Gospel Story Finder

Despite the rain on an October day, 1,601 Latter-day Saints from five stakes in Córdoba, Argentina, donated a combined 10,234 hours of service at a nursing home. Members delivered previously collected clothing, food, and hygiene kits. They also gardened, painted walls and benches, and performed talent shows. A number of sisters also volunteered hair, foot, and hand care services.
“I know that project was a help not only for them but for me too,” said 14-year-old Rocío B. after the project. “I knew I was doing the right thing and that Heavenly Father was pleased with me.”

I’ve always been a member of the Church. I was baptized, received the priesthood, and attended meetings regularly. But I started making choices that set me on a path away from the gospel.
When I neared the age for missionary service, I said I wasn’t going to go. I thought nothing could change my mind.
Except that I had so many positive influences in my life. My parents encouraged testimony-building activities. My Church friends loved me and never judged me. And my home teaching companion would often tell me he thought I would make a great missionary. Gradually, I started to believe him.
As time went on and positive influences in my life pushed out the negative, I began praying personally. I didn’t kneel at first, but the more I practiced, kneeling at my bedside became a special time for me. I began to feel nearer to the Lord than I ever had before. I felt a seed of testimony start to take root.
One Sunday in Gospel Doctrine class, I felt impressed to pray and ask for forgiveness for my past mistakes. I bowed my head right where I was and I prayed to Heavenly Father.
Then, I asked the question that I had been dreading: “Should I go on a mission?” The answer immediately came to my heart and mind: Yes.
It was so powerful that I was unable to hold back tears. I am so grateful for that experience. I learned that even when we push the Lord away, He will never give up on us.

A few months ago, most of the youth in Salt Lake City’s Big Cottonwood Stake had never even heard of Urubamba, Peru. Now they’ll tell you it’s home to nearly 1,000 of their closest friends.
How did this unlikely friendship start? With one returned missionary named Van Evans. Brother Evans served his mission in Peru and now serves as a volunteer in an organization called the Humanitarian Foundation of the Andes. He told some of the youth and their leaders about the kinds of items that were needed in towns throughout the Andes. These items included basics like clothing, hygiene supplies, and building materials. After careful consideration, the youth decided to make Urubamba a part of their youth conference.
The original goal was to supply good Sunday clothes for each member of the LDS branch in Urubamba. Brekke Platt, a Laurel who served on the youth council, explained, “We didn’t want people to feel they couldn’t go to church because they didn’t have Sunday clothes.”
The young men and young women asked for donations from stake members. The results were overwhelming: more than 90 men’s suits were donated, as well as countless women’s dresses and children’s Sunday clothes.
By now the youth were getting excited about how great it felt to get things together for people who they knew would be thrilled to receive it, so they extended the scope of the project. They learned that hygiene supplies were desperately needed, so they got to work.
As part of their youth conference activity, the youth used donations from their stake to put together packets containing basic supplies like soap and toothpaste. Included in each packet was a written testimony and an expression of love.
Two young men jumped at the chance to complete their Eagle Scout requirements through service. The foundation was planning a trip to the Andes so it could build a medical post in Urubamba, but lots of preparatory work needed to be done at home first.
Scout John Tateoka gathered friends and family and coordinated a project of painting window frames, siding, and doors for the medical post. His fellow Scout, Adam Watts, contacted several construction suppliers for possible donations. In a short time, the necessary donations and work were complete, and supplies were shipped to Peru.
But the service didn’t stop there. The young people’s enthusiasm for the people in Urubamba was contagious, and soon donations of eyeglasses, sewing machines, seeds, and maternity supplies were pouring in.
So why is it that the people of this stake, who started out with a fairly small goal of providing some Sunday clothes, reached out so generously to people they had never even met?
According to Gary Brimley, a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, the answer is simple. “We’re all members of one church,” he says. “We care for everyone and work together as one unit.”

With the theme “a love of God and of all men” (2 Ne. 31:20) for their values night, the young women of the Glasgow Scotland Stake were asked to bring at least one toiletry item to help with a service project. The results far outstripped the expectations of their leaders. With 28 girls in attendance, they filled 29 small boxes to overflowing. The young women decorated boxes with wrapping paper and stuffed them full of toiletry items. Then they donated the filled boxes to several charities.

The day before Shan Harper of the Telford Ward in England was to participate in the Newcastle-Under-Lyme Stake sports day, she fell from her horse, caught her leg in one of the stirrups, and was dragged several feet. If she had decided not to participate in the sports events the next day, it would have been understandable. But Shan not only participated, she won three events! A Beehive, she beat all others in the 12–14 age group in the high jump and 100-meter race before running in the 800-meter race. To save time, it was decided to have all three age groups (which also included 15–17, and 18 on up) run the 800-meter race together. Shan again took first place, finishing yards ahead of all other competitors.

Abigail Moreno of the Burnham Second Ward, Baguio Philippines Stake, tells of an opportunity she had to stand up for what is right. A popular talk show in the Philippines has a regular segment called “By Heart” during which the hosts read letters from viewers. The letters are supposed to include seven “thank-yous.” Abigail wrote a letter, but she didn’t think the hosts would read it on the show because the first sentence of her letter read, “I like your show, but I’m offended.” She explained that the hosts’ frequent use of the Lord’s name as profanity offended her. She wrote that her family and her church believe in respecting the name of Heavenly Father.
One day she and her husband, Bobby, were watching another channel, and she realized the talk show was on. She changed channels and heard her letter being read. She missed the first part—they were already reading her sixth “thank-you”—but she noticed that throughout the remainder of the show, the hosts did not use the Lord’s name in vain. She felt she had made a difference by writing the letter.

The chance to share the gospel sometimes came in unexpected ways. This happened once in Taiwan. Without any previous language training, I was struggling daily to learn Mandarin Chinese. Tracting provided the thrill of a lifetime—having someone answer the door when it was my turn to talk! How amazing it was to me those first few times that someone could actually understand some of my sounds!

Then one morning an American woman answered—totally unexpected. Her husband was in the Navy. We were caught off guard and were speechless. Finally she said, “Oh, you must be Mormon missionaries! Come on in—I used to be a Mormon.” And thus began a miracle.

Her husband wasn’t a member and she wasn’t active. A teenage son and daughter had been baptized but weren’t active at the time either. We had the privilege of switching from Mandarin to English and sharing the gospel with this great family. The father was eventually baptized, both children served missions, and now the father and mother are working in a temple. Who would have believed we would meet that wonderful American family in Tainan, Taiwan!

I remember when I was about 16 years old overhearing Mom talking to Dad. She was concerned about some choices I was making. I was not guilty of any sin more serious than the immaturity of youth, but Mom was worried. What Dad said seared into my heart. “Don’t worry,” he said to Mom. “I trust Sharon, and I know she’ll do the right thing.” Those hours in the hayfield paid off then and there. From that moment on I was bound to those loving, trusting parents.

Gaining a testimony and being baptized were among the highlights in the life of Kriangkrai Pitakpong. Other highlights include his marriage to Mukdahan, whom he introduced to the Church; his callings as president of the Khon Kaen Branch and then as president of the Khon Kaen District; and a 1990 airplane flight with his family and other Thai Saints to the Manila Philippines Temple.
“When we flew to Manila, it was a milestone in the history of the Church in Thailand. There were about two hundred of us. We were all very excited,” he remembers. “It was a trip we had planned for a long time. It was very expensive, approximately $350 per person. Everyone worked hard to raise the money to go. Even our ten-year-old daughter, Kesarin, made some money selling charcoal for cooking. It was a special time for us.”

When she awoke the old woman was immediately alert. From her bed on the dirt floor she looked toward the east window, trying to guess the time by the amount of light seeping through the cracks around the curtain. My sister the sun must be lazy today, she decided, throwing the blankets off. The Two Who Have Something to Say had stayed quite late last night, talking and answering questions, and perhaps she had overslept. At the window next to the door she saw gray clouds sitting where the sunrise should have been. She must get the sheep out soon. Late October was too early for a very big storm, she reasoned as she rolled up the bedding.
Quickly she washed at the washstand below the window, then stoked the potbellied stove, and put a kettle of water on to boil. From a cloth bundle on the metal cabinet near the stove she took a large piece of fry bread and placed it on the warm edge of the stove top.
After changing from her night dress into a long, full-tiered skirt and velvet blouse, anklets and oxfords, she paused by the overstuffed chair to tidy things. The Two Who Have Something to Say had left some small booklets for her to read and a larger, thicker volume with a blue cover. There was a picture of a gold statue on it, a man blowing a long horn. “The Book of Mormon,” the lettering read.
Next to the armchair was an apple-box bookcase, overflowing with her beloved books. Raymond, her youngest son, had promised seven years ago to replace the boxes with real shelves, but he was married now and lived across the wash to the west, about a mile from the highway. He had a demanding wife, and they were both drinking. The old woman knew she would never have another bookcase. She sighed when she thought of Raymond.
The whistling teakettle called her to the stove. From the metal cabinet she took a box of tea bags. Then she remembered the Fair One with Sky in His Eyes had said “Sister Ashton, tea isn’t good for you every day. It should be used only as a medicine.” It surprised her.
“Why should it matter?” she had asked. “I am an old woman. Will God deny a small pleasure?” He had smiled as he replied, “To obey is not a small thing.” She put the box back into the cupboard.
Instead, she put sugar and evaporated milk in the hot water and found that it warmed her just as well. The warmed-over fry bread tasted good. She thought of last night, sharing it with the Two Who Have Something to Say. The Fair One with Sky in His Eyes, whose name was Elder Wilson, told her of a prophet, Joseph Smith, and the book that contained a history of her people. The missionaries she had known as a girl, the Ones Who Wear Long Coats, had told her some confusing things, and the Ones Who Wear Short Coats had baffled her as well, although nothing as curious as this.
These young men, these Mormons, spoke of things that touched her soul deeply. They told her how her family could be together again in another life because of Jesus, why she must learn this new law of health, and that a man who spoke with heaven was at the head of the Church. As they left after the meal and the talk and the prayers, she had said, “You speak of many hopeful things, but I am an old woman, perhaps too old to change my ways.” The taller one, Elder Jordan, had replied, “Sister Ashton, our Father in Heaven loves you and wants you to become as a little child and follow him.” He gestured toward the shelves. “Your many books may bring you great knowledge and the wisdom of this world, but they can never give you peace of mind.” After assuring her that they would return in a few days, they went out into the night. They are only young men, but they are as wise as grandfathers, she marveled as she heard their car move slowly out of her yard.
When the old woman had finished eating, she brushed her hair and wound it into a knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with a piece of silver hair jewelry encrusted with turquoise. Then she placed her bedroll by the loom in the unheated part of the hogan, which was separated by blankets hanging over the poles that supported the thick dirt roof. Hanging on the wall along the south side of the hogan, obscured by the blankets from the rest of the room, were pictures of her family—Alvin in his Army uniform, Evelyn at her wedding, Patrick’s twins, Priscilla’s high school graduating class, even her husband Tom a year before his death.
She lingered over the last picture of her seven children taken three years ago at the Navajo Fair in Window Rock. That was before Jonathan’s death in an auto accident on the Shiprock Road. Her daughter Donna was married to a white man from Holbrook, and he always took pictures. At first the old woman thought it was silly, but now, seeing Jonathan again, she was glad. Beside the picture hung a piece of paper in a metal frame: “This is to certify that Jonathan Ashton has earned the Doctor of Medicine degree and is qualified to practice.” She did not know which was the greater sadness, Raymond’s drinking or Jonathan’s young life wasted. As she took her wool blanket off a hanger dangling from a nail on the wall, she wondered if Jonathan would have approved of the Two Who Have Something to Say.
Outside the door, the woman adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, took the staff she had left leaning against the hogan yesterday, and made her way along the well-worn paths around the clumps of sagebrush and cactus toward the corral. My sister the sun is still hiding, she thought, but in the fall she often plays this game. The clouds in the west looked as if they would soon disperse.
The corral was far enough south of the hogan that the old woman couldn’t hear the sheep until she was halfway there. There were 50 in the herd now, including 15 lambs which would bring a good price at the market next spring. The rest would be ready for shearing by then, too. She was already planning how to spend the money. Some would go to Jonathan’s son, Edward, at school in Phoenix; she had great hopes for him. And some would go for a book about needlework.
The corral, some 20 feet square, was made of poles three to four inches in diameter. There was a gate on the north side. The entire structure looked flimsy and ill-suited to its purpose, but as long as the bellwether was with them, the rest of the sheep stayed, even if the gate was open. A large stack of baled hay stood on the east side, far enough away so the sheep couldn’t nibble at it through the fence.
Now that her own children were grown, the old woman sometimes thought of the sheep as her children, and she greeted them with terms of endearment. Some even had names. The bellwether was Hozhoji—“happiness.” He was sure and dependable, knew where to lead the herd almost before she directed him, and when she was tired at the end of the day, he knew the way home. He made her happy.
As she opened the gate, the bellwether nuzzled her hand, then hurried on to take his place at the lead, his bell clanging with authority. He started north, but she stopped him and turned the herd south. The area near the spring had the best pasture, and it was only a few miles away.
As she walked, she noted the condition of the sky, listened to the jays chatter and scream at each other from the junipers along the way, and laughed at the clumsy lambs trying to catch their mothers immobile and get a few gulps of milk. After two miles they crossed the rutted road, continued another mile till they came to a slight incline. From the top she could see the spring in the valley below. The sheep could smell the water and hurried down to drink and then feed on the succulent greenery nearby. A rock outcropping about halfway down the hill made a perfect vantage point for watching all the sheep as they grazed. My mother the earth is very generous, the old woman thought, as she made her way to the rock. The spring and summer had brought more rain than usual, and the pasture was rich.
Sitting there, the old woman could see south toward the dry river bed, wandering aimlessly, following the path of least resistance. It was probably three miles across the valley floor to the red clay cliffs on the other side. The few cedars growing in the valley seemed lonely. The scene was still as an oil painting, but the old woman knew this high desert land was teeming with jackrabbits, small rodents, snakes, and even deer and antelope who crept down to the spring from their hiding places in the thick undergrowth higher up. Three miles northeast, hidden behind the end of the mesa, was a trading post. The old woman could hear the wind and the faint bleating of the sheep, but nothing else.
She found herself thinking again of the Two Who Have Something to Say and anticipating their next visit. The young men seemed so certain of what they said. Whenever they spoke of the book with the blue cover they said, “I know,” as if the knowing were a secret waiting to be discovered. But they told her how they could be so sure. “I have prayed, Sister Ashton,” Elder Jordan said, “and the answer came with such power I can never deny it.” Elder Wilson added, “Our Father knows what we need, but he waits for us to ask before he gives it.”
She could not explain why she was so moved by what these young men said. She had studied other religions before. Many years ago when she attended a Christian boarding school near Ganado, nothing any of the priests or ministers said ever affected her this way. Now she was an old woman, sure of herself, wise, experienced. Being a grandmother satisfied her; her opinions were always sought, always important. If she went the way of the Mormons, it would be like starting all over again in many ways. Her children and grandchildren might think that her mind had slipped away from her and that she had become foolish. Anyway, she hadn’t even read their book yet. And she was an old woman. Perhaps …
A sudden gust of strong wind broke the old woman’s reverie. She stood to judge the northern sky and saw black, puffy clouds billowing over the hill behind her, almost near enough to touch. Never had she seen a storm move so fast. Fearful for the lambs, she hurried down the hill, calling for Hozhoji as she went. He was obedient, but some of the other sheep were reluctant to leave and had to be prodded on their way. By the time she had disengaged the last lamb, the bellwether was at the top of the hill and setting a brisk pace. Anxious and panting, but not daring to stop and catch her breath, the old woman hurried on behind the sheep. As snowflakes began to fall, the wind got stronger. Some of the sheep stopped here and there to graze, but she scolded them like a mother with naughty children, and they scurried on.
The flakes thickened, the wind began to howl, and the old woman’s anxiety grew. Then suddenly she was within sight of the corral, and Hozhoji was leading the herd inside. Now they were safe. A quick head count told her all were there. She counted the lambs twice to be sure and closed the gate. Before she had taken three steps she realized that if the storm were to last very long, she might not be able to get out to feed them. She dragged a bale of hay from the stack, opened the gate and pushed it into the corral. The sheep were settled and quiet now, huddled together for protection. By the time she had struggled the second bale into the corral, the storm was directly upon her, snowflakes pelting her face and stinging with the force of the wind. She counted the sheep once more, made sure the gate was closed securely, and began her journey to the hogan, planning carefully as she made her way through the swirling flakes.
The south side of the corral was no longer visible. She tried to remember small landmarks along the way, but one clump of sagebrush soon began to look like another and she was no longer sure. Hoping to reorient herself, she turned toward the corral, but in turning she stumbled and fell. When she recovered she was alone in the blizzard, unable to see beyond the length of her arm. She knelt there trying to think clearly. She knew she was on the north side of the corral, and if she went straight north she would come to the hogan. But which way was north? A little to the left? Slightly to the right? Too much one way or the other and she might miss the hogan and wander for hours, perhaps in circles, perhaps passing near a sheltered place but not being able to see it.
In a subtle flash, the face of the Fair One with Sky in His Eyes came into her mind. “Our Father in Heaven loves you … become as a little child,” he was saying. But I am a grandmother, she thought. “Little child … little child,” his voice echoed again. She bowed her head.
“Oh Lord,” she whispered through the furious gale, “I am lost. Never have I been lost before. Only you can see through this storm. I know you love all living things, but if you want me to live, you will have to guide me home. You are the only way I can get there.”
Suddenly, in the midst of the storm, she was calm. It was as if a hand had touched her shoulder, for an overwhelming warmth ran through her. Then there was a sound at her side, and she turned to find the bellwether.
“Hozhoji!” she cried. Puzzled for a moment, she hugged the ram’s woolly neck. She distinctly remembered locking the gate. He tossed his head restlessly and nudged her hand. Then she understood.
“He sent you!” she whispered.
She got to her feet, fixed her fingers firmly around the bell strap, and patted the sheep. “Take me home, Hozhoji.”
Carefully, instinctively, the sheep led her to the hogan door, then disappeared into the storm.
Once inside, the woman dropped the blanket from her shoulders. The deep lines of her wrinkled, leathery face seemed to lift and brighten. Never had she felt so loved. Briefly she saw the face of Elder Wilson saying, “Our Father knows what we need, but he waits for us to ask.” Sinking to her knees, she whispered a prayer of thanksgiving.
“Oh God! Praise God! I feel you near me, my Father! Jesus, my Brother, I know you now!” And she put her face in her hands and wept.
Presently the weeping ceased. The old woman dried her tears. Then she arose, went to the old overstuffed chair, and sat down to read the book with the blue cover.

I sat at Jeremy Johnson’s kitchen table, staring at a bowl of yucky-looking green soup that Jeremy’s mom had placed in front of me. My friend Jeremy had invited me to sleep over that night, and my dad had driven me to the Johnson’s house just in time for dinner.
“I hope that you like split-pea soup, Tyler,” Jeremy’s mom said, smiling.
“I’ve never had it before,” I told her. “But I know that I like corn bread,” I added as she set a plate of it on the table.
Jeremy started to eat his soup. I just stared into my bowl. The color of the soup reminded me of grasshoppers. I didn’t think that I could eat it.
When I looked up, Jeremy was watching me. “Mom, Tyler doesn’t have to eat the soup if he doesn’t like it, does he?” Jeremy asked.
“Of course not,” said Jeremy’s mom. “I could make you a bologna sandwich, Tyler.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s OK. I’ll probably like the soup,” I assured them. I was remembering what my mom had said about missionaries having to eat foods that they aren’t used to when they are guests in people’s houses. Once during her mission in France. Mom ate fried snails—something she had never even thought of as food. The family who served the snails thought that they were giving her a special treat, and she didn’t want to hurt their feelings. Jeremy and his Mom aren’t members of the Church, I thought, and I want to be a good missionary. If Mom can eat snails, I can eat this split-pea soup.
I said a silent but fervent blessing on the food and then, between big spoonfuls of soup, took gulps of milk. When I was done, I asked Mrs. Johnson to pass me the corn bread.
“Oh, you finished your soup already,” she noticed, glancing at my empty bowl. “I’m glad that you liked it so much. Have some more.” She spooned more split-pea soup into my bowl and passed me the plate of corn bread.
“Thank you,” I said, looking at the second bowl of green soup in dismay. “Can I please have some more milk too?”
After dinner, Jeremy and I jumped on the trampoline in his backyard. He showed me how to do a back flop. I practiced a few times, and pretty soon I got the hang of it. We took turns inventing tricks to do on the trampoline.
When we went inside, Jeremy’s mom helped us make popcorn to eat while we watched a baseball game on television. After the game, Mrs. Johnson said, “Time for bed, guys.” She got two sleeping bags from the garage and helped us spread them out in the living room. Before turning out the light, she kissed Jeremy and patted my arm. “We’re having pancakes for breakfast, Tyler. Do you like pancakes as much as you like split-pea soup and corn bread?”
“I love pancakes,” I told her.
Before going to sleep, Jeremy and I talked for a while. He told me about the year his baseball team won first place in the league. I told him about the time I broke my arm sliding into first base. Then I told him that my family was going to play softball together next Monday night and asked if he wanted to play with us.
“Sure,” he said, yawning. “Well, good night, Tyler.”
“Good night,” I said.
Then I remembered—I hadn’t said my prayers yet. I waited until I thought Jeremy was asleep, then wriggled out of the sleeping bag and knelt on top of it. I was hoping that Jeremy wouldn’t wake up. He would think that I was crazy, kneeling there on the sleeping bag in the dark.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy suddenly asked.
I couldn’t think of any good way to answer him, so I just blurted out, “I’m going to say a prayer.”
“Oh,” Jeremy said. “How come?”
“Well, … I pray every night,” I started to explain. I wanted to be a missionary, but I wasn’t sure how to explain prayer to Jeremy. Then I had an idea. “Hey, do you want to pray with me? I’ll say the words.”
“I guess so,” Jeremy said. He climbed out of his sleeping bag and knelt on top of it like I was doing. I folded my arms, bowed my head, and closed my eyes.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” I began. “Thank you for all our blessings. Thank you for my friend Jeremy. …” I finished the prayer and closed it in the name of Jesus Christ. We both climbed back into our sleeping bags.
“I’m glad that you got to sleep over tonight, Tyler,” Jeremy said as he rolled over to go to sleep.
“Me too,” I told him.

“Did you see how that new kid skates?” Alex whispered to me as we sat on the players’ bench. “He crashed into the boards twice because he couldn’t stop fast enough.”
“Just our luck,” I agreed. Our hockey team has players from lots of different schools every year. “Look at the new guy on the Fliers,” I told Alex. “He zips around the ice like his skates are jet-propelled—and we get Sam. Sam trips over his own hockey stick.”
“No wonder we’re getting slaughtered again,” Alex sighed, glancing up at the scoreboard. Its red light said, “PENGUINS 1, FLIERS 7.”
The clock buzzed, and the coach signaled Alex and me to replace Sam and Joe as they came off the ice to rest.
The Penguins skated hard, but we just couldn’t score. The one time we managed to pass the puck into Flier territory, the Fliers’ new guy intercepted it. Stickhandling it down the ice, he sent the puck flying into the net under our goalie’s outstretched leg.
When the clock finally buzzed the end of the game, the Fliers had racked up ten goals. We Penguins still had only one.
“We’ll get them next time,” Sam said as the team headed to the locker room.
“Sure, Sam,” grumbled Chris, our star right wingman. “Are you going to shut down their new guy? First, you have to learn how to stop when you’re skating.”
“Guess so.” Sam shrugged his shoulders.
I felt a little sorry for him, but Chris was right. Sam didn’t seem to know what he was doing on the ice.
The locker room cleared out without much more conversation. When I zipped up my duffel bag, I noticed that Sam was still sitting on a bench with all of his equipment on. Maybe he wanted to hang around, but I couldn’t wait to forget about that game.
The next day, we had practice after supper. When I stepped onto the ice, Sam was already there. His face looked sweaty, and he was breathing hard.
“Did you figure out how to stop yet?” Chris asked him, zipping around the ice.
“I will,” Sam said, ignoring the jab. I had to admit to myself, at least, that Sam didn’t let anyone beat him down. He just kept racing down the ice and practicing his stops until his jersey was soaked from falling on the wet rink.
“Sam must be a little crazy,” Alex said as we leaned against the boards to catch our breath after a drill. “He’s wiping up the ice every time he tries to turn or stop. Doesn’t he know when to quit?”
“He does seem a little clumsy,” I agreed.
“A little! A clown with floppy shoes could do better.”
Ftweet! Coach blew his whistle, and we started a scrimmage. I was glad that Sam had been put on the other team. Who could win with him falling all over the ice?
All week I kept expecting Sam to quit. “How much fun could it be for him?” I asked Alex. “He constantly crashes into the boards, and everyone razzes him.”
“He doesn’t look like he’s ready to give up yet,” Alex answered. “He’s always already on the ice, practicing, when I come, and he’s the last guy off afterward.”
That Saturday we played the Rockets. For the first two periods, we actually kept a one goal lead. Then our team fell apart. Chris got a penalty, and we were shorthanded. The Rockets took advantage of their power play. Their left wingman hooked the puck away from Sam and sent it skittering down the ice. Two seconds later, the puck went flying into the corner of the net. The scoreboard glowed with the tie score.
The Rockets won the face-off. Their team passed the puck down the rink again. It ricocheted off the boards and went right through Sam’s legs. A moment later, the Rockets’ right wingman slapped the puck hard into our net. The Penguins lost by one goal.
“We’ll never win,” Chris complained as we headed to the locker room. “Not if we let the puck slip through our legs.”
I figured that Chris had made a few mistakes, too—like landing in the penalty box—but I said nothing. I didn’t want him picking apart my game next. As usual, Sam sat on a bench with his equipment on while everyone else changed and cleared out. I waved good-bye to him. He looked exhausted.
The team didn’t have much spirit left when we showed up for practice on Monday. We’d lost five games in a row, and everyone felt discouraged. Everyone, that is, except Sam. He was out on the ice practicing. I was still on the players’ bench when it happened. Sam actually flew down the ice and stopped on a dime.
“Hey, Sam,” yelled Alex, “way to go!”
Sam grinned and raced down the ice, sending a shower of ice flakes flying as he stopped again.
“I’m seeing a miracle,” Chris shouted.
Sam laughed “Here’s another one!” He raced down the rink and stopped right in front of Chris.
One by one, the whole team started to watch Sam. We all knew how hard he’d worked, and we felt happy for him. Suddenly Sam slipped and went sliding into the boards—but he didn’t jump back up.
“Sam’s hurt,” I said, and the rest of us hurried down the rink.
“Are you OK?” Chris bent over Sam and brushed the snow off his legs. All at once, Chris’s hand froze in midair.
“I just had the wind knocked out of me,” Sam told him.
“There’s something on your leg,” Chris finally said. “I felt it.”
Sam put his head down and took a deep breath. Then he looked at the circle of faces around him. “I didn’t want anyone to find out, because I don’t want you treating me special. I was born with a bad leg, and I have to wear a brace. But I can manage just fine. Now that I’ve finally impressed you with my stops, I have to work on my turns.”
No one said a word as Sam got up and skated down the rink. “Come on,” he hollered. “Coach is here.”
That day something happened to our team. We started practicing harder than ever before. We figured if Sam could learn to stop, we could all push ourselves a lot more, too. Sam had shown us that a fighting spirit and extra effort could accomplish amazing things.
During the next game, our team scored five goals and tied the Minnows. Sam still fell down every time he tried turning fast, but the whole team was improving.
“We’ll get them next time,” Sam said as we headed into the locker room.
This time Chris looked at Sam and grinned. “Yeah,” he agreed. “We just might.”

The missionaries thought it unlikely that the young couple across the street would take time to meet with them. Gerard and Annie Giraud-Carrier were hurrying to an evening movie. But when the missionaries saw them that night, they decided to make one more contact. And the young couple paused long enough to agree to a visit later that week.
Gerard and Annie received the first discussion, then left their home in a small village 10 kilometers outside of Toulouse, France, for a three-week vacation. Before they got back, the elders were transferred, and the couple heard nothing more from them. Two or three months later, near the end of October 1968, new missionaries found their name in a record book, and the discussions resumed.
Brother Claude Tourres was the district president in Toulouse at the time. He and his wife became friends with Gerard and Annie, inviting them to a party and attending each of the missionary discussions. They helped Gerard and Annie understand the obligations that would be asked of them as members of the Church. As a result, the Giraud-Carriers committed themselves to the Lord and his work and were baptized four weeks after the discussions began.
“The thing that made the difference,” says Gerard, “was the plan of salvation. It was something we felt we had known before. I had a good feeling about Joseph Smith, and we both knew the teachings were right.” And the members of their new church welcomed them with open arms. The branch had been preparing a special program—a drama—and a role for each of them was written into it. The Giraud-Carriers went to the chapel nearly every night to practice. “It was a wonderful way to begin our membership.”

Elder Forsgren’s sister, Erika, had an interesting experience that prepared her and Peter to receive the gospel. A few months before her brother’s arrival, she was attending church, as was her custom. During the singing of a hymn, she saw a person stand before her and say, “On the fifth day of July a man will come to you with three books and all those that believe in the things written in those books shall be saved.” When her brother arrived with the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Doctrine and Covenants, she believed his testimony without question.1

Let me tell you of a letter which we received some years ago. A man wrote, saying, “I am in a federal prison. I recently came across a copy of the Book of Mormon in the prison library. I have read it, and when I read Mormon’s lamentation over his fallen people—‘O ye fair ones, how could ye have departed from the ways of the Lord! O ye fair ones, how could ye have rejected that Jesus, who stood with open arms to receive you! Behold, if ye had not done this, ye would not have fallen.’ (Morm. 6:17–18.) When I read this I felt that Mormon was talking to me. Can I get a copy of that book?”
We sent him a copy. Some time later, he walked into my office a changed man. He was touched by the spirit of the Book of Mormon and today is a successful man, rehabilitated, earning a living honestly for himself and his family.

Think of the influence that the faith of a Primary-aged girl can have on her family. Our daughter’s faith blessed our family when we lost our young son at an amusement park. The family rushed around frantically looking for him. Finally, our 10-year-old daughter tugged on my arm and said, “Mom, shouldn’t we pray?” She was right! The family gathered in the middle of a crowd of onlookers and prayed to find our child. We found him. To all the Primary girls I say, “Please keep reminding your parents to pray!”

When President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, studied physics and mathematics in college, he felt overwhelmed. His discouragement led him to stop studying and to think about quitting school.

But one night, he recounted that “help came as a voice, an actual voice in my mind. It was not my voice. It was a soft and loving voice—but firm. The words voiced were these: ‘When you realize who you really are, you will be sorry that you didn’t try harder.’”1

This insight led President Eyring to finish college, pursue graduate school, and later become a teacher. We may be content with where we are in our education or career, but God can see a potential in us that even we can’t always see. We lose nothing and gain everything by engaging in lifelong learning.

I first started fasting after my 11th birthday. My mum and dad had given me a brief explanation of it and how we do not eat our meals and then pay the Lord the equivalent of the food we did not eat, plus a generous offering. At first, I was confused. Why should I resist the temptation when I could just sneak to the kitchen and grab some cookies? At long last, I told my parents that I couldn’t go on. They agreed and said I could break my short, two-hour fast.
I began preparing for the next fast. Reading scriptures like Alma 5:46 and Helaman 3:35 really helped. During my second fast, I was able to bear missing up to two meals. When I felt the temptation, I resisted it by thinking of my Father above and how He sacrificed His Son for us. I reminded myself that I was showing my gratitude to Him by sacrificing, too. Fasting built a stronger and more sure testimony for me. I was confident enough to stand at the pulpit, and bear my testimony. I learnt how to be humble, strong, faithful, and diligent. Fasting definitely helped me in my school and social life, making me aware of the world and Satan.
Now I have grown to love fasting, which helps me so much in my life. I love bearing my testimony on fast Sunday. The feeling is wonderful, and the Spirit is with me. I didn’t starve—I fasted.

One experience preeminent in my mind is the Suva Fiji Temple open house and dedication. There had been political upheaval resulting in rebels burning and looting downtown Suva, occupying the houses of Parliament and holding legislators hostage. The country was under martial law. The Fiji military gave the Church limited permission to assemble people for the open house and a very small group for the dedication. The members as a whole were uninvited due to concerns for their safety. It was the only temple dedication since the original Nauvoo Temple that was held under very difficult circumstances.

One person invited to the open house was a lovely Hindu woman of Indian descent, a member of Parliament who was initially held hostage but was released because she was female.

In the celestial room, free from the turmoil of the world, she dissolved in tears as she expressed feelings of peace that overwhelmed her. She felt the Holy Ghost comforting and bearing witness of the sacred nature of the temple.

A German family once came to see a show and fell in love with the whole cast. The father discovered the group was Mormon when he gave Brother Benson a bottle of champagne to help celebrate a successful performance, and, of course, he wanted to know more. The family took all the players to dinner, and they responded by turning West Yellowstone upside down in order to find a German Book of Mormon for the family. At last report the family was investigating the Church in Germany.