Gospel Story Finder

In 1994, I was called to serve as a mission president in Manchester, England. In that mission, we had missionaries from all over the world. Many of those young missionaries had never seen the prophet or heard him speak, yet they loved and followed him.
One of these missionaries was Sister Kita, who was from Albania. When she heard that President Gordon B. Hinckley was planning to visit Liverpool, where she was serving, she begged me, “President Richards, please don’t transfer me until after the prophet’s visit.” When the prophet came, I remember watching tears stream down her cheeks as she reached out to shake his hand when he walked down the chapel aisle. Sister Kita truly loved and followed the prophet.

Recently a member in Monterrey, Mexico, told me how the Book of Mormon changed his life. As a teenager, Jesús Santos was impressed by the LDS missionaries he saw walking down the dusty streets. He wanted to talk to them about their church but was told by a friend that you have to wait for them to contact you.
Many times he would go to the church building and look through the iron fence at the missionaries and the Mutual youth playing games. They seemed to be so wholesome, and he wanted to be part of them. He would lean his chin on the fence, hoping that they would notice him and invite him to participate with them. It never happened.
As Jesús recounted his story to me, he said, “It is sad. I was a young man and could have served a full-time mission.”
He moved to Monterrey, Mexico. Nine years later he was visiting a friend across town when the missionaries knocked at the door. His friend wanted to send them away. Jesús begged him to let the missionaries talk to them for just two minutes. His friend consented.
The missionaries talked about the Book of Mormon, how Lehi’s family traveled from Jerusalem to the Americas, and how the resurrected Jesus Christ visited Lehi’s descendants in America.
Jesús wanted to know more. He was especially intrigued by the picture depicting Christ’s appearance in America. He gave the missionaries his address. He waited for months, but they never made contact with him.
Three more years passed. Some friends invited his family to a family home evening. They gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon.
As soon as he began to read it, he knew the Book of Mormon was true. Finally, 12 years after he first became aware of the Church, he and his wife were baptized. So many years had been lost. If missionaries had just talked to him, if the Mutual youth had just noticed a lonely teenager looking over the fence, if the missionaries in Monterrey had found him at home, his life would have been different during those 12 years. Gratefully, member neighbors invited him for a family home evening and shared with him that book which has such great converting power, the Book of Mormon.
Today Jesús Santos serves as the president of the Monterrey Mexico Temple.
In my mind’s eye I can still see Jesús Santos as a ragged 18-year-old boy looking over the fence at the chapel. Can you see him? Can you invite him and others like him to be one with us? Whom do you know that would respond to your invitation to read the Book of Mormon? Will you invite them? Don’t wait.

Two experiences from my life—when I wasn’t sure what to do—illustrate the importance of obeying the commandments and following the living prophets. In college I ran out of money, so I found a part-time job. When I received my first check, I did not know whether it would be enough to get me through to the next paycheck. But I remembered the Lord’s promise regarding tithing: “Prove me now herewith … if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing” (Malachi 3:10).
I decided to prove the Lord. I paid my tithing first, and He blessed me to survive. In the process I learned to trust in His promises.

In 1972 a couple and their six children were sealed in the temple. “I’ve never seen my mom and dad so happy as the day we went into the temple as a family. That day of joy was the culmination of more than twenty years of effort,” one daughter recalls. The wife explains: “I grew up in a strong LDS family but married a nonmember, thinking I could convert him. He joined the Church in 1953, but I learned before too long that he had done it just to get me to stop nagging him. He even started smoking and drinking after baptism, and he had never done either of those before. I guess I nagged him a lot in those years. I would self-righteously take the children to church and then come home and quarrel with him because he hadn’t gone too.”

What finally made the change? “I prayed so hard those years that I never took time to listen to the Lord’s answer. And when I heard it I ignored it. But finally I was so desperate that I felt I had no other choice than to do it His way: ‘You have to love him in,’ the Spirit would whisper to me. ‘Let him go at his own pace.’ So finally I did it and before too long we were at the temple.”

At the same time, the Lord was reaching out to this man in other ways. His colleagues at work had begun to ridicule Joseph Smith, and he felt he had to know if the things they were saying were true. If they were, he would leave the Church. “I started to read the Book of Mormon. I had never really tried to understand it before. It was a marvelous experience. And I learned how to defend the Church to the men at work and that it was defensible. I got so I really thirsted to know the truth. I went back to church. And all the while I was amazed at the quiet support my wife was giving me. Instead of nagging, instead of saying, ‘I told you so,’ like she once would have done when I started to go back, she simply took my hand and said she wanted to help me do whatever would make me happiest.”

Study and church attendance—even a thoughtful testimony borne on a fast Sunday—were followed by a review of the missionary discussions, giving up drinking, and having a difficult struggle to stop smoking. “I thought it would be easy for me to quit smoking, even though I had smoked for seven years—because I generally have good will power. But I tried and tried to quit and I couldn’t. Every time I definitely decided to quit, something would happen, and suddenly I would find myself with a cigarette in my hand and smoke coming out of my mouth. I had heard stories about the Lord taking the desire away from people when they sought him in prayer, but that didn’t work for me. Maybe I didn’t have strong enough faith, or maybe he wanted me to grow more from the struggle. I just knew that I couldn’t quit. Finally I went to the Lord in prayer and committed myself to him that I would never smoke again, even if it was difficult. It wasn’t easy—in fact, even now when I smell tobacco I have an urge to smoke again—but from that moment to this I have never broken my covenant.”

“I don’t think all these things would have happened if we hadn’t made a plan. Our home teachers taught us that the best thing we could do was to set specific goals for what we would have to do in our lives before we could go to the temple, and then of course to reach our goals by the designated time. First, we decided we would have to go to all our meetings. That was a hard one for me because I worked nights, and priesthood meeting started about an hour after my bedtime. But I went anyway. Second, I had to start living the Word of Wisdom; third, we had to pay tithing, and so on. Those goals really made the difference. They gave us a deadline for us to accomplish each step and a final date for when we wanted to be at the temple. That was the only approach that would have been effective for us.”

When I was 11 years old, I wanted to quit the Church. I was often angry and felt guilty because I couldn’t seem to control my temper. Besides that, it seemed the Church had too many rules, and I couldn’t see the point of many of them. I told my mom I wasn’t going to church anymore, and she told me that if I read the entire Book of Mormon and didn’t think it was true, I could quit. I was delighted with this arrangement.
I was very bright and a fast reader. I knew I could finish my reading in less than a week. I planned to zoom through the Book of Mormon in a couple of days, tell my mom I knew it wasn’t true, and be free. In anticipation, I cheerfully grabbed the book and began to read. Just as I thought: it was an easy read and as boring as I had imagined. “And it came to pass … and it came to pass … and it came to pass …”
Then I started 2 Nephi 4:15:
“And upon these I write the things of my soul, and many of the scriptures which are engraven upon the plates of brass. For my soul delighteth in the scriptures, and my heart pondereth them, and writeth them for the learning and the profit of my children.”
Then to verse 17: “Nevertheless, notwithstanding the great goodness of the Lord, in showing me his great and marvelous works, my heart exclaimeth: O wretched man that I am! Yea, my heart sorroweth because of my flesh; my soul grieveth because of mine iniquities.”
I became rapt with attention. I was an avid journal keeper and wrote the things of my soul all the time. Why did he delight in the scriptures? I too felt that God was good and I wasn’t. This was a prophet speaking.
I read to verse 27: “And why should I yield to sin, because of my flesh? Yea, why should I give way to temptations, that the evil one have place in my heart to destroy my peace and afflict my soul? Why am I angry because of mine enemy?”
I read on through verse 35. A waterfall of warmth and light poured into the top of my head and filled my body with a sensation I had never felt before. A feeling of confident, joyful knowing. I slammed the book shut and yelped, “No!” But it was too late. My plan had failed. There was no escape now. I knew for myself that the Book of Mormon was true and that God loved me enough to tell me in such a wonderful way. With mixed feelings, I surrendered my heart to my Savior, wondering what would become of me now.
I didn’t need to worry. I knew God loved me and would help me. I knew He loved me and wanted me to change so I could be happier, not just to fit some rules. I can honestly say that although some years have had their ups and downs, every year has finished more up than the year before as I have studied, pondered, prayed, and delighted in the gospel of Jesus Christ. He is my coach, my friend, my captain, and my Redeemer. All that is wonderful in my life is a gift from Him, and I am thankful that I had a mother who loved me enough to challenge me.
I’m sure that she fell to her knees begging the Lord to save me and send me a blessing that would take me out of her hands and into His. I want that for everyone. I never let a day pass without reading from the Book of Mormon.

A television commercial inspired Matt Bryant, 12, to make a light that could be turned on by the sound of a voice. In the commercial, Matt saw a light that turned on by the sound of hands clapping, and he thought he could produce a similar light and enter it in his school’s “invention convention.” Matt’s light that responded to the sound of a voice attracted a lot of attention.
Matt was chosen as one of 55 finalists in the statewide contest. He was selected to attend a reception with the governor, and his light was then put on display at the New York State Museum in Albany.
Matt is a deacon in the Fairport Ward, Rochester New York Palmyra Stake.

Now, in 2018, after four years, Heavenly Father blessed us to enter His house, this time it was Taipei Taiwan Temple.
I was doing the temple work for my uncle who had died of cancer. When I was doing the baptism for him, I was listening to the blessings which he would receive through this temple ordinance. I was so happy and I recognized what the temple president told me in 2014.
I got my answer. It has taken me four years to understand by visiting the temple for the second time.

Our daughter’s family dealt with a serious medical challenge, and dinners from kind neighbors were arranged. The first night, a hot pot of chicken noodle soup arrived, with a side of warm chocolate chip cookies. The next afternoon, friends dropped off lunch—chicken noodle soup and chocolate chip cookies. And that night, yes, chicken noodle soup and chocolate chip cookies was the dinner of choice provided by another good Samaritan. And the next night—you guessed it—another pot of chicken noodle soup and chocolate chip cookies arrived for dinner.
This isn’t just a funny story about chicken noodle soup and chocolate chip cookies. It’s a story of caring for a sister and her family in need. With each spoonful of soup and bite of chocolate chip cookie, our daughter and her family felt loved and supported. Each pot of soup and plate of cookies was made from a different recipe unique to each sister. Isn’t that the way we are in our service? We reach out in our own uniqueness, with our own ways and personally inspired recipes. We don’t get hung up on what to do; we just do it.

Two years later, Paul was called to be home-study seminary president. His new responsibilities were going smoothly until one day when Sister Yockstel asked to talk to him after class. She gave him a list of seminary-age youth who weren’t enrolled in seminary and instructed him to get with the rest of the presidency and contact everyone on the list.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Paul said weakly. “There are a lot of people on this list.”
“Yes. And every last one of them is missing the gospel in their lives. Seminary or some other contact with the Church could really help them. Remember how much staying close to the Lord has helped you,” Sister Yockstel replied.
After dividing the list with the rest of the presidency, the task didn’t seem so ominous. Audrey volunteered to print up letters to everyone on her computer, and one day after class they spent a few minutes addressing, stuffing, sealing, and stamping envelopes. The next week, it was time to make telephone calls.
“Amy Richards,” Paul read on his list after calling two others. “Well, here goes.” He gulped, dialed the number, and waited.
“Hello.”
“Hello, is Amy Richards there?”
“This is Amy.”
“Hi, Amy. This is Paul Oasman,” he began mechanically. “I’m seminary president at church. How are you?”
“Fine. Church? What church?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We sent you a letter. Did you get it?”
“I don’t know. I think I got something. I didn’t read it. Church of what?”
“Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Mormons. Did you … did you ever go there?”
“I think we used to go to some church when I was little. That must be what it was. They told us about Jesus and prophets and we sang a song about popcorn on the apricot tree.”
“Yeah. That’s right. So would you like to come to seminary sometime?”
“Seminary?”
“Yeah. It’s for youth our age and we study the scriptures.”
“The scriptures?”
“Like the Bible and the Book of Mormon.”
“Well … I don’t think so. I’m really busy with my job and keeping my grades up. I want to go to college, and this is the only way I can go. But thank you for calling me.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything.” He gave her his number and they hung up shortly.
The phone calls weren’t really that bad, Paul reported to Sister Yockstel the next week. On a whim, he called Amy and the other two people on his list again a couple of months later to invite them to the Harvest Ball at the stake center, and again to invite them to the ward Christmas social. Each time Amy said something about being too busy, but they did spend a few minutes talking before hanging up. When he invited Amy to come to the Sweetheart Dance in February with him and a couple of his friends and she declined again, she asked him, “Why don’t you ever give up on me, Paul?”
“I don’t know. I had a friend Joshua who never gave up on me. Do you think I should give up on you?”
“Well, no, I guess not. But I never come.”
“Maybe you’ll come sometime.”
“Maybe,” Amy sighed. “I’m just really busy. Hey, I gotta go so I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Amy did finally come to the youth barbecue in the spring and joined in the volleyball game. Paul went to talk to her when she stepped out to get some punch.
“See, didn’t I tell you? It’s a great activity!”
“Yeah, it’s pretty fun! Everyone’s really nice and everything.”
“Well, you’ll have to come to these things more often.” Paul glanced sidewise at her.
Amy lowered her eyes. “Yeah, maybe, but I don’t need to get too involved with you guys. I’m just going to leave in the fall to go to college.”
“But, hey. It’s not the people that are the most important part here. It’s the Church—the gospel.”
Amy was silent. Paul began to blush.
She finally spoke. “I know that’s what you’ve been getting at. I’ve told you, I’m not a religious person. And why should you care whether I am or not?”
“The Church is true, Amy. It’s not just something you like if it’s convenient. It’s true and it’s real. Christ really exists, and he really wants you to return to him!” Paul’s face was turning a bright embarrassed red, but he plunged on as Amy replied to his boldness.
“How can anyone know that?”
“You can pray about it. God will tell you himself.”
Amy squirmed. “Well, thanks. I’m just so busy getting ready for college. I know that doesn’t change the reality of it all, but I don’t want to have to think about the Church right now. I’m really not good enough to be into religion anyway. I better get back to the game.” She got up and left.
During the summer, Amy came to church with Paul six times and read the Book of Mormon occasionally. It made sense, and she felt good about it when she prayed like Paul asked her to, but the good feelings scared her, especially since her parents weren’t interested in getting involved in the Church. “They just want you there to raise their numbers. They don’t really care about you,” her father told her. “After we moved here we went to church for two months and nobody really spoke to us. And nobody called when we quit coming.”
College started for Amy at the end of August. Dorm life was really exciting. It didn’t take Amy and her roommate Letitia long to discover that they could make new friends very easily by sitting downstairs in the lobby. Someone was bound to come up and introduce himself.
One evening during the first week, Amy was studying her Spanish when a tall blond boy in a sports coat seated himself on the couch across from her. “What are you reading?” he inquired.
Amy looked up and smiled. “Spanish,” she answered.
“Ahhh. Fun. I study French myself. You must be a freshman.”
“Because I’m studying Spanish?”
“No, because we’ve never met. My name is Rod. And you are?”
“Amy.”
“Hi, Amy. Do you know about the big rally with Dr. Reality tomorrow night? I’m on the publicity committee.”
“No. Who’s Dr. Reality?”
“The main thing Dr. Reality does is give some very, very good study tips. Just wonderful.” Rod shook his head and smiled.
Amy shrugged. “Sounds good. Where is it?”
Rod gave her directions and added, somewhat condescendingly, “I must warn you, his lead-in is about how God doesn’t exist and how prayers before tests don’t help, but his study tips will.”
Amy suddenly felt like she’d been sucked into something. “How much of that does he say?” she asked guardedly.
“Quite a bit. It’s sponsored by the Free-Thinking Student Association. But you don’t have to be an atheist or anything. The study tips are good for everyone. So, what religion are you? I could see you getting nervous when I talked about God not existing, so I assume you must believe in one.”
“Oh, I’m not a very religious person,” Amy faltered. “I was baptized a Mormon when I was little, and I’ve gone there a few times, but I’m not really into that sort of thing.”
Rod leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Oh, good! A Mormon!”
“What? I didn’t say I was a good Mormon.”
Rod chuckled. “Mormons are so funny. They have so much faith.”
Amy was confused. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Look out there. Do you see God? Do you really have any concrete evidence that he exists?”
Amy suddenly found her tongue. “Why do you care whether or not I believe in a God I can’t see?”
“Oh, I don’t care,” Rod assured her. “Believe what you want.”
I’ve got to get out of here, Amy thought. “I just remembered some stuff I need to do upstairs.” She got up and left quickly.
As she went up the stairs she felt the warm calmness of love from her Heavenly Father enfolding her. It was a feeling she knew she could not be imagining.
When she rounded the corner into her hall she came face to face with a girl with glasses and long, dark hair. Amy smiled on reflex.
“Hi, you’re not Amy, are you? I’m looking for Amy Richards,” the girl said.
“That’s me.”
The girl twisted her hands back and forth nervously. “Well, my name’s Sophie Petrowsky and I just thought I’d come by and say hi because I hear we go to the same church.”
Not another one! Amy stiffened. “The only church I’ve gone to at all is the Mormon church and I don’t go there very much. I just got invited to become an atheist.” She laughed ruefully, not wanting to hurt Sophie’s feelings. “It’s been a long day.”
Sophie relaxed a little. “Yes, it has,” she agreed. “Well, the Mormon church is where I go, and I thought—How did you get invited to become an atheist?”
Amy explained to her about Rod and what he’d said. Sophie nodded. “That sounds like Rod. I lived here last year and got to talk to him. He’s really smart, and he can be nice, but he’s a little overbearing. There are a lot of kids around here who just want to argue and cause trouble. And of course you’ll get all kinds of invitations to join different student organizations.”
“Why does everyone care so much about gaining converts around here?” Amy asked bluntly.
Sophie thought for a minute. “Well, we do like new faces in our groups. We like to make new friends. But in the Church there’s more to it than that.” Sophie twisted her hands again. “We have a message that we want to share with you and with everyone, and it’s because we love you,” she said softly. “This guy named Paul called the Latter-day Saint Institute about you a couple days ago.”
Amy closed her eyes, then shook her head and smiled. “Paul, you idiot,” she whispered. “What did he say?”
“Oh, he said you were really neat and that you’d been studying the Church a little. Mostly he wanted to make sure that you’d have a friend here, and that you’d know we were here for you. I can tell you about the institute program and when church is and everything if you’d like. We have a really good singles’ group.”
“I don’t have a way to get there.”
“Oh, that’s okay. The institute’s just right down the street, and I can get you a ride to church. I don’t have a car either, but Sister Newell said she’d take us this week.”
“Us?”
“I asked her first to make sure she’d have room. We’d like you to come, but if you don’t want to …”
Amy thought for a minute. “I want to,” she said decisively. “At least once for Paul.”
Five years later, two young men in suits stood at Mark and Letitia Stoon’s front door. They wanted to come in and share a message about Christ, they said. “No, I don’t think so,” Mark began, but Letitia, who had come to see who was at the door, stopped him. “Wait, are you the people with the Book of Mormon?”
The young man smiled. “Yes, we are,” one of them answered.
“I have a friend, Amy Richards. She was my roommate at college for a couple of years. She gave me one of those before she left to be a missionary in Mexico.”
“Really? That’s great. Did you read it?”
“I read some of it. I thought it was interesting. Amy always seemed to care about it. And she still writes to me. She’s a good friend.”
“Do you mind if we come in and talk about it with you a little bit?”
“Not at all,” Letitia smiled. “Come on in.”

Shortly before my disciplinary council, I listened to general conference for the first time. At one point President Howard W. Hunter said: “To those who have transgressed or been offended, we say, come back. The path of repentance, though hard at times, lifts one ever upward and leads to a perfect forgiveness” (Ensign, November 1994, 8). I felt like he was talking directly to me. I thought to myself, I am coming back. I promise. I have a special love for President Hunter because he was the first prophet I ever really listened to.

Although he always believed, Enoch was always eager to learn and know more about the gospel. It was at age 14, when his mother gave him a Bible, that he read the New Testament for himself that Jesus became real for him. The joy of the personal relationship he now felt with his Saviour filled him with a desire to share that joy. So as a teenager he took advantage of opportunities to go on visits with the full-time missionaries. This allowed him to continue building his own relationship with God while helping others develop one for themselves.

I am grateful to the Lord for my membership in His Church. My investigation of this Church was never through anyone but by the power of God. I and my family members had attended so many churches. Our membership would have been earlier, but rumors about the Book of Mormon scared us until I was pushed by God. I liked what the Church offered me in their classes. The lessons were according to my needs, which I extended to my family members and now, we are all members of the Church.
Before my membership, I had always returned home late, but now I have been able to overcome that so I have time to discuss with my family, teach my children, and look over their work. My family is a peaceful one now and I am grateful to the Lord for that. I know that God lives and that this is His Church, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen. —Sorba Brima, Quarter Branch, Bo-Sierra Leone West Stake

The last day of hiking was a forced march as we pushed hard to make our train reservations at Bennett. Stopping for a brief rest, Colleen, with tears in her eyes, called for her counselor.
“I just can’t go on. I can’t make it. My ankle hurts so bad.” “Would you like a blessing?”
“Brother Otte, we need your priesthood.”
After the blessing the pain persisted, but Colleen was blessed with strength and a new determination and was able to continue hiking.

Welcome to Barrow, Alaska, northern-most town on the North American continent. A town where the polar bears that sometimes prowl the streets in the long Arctic night at least provide a little excitement. After all, this is a place where a typical date might consist of browsing through the large general store.

It’s so isolated that some of the locals call it “Planet Barrow.” But for now, the Gaylin Fuller family calls Barrow home. According to them, this may be the end of a continent, but it is not the end of the world. It’s the top of the world.

Like many others in the 1980s, they were forced off their Idaho farm by high operating costs. Gaylin needed work. He had been a university librarian before but had to reestablish his credentials. And the best opportunities at the time happened to be in Alaska.

So here they are in a town of about 3,000 inhabitants huddled on the far northwest coast. From the air, the surrounding land looks flat and soggy, as though it had just barely crawled from the Arctic Ocean and could sink back at any moment. The Alaska of travel posters, with its rugged mountains, immense forests, and misty fjords, is many miles to the south and might as well be on another planet.

Frankly, the kids really weren’t sure what to expect. When they moved Ronald, who is now 14, says, “I didn’t know if we’d be living in an igloo or what.”

Their snug home in Barrow is certainly no igloo, though it’s probably a good thing that the five older Fuller boys are either married, away at school, or serving missions. It’s hard to imagine fitting that many more people in this house. The six Fuller children living at home—Lyle (18), Clark (16), Ron (14), Linnae (12), Stanley (10), and Owen (7)—fill the house quite nicely.

The Fullers’ first home in Alaska was located in tiny Akiachuk, a village some 400 miles west of Anchorage—a place with fewer than 500 people and accessible only by air or snowmobile.

The isolation was tough. In Idaho, the Fullers had been able to get in the car and go to town to attend church, shop, visit friends, go to a movie—whatever. But in Akiachuk, church was at home, shopping was by mail, and movies were on TV. And friends? Well …

If the geographic isolation was tough, the social isolation was even worse. As outsiders, the Fuller children had to prove themselves. In the meantime, family was more important than ever. “We really had to be each other’s friends,” Brother Fuller recalls.

Fortunately, the Fuller boys are good athletes—and relatively tall. At least the Fullers were able to fit in on the court. A major sign that the ice had been broken (pardon the pun) came when Mark Fuller (now serving a mission in Italy) was invited to travel with a village team to play basketball in another village.

They traveled on snowmobiles in the dark, 20 to 30 miles across open countryside, in temperatures of 20 to 30 degrees below zero. Then they played hot, fierce basketball until 11:00 P.M., and returned home the same way they came.

By the time their two years in Akiachuk were up, the Fullers could say they had friends there. But then the opportunity came to move 700 miles north to Barrow.

From World War II comes a story of a young Utah boy who was called to serve his country in the faraway places across several time zones.

On his wrist he wore the conventional wristband watch to tell him the time in the area in which he was living. But strangely enough, he carried a larger, old-time heavier watch in his pocket, which gave another time of day. His buddies noted that frequently he would look at his wrist watch, then turn to the old-fashioned one in his pocket, and this led them, in their curiosity, to ask him why the additional watch. Unembarrassed, he promptly said:
“The wristwatch tells me the time here where we are, but the big watch which Pa gave me tells me what time it is in UTAH. You see,” he continued, “mine is a large family—a very close family. When the big watch says 5 a.m. I know Dad is rolling out to milk the cows. And any night when it says 7:30, I know the whole family is around a well-spread table on their knees thanking the Lord for what’s on the table and asking Him to watch over me and keep me clean and honorable. It’s those things that make me want to fight when the goin’ gets tough. … I can find out what time it is here easy enough. What I want to know is what time it is in UTAH.” (Adapted from Vaughn R. Kimball, “The Right Time at Home,” Reader’s Digest, May 1944, p. 43.)

I knew this family well. I knew the sailor slightly. I knew this father. His cows had to feed a large family, but his greater interest was the growing children who needed more than milk and bread. I have knelt in mighty prayer with this wonderful family. The home training has carried through to the eternal blessing of this large family.

The chain reaction continued as Ana Carolina reached out to a new investigator. Tatiane Pimenta, 16, began coming when she and her family were introduced to the Church by Sister Pimentel. “I felt very timid because I didn’t know anyone,” she says. “I quietly stayed in the corner.”
But soon things began to change for Tatiane: “I started feeling good because I made a friend.” In one class, Sister Pimentel introduced a game in which all the girls put their shoes in the middle of the floor, put on someone else’s, then got to know the owner of the shoes they’d picked. “That’s how I started talking to Ana Carolina,” remembers Tatiane. “She became my first friend, a friend who encouraged me a lot. It was because of her that I felt able to join the Church.”

A few days later, I opened the door to see two fine-looking young men. They introduced themselves as missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the conversation that followed, they asked, “Do you believe that the church of Jesus Christ is on the earth today?” My wife and I had already considered this question while studying the Bible. We concluded that if there were a true church, it would have to have all the doctrines Jesus taught. The churches we knew, including our own, were not complete. “If it exists,” I said, “it must have all the things Jesus taught. But it does not exist.”
The missionaries said that the church they represented was organized in the same way as the church at Christ’s time. They added that this church had continuing revelation from Jesus Christ.
I felt sorry for them; they had been so misled. I told them, “I’m sure that just as our church has errors in its doctrine, so does yours. Someone has added, changed, or taken something away.” Again they testified that their church was Christ’s own church, organized with his authority and directed by him.
Soon after, I told my mother about the missionaries. She smiled and went into her bedroom, then returned with a copy of the Book of Mormon. She told me I could have it.
I began reading the Book of Mormon with a curious, but negative attitude. As I read the first page, I thought angrily, this was written by a man with a vivid imagination who knew the Bible well. I read two more pages, slammed the book shut, threw it on the table, and exclaimed, “What a fake!” During the missionaries’ next visit, I told them that I thought the Book of Mormon was a hoax. It was like the Bible, I said, except it referred to the American continent. But, undeterred, the missionaries easily handled the questions my wife and I had then, and in subsequent visits. I could find nothing wrong with what they taught us, but I could not accept the Book of Mormon.
However, the missionaries testified that I could know that the Book of Mormon was true if I followed the admonition of Moroni and sincerely sought for divine guidance. (See Moro. 10:4.) Having prayed, and while reading the words of Moroni, I received a spiritual witness that I have never been able to describe. A realization that the Book of Mormon and the Church were true penetrated every fiber of my being. Happily I exclaimed to my wife, “Margrit, Margrit, I know that it is true!”
Margrit continued to seek her own witness, and within a few weeks she also knew the truth. We set our baptismal date.

When we lived in New England, our home was located in a beautiful little community surrounded by a garden of trees and narrow winding country roads lined with rock walls. When we first moved there, a small flagpole stood in the center of the lovely town green, or park. One summer day during a severe rainstorm, lightning struck the flagpole and it came crashing down.
That night a committee was formed to secure a replacement for the pole. Because the people who lived there were proud of their flag and wanted to see it flying even above the trees, a beautiful white pole was erected as a witness to all who saw it that we loved our country and our flag. It was breathtaking to see the red, white, and blue of the flag waving high in the sky.

The sun was shining brightly, but the day might as well have been gloomy. I sat on the porch steps with my chin in my hand, watching leaves scurry across the grass. No one would help me! Not Jeff, who hurried off to a part-time job after school. Not Mom and Dad, who were busy in the house. Not anyone! Then I saw Grandma riding her bike up the lane. “Hi, Grandma!” I jumped up and ran to meet her.
She grinned and waved. “Hi, Sheri!” she called. “What are you doing, honey?”
“Nothing!” I replied bitterly.
She got off her bike and kissed me. “What would you like to do?”
“Learn how to catch a ball, Grandma. The kids at school can all catch a ball, and all I do is drop it!”
“You’re an expert cookie maker,” she said, taking my hand and walking toward the house.
I shook my head, frowning. “You make the cookies—I just put the icing on.”
“We’re partners. I do one part, and you do the other. Right?”
I nodded. “Right! But, Grandma, cookies don’t have anything to do with catching a ball.”
She stopped and looked hard at me. “You’re absolutely right! OK, partner, let’s do something about it.”
When Grandma makes up her mind to do something, it’s almost done!
“Ellen?” Grandma called. “Yoo-hoo!”
“In here, Mother,” Mom answered from the kitchen.
They kissed each other; then Grandma took two pieces of cucumber from the salad bowl and handed one to me. “Is there a ball and mitt around here?” she asked.
“Probably in the cellar,” Mom replied. “Why?”
“Sheri is going to learn how to catch,” Grandma said.
Mom grinned as Grandma and I, armed with the ball and baseball glove, headed for the fields.
“OK,” Grandma said, “concentrate on where I’m throwing the ball. Catch it in your glove, and cover it with your other hand so that it doesn’t fall out.”
She swung her arm back and brought it forward slowly. The ball swooped through the air toward me. I stuck out my arm with the mitt on my hand and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the ball was lying on the ground, the same as it always did at recess. “I’ll never learn!” I moaned.
Grandma laughed. “Everyone closes his eyes in the beginning. Now you have to learn to keep them open and watch the ball. It can’t hit you if you’re watching it and catch it.”
I tried again. When I saw the ball coming, I started to close my eyes, then remembered what Grandma had said. I grimaced (in case it did hit me), but I watched it through my squinted eyes. Suddenly it landed right in the pocket of my glove! I jumped up and down and shouted, “I did it! I did it!”
“Of course you did! All you need is practice.”
“Will you practice with me, Grandma?”
“As long as the weather’s good, we’ll practice every day, partner,” she promised.
“Where’d you learn to catch?” I asked later, when we started home.
“My brothers and I were so close in age, that I had to learn!” Grandma chuckled. “Before long I could throw straighter and farther than any of my brothers. And I could catch any ball that they threw—without a mitt!”
“You didn’t have a mitt?”
“I always wanted one, but I never did get one,” she replied a bit wistfully.
We kept on practicing, and I got to be pretty good. Then one morning when I woke up, there was snow on the ground. Soon I saw Grandma coming along the lane, pulling a sled! I giggled and tapped on the window. She waved, motioning for me to come outside.
“Mom, Grandma wants me to go out and play. Is it OK?”
“Of course, Sheri, but bundle up. If I know your grandmother, she’s off to the big hill to go sledding.” Mom waved out the window to Grandma.
Grandma and I snuggled on her long sled as it sailed down toward the pines. We zoomed around them, jetted through the opening in the fence, and sped on toward the meadow. We bumped over a rut, dodged a stump, and finally slowed to a stop not too far from the stream. The icy water gurgled past snowcapped stones, and Grandma pointed silently upstream. A deer stood beside the water, staring at us quietly. Then it turned and bounded into a thicket. Our long walk back up the hill began. As we walked, we talked.
“Are you excited about Christmas?” Grandma asked.
I nodded.
“So am I, partner,” she said happily. “I’m counting on you to help me bake cookies again, you know,” she added quickly.
I grinned. It was fun being partners with Grandma.
Mom let me go Christmas shopping alone that year. I bought Jeff a book, Mom a scarf, and Dad gloves. They were easy to shop for. But Grandma … Well, it seemed like Grandma had everything! I walked around the mall, looking at everything, but nothing seemed to be right. I wanted something special for Grandma.
Then I found it! When I got home and showed everyone my gift for Grandma, Jeff laughed, Mom shook her head and smiled, and Dad just nodded. As I wrapped it, I began to worry. Would Grandma really like it?
I sat at the window and looked toward Grandma’s house. I could imagine her sitting by her fire, rocking and peeling apples for a pie. She would be singing, and her cat would be purring. Yes, I thought as I finished wrapping her gift, Grandma will like it.
On Christmas Eve we all sat around Grandma’s cozy fire. Christmas lights sparkled on the tree and in the windows, and her house smelled like cinnamon and pinecones. As I handed Grandma her gift, my heart pounded wildly. Please like it, I pleaded silently.
Grandma slid a finger under the tape and removed the wrapping without saying a word. When she opened the lid, her mouth fell open. Then she hugged me fiercely, and I knew that it was fine.
Later, when the others were in the kitchen, Grandma and I sat quietly watching the fire together. She slid an arm around me and pulled me closer and said, “Your gift was the best of all, honey.” Then she lifted her other arm and gazed at the mitt still on her hand. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. Thank you.”

I was sure Heavenly Father had failed me. Or He had at least forgotten I existed.
I sat all alone at an empty table as the lunchroom around me buzzed with laughter and conversation. I was the new girl. And the first day of seventh grade is not an easy time to make friends.
I had prayed about the move to Texas, and I felt it was the right thing. But now here I was, alone with my mashed potatoes. All the comfort and reassurance I felt before were gone.
As the bell rang I remembered I had my peer mentorship class next—my last hope for getting into the “in” crowd. The counselor had told me that a lot of kids take the class to meet people and get involved—exactly what I was looking for. I hurried down the hall with new hope for my social life. I would finally have friends here.
“Welcome to class. Today you will each be assigned to a student with a special need or concern. Your job will be to help him or her throughout the year.” With that Mrs. Watson began running down the class roll, assigning each student to be a tutor or mentor. When she came to me she asked me to see her after class.
“Kevin is a special case. He needs a lot of help. It won’t be easy. Are you okay with that?”
“Sure!” How hard could it be?
The next day I met Kevin Mathison. He had no hands, no feet, and he controlled his electric wheelchair with a lever held in his mouth. I must admit that, when I saw him, I had less than Christlike feelings. I was afraid. Here I was, desperately looking for friends and popularity in this new place, and I was the one to be picked to help Kevin. Why couldn’t they get someone else to do it?
Kevin had a rare disease that was gradually deteriorating his skin and connective tissues. Although the counselor had talked with me briefly about his condition, I was not at all prepared for what I saw when we met. His arms, legs, and neck were bandaged, his hair was gone, and his face was badly scarred. Perhaps more shocking than all the rest, however, was Kevin’s smile—so bright and so genuine that his blue eyes sparkled with it.
I wish I could say that at that moment I put aside my selfish fears and saw Kevin for the incredible spirit he was, but unfortunately it took me most of that year to even feel comfortable with him. Though very lonely and disappointed, I stuck with Kevin. I helped him get to classes, complete assignments, and eat lunch. But, oh, how I dreaded those lunch hours I spent spoon-feeding Kevin while my classmates were chatting and laughing about clothes and guys. I felt I would never belong. And having to help Kevin around everywhere was certainly not helping.
As for Kevin, he was excited simply to have someone to talk to. His warm smile greeted me every morning. Throughout the year he told me all about his family and his favorite sports teams. I eventually found myself laughing and even enjoying our time together. The last day before Christmas break, Kevin came into class and asked me to open his bag for him. When I unzipped his bag, I found a small box wrapped in green paper.
“Open it. It’s for you.” He seemed more serious than usual as he watched me struggle to untie the bow. When I opened the box, a lump came to my throat. It was a small pin—a guardian angel.
“Thanks for being a friend, Jana,” Kevin said softly.
I couldn’t believe it. All this time I had been searching and praying for friends, and here he was right in front of me. Kevin didn’t give me the instant popularity I had wanted, but he did give me a lesson in service, friendship, and unconditional love that has been with me ever since.
Kevin Mathison died one month before he would have graduated. At our high school graduation ceremony, I stood with the rest of my class as an honorary diploma was awarded to his family. Tears streamed down my face as I silently thanked Kevin for the years of friendship and love he gave me. This young man, the sight of whom made me uncomfortable and afraid five years ago, had become beautiful—not because his appearance ever changed, but because he gave me better eyes with which to see.
I know Heavenly Father put Kevin and me together for a reason. I prayed to have friends, and the Lord showed me that first I had to be one. I still have Kevin’s pin in my room. It reminds me that if I look outside myself, I truly can be a guardian angel—or at least a friend.