Gospel Story Finder

Another young man lived on the outskirts of a large metropolitan area. There were no lights or water in the thin-walled, modest structure that served both as a home and a small shop. After his family’s conversion he attended seminary and developed an insatiable desire to learn. With great effort he entered the university, working part-time to buy books as well as to help support the family. When the desire to go on a mission became overwhelming, he had to double his efforts to save money for his mission. So he carried his books under one arm and his bag of wash rags, wax, and sponges in the other. Between classes he would go out and wash cars, then return for another class. The Lord blessed him with work. He multiplied his income until his leaders felt he had made the necessary sacrifice to help sustain himself.

There are scores of others, each one a lesson to all in the principle of obedience and sacrifice. A young lady with a great desire to fill a mission was counseled to buy ingredients, make cookies, and sell them at school during lunchtime. She did so. Then she bought more flour, baked more cookies, and continued this process for weeks, making a small amount of money each day to help toward her mission.

Are there not thousands of you listening today who are ready to match these two precious years of a young man’s life with sufficient additional funds from your abundance so that he can have the privilege of service? In this way, could you not become “nursing fathers and mothers” to these children of promise?

I call this matter to your attention for two reasons: First, time is of the essence! We need to get moving with the things of real import. The world must hear the gospel. Paul asks: “How shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent?” (Rom. 10:14–15.) And I ask, how shall they be sent today without sufficient means?

The second reason is the Lord counsels rather specifically about the wise use of property. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33.)

Jacob counsels:
“Think of your brethren like unto yourselves, and be familiar with all and free with your substance, that they may be rich like unto you.
“But before ye seek for riches, seek ye for the kingdom of God.
“And after ye have obtained a hope in Christ ye shall obtain riches … to clothe the naked, and to feed the hungry, and to liberate the captive, and administer relief to the sick and the afflicted.” (Jacob 2:17–19.)

“When I was a little boy, each December we would go to the home of the bishop—Father and Mother and each of their children. The bishop didn’t have an office in the meetinghouse. We had to go to his home. And then he would call us in individually and find out how much tithing we had paid and how much we wished to pay. It was a very small amount for the children. I think it cost more to keep track of than it was worth, but it did something. When we were little tiny children we were on the tithing records of the Church, and it has never been a difficult thing to pay tithing ever since then.”5

Mom poked her head into David’s room. “I have a surprise.”
David looked up from his toy cars and smiled. “What is it?”
“We’re going to lunch with your cousins.”
“Yes! Can we get tacos?”
“That’s a great idea. But before we go, put your cars away.”
“I’ll do it later.”
Mom frowned. “You know the rules, David. You have to clean up before you go anywhere.”
He didn’t want to put his cars away. “Rules, rules, rules.” Suddenly he remembered something he had learned in his Sunbeam class. One of Heavenly Father’s rules was to obey your parents. He put his cars away.
At the restaurant, David stared at the huge taco on his plate. There were also rice, beans, and little green things. He picked up one of the green things.
“No, David!” his sister yelled. “Don’t eat that.”
“She’s right,” Mom said. “Don’t eat that. It’s a hot pepper.”
“More rules,” David thought. He popped the small green thing into his mouth and chomped down. Very spicy pepper juice filled his mouth. His mouth and throat felt on fire. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He coughed. “Water! My mouth … my mouth is burning.”
He grabbed his water and drank every last drop.
“Eat a corn chip,” Mom said. “It will help.”
He grabbed the chip and chewed. His mouth felt better, but his throat still hurt. The taco on his plate didn’t look good anymore. Tears still rolled down his cheeks. He looked at Mom. She had tears in her eyes, too.
Sadness came over him. He should have listened. Mom loved him. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, just like Heavenly Father loved him and didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. That’s why Heavenly Father gave him a wonderful mother and the commandment to obey his parents. His mother’s rules and Heavenly Father’s rules would help him to be happy and safe.
He wiped away the tears. The taco started to look good to him again.

“The Family: A Proclamation to the World” teaches my family the importance of work. Have the children hold up fingers to count each of the nine principles while you read paragraph 7 from “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” beginning with “Successful marriages and families” and ending with “wholesome recreational activities.” See if they can remember the eighth principle (work). To teach the importance and value of work, tell the following story about President Dieter F. Uchtdorf. As a young boy, he worked at his parents’ laundry business, delivering laundry before and after school. For many years he had to ride a big, heavy bicycle, pulling a laundry cart up and down the streets of their town. He said, “Sometimes the cart seemed so heavy and the work so tiring that I thought my lungs would burst, and I often had to stop to catch my breath. Nevertheless, I did my part because I knew we desperately needed the income as a family, and it was my way to contribute.” Dieter knew his hard work as a delivery boy was helping his family. But it wasn’t until many years later that he learned how his hard work helped cure him of a lung disease he never knew he had. He said, “My regular exercise in fresh air as a laundry boy had been a key factor in my healing from this illness” (“See the End from the Beginning,” Ensign, May 2006, 43).

“Scouter Hunk,” said the country’s president, “I want to pin this medal on you in appreciation for your courage and leadership skills. Bravely you rescued 400 tourists when their boat swamped. Your Eagle Scout project has revitalized your town, along with the entire country. And single-handedly you reformed 200 delinquent children by getting them involved in Scouting.
“Dexter,” called out Scoutmaster Simmons at the Scout meeting. “When can you help us collect food for the homeless?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he replied.
“Brother Hunk,” the stake leader said, “the youth conference you planned and supervised was the most impressive activity I’ve seen. As the youth representative you single-handedly organized and carried off a wholesome activity that will be recorded in this stake’s history. Every house has been painted, disaster plans and emergency supplies are present in every household, wickedness is banished, corruption and litter are gone. And the youth say they’ve never had so much fun. You are magnificent!”
The youth surrounding the stake leader cheered the Hunk.
“Dexter! Dexter!”
The voice of his priesthood adviser, brother Magnuson, broke through.
“Dexter, will you help set up tables for the youth conference next month?” asked brother Magnuson.
Dexter looked up, realized he was at a ward youth meeting, and replied, “I dunno.”
There’s no glory in that, thought Dexter. I want to be chairman or nothing. Fat chance of being chairman so I’ll be nothing. He sat silent for the rest of the meeting.
Afterwards Julie hurried to catch him as he started to climb into the family car.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You’ve been so distracted and distant lately, like you’re in a different world. You always used to help out with youth conferences. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s nothing,” said Dexter. “It’s just that I’m tired of being ordinary—just average, with no honor or recognition. Look at us Julie. We’re the average kids. No one notices us. We are never head of anything, never applauded, just the average ones who are always there. If the school paper did an article about us do you know what it would say?”
Dexter picked up a school book, cleared his throat, and in a deep voice intoned, “Dexter and Julie are two average students at Riverview High. They have never been president of any organization. They did not win a scholarship. They haven’t won a race or a trophy. They have not won honors for any talent. They are average.”
“Now,” said Dexter, putting down the book. “Do you see what I mean?”
“But we try.”
“Name one thing you do really well Julie.”
“I like to paint.”
“Have you won any awards?”
“Well, no.”
“Don’t you see what I mean. You’re an average painter. So why paint?”
“Maybe I’m not a Michelangelo or even a Grandma Moses. But painting makes me so aware of the world. How many colors do you see in that tree?”
“One—it’s green. Trees are all the same. All green.”
“But I see maybe ten shades and colors—some darker with touches of brown, other parts lighter with splashes of yellow.”
“They’re still trees in an average painting. For me it’s going to be the top or nothing. I want to be a winner. I want recognition!”
His voice had gotten louder and classmates turned to stare.
“You’re getting recognition,” giggled Julie.
He lowered his voice. “I want to be the best, the greatest.”
“Well,” replied Julie, “it wasn’t some famous person that touched our family when we were investigating the Church. It was my three-year-old niece singing ‘I Am a Child of God.’ Sometimes the common can achieve the uncommon.”
“Not for me. I want to be the greatest. I want recognition. I want honors.”
Dexter climbed into the car and drove off.
Member Missionary Hunk was assigned to coordinate the open house for the public at the newly completed temple. He planned on being stationed in the celestial room, where he would quietly nod acknowledgments to community dignitaries. Afterwards there would be cookies and punch with guest speakers at the stake center to honor him. Honors to the Hunk.
“Dexter, you’ll be serving here. You’ll help put booties on the shoes of the visitors before they enter the temple for the tour,” the tour leader said.
Filled with disappointment, Dexter sat on the ground and assisted visitors with shoe coverings. No honor in this he thought. In fact it was uncomfortable and embarrassing. But there was something familiar about it. What was it?
He looked up at the temple spires and remembered the words carved on the side: “Holiness to the Lord.”
Holiness to the Lord. Again there was that nagging feeling of familiarity.
Suddenly, a scene came to his mind of a painting that hung at home. He who was greatest was washing the feet of the disciples.
Across the walkway of the temple two visitors were conversing.
“Say, who’s that kid with the glasses, the one who is putting on foot coverings. Is he someone special?”
“No, that’s just Dexter. He’s a nice, average kid.”
“But look at the way he’s treating visitors. It’s as though each person he helps is the most important person he’ll meet.”
On Saturday Dexter wrote a letter to his great-aunt requesting information on his grandfather’s birthplace. He gathered food, took it by an immigrant family’s home, and told them he’d be back the next day with two young men and a special book written in their own language. Later he wrapped up a clean Scout shirt and Scout handbook and quietly laid it on the doorstep of a widow’s home whose son hadn’t much money. He knocked and ran. The widow and son found the bag along with a note: From your friend.
Brother Magnuson was surprised that Saturday to get a call from Dexter. He volunteered to set up tables for the youth conference and offered to help with cleanup also.
Then Dexter called Julie and invited her to walk down to the park with him. She’d paint trees while he took photographs of the ducks.

A dear sister wrote to me of an experience she had decades ago: “As a 17-year-old … , I found myself pregnant with little to no support from my boyfriend. I felt ashamed and alone [but I] never considered [an abortion]. … I [had] my loving family and my bishop, with whom I met regularly for guidance. … I turned to God. I studied the scriptures … and prayed [and] found strength through my Savior and the repentance process. … I received an answer [to my prayers] that I could not deny. … It was heartbreaking, but I knew I would be placing my daughter for adoption. … I prayed for courage [and] felt the Savior’s love so clearly through repentance, I know that God … answers prayers and strengthens us.”

A loving couple adopted the precious baby girl and taught her the gospel. She is now married with a beautiful family of her own.

President Hinckley shared the following story about Sister Hinckley’s grandfather at the rededication of the Manti Temple. He said:
“Yesterday morning as we came here, Sister Hinckley and I were brought to the east temple door. They wanted to get us in quietly, I guess. But in any event we were brought privately to the east temple door, and the door was opened. There are two of them there (two sets of them), but the one we came through was opened—a very, very heavy door, some three inches thick, beautifully milled, beautifully put together, beautifully hung on substantial hardware. And it was a very touching experience because her grandfather, who was a young man then, at the time twenty-four years of age, married with one child and another one coming, hung those doors. And in the course of hanging those very heavy doors he suffered a hernia which became strangulated. He suffered terrible pain for a few days and died, literally a martyr to the faith which had prompted him to work on this temple as a finish carpenter over a long period of time, for which he received no compensation other than a pound of butter or a dozen eggs now and again” (fifth session, 15 June 1985).

On my block there is a lady who is about to die. Mrs. Gettman is 86 years old and one of my best friends. Our friendship started a few years ago when my mom made banana bread and asked me to deliver small loaves to the four older single ladies on our block. All four of them were really happy to have company and a treat. Mrs. Gettman felt good about the visit so I kept going back. I sometimes took my cousin and other friends with me to visit. We would play games or watch TV or just talk. I really grew to love those visits.
One day, Mrs. Gettman gave me a croaking frog and said it would be something to remember her by. Two weeks later my dad got a call saying that Mrs. Gettman wasn’t doing well and that her family wanted me to come see her one more time. I was sick that day, but I decided to go visit my friend anyway. I held her hand and told her I loved her. As I got ready to leave, her children told me how special my visits were to their mom. She had told them how glad she was that I would visit her even though she wasn’t a Latter-day Saint. My testimony is that Heavenly Father loves everyone. I know that people will be resurrected and live again because Jesus gave us that gift.

It is not easy to give up our personal priorities and desires. Many years ago a new missionary in England was frustrated and discouraged. He wrote home saying he felt he was wasting his time. His wise father replied, “Forget yourself and go to work.”1 Young Elder Gordon B. Hinckley went to his knees and covenanted with the Lord that he would try to forget himself and lose himself in the Lord’s service.2 Years later, as a mature servant of the Lord, Elder Hinckley would say, “He who lives only unto himself withers and dies, while he who forgets himself in the service of others grows and blossoms in this life and in eternity.”3

I didn’t know as much about fasting when I was seven as I do now that I’m eight. Oh, I knew what fasting was, but I didn’t really understand what it meant until one day when my parents called a family meeting.
“Grandma will be having surgery, and she needs our help,” Mom explained. “Your aunts and uncles and all of your cousins who are old enough will join us in a special fast.”
“A fast!” I gasped.
I love Grandma and really wanted to help her, but I’m a growing boy. Eating is one of my favorite things to do. It’s hard for me to go without food for two minutes, so I didn’t know if I could go without two whole meals! Couldn’t I send Grandma a get-well card or visit her at the hospital? I would even weed her garden. That would be as good as fasting, wouldn’t it?
“Who would like to join our fast?” Mom asked.
Both of my sisters raised their hands. “Sure,” I thought, “it’s easier for them. They have more practice.” Of course Mom and Dad would fast, too. They’ve been fasting for so long they’re practically experts. My brother wouldn’t have to fast because he’s only two.
“When would we start?” I asked.
“Tomorrow night,” Dad replied. “Grandma’s surgery is scheduled for the next morning. We’ll close our fast at dinner that night.”
I thought carefully. Watching all my classmates go to lunch without me would be tough.
Then I remembered some of the great things Grandma does for me. She always gives me treats from her cookie jar. She gives the best hugs, and she prays for me. Swallowing hard, I raised my hand.
“Good,” Mom said with a smile. “I’m glad you’re all willing.”
Before we started our fast the next evening, my family gathered for prayer and asked Heavenly Father to bless Grandma.
For a while after dinner I was fine, especially if I didn’t look at the food in our pantry. But after a couple of hours, my stomach started to grumble. I grumbled, too.
“Dad, I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow to eat,” I moaned.
Dad is pretty smart. He says things in a way I can understand.
“Son, I know it’s difficult for a boy like you to fast,” Dad said. “But Heavenly Father has told us that fasting is a good way to receive extra help. We hope that if we show faith in Him by fasting and praying, He’ll bless Grandma to have a successful surgery and get well. Do you think you can try something for me?”
“If I have the strength,” I mumbled.
“Whenever you feel hungry, think of the reasons you’re fasting. Remember Grandma. If you do, I believe you’ll be able to make it to the end of the fast.”
The next day I tried what Dad said. Every time my stomach growled, I thought about Grandma and how much I wanted Heavenly Father to bless her. It wasn’t easy, but I made it all the way to the end, just like my dad said. Even though I was hungry, I felt good inside.
Everything worked out OK. Grandma is better, and she still has treats for me in her cookie jar. After her surgery, people did lots of things to help her get better, like bringing her dinner and stopping by to visit. I even made her a get-well card. But in my heart I know that nothing helped as much as fasting for Grandma.

It was Christmas Eve, and large, soft snowflakes were falling gently. Three small girls—Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Sarah Amelia, who was often called Pet—were home alone while their widowed mother was at work. The three girls were worried about Santa not being able to get down their chimney, so they decided to sweep a path for him from the outside gate to the front door.
After they finished, Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet went inside their house and cuddled up in a very large rocking chair. They were beginning to get tired when they heard their family cow, Boss, mooing and mooing. “Poor old Boss,” Pet said. “She must be hungry.”
They were quiet for a minute; then Pet said, “It’s Christmas, and Boss doesn’t have one Christmas present, not even something to eat.”
Caroline came up with a wonderful idea: “Our mattress is filled with nice dried grass. Let’s feed it to Boss.”
So Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet pulled the covers off their bed, struggled to get a good hold on the mattress, and pulled it into the front room. They put on their coats and gloves, then dragged the mattress through the doorway and over to the barnyard. They ripped open the mattress and dumped out the grass. Old Boss stopped mooing and got busy eating her Christmas Eve supper. The very tired girls returned to the house. They curled up in the big rocking chair and were soon fast asleep.
When their mother got home, she awakened the girls and told them to go to bed. Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet told her they couldn’t go to bed because they had fed their bed to the cow! So their mother let them sleep in the big rocking chair.
Sometime that night Santa came and filled their stockings with yummy things to eat. And the next morning a good neighbor came with a load of hay and straw. So old Boss got a second Christmas present, and Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet got a new straw bed.

It was a Thursday night, and I was not exactly in the best mood. The day had gone from bad to worse. Not only was I late for seminary because I had slept in, but in the bustle of getting to the car, I managed to forget my math homework. The whole day continued in this miserable pattern until I came home, pounded upstairs to my room, and slammed my door, daring anyone to disturb me. No one did.
Now with chemistry homework half complete, I slammed shut my book and sat against the bed I had not even had time to make. I felt nothing but empty frustration and anger. What did I do to deserve this? Why was everything going so wrong? I thought wallowing in self-pity.
I glanced at my scriptures and suddenly remembered I had forgotten to read. I flipped them open. I stopped and felt rebellion building within me. Why should I bother? I thought. I had dragged myself out of bed at a ridiculous 5:30 A.M., to get to seminary and all for what? So I could forget my homework and have one of the worst days ever?
I was at my breaking point. Deep down I knew my troubles and poor attitude were my own fault. It was just so much easier to blame someone else. I was contemplating what to do next when a brave soul dared to knock on my door.
“Time for prayer!” shouted Ronnie’s sweet four-year-old voice while still pounding with all his might. I groaned and unlocked my door, emerging from my cave of self-pity.
“Hello, beautiful!” my dad said, kissing my cheek. I only scowled as we walked into my parents’ bedroom where the family had begun to congregate—all seven of us.
“There you are, Catherine. I have hardly seen you all day,” Mom said to me just as Baby Candace, as we like to call her, entered the room. I was greeted by the adorable two-year-old with a bubbly, “Hi, Ratren,” and a hug around the knees. I always find it amazing how much love is stored in that tiny body of hers. I felt slightly better, but I was still annoyed with the way my day had been going. Then I began to think of all the tests waiting for me Friday. I turned to my dad and, with a touch of that attitude which accompanies most 15-year-olds, asked, “Can we just get this over with?” (Luckily, my father was in a better mood than I was.)
“All right then, let’s see,” Dad said looking around the circle and counting as he went, “Where’s Steven?”
“Steven!” Ronnie shouted, cupping his small hands to his mouth as though his 11-year-old brother were across the street rather than in the next room. With that, Steven came bounding in, did a half-somersault, and took his place in the family circle. I only rolled my eyes.
“Now,” Dad began again, “whose turn is it?” I sat back on my heels hoping he would not call on me. The last thing I felt like doing was praying.
“Me turn, me turn!” shouted Candace, waving her hand wildly in the air.
“I guess it is your turn, Candace,” Dad said, smiling. “Do you want Mommy to help you?” Candace nodded and scooted closer to Mom.
“All right then, fold your arms, Candace,” Mom said gently. The small girl glanced around the circle to make sure all eyes were properly closed before she began. I was totally unprepared for what followed.
Before Mom began her usual whispered prompts, Candace started all on her own: “Heavenly Father, tank dee for Mommy, Daddy, Tistine, Ratren, Steben, Nonnie, and me, Tandace. Dat we are a family togeder. Help us choose da right.” The room was silent, except for the voice of a small girl speaking with her Heavenly Father. She had no thoughts of personal gain, only asking a blessing for Daddy at work and to help us “choose da right.” From the mouth of a two-year-old came one of the most humble and pure prayers I have ever heard. I was filled with shame as she closed, “Name of Jesus Christ, amen!”
We gave hugs and praises for the wonderful job Candace had done. After good-night kisses, I once again departed for my room. I gently closed the door and walked over to the corner where my scriptures lay waiting.
In Matthew 18:1–4, I read, “At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?
“And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them,
“And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
“Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”
Tears gathered in my eyes. For the first time, I knew the meaning behind this scripture. Yes, my day had been tough, but only because I had allowed it to be. I realized that throughout life, trials would come and go, but if we humble ourselves to become “as little children,” the Lord can help us get through anything.
After kneeling by my bed to pray, I opened my door and crept into the room where Baby Candace was supposed to be sleeping. “Hi, Ratren!” she shouted as she jumped out of bed, throwing her small arms around my neck. “Shhhh. I love you, Baby,” I said to her, as I tucked her under her sheets.

As a newly ordained teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, my first home teaching companion was Henry Wilkening, a high priest nearly 60 years my senior. He was a German immigrant, a shoemaker by trade, small in stature, but an energetic and faithful shepherd to the families assigned to us. I trotted behind him (for he seemed to walk and to climb stairs much faster than I could) during our monthly visits, which took us into sobering environments new to my sheltered experience. He expected me to present part of each lesson and to make all the appointments, but mostly I listened and watched as he aided brothers and sisters with various spiritual and social, economic and emotional needs previously unknown to me as a 14-year-old.
I began to realize how much good could be done by a single faithful priesthood bearer. I watched Brother Wilkening forging a strong priesthood link for himself through his loving service to those families in need—and to me in my youth.

Not far removed from the pioneer era, Joseph also learned early the value of working hard and paying his own way. As a child, he hired out to work in a tomato cannery in Roy during the fall months, spending much of the year herding cattle and staying up all night to irrigate the family farm. With his dog and horse, he became an expert cowboy at an early age, riding without a saddle and racing his friends on an old pony. Joseph survived many falls from his pony to graduate from a one-room school at thirteen. He learned his letters well and, when a young child, served as secretary of his ward Primary.

The youth of the Bountiful Utah Central Stake were planning a youth conference for the first week in June. They were planning some exciting events right in their own area. They planned a day at a water slide, an evening barbecue, a day of workshops, a dance, and more. It was going to be great fun. But the week before their youth conference, mud slides and floodwaters had inundated dozens of homes in Bountiful. It didn’t seem quite right to be planning an activity when so many people needed help. The youth decided to cancel their youth conference and offer their time and strength in helping their neighbors.
Julie Merrill, Lisa and Lori Dearden, Michelle Reading, Jim Summers, Bob Foster, Betsy Ann Wiscombe, and Adam Birmingham and nearly 100 percent of the youth in their wards turned out dressed in old clothes and with shovels over their shoulders to be assigned a home to help clean. This group was shown to a home where mud had filled the bottom level.
At first the group gingerly waded into the mud careful not to get too much on their clothes, but as bucket after bucket was filled and lifted in a bucket brigade out of the house, they didn’t hesitate to get dirty. As the group was working, one boy called out, “I know a song we should sing. We should sing, ‘Give Said the Little Stream.’” His suggestion was met with groans. The heavy mud started to take its toll on young muscles, but their good spirits won out. Someone missed the bucket with a shovelful of mud. Another retaliated, and soon everyone was yelling to stop the mud fight, but since everyone was already covered, it did little damage.
The youth went back the next day and the next until the home they were working on was as clean as they could get it and ready for reconstruction work.
How did they feel about shoveling mud instead of having fun at their youth conference? Julie Merrill said, “It was nice to help other people. I was worn out, but I felt like I was helping. I didn’t really mind the change of plans.” Lori Dearden actually preferred the change of plans. “I’m still a Beehive so I couldn’t go to some of the joint activities at the youth conference, so I didn’t mind the change of plans. It was hard work, but we were really excited to finally see the floor. We left it really clean with all the walls washed down. It felt good to help.”

Not many of us have the chance to crack open a snack with a machete on a regular basis. Or eat bananas right off the tree. Or swim and fish in the warm ocean just down the road.
Life in Samoa moves at its own pace and rhythm. It’s a stunningly beautiful and peaceful place to live. (Well, peaceful so long as you’re not falling out of a mango tree, as you’ll learn in a bit.)
Photograph from Getty Images
Sefa L., 19, and his younger brother Don L., 15, have lived in Samoa their whole lives. They’ve grown up learning to live off the land, and they love where they live.
But their love for each other is what keeps them strong. Samoans often refer to “the Samoan way,” which can be summed up in four simple words: they help each other.
For Don and Sefa’s family, the fridge is never empty. That’s because there’s no fridge in the first place. Their meals come fresh from the land, as well as from selling or trading that food for other supplies.
On their land, they have all the food they’ll ever need. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Mealtime requires serious work.
“I like to do my duties to help my family,” Don says. And he’s not talking about loading and unloading the dishwasher. He’s got some impressive duties! Using nothing but a machete and a metal spike in the ground, Sefa and Don de-husk and crack open coconuts, hollowing them out to eat as well as feed to pigs. They gather firewood so that the family can cook.
They go fishing. They make banana chips. They climb tall trees without ladders to gather fruit. On this last point, things can sometimes get a bit dicey.
“I once fell out of a mango tree and hit my head,” Sefa said. “I was sick and in the hospital a long time. I prayed for a fast recovery, and God gave me back my strength.”
Does that incident with the mango tree keep Sefa from climbing these days? He actually laughs at this particular question. “No!” he says emphatically. It’s sort of like asking Sefa if he still breathes air. And his younger brother is right there with him. “I climb all the trees too,” he adds.

In Sweden, during my last year of high school, I decided to apply to Brigham Young University in Utah. There was only one problem: no matter how fervently I prayed for God to confirm my decision, it just never felt right. I thought, “The answer couldn’t possibly be no, could it? In so many ways, BYU seems like it should be the right decision, especially because I want a temple marriage and my prospects at BYU are so much better than in Sweden.” Except it wasn’t right. Not for me. Not at that time.
Disappointed, I discarded my plans to attend BYU and applied to a university in Sweden. At about the same time that I would have left for my BYU adventure, I fell in love with Jonas—a recently returned missionary. Although we must have attended several youth activities together before Jonas left on his mission, I had never noticed him. How his charisma and infectious laugh escaped me remains a mystery!
Early in our relationship, Jonas told me that he had applied to BYU and hoped to attend the following semester. After his first semester in Provo, we married in the temple and began attending BYU together, graduating on the same day.
Now I look back and see why Heavenly Father initially said no—or really, “not yet”—to my fervent prayer about attending BYU. Although He said no to my desire at that particular time, He was actually saying yes to a much more important desire. As a young girl, I had often prayed that my future husband and I would find each other when the time was right. We might have met at BYU, but I am convinced that, as part of a greater plan, Jonas and I needed to find each other in Sweden. Perhaps many of Heavenly Father’s “no” answers to our prayers are integral parts of his “yes” answers to greater plans for our lives.

My brother and a family friend received their mission calls. We drove eight hours to the temple in Freiberg, Germany, so they could receive their temple endowments.
We stayed for five days so my family could do a lot of temple work. There is a hostel for families on the temple grounds. Some other children and I helped the gardener, and he gave us ice cream. We had a lot of fun.
I look forward to next year when I will be 12 and will be able to do baptisms in the temple.
Alicka S., age 11, Slovakia

Recently, on one of my trips at the Lagos airport, a registered taxi driver with the airport management who knew very well about the pick-up rules of the airport chose to violate the rules. He had the choice of picking passengers up at the official designated area or doing so at prohibited places. Rather than chose to exercise his agency wisely, he chose to use his agency wrongly and had his car impounded, his time wasted, his passengers disembarked, and his car dented.

Shortly after commencing to translate, I became acquainted with Mr. Peter Whitmer, … and also with some of his family. In the beginning of the month of June, his son, David Whitmer, came … and brought with him a two-horse wagon, for the purpose of having us accompany him to his father’s place, and there remain until we should finish the work. It was arranged that we should have our board free of charge, and the assistance of one of his brothers to write for me, and also his own assistance when convenient. … There [we] resided until the translation was finished and the copyright secured.