Gospel Story Finder

Here on my mission to the Philippines, I discovered that Christmas is celebrated from September to December. Instead of bringing the snow that I’m used to, December in the Philippines is constantly full of rainy, gray skies. It’s green everywhere you look—banana trees, coconut palms, other palm trees.
For our last appointment on Christmas Eve, we visited a family we had just started teaching. We rode our bikes through the thick jungle to the family’s bamboo-stick, tin-roofed house. When we arrived, I saw the nanay (mother) fishing in the river behind her house with a long bamboo stick and a bit of string. She told us she was trying to catch fish for their ulam (main dish) so they could eat that night. We had planned to go to a Christmas party with the other missionaries at 6:30 p.m., but we decided to spend some time catching tiny fish in the rain to help this woman feed her family instead.
That night, as my companion and I watched a video about Jesus Christ’s birth, I thought about how He came into the world with nothing and left with nothing. The family we served didn’t have much either. But I realized you don’t need much to be happy. Christmas is about more than decorations, food, or even service. It’s about God’s love (see 1 Nephi 11:13–23). It’s about charity, the pure love of Christ. It’s about loving everyone.
Although this Christmas was different for me, my experience has given me extra motivation to keep working and keep serving because the gospel of Jesus Christ can bring people so much happiness. The gospel teaches us how we can reach out in love and charity. I felt charity for that family.
The author is serving in the Philippines Antipolo Mission.

The blazing sun scorched the covered wagon as it slowly rolled forward across the barren desert. In the distance, missionaries riding in a wagon and on horseback saw an old Native American man lying against a sandstone rock, with nothing to shade him. Only a few scattered cactus plants stood nearby.
“Water,” cried the abandoned man as the missionaries approached him. Jacob reached for his canteen and loosened the cap.
“Jacob,” said one of the missionaries, “as is custom among his people, he has been left here alone to die. He has lived a long and noble life, and—”
“And he still has much to live for,” Jacob sternly interrupted.
“We may not have enough water for ourselves,” the missionary added.
“I can’t watch a dying man beg for water,” Jacob insisted. “I’ll give him a drink from my canteen.” He leaped off his horse and knelt beside the old man.
The other men shook their heads and began to move on. After the man had sipped from the canteen, Jacob climbed back onto his horse.
“Don’t leave me here alone to die!” the man cried.
Jacob pulled the reins and called to the others, “Stop!”
“How can you even think of taking on this extra burden?” another man cautioned. “As it is, our water cannot last until we reach the next water hole.”
The Native American man sat there, listening.
“I promise you that he will drink from my own canteen and ride my horse,” Jacob answered. “After he rides a while, the water will make a new man of him. I will enjoy a short walk. If we have faith, the Lord will provide for our needs.”
The old man didn’t want to take the saddle, but Jacob said, “The ride will do you good.” The man smiled weakly as the caravan moved on in the hot desert.
Jacob knew it was the right decision to share his water, even though his companions were also right about needing water for their own survival. Their supply was running dangerously low.
Jacob walked next to the man mounted on his horse in silence for hours and watched the sun sink lower in the sky. The evening temperature was still very hot. When they stopped for a drink and to let the horses rest, Jacob poured water from his canteen into a tin cup and gave it to the man. He nodded gratefully.
“Sorry for what I said earlier.” One of Jacob’s companions patted him on the back. “I believe you’re right. The Lord will provide for our needs if we first look after the needs of our brothers.”
By the next afternoon, the canteens and the water barrel in the wagon were empty. The horses could go no farther. Jacob glanced at the man, but still not a word was spoken.
The Native American man walked aside a few yards to a mound of rock and sand, climbed on top, and looked in all directions. “I know where water is—it’s a tribal secret,” he said.
The rest of the party slowly followed the man to a small plateau. Even the tired, thirsty horses seemed to know that their last chance to survive was just a short distance away. Looking under a bush, the man lifted a flat rock and said, “Look. Damp ground.” He dug down a few feet, and within a few minutes, water gurgled up from the dirt.
The little company was saved! They continued on their journey and the old man returned to his people—all thanks to Jacob Hamblin, who shared his water and his faith.

Church pioneers in family history have had to learn to be very resourceful. In October 1939, L. Garrett Myers and Ernst Koehler were in charge of the first microfilming of records outside of Utah. They worked out of a hotel room in Tennessee. A big, troublesome fan in the hotel’s kitchen caused vibrations in their room that made working with the cameras difficult, so Brother Koehler decided they would have to film the records between ten at night and early morning, when the fan wasn’t turned on. They used the bathtub to process the film in and a clothesline to dry it on.

When I was 11, at a regional conference in Johannesburg, South Africa, President Howard W. Hunter (1907–95) shook my hand and said, “You’re going to go on a mission and be a fine missionary someday.”
Most young men would have cherished those words forever. Not me. For the next 10 years I had no desire to serve a mission. I was more concerned with success in sports and my social life. I thought that giving up two years would throw all that away. During interviews with my branch and stake presidents, I would come up with excuses as to why I didn’t want to serve.
At 21, still with no desire to serve a mission, I visited my family in the United States, in Iowa. They had moved there the year before. While in Iowa I had the chance to go to the Winter Quarters Nebraska Temple with the local singles branch. I wasn’t endowed, so I figured I’d perform baptisms for the dead.
Upon arriving at the temple, I discovered there was no baptismal session scheduled for the afternoon. I thought, “Great, what am I going to do for the next two and a half hours?”
I decided to go to the Mormon Trail Visitors’ Center across the street. After watching a 15-minute movie about the pioneers, I was greeted by two sister missionaries who were going to take me on my own personal tour. After learning a little bit about me, Sister Cusick asked why I hadn’t served a mission. The usual excuses came flying out. Sister Cusick then testified to me not only of the pioneers but also of missionary work.
After the tour I sat in the temple waiting room, thinking. Suddenly, my excuses for not serving a mission became a stupor of thought. The Spirit testified strongly that I should serve a mission. From the time I started talking to the sister missionaries, everything had changed inside me. The Spirit testified to my heart what I needed to do.
Months later I found out that the still, small voice had told Sister Cusick that I needed to have my own tour. She didn’t know why, but the Lord had plans for me.
I served in the California Ventura Mission—the greatest mission in the world—and built some wonderful friendships that I hope will last through the eternities. I didn’t believe President Hunter for 10 years, but he knew exactly what he was talking about.
My life changed completely, all because a sister missionary acted on the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

“It was wonderful to love a dog so much,” I sighed. “But it was risky. Same as with loving people,” I decided. “Just look at Mrs. Fielding.”

Mrs. Fielding had a grown-up son who was flying home from Vietnam when his plane crashed and burned. They never even found him.

The morning after the accident a bunch of us boys were playing basketball in our backyard. I was on Tom’s team and the score was 14 to 12, our favor, which was pretty good since Kent was half of me. “Let him play guard along side me,” I said. So that’s the way it went—with Kent giggling and getting underfoot.

When Mother came out to say that she was going to the Fieldings I asked if I could go. That’s one thing Tom still can’t figure out about me. Even though I’m not so clumsy now when it comes to sports, I can take them or leave them. That day I left them.

Mrs. Fielding was worse off than I had been when Joey died. Being there made me remember how it had been after my dad and I had buried him and Mother had tucked me into bed. “There’s no such thing as Joey,” I sobbed over and over into my pillow.

Of course, I know better than that now. Scott said he was sure that a dog as good as Joey would go straight to paradise, and that sounds reasonable to me. That’s where Mrs. Fielding’s grown-up boy is too. I told her so one day after we got to be friends.

“You are a remarkable young man,” she said, sounding just like Mother. It was summer, and we were siting out on her patio. I knew that once in a while she liked me to come to drink lemonade or play with Stormy, her big German shepherd. And I liked being there.

Sometimes she’d show me scrapbooks of when she was young and pictures of her children and grandchildren and her Mr. Fielding who had died. Sometimes I’d read her one of my stories. Then she’d laugh and fuss over me, “Oh the happy, carefree days of youth!” she’d beam, “Happy, carefree days,” she’d say again, making the day seem happier and freer than ever.

Everything she said to me seemed strong and right, maybe because I’d seen pictures of her life when she was young and then a little older and then old. Maybe it was that I knew that Mrs. Fielding had healed a hundred hurts. Anyway, to me one of her sentences was worth a dozen of somebody elses.

Before she moved away to live near her youngest daughter, I finally told her about Joey’s accident. “You’re lucky to be alive,” was all she said. Not a word about my dog.

But that one sentence zinged across my mind, clear and moving and full of sunlight. “It’s true! It’s true!” something sang to my soul. “I am lucky to be alive.” And just for a second there, I could feel myself stretching across the years. And I thought, someday I’ll be old like Mrs. Fielding. And on some summer afternoon or winter evening I’ll remember these carefree days. Then I will smile and whisper, “There’s such a thing as Joey.”

Mary Goble Pay kept a journal over a hundred years ago while she was crossing the plains in a handcart company with her family. Only because she wrote in her journal do we know of that difficult journey from a young person’s point of view: “There were four companies on the plains. We did not know what would become of us. One night a man came to our camp and told us there would be plenty of flour in the morning, for Brother Young had sent men and teams to help us. There was rejoicing that night. We sang songs, some danced and some cried. His name was Ephraim Hanks. We thought he was a living Santa Claus.”

I would like to testify to you that the greatest happiness that has come into our lives has been when we have been living the gospel and serving the Master, and I have to tell you just a little story.

A few years ago, roughly twenty-five, I was starting a new business. I was having difficulty in getting it into black figures. I don’t like to operate in the red, and I went to my Heavenly Father on bended knees and made a covenant with him that if he would bless me with inspiration and guidance to make that business successful, I would serve him and I would be liberal with my time and means for the upbuilding of the kingdom.

The Lord did bless us abundantly, and I now pledge to President Lee, President Tanner, President Romney, and all these Brethren that I shall put forth my best efforts to fulfill this new assignment. I love the Lord, and I want to serve him.

My husband and I raised our children in the gospel. We had family scripture study every morning, family prayer, and weekly family home evening. We attended church, ate dinner together, and went on family vacations. Our children regularly attended the temple to perform baptisms for the dead, they graduated from seminary, and two of them served missions.
And then as adults, they started exploring paths and ideas that were different from the things we had taught them. One by one, our children stopped participating in the Church until only one of our five children still chose to attend. We shed many tears over our children and wondered if we had failed as parents or if there was something we could have done differently.
For a long time, we pled with the Lord to change their hearts, and finally the Lord answered our prayers. But not in the way we expected.
Instead of simply changing our children’s hearts, He showed us that we needed to start by changing our own hearts. While parents play an important role in teaching their children, He reminded us that Jesus Christ is their Savior and Judge.
In my determination to save my children, I had spent many hours praying, reading my scriptures, and going to the temple, thinking that if I did all of the right things, I would qualify for God’s intervention—as if somehow my actions would lead God to override their agency and force them to believe as I do.
My husband and I wanted so badly to save them, but our version of saving looked more like lecturing, nagging, or showing disapproval of their choices, which ultimately led to contention. We realized that in our desperation to bring our children back, we were actually driving them away. The more they felt our judgment and disappointment, the more they avoided us.
My prayers changed to a plea for my own heart to be changed. I realized that my reasons for wanting my children to change came from the wrong place. I prayed for more love. I also prayed to overcome my feelings of shame and embarrassment that my family didn’t look anything like the perfect families my friends displayed on social media with photos from their children’s temple marriages or grandchildren’s baptisms.
As I turned to the Savior for healing, my heart began to soften toward my children. I realized that to love them as He loves them meant making some changes. To Him, love wasn’t a method—it was the motivation that drove everything He did. He said He didn’t do “anything save it be for the benefit of the world; for he loveth the world” (2 Nephi 26:24).
Trusting in the Savior’s ability to do His work (see 2 Nephi 27:20) allowed me to focus on loving my children and turning the saving over to the Lord. It didn’t mean giving up on trying to help them, but when loving them became the driving force behind my interactions with them, it changed how I interacted.
I started to see them in a different light. I began focusing on their strengths and their talents and began to see what loving, generous, intelligent, and good people they were.
My husband and I listened more and talked less. We asked questions about their lives and their interests. Instead of judgment, we showed curiosity. We replaced criticism and disappointment with expressions of love, and our children could feel that it was genuine.
Our home became a place where they could feel love and acceptance. They stopped hiding things from us and started being honest and open about what was going on in their lives. We grew closer.
Our family is still a work in progress, but our children enjoy coming to our home and spending time with us now. They feel safe in our presence, and through our love I hope they can feel God’s love for them. I don’t know if in this lifetime they will return to the things they were taught as children, but I know that they are in the Savior’s hands.

Thank you for the article “Praying Our Way to Church” (June 2010). When we are out of town on vacation my family rarely attends church. Recently I spent two weeks at a summer writing program and didn’t plan on attending church while I was away. During the plane ride I came across the article and read it with great interest. I prayed to find a way to go to church that next Sunday. I found out that I had to have a permission slip to be released from the campus, but after a little persistence I was able to attend Sunday meetings.
Samantha F.

I had prepared long and hard for the entrance exams for a special school in my city of Chiclayo, Peru. I hoped to enter the elementary education program and learn to use my musical and dancing abilities to teach children. In fact, I was so determined, that I had spent my three-month vacation after high school graduation preparing for the exams.
Like all the best schools in Chiclayo, the school I was interested in was affiliated with the Catholic church. But this school, which offers courses from kindergarten through university age, had earlier accepted my five-year-old brother. So my mother and I assumed that I wouldn’t have a problem being accepted, even though I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Finally, the day of the entrance exams arrived, and I took the talent portion of the exam—in which we sang, played, and danced with children.
Later, when the time came for my personal interview with a panel of judges, I prayed before going into the room. The three judges began asking about my talents and background. I told them that I belonged to the Municipal Ballet of Chiclayo, that I had finished twelve cycles on the piano, and that I had placed first in the Marinera and Huayno—folkloric dances.
Then they asked me what church I belonged to. I answered, “I am a Mormon.” The judges looked very surprised, but I felt peaceful inside. They asked me if I knew that no one outside of the Catholic religion could be admitted. I replied that I knew God and Jesus Christ lived—therefore, I was a Christian. I concluded by saying that I believed in free agency and knew that I had chosen the truth.
Looking me in the eyes, they told me that I could definitely not be admitted because of my religion, and they asked me if I wasn’t embarrassed for what I had said. Words of the Apostle Paul came into my mind: “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ” (Rom. 1:16). Then they told me that I could leave the room.
All my dreams seemed to have shattered in front of me. I thought of how long I had waited for this opportunity and of all that my mother had sacrificed to help me achieve it. But still, my testimony of the Church was strong. I knew that it was worth far more than my entrance into a school.
When I arrived home and told my mother what had happened, she left for the school. There, she asked the assistant director why I was disqualified when my little brother had been allowed to enroll. The woman replied that five-year-old Luis Enrique wasn’t responsible for what he believed, but that I, a sixteen-year-old, was.
My mother then spoke to the judges. She told them about the Church and about our beliefs in God and in his Son, Jesus Christ. She told them some of our experiences since becoming members in 1983—and about the changes that had occurred in our home as a result. The judges told her, “Don’t worry. We will follow up on this.” Then my mother returned home.
She told me that we should trust in the Lord and that everything would be fine. She also suggested that we both begin a fast.
Later that afternoon, we discovered that I had passed the talent portion of the exams! Now I needed to pass the knowledge test the next day.
I stayed up all night studying. Before starting the test early the next morning, I prayed with great faith. The exam seemed easy. I was one of the first students to finish it, and I quickly went home to be with my mother and aunt. We waited all afternoon for the hours to pass—and for the results to be posted.
That evening, I left for school to see the results, praying all the way there. When I got to the office, I read through the acceptance list. My name was on it! The Lord had answered our fasting and prayers.
Now busy at my new school, I carry my scriptures with me all the time. One of my favorite verses is Matthew 5:16: “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” [Matt. 5:16]
I know more than ever that I must never hide my testimony. I must always be proud to say “I am a Mormon.”

Peter Ahgook sighed a huge sigh, his dark eyes watching the daily mail plane. The plane was circling high in the crisp Alaskan sky. Soon the pilot would land on the narrow dirt strip that served as Chalkyitsik’s airport.
Sitting in a log shelter that was the only airport building, Peter dreamed of the day when he too would fly a plane through the clouds and gracefully land it on the bumpy village runways of Alaska.
“Bush pilot,” he murmured to himself. “Peter Ahgook, bush pilot.”
He was surprised out of his daydreaming by the laughter of his friend Sam Pitka.
“What’s funny?” Peter asked, quickly lowering his gaze to his friend’s grinning face.
“While you were watching the plane, I was watching you.” Sam’s grin broadened. “Daydreaming again?”
Peter felt his face go red, and he turned his head to hide his embarrassment. He could feel his friend’s eyes on him. What is so funny about wanting to be a pilot? Peter wondered.
Suddenly Peter heard himself asking, “Well, what’s wrong with watching my friend Mike land his plane?”
“I didn’t know he was your friend!” Sam exclaimed in surprise.
“Sure he is,” Peter said, trying to look confident. He wished now that he had thought before he spoke, but it was too late. He would have to make the best of it.
“If you and that pilot are friends,” Sam asked hopefully, “could you get him to let us sit in his plane for just a minute?”
Before Peter could answer, four more children sat down on the bench. They too had come to see the plane land.
“Did I hear you say we can sit in the mail plane?” asked one.
“That will be fun!” another exclaimed.
Peter pretended to be so busy watching the plane land that he didn’t hear them. He kept his eyes fixed on the plane as it touched the dirt runway, bounced several times, and then taxied to the end of the dirt strip. The mail plane stopped just a little way from the log shelter. The pilot climbed out with the mailbag in his hand.
“Are you going to ask your friend?” Sam wanted to know.
Peter was miserable. He couldn’t ask such a big favor of a man he didn’t know. He stared at the plane a minute longer, then turned to face his friend.
“Sam, I guess I was daydreaming about that too. I don’t really know the pilot. I don’t even know his name.”
Peter didn’t notice that the bush pilot was standing near the log shelter. In fact, Peter didn’t notice anything. He hung his head as he sat on the bench. The other children ran off to get a closer look at the plane while Peter sat all alone thinking. He was angry with himself. Now that Sam knew he hadn’t told the truth, would Sam ever trust him again?
Peter turned his attention to the plane. It was a small four-passenger plane, blue and white with a silver stripe. He wondered what it would be like to sit in the pilot’s seat. His cousin Fred had written last week from Fort Yukon to tell Peter about a friendly bush pilot. The pilot had let Fred climb into the plane and even sit in the pilot’s seat right in front of the controls. Maybe sometime when this pilot is not too busy, Peter thought, just maybe I can make friends with him.
Peter did not know how long he’d been thinking, when suddenly he felt a big hand on his shoulder. He turned to see the pilot smiling at him.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Peter—Peter Ahgook,” he managed to stammer.
“My name is Ben. I heard you talking to your friends. I want you to know I like an honest boy.”
The pilot’s big hand was still on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter suddenly felt happier. His words came tumbling out. He told Ben that he liked the blue and white plane and that someday he wanted to be a bush pilot himself.
The pilot smiled a friendly smile. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “One of these days when I have a few minutes, maybe you could climb in and see the plane from the inside. Would you like that?”
Peter could hardly believe his ears.
“Oh, yes!”
“It’s a deal. But for now, how about carrying this mailbag for me?”
As Peter hoisted the heavy mailbag and followed his new friend across the airstrip, he was sure he had never been as happy. Peter grinned the very broadest grin that could fit on his nine-year-old face.

During World War II, the Latter-day Saints in Princeton met for church in our house. I learned then that the Church is not a building; the Church isn’t even a lot of people. I felt close to Heavenly Father and knew that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is His Church; it didn’t matter that our little branch met in our dining room. It was fun because when I came downstairs on Sunday, I was in church.
The branch members were my father, the branch president; my mother, who played the piano; my two brothers and me, the only youth in the branch; a few graduate students or servicemen; and a few older women who were converts to the Church and whose husbands were not members. Rarely would there be more than 10 or 15 people attending.
The sacrament was prepared on the dining room table, which also served as the pulpit. During fast and testimony meeting, I always wondered why the older women cried. I later realized that they cried because they were so happy and grateful to be with the Latter-day Saints in that little branch.

Last summer a group of young women from Alpine, Utah, decided that they would become “more fit for the kingdom.” They determined to focus on the temple by walking from the Draper Utah Temple to the Salt Lake Temple, a total distance of 22 miles (35 km), just as one of the pioneers, John Rowe Moyle, had done. Brother Moyle was a stonemason who was called by the prophet, Brigham Young, to work on the Salt Lake Temple. Each week he walked the distance of 22 miles from his home to the temple. One of his jobs was to carve the words “Holiness to the Lord” on the east side of the Salt Lake Temple. It was not easy and he had many obstacles to overcome. At one point, he was kicked in the leg by one of his cows. Because it would not heal, he had to have this leg amputated. But that did not stop him from his commitment to the prophet and to work on the temple. He carved a wooden leg, and after many weeks he again walked the 22-mile distance to the temple to do the work he had committed to do.6
The young women in the Cedar Hills Sixth Ward decided to walk that same distance for an ancestor and also for someone who was their inspiration to remain worthy to enter the temple. They trained each week at Mutual, and as they walked, they shared what they were learning and feeling about temples.
They began their walk to the temple early in the morning with a prayer. As they started out, I was impressed with their confidence. They had prepared well, and they knew they were prepared. Their eyes were set on their goal. Each step they took was symbolic of each of you as you too are preparing now to enter the temple. Your personal training has begun with your daily personal prayers, your daily reading of the Book of Mormon, and your working on Personal Progress.
As these young women continued to walk, there were distractions along the course, but they stayed focused on their goal. Some began to feel blisters forming, and others felt knees starting to protest, but they kept going. For each of you, there are many distractions, hurts, and obstacles along your path to the temple, but you too are determined and keep going. The route these young women took was mapped out by their leaders, who had walked and driven the course and determined the safest and most direct way to go. Again, your course is marked, and you can be assured that the Savior has not only walked the course but will again walk it with you—every step of the way.
Along this journey to the temple there were fathers, mothers, family members, and priesthood leaders acting as guardians. Their job was to ensure that everyone was safe and protected from danger. They made sure each young woman stayed well hydrated and had enough nourishment to maintain her stamina. There were aid stations provided by their priesthood leaders, with places to rest and to drink water. Young women, your fathers, your mothers, your bishops, and so many others will be your guardians as you walk your path to the temple. They will call out cautions and direct your course, and should you become injured or hurt or get off course, they will help you.
I was impressed that in the final miles of their walk, brothers, other young men, and friends came to support these determined young women and to cheer them on. One brother lifted his sister, who had large blisters on her feet, and carried her on his back the final distance to the temple. As these incredible young women reached their goal, tears were shed as they touched the temple and made a silent commitment to always be worthy to enter there.

May I share a letter from a grateful recipient of their loving service. He writes:
“The young women [of my ward] very literally saved my life. I was a young bishop, just 29, the father of four beautiful little girls, including a small baby, when Heavenly Father called my wife home to Him. As I met with each of our little girls and asked them what impact this change would mean to them, the concerns of six-year-old Emily, the oldest of the four, were many, including, ‘Who is going to comb and curl my hair for church and put ribbons and clips in it?’ That was a good question to me as well. Who? I was consumed with the idea that life would be as ‘normal’ as possible for all of us—which meant that I would have to learn a whole new way of life. I was their father, and I was going to be the only parent. I realized that I was not equipped with the motherly skills that I needed. I called upon the young women of the ward to train me to be able to satisfy at least the needs of hair care. They came to my home, numerous times, to begin my training. They even showed me how to care for my six-month-old Natalie as far as washing her hair without so much trauma. By the time I ‘graduated,’ I could whip up a mean (but simple) hairdo. Much more than the skill, those young women gave me confidence as a father of daughters—that I could love them, care for them, be there for them, no matter how the rest of my life continued.” Thank you, Brother Michael Marston, for your tender letter.

Among the new members in Canada were many with relatives and friends in England. They wrote letters explaining their conversion and became anxious to bear their testimonies personally to their friends. The groundwork was already being laid for the spread of the gospel. Several months before Joseph Smith had fled from Kirtland, he had called Heber C. Kimball, Orson Hyde, Willard Richards, and four Canadian converts to open the British mission. They arrived at the port of Liverpool, England on July 20, 1837.
These missionaries contacted friends and relatives and then began to work generally among the people of England. After nine months of preaching—in churches whenever they could, in rented halls, or door to door—they counted nearly two thousand converts. Most of the elders returned home that spring,. leaving Canadian Joseph Fielding to preside over the mission, with Willard Richards (not yet an apostle) and William Clayton, a British convert, as counselors.

Elder Meurs told the story of his parents, who lived in the area, joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1958.

Fred and Lois Meurs, strong Christians from different faiths were actively searching for someone to answer their gospel questions. After carefully studying the New Testament, they began to search for a church that had teachings that were consistent with Jesus’s teachings.

They had questions about the purpose of life, priesthood authority, what happens when we die, ordinances like baptism, and the role of prophets and apostles. They had spoken to the religious leaders of the community, but no one could give them the answers they were searching for. They began to earnestly pray for someone to answer their questions.

That same week, two full-time missionaries, Elder Jones and Elder Erikson, knocked on their door and said they had a message about Jesus Christ to share with them. Fred and Lois asked them all their questions, and the missionaries answered every one. Three weeks later the Meurs were baptised and confirmed. Some other families joined soon after, and the first Warrnambool Branch was formed.

Her mother, Castorina, was baptized the following month, along with Eulogia’s daughter, Liduvina. Another daughter, Lina, wanted to be baptized, but her new husband opposed it.
“I believe my parents’ love and patience helped us live our lives sharing the gospel,” Lina says. Even though she was not able to be baptized at first, she served in the Church as faithfully as anyone could who was not a member. Eventually, in 1986, when her husband’s opposition had softened because of the example of his wife and children, Lina joyfully entered the waters of baptism.

Alexandra Gilbert felt a similar reassurance when she met President Gordon B. Hinckley at the dedication of the temple. The 14-year-old from the city of Alma says: “He wasn’t the President of the Church at the time, but now he is. He was going up the steps to go into the temple, and he paused and shook my hand and we chatted for just a moment. He’s very likable. I didn’t understand a lot, because he spoke only English to me. But I had a wonderful feeling about him. I’ll always remember meeting him, and I’ll remember that we have a living prophet.”

Budgeting and financial management need not be overly complicated or time-consuming. The story is told of an immigrant father who kept his accounts payable in a shoe box, his accounts receivable on a spindle, and his cash in the cash register.

“I don’t see how you can run your business this way,” said his son. “How do you know what your profit is?”

“Son,” replied the businessman, “when I got off the boat, I had only the pants I was wearing. Today your sister is an art teacher, your brother is a doctor, and you’re an accountant. I have a car, a home, and a good business. Everything is paid for. So you add it all up, subtract the pants, and there’s my profit.”

I know one BYU graduate who is a great example. He points out that there is a mirror quality to conversation. If we talk about the weather, people respond by talking about the weather. If we talk about sports, they respond by talking about sports. This friend says he asks people he meets about their school and listens intently. After they respond by asking him about his school, he tells them about BYU and then shares his testimony of the gospel. Then, in a positive way, he offers to let them learn more from the missionaries. He has been very successful in sharing the gospel. He has also remained on excellent terms with his friends who do not respond to his challenge because he genuinely loves them and is interested in them.