am so glad you told me about your prayer. I feel much better now because the Holy Ghost always tells the truth.” Mom took Nathan’s hand and they walked to the car.
When they got home, the pan still had bubbling water in it. “It is a running-prayer miracle,” Mom said.
Nathan smiled. His heart felt warm and full. He knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer. “Mom, can I have my egg now? I think it’s probably done.”
Mom and Nathan laughed.

Each summer, seven-year-old Dennis helped Grandpa farm his fields, located three miles outside their hometown. Dennis loved everything about Grandpa and his farm. He marveled at the morning sun boiling up over dark hills, the liquid gold of sunset clouds, and the skill in Grandpa’s strong hands as he worked the land that meant so much to him.
Most of all, he marveled at Grandpa’s faith. Dennis could see it in his pale blue eyes that burned in his sunbaked face like fire whenever he spoke of Heavenly Father.
“Give us strength of body and spirit, dear Father, to do today that which we must,” Grandpa prayed one morning as Dennis and Grandma sat at the breakfast table with bowed heads. “Let us be of service, and let our faith be strong.” After breakfast Dennis and Grandpa climbed onto Grandpa’s tractor and set off down the lonely road to the farm.
After working a few hours, Grandpa stopped the tractor and gazed across the hilly landscape of his half-furrowed fields. “Well, son,” he said. “What do you think?”
Dennis wiped the sweat and dust from his face with the back of his hand. “I think I’m tired. There’s too much field, Grandpa. It seems to go on forever, and I’m afraid we’ll never get it done. Besides, it’s hot, and I think there’s enough dirt on me to plant a garden.”
Grandpa laughed and ruffled Dennis’s dusty hair. “You may be right, sprout. But to have a good harvest I’ve got to plow a good portion of earth. Half jobs yield half results, and half a crop just won’t do. Besides,” he added with a wink, “to put off work at my age could be fatal.” Grandpa chuckled and passed a canteen of cold lemonade to Dennis.
Dennis grinned and swallowed a few big gulps.
“You know,” Grandpa said as he squinted into the gold-brown haze of the late morning light, “President Joseph F. Smith once said, ‘We cannot give up; we must not lie down.’ He was talking about the courage of faith. He said, ‘Men who possess that divine quality go on.’”*
Dennis scrunched up his face until he looked like a dirt clod with eyes. “What’s ‘courage of faith,’ Grandpa?”
Grandpa mopped his forehead with a worn bandanna. “To go on. In our case, it means finishing these furrows no matter how hot and dirty the job, no matter how big the field. Especially when that old sun up there and the ache in my back tell me to quit right now.” He patted Dennis’s leg, raising a cloud of dust. “But your help takes the quit right out of it.”
Dennis smiled.
Later, when the canteen was empty, Grandpa decided that it was time to refresh their water supply. He turned the tractor and began to drive it up the hill toward the nearby spring.
But he misjudged the steepness of the hill. Suddenly the front of the machine began to lift off the ground, tipping them backward. “Jump!” he yelled to Dennis as the tractor arched back.
Dennis leaped to safety. Grandpa tried to follow him, but it was too late. The tractor pitched over backward, pinning Grandpa beneath it. He screamed, his face twisted with pain. He turned his head toward Dennis, who stood frozen with horror. “You’ll have to go for help,” Grandpa gasped. “And be quick, son. Be quick!”
For a moment Dennis stood there, his heart drumming. Grandpa’s life depended on him! He took a deep breath and plunged down the hill. All he had were his short legs and the knowledge that help was three long, hot, dusty miles away.
He hit the bottom of the hill at a dead run. His throat and lungs burned as he started down the road that seemed to stretch out forever. His heart and head pounded. Dark thoughts beat at him in rhythm with the hammering of his feet on the hard-baked earth. “I’m only seven. I’m not a runner. I’m already tired. I can’t do it. I’m only seven. …”
Spilling into his thoughts like a flood of light came the words of a prophet: “We cannot give up; we must not lie down.” Then Grandpa’s prayer from that morning echoed through his mind: “Give us strength of body and spirit, dear Father, to do today that which we must.”
Hot tears filled Dennis’s eyes as he ran. “Help me, Heavenly Father,” he prayed aloud in ragged, winded gasps. “Help me to do what I must.”
A little while later, Dennis burst into his house, staggering with exhaustion. “Dad!” he croaked. “Grandpa needs help!” Within moments, help was on its way.
He had done it. He didn’t know how, but Heavenly Father had made it possible. And so had the courage of faith.
Grandpa was rushed to the hospital. His leg was badly mangled. He had to stay in the hospital for several weeks and was in bed for a year after that. But in time he healed completely. The doctor told the family that if it hadn’t been for Dennis’s big run, things probably would have turned out differently. And Dennis knew that if it hadn’t been for what Grandpa had said, he couldn’t have done it. The hug Grandpa gave Dennis when he was well enough made Dennis very glad that he had.

The forest here is calm and quiet, especially in the evening. A cool breeze, like a hymn being sung, whispers through the pines. It seems as though this grove has always been a sacred place, the kind of refuge from the world that a clearing in the woods provides.
As peaceful as the forest is, though, the young men and women gathered here seem just as reverent. They speak in quiet tones, but with gladness. They have just spent several hours in the Stockholm Sweden Temple, the house of the Lord.
“Being in the temple makes me feel clean and happy,” says Thor Andre Erak, sixteen.
Lillian Nilsen, seventeen, agrees. “Everyone who comes to the temple gets a stronger testimony because of the spirit here,” she says. “When you do baptisms for the dead, you have a feeling you’re doing them for someone, that maybe they will become members of the Church. It’s missionary work in a powerful way.”
This particular group of your Latter-day Saints is from the Oslo Second Ward, Oslo Norway Stake. But they could just as easily have been from remote islands in Finland, or from the port cities of Denmark, or from busy downtown Stockholm, just minutes up the freeway. The truth is, young people come to the temple from throughout the northland.
“This is my second trip,” says Charlotte Marie Lundkvist, twelve. “The last time we came with the whole stake, and I was baptized for forty-five people. Then we went to the temple president’s house and had a fireside. He told us about a man who was paralyzed and couldn’t do things for himself. He had to rely on other people. That’s what we’re doing here. People in the spirit world can’t do this for themselves. They have to rely on other people.”
“They may be watching, just waiting for someone to do this work for them,” says Kristina Arsnes, thirteen. “I would be really thankful if I were in that situation and someone were to do it for me.”
The spire of the Stockholm Temple stretches straight and tall, bright white against the greens and browns of the trees. Here in its shadow, it’s natural to talk about missions, families, promises, and eternity—about things that are, as the scriptures say, everlasting. (See D&C 79:1.)
But those who come from far away aren’t the only ones who benefit from the temple. The youth who live right next door, in the little town of Vasterhaninge, say the temple has been a great blessing to their community.
“I ride by the temple on the bus,” says Roy Gunnarsson, seventeen. “Of course, a lot of people toured the building before it was dedicated. But I still hear people talking about it almost every day, even little children. The most common reaction when they see it is, ‘Wow, what a beautiful building!’ When they find out I know what it is, they want to know more: ‘Is it a church?’ ‘What do you do in there?’ It’s a wonderful chance to explain the plan of salvation.”
“For me,” says Cecilia Jensen, sixteen, “the temple is a constant reminder. Our ward building is on the same land, so when we go to a ward activity, we’re next to the temple all the time. Sometimes we watch the couples leaving after they’re married. How can you be around the temple that much and not think of what it stands for?”
Yes, the reminder is strong, and the spirit of gospel involvement is pervasive. Talk to Bishop Engman of the Vasterhaninge Ward, and you’ll find the activity level among his youth is near 100 percent. Six full-time missionaries from the ward are currently serving, and “our goal is for every young man to serve a mission.” A dozen seminary students meet in the chapel at 6:30 A.M.. Monday through Thursday, without fail.
And the Handen Ward, which meets in the same building, has a youth program that is equally valiant.
Because so many temple workers live in the area, the Mormon presence in Vasterhaninge is strong. Latter-day Saints make up 1.4 percent of the population, which gives them stature in local government, housing projects, and political groups. Instead of being the only Mormons in their schools, many young Latter-day Saints have two or three member friends in their classes. Teachers are aware of Church standards and open-minded about LDS ideals.
But having a temple in the community has done more than just make people aware of the Mormons.
“Having a temple here makes me feel secure,” says Sofia Sivula, fourteen. “It lifts me above the everyday problems and reminds me of eternity.”
“I see the temple and think of being married there someday,” says Annika Reithmeier, sixteen. “I know that the promises you make in the temple are promises with the Lord. The things you learn in the temple won’t just change or disappear.”
“I like being inside the temple,” says David Girhammar, fifteen. “You can relax, read the scriptures, and forget about everything else. There’s a feeling of great comfort in there.”
In Vasterhaninge, it’s easy for the youth to gather, since most of them live less than five minutes from the chapel. Virtually every Friday night, there’s a large group of teenagers at the ward. Sometimes there’s an opportunity to meet young members from other areas who are going to or coming from the temple.
“I love it when the kids from Göteborg join us for a dance,” says Paul Engman, sixteen. “But even more, I love to see so many young people in the house of the Lord. It makes you feel the Church is strong.”
The temple president, George Damstedt, loves to tell of the faithful youth who attend the temple. Some have traveled long hours to be there. Many stay as a group in youth hostels to cut expenses. Most attend at least two sessions of baptisms before heading home.
“Once I was invited to climb aboard a bus of young folks from Finland,” President Damstedt recalls. “They sang ‘I Am a Child of God,’ and I just started crying. I couldn’t understand the words, but I could understand the Spirit. You can see the Church’s future here. It’s with these young people who come to the temple. They know they’re part of something important, of something that will last forever.”
President Damstedt has stepped outside now. He’s visiting with the group from Oslo, here in the woods where the evening is crisp and the breeze is cool.
“It’s a little chilly,” says Julie Karine Rennesund, seventeen. “But I still feel warm inside.”
Julie knows, as the other young people gathered here know, that it is a warmth that will linger.
A lot of young men find ways to pay for their missions. But Patric Balck has found what he calls “an ideal place to work.”
Patric, eighteen, a newly ordained elder in the Handen Ward, is a groundskeeper and apprentice gardener at the Stockholm Temple. For four years now, he has spent his working hours mowing lawns, trimming trees and bushes, and tending flowers, all under the direction of the head groundskeeper.
“It’s more than just a job,” Patric says. “It gives me an opportunity to talk to nonmember friends and tourists. I’ve given out copies of the Book of Mormon. I try to make people who visit the grounds feel at home. And, of course, I try to make sure the grounds look good.”
Patric says the temple is a wonderful place to work, “because of the calm feeling that is always here.” He says that he notices a new interest in religion among young people in Sweden and that he’s eager to serve a mission and find out if that same interest is growing elsewhere.
Editor’s note: Since this story was written, Patric has received his call and is currently serving in the Idaho Boise Mission.

A wise first step is to guide each deacon to a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling. In one ward, this lesson was effectively taught pertaining to the collection of fast offerings.

On fast day the ward members were visited by deacons and teachers so that each family could make a contribution. The deacons were a bit disgruntled, having to arise earlier than usual to fulfill this assignment.

The inspiration came for the bishopric to take a busload of the deacons and teachers to Welfare Square here in Salt Lake City. Here they saw needy children receiving new shoes and other items of clothing. Here they witnessed empty baskets being filled with groceries. There was no money exchanged. One brief comment was made: “Young men, this is what the money you collect on fast day provides—even food, clothing, and shelter.” The Aaronic Priesthood young men smiled more, stepped higher, and served with a willing mind in the filling of their assignments.