Gospel Story Finder

I heard one of my brethren tell of a recent visit he made to a prison. There he noticed a young man, handsome in appearance and intelligent in his ways.

My brother said to the prison official, “What is that young man doing in here?”

The reply was that one evening he had taken his mother’s car, had obtained some beer and drunk it, and then, out of control of himself, he drove the car down the sidewalk and killed two girls.

I do not know how long he will be in prison, but I do know that he will never entirely get over his feelings concerning the act that put him there. On such small hinges turn the gates of our lives. Little mistakes, which seem so unimportant in their beginnings, determine the eternal courses we follow.

“My husband’s family was very poor. His mother made rugs to sell at a trading post, and his father tended sheep, cut firewood, and hauled water for the family,” explained the lovely young wife of this General Authority, while rocking a baby on her lap. “There were ten in his family and they lived fifteen miles from the nearest town in a remote desert area. There were no cars or running water. And the drinking water was often so bad that the people there would drink fruit juices and soda pop instead.
“When my husband was four years old, he became very ill and went into a coma. Everyone thought he had died. In fact, his body had been placed in a casket for burial. In a little while they heard a faint knocking on the side of the casket. The child was alive! The casket was quickly reopened and the boy sat up. ‘I want a soda pop,’ he said.
Thereafter, he was known as the ‘soda pop kid.’ His parents have often said that after this experience he was a changed child. He was more responsible and would help tend the others in the family. He was concerned about others and seemed to be blessed with a special spirit.
“The main diet for his family was fry bread made from biscuit dough, mutton stew, and often soda pop. Today, his favorite foods are anything hot and spicy that he can put pepper on.
“He herded sheep until the age of nine; then he was placed in boarding school. Since the people there could not pronounce his real name, they gave him an English one. The only problem was that they also gave three other children the same name. So there was a number one, two, three, and four with the same name.
“A Latter-day Saint missionary couple at the trading post baptized my husband when he was ten years old, and he attended Church services from that time on. He was selected to be part of the Church’s placement program and was to be sent to Utah to live with a foster family and go to school. An hour before the bus was to leave, a friend, Brother Bloomfield, put a bowl on his head and gave him a quick haircut. All of his belongings were put into a shoe box—he had no shoes. There were more holes in the Levis he was wearing than there was denim material. He was put on a bus at night, given two dollars by Brother Bloomfield, and told that he would arrive there by morning.”
At this point, I was thinking how difficult it must have been for that little boy to leave his family to go all alone on a bus to a place with a different culture where he knew no one. The only tie that he had with them was that he was a member of the Latter-day Saint Church.
The General Authority’s wife continued: “On the first day at his new school in Utah the children all gathered round my husband. They had never seen an Indian before. ‘Where’s your war paint?’ they asked. ‘Where are your moccasins?’
“The new foster parents were concerned because their Indian son was so shy. In fact, the only words he spoke to them during the first three months were yes and no. At Christmastime they gave him some new clothes—two pairs of pants, four shirts, two pairs of stockings, etc. The mother asked him to go upstairs and try them on. After quite a while he came downstairs with all of the shirts, pants, and socks on at the same time. It was difficult to get used to a new language and customs.
“Even though my husband’s now very busy, he enjoys football and basketball. When he’s hot, he has a great corner shot and can’t miss! When he has spare time, which isn’t often, he loves to play the harmonica. Last Christmas he played for the General Authorities at their Christmas party.
“My husband believes that family home evening is a great time to train children to be leaders. He always has one of our children conduct. One of them will assign the prayers and choose the hymns. At the conclusion, the one conducting thanks all those who participated. Usually the person who gave the lesson is sincerely complimented. Then the closing song is announced and the name of the one to give the closing prayer.
“One morning the children’s father had to leave at 5 A.M. for an early meeting at the Church offices. Later he called when the children were just getting up and we all had family prayer with him on the telephone.”
His small children had these comments: “When Daddy comes home, he tells me that if I eat my dinner he’ll give me a horsey ride. Sometimes he’ll give my friend a ride too!”
“Dad is helping me to save money for my mission.”
“My daddy shows us how to clean. He always tells us to clean the counter when we wash the dishes.”
“He’s kind.”
“When he plays football with us, we all have to speak nicely.”
When asked about her husband’s favorite topic to speak on, she said, “He always says that we’re all God’s children, no matter what color we are, and that our church has no room for prejudice. When he speaks, he represents the whole Church, not just the Lamanite people.”

Alexandria had not seen her homeland for twenty-nine years. During those years, however, she had corresponded with her parents and one sister. Although she wanted to visit them, she was repeatedly denied a travel visa. Finally, in 1972, she was granted permission to visit her family. The reunion was bittersweet: her mother and two of her sisters had passed away, and her aging father was blind. Still, it was good to be home again with her father, her sister Katrina, and her relatives and close friends.
On one occasion the family visited the cemetery where Alexandria’s mother was buried. Overcome with emotion, Katrina fell upon the grave and wept. Alexandria knelt beside her and explained that death was not final, that their mother still lived in spirit, and that in time they would be with her again. Katrina was puzzled, but the look in her eyes expressed hope, so Alexandria explained the plan of salvation as simply as she could. Katrina listened intently, then turned to her father, who had been listening too. “Papa, do you believe what she says?” He nodded yes as he shed tears. Alexandria bore her testimony and saw a glimmer of enlightenment register on their faces. Never had they spoken of such things before. A seed of truth had been planted.

When we lived in Winnipeg 30 years ago, a local LDS musician, Randy Bachman, had established a huge reputation in the world of rock music. His groups, "The Guess Who" and "Bachman-Turner Overdrive" sold millions of albums and his hit single, "American Woman", too screechy for my personal taste, can still be heard occasionally. Randy stayed active in the church in spite of the conflicting lifestyle usually associated with the music scene. He wasn't bashful about letting people know his beliefs either, and a stream of roadies and fans at various times touched base with the church because of Randy's efforts. When I was branch president of the Winnipeg 1st branch back in the early 70s, at one sacrament meeting, we were just ready to begin when a couple of scruffy-looking fellows with hair down to their waists walked in and sat near the front of the chapel. Internally I must have shook my head and thought "Randy, what are you doing?" But I made sure I met them after the meeting, and made a note of their names "John Moore and Glen Cranwell". To my surprise they continued to attend meetings regularly, and as weeks passed, the hair became a little shorter. We talked and I discovered they were nice fellows. They had been roadies with Randy's group, but were realizing that there really was no future for them there. Imagine my reaction when the missionaries reported baptism dates for the two of them. They had both reached a crossroad in their lives, had made commitments, and were ready to start over. Today John Moore is 1st counselor in the Winnipeg Stake Presidency and last I heard Glen Cranwell was on the high council, both model priesthood holders who had the courage to change their lives and begin again, converted and committed to a higher set of values. This should remind us that we need to be supportive and not judgmental in response to others as they encounter the challenges of starting over.

When I was a mission president in Australia, I once said to those of my missionaries in Tasmania: “Tomorrow we shall climb Mt. Wellington and hold our missionary meeting on the top. We shall there seek to commune with the Lord and partake of his Spirit.”
We made the climb, and while on top of the peak we visited a television broadcasting station. A bright young man explained to us in words I had never heard, and using principles I could not and do not understand, how the sounds and scenes of television were broadcast into the valley below.
That night, back in the city of Hobart, my two young sons and I sat before a television set that was tuned to the proper wave band, and we saw and heard and experienced what had been described to us in words.
Now I think this illustrates perfectly what is involved in the receipt of revelation and the seeing of visions. We can read about visions and revelations in the records of the past, we can study the inspired writings of people who had the fullness of the gospel in their day, but we cannot comprehend what is involved until we see and hear and experience for ourselves.
This Tabernacle is now full of words and music. Handel’s Messiah is being sung, and the world’s statesmen are propagandizing their people. But we do not hear any of it.
This Tabernacle is full of scenes from Vietnam and Washington. There is even a picture of men walking on the surface of the moon. But we are not seeing these things. The minute, however, in which we tune a radio to the proper wave band and tune a television receiving set on the proper channel, we begin to hear and see and experience what otherwise remains completely unknown to us.

While I lived with my husband and two little boys in San Diego, California, I had the marvelous opportunity to visit the temple weekly. One time, as I was participating in temple ordinances on behalf of a deceased sister, I felt as if I were experiencing the ordinances for the first time. I sat with eyes wide open, soaking up everything I learned. My soul truly thirsted for everything being taught. It was breathtaking to think about the blessings promised to this sister and her posterity through the temple ordinance. The feelings of joy and gratitude that I had are almost impossible to describe. I wept openly. I wanted to shout for joy and hug everyone I saw!
As I returned to the dressing room, I hugged a surprised temple worker and told her of my feelings. I was surprised how literally I had been an instrument in bringing eternal truths to someone who had passed on.Ritva Hokkanen, Finland

Some of you may be familiar with the traditional Chinese tale called The Empty Pot by Demi. It’s the story of a young boy Ping and how he becomes emperor. When the aging emperor of the land needs to find a successor to his throne, he decides to let the flowers make the decision. He gathers the children of the land and gives each of them a flower seed. He tells them, “Whoever can show me their best in a year’s time will succeed me to the throne.”
Ping excitedly plants his seed in the richest soil he can find. He takes care of it daily, doing the best he can, but no flower grows. A year passes, and it comes time to bring flowers to the emperor. Poor Ping only has an empty pot. As he makes his way to the palace, he sees all the other children in the land bringing beautiful flowers. He feels ashamed and sad.
At the palace, the emperor carefully inspects each child’s beautiful flower offering. He doesn’t say anything until he gets to Ping’s empty pot. “Why have you brought an empty pot?” the emperor asks Ping.
“I planted the seed, but it didn’t sprout. It was the best I could do,” responds Ping. The emperor smiles at Ping and then tells the children that all of the seeds he had given them had been cooked and therefore were unable to grow. Ping is the only child who was telling the truth. Ping becomes the new emperor.

Before homes could be built, the Saints had to cut down the thickets and dig ditches to drain the swamps. Unfortunately, they were unaware of the dangerous disease the pesky mosquitoes were carrying. Many workers became ill with malaria. Before long, hundreds of people in Nauvoo and across the Mississippi River in Montrose, Iowa, were very ill. Many were dying.
For a time Joseph and Emma Smith nursed and cared for the sick, but then Joseph also became ill. For several days he lay overcome with the sickness. But on 22 July 1839, the Spirit of the Lord prompted Joseph to arise and help others. He obediently arose and began to administer to the sick staying in his house and to the people in the tent city surrounding his home. Then he went down to the river, where many more lay too sick to move.
Elder Heber C. Kimball and others then accompanied the Prophet across the river to Montrose, where they visited the homes of the sick and, using the power of the priesthood, healed them. When Joseph arrived at the home of Elijah Fordham, the man was unconscious and near death. Joseph took Brother Fordham’s hand and said, “Brother Fordham, do you not know me?” There was no response at first. Then Joseph repeated his question, and Elijah whispered, “Yes!”
Joseph said, “Have you not faith to be healed?”
Elijah answered, “I am afraid it is too late.”
Joseph asked next, “Do you believe that Jesus is the Christ?”
“I do, Brother Joseph,” Elijah said. Then the Prophet Joseph said in a loud voice, “Elijah, I command you, in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, to arise and be made whole!”
Elijah Fordham arose from his bed and was healed!
Wilford Woodruff said of the miraculous healing: “The words of the Prophet were not like the words of man, but like the voice of God. It seemed to me that the house shook from its foundation.”

Lauren had just finished her nightly prayer and started to get into bed when she noticed the hat. Chuckling, she picked it up from the desk chair where Sarah had left it. It was just like Sarah to forget her hat. She was always forgetting things.

Lauren put Sarah’s hat next to her own on the dresser. The two were identical, except that Lauren’s was slightly larger. They had bought the hats together at the first of the summer and had worn them all summer long. It was hard to believe that school would be starting next week. But there were still a few days left, and they had spent the afternoon planning just how to spend every minute until school started.

Sarah and Lauren had been best friends since before kindergarten. They had been in the same class every year in school. They both had red hair, brown eyes, and freckles. They both loved peppermint ice cream, the color lavender, the same books, the same games, the same music, and the same people. Everywhere one went, the other wanted to go, too. They were almost inseparable.

As Lauren turned again to get into bed, Mom came into her room. Lauren’s smile faded when she saw her mom’s face. Something was very wrong.

“Lauren, I have something very hard to tell you,” Mom said, sitting next to Lauren on the bed. “This evening Sarah was out riding her bike with her brother. She was hit by a car.”

“Hit by a car! Was she hurt? Where is she now—in the hospital? I have to go see her right now!”

“Sweetheart, Sarah died instantly. I’m sorry.”

“Died! She can’t have! I was with her all day long. She left her hat here. We’re going swimming tomorrow morning. Then bike riding, then …” Tears streamed down Lauren’s face, and she shook all over. Her mind kept racing on: Sarah can’t be dead! We’re going to be in the same class next week. We’re going to wear lookalike outfits the first day.

Mom held Lauren tightly as she sobbed. When the sobs quieted, Mom said, “I know how sad and hurt you feel right now. It always hurts a lot when you lose someone you love. This is a very hard time for you. But remember that Sarah is surely happy in the spirit world. She loved Heavenly Father very much.”

“It’s not fair!” Lauren cried. “It’s not fair at all! Why should Sarah have to die? She’s too good—why couldn’t some bad person die? She’s just eleven years old—why couldn’t Heavenly Father take some old person who was ready to die?”

“I know it doesn’t seem fair, and we may never understand in this life. But we can’t change what has already happened. And we must learn, somehow, to accept it.”

Lauren cried herself to sleep that night. She cried all the next day too. She cried not only for Sarah, but for herself. She didn’t know how she could go on living without her best friend. How could she go to school without Sarah? She wondered if Sarah was missing her as much as she missed Sarah. Where was heaven, anyway? What was it like? Would Sarah have a best friend there, too? A thousand more questions kept going around in Lauren’s mind.

The night before Sarah’s funeral, Lauren suddenly became very frightened. She had never been to a funeral before. What was it going to be like? What would happen? Would it be scary? She didn’t want anyone to put her best friend into the ground and just leave her. The tears and sobs started again, even harder than before.

As Lauren sobbed, she felt Mom’s arms around her. “Mom, what is it going to be like tomorrow at the funeral? What will happen? Does it hurt to be buried?”

Mom was quiet at first, looking as though she couldn’t quite put her thoughts into words. Then she smiled through her own tears and said, “You wait here. I’ll be right back.” A minute later she came back carrying a package of photographs.

“Lauren, Dad picked these up from the camera shop today.” She handed Lauren a package of photos.

Lauren looked at the one on top, and there gazing back at her was Sarah. Sarah was smiling and waving. Lauren looked back at Mom.

“These are the photos we took of you and Sarah at our picnic last month, remember?”

Of course Lauren did. How could she ever forget such a fun day?

She studied each photo. There were Sarah and she splashing in the creek with their pant legs rolled up. There they were climbing like monkeys in an old oak tree. How did Sarah keep her hat on when she was hanging by her knees in the tree? Lauren wondered as she looked at that photo. She started to laugh when she saw Sarah pulling one of her funny faces in the last photo. It felt so good to laugh again. For just a moment she forgot that Sarah had died.

“These photos aren’t actually Sarah, are they?” Mom asked. “They’re just likenesses. Even after a photo is taken of a person, that person goes on living. The likeness is left for others to see. Well, sort of like these photos, Sarah’s earthly body is left, but the real Sarah is living still. Unlike a photograph, her body will be buried, so you won’t be able to see it after tomorrow, but Sarah has gone on without her earthly body for a while. I want you to remember that tomorrow and always, Lauren.”

Mom went on to explain what the funeral would be like the next day. It helped Lauren to know what to expect. Although there wouldn’t be anything spooky or scary, she was still a little afraid. It helped to know that her parents would be with her.

Beautiful music was playing softly as Lauren and her parents entered the meetinghouse the next day. Lauren’s stomach felt empty and strange as they walked into the chapel. There were lots of people. Everyone looked so sad. Lauren fought back the tears as they walked to the front of the chapel, where Sarah’s family sat. Lauren held Mom’s hand tightly as she went up to Sarah’s mother, who had always seemed almost like a mom. When Sarah’s mother saw Lauren, she bent down and hugged Lauren close for a long while. When she stood up, Lauren saw tears and pain in her eyes.

“I thought you might like to have this photo of Sarah,” Lauren said, handing her one of the new photos. Sarah’s mother’s face lit up with a smile as she studied the photo.

“Thank you, Lauren. Thank you so much.”

Lauren and her parents sat down then. All through the funeral, Lauren saw Sarah’s mother looking down at her photo. As she looked at it, a small smile would cross her face. Lauren knew that the photo was helping Sarah’s mother remember that she and Sarah would be together again someday.

Lauren knew that Sarah was still her best friend. She would miss Sarah, but she was sure that Sarah was happy in the spirit world.

The idea originated when Stake President Paul Reid asked his 21-year-old daughter, Carly, if there was anything she could do to contribute to temple work in their stake. Carly had noticed that many parents were unable to attend the temple together because one or the other had to stay home with their children. Completing the 160-mile round trip to the temple meant families were separated for the entire day. She also noticed that children left with sitters all day sometimes had a negative attitude about their parents attending the temple.

Using her training as an early childhood educator, Carly developed a child-care program to cater to these families. Now, with the help of the stake youth, temple day is a family day. The children of the stake are taken care of at a chapel near the temple while their parents attend the temple. Families can travel to the temple together, and the children only have to wait three hours for their parents.

Several years ago, we had a harsh winter in Utah, and the snow was deep in my neighborhood. Deer wandered into my yard all winter scavenging for food. They ate the bark off of trees and mangled bushes. Once spring came, my yard was a mess.

For weeks, I pulled out damaged perennials and planted shrubs and flowers. Finally, one evening, I finished. Early the next morning, I glanced out a window and noticed dirt on the sidewalk. I had swept everything the night before, so I stepped outside for a closer look and was dumbfounded with what I saw: dozens of plants were gone. Not half-eaten, but gone.

What do you do about stolen plants? Because it looked like vandalism, I called the police to see if any other yards in the area had been damaged. They sent a policeman who began walking around the neighborhood. Within minutes he was back, motioning for me to follow him. He led me to the backyard of my neighbors, who had just moved in, and there were my brand new plants lining their patio. “I assume these are yours,” he said. When I nodded yes, he knocked on the front door.

What a way to meet the neighbors, I thought, as horrified parents quickly put two and two together. Moments later, they came marching out with the cutest little girl you’ve ever seen. Oh no, I thought, I’ve called the police on a six-year-old.

The little girl and some friends had been drawn to my yard by the flowers, and she thought they’d look nice in her yard. When they tugged on the newly planted flowers, they had come up easily. In short order, the little girl and her gang of flower-snatchers had worked their mischief.

We quickly made amends, but as I planted a new batch of flowers, I couldn’t get an obvious lesson out of my mind: the flowers came up easily because they hadn’t had time to root. So, the question: How deep are your spiritual roots? Are you rooted in the Lord and His gospel, or are you enchanted with the world? If you aren’t rooted in the gospel, the adversary will attempt to uproot you with his equivalent of a six-year-old–meaning, it won’t take much.

When I was 14, my family moved to a new neighborhood. Now, this may not seem like a terrible tragedy to you, but in my mind, at that time, it was devastating. It meant being surrounded by people I didn’t know. It meant that all the other young men in my ward would be attending a different school than I was. And in my 14-year-old mind, I thought, “How could my parents do this to me?” I felt as if my life had been ruined.

However, through our Young Men activities, I was able to build relationships with the other members of my quorum, and they became my friends. In addition, members of the bishopric and Aaronic Priesthood advisers began to take a special interest in my life. They attended my athletic events. They wrote me encouraging notes that I have kept to this day. They continued to keep in touch with me after I went to college and when I left for a mission. One of them was even at the airport when I came home. I will be forever grateful for these good brothers and their combination of love and high expectations. They pointed me heavenward, and life became bright, happy, and joyful.

All it took was a call to Gary’s Creek Missionary Baptist Church in Tennessee for Chris Collier to find the perfect Eagle Scout project.
Chris, a member of the Memphis First Ward, Memphis North Stake, says, a little nervously, “This is something that’s never been done before.” Gary’s Creek church asked him to document its cemetery—the oldest black cemetery in Shelby County.
Chris first needs to meet everyone involved and decide how much help he will need on the project. He drives to Gary’s Creek Cemetery on a road paved over the old stagecoach line. As soon as he steps out of the car, he has to swat at a mosquito. It’s the height of Tennessee heat in August, and it’s so humid you can practically drink the air. But that isn’t going to stop Chris.
There’s a group waiting for him at the gate to the cemetery. Mr. Lacy, who has many ancestors buried here, greets Chris. “This cemetery is a gold mine for genealogists,” Mr. Lacy tells Chris as he adjusts his wide-brimmed hat. “Think of all those people’s stories buried under the ground.” Mr. Lacy has uncovered the story of one of his ancestors buried here—Joseph H. Harris, better known as “Free Joe.” He wrote two books about Free Joe’s adventures and is turning them into a Hollywood screenplay.
Chris walks through the cemetery with his notebook and camera. The huge trees’ heavy branches droop in the heat, and thick emerald grass covers some of the grave markers completely. There are all types of people buried here, from tiny babies to Civil War veterans. Some of the markers are simple rusty spikes in the ground; others have hand-carved names in aged, chipped stones. Nobody can tell what they say, except for the caretaker, Mr. Brooks.
Mr. Brooks has been caretaker of Gary’s Creek Cemetery since 1939. He moves slowly around the cemetery with the help of his cane and quietly points out different grave markers to Chris. Mr. Brooks is the only one who knows the names on and locations of all the graves. His father was caretaker before him.
“I used to walk around the cemetery with my father while he helped me memorize the graves,” Mr. Brooks says. Many of the graves are unmarked, and the only documentation is in Mr. Brooks’s memory. If Mr. Brooks dies, the information dies with him. Chris isn’t going to let that happen.
Leslie Louthain, the director of the LDS family history center in the area, and her husband are also here to help. She gives Chris tips on how to put all the information in a database. He’ll give one copy to the Gary’s Creek church and send one to the Church’s Family History Library in Salt Lake City.
Sister Louthain thoughtfully examines a grave marker near the woods until she discovers there is more than family history in this cemetery.
“There are snakes in those trees!” she shrieks. Her husband laughs, and she heads for higher ground.
As Chris wraps up his first visit, he sighs. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. This one cemetery could be a lot of separate projects,” he says. But he isn’t afraid to plunge in anyway.
Chris doesn’t feel so overwhelmed when he comes back with a big group of teens to help him. The ladies from Gary’s Creek church provide lunch, and it isn’t as hot, because now it’s well into autumn.
Chris divides up the teens into groups to document the graves, with the help of Mr. Lacy and Mr. Brooks, of course. You can barely tell who belongs to which church because everyone is mixed together, trying to get all the information recorded.
As Chris wraps it all up, everyone is pleased. The members of Gary’s Creek church can rest easy, knowing the information in their vast cemetery has been preserved, and Chris’s group can be satisfied knowing they’ve helped preserve information for future family history work.
The cemetery seems a little more peaceful now, thanks to Chris, because the richness of its history won’t be lost. Who knows what stories might later be uncovered?
As Chris takes a reflective look around the cemetery, Mr. Lacy says, “Family history is going to be what brings religions and races together.” And in his little corner of Tennessee, Chris helped do just that.

My bishop helped me in the repentance process itself, but a friend of mine also made a big difference in how I felt about my challenge. He was a great example to me. One day he shared his past struggles with pornography. I was stunned—I never would have guessed we had similar struggles. I wrote him a letter about my experience in repenting for the same challenges and how helpful it was to know that I was not alone. At church on Sunday, he hugged me and told me he was proud of me for working with the bishop and that I would never be alone. He helped me feel the Savior’s love more strongly.

In June 1993 I arrived at my mother’s home in St. Petersburg, where a friend invited me to study English with her. We called a number we found in the newspaper, and a young woman answered. She told us to come at noon the next day. Her name was Tat’yana. After the lesson we invited her out for tea or coffee. We were quite surprised when we heard, “I don’t drink tea or coffee.”
“Why?”
“I’m a Mormon.”
“What’s a Mormon?” I asked.
“I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If you’re interested, come see us Sunday morning at 11:00.”
She wrote down the address. I was very interested to find out what kind of church this was.
The week passed slowly, but Sunday finally came. The meetings were held in a music school. Some young men were at the entrance, and they were smiling. When they found out that I had come for the first time, they took me into the chapel. A lot of people were there, but I felt out of place. I very much liked the opening hymn though, and then a miracle happened. A man walked to the front, and the first words of his prayer were “Heavenly Father.” That is what I had been searching for. Suddenly I felt at home. I was at peace.

Brother Jung Dae Pan was also among those who learned the gospel from the first missionaries to serve in Korea. He had dropped out of the Seoul National University to attend a theological college. His dream was to become a pastor and to lead the Christian community in Korea.
One day a friend gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon in English because a Korean translation hadn’t been published yet. He was drawn into reading the book. He even read it during a class. When his classmates asked him what it was, he said that it was a book like the Bible and recommended that they purchase one.
In the end Brother Jung got in trouble at the college. Administrators summoned him and said that he was succumbing to Satan’s temptation to fall into heresy, and they forced him to choose either the school or the Book of Mormon. The decision was not difficult for him because he already knew the Book of Mormon was true.
However, after Brother Jung joined the Church, he suffered social and economic difficulties. The scholarship from the college and the financial support from the previous church discontinued, and all his friends left him. Dr. Kim took good care of him. Later, Brother Jung contributed greatly to the growth of the Church in Korea by translating the Doctrine and Covenants and editing the hymns. The beautiful lyrics he translated still touch the hearts of Korean members.

Most are finding that their best friends are active members of the Church. In many wards and branches, seminary is held three evenings each week—from 6:30 to 7:30 p.m., Tuesday through Thursday. Mutual is sometimes on Friday and may include combined Young Men and Young Women activities, such as dances or parties. Saturdays often include recreational activities or service projects. On Sundays there are, of course, Church meetings. Some of the youth spend time each week working with the full-time missionaries or helping teach discussions to new members. And there are occasional temple trips, youth conferences, and Sunday evening devotionals.

“Church is where my friends are,” says Jimmy. “In addition to learning about doctrine, I’m with my friends, and I meet new friends. They believe the same principles I do.”

Some of these new friends are actually old friends who have returned to Church activity. “We often visit less-active youth,” says Anángelys Golindano, 15, of Maracaibo. “We divide into districts, three or four people to a district, and then we visit and tell less-active members that we miss them. Some have accepted our invitation to return. There used to be 14 of us in our ward’s seminary class, and now there are 20.”

Josué Díaz, 15, of Maracaibo, saw similar results in his ward. “Last year there were only 9 of us in seminary with two wards combined. We fasted and visited people, and our class had to be divided. Now one ward has 16 and the other has 15!”

Another successful project has been to take a family home evening to the home of less-active youth on Wednesday evenings. “Some of the parents aren’t members,” says Jackelin. “In fact, many of these youth are the only Church members in their families. But usually their parents let us come in. When the kids see us, they’re surprised. But they can see the interest we have in them. One of us gives the lesson, and we encourage questions and comments. You can really feel the Spirit. Usually the things of the world are what keep them from returning to church. Many of them say they’re happy we’ve come and that they still have testimonies.”

But expressions of friendship must be genuine, Jackelin says. “Sometimes when they see us, youth who are not active try to hide because they think we’re always going to talk to them about the Church. But we try to be aware of their lives and talk to them about other things too. We want them to see we’re interested in them and happy to be their friends.”

David saw a miracle in the life of a good friend. “A friend who was the most help to me when I was new in the Church became less active,” he says. “The Lord blessed me to have a chance to see and talk to him again. I told him all the things he had done to help me—and that I wanted to pay him back. I tried to be his friend. Now he’s an active member of our priests quorum.”

In 1899 there was not enough water in southern Utah. For more than two years there had been no rain. The streams and wells around the town of St. George had dried up. There was no water for the crops, so the plants died. The cattle died too. Many people began moving away.
Nell was a little girl living in St. George at that time. Her father told her their family would have to move away soon.
In June, Nell and her mother went to a Church conference in St. George. President Lorenzo Snow, the prophet at that time, was going to speak. Nell’s father stayed home to pack for their move. Nell listened carefully to what the prophet said. After the conference, she hurried home. She told her father that President Snow had promised if the people would pay their tithing and plant crops, it would rain and they would have food for the coming year.
Nell’s father explained that their family couldn’t survive another year if the crops didn’t grow. Nell reminded him that her grandfather had talked about how the people in his day were blessed by doing exactly what President Brigham Young (1801–77) asked them to do. Grandfather had promised Nell that if she followed the living prophet, she would be blessed too. Nell believed her grandfather, and she offered to give her father her own savings to help pay their family’s tithing.
The next morning, Nell saw her father plowing the fields, getting ready to plant. Her family stayed in St. George and did exactly what the prophet asked them to do. During the hot, dry weeks that followed, the people of St. George paid their tithing, planted their fields, prayed, and watched the cloudless sky for rain. They were grateful when two months after the conference, it began to rain. The crops grew in abundance that year!

While serving as a mission president, I had the responsibility to interview any individuals who were studying the gospel who came from Muslim backgrounds. The reason for this was certain countries could persecute and cause severe problems for not only the investigators, but their immediate families. On one occasion, I interviewed a man, his wife, and daughter—we will call him Zara and her Ali and their daughter Sara.

While talking to Zara, I became impressed with his understanding of the doctrines of the gospel and even more impressed with the depth of his spirit. As I explained our concern for his safety while studying the doctrines of the Church and what might be imposed from some of his family or country officials, he made a statement that I'll never forget. He said, “No man, not even you, can keep me from being baptized if this is what God wishes.”

He was right, and I was more than happy to allow him and his family to enter into the gospel of Jesus Christ. They were baptized and lived the gospel for a time in our mission and then moved to Melbourne, Australia.

Zara saw evidence in the lives of the members of the ward and the teachings of the missionaries. He acted boldly on that evidence and was then blessed with a strong assurance from God through the Spirit.

In January 1962, when I was six years old, missionaries arrived at my father’s jewelry store looking to replace a tie clip one of them had lost. While there, they heard someone playing the guitar. When they asked about it, my father invited them to come in and meet his friend.
During their conversation, my father and his friend asked the missionaries if they played guitar. One elder said he played a little. My father’s friend passed his guitar to him and asked him to play. He began to play some songs while his companion sang.
The missionaries’ simple search for a tie clip led to my family’s introduction to the gospel of Jesus Christ. We became good friends with the missionaries and began listening to the lessons. The gospel seed was planted, and it began to grow, first in my mother, Elsa, and my sisters, Ana and Stella, and then in me.
Since that day, a love for missionary work has grown in my family. I served a mission, my sons have served missions, and now our grandchildren are beginning to prepare for and serve missions, creating a third generation of missionaries.