Gospel Story Finder

A true story from the USA.
Matt kicked a rock as he walked home. He couldn’t figure it out. Why did he feel so awful?
He had been hanging out with his friend Joseph. But Joseph had seemed really bored, and Matt had ended up going home earlier than he had planned.
Maybe I’m imagining it, thought Matt. Maybe Joseph is just having an off day.
The next day when Matt got to school, he saw Joseph talking to a group of friends. Matt called to him and waved. Joseph looked in Matt’s direction, but he didn’t wave back. He turned back to his friends.
Joseph just didn’t see me, Matt told himself.
During class when it was time for group work, Matt walked over to Joseph. “Do you want to be partners?” Matt asked.
It was like Joseph didn’t even hear him. “Come on, Mike,” Joseph said to the boy sitting next to him. “Let’s go work over there.”
The two boys walked away. Matt’s stomach felt heavy. Something was obviously bothering Joseph. But what?
Matt couldn’t think of anything he had done to make Joseph mad at him. Sure, sometimes they were on opposite teams playing baseball at recess. But they always gave each other a high five after. Why did it feel like Joseph was choosing to be on the opposite team in everything?
At least I can talk with Joseph at recess, Matt thought.
At recess, Matt ran to join the other kids on the field.
“Hey, Joseph!” called Matt. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“The game’s about to start,” said Joseph.
“OK, I’ll come play outfield by you and we can talk,” said Matt.
“You’re too late. There isn’t room on my side,” said Joseph as he ran to join his team.
Matt watched as everyone started to play. Having too many people had never bothered Joseph before. Everyone had always been welcome.
But Matt sure didn’t feel welcomed by Joseph. Why was Joseph acting this way? Why was he not including him? Matt hadn’t done anything wrong!
“Joseph is the one who’s doing something wrong,” said Matt to his parents at dinner. “He won’t even talk with me and tell me what he’s mad about!”
“That does seem hard,” Mom said.
Matt felt hot tears in his eyes. “It feels like he just stopped being my friend, and I don’t know why.”
“I’m proud of you for trying to talk to him about it,” Dad said. “Maybe you could try telling him how you feel and that you want to help.”
Matt shrugged. The way Joseph had been acting, Matt wasn’t sure Joseph would even listen to him.
Mom squeezed Matt’s hand. “We’ll also pray for you, and for Joseph.”
That night as Matt got ready for bed, he thought about what Mom and Dad had said. He had prayed for his friends before when they were sad or having a hard time. But this was different, right? Joseph was the one being mean to him.
So why were Matt’s parents praying for Joseph? Should he pray for Joseph too?
Matt knelt by his bed. “Heavenly Father, it’s hard not to be angry at Joseph,” Matt prayed. “I can tell he’s mad, but he hasn’t told me what’s bothering him.”
Matt paused. “I want to talk with him, but I’m not sure he’ll tell me what’s wrong. Please help him with whatever’s bothering him. And whatever happens, please help me still be kind to him.”
As Matt prayed, he started to feel peaceful inside. He knew Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were his best friends. They could help him love Joseph, no matter what Joseph chose to do. And They would be there for him even if Joseph didn’t stay his friend.
Matt smiled. Praying for Joseph had been a good idea after all.
Illustrations by Mark Robison

During World War II, I observed some very special young men from faithful Latter-day Saint homes lower their standards little by little and lose some of their spirituality. In some places overseas the water was not safe to drink, and the purifying chemicals made the water taste worse. Some started to drink coffee to disguise the taste. From time to time the army gave us cigarettes and a ration of liquor. Some did not take their rations at all. Others took them to trade for goods and money even though they did not smoke or drink. A few took them to experiment and became slaves for the rest of their lives. The habits they acquired during the war robbed them of their spiritual potential and many blessings of the Lord.

One day when I was a freshman in high school, a person who is not a member of our Church visited our seminary class during a lesson on Joseph Smith and the First Vision. To close the lesson, our seminary teacher bore powerful witness that through Joseph Smith the Lord restored the true Church of Jesus Christ. He then asked if anyone else could add a second witness. With a nonmember present, I knew this would be a perfect time to bear my testimony. I stared down at my desk, waiting for some sign or feeling to prompt me to testify or share my thoughts. Yet, to my surprise, the opposite happened. I realized that although I knew what words I would say if asked, they didn’t yet mean anything to me personally. I’d learned about the First Vision ever since I was a child, yet now the real test had come and I didn’t know if any of it is true. After two long, silent minutes, the bell rang and our discouraged seminary teacher dismissed us.
Before heading home, I sat alone on the steps in front of the seminary building and pondered what had happened. I felt like I had failed in some way, and I knew I needed to know for myself. So I prayed and then asked myself: “Do I know that Joseph Smith saw Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and restored the true Church?”
Remarkably, the answer came instantly and powerfully. Yes. My prior discouragement was completely gone as the Spirit testified to me of the truthfulness of the Restoration. The more I pondered about what I believed, the stronger I felt that the gospel of Jesus Christ has been restored. Right then I resolved to bear my testimony of the First Vision when future opportunities arose.
A while later I was sitting in seminary when the same teacher again bore his testimony of the First Vision. He again asked if anyone would bear a second witness. I was instantly reminded of the resolution I had made after the previous experience, and my heart leaped at this second chance. I was grateful that my previous inability to bear my testimony had motivated me to learn for myself that Joseph Smith did indeed see Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and was instrumental in restoring the true Church. I was filled with joy and did not hesitate to stand and proudly bear my testimony of the First Vision, because I had learned for myself.

After some flooding earlier this year, the Mudgeeraba Showgrounds—a fairground and park in Mudgeeraba, Gold Coast, Australia—was covered with piles of debris. The Mudgeeraba Show Committee asked the wider community to help clean up, paint and repair.
On 27 February, the Mudgeeraba Rural Fire Brigade, community volunteers and 130 members of the Gold Coast Australia Stake worked together to restore the grounds.
Ella Parsons, the Mudgeeraba show president, said, “We are extremely grateful to everyone for their efforts. It was a massive accomplishment. We are grateful to have The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as part of our community. It’s been years since we have been able to get this much work done.”
“Because there were so many volunteers it made the work seem a lot lighter,” said Marina Taulepa, a Church member from Robina Ward. “We are glad to be able to contribute to our community.”

It was a bitterly cold February night—so cold the Mississippi River had turned to solid ice, a blue and white highway. With the river frozen, there were no river barges, no ferryboats, no boats of any kind. Thick ice made it possible to walk out on the river, perhaps to walk all the way to the far bank.
The city of Nauvoo, resting quietly on the banks of the Mississippi, was dark—but four people were still moving about, shivering on shore, about to test the ice. Would it be strong enough to support them? Was it possible to drive a team of horses pulling a wagon across?
Kayla Walker followed in her father’s footsteps as he approached the river. Their friend, Tim McCormick, also moved out onto the ice. Even though she was excited to make the crossing, Kayla was a little scared. Their guide, Jerry McLeod, had already warned them that if they felt the ice begin to crack beneath their feet to spread out their arms to catch themselves from falling in completely. “He told us to try to stay above the ice,” Kayla says. “If you fall below, the current will carry you under the ice. That was sort of scary.”
Kayla stepped out on the ice. Exactly 150 years ago that month, the first pioneers to leave Nauvoo crossed the ice of the Mississippi, leaving behind their beloved and beautiful city with the white temple shining on the hill. Kayla, her father, and a friend had received the necessary authorization to be on the ice and reenact the pioneers’ departure.
“I was wearing three pairs of pants, a turtleneck shirt, and a sweater. Then I had on a big coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves. I had on two pairs of socks and a pair of hiking boots, and I was still cold,” Kayla recalls. “It was –30° Celsius. That’s why the ice was so thick. It was frozen 45 centimeters down. I could see cracks in it, but all you could see was more ice because it was so thick.
“It was dark. It was slippery, but we kept a steady pace. There was snow on top of the ice, so we did have some traction. We hit some slick spots where it was hard for me to keep up. I just didn’t want to stop. I wanted to get across. It took us 18 1/2 minutes.
“Brother McLeod’s wife met us on the other side in her van and drove us back home. I was very glad to get in that van with the heater on high and hot chocolate waiting. It was neat to think about my ancestors making the same crossing. Only they did it with long dresses and their children and some people who were sick. They did that, with no questions asked, because they believed in the Church. What strong testimonies they had! I think I would have gone hesitantly. I would have been asking, ‘Why can’t I just wait?’ Just doing what they did so long ago was a big testimony builder.”

Brother Baron carried the blue fast offering envelopes into our deacons quorum meeting and set them on the table in the small classroom. He scanned our young faces with a serious scowl. After handing out all the envelopes but one, he patted it in his hand and looked at me and said, “Joey, for five months I’ve been giving you Brother Mumford Grossenheider’s fast offering envelope, but he tells his home teachers that no one has come by. What’s going on?”
I looked at my friend Reggie, who smiled innocently and folded his arms.
Brother Baron sat on the table in front of us and looked at me while tapping the envelope against his knee. “Joey, Brother Grossenheider hasn’t been to church in more than 60 years. We finally got some home teachers that he’ll talk to, and the home teachers asked him if someone could come by to collect fast offerings, and Brother Grossenheider said okay. Have you been going to his house?” he asked.
I leaned forward and looked down at the floor. “Well, yeah, but nobody answers the door.”
“He’s an old man,” Brother Baron said. “He uses a cane. You’ve got to give him time. How long did you wait at the door last month?”
I glanced at Reggie again. He was watching Brother Baron as if nothing was wrong.
“Last month?” I said slowly.
“You went to his house last month, didn’t you?”
“Well, I went the first two months and nobody answered, so …” I looked up into Brother Baron’s disappointed face.
“You haven’t been going?” he said sadly.
“It takes too long,” I said.
“But what’s the big hurry?” Brother Baron asked. “It would only take another five or ten minutes. You can sacrifice five minutes a month can’t you?”
“Well,” I said, “Reggie doesn’t have any hard ones like that, and he always beats me.”
“Beats you? This isn’t a race, Joey.” He looked at Reggie, whose mask of innocence suddenly seemed removed. Brother Baron dragged his hand over his face, flattening his nose. He looked back and forth at me and Reggie. “You’ve been racing?”
After church Reggie and I walked together down Main Street until we reached house number 433, where Mumford Grossenheider lived. We looked at the house together. Brother Baron was waiting for us back at the church, and when we returned, he wanted a report on every house—something he said he probably should have been doing all along.
It was a strange old house. A fence, barely visible behind raggedy bushes and tall yellow grass, surrounded the weedy front yard. There a fat mulberry tree stood with its branches nearly touching the ground, and a shaggy hedge had begun to climb onto the raised front porch, where posts and eaves had long since begun peeling their coats of faded brown paint. As we stood at the front gate, my eyes followed the straight sidewalk, narrowed by overgrown edge grass, to a broken screen door that leaned like a car with a flat tire. The house had a tall narrowness about it—a steep pitched roof with peaks pointing heavenward. The dark windows were covered with heavy closed curtains, concealing all evidence of who lived there.
“This is creepy,” Reggie said. “I’ll wait here.”
I lifted the latch and pushed the front gate forward. It squeaked loudly and wavered back and forth from its open position. Indeed, it was creepy, and I must now confess that I hadn’t actually ever knocked on Brother Grossenheider’s front door as I had told Brother Baron. I had rattled the gate and yelled, “Is anybody here?” then quickly left.
A few steps placed me halfway up the front walk. I hesitated. A breeze started the gate moving, and it slammed closed.
Suddenly the front door of the house opened, and a raspy voice yelled, “What are you boys doing in my yard?”
I froze on the walkway. I heard Reggie’s feet pound the pavement as he ran away. “Run!” he called from across the street. The daylight reflecting on the broken screen door left darkness behind it, and I could not see the angry man, though I imagined the worst.
“Answer up quick, boy,” the voice continued. “What do you want?”
The broken screen door swung suddenly open and out shot what looked like a six-foot arm, but later I realized was a normal arm pointing a cane at me.
I dropped the envelope and grabbed the top of the gate and heaved my body over it, landing on my knees on the other side. I jumped to my feet and ran down the street until Reggie and I met a block away, breathing heavily.
When we returned to the church with our other envelopes, Brother Baron was not very understanding. “Why didn’t you just tell him who you are and what you were doing?” Brother Baron asked. “He probably thought you were just a couple of kids.”
“We are just a couple of kids.”
“No,” Brother Baron said. “You’re Aaronic Priesthood holders on an errand from the Lord Jesus Christ.” Then he looked seriously into my eyes. Finally, he shook his head and said, “I’ll have the home teachers explain it to Brother Grossenheider.”
The next Sunday in our priesthood lesson, Brother Baron told the story of President Spencer W. Kimball’s father, Andrew Kimball, who was called on a mission to the Indian territory in 1884. The summer of that year, both Elder Kimball and his companion got malaria and lay sick in bed for many weeks. Malaria had caused many missionaries to return home early from their missions. Some even died, so the Church sent word to Andrew Kimball that he and his companion could return home, which his companion did. But Elder Kimball sent this message back to Salt Lake: “I have the priesthood with me. I will get well and prefer to stay.” And he did stay for two more years.
“You see,” Brother Baron said, “the priesthood is a great, great privilege. It’s your enlistment into the army of God. And when you are given an assignment, I think the Lord watches as much to see how hard you try as He does to see whether you succeed or fail.”
After church I grabbed Reggie and said, “I’m going back to Brother Grossenheider’s to get the fast offering envelope, and you’re coming with me.”
“No way,” Reggie said. He argued all the way down Main Street until we stopped next to the gate. We stood to the side of the gate, behind the overgrown bushes, unseen by the silent house.
“The Lord gave us an errand,” I said. “Now let’s finish it.”
“It was your errand to start with, not mine.”
“Well, we’re both deacons. We both have the priesthood, and I need your help. Brother Baron made you my official companion.” I reached for the gate latch.
“Hold on a minute,” Reggie said.
“What?” I said, actually relieved to postpone our entry.
Reggie exhaled a great breath and looked around the vacant street. “We could call him on the phone from my house,” he said and looked at me with a fresh smile.
I nodded. “But then we’d still have to come and get the envelope.”
We looked at the raggedy house through the equally raggedy bushes.
“Let’s just do it,” I said.
“Well, what’s the plan?” Reggie asked. “Walk up to the door and ask him for it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess so. It’s like Nephi going to get the brass plates from Laban. We’ll just have to let the way open up once we get there.”
“Oh, brother. That won’t work for us. We’re just kids. Nephi was a prophet.”
“We’re deacons. And besides, Nephi was a kid, remember?”
“Yeah, but a ‘large in stature’ kid.”
“Come on. Are you a Laman or a Nephi?”
“That’s not a fair question. I’m kind of a Nephi-in-the-making, you know, but I’m not quite there yet. And besides,” he mimicked me, “Nephi went alone, remember?”
“Well, I’m not going up there alone. You’re coming with me. Now, let’s go.”
I grabbed the gate latch and Reggie’s arm at the same time.
“All right,” Reggie said, still resisting me as the gate swung open and I pulled him through. “But if he’s passed out like Laban was, no way are we going to …”
“Shhh,” I said.
We slowly moved up the narrow walk to the porch steps and stopped, looking at the shabby house.
“Boy, does this place need paint,” I said.
“And a weed whacker,” Reggie said.
As we carefully proceeded up the steps, the top step flexed and creaked louder than a doorbell when we put our weight on it, announcing our presence.
“You boys!” a voice suddenly said from behind us. As we turned, Reggie slipped, sitting on the top step and bouncing his way to the bottom.
Brother Grossenheider was sitting in a lawn chair in the shade of the overgrown mulberry tree near the front gate. The bushes and weeds had kept him out of our sight. He had been there the whole time, even as we had been talking.
Reggie stood quickly and rubbed the back of his pants.
“H-hello, sir,” I said from the top step.
The old man reached into the big pocket of his faded overalls, and Reggie motioned to the gate to run for it, but Brother Grossenheider pulled from his pocket the blue fast offering envelope. “You looking for this?” he asked.
He was a very old man. His cane leaned against his chair. The top of his head was bald, the sides covered with thin gray hair. Small wire-frame glasses rested on the end of a large hooked nose. With his chin down, he watched us over the tops of the glasses but beneath the bottoms of his bushy white eyebrows.
“I found this on my walkway,” Brother Grossenheider said and shook the envelope at us as if it were evidence of our guilt.
“Y-yes, sir,” I said nervously and came down the steps next to Reggie. “We, uh, left it for you last week, and, uh, we’ve come to—to get it back.”
“So you’re deacons, are you? From the Church? Why didn’t you say so last week?”
I looked at Reggie, and we smiled sheepishly together, and I asked, “You didn’t hear us talking outside the gate, did you?”
He nodded slightly and looked at the envelope.
“We didn’t mean that you are like Laban, Brother Grossenheider. It’s just that …” I shrugged my shoulders.
“I remember that story of Nephi,” Brother Grossenheider said in his raspy old voice. “I was a deacon once, you know. But I was 16 or 17 years old. I didn’t know they sent young bucks like yourselves to do this kind of work.” He squinted at the sky. “I haven’t been to church in 60 years. But I remember doing fast offerings a few times when I was a deacon.”
He paused. “I’d forgotten all about that.” He turned the envelope over and over in his hands and examined it. “That used to be an important job, fast offerings. The bishop took us around in a wagon, and we loaded that wagon with eggs and tomatoes and carrots and meat, sometimes a chicken or two. And we drove right over to the people who needed it and gave it to them. They surely were glad to get it. Nineteen thirty-six, it was. Lots of people out of work. The Depression, you know.”
He looked keenly at us over his glasses. “No, I guess you don’t. But it was an important job back then. I suspect there’s still people in need, eh.” He looked at us sharply. “You boys look mighty young to be doing important business like this.”
We didn’t answer.
He shook the envelope at us again. “Can’t fit a chicken in here. How does this work?”
Reggie and I exchanged glances. “You just put some money in it,” I said and shrugged again. “Whatever you can afford.”
“Yep,” Reggie said and put his hands in his pockets. “And then the bishop takes care of it from there.”
The old man nodded and thought for a moment. “So I’m Laban, eh?” he said and squinted his eyes at us.
We looked at the ground, embarrassed, and adjusted our feet.
He took a dollar bill from his pocket. “I don’t have much,” he said and slid the dollar into the envelope. Then he stood and slowly walked to us with the envelope, his cane supporting his left side.
“You’ll be back next month?” Brother Grossenheider asked, handing me the envelope.
“Yes, sir, we will,” I said.
He worked his way up the porch steps with his cane, groaning as his legs lifted his body to each level. At the top he turned around and paused as his hard breathing settled to a quieter mode. “You boys close that gate when you leave, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and we did.
When we got to the street, Reggie said, “You know, I was thinking how the quorum needs a service project. Maybe next month we could ask Brother Grossenheider about helping with his yard. What do you think?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go tell Brother Baron.” I turned and ran. “Last one there is a rotten egg!”

Alisa helped her younger sister, Mikki, comb her long black hair. Then they hurried downstairs and ate breakfast. Tomorrow was Father’s Day, and the two girls were going shopping today for the ingredients to make a cake for their father. It was not going to be an ordinary cake—it would be filled with surprises!
As soon as they came home from the store, they took their aprons from the closet and helped each other tie them. Next they got all the ingredients out for the surprise cake and put them on the table. While Mikki greased and floured the cake pans, Alisa turned on the oven. Then, carefully measuring and stirring, the girls soon had the batter ready. Alisa spooned it into the cake pans while Mikki watched to see that both pans had the same amount.
At last the pans were in the oven, and the best part of making the cake batter had arrived. Alisa and Mikki each got a spoon and sat at the table and scraped the bowl.
Soon the cake layers were cooling on racks and the dishes were done. The girls ran up to their room to make the “surprise” part of the cake.
First they cut a piece of paper into several narrow strips. Then on each strip they wrote one thing that was special about their dad. Next they folded the strips and went back downstairs and wrapped each one in aluminum foil. With a knife Alisa carefully made little slits in the cake, and Mikki poked a wrapped strip into each slit.
Mother frosted the cake for them. She made pretty swirls around the edges and wrote “Happy Father’s Day” in the middle.
The next day after church they had a Father’s Day party. They sang Father’s favorite songs and played some games. When Mother cut the cake, she gave everyone a big piece. Father, of course, got the biggest one.
"What’s shining in my piece of cake?" he asked.
Alisa and Mikki looked at each other and grinned.
"That’s our surprise for you!" Alisa said.
"Yes," Mikki told him. "You’re supposed to unwrap the foil and read the note out loud. Then we’ll take turns reading ours."
Each person found and excitedly unwrapped the foil-covered surprises that had been hidden in the cake. Father’s face beamed as he read the first strip. It said, "We love you because you read stories to us."
Mikki opened the next one and read, "We love you because you take care of us."
Mother’s strip said, "We love you because you do things with us."
Alisa had two surprise strips in her piece of cake. "We love you because you laugh a lot" was on the first one.
Alisa, Mikki, and Mother read the last one together: "We love you because you love us."
"I really do," Father said. "Thank you for a wonderful Father’s Day."
(If you would like to make a surprise cake for someone, just follow the directions for "Chocolate Surprise Cake" in Kitchen Krafts.)

Marcelino Tossen believed in God, read the Bible, and enjoyed talking about religion, so when the full-time missionaries knocked on his apartment door one warm January day in 1992, he invited them in. That decision changed his life.
“Elder Zanni and Elder Halls worked under the impressions of the Spirit,” recalls Marcelino. Before that first discussion had even ended, the elders told him that he would be baptized into the Church, even telling him the exact day he would be baptized.
“I’m not going to get baptized,” Marcelino countered. “I want only to talk to you.”
The missionaries gave him a Book of Mormon and asked him to read several verses and pray that night about their message. He did so but felt nothing.
During a subsequent discussion, however, Elder Zanni asked him, “Would it be all right if we prayed so you can ask Heavenly Father if what we have been teaching you is true?”
As he prayed, Marcelino says, “my heart began to burn fervently within me. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. I couldn’t even finish my prayer, and I arose from my knees.”
Elder Zanni asked Marcelino if he had felt anything during his prayer. When Marcelino told him no, the missionary said, “I felt the Spirit very strong. It’s strange that you didn’t feel anything.”
When he admitted what he had felt, Marcelino says, “the elders read from the Doctrine and Covenants, telling me that when the Lord wants us to know if something is right, He will send His peace or make our heart burn within us [see D&C 6:23; 9:8]. That day was a turning point for me.”
From then on, the Spirit labored with him and testified of the truth through numerous spiritual experiences. “I’d feel the burning again while I was alone in my apartment,” Marcelino says. “When I would open the window, I’d see the elders nearby on a corner teaching people about the Church. I could feel when they were close, and I began to take seriously what they were teaching me.”
Marcelino received a warm welcome when he began attending church. He was baptized a short while later on April 22—the exact day the missionaries had named three months earlier. Today, after serving nine years as president of the Ushuaia district, he serves as the second counselor in the presidency of the Buenos Aires north mission.
“When we read that the Lord will ‘send forth [His] word unto the ends of the earth’ [D&C 112:4], that’s Ushuaia,” says President Tossen. “Ushuaia is the end of the earth. But for those like me who found the gospel here, it’s the beginning of everything. Here you’ll find the lighthouse at the end of the world. But here is where I found faith and the lighthouse of the Lord.”

Haruki, it is time for bed. Did you say your prayer yet?
No, not yet.
We will kneel with you.
Haruki knelt down and started to pray.
Thank Thee for my family, my house, my friends, and my toys. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Haruki, that was a good prayer, but you forgot to start by saying, “Heavenly Father.”
Why do I have to say that?
When we pray, we are talking to Heavenly Father. He loves us.
When we pray to Him, we can thank Him for everything He gives us. We can also ask Him for things we need.
Heavenly Father loves me?
Yes, He does. How does that make you feel?
I want to say my prayer again!
Heavenly Father, thank Thee …

Two couples who have immigrated to New Zealand from Brazil and Tonga say the BYU-Pathway Worldwide program helped them improve their language, knowledge, and job skills, opening doors to a better life and new hope for their families’ futures.
Andressa Develis and her husband, Andre, of Birkenhead, and Mosese and Ralueri Unga of Totara Vale, are two examples of how BYU-Pathway benefits working individuals and couples. They say the ability to tailor the learning experience to student needs is a significant advantage of this online education program.
Meanwhile, the Ungas moved to New Zealand from Tonga with plans to attend university. In church one Sunday, they overheard a conversation about BYU-Pathway and were intrigued by the low tuition fees and the ability to work while studying.
“My husband has a passion for carpentry and automotive work, and I had studied travel and tourism here in New Zealand but decided not to pursue it,” Ralueri said. “We saw BYU-Pathway as an opportunity to explore business studies.”
Mosese added that when he first came to New Zealand, many companies wouldn’t hire him for better jobs due to his lack of necessary credentials.
“I found a job in the scaffolding business because no one else would hire me,” he said. “I wanted to study, but education was too expensive due to my visa status.”
“Since my wife was already enrolled in BYU-Pathway, I decided to join as well,” he said.
The Ungas started their first semester together in 2020 and quickly progressed through their programs. Mosese completed his BYU-Pathway certificates in July 2021 and continued online courses with Brigham Young University-Idaho.
“I’m pursuing a bachelor’s degree in professional studies, which involves three certificates: auto service technology, computer support, and computer-aided design and drafting,” he said.
Meanwhile, Ralueri said BYU-Pathway helped her chart a course that could lead to the couple working together. “While my initial career path was in travel and tourism, BYU-Pathway allowed me to pivot toward a different future—one where we might eventually run our own business.”
“I have my associate of applied science degree in applied business management, and I’m currently in my last few semesters towards completing a bachelor of applied business management with Brigham Young University-Idaho in December,” she said.
Both currently hold full-time jobs—Ralueri with a bank and Mosese working for a home improvement retailer. Along with their current classes through BYU-Idaho, they also serve as service missionaries facilitating a BYU-Pathway class and attend once-a-week in-person gatherings teaching religion classes and helping other BYU-Pathway students with their educational journey.
“We often get asked how we manage it all, and our answer is simple: prayer and faith guide us through every step,” Mosese said. “It’s been quite a journey, and we’ve learned to manage our time more effectively.”
“You pray for help and somehow the Lord makes that time work out. Even though you only have 24 hours, time just seems to expand,” he said. “I don’t know how it happens, but He helps everything just fit in.”

It was fast and testimony meeting in the ward. Several young people had stood up and testified of the goodness of the Lord and his blessings unto them. Then an elderly gentleman stood on his feet. There were lines of care on his face, and time had turned his hair to silver. But his voice was clear like the tones of a bell on a frosty morning:
“I know that God lives and guides our destinies. I am here today because he heard my prayers as a boy and guided my footsteps.”
To understand his words we must go back many years to the time when a 12-year-old boy became a man and went to work.
He lived in a coal-mining village in the little country of Wales where almost all of the male inhabitants worked at the colliery (coal mine and its connected buildings). In a few weeks he would be 12, and like other boys in the village he would go down the pit to dig coal. He was a normal boy who understood that he must leave school to go to work to help support the family. But one morning as he was on his way to school, an incident occurred that was to affect his life. He was to learn the meaning of fear.
Coming up the hill toward the cottages where the miners lived was a small cortege. Two men were carrying a stretcher while one walked in front. Their faces were black with coal dust. On the stretcher was a body, a small body covered over with a brown blanket.
“And who is it now?” someone asked.
“It is little Davey Edwards,” the man in front replied. “He was caught by a roof fall, poor lad.”
The boy continued on to school, but his thoughts were not of schooling but of Davey Edwards. Together they had roamed the hills. They had picked chestnuts from the copse on Mynyddyslwyn Mountain and picked wild blackberries along the bank of Gwyddon Brook. They had stood together where the golden gorse ended and the woodland began and listened to the plaintive call of the cuckoo telling of the approach of spring.
“Aye,” he thought to himself, “those days are gone. Soon Davey will be in the graveyard on Llanvach Hill, and it will be the pit for me.” For the first time in his life he knew the meaning of fear. But he kept the fear inside of him.
His 12th birthday came, and his father informed him he was to start work at the colliery come Monday. On Saturday afternoon they went down to the village where his father took him to the haberdashery and bought him a pair of moleskin trousers and a Welsh flannel shirt. He also bought him a tommy box and tea can, and a pair of yorks to buckle below his knees to prevent the coal dust from going up his trouser leg.
Monday morning came cold and wet, but not as cold as the boy’s heart. He was assigned to work as a butty (partner) to Dai Jenkins, an experienced miner. The management discouraged father and son from working together because it looked bad if two members of a family were killed in one accident.
He stood by the side of Dai Jenkins as the cage descended. Through the glimmer of the miners’ lamps he looked across the cage at his father, who smiled back at him. By his father’s side was another 12-year-old boy from the village.
The cage landed on the bottom with a bump. As the gate was opened and the men stepped out, the smell of horses and donkeys assailed the boy’s nostrils. These animals were used to pull the loaded trams out of the headings and the empties back in. A man with the title of hostler took care of the animals.
The boy followed his butty along the narrow tracks until they reached the face of the tunnel where they were to work. Dai removed his jacket and hung it on the nail that protruded from a timber that supported the roof. He did the same with his tommy box and tea can. The boy did the same.
The coal seam was only three feet thick so Dai spent most of his time on his knees swinging his pick. It was the boy’s responsibility to load the coal into the tram and the muck into other trams. The ostler would then come and take them to the cage at the bottom of the shaft where they would be hauled to the surface.
So the days went by, and each day the boy’s hatred for the darkness grew. There were times when there was a squeeze, a time when the earth settled and it seemed the timbers supporting the roof must snap and he and Dai be crushed. It was at times like this he thought of his friend Davey and wondered if he too would be taken home on a stretcher covered over with a brown blanket.
There was, however, a time during the day that he really enjoyed. Dai would lay down his pick and say, “Come, bachen, it’s time for a bit of food and a sip of tea.”
Together they would sit in the dim light of their lamps and eat the food in their tommy boxes. Occasionally, Dai would give the boy a Welsh cake that his wife made. This was like a bit of heaven.
One day while Dai was digging with his pick, a strange and unusual thing happened. They broke through the face of the tunnel into a small cave. It was no bigger than a small room, and the roof seemed to be of solid rock. At about shoulder height a shelf ran across one side of the wall.
One can only wonder why on that same day as they sat together eating their lunch there was a sound like thunder that echoed through the mine. The earth shook. Dai jumped to his feet and grasped the boy by the arm.
“It’s an explosion, bachen; there may be fire. We must put the brattice cloth (temporary partition of cloth) across the opening. It could be the only chance we’ll have.”
Hurriedly they nailed the heavy cloth across the mouth of the little cave and then sat and waited. Soon they felt the heat as the flames approached.
On the surface the villagers crowded around the mine top. Rescue squads had been sent down but came back almost immediately.
“No one could live down there” was their report. “The mine is on fire. God help those who are down there.”
The mine owners met and made a quick decision. A canal that ran close by must be turned into the mine to extinguish the fire.
A woman cried out, “What about our men?”
Her anguished cry was answered with a shake of the head. In the little cave the heat was almost unbearable, but somehow a little air was coming in. Time seemed to stand still and hours went by. Then they heard the water. It came seeping into the cave, first to shoe tops, then to the knees, and it continued to rise.
Dai climbed up onto the shelf and pulled the boy up beside him. As the water rose, the heat subsided. Then came an eerie silence.
“Bachen,” whispered Dai, “can you pray?”
“Aye, I can,” replied the boy. “Before my mam died, she taught me.”
“Then pray for us. ’Tis all we have left.”
The boy closed his eyes, and for a few moments no words would come. Then they came slowly as from a troubled heart:
“Gentle Jesus, we reach out to you in this darkness, having nothing left but your help. If it be thy will, let us see the light once more. Let our feet climb the hill to our homes. Let us hear the song of the birds and see the sun rise over Rhysog Mountain. We are alone and we need your help. Amen.”
He felt Dai’s arm around his shoulder and heard his voice. “Thanks, bachen. It’s not afraid I am anymore.”
Hours went by and night must have come for they slept. When they awoke, their lamps had gone out. Now there was complete darkness, darkness that was black and foreboding. With the blackness came fear, cold, trembling fear. The boy saw himself being carried up the hill on a stretcher, his body covered with a brown blanket. Dai sensed his fear and put a comforting arm about his shoulder.
“Bachen,” he said, “is it a bit of singing you could do?”
The boy hesitated for a while, and then in a fear-stricken voice, he sang: “Jesus lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, when the tempest still is nigh.” In his boyish tenor he sang the chorus: “Hide me, oh my Savior, hide, till the storm of life is past.” He felt Dai shaking with emotion, so he could not continue.
It is hard to know how fast or slow time passes in the darkness, but the pangs of hunger and thirst came to them.
“Chew on a bit of leather, bachen,” Dai reminded him. “It will help the hunger.”
The boy removed the leather york from below his knee and chewed on it. It was new leather, and the taste of the tanning was still in it. But it helped to assuage the pangs of hunger.
Sleep came again and another day passed. Dai was quiet now, as if realizing the end was close. As a result of hunger and thirst, the boy had become quiet and listless. The complete darkness had settled on him like a shroud. He only waited now for that complete sleep.
Then suddenly from far away a voice was heard: “Is anyone about?” The voices came closer. Then someone threw aside the brattice cloth, and his light shone on Dai and the boy.
“A miracle it is,” he shouted to the other rescuers. “It’s alive they are!”
Dai was able to walk, but they carried the boy to the cage that transported them to daylight and life.
The boy’s father had been killed in the explosion, so Davey Edwards’ family took him in. In a few days some relatives from farther down the valley came to pick him up and take him to their home. They were lovely people, it was said, except they had joined some strange church that had originated in America.
Together the boy and his new family made plans, and the day came when they emigrated to America. Here they made their home in the valley of the mountains.
The old man was bringing his testimony to a close. “So, my brothers and sisters, out of fear came faith, and out of darkness came living light.”

As 14-year-old Boy Scouts from Troop D in Burley, Idaho, my friends and I were camping in a beautiful pine forest nestled into the canyon of the middle fork of the Boise River.
We had just finished exploring the area with our leaders when we decided our next experience should be fishing.
“Let’s go up above the rapids this time,” Paul suggested. “If we fish the deep-water holes, we’ll probably catch a lunker.”
“Yeah,” Richard agreed, “and we’ll cook it tonight for dinner.”
After we’d gone about a fourth of a mile from camp, we found an eddy with a water hole deep enough to catch a whale. But before we could get our fishing poles ready, I saw a log about 20 inches in diameter and what I guessed to be about eight feet long. It was magnificent. It floated high in the water and was still covered in bark. It was the type of log that cries adventure to three 14-year-old Scouts.
“Hey, guys,” I called to Richard and Paul. “If we don’t ride this log, we’ll miss out on the thrill of a lifetime. Just think of the story we can tell the other guys when we get back to camp.”
At first we all agreed that riding the log would be fun. But as Richard and Paul watched the swift-moving river run over the tops of boulders, they saw how steep the rapids were below us. Paul said, “I’m not sure this is such a good idea, Francis. We might not make it through in one piece.”
“Yeah,” Richard agreed. “This might not be the smartest thing we’ve ever done.”
“Come on,” I coaxed. “Don’t let a little fast water stop you. We’ll be fine.”
“Nah,” Paul said. “I don’t think I’m going.”
“Me either,” Richard said. “It doesn’t look safe.”
“Well, I’m going,” I said stubbornly. “And if you don’t go, I’ll be the only one at camp tonight with a great adventure story.”
Insisting I was crazy to try, Richard and Paul watched with concern as I gripped the log and steered it into the river. Immediately I noticed the river was deeper than I thought it would be. Just as I was about to climb onto the log, a voice came into my mind.
“Don’t do this thing! The tree trunk will roll as it goes through the rapids, and you will be thrown off into the churning water. What appears to be a thrilling and exciting experience could cost you your life. Your friends on the shore will think you are wise if you just let the log go and return to safe ground.”
The voice went on to say, “If you die, your mother will be left alone and brokenhearted. Even now she is praying for your safety.” Then an image of my mother kneeling in prayer came into my mind.
I let the log go and watched it slowly drift with the current. Then suddenly it appeared to be sucked into the top end of the rapids. The large trunk was tossed like a matchstick among the jutting rocks. Splinters were knocked off and large chunks of bark were stripped from the log.
A very clear picture formed in my mind as I realized the life-and-death situation I had been contemplating. If I had gone with the enticement of only living life for fun, I would have been destroyed just like the log.
I knew I would always remember those two very different urges. The first, to live only for the fun, thrill, and adventure of life. That appealed to my pride and vanity. My perception had been clouded. Selfishness was the engine that drove this desire.
The second, a prompting to listen to reason, was life-giving and life-sparing. It stood in opposition to selfishness. It helped me realize the cause and effect of the situation I had placed myself in. I was impressed that life is important and I should not take chances with it.
In the years since this experience, I have rafted on swift-running rivers and gone over many white-water rapids. But I have never forgotten my first experience with life’s rapids.
I learned that making right choices comes from heeding the promptings of the Holy Ghost. Now when a decision needs to be made, I examine closely how I feel. I listen for opposing arguments and do my best to choose the one that leaves me feeling light, warm, responsible, and unselfish. Whenever I feel this way, I know I’m on the right track.

During World War II, President James E. Faust, then a young enlisted man in the United States Army, applied for officer candidate school. He appeared before a board of inquiry composed of what he described as “hard-bitten career soldier[s].” After a while their questions turned to matters of religion. The final questions were these:
“In times of war should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
President Faust relates:
“I recognized that here was a chance perhaps to make some points and look broad-minded. I knew perfectly well that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs but did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, ‘I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.’
“I left the hearing resigned to the fact that [they] would not like the answers I had given … and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for officer’s candidate school! …
“This was one of the critical crossroads of my life.”1

A final example of being blessed during adversity is finding heightened joy in the return of temple ordinances.
This is best described with a story. When Sister Kaitlyn Palmer received her mission call last April, she was excited to be called as a missionary but felt it equally important and special to go to the temple to receive her endowment and make sacred covenants. Shortly after she scheduled her endowment, the announcement came that all temples would temporarily close due to the worldwide pandemic. After receiving this heartbreaking information, she then learned she would attend the missionary training center (MTC) virtually from her home. Despite these disappointments, Kaitlyn focused on keeping her spirits high.
In the intervening months, Sister Palmer never lost hope of attending the temple. Her family fasted and prayed that temples would open prior to her departure. Kaitlyn would often start her home MTC mornings by saying, “Is today going to be the day we receive a miracle and temples open back up?”
On August 10, the First Presidency announced that Kaitlyn’s temple would reopen for living ordinances on the exact day her early-morning flight to her mission was scheduled. She would not be able to attend the temple and make her flight. With little hope for success, her family contacted temple president Michael Vellinga to see if there was any way the miracle they had been praying for could be realized. Their fasting and prayers were answered!
At 2:00 a.m., hours before her flight departure, Sister Palmer and her family, in tears, were greeted at the temple doors by the smiling temple president with the words, “Good morning, Palmer family. Welcome to the temple!” As she completed her endowment, they were encouraged to move quickly, as the next family was waiting at the temple doors. They drove directly to the airport just in time to make her flight to her mission.

“Come on, Sam,” Jeremy said as he played kick the can with his friends along the old dusty roadbed. “Nobody will know but us.”
Lagging behind, I thought about the conversation Jeremy and I had had that morning. He’d told me about his plan to steal watermelons from Brother Vargas. I knew stealing was wrong, but I figured if I did what he wanted me to, we would be friends. So when he had finished talking, I had swatted him on the back and told a lie. “I know all about stealing. It’s easy. I’ve done it before.”
“You have!” he’d exclaimed, looking surprised. “Wait until I tell the other guys.” After he told everyone in the group, they looked at me with renewed interest. I liked that, but now I was in a terrible situation. I didn’t want to steal anything, especially Brother Vargas’s prize watermelons.
Brother Vargas was as old as my grandpa, but he had been my only friend when we first moved to Fawn Creek. He knew I was lonely and needed a friend. And I knew that the money from his melon field made up a big part of the income he and Sister Vargas lived on for a whole year.
“Hurry up, Sam,” one of the kids in the group called over his shoulder. “Brother Vargas will be back soon to pick up another load of melons. If we don’t get to his field before he does, we’ll have to wait another day.”
Oh, well, I thought, walking faster, I need friends my own age. Jeremy’s in my Primary class and my Scout troop, and all the guys like him. If we become friends, I’ll have a lot of guys to hang around with. Besides, Mom thinks he’s a good friend. So did I—until now.
When I caught up to Jeremy, he began making plans. “Clint, you be the lookout. If anyone comes, whistle real loud. Brett, you take Sam and head for the nearest row of melons. Jeff and I will be right behind you. Remember, we won’t have much time, so don’t be too choosy. Just get the biggest ones you can carry.”
“Yeah,” Clint agreed licking his lips. “We already know how good they taste.”
“What if we get caught?” I asked.
“Getting nervous?” Brett questioned.
“Not me,” I lied for the second time in half an hour. “You’re right; we’d better hurry.”
The real reason I wanted to hurry had nothing to do with taking melons. The truth was, I didn’t want to see the way Brother Vargas would look at me if he caught me robbing him. We were friends, and true friends take care of each other. I was starting to feel awful.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Jeremy said. “No one will find out.”
How did I get into this situation? I wondered. I needed someone to blame. So I blamed Mom. It’s her fault we moved after Dad died.
“Yeah, sure,” I muttered under my breath. “And look at what you’re doing.” I knew why Mom had sold the house. She didn’t want to go to work and leave me home alone. She’d loved that old house, and I knew she didn’t want to move away from her friends any more than I did.
“Sam, you’re dragging your feet again,” Jeremy said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, as I sent a rock flying across the road with the side of my foot.
When we finally reached Brother Vargas’s melon field, I knew I had made the worst decision of my life. But I didn’t know how to get out of it. Then the words to a song we were learning in Primary popped into my head. I began to sing softly:
“‘Choose the right when a choice is placed before you. In the right the Holy Spirit guides; And its light is forever shining o’er you, When in the right your heart confides.’”
When I got to the chorus, all the boys began to sing with me. When we finished it, I knew I had to say something. “We can’t do this!” I declared looking first at the guys and then at the melon field. “This just isn’t right.”
“But you said you’ve stolen things before,” Jeremy said accusingly.
“That was a lie,” I admitted. “I’ve never stolen anything in my whole life, and I don’t want to start now.”
“Neither do I,” Clint said, walking over to stand next to me.
Surprised I turned to Clint. “I thought you had stolen before. You even said that you knew how good Brother Vargas’s melons were.”
“We lied, too,” Brett admitted. “Brother Vargas gives my family watermelons from his field every year.”
“Yeah, and boy are they good!” Jeff said, almost drooling. “He gives melons to anyone who wants them.”
“Then why were we going to steal them?” I asked, almost shouting.
“We thought it would be fun,” Clint said as he dug the point of his tennis shoe into the loose dirt.
“Yeah,” Jeremy agreed, as his voice became a whisper. “But it sure doesn’t seem like fun now.”
When Brother Vargas drove up, we were sitting in the shade of the big metal shed still talking about his watermelons.
“Hi, boys,” he called. “It’s good to see you. I could sure use your help putting another load of melons on the truck.”
Feeling a little guilty, we asked him how we should do it so we wouldn’t damage the melons. Two hours later, after the truck was loaded, he offered us jobs for the rest of the summer. Then he asked, “Will each of you take a watermelon home to your families?”
“Yes! My family is going to love this!” Brett said excitedly. “Just yesterday Dad said his mouth was watering for a taste of Brother Vargas’s melons.”
“Mine, too,” Clint said with a big grin.
After Jeff, Clint, and Brett headed for home, only Jeremy and I were left.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I guess I just got carried away.”
“I’m sorry, too, Jeremy. I’m glad we finally made the right decision.”
Jeremy’s whole face lit up. “So am I! Now we can eat watermelon without feeling bad—and we have jobs too! It doesn’t get much better than that!”

Her desire to influence others is one of the reasons Marissa started a glee club at her school. “I had really been longing for years to create a club where people who loved music and loved singing and dancing could get together and put together something really great,” she says.
So she got all the approvals and went through the process of creating the club.
“Now, our glee club has done several performances,” Marissa says. “We love to explore music of all genres. Usually the kids get to select songs and submit them, and the whole club votes on them. We do country, pop, rock, oldies, and mainstream hits. It’s a lot of fun.”

The young members of the Staines England Stake were studying the life and teachings of Jesus Christ when their teacher presented a lesson on parables with a new twist: based on experiences in their everyday lives, the students were to write their own parables.
Bishop David S. Baxter of the Kingston-Upon-Thames Ward, the course instructor for the young adults, explained that members of his class followed Christ’s example of looking at life around them and drawing analogies between what they saw and spiritual truths.
Both the students and the teacher were so satisfied with the parables written that they had them printed and stapled together in a booklet. Some of the parables included:
“The Manager and the Firm,” by Ivan Holding of the Addlestone Branch. This tells of a manager who left strict instructions about running the business with his assistants when he left on vacation. The assistants didn’t follow his instructions but tried to do things their own way. When the manager returned, he was angry because his workers hadn’t followed his guidance.
“The Parable of the Musician,” by Tom Smith of the Kingston Ward. Presented in his parable are two music students, one who practiced diligently and one who didn’t. The musician who didn’t practice was eventually dismissed from school.
“Parable of a Little Boy,” by Jill Greenfield of the Slough Ward. Jill wrote of a woman who watched a lady on the other side of the street send her five-year-old son to school alone each day. The woman thought the mother was negligent until she found out the mother was staying home to take care of another child who was an invalid.
“The Parable of the Centrifuge,” by Caroline Vincent of the Staines Ward. Described here are the difficulties encountered by a technician who tried to service the centrifuge himself instead of having a factory authorized service representative do the work. As a result he voided his warranty. “Anyone could have the (servicing) handbook, but only one company had the authority,” the story said.
Bishop Baxter says he plans to use the parable writing lesson again in the future.

Ashley, a sister I minister to, and I both have cookbooks from our grandmothers. Hers is from her great-grandmother, and mine is a book I put together when I inherited my Grandma Greenwood’s recipe box after she passed away.
Ashley and I both chose a recipe from our cookbooks, and we got together after work one night to try them out. She chose a blondie dessert recipe, so we made it first and put it in the oven. I chose “pink chip dip”—a staple at every Greenwood family party. Ashley’s daughter Alice helped us taste test the food. Then, because Ashley didn’t want her kids to eat all the blondies, she cut them up and delivered them to the sisters to whom she ministers.
The thing I loved most about our recipe night is that as we cooked and baked, we talked about all the regular ministering topics—her struggles and mine. But we also talked about our grandmothers and moms, which was tender for both of us.
Jenifer Greenwood, Utah, USA

Connor was hot and thirsty. He had been playing outside all morning, and his mouth was dry as he pulled open the back door. A rush of cool air greeted him, and it felt wonderful. He hurried into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
As he drank his water, he thought about the red toy helicopter he had seen in the store two weeks before. Connor couldn’t wait to finally have enough money to buy it. He had been saving his allowance money and doing extra chores ever since he had seen the helicopter.
He finished his glass of water and went into the living room to ask his mom if she had any more chores she could pay him to do.
“Mom,” he said. “Do you …”
“Shh, Connor. Wait just a minute,” Mom said. “I want to listen to this.”
Connor turned to look at the television.
On the news there were pictures of things that had been wrecked—buildings had fallen down, streets were full of stuff, and there were people who looked like they were hurt. He saw the word earthquake at the bottom of the screen, but it was in a place he’d never heard of.
“There was a terrible earthquake,” Mom explained. “Almost everything was destroyed. They have no electricity and no running water, and a lot of people are hurt and need help.”
Connor had a funny feeling in his chest. He wondered what it would be like to be thirsty and not have any water to drink, or to be hurt and not have someone to help you.
“Mom, can’t anyone help them?” he asked.
“A lot of people want to help, but right now it’s almost impossible for people to get into the country,” she said. “Most of the runways and roads are blocked or destroyed.”
“I wish there was something we could do,” Connor said. He felt sad for the people in the earthquake. Then suddenly he had an idea. “Mom, can we pray for them?” he asked.
His mom smiled. “That’s a great idea,” she said. They turned off the television and knelt on the floor. As Connor said the prayer, the sick feeling he had was replaced with a good, calm feeling.
After they said “Amen,” Connor had another idea. He knew how he could help. He ran into his room and found the jar of money he had been saving to buy the red helicopter. He took it to his mom.
“Mom, is there a way to get this money to the people in the earthquake?” he asked. “Maybe it could help get a real helicopter to bring them food and water and maybe even a doctor.”
Connor’s mom gave him a hug. “That is a very kind and thoughtful thing to do, Connor,” she said. “Let’s take it to the bishop on Sunday. He’ll know what to do with it.”
Connor was glad that even though he lived far away from where the earthquake happened, he could still help in a small way. He knew he wouldn’t be getting the toy helicopter any time soon, but he loved the good feeling he had inside. He was glad he followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost to help someone in need.

When I was eight years old our family moved to Salt Lake City from California. We lived on a new street where there were just a few houses. The Hathaway family, who had children near my age, lived in the house nearest to us.
One day the Hathaway children invited me to go to Primary with them, and Mother said I could.
Mrs. Hathaway wanted to ask Mother the “golden questions.” She decided to fast and pray and ask the Lord to help her know the right words to say to Mother. But when she came over to our house, the words just wouldn’t come out, and she went home very disappointed.
Nevertheless the Spirit began to work on Mother and a day or two later she asked Mrs. Hathaway what I was learning in Primary. Afterward she said she would like to know more about the Mormon Church. Mrs. Hathaway was happy to answer all of Mother’s questions and asked if our family would listen to the missionary lessons.
After listening to the missionaries, Mother and I were soon baptized.