Gospel Story Finder

The fact that President Kasue and other Chyulu Church leaders have hungered to learn more has contributed to the strength of the Church here. When President Brown invited all priesthood leaders to attend leadership meetings in Nairobi, he did not expect those from Chyulu to attend because of the distance and cost of travel. However, 11 brethren from Chyulu arrived early on the morning of the meeting. They had walked 20 kilometers to catch a train at midnight and traveled all night. They attended the leadership meeting that day, with some of them requiring translators. That night they stayed with Church members, and the following day they traveled back to Chyulu, expressing deep gratitude for the privilege of being at the meetings.

In spite of the many negative occurrences in life, there are those who seem to have the knack of seeing the positive side. A young businessman was opening a new branch office, and a friend sent a floral arrangement to help celebrate the occasion. When the friend arrived at the opening, he was appalled to find the wreath bore the inscription “Rest in Peace.” Angry, he later complained to the florist. After apologizing, the florist said, “Look at it this way. Somewhere today a man was buried under a wreath that said, ‘Good luck in your new location.’”

During high school, I didn’t really do anything against Church standards, but I also didn’t do much to strengthen my testimony. When I was 18, I was tired of just going through the motions each day without the constant companionship of the Spirit. And even though I’d heard many people bear their testimonies on how the Book of Mormon had blessed their lives, I’d never read the whole thing. So I decided to read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover.
As soon as I began reading, I felt so much more joy in my life. As time went on and I got further and further into the Book of Mormon, my testimony grew immensely and I was able to feel the influence of the Spirit each day.
One scripture excerpt became my motto: “If there be no righteousness there be no happiness” (2 Nephi 2:13). This scripture helped me stay diligent in my study.
On a chilly Sunday evening in October, I sat quietly on temple grounds and finished the Book of Mormon. I took Moroni’s promise to heart and prayed to know if what I’d suspected all along was true—if the Book of Mormon is the word of God.
Since then, the Spirit has confirmed to me that the Book of Mormon is true. I have a firm testimony of its life-changing power, not only for me but also for all who sincerely read it.

Samu, a ten-year-old African boy, walked slowly down the village farm road. He smacked at the hedge with every step, trying to spear a leaf on the pointed tip of his msasa stick.
When he finally reached the gate in the hedge, he paused hopefully. Then he reached out and swung the gate open and shut, open and shut. The gate was badly in need of oil and squeaked loudly as Samu swung it backward and forward.
Soon Samu heard the same loud squeak come from the old woman’s front porch. It was the bird—the clever talking bird!
“Squeeeeeeeeek, squeeeeeeeeek! Naughty boy! Who’s there?” called the bird in the yellow cage. Then it barked shrilly like the old lady’s Pekinese dog.
Samu clutched the gate and giggled. “Hello, hello!” called Samu.
“Hello, hello!” replied the bird.
Samu felt very clever. He ran to his home in the village and told his mother that he was teaching a bird to speak. His mother laughed, because she knew nothing of talking birds.
“I will show you, Mother,” Samu said excitedly. “As soon as I get a bird of my own, I will teach it to talk!”
Mother was busy pounding corn into mealie, and she just laughed at Samu’s promise and told him to run away and play.
Samu asked some of his friends to help him catch a bird. “I will teach it to talk,” he told them. But his friends only laughed, for they had never heard of a talking bird.
Next Samu spoke to Old Mwanza, who sat all day by his hut warming his old bones in the sun.
“Birds do not talk. Men talk—and they talk too much,” said the old man, shaking his grizzled head at Samu. “Why teach birds to add to the chatter?”
Samu wandered off into the bush by himself, wondering how he could catch a bird and train it to talk as the old woman’s bird did. He had almost given up hope when he saw a black crow sitting in the branches of a msasa tree hoarsely croaking about nothing in particular.
Why don’t I try to make friends with this bird by feeding it? he thought. I will bring it some of mother’s cooked mealie every day at the same time until it knows me.
Samu quickly ran home and begged for some hard-cooked porridge. His mother gave him a handful, and back he ran to the msasa tree and spread lumps of mealie on the ground. Then he hid in the bushes. After a lot of surprised scraaaking, the crow hopped down and began to peck at the mealie.
Every day for three weeks Samu took a handful of porridge and fed the crow. It no longer flew up into the tree with a scraaaaak of fright when Samu arrived. Now it hopped up close to him and jumped up and down in the dust, waiting for Samu to spread the porridge.
At first when Samu tried touching its feathered back, it hopped out of reach and looked at him with bright beady eyes as it scolded, “Quraaaaaaack?”
But in another week Samu could stroke the crow’s back gently while it pecked up the food.
Now! he decided triumphantly. Now I can teach it to talk.
“Say hello,” Samu told the crow. “Hello, hello, hello.”
“Scraaaaaaaak!” replied the crow.
“You will have to do better than that,” Samu said patiently. “Now try again. Say hello. Hello, hello, hello.”
“Scraaaaaaaaak?” repeated the crow, putting its head to one side and blinking at Samu with curious eyes.
“Look,” scolded Samu. “If the other bird can say it, so can you. You’re not trying.”
“Crraasquk,” squawked the crow as it flew up to the lowest branch of the msasa tree.
Samu walked home through the bush, dragging his bare feet and feeling miserable. Why wouldn’t his bird even try to talk?
He went back to see Old Mwanza and told him that the crow refused to learn to talk.
“This bird that talks with many voices and barks like a dog and squeaks like a gate,” said the old man, “must have two tongues. Perhaps your bird only has one tongue.”
I guess my crow does have only one tongue Samu thought sadly. But I will try once more! So back he went to the msasa tree with a handful of mealie. He fed his crow and then squatted down in the dust beside it. “Hello!” he said loudly. The crow danced sideways for a moment and then hopped on to Samu’s knee.
“Squaaaaako!” said the crow, and again it flew up into the tree.
Samu felt quite sorry for himself. All of his work for nothing!
Behind him the old man chuckled. He had followed Samu to see how he was getting along with teaching his bird to talk. “Samu,” he said, “it’s good to try hard to do something. But it is foolish to try to do the impossible. Would you try to teach a hen to swim like a duck or a dog to crow like a rooster?”
“No,” said Samu sheepishly. “But the old woman’s bird talks. Why shouldn’t mine?”
“I have found out about the old woman’s bird,” explained Old Mwanza. “It is a parrot—a talking bird. Your crow will make a fine pet. Why don’t you teach it to come when you call and to hop after you when you go for walks. Then you will be teaching it something it is able to learn.”
“One day I will get a talking bird,” said Samu. Then he started to laugh. “Teaching a crow to talk is like teaching a dog to crow!” he said.
The crow looked at him with its bright beady eyes and said, “Squarrrrrrrrk!”

Jenni Lynn was still worried about yesterday’s Primary lesson. Carefully shutting her bedroom door, she pulled her thinking chair out of the corner and sat down to give some thought to what she had learned in Primary. Jenni Lynn was seven years old, and Sister Hendley, her teacher, had told the children about baptism and confirmation. Sister Hendley said that every person who was confirmed a member of the Church received the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Jenni Lynn was afraid of ghosts. When her friends told ghost stories, she plugged her ears. When scary shows came on television, she ran into her bedroom and shut the door. Shawn, her big brother, and Lisa, her big sister, laughed at Jenni Lynn and called her a scaredy-cat. She didn’t like their teasing, but still she was afraid of ghosts.
She wanted to be baptized and to become a member of the Church. But I don’t want to have a ghost around, Jenni Lynn worried. In two more months I’ll be eight. What can I do?
At dinner Jenni Lynn watched Shawn and Lisa. She watched Mother and Daddy too. They had all been baptized and confirmed. They all had the gift of the Holy Ghost. But they didn’t act as though they were scared. She was the only one. Maybe I shouldn’t be afraid either, she reasoned.
The telephone rang, interrupting Jenni Lynn’s thoughts.
After Dad had answered the telephone, he said, “Grandma is coming a day early. I have to go to the airport after dinner and pick her up.”
“Oh, my,” said Mother. “I’m going to need some help getting everything ready.”
“We’ll help!” the children said, jumping up from the table.
Shawn helped clear the table. Lisa didn’t complain once as she did the dishes. Jenni Lynn helped Mother get Grandma’s room ready. She dusted the dresser and helped Mother put pretty flowered sheets on the bed.
“Grandma will need a blanket, too,” said Mother. “Jenni Lynn, will you please go get the comforter out of the cedar closet.”
Jenni Lynn ran into her parents’ bedroom. She started to open the cedar closet and stopped. Sister Hendley had said that another name for the Holy Ghost is the Comforter. What if a ghost were in the closet? She turned and ran back to her mother. Trying not to look frightened, she asked, “What’s a comforter?”
“It’s a soft, fluffy quilt,” Mother answered as she opened the dresser drawers to see if they were clean.
“Why is it called a comforter?” Jenni Lynn asked.
“Because it’s warm and soft. When you wrap it around you it makes you feel safe and good inside,” Mother explained.
Jenni Lynn sighed with relief. There wasn’t a ghost after all. She ran back to the bedroom, opened the door to the cedar closet, and lifted down a beautiful pink satin comforter. It was shiny and slippery to touch. Then she sat on the bed and pulled the comforter around her and over her head until there was only a hole big enough to peek through.
Mother was right, thought Jenni Lynn inside her comforter cave. I feel warm and safe in here. She sat still for a long time because it felt so good.
“Hurry, dear,” said Mother, coming into the room. When she saw her daughter, she asked, “What are you doing all wrapped up in that comforter?”
Jenni Lynn peeked out. “It feels good, Mother,” she said. “Just like when you hold me on your lap.”
“Does it, little one?” smiled Mother as she sat on the bed and cuddled Jenni Lynn close.
“Mother, why do they call the Holy Ghost the Comforter?” asked Jenni Lynn.
“Because He’s a special friend. He comforts you. That means He makes you feel warm and safe and helps you solve your problems,” answered Mother.
“Just like this comforter makes me feel warm and safe; right, Mother?” asked Jenni Lynn.
“Almost,” said Mother. “Except He’s a real person.”
Jenni Lynn snuggled closer to her mother and said, “But I thought that He was a scary ghost. I was afraid of Him.”
Mother laughed. “You and your ghosts! Well, He’s not that kind of ghost. The Holy Ghost is just a name that shows He is a spirit without a body. He loves us and Jesus sent Him to help us. Now why don’t you help me put that satin comforter on Grandma’s bed?”
Jenni Lynn jumped off the bed and helped Mother gather up the comforter in her arms. Just as they reached the door, she looked up at Mother and said, “Know what? I can hardly wait until I have the Holy Ghost for my friend.”

President Nelson, in his address, gave several suggestions3 to help us increase our faith. May I relate how I worked on some of them.
Study. I studied President Nelson’s address during last general conference and was reminded of Alma’s invitation to experiment upon the word and “exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if [we] can no more than desire to believe.”4
Yes, it was easy for me to choose to believe in Jesus Christ. But in order to allow the Atonement to fully apply to me I needed to work harder. This provided an opportunity for me to remember and to ponder upon the Savior’s ministry, and His infinite Atonement. I soon felt my faith growing and my hope increase. And I had an eternal perspective on the events of the last few weeks.
My heart swelled with gratitude as the Spirit helped me to recognize the hand of the Lord in so many details of these events and His perfect timing. Even behind my mother’s request to be brought back home. This allowed my mother for her last few days in her mortal life to be with her loved ones, feel more peace, and see her beloved doctor son taking care of her. Indeed, the Lord blessed me with this unique opportunity to be close to her whilst trying to provide the best medical care I could. I am so grateful for the precious moments of that Saturday afternoon I spent with her a few hours before she died, discussing nonmedical things. My siblings and I have never been as close as we were when we were all united in taking care of my mother and later, of my widowed father.
I remember that when mom was dying, and as I still felt her weak pulse during the resuscitation treatment, I laid my hands upon her head with the intention to give her a priesthood blessing to command her to stay with us, but my mouth could not utter what I intended to say. Instead, I said a silent prayer for the Lord’s will to be fulfilled and the outcome to be the best for her and for all of us.
This was indeed the best option, under the Master’s hand. As taught by Elder Neil L. Andersen, my faith grew as “a gift from heaven that comes as we choose to believe and as we seek it and hold on to it.”5
The “act in faith” part, apart from following President Nelson’s and Alma’s invitation, also consisted of writing and sharing my testimony to my relatives and through social media, and through this article I was invited to write. Yes, my increasing faith in Jesus Christ helped me feel His love and removed the mountain of doubts before me.
I know Jesus Christ loves me and each one of us. I know we can rely upon that love and that “the trial of [my] faith [is] much more precious than . . . gold,”6 as the trials we experience are there to help us increase in faith and be blessed.
May we all have that desire to work on increasing our faith in Jesus Christ to be able to remove the mountains before us, and to receive the blessings our Heavenly Father desires to bestow upon us.
Ifanomezana Rasolondraibe was named an Area Seventy in April 2019. He is married to Felambolafotsy Cardiss Keithy Suman Ratsitobaina; they are the parents of three children. Elder and Sister Rasolondraibe reside in Antananarivo, Madagascar.

When I was about 17 years old, one day I met my cousin to see a movie at the other end of the city. Afterward my cousin suggested that I sleep over at his house, but I declined because I wanted to return home.
There were no streetlights, so I started home in the dark. At this time in my life I was not very confident. So to give myself a sense of security, I began to sing softly as I walked. The farther I went, the more afraid I became.
While I was passing a soccer stadium, I heard a small voice tell me, “Thierry, change sidewalks!” I didn’t want to believe it was anything other than fear, so I ignored the voice. After I had gone several meters, the voice became more distinct: “Thierry, change sidewalks!” I told myself again that I was only afraid. I continued on the same side of the street, now almost at a run. Suddenly I heard the voice the third time: “Thierry, change sidewalks now!” I didn’t listen.
I then noticed at the next corner four or five individuals. I ran to the other side of the street, but it was too late. The group saw me, and they attacked, wanting whatever I had in my pockets. I tried to defend myself, but I couldn’t do much. Finally I fell to the ground and pretended to be unconscious. When they all left, I got to my feet with difficulty and ran home as quickly as possible.
Twenty years after this adventure I now work for the security of others. I have found myself in more serious situations than this and have again heard the voice that tells me what to do. Needless to say, I don’t need to be warned three times now.
I know that the experience I had as a young man, while painful, allowed me to discover the voice of the Holy Ghost. Today this voice is very familiar to me.

After a walk along a dirt road to the bus stop, followed by a long bus ride, followed by a subway ride, I was happy to get on the streetcar. It was my first Sunday morning in Vienna, Austria, where I was staying for the summer, and I was looking forward to going to church. I felt a sense of relief when I noticed a sign on a small building with the words: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Visitors welcome.” I clutched both my English and German scriptures tightly as I entered the building. I followed the sound of hymns to the chapel and sat at the end of a bench.
After the hymn, an opening prayer was given, but I didn’t understand much of it. Then the man I assumed was the bishop addressed the congregation. Few of his words made any sense to me. Suddenly I felt conspicuous as I sat alone. I felt lost and hopeless.
I blinked back tears. Then, one of the men got on his knees and began to bless the sacrament. The words were in German, but I knew what was being said, and the message was clear and powerful. As I listened to the promise that we can “always have His Spirit,” I was filled with peace.
As I sat in a small chapel surrounded by people, a city, and a language that were all foreign to me, I savored the familiarity of the sacrament. I felt a sense of belonging. I knew that the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and the Church unite us, and the comfort and blessings of the gospel are available to all, no matter where we may be.

Volleyball season came. We knew we were the best team in the stake. For two years we had been close to winning the stake championship, and this was the year we were going to win. We had the veteran “senior” boys. We had the height; we had the talent. And we even had a mascot—Billie. We even let Billie play. Just hitting the ball was a major achievement, but everyone clapped and encouraged him, so Billie really felt that he was making a contribution.
Being at each game was more important than ever to him. During the regular season, Billie might have cost the team a few points, or even one game in a series, but he played and we all felt good because of our sacrifice.
Finally the stake championship came. It was the same rivalry that had been there for the last two years. This time we would win. We had beaten the other team during the regular season’s games, and we would beat them in the championship. Perhaps as an extra precaution someone “forgot” to tell Billie about the game.
Saturday afternoon at game time some of our players were overconfident and had gone to the store for some soft drinks. The first game started without them, but the substitute players were good enough. Then in came the bishop with Billie. Both teams were well coached. The game was an even match of the teams, but we lost. We couldn’t afford to hold back our best players for the next game. We had to win the next game to give us a chance at winning two out of three games.
Billie had been at the coach’s side the whole first game. “Now? Should I go in now? Do you want me to play now?” His persistence was distracting. The coach spoke firmly but kindly, “Go sit down; I’ll tell you when, Billie.”
At the end of the first game, Billie couldn’t wait any longer. Scores didn’t mean anything. The only thing that was important was playing. The coach looked at Billie; for a long minute he agonized. He had always let all the boys play. Would he change the rules now? Was the principle more important than the game?
This was a unique group of boys. Just weeks before, the coach had told us that sometime in his life every coach should get a chance to work with a group like ours. He felt that we could understand principles. There wasn’t any choice; he had to let Billie play.
The other team served—right to Billie. Another serve—to Billie; and another. Again and again the serve was to Billie. The other coach called time-out; he was talking to his server. Another serve—right to Billie. The score was 11 to 0; no service had been returned. Finally a service went into the net, but it was too late. The final score was 15 to 6. It was our year to win, and we lost.
The other team walked off the court with heads lowered. We were fighting back tears. We didn’t understand. We went outside, and the coach tried to talk. “I thought I knew what was right.” Even he was fighting for composure. “I believe it’s important for everyone to play. I’ve always let everyone play. I hope I’m doing what’s right.” The bishop was there with Billie. He looked as if he wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. Finally Billie broke in and said, “Well, we won another one!”
Something happened after that. The bishop gave a lesson in priesthood meeting on winning. He said something about an inactive father going to the temple because his handicapped son was loved by our quorum. He said that was winning. Somebody said if Billie could play volleyball he could come to priesthood meeting. All of a sudden Billie was really part of us. We’d invested a volleyball championship in him, and he was important to us.

Tylor dressed and ate his breakfast as fast as he could. Today was Friday, and he had a very special mission.

Of all the things in the world that a boy could want, a tree house was what Tylor wanted most. He had wanted one as long as he could remember, but something had always stood in the way. One summer, his parents told him that he was too young. Another summer, they just couldn’t afford it. The next year looked good, but time ran out—his father had been too busy with work that summer.

But now, the summer of his ninth birthday, everything was arranged: Grandpa would supply all the wood. Mother had already helped Tylor save his pennies all year to buy the bright red paint for it. Father and he would build it tomorrow. And Cousin Hank would help paint it.

Only one thing still needed to be done. Tylor had to find some way to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard on the outskirts of town to Tylor’s house on Elm Street.

This was Tylor’s project today. He had received a wagon for a Christmas present a few years back and hadn’t played with it for at least a year. It had been put in the garage some time ago, and now it was loaded with old newspapers and magazines. Today Tylor would clean it out and use it to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard.

In no time, the wagon and Tylor were ready to depart. The only thing left to do was tell Mother that he was going. He found her on the back porch with two laundry baskets and a pillowcase full of dirty clothes.

“Oh, Tylor,” she said, “I’m glad you’re still here! The washer isn’t working, and I need to take these clothes to the laundromat. I can’t carry all of them by myself. Would you mind helping me before you get your wood?”

“Sure, Mom. We can load them into my wagon, and I’ll pull it. That way your hands will be free for Damion and Leslie.” (They were Tylor’s younger brother and sister.)

It didn’t take long to get the laundry finished, and Tylor was glad to help his mother, who was always doing things for him and everyone else in the family. After helping her carry the clean clothes into the house, there was still plenty of time to get the lumber. Tylor took the handle of his wagon and started down the street in the direction of his grandpa’s lumberyard.

After walking a few blocks, Tylor met Mr. Harper, an elderly man who had no children but who had always been kind to the children in the neighborhood. He owned an old go-cart that he allowed Tylor to ride on the weekends in exchange for running errands for him. Tylor liked Mr. Harper very much.

“You are just the person I wanted to see,” Mr. Harper told him. “I need a favor. Yesterday my fridge went on the blink and everything inside spoiled. I got it fixed this morning, but now I’m out of milk and I’m afraid my old cat won’t stand for that. Do you have time to run to the dairy for me?”

Although he was anxious to get to the lumberyard, Tylor had always been taught to help a friend in need, and Mr. Harper was a friend. “Sure thing, Mr. Harper. Can I leave my wagon here?”

“Of course.” The elderly man handed Tylor money for the milk.

When Tylor returned, he saw that Mr. Harper had filled his wagon with empty pop bottles. What a surprise!

“That’s for running to the dairy for me,” Mr. Harper told him. “I thought you could find some use for these.”

“Thanks a lot!” Tylor called as he turned the wagon around and headed for home. All the way, he imagined what he would buy with the money he’d get for turning the pop bottles in for cash.

He took the wagon into the garage and sat the bottles neatly on a shelf. Then he turned his wagon around and started off again.

He had only gone a few yards, when he noticed his little brother crying. For a moment he wanted to turn away. After all, it was getting late and he wanted to get to the lumberyard and back while he still had sunshine to play in. But he couldn’t go knowing that something was wrong with Damion. Tylor went over to him. “What’s wrong, Damion?”

Damion opened his hand to reveal several nickels. “All the kids are waiting for the ice-cream truck to buy an ice-cream treat, but I don’t have enough money.”

Tylor thought a moment. “I don’t have any money, either, but I know where we can get some. Come with me.”

Tylor and Damion reloaded the pop bottles into the wagon. After they had turned them in at the store, there was enough money for them and Leslie to all buy an ice-cream treat.

Tylor did not eat his right away. He put it into the freezer so that he could enjoy it later, after he was back with the lumber.

Pulling his wagon over cement, grass, dirt, and even railroad tracks, he finally arrived at the lumberyard. With Grandpa’s help, he loaded the lumber onto the wagon and tied it securely with a piece of old rope.

All the way home, he sang songs he had learned in Primary. He was very tired, and it was late. He knew that he wouldn’t have much time left for playing, but it didn’t matter. He was very happy. He had helped his mother, Mr. Harper, and his brother and still had time to get the lumber. As he smiled to himself, he realized that this feeling must be why Mother always had a smile on her face, too.

Their story began years earlier when Darmande Legbanon joined the Church. He had a desire to read the Book of Mormon and learn more about the Church, but was limited because he only spoke Fon, the traditional language in Benin. French is the official language of Benin, and what is spoken at Church. Through his institute teacher, Lionel Missigbeto, he was able to learn French and eventually served a French-speaking mission. Darmande is now the bishop of the Fidjrosse Ward in the Cococodji Benin Stake, and Lionel is the stake president. Bishop Legbanon has also built a successful welding business in Cotonou with 10 to 12 apprentices working under his tutelage.

I lived in Japan growing up. My family belonged to the Buddhist religion, like many families there. One day, I met missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had a special feeling about them. I wanted to be like them.
When I joined the Church, only one other student at my school was a Church member. Being one of the only ones was hard. Some of my friends from school made bad choices, and they wanted me to do the same things. I struggled to choose the right.
I stopped going to church for four months. But every Sunday, my friends from church called me and asked, “How are you doing?” It helped me. One morning I had a strong feeling. I knew I needed to go to church that day. So I did. Since that day, I’ve never stopped going to church. I decided to stay on the covenant path.

I wanted to get better at cooking. So when I got my Children’s Guidebook, I set a goal to cook with my dad. Whenever my father would cook, I watched him and saw how cool it was. I wanted to learn to cook like him.
My dad and I went to the store to buy ingredients. Then he taught me step by step how to turn flour into a beautiful cake. Later he also taught me how to make other things.
Working on this goal has helped me be closer to my dad. I love spending time with him! He has been a great teacher. One thing he taught me was that when we’re cooking, I can’t be distracted on my cell phone!
Now when I think of cooking, the feeling that explodes inside me is joy, because I love cooking! This goal helps me not only do something I love but grow spiritually too. I like that I get to choose my own goals. Heavenly Father wants to help me with this goal because He wants me to grow my talents. He wants to help me because He knows it makes me happy.

I learned this for myself when my oldest son received his first cell phone. With great excitement, he began entering the names of his family and friends into his contacts. One day I noticed his mom was calling. On the screen appeared the name “Mother.” That was a sensible and dignified choice—and, I’ll admit, a sign of respect for the better parent in our home. Naturally, I got curious. What name had he given me?
I scrolled through his contacts, assuming that if Wendi was “Mother,” I must be “Father.” Not there. I searched for “Dad.” Still nothing. My curiosity turned into mild concern. “Does he call me ‘Corey’?” No. In a last-ditch effort, I thought, “We’re soccer players—maybe he calls me ‘Pelé.’” Wishful thinking. Finally, I called his number myself, and two words popped up on his screen: “Not Mother”!

At Church activities I would ask myself, “Why don’t I have friends?” I felt sad and alone and went to God in prayer. I asked my Heavenly Father to send me good friends. It hasn’t been easy, but over time I’ve made many great friends. I’m not afraid to talk anymore and to get involved with groups of girls. I realize that Heavenly Father answered my prayers and that I was never alone.
Daiana I., 16, Corrientes, Argentina

I was 16 when I took my first typing class. It was 1963 and I was a sophomore at Samoana High School in Pagopago, American Samoa. I had dreamed of one day becoming a stenographer for the courts, so I was excited to learn how to use the Underwood model typewriters in my new class.
You had to have strong fingers to push down the keys of the Underwood. Learning to type without looking at my hands was tough, and when my fingers slipped and got caught between the type levers—ouch! But typing was fun, and I continued to take it throughout high school. I had no idea back then just how well my typing skills would serve me for the rest of my life.

Pam’s work at hospitals and children’s schools has given her a special interest in the handicapped. She is learning sign language and now regularly assists the visitors to Disney World who are hearing impaired.

“I’ve been able to sign for our arts festival and recently at the Ohio and Pennsylvania schools for the deaf. You can’t imagine how excited these kids are when they learn that I am from Disney World and that I can communicate with them in sign language,” Pam said.

Seventeen-year-old Kim Sherwood of Victor, New York, is delighted to be among those gathered in the study shelter as they get the day under way by singing “Oh, How Lovely Was the Morning.” Equally enthused are her three teenage sisters, Kris, Kari, and Koni, 14, 13, and 12, respectively, and virtually every other member of the cast of more than 500 from 22 states, Mexico, and Canada.
“I’m so excited. I’d rather be here right now than any other place,” Kim says. “I’m looking forward to meeting new friends, having new experiences, telling people about the Book of Mormon, and strengthening my testimony.”
In addition to the Salute-to-Rochester scene, Kim Sherwood is assigned to the “Yearning Scene” and the “Flag Scene.” She’s delighted. Everyone has an assigned companion, and she and Holly Phippen, of Roanoke, Virginia, immediately hit it off and become fast friends.
A writer interviewing Kim asks her if she would like a major role in the pageant instead of being assigned to “crowd scenes.”
“Sure,” she says, “that would be great, but there just aren’t that many female characters in the Book of Mormon.”
“Have you ever thought about the possibility of playing the role of Mary in Nephi’s vision of the Nativity Scene?” she is asked.
“That would be wonderful,” she responds. “Any of the girls here would be honored, but that’s not up to me. There are hundreds of young girls here for the pageant, and I think the Lord and the pageant director might have something to say about who gets that role.”
Three days into rehearsal, assistant director Virginia Schmidt reminds Dr. Sederholm that he has yet to choose someone to play the role of Mary. Mary has no dialogue. No movement. She simply sits and holds the baby Jesus in the Nativity Scene.
“But the role is among the more significant in the pageant,” Sister Schmidt says. “Mary is the mother of the Savior. She must have dignity. She must be pleasant looking. She must have a particular spirit about her. We look for someone with that special look and that special spirit.”
Sister Schmidt and Dr. Sederholm review the older girls in the cast. All are worthy candidates, they agree, but then their eyes fall on a brown-haired 17-year-old from Victor.
“That’s Mary!” the directors agree, and moments later a thrilled Kim Sherwood is excitedly telling her parents about the special honor that has come her way.
“How do I feel? It’s hard to describe. It’s so exciting, so flattering, and yet so challenging. I consider it a privilege and a blessing to be chosen, and I just hope that I can portray it the way the Lord wants me to. I pray that I can touch people in some small way.”
Night after night the show goes on. Aaron Moore fights his perpetual losing battle with Ammon, Kim Sherwood maintains a regal presence in the Nativity Scene, and thousands receive the message of the Book of Mormon and the restored gospel.
Finally, it’s Saturday night of the second week—time for the final performance. The same enthusiasm that has prevailed for two weeks is still there, but somehow it’s different. Everyone realizes that after this one, it’s all over. That’s it.
The show goes on. Once again the audience is impressed by the dazzling lights, the sound, the music, the story. Many are moved by the message. As the final scene fades, the “house lights” go on, and the crowd begins working its way to the parking lots. But “back stage”—back in the trees on the hill—no one is in a hurry to leave. There are hugs and handshakes, tears of joy at having had the experience, and tears of sorrow at the knowledge that it’s over. The cast assembles and sings the inevitable “God Be with You Till We Meet Again,” and the tears flow even more freely. Kim Sherwood and Holly Phippen, friends forever, say good-bye, as do countless others who have formed similar lasting bonds of friendship.

I have a Young Women leader named Jennifer. She is my inspiration. When I was in seventh grade, she showed up at my doorstep every Wednesday and Sunday, wondering if I was going to go to Mutual or church. I always came up with the excuse of being “busy,” so I said no. Then I noticed her visits were a repetition. She was showing up every week, so one Wednesday I decided to try going to Mutual.
When I went, I felt so loved. I just loved being there with the other young women and leaders. I went home and cried myself to sleep, I was so happy. On Sunday, Jennifer was at my door again. I said no, so she made me a deal. She said if I went to just Young Women and liked it, she would continue to take me; if not, she would keep bugging me. So I went, and I loved it.
I started getting back into the Church, and I remembered how much I loved the gospel. Jennifer has been there for me through everything. I am so glad that Heavenly Father has blessed me with my leaders, especially Jennifer. She has made such a great impact on my life. I haven’t always made the right choices, but I am glad and so grateful that I have her on my side. She has motivated me to become active again. I don’t know how I could ever repay her. I thank Heavenly Father that I have her in my life.
I now know how to appreciate my leaders more. I know that they are here for us and they can help us become better young women and men. That’s why God blessed us with them.

Almost a decade ago, I read a letter from a returned missionary who described this process in his life. He had written to thank those who direct missionary work “for daring to send me where the Lord required rather than where I had deemed appropriate.” He had come, he said, “from a background of proud, competitive intellectualism.” Before his mission he was a student at a prestigious university in the eastern United States. Quote:

“I guess out of a sense of obligation and inertia, I filled out my [missionary] papers and sent them in, extremely careful to mark the column indicating greatest desire to serve abroad and in a foreign language. I was careful to make it apparent that I was an accomplished student of Russian and fully capable of spending two years among the Russian people. Confident that no committee could resist such qualifications, I rested confident that I would enjoy a wonderfully mind-expanding cultural adventure.”

He was shocked to receive a call to serve in a mission in the United States. He didn’t know anything about the state where he would serve, except that it was in his own country speaking English rather than abroad speaking the language he had learned, and, as he said, “The people I would work with would likely be academic incompetents.” He continued, “I almost refused to accept the call, feeling that I would be more fulfilled by enlisting in the Peace Corps or something else.”

Fortunately, this proud young man found the courage and faith to accept the call and to follow the direction and counsel of his fine mission president. Then the miracle of spiritual growth began. He described it thus:
“As I began to serve among the uneducated people of [this state], I struggled mightily for several months, but gradually the sweet workings of the Spirit began to tear down the walls of pride and disbelief that had wrapped themselves so tightly around my soul. The miracle of a conversion to Christ began. The sense of the reality of God and the eternal brotherhood of all men came more and more powerfully to my troubled mind.”

It was not easy, he admitted, but with the influence of his great mission president and with his growing love for the people he served, it was possible, and it occurred.
“My desire to love and serve these people who in the ultimate scale were at least my peers, almost definitely my superiors, waxed stronger and stronger. I learned humility for the first time in my life; I learned what it means to make our valuations of others [without relying on the] irrelevant details of life. I began to feel swelling within my heart a love of the spirits that came here to earth with me” (letter to General Authorities, Feb. 1994).