Gospel Story Finder

While Elder Wood and Elder James help Seth operate his grandfather’s dairy farm, they teach him the gospel. He learns about Joseph Smith and begins reading the Book of Mormon. But when Grandpa returns from the hospital, he is unhappy to learn that strangers have been helping take care of his animals.
When the missionaries knocked on the farmhouse door, Seth rushed to open it. He introduced them to his grandma.
She eyed the young city elder. “Are you the young man who baked that cake?”
Elder Wood looked a little nervous but answered clearly. “I am.”
Grandma smiled. “That’s good cake. I was just dying for something homemade. Now, if you remember that recipe, I’d like to write it down.” Seth left them talking as he took Elder James to meet Grandpa.
Grandpa scowled when he saw the missionary. Elder James smiled and held out his hand. Grandpa took it, and the scowl softened. Its strength and roughness identified it as the hand of a farmer. Grandpa recognized another man who loved and served the land.
“You have a fine farm here,” Elder James said. “That Guernsey is a good milker. I wish I had one just like her.”
Grandpa thawed completely, and as Seth left the room, the men were talking of things dear to the hearts of farmers.
It was almost dark when Seth’s parents arrived. He quickly forgot about everything except being with them. They hugged and laughed and talked. Grandpa sat up on the couch, swaddled in blankets. Seth held baby Janet and listened. It felt good to be together again. Later he went out to his bed on the porch. He was going to sleep there that night to make room for his family in the house.
Dad followed him and sat on the porch rocker. He looked very serious. “Grandpa told me about those men who have been here. He and Grandma like them, but he says that they’re Mormon missionaries.”
Seth sat very still. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? You’ve called every night and never mentioned anything about Mormons.”
“I wanted you to meet them first.”
“Mrs. Bowers says that the Mormons are an evil group who steal children away from their families.”
Seth stared in astonishment. “Mrs. Bowers is an old gossip! Nobody believes a word she says!”
“Seth,” his father said sternly, “you’re talking about a neighbor.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. But the real name of the Mormon church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Families are important to them. I know that they wouldn’t try to take me away from you.”
He grabbed the Book of Mormon by his bed. Grandpa had given it back to him that morning and asked if he could borrow it to study it more when he felt stronger. “See, they gave me this book.” He opened it to First Nephi. “Look at this.”
His father took the book and read out loud: “‘I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, therefore I was taught somewhat in all the learning of my father. …’ Hmmm. This doesn’t sound bad to me.” He looked puzzled. “I need to read more. Is it all right if I take it home?”
Seth nodded. “I’ve read some of it and prayed about it. I know it’s a true book.”
His father studied him for a moment. “Is that so?”
Seth nodded again. “I want to be baptized into their church. Will you let me?”
“I need to know more about it first. I don’t want you making any mistakes.”
Every day Seth waited impatiently for the time when he could call his parents. Every day he asked his father the same question. “Have you read the book yet?”
Every day Father answered, “No, I’m still too busy with the haying.”
Seth knew that at haying time, everyone worked till they could hardly stand up. He’d have to be patient, no matter how hard it was.
One day when he asked the question, another voice piped in. “Just what is this book you’re always talking about?”
Seth could hear his father’s soft chuckle. “Well, Mrs. Bowers, he’s talking about the Book of Mormon.”
She gasped. “That book! I heard it’s wicked, wicked! No one should read it!”
“I’ll give you a copy,” his father offered. “Then you won’t have to listen to others talk about it. I’ve read a good part of it, and there’s nothing evil in it. It’s about Jesus Christ on this continent.”
Seth could hardly believe his ears. “You read it!”
His father chuckled again. “Your Elder James stopped in and talked to me yesterday. After he left, I sat down to read.”
“That’s wonderful!” Seth yelled. “Then I can be baptized?”
“Yes, you can.”
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Bowers butted in. “Not a soul in this area will ever talk to you again if you join that church. Well, you’ve been warned. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“Thank you,” his father said solemnly.
Seth giggled. He knew that his father was thankful for her promise not to say any more, not for her warning.
The next time the Elders came by, Seth ran out to meet them. “I can be baptized! My folks will let me!”
Elder James smiled and clapped him on the back. “That’s great. Before you know it, the rest of your family will be joining too.”
Seth frowned. “Mrs. Bowers said that no one will talk to us anymore if I join the Church.”
Elder James looked thoughtful. “That happens sometimes. People are afraid of what they don’t understand. What do they think of your family now?”
“We’ve been friends with everyone around here for years.”
“Then that’s how it will stay. If they object, just give them time to see that you’re the same person, only a little better. They’ll warm up to you again.”
Grandma was hanging clothes on the line. She walked over and shook her finger in the air. “You leave Eliza Bowers to me! She won’t dare spread rumors about my grandson!”
The men all laughed at the fierce little woman. She laughed with them. Together they went into the house to plan Seth’s baptism. Seth wanted all his friends and family to be there—Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, baby Janet, and, most of all, Mrs. Bowers.

Several years ago, I had the opportunity of traveling with the President of the Church to attend a series of area conferences. I will never forget the contrast between two conferences that were held just a few days apart.
The first area conference was held in a large arena, and as we sat on the stand, we noticed continuous movement by the people. We saw individuals throughout the arena leaning over and whispering to family members and friends seated next to them. Giving the members the benefit of the doubt, we thought that maybe the large building helped cause the lack of reverence.
A few days later, we were in another country attending another area conference in an arena much like the first. When we entered the building, however, an immediate hush came over the congregation. As we sat through the two-hour general session, there was very little movement among the people. Everyone listened intently. Great attention and respect were shown all the speakers, and when the prophet spoke, you could hear a pin drop.
After the meeting was over, I asked the priesthood leaders about what they had done to prepare the people for the conference. They told me their preparation had been simple. They had asked priesthood holders to explain to the members of their families, and also the families they home taught, that at an area conference they would have the privilege of hearing the words of the prophet and the apostles. The priesthood leaders explained that the reverence their people felt for God and His servants was the basis for their reverent behavior at the conference.

Our baptisms are supposed to be in two weeks. Dad—oops! I mean Bishop May—is going to interview me on Sunday. Brenda says that she wants to wait until she’s older. I think that maybe I want to wait too. Maybe I’ll wait until you come home. Maybe I’ll wait till I’m old like Mr. Rockwell. That way, if I make some mistakes between now and then, my baptism will wash away all my sins from my whole life.
Love,Buddy

Dear Buddy,
Getting baptized is a wonderful event. Of course I would like to be there for your baptism, but I certainly don’t want you to wait just for me. It’s too important! And there’s no advantage in waiting until you’re old before you’re baptized. In fact, Mr. Rockwell wishes that he could have found the Church when he was much younger so that he could have been baptized then.
You see, waiting until the end of your life to be baptized would be like waiting until the end of a baseball game before putting on your catcher’s equipment. Baptism makes us clean of all our sins, the ones both before and after we’re baptized, if we truly repent of them. Your baptism now will be a blessing to you throughout your life. And every time you take the sacrament, it’ll be like renewing your baptism.
And two other great things happen when you get baptized. One is that you’ll become a confirmed member of the Lord’s Church. The other is that you’ll be given the gift of the Holy Ghost to help you have a fuller, happier life.
A good way to learn how to use that gift is to bear your testimony. Elder Butler and I bear our testimonies to everyone we can. It gives us a wonderful, peaceful feeling.
I’m proud of you, and I’ll be thinking of you on your baptism day.
Love,Reed

I read your letter to Brenda. We had a good talk, and she told me a secret. She’s afraid of the water because she can’t swim. She said that some people have to be put underwater two or three times.
Dad showed me how to make sure to go underwater completely so that it only has to be done once. It’s fast and easy! I showed Brenda how, and we practiced it. Now Brenda has decided that she’s going to be baptized the same day that I am.

Once, for instance, I prayed through the night to know what I was to choose to do in the morning. I knew that no other choice could have had a greater effect on the lives of others and on my own. I knew what choice looked most comfortable to me. I knew what outcome I wanted. But I could not see the future. I could not see which choice would lead to which outcome. So the risk of being wrong seemed too great to me.
I prayed, but for hours there seemed to be no answer. Just before dawn, a feeling came over me. More than at any time since I had been a child, I felt like one. My heart and my mind seemed to grow very quiet. There was a peace in that inner stillness.
Somewhat to my surprise, I found myself praying, “Heavenly Father, it doesn’t matter what I want. I don’t care anymore what I want. I only want that Thy will be done. That is all that I want. Please tell me what to do.”
In that moment I felt as quiet inside as I had ever felt. And the message came, and I was sure who it was from. It was clear what I was to do. I received no promise of the outcome. There was only the assurance that I was a child who had been told what path led to whatever He wanted for me.
I learned from that experience and countless repetitions that the description of the Holy Ghost as a still, small voice is real. It is poetic, but it is not poetry. Only when my heart has been still and quiet, in submission like a little child, has the Spirit been clearly audible to my heart and mind.

It was a hot summer day on my mission. My companion and I had been walking all over the streets of St. Petersburg, Russia, hoping to find new investigators. That evening we met an elderly man near our home and began talking with him. Although he did not express any interest in the gospel, we both felt impressed to give him a copy of the Book of Mormon. Inside the book we wrote our good wishes for him, our testimonies, and our contact information.
Later that same evening, unbeknownst to us, a young man by the name of Ilya was out with his brother. While walking along a dimly lit underground street, Ilya spotted a glimmer of gold on the cover of a book on the ground. Stooping down to get a closer look, he read the gold letters embossed on the book—The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. He picked it up and carried it home.
The next day my companion and I were pondering how we could find new investigators. Thoughts flew through my mind: “We are trying our hardest searching for new opportunities. Where are the results? Maybe we need to change something we’re doing.”
A moment later the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end asked, “Is this an elder? I found your lost book in the subway crossing. I want to return it.”
I immediately glanced at the shelf where my scriptures lay. “I don’t think I lost my scriptures in the metro,” I answered. “No, I did not lose my copy of the Book of Mormon, but you can have it and read it.”
The young man said his name was Ilya and explained that he was originally from Orsk, Russia, and had come to St. Petersburg to work.
“I would like to learn more about this book and your church,” he said. “May I meet with you?”
I jumped with excitement. It wasn’t every day that potential investigators called asking to set up a meeting to learn more about the Church.
“Of course we can meet, Ilya!” I responded joyfully.
When we met with Ilya, he listened attentively and asked questions. We were glad that he was so receptive to the gospel.
At one point during the lesson, I opened Ilya’s copy of the Book of Mormon. As I turned to the opening pages, I glimpsed some familiar handwriting—my own! I realized this was the same book we had given to the elderly man the day before. Apparently the man had discarded the book, which was soon discovered by Ilya. I was filled with gratitude that my companion and I had chosen to leave the book with the elderly man, even though at the time we didn’t understand why.
It wasn’t long before Ilya chose to join the Church. He began to enthusiastically share the message of the gospel with his relatives and friends as well.
I have learned that Heavenly Father knows when a person is ready to receive His word. He requires us, as missionaries and members of His Church, only to fulfill His commandments and submit to His will as we seek to share the gospel. In this case God knew that although the original recipient of our Book of Mormon would overlook its value, Ilya would not (see 1 Nephi 19:7).

In Tetonia, Idaho, my grandpa, John Andersen, was asked to put a huge pipeline in the Teton Valley. Grandpa took my dad, Michael John Andersen, who was eight years old then and had just been baptized, with him. At the top of the canyon, there was a truck hooked to a cable. The cable held the pipeline that went down the canyon and over the river to a pump. My grandpa told my dad to stay by a truck and sit on two blocks of wood at the bottom of the canyon while he welded the pipeline over the river.
While my dad was sitting there, the cable suddenly snapped. The pipeline came crashing down the canyon. In the meantime, my dad heard a voice in his mind yell, “Mike, run!” so he ran to the side of the truck. The voice said, “Not beside the truck—behind the truck!” Dad quickly obeyed. The pipeline hit the side of the truck, then turned and hit the blocks of wood he had been sitting on. My dad was unharmed. I know that the Holy Ghost told my dad to move, and I am very glad he obeyed, because if he had not, he wouldn’t be my wonderful daddy today.
Kayla Lyn Andersen, age 12Kaysville, Utah

For a first-grade class project we were asked to dress up a paper bear to look like someone we want to be when we get older. I decided to dress my bear as a missionary. My mom helped me cut out a white shirt, vest, and pants. I glued them onto the bear. My dad made me a missionary nametag. I wrote a few sentences about how education would help me become what I had dressed my bear as. I wrote that education would help me learn to read, write, and even learn a new language. We had a teddy bear parade for all the first-grade children and their parents. I do plan to be a missionary.

As an example of the Lord’s timing in my life, I had been at my new job in the BYU Athletic Department for about three weeks when I had to go down to Las Vegas for a business meeting as part of the conference basketball tournament. I woke up very early to make the long drive in time for my meeting at noon. My wife and I prayed fervently that I would make it safely. Caleb had been in the hospital for a few weeks, and we had been up many late nights to be with him. Despite every precaution and physical effort I could make, just outside of St. George I fell asleep in the blink of an eye while driving full speed down the freeway.
I woke up to find myself heading down a hill into the median dividing the highway—one set of tires on the pavement, the other set in the weeds and gravel. I quickly spun the wheel to take me back on the road, but this only caused me to do a 180-degree turn across the lanes of traffic. Thankfully no other cars were near me. Once I got to the far right side of the road, I had the fleeting thought that I could pull it off and would be able to stop the car on the right shoulder. Not so. I think the car was still traveling about 60 to 70 miles per hour when I slammed into the sand and sagebrush, flipping the car over.
Eventually the car came to an abrupt stop with me hanging upside down by my seat belt. I undid the catch and fell to the floor—which had been the roof of the car. It was impossible to open any of the car doors. They were all wedged shut because the car had become fairly flattened to the ground. I climbed through a window, since all the glass in the vehicle had shattered.
Besides a bruised and embarrassed ego, I was completely unharmed. The only cut I had was a small slice on my hand where a piece of glass had stuck me when I released myself from the seat belt and fell to the ground. After being checked out by the police (who also issued me a ticket), my sweet grandmother who lived in St. George somehow let me borrow her car so I could finish my trip to Las Vegas. I walked into my meeting about fifteen minutes late.
The hard part was telling my boss, Tom Holmoe—who was also at the basketball tournament—that I had destroyed a university vehicle during my first month on the job. To make a bad situation worse, my seat at the basketball game following the meeting happened to be directly in front of President Samuelson. I spent the game pulling glass out of my hair as inconspicuously as possible.
In my mind the timing of that wreck was life turning one degree colder. I was trying to make a good first impression at my job. My wife and I were doing our best to take care of a sick child. We had prayed for safety.
The Lord’s timing and purpose were made clear over the following days and months. Tom is a great boss and has never held the accident and the loss of the car against me. The university eventually replaced the car but thankfully didn’t have to replace me—because I was still alive. The Lord had preserved me from what should have been a fatal accident. Having come so close to death helped me more fully appreciate my life and the people around me. I especially enjoyed the time spent with Caleb late at night when I would wake up to take care of him. Not only did it mean I was still alive, but Caleb was too.

Our Father in Heaven wants us, as His children, to counsel with Him about what is important to us. If it matters to us, it matters to Him, because we matter to Him. Let me illustrate this with a story from my ­daughter-in-law Hana. She said:

While I was serving as a missionary in the United States, I was transferred to a new area in which wonderful members would feed us four to five times a week. For the first dinner I went to, the sweet sister surprised us with pizza! Excited for such a treat, I eagerly ate my dinner and thanked the sister. The next night you can imagine my surprise when a completely new family treated us, again, to pizza! I ate the pizza and thanked the family for their thoughtfulness. However, after this pattern had been repeated every night for two weeks, I was sick of pizza and started dreading dinner with members.

Finally, when it started to weigh me down, I dropped to my knees and told Heavenly Father that I was so grateful for the members’ service, but I could not eat any more pizza. I needed a break, and a meal of fresh vegetables would be wonderful.

That evening, after a long day of work, we arrived at a member’s home for dinner. The mother was visibly nervous as we sat down to eat. She explained that she was trying to cook healthier for her family, but if we did not like her dinner, she could order us a pizza. She then served us a scrumptious dinner of fresh vegetables!

In prayer I thanked Heavenly Father for the break from pizza and courageously asked if it was possible to have curry with rice for dinner. My heart started to giggle when we showed up for our next dinner appointment and we were served curry with rice!

This pattern continued for an entire week. Each morning I would pray specifically for what I wanted to eat, and that night the members would unknowingly serve us the exact meal I had asked for! Finally, after a week, I told Heavenly Father that He had won—I could not think of any dinner that He couldn’t deliver, and I was ready to return to pizza or to whatever the members served. After that prayer my heart felt light and unburdened, and I was grateful for such a mindful and loving Father in Heaven.

What if I left? When I first moved here, there were only two other young women in my branch. We became friends and I got to know them very well. But they stopped going to church.
One time I went to the temple, I saw the mission president. I told him about my friends and asked what I could do to help them return to the Church. He told me to stay where I was, be strong, and to pray for them.
Soon after that, I saw one of the girls, and I was so happy to see her. When I returned home that night, I prayed, and felt strongly that I definitely needed to stay right where I was and keep going to church, keep going to seminary, and keep being an example to my friends. What if I left and never came back and one of my friends returned to church? Who would be their friend and help them return? Things are easier when we do them together.
My name is Alyona, and I live in Kharkiv, Ukraine.

When obstacles stand in her way Tania works to overcome them. “This past year was a challenge for me to go to seminary,” she says. “My ward did not have seminary classes because there were not enough students. I was the only one.” She was finally able to find a stake home study seminary class. She says participating this year was a lot harder than her first year, but it was definitely worth the effort.

The next two companies that followed after the first three were told, “You will go forward at your own risk.” It was late in the season. The immigrants had just crossed the Missouri River and paused to recondition their handcarts at Florence, Nebraska. They were wholly ignorant of the country ahead, the rigors of camp life, the impending winter, and the Rocky Mountains. So anxious were they to reach Zion that they chose to commence the journey. The James G. Willie Company left Iowa city on 15 July 1856, with about 500 in the company. Thirteen days later the Edward Martin Handcart Company followed.

During July and August they made fairly good distances. But the handcarts were not well constructed, and they began to fall apart. There was much time lost in repairing them, but they did make fairly good time. Then fall came early, and the chill of winter brought frosty nights. The consciousness of threatening storms, decreased rations, and insufficient bedding and clothing dampened their spirits.

Day after day they pulled painfully forward. “We traveled on in misery and sorrow,” wrote John Chislett of the Willie Company. “Sometimes we made a pretty good distance and other times we were only able to make a few miles of progress” (Larson, Handcart, p. 22).

Instead of getting up refreshed, vigorous, and prepared for a hard day of toil, the poor Saints were to be seen crawling out from their tents haggard, benumbed, and showing an utter lack of the vitality which was so necessary. When the first snowstorm came, scarcity of food, lassitude, and fatigue from overexertion soon produced their effects. Brother Willie described the situation, and I quote:

Our old and infirm people began to droop, and they no sooner lost spirit and courage than death’s stamp could be traced upon their features. Life went out as smoothly as a lamp ceases to burn when the oil is gone. At first the deaths occurred slowly and irregularly, but in a few days at more frequent intervals, until we soon thought it unusual to leave a campground without burying one or more persons.

Death was not long confined in its ravages to the old and infirm, but the young and naturally strong were among its victims. . . . Many a father pulled his cart, with his little children on it, until the day preceding his death. I have seen some pull their carts in the morning, give out during the day, and die before next morning . . . .

Each death weakened our forces. In my hundred I could not raise enough men to pitch a tent when we camped, and now it was that I had to exert myself to the utmost. I wonder I did not die, as many did who were stronger than I was. When we pitched our camp in the evening of each day, I had to lift the sick from the wagon and carry them to the fire, and in the morning carry them again on my back to the wagon. When any in my hundred died I had to inter them; often helping to dig the grave myself. In performing these sad offices I always offered up a heartfelt prayer to that God who beheld our sufferings, and begged him to avert destruction from us and send us help. [LeRoy R. Hafen and Ann W. Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, (Glendale, CA: Arthur H. Clark, 1960), pp. 102–3]

They traveled on. The snowstorms came, and the shrill wind blew furiously about them. The snow was several inches deep, but they had to travel an additional sixteen miles to get wood for fire and water to drink. It was that way for the Willie Company, and the Martin Company was still two weeks further behind. The Willie Company recorded the snow over a foot deep after a storm. Five persons lay in the cold embrace of death. They camped and waited for aid to come.

Mrs. Jackson, in the Martin Company, recorded:

My sister became sick. So severe was her affliction that she became deranged in her mind, and for several days she ate nothing but hard frozen snow. [Hafen, Handcarts, p. 112]

Perhaps this good woman knew that the rations wouldn’t last, and maybe this was her way of diverting her rations to someone else. She passed away soon. Continuing to quote from Mrs. Jackson:

A few days after the death of my husband the male members of the company had become reduced in number by death and those who remained were so weak and emaciated by sickness, that on reaching the camping place at night, there were not sufficient men with strength enough to raise the poles and pitch the tents. The result was that we camped out with nothing but the vault of Heaven for a roof and the stars for companions. The snow lay several inches deep upon the ground. The night was bitterly cold. I sat down on a rock with one child in my lap and one on each side of me. In that condition I remained until morning. [Hafen, Handcarts, p. 112]

Deaths continued in the camp. Some died . . . lying side by side with hands entwined. In other cases, they were found as if they had just offered a fervent prayer and their spirit had taken flight while in the act. . . . Some died sitting by the fire; some were singing hymns or eating crusts of bread.

. . . Captain Martin [of the last handcart company] stood over the grave of the departed ones with shotgun in hand, firing at intervals to keep the crows and buzzards away from hovering around in mid air [until they could bury them].

Sister Sirman, whose husband was near death and whose two sons were suffering from frozen feet, appealed to Captain Martin, “Do you think that the relief party will come soon with food, clothing and shoes?”

. . . The Captain’s answer was, “I almost wish God would close my eyes to the enormity of the sickness, hunger and death among the Saints. Yes, Sister Sirman, I am as confident as that I live that the President [Brigham Young] will and has dispatched [relief wagons]. [Hafen, Handcarts, p. 113]”

One Sunday morning, more than a year ago, we awoke to a beautiful day in Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic. The Caribbean sun was shining, and the sky was clear. A gentle breeze was blowing, barely ruffling the leaves on the trees; it was warm and peaceful and still. But far out to sea, beyond the reach of our physical senses that day, the deadly destroyer was coming our way, implacable and irresistible. The Hurricane Center, with responsibility to track and predict the path of Hurricane Georges, was constantly updating the information available on the Internet. In the peaceful, placid quiet of that morning, by virtue of those seeing eyes in the sky, I saw the predicted path of the storm, aimed like an arrow at the heart of Santo Domingo.
Within 48 hours the storm struck the island with intense and insensate fury, leaving in its path destruction, desolation, and death. The raw, elemental power of nature was astonishing. From the relative safety of our house, we saw trees doubled over by the force of the wind, which alternately shrieked and howled and roared; the punishing power of that wind drove rain into the house around the window frames, and the surging three-foot river of water in the street outside, brought about by the intense rain, finally crested and began to subside when it was within an inch of coming into our house.
Around the area where we lived, most of the trees were either uprooted or split by the fierce winds. Trees, branches, power lines, and telephone poles were down all over town. Streets were blocked, traffic was difficult, and power was cut off for more than a week. Although the damage was great, it would have been much greater but for the warnings from those who track and predict and counsel people to be prepared. Virtually all of those who were adequately prepared came through the hurricane relatively unscathed. I am grateful to those men and women who devote time and attention to track and monitor those storms. Their timely warnings and counsel save lives and protect people. Those who disregard the warnings pay the price of willful failure to listen to those guardians whose calling it is to watch and warn and save.

My best friend, Julie, is not a member of the Church. She is very religious, however, and has the ability to draw people to her. Almost all the LDS students in my school care for her very much and would love to see her come into the Church. Because they care for her, people often get into discussions with her and try to teach her what we believe.
There are some boys my age who talk to Julie a great deal about the Church. They know how wonderful she is and what a great asset the gospel would be for her in her life. One day when we were in junior high, Julie and I met after a class to go to lunch. She told me she had had another Church discussion and that she had been watching these boys and noticing how they behaved and treated other people. She saw how particularly mean they were to another boy in our grade who was less fortunate than the rest of us. And then she said something that I have never forgotten: “They tell me wonderful things about what Mormons believe, but they sure don’t act that way.”
Every time I think about this I cry inside. That day I learned better than ever what it means to be an example. I better understand what Alma meant when he was talking to his son Corianton and said, “When they saw your conduct they would not believe in my words” (Alma 39:11). People are watching us. It is so important to live the way we know we should.

When I started college, I joined the debate society. The other members discovered I was a Latter-day Saint when I corrected them on what was said about “the Mormons” after a debate. I had never talked about my religion before, so I got a lot of questions that day. I felt scared and almost avoided answering. I knew what I believed, but I did not know how to share it. I prayed but didn’t seem to get an answer.
A few days later, while I was on Facebook, I saw an article from LDS.org that my leader from church had posted. It made me realize I could also post things from the Church. I looked up the topics my debate team had asked about, posted links on my wall, and tagged all those who were involved. I felt they would be better satisfied with the answers.
I had never posted about my beliefs online before, so this has brought a lot more curious people asking about my religion. As they ask questions, I try to give the basic answers as well as links to Church materials. This way people do not have to rely only on my answers but can also rely on what the General Authorities say about their questions. When the conversations become more sensitive, I answer the person privately through messaging.
I am really glad the Church provides online materials. I still feel butterflies in my stomach whenever someone surprises me with a question about the Church. But now I no longer wait for their questions to come; I proactively post Church materials online. I know these materials can help both my member and nonmember friends alike.

I have related before my experience with a friend who took me to his ranch. He unlocked the door of a large new automobile, slid behind the wheel, and said proudly, “How do you like my new car?” We rode in luxurious comfort into the rural areas to a beautiful new landscaped home, and he said with no little pride, “This is my home.”

He drove to a grassy hill. The sun was setting behind the distant hills. He surveyed his vast domain. Pointing to the north, he asked, “Do you see that clump of trees over there?” I could plainly discern them in the fading day.

He pointed to the east. “Do you see the lake shimmering in the sunset?” It too was visible.

“Now, the bluff that’s on the south.” We turned about to scan the distance. He identified barns, silos, the ranch house to the west. With a wide sweeping gesture, he boasted, “From the clump of trees, to the lake, to the bluff, and to the ranch buildings and all between—all this is mine. And the dark specks in the meadow—those cattle also are mine.”

And then I asked from whom he obtained it. The chain of ownership of his property went back to land given by governments. His attorney had assured him he had an unencumbered title.

“From whom did the government get it?” I asked. “What was paid for it?” There came into my mind the declaration of the Psalmist, boldly restated by Paul: “The earth is the Lord’s and the fulness thereof” (1 Cor. 10:26).

And then I asked, “Did ownership come from God, Creator of the earth and the owner thereof? Did he get paid? Was it sold or leased or given to you? If a gift, from whom? If a sale, with what exchange or currency? If a lease, do you make proper accounting?”

And then I asked, “What was the price? With what treasures did you buy this farm?”

“Money!”

Where did you get the money?”

“From my toil, my sweat, my labor, and my strength.”

And then I asked, “Where did you get your strength to toil, your power to labor, your glands to sweat?”

He spoke of food.

“Where did the food originate?”

“From sun and atmosphere and soil and water.”

“And who brought those elements here?”

I quoted the Psalmist:

“Thou, O God, didst send a plentiful rain, whereby thou didst confirm thine inheritance, when it was weary” (Ps. 68:9).

“If the land is not yours, then what accounting do you make to your landlord for his bounties? The scripture says: ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to God that which is God’s’ (see Matt. 22:21). What percentage of your increase do you pay Caesar? And what percent to God?

“Do you believe the Bible? Do you accept the command of the Lord through the prophet Malachi? Do you believe Moses’ words to Pharaoh that the earth is the Lord’s?” (Ex. 9:29).

I said again: “I seem to find no place in holy writ where God has said, ‘I give you ownership of this land unconditionally.’

“I cannot find such scripture, but I do find this from Psalms:

‘Those that wait upon the Lord, … shall inherit the earth’ (Ps. 37:9).

“And I remember that our Creator covenanted in the council in heaven with us all: ‘[And] we will go down, for there is space there, and we will take of these materials, and we will make an earth whereon these may dwell’ (Abr. 3:24).

“It seems more like a lease on which a rental is exacted than like a simple ownership.

“This does not seem to convey the earth but only the use and contents which are given to men on condition that they live all of the commandments of God.”

But my friend continued to mumble, “Mine—mine,” as if to convince himself against the surer knowledge that he was at best a recreant renter.

That was long years ago. I later saw him lying in his death among luxurious furnishings in a palatial home. His had been a vast estate. And I closed his eyes. I spoke at his funeral, and I followed the cortege from the good piece of earth he had claimed to his grave, a tiny, oblong area the length of a tall man, the width of a heavy one.

Later I saw that same estate, yellow in grain, green in lucerne, white in cotton, seemingly unmindful of him who had claimed it.

When I was 15, I was both a Young Women class president and a ward family history adviser. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to do everything. I didn’t know much about family history. I prayed for help, received instructions from the Lord and inspired leaders, and got to work. I’m so grateful for the trust Heavenly Father has placed in me. Every name sent to the temple makes me so happy. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ have helped and empowered me.

The day I received my mission call, I drove up to Gus’s gas station. I saw him standing by the cash register counting a wad of money. He scratched his beard and pulled back his long hair as he puffed a cigarette. He looked perturbed, as if he hadn’t made quite enough cash that day. I read his lips as he recounted the money and watched his mouth form numbers and then a four-letter word.

When the wheels rolled over a black hose, the customer bell rang. It startled poor Gus and caused him to swear again. He jumped when he realized it was me, spit the cigarette out, stamped on it, and crammed the money into the cash register. The entire reaction spanned a time lapse of two seconds.

I watched in amazement. I wasn’t supposed to know he smoked, swore, or worshipped money. What? Did he think I was born yesterday?

Read the rest online in “Harley-Davidson,” by J. Scott Henrie (from Aug. 1985).

A nonmember in Wisconsin, with other family members, has been stymied by lack of information on her great-grandfather. She decided to try Ancestral File and, after some searching, discovered her great-grandfather, the very one she had been looking for for many years. Shortly she had transferred to her disk several thousand additional names and over 1,300 marriages on this previously “dead-end” line. She, too, is entering thousands of additional names on other lines to contribute to Ancestral File.

Once I went with my dad to Sigatoka, Fiji—a great place to swim in the ocean. My parents were divorced, so my mum wasn’t going with us. Before we left, she bought me purple goggles. Sure, they’re just goggles, but she expected me to take care of them and bring them back.
At the end of the second day in Sigatoka, I realized I didn’t have my goggles. I worried that I’d lost them in the ocean. The first thing I did was pray that I would be able to find my goggles. I felt peace and knew everything would be OK.
The only person I told was my brother. He doesn’t believe in God and often criticized my beliefs because I am the only member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in my family. He said, “Yeah, you’re not going to get them back.” I told him, “I prayed about it, and I know my prayers will be answered.”
The next day I scanned the water while we swam. When it was time to go, I still hadn’t found my goggles. I accepted I probably wouldn’t find them and thanked Heavenly Father for His comfort and peace.
Then my brother suddenly shouted. He was holding up the purple goggles!
My brother still doesn’t believe in the gospel, but I am grateful for the comfort, strength, and assurance that come when I put my faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
Shreya S., Suva, Fiji