Gospel Story Finder

Many years ago while serving in the United States Infantry in the South Pacific, my outfit was making a dry run on a seemingly deserted beach in the Admiralty Islands.
When my particular unit went ashore and scattered around on patrol, we came by chance upon a small native village. I will never forget one of the most interesting sights I have ever seen. All of the natives who appeared on the scene had dyed, reddish-orange hair, and every man, woman, and child—in fact, every living creature that I could see: dogs, animals of all sorts—wore a string of large green beads to the end of which were fastened three tiny shells. We learned upon inquiry from a Baptist minister who had labored amongst these natives that these beaded ornaments were used to ward off the bad results of an “evil eye” and bring good luck to the person or animal that wore it.
In this strange little village so far removed from our own culture it was believed that bad luck, sometimes even death, would follow if a mere glance from the evil eye of an enemy fell upon a person or animal. Hence, practically all of the animals and people wore such a string of beads as I have mentioned.

Some 900 miles (1,400 km) north of Salt Lake City is the beautiful city of Calgary, Alberta, Canada, home of the famous Calgary Stampede, one of Canada’s largest annual events and the world’s largest outdoor rodeo. The 10-day event features a rodeo competition, exhibits, agricultural competitions, and chuck wagon races. The Stampede Parade, which occurs on opening day, is one of the festival’s oldest and largest traditions. The parade follows a nearly three-mile (5-km) route in downtown Calgary, with attendance reaching 350,000 spectators, many dressed in western attire.

Several years ago, a marching band from a large high school in Utah had auditioned for and had received one of the coveted entries to march in the Calgary Stampede Parade. Months of fund-raising, early-morning practices up and down the streets, and other preparations were undertaken in order for the band to travel to Calgary and participate in the parade, where one band would be selected to receive the first-place honor.

Finally the day for departure arrived, with the eager students and their leaders boarding the buses and heading north for the long journey to Calgary.

While en route, the caravan stopped in Cardston, Alberta, Canada, where the group remained for an overnight stay. The local Relief Society sisters there prepared sack lunches for the band members to enjoy before departing again. Brad, one of the band members, who was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, was not hungry and decided to keep his lunch until later.

Brad liked to sit in the back of the bus. As he took his usual seat there in preparation for the remainder of the journey to Calgary, he tossed his sack lunch on the shelf behind the last row of seats. There the lunch sat by the rear window as the July afternoon sun shone through. Unfortunately, the sack lunch contained an egg salad sandwich. For those of you who don’t understand the significance of this, may I just say that egg salad must be refrigerated. If it is not, and if it is subjected to high heat such as that which would be produced by the sun beating through a bus window on a sunny day, it becomes a rather efficient incubator for various strains of bacteria that can result in what may commonly be referred to as food poisoning.

Sometime before arriving in Calgary, Brad grew hungry. Remembering the sack lunch, he gulped down the egg salad sandwich. As the buses arrived in Calgary and drove around the city, the members of the band grew excited—all except for Brad. Unfortunately, all that grew within him were severe stomach pains and other discomforts associated with food poisoning. You know what they are.

Upon arriving at their destination, the band members exited the bus. Brad, however, did not. Although he knew his fellow band members were counting on him to play his drum in the parade the following morning, Brad was doubled over in pain and was too sick to leave the bus. Providentially for him, two of his friends, Steve and Mike, who had recently graduated from high school and who had also recently been ordained to the office of elder in the Melchizedek Priesthood, found that Brad was missing and decided to look for him.

Finding Brad in the rear of the bus and learning what the problem was, Steve and Mike felt helpless. Finally it occurred to them that they were elders and held the power of the Melchizedek Priesthood to bless the sick. Despite their total lack of experience in giving a priesthood blessing, these two new elders had faith in the power they held. They laid their hands on Brad’s head and, invoking the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, in the name of Jesus Christ uttered the simple words to bless Brad to be made well.

From that moment, Brad’s symptoms were completely gone. The next morning he took his place with the rest of the band members and proudly marched down the streets of Calgary. The band received first-place honors and the coveted blue ribbon. Far more important, however, was that two young, inexperienced but worthy priesthood holders had answered the call to represent the Lord in serving their fellow man. When it was necessary for them to exercise their priesthood in behalf of one who was desperately in need of their help, they were able to respond because they lived their lives righteously.

Walter and Ann settled down in the small town of Payson, Utah. Lots of other Church members lived there, and Walter and Ann were excited to raise their family there. They built a home and started a shop to build machines and furniture.
Walter took care of the shop. Ann took care of their home and a flock of ducks. She was very proud of her ducks. One day, when she went out to hang some clothes out to dry, she saw something very shocking. Her ducks were all lying still on the ground.
The poor ducks! Ann was so sad that her precious ducks had died. She sat down to think about what to do. Then she went to find a large flour sack. She knew that the ducks’ feathers would be good for making beds, pillows, and quilts. Ann sadly plucked the feathers off the ducks. Then she took the big bag of feathers inside, leaving the ducks lying peacefully on the ground.
That evening Walter came home from his shop. He looked confused. “What happened to the ducks?” he asked. “Why are they running around without their feathers?”
Ann rushed outside. She was so surprised to see her featherless ducks running about in confusion. Looking around, Ann noticed a large patch of brightly colored wildflowers nearby. The ducks had eaten the flowers, and the flowers had made the ducks go to sleep. They had slept peacefully while Ann had plucked out their feathers.
Ann didn’t want her ducks to get cold. So she went right to work knitting a sweater for each one of them. The ducks’ sweaters kept them warm until their feathers grew back. But until then, they were finest and best-dressed ducks in town!

Eddie’s heart thumped with fear as the small group of Scouts huddled in the cold rain listening to instructions. They were told to fan out and search ravines, thickets, and the narrow creek for an elderly man who had wandered away from a nursing home early the day before.
Why do they call it a search party, Eddie wondered as he listened. A party is fun, but there’s nothing fun about this!
“The man is feeble and may have lost his coat and shoes by now,” the leader continued. “He could be lying somewhere too weak to call out for help. We’re working against time in such wet weather. That’s why we asked your troop to help. Let’s get started!”
The boys quickly fanned out as they had been told to do. At first they were careful to keep each other in sight, but as Eddie moved from side to side searching clumps of shrubs and waist-high weeds, he suddenly found himself alone.
Hiking a rugged trail with a group is fun, he thought as he struggled along, but this is hard work.
Sometimes there was a ditch on his right and a thicket on his left, and Eddie had to search both. With all the zigging and zagging, several holes had been snagged in his poncho, and his clothing felt wet and cold as it clung to his body. His pant legs were caked with mud, and each boot seemed to weigh five pounds.
Finally Eddie sat on a damp log to rest and clean his boots. At first he was just plain tired of the whole thing. Then he began to think about the old man who had been out in the storm for more than twenty-four hours. Suddenly Eddie was ashamed of thinking only about himself and hurrying to get the search over so he could go home where he would be warm and dry.
“I really didn’t look very carefully along the creek back there because of the thorns and mud,” he admitted to himself. Eddie shuddered at the thought that in his hurry he might not have seen the old man lying out in the storm.
Eddie shifted his pack, picked up a heavy stick to use as a staff, and started to backtrack along the slippery rocks that lined both sides of the narrow stream. His legs ached with fatigue as stones slipped and rolled under his muddy boots, but he was grateful for the support they gave his ankles. He wondered if the old man had good shoes or had left the home wearing only light slippers.
Now all the boy could think about was that someone was lost out in the storm. As he rounded a curve, there was a flash of red and his heart began to pound.
Racing on down the creek, he saw a man huddled under a rock ledge on the other side! Eddie’s first thought was to shout for help. But then he realized that, if startled, the man under the ledge might fall and be hurt or try to run away.
Suddenly Eddie remembered the owl hoot signals his troop had learned. Three hoots wouldn’t mean anything to the others, but they would bring one of the Scouts.
Climbing the slippery bank to the trail, Eddie backtracked a few hundred feet and signaled. There was no answer to the first two calls, but when his straining ears caught a faint answering “whoo” after the third call, he walked back to where he could watch the man and give low signals to guide the others to the spot.
The old man rolled over once. Then he sat up and listened to the owl calls.
Soon another mud-streaked Scout appeared in the ravine. Signaling him to remain silent, Eddie hurried down the slope as quietly as he could and explained that he had found the lost man.
“Hurry and bring help,” Eddie said, “but don’t start shouting for help until you’re far enough away so he won’t hear you. We’ll have to be careful not to scare him or he might try to run away.”
When he was alone again, Eddie crossed the creek and started toward the elderly man. Whistling and splashing along in the shallow water, he pretended to be surprised when he saw someone huddled on the overhanging ledge. “Hi!” he called. “Would you like to share my lunch?”
When Eddie took sandwiches and a thermos bottle out of his pack, he saw that hunger and eagerness replaced the fright in the faded blue eyes. But the old man remained silent as he reached out a trembling hand to accept the food and milk. Eddie took a blanket from his pack and draped it around the frail figure.
There was plenty of food, but Eddie had such a lump in his throat that he could hardly choke down even half of a sandwich. All he could think about was how he had almost gone on and left the poor old man.
“I went for a walk and got lost,” the man explained after he had finished eating. Then he pulled the blanket around himself like a tired child and fell asleep.
Almost before he knew it, Eddie was surrounded by other searchers who were eager to help. Soon the men in charge carried the old man away on a stretcher, and Eddie breathed a sigh of relief.
It was still storming and he was wet and cold and tired, but somehow Eddie felt so warm and good that it seemed almost as if the sun were shining!

Time to pick your amigo secreto*! You’ll give a gift to the person you choose. But do not tell them until Christmas!
Hmm. What can I give to Margo? Maybe a stuffed animal.
And I’ll be extra nice to her! That would be a good gift for Jesus too.
The next few weeks …
On Christmas Eve …
Here, Margo! I was your amigo secreto.
Really? You were mine too!
Thanks! I love it! And thanks for being so nice to me.
Thanks for being the best sister ever!
Feliz Natal!
Illustrations by Katie McDee

Five years ago, I started a journey towards finishing my post-graduate studies in agriculture, specialising in plant breeding. I was offered a bursary from a prominent research institute in South Africa. Despite the challenge of raising a family, I embraced this dream. From a young age I have always been drawn to outdoor activities that had to do with touching soil and planting greens. Growing up in Mozambique, I used to love working with my grandmother on her small plot on the outskirts of Beira where she planted, amongst other things, sweet potato and rice. I cherish those memories and hold them very close to my heart.
When I embarked on the journey to become a plant breeder, I was on track to finish my studies and graduate in the winter of 2020. I had endless dreams of how perfect life was going to be. Looking at the demand for such scarce skills in the industry in previous years, I was really excited for the new possibilities that were unfolding before me. I had been a freelance language and media consultant for most of my working career. I was looking forward to finally being able to work in research and applying the skills that I had been acquiring in my studies.
With the rapid spread of the COVID-19 pandemic in South Africa, it became clear that although I had submitted my thesis at the end of 2019, I was not going to make it for the winter graduation as I had hoped. The most important thing for me was not the graduation ceremony, but to be able to complete the degree and to get a good job. I knew that it would take time to find the kind of job that I was looking for—I sent out one job application, then two—and eventually there were so many sent that I lost count.
This experience taught me some valuable lessons: some of our plans in life do not unfold exactly how we wish them to. Here, a year later, I am still searching for that dream job. This is not just for me, but my immediate family and society in general also have high expectations for someone with an academic degree like mine.
Upon meeting a friend, she asked how things were going in my life and if I had been able to find a job. I replied that I had not yet found one. We talked about several things. As I drove home, I was reflecting upon my lifestyle and my state of mind during the pandemic. I then realized how the hands of the Lord had blessed me. When thinking back I was able to pick up on the many skills that I had gained and the amount of time I had been able to spend with my family. There were simply too many small miracles to count. I had been able to afford my basic needs. I took my budget before COVID-19 and readjusted it. With more time on my hands, I was drawn to my passion of working the land. I planted a vegetable garden, the kids and I learned how to mow the lawn and to trim trees—the list is endless. Today our vegetable garden feeds us most of our greens, such as spinach, lettuce and rocket. We find meaningful time to play and work as a family. We enjoy going on short night walks in our neighbourhood.
As I reflect upon my experiences in the past nine months—despite not having the things that I dreamed of—I have been generally content. I see more good around me than bad. I have gained a deeper understanding of trusting in the Lord’s timing. He knows what is best and has better plans for me and for my family. As I count my blessings, I have come to realise that the Lord is in control of many aspects of my life. He knows me individually and I matter to Him. He cares for our righteous desires. He wants us to trust Him and to be happy. I have come to know that with all my heart.

I slammed the plate into the dishwasher and cried in frustration.
“Erin, you can go to that pool party,” my dad said. “You can take a break.”
“It’s not about that!” I yelled as I stormed from the room.
My tantrum wasn’t about Adriane’s pool party. My mom and my youngest sister, Abby, were sick with pneumonia. My dad and I had spent the last week caring for them and trying to keep the household functioning normally. This meant cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, doing laundry, and driving my other two sisters around.
All of these things muffled my nagging worries and fears. I was worried about my family and nervous about leaving for college soon. So I kept myself busy and tried to ignore my fears. I had even planned on skipping Adriane’s party, but I was tired and the thought of a carefree evening, hanging out with friends by the pool, pushed my emotions over the edge. I exploded and took out my frustration on my dad.
I cried for a while in my bedroom. Then, feeling guilty, I went upstairs to see if my mom or Abby needed anything. I found my mother giving medicine to my fever-flushed sister. My mom was barely able to breathe and had been bedridden for days. My dad and I urged her to return to bed. We told her that we could take care of Abby. She wouldn’t listen.
“I’m all right. You two get some sleep,” she said. “Abby needs me.”
I tried not to cry as I watched my mom comfort my 10-year-old sister. She checked her temperature, helped her into bed, then crawled in after her and held her shaking body. Abby stopped moaning and calmed under my mom’s protection.
My mom was more ill than she had ever been. The pneumonia would eventually send her to the hospital for several days. Yet in the middle of her trial, she forgot about herself. Rather than complaining about her own illness, she found a way to ease her daughter’s pain.
I had planned on becoming the martyr that night by staying home to help. Instead, I was embarrassed by my outburst and humbled by my mother’s actions. Watching her, I knew she would do anything to help my sisters and me.
I felt her love that night and wanted to follow her example. I resolved to show those I love that I will be there when they need me, regardless of the personal sacrifice required.

Night was falling as we drove toward the flat-topped mountain where the old sheepherder lived. In the evening light, six ragged figures were silhouetted against the orange sky. They looked like scarecrows with hideous painted faces. Their shredded black robes blew in the wind. Tin cans hung from them, clanging dully. They were eerie and strange in the gathering dusk.
A little frightened by the mysterious figures, I said to my companion, “I’m not sure I want to go any further. Whoever made those weird things probably wouldn’t be receptive to anything we had to say.” Turning the truck around, I drove back across the wide open space that was the Navajo Indian Reservation. As missionaries in the Arizona Holbrook Mission, we wanted to share the gospel with everyone, but maybe that didn’t include the person who had made these strange, manlike figures.
During the next week, however, we felt prompted to visit the sheepherder. When we drove back, in daylight this time, we found him standing by an old tree, as motionless as one of the scarecrow men he had created. A wooden staff was in his hand, and he wore a long black coat. Silently, he watched us get out of our truck and approach. His hair was white. His eyes were calm. There was no expression on his wrinkled brown face.
My companion was a new missionary and couldn’t speak the Navajo language. I didn’t speak it very well. But I introduced us in Navajo with a phrase that means essentially, “Hi, who are you? We’re the missionaries.”
He looked at me. I think he was impressed that I knew enough Navajo to greet him. He answered me in English. “I’m Baptist. No hear you. I’m Baptist.”
His words were harsh, but we felt something else behind them—a kindness, a welcome that was louder than his words. We didn’t argue, but we went on talking with him and before long we had an appointment to come back and see him.
During the months that followed we visited the old shepherd often. He wandered far with his sheep and sometimes we had to drive to the top of a hill and scan the distant countryside to find him. Every visit was precious to us.
We had no place to sit and talk with him because his hut was too small. At first we would just sit on the back of our truck. When the weather was too cold, we would crowd together inside the cab. Our visits took a long time because I knew just a little Navajo, and he knew about the same amount of English. We learned together. I would point to a tree and identify it in English. He would point to the same tree and say the word in Navajo. We would both repeat the new word. Little by little I learned enough Navajo, and he learned enough English for us to communicate.
We gradually got to know him. We found out that his name was Peter Wolley. The name had been given to him when he served in the U.S. Army during World War II. After a number of visits, we began to teach him the gospel. I felt the influence of the Spirit very strongly as we talked. My Navajo was not fluent, yet at times I felt inspired to use certain Navajo words that I didn’t think I knew. Even though I couldn’t communicate clearly, he seemed to know the truth of the things I was telling him. He was a very traditional Navajo, and he taught us many of the Navajo ways. I learned not to be so inquisitive, because this is considered bad manners in the Navajo culture. When I stopped asking questions, and when he wanted to, he would tell us about his life.
He took us out to the river and his other favorite places. He showed us foxholes and where the coyotes had been. He taught us to herd sheep. He showed us how he built the tall, black-robed figures that had ended our first visit. They were not designed to terrify sister missionaries but to frighten away coyotes that might harm his flock.
He loved his sheep and would lead them for many kilometers each day in search of the best grass. He took the lambs inside the hut with him when the nights were cold. He was a very caring man.
He knew his sheep. He knew their names and he knew each of their ways. One day when we were searching for him and his flock, we saw one of his sheep separated from the rest. When we found the flock, I said, “Peter, one of your sheep is lost. We saw it over on the other side of the hill.”
He seemed remarkably calm about the news and said, “Oh I know. That’s Box. He’s the old one. He doesn’t have any teeth. He’s all right.” I was amazed. He knew all about that one particular sheep even though it was out of sight. Peter saw my surprise and smiled. He didn’t have any more teeth than Box.
I knew that I had really earned his trust when he began calling me his “tall white friend.” For a Navajo to address you as “my friend,” instead of by your name, is a big compliment. The “tall white” part referred to my height and my light blonde hair.
One time we made him a placemat. It was a piece of paper with the four steps of prayer on it. We had it covered in clear plastic, and he kept it on his little table. He loved that little placemat, and I think it was because he loved prayer. He had plenty of time to pray while he watched his sheep.
We taught Peter for seven months before I was transferred to another district. Some Navajo elders then taught him in his own language. He was receptive to their teaching and joined the Church. I am proud to have helped open the door for my good friend to receive the gospel.
Peter couldn’t go to church very often because there was no one to stay with the sheep. He lived ninety kilometers away from a church and had no truck. He couldn’t walk that far, and few could drive the 180 kilometers round trip over rough country to pick him up and to take him home. But I didn’t worry too much about him because Peter was a good man who lived a good life. I knew that his Heavenly Father knew where he was just as surely as Peter knew where to find old Box. Even alone on top of his distant mountain, he was within the fold.
I think of Peter as my teacher. He taught me most of the Navajo I know. He taught me about sheep and coyotes and patience and silence and pasture in barren places. Better still, he taught me about good shepherds who love and know each sheep, even the old one with no teeth who is seemingly lost and far from the rest of the flock.

I remember a dance on the last night of youth conference. A younger boy was sitting by himself. “This next dance is girls’ choice,” a voice announced. One of the sharpest girls in the stake walked up to this boy and asked him to dance. It wasn’t a setup. It wasn’t a service project. No leaders said that every girl had to dance with at least one shy boy before the night was over. This young woman simply noticed someone who needed a hand. She did what she could to make someone else feel cool—cool-aid.

1. That morning for breakfast, each family member had only a half-piece of bread. Six-year-old Elizabeth noticed Mother’s worried expression.
2. Mother gave Father the last piece of bread, spread with lard, for his lunch. “I’m sorry, Joseph,” she said, “that I can’t give you more. But food is scarce, and people haven’t enough for themselves, let alone for the temple workers.”
Father smiled and said, “I know that whatever you fix is done with love, and I appreciate you.”
3. Although Elizabeth was hungry, she didn’t want Father to have to stop his carpentry work on the Manti Temple to earn money for food. She knew how important temples were to the Lord’s work.
4. Elizabeth rocked Baby Sina while Mother mended clothes with neat, fast stitches. When the baby fussed, Elizabeth bounced her gently and sang “Come, Come, Ye Saints” to her.
5. There was only enough flour for one more batch of bread, so Elizabeth and Mother knelt down together to ask Heavenly Father for help.
6. That night, after having only one small piece of bread each for supper, they went to bed early before the hunger pangs started again. Elizabeth thought that her stomach was resting on her backbone, but pioneer girls were too brave to complain.
7. Sunbeams were already resting on her quilt when Elizabeth awoke the next morning. Just as she finished dressing, Aunt Matilda came.
8. “Last night,” Aunt Matilda said, “I dreamed that you were hungry and desperate for something to eat. So I got up early to bring you some fresh eggs and milk, flour, and dried apples and berries from my farm.”
9. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” Elizabeth whispered, as her grateful father hugged his sister.

I hated early-morning seminary. I was raised in Boulder, Colorado, and all we had was early-morning seminary. I tried every excuse why I should not go: “Teenagers need their sleep.” “My life is too busy.” “I’m too tired to pay attention, so I don’t get anything out of it.” Nothing worked. Every morning around 5:45, my mom would wake me, push me in the direction of the shower, and get me out the door for seminary.
This was my pattern all four years until the late fall of my senior year. I arrived at seminary, but the teacher had not shown up. A good friend of mine stood up in front of the class and said, “Since the teacher isn’t here, I think we should just take turns reading aloud the assigned reading.”
Someone started reading 2 Nephi 33:10–11: “Hearken unto these words and believe in Christ; and if ye believe not in these words believe in Christ. And if ye shall believe in Christ ye will believe in these words, for they are the words of Christ, and he hath given them unto me; and they teach all men that they should do good.
“And if they are not the words of Christ, judge ye—for Christ will show unto you, with power and great glory, that they are his words, at the last day; and you and I shall stand face to face before his bar; and ye shall know that I have been commanded of him to write these things, notwithstanding my weakness.”
As I listened to these words, I thought, “I believe in Christ. If I believe in Him, then these words are true.” As I completed that thought, the Spirit touched me more profoundly. I was so struck by it that I remember looking around the room to see if others were feeling the same thing. They didn’t seem changed or appear as if they were feeling something different. This was a lesson that I was learning privately, just for me. The feeling didn’t go away. I carried it with me for the rest of the day. It was the beginning of a strong testimony for me.
I have often thought about that event and contemplated the act of being diligent. I had been attending seminary reluctantly for almost four years. But because I was diligent and obeying my mother’s desire that I attend, I was taught by the Spirit. If I had been at home in bed sleeping, I would have missed that opportunity. It is often when I least expect it, when I have been diligent day after day, month after month, and year after year attending church, reading the scriptures, or praying that the Spirit whispers to me and confirms the truth of the gospel. I am glad I learned that lesson at 17 while attending early morning seminary.

Among the thousands of servicemen killed in the attack on Pearl Harbor was a sailor by the name of William Ball, from Fredericksburg, Iowa. What distinguished him from so many others who died on that day in 1941 was not any special act of heroism, but the tragic chain of events his death set in motion at home.
When William’s boyhood buddies, the five Sullivan brothers from the nearby town of Waterloo, received word of his death, they marched out together to enlist in the navy. The Sullivans, who wished to avenge their friend, insisted that they remain together, and the navy granted their wish. On November 14, 1942, the cruiser on which the brothers served, the U.S.S. Juneau, was hit and sunk in a battle off Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands.
Almost two months went by before Mrs. Thomas Sullivan received the news, which arrived not by the usual telegram, but by special envoy: all five of her sons were reported missing in action in the South Pacific and presumed dead. Their bodies were never recovered.
One sentence only, spoken by one person only, provides a fitting epitaph: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13.)

As the girls join together in various groups, one of the groups appears isolated from the others. It is a small group of American girls whose parents work or are stationed temporarily in Italy. They don’t speak Italian, and they are not familiar with some of the everyday customs that come naturally to the Italian girls. They feel awkward. The Italian girls huddle together, then walk over to the Americans and tell them about an experience they had at a Church-sponsored event in Florence last year. “One of the members of our group did not speak Italian, so we decided to go through a whole day without speaking, using only hand signs. When the day ended, we all felt much closer to each other.” Soon both Americans and Italians are talking and singing together. It is a beginning.

I have always loved to read the New Era. The March 1986 issue came a few days before we were to go down to Washington, D.C., to go to the temple. My older sister and I decided to save the New Era to read in the car on the way down. But neither of us could wait that long. We both secretly read it. Later, I felt guilty that I had cheated, so I admitted it to my sister. She started laughing and admitted it also. That just goes to show how well the New Era is enjoyed in our home. Thanks so much for publishing it. It is a real strength to me.
Melissa BoyerWillowdale, Ontario, Canada

My companion, Sister Claritza Carmona, and I were tired, muddy, and downhearted after a day of uninterested people and nonprogressing investigators. The rain was falling lightly, and our spirits were as damp as the weather that April evening in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic.
I was looking forward to our visit with Elena Gonzalez and her family. Elena, a woman we were helping reactivate, had become a dear friend. As soon as we arrived at her home, however, a little girl from her neighborhood came to the door. “Someone wants to talk to you,” she told us.
Finally, someone who wants to hear the gospel! I thought happily. Elena said she didn’t mind if we went. In fact, she wanted to come along. So Sister Carmona, Elena, and I left with hopeful hearts. Yet something told me all was not right.
We entered a small home along the canal. One kerosene lamp illuminated the front room. Several women sat in rocking chairs; more stood around the perimeter of the room. Mercedes, one of our investigators, sat hunched over on a small chair.
My earlier impression was confirmed as a tall man, Gerónimo, insisted, “¡Siéntense!” (Sit down!) We took the two nearest chairs and exchanged a worried glance. Gerónimo, a local preacher, said that someone in the group—he pointed to Mercedes—had a question. He had arranged a “debate” to resolve the concern.
The topic was the Book of Mormon. Our assignment was to prove the Book of Mormon was true using evidence from the Bible, “the only word of God,” as Gerónimo put it. He required us to cite scriptures to support everything we said. Each of us would have three minutes to speak.
Sister Carmona and I felt like two small candles in an abyss of darkness. We were scared. I asked if we could start with a prayer. Gerónimo commanded everyone to stand and hold hands while he offered a prayer unlike any I had ever heard. While he shouted heavenward, I silently pleaded with Father in Heaven to guide our words.
James 1:5 flashed into my mind. I opened my Bible to this reference when I sat back down. The page was well worn from use, and I had memorized the verse months earlier. Closing the book, I turned my full attention to Mercedes.
I began slowly and quietly: “‘If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.’” I looked at Mercedes and said, “The Book of Mormon is true or it isn’t. God wants us to know the truth. I know the Book of Mormon is true. I know because I asked God, and He told me through His Holy Spirit that it’s true. Mercedes, if you want to know that it’s true, ask Heavenly Father. I promise you He will answer. And I say this to you in the name of Jesus Christ.”
There was not a sound in the room. All eyes were now on Sister Carmona. She bore testimony of the veracity of the Book of Mormon with such power and conviction the Spirit’s presence could not be denied.
Gerónimo broke the silence. He stood and preached for 20 minutes. The Spirit fled from the room, as did most of the listeners. Only Mercedes, Elena, Sister Carmona, and I remained. I finally interrupted him. We had said what the Lord wanted us to say. We excused ourselves, bidding him and Mercedes a good evening. He stood behind us shouting, “Don’t go! Don’t go!”
We returned to Elena’s house, where we quietly discussed what had just happened. We shared our testimonies of the gospel and our love for Jesus Christ.
The next day we visited Mercedes. She assured us she had known nothing of the previous night’s setup, but from the experience she had gained an earnest desire to know if the Book of Mormon is true. We knelt together as she offered a humble prayer. She remained on her knees for several minutes, silent, head bowed. When she looked up, she had tears in her eyes.
“How do you feel?” I finally asked.
“Bien,” she whispered. Yet something in her voice told me she felt more than just “good.”
“Is the Book of Mormon true?” I asked quietly.
She nodded her bowed head. That same Spirit that had guided two missionaries’ words the previous evening confirmed to this humble woman the truthfulness and power of the Book of Mormon.

While living in the Dominican Republic, I went to visit a sister who had just gotten home from the hospital after giving birth to her third child. I was surprised by how well and calm she looked. Her other two children were still so young! After a few minutes into our conversation, she shared with me how peaceful she felt because the Relief Society sisters had signed up to come to help her every day for the next few days. She felt loved.

Once there were two men—one whose name was Ef and the other whose name was Ez. This incident occurred some years ago in the back country where education was at a premium. Ef had a slate and a piece of chalk, and he was sitting under a tree in the shade on a warm day. As he was writing on this slate with his chalk, Ez sauntered up to him. Ef turned and said, “Look, Ez, I can write.” Ez was impressed. He replied, “That’s great. What does it say?” Ef answered, “I don’t know; I haven’t learned to read yet.”

It was a gray, rainy day—very unusual for sunny southern California. My husband and I had just finished a full-to-overflowing endowment session as part of our stake temple day. My husband braved the driving rain to get the car while I waited inside the temple’s door.
As I quietly chatted with a member of my ward, a sister I did not recognize approached us. She was dripping wet, and it appeared she had been crying. She explained that she had inadvertently left her vehicle’s headlights on and was now unable to start the car. She recognized us from the temple session—she was the only patron in that session not from our stake—and wondered if we had battery jumper cables she could borrow.
As we talked she began looking intently at me and finally asked, “Aren’t you Cathy West?” (Names have been changed.)
Surprised, I exclaimed, “That was my maiden name!”
“I’m Diane Cody Hart,” she replied, “Anne Cody’s little sister.”
I embraced Diane and expressed my appreciation for her sister’s friendship and example. When my husband arrived with the car, he reported that we had no jumper cables but insisted that Diane accompany us to a nearby mall to buy a set.
Diane and I waited in the car while my husband went inside to search for jumper cables. I asked Diane about her family, and she replied that they had all attended simultaneous temple sessions that evening—Anne in Chicago, Diane in San Diego, and their parents in Reno—while sacred temple ordinances were performed by proxy for her younger brother, who had died the previous year. Diane had come to the temple alone to participate in the special session while her husband took care of their three children.
I squeezed Diane’s hand and asked how her brother had died. She began to weep and whispered that her brother—to whom she had been very close—had taken his own life. Through her tears Diane related how alone she had felt, even in the crowded endowment session, as she thought of the circumstances of her brother’s death.
I could see the Lord’s hand in bringing the two of us together that evening. To the gentle patter of the rain on the roof of the car, I told her about my sister’s suicide many years earlier and my family’s struggle to understand and cope. I held her hand and expressed my understanding and empathy until my husband arrived a short time later with jumper cables.
We returned to the temple, and my husband started Diane’s car. Before she drove away, Diane and I embraced as the rain fell softly upon us. “I don’t feel alone anymore,” she whispered.
As Diane disappeared into the rain, I marveled at Heavenly Father’s goodness. He had brought me together with one of His daughters who needed comfort I was uniquely prepared to provide. And He had granted me a priceless opportunity to repay in some small way the special service a dear friend had given me 30 years before.

“Welcome to our class!” Sister Garcia beamed just like the spring sun shining through the classroom window. “I’m so excited to be teaching you older girls. You’re old enough to be good readers, and we can really get into the scriptures!”
Kirsten’s heart sank. She could read, but she knew she wasn’t a good reader. She took twice as long as her best friend, Ayisha, to get through a page when they were reading a magazine together. When she read aloud, words sputtered out of her mouth. That was always uncomfortable. After all, she was 10 years old. And reading the scriptures was especially hard. The words were so strange, and the sentences seemed to go on forever.
Ayisha put her hand on Kirsten’s shoulder. Kirsten looked over at her. Ayisha had written in her tiny notebook, “You’ll be OK!” Kirsten wondered how.
Kirsten took her turn reading that Sunday, but it seemed to take forever to get through the verse, and she just wanted to cry. The next week, before Sister Garcia even started the lesson, Ayisha raised her hand.
“I was wondering if Kirsten and I could cooperate on scripture reading today. Give us one scripture to work on together. I’ll read it, and Kirsten can draw a picture. She’s a great artist!”
Kirsten knew Ayisha was being kind, but she also felt like a big spotlight was shining on her, hot and uncomfortable. “I might as well have a sign hanging around my neck that says BAD READER,” Kirsten thought.
Sister Garcia seemed surprised. She looked at the girls and then smiled a little. “It sounds like fun,” she said. “And I think it would work well with our lesson today about Alma and Amulek. Are you willing to do that, Kirsten?” Kirsten nodded. “How about you other girls? Katie and Lauren, why don’t you be a team, too? And Elizabeth and Michelle?” She gave each team a scripture, and they began to work.
Kirsten couldn’t believe Ayisha’s nerve or her teacher’s sudden change of plans. But Sister Garcia’s smile, and the way she brought everyone into the idea, seemed to make it better. Kirsten drew a picture of Alma meeting Amulek. She realized she liked this story—two great missionaries and how they became friends.
The next Saturday, Sister Garcia showed up at Kirsten’s front door. “I just thought I’d drop by and see if you could take a special assignment for our class tomorrow,” she explained.
“What is it?” Kirsten asked. “Please, not reading,” she prayed silently.
“Could you present this scripture to the class?” Sister Garcia handed Kirsten a slip of paper.
“What do you mean, present it?” Kirsten asked.
“Well, you should read it out loud, but I thought I’d give it to you now so you can practice,” Sister Garcia said. “Then tell what it means to you. If you want to draw a picture, that would be great, too. I didn’t realize you had such a talent for art.”
“Am I the only one doing this?” Kirsten asked.
“Well, for this week, yes. But in coming weeks, all the girls will be taking turns.” Sister Garcia smiled in a way that seemed to make things OK. “I thought I’d have you go first. To tell you the truth, I’m eager to see more of your artwork.”
“OK,” Kirsten agreed. “I’ll do it.”
Kirsten read the verse out loud over and over. Then she spent all afternoon drawing a picture of Alma and Amulek healing Zeezrom, making sure everything was just right.
Finally, Kirsten made her way downstairs to where Dad was cooking spaghetti. “Can I practice my scripture for you, Dad?” she asked. Dad nodded, so Kirsten read, “Alma 15:8: ‘And Alma said: If thou believ … est in the re … demption of Christ thou canst be healed.’”
Dad stopped stirring the spaghetti sauce and turned around. “That was wonderful, Kirsten. Pretty smooth! I can tell you’ve been practicing. And your picture looks great! But you’re still missing one thing.”
“What? Did I forget something in the picture?” Kirsten examined her work.
“No, that’s not it. You should say how you feel about what you’ve read,” Dad explained. “The most important thing isn’t how you read or even how you draw, although both of those are great. What your class really needs to hear is how you feel about what you’ve read and drawn.”
Kirsten thought about this. “I guess I’m happy that Zeezrom got better and that he wasn’t being mean to Alma and Amulek anymore.”
“That’s good. Maybe you’ll want to say a prayer about it,” Dad suggested. “Think about what this scripture means for your testimony. That’s what you need to do. Bear your testimony.”
“‘If thou believest in the redemption of Christ thou canst be healed,’” Kirsten read in class, smoothly and confidently. “I have a testimony that this is true. I have been healed by the priesthood, too, when my dad has given me blessings. And when I prayed about this scripture I could feel the Holy Ghost.” She glanced at Sister Garcia, who nodded encouragingly. “I drew this picture to show Alma and Amulek healing Zeezrom. I’m so happy that Zeezrom changed from being an enemy of the gospel to becoming a great missionary, just like Alma and Amulek.”
Kirsten sat down. Ayisha flashed her notebook at her. “Awesome job, Kirsten!” the note said, with a big happy face. Kirsten couldn’t help but smile.

At first I felt kind of excited because I’d never been through a hurricane before,” said Ryan Foster of Charleston, South Carolina. “Then it hit, and it got scary.”
It was September 21, 1989, and South Carolinians had known for days that Hurricane Hugo was on its way. The Fosters (Dad, Leslie; Mom, Marcia; Jason, 14; Rebecca, 12; Ryan, 11; Loren, 7; and Annika, 4) had decided to evacuate to the Moncks Corner Meetinghouse. Their home is located on James Island, a spot where storms from the ocean can hit hard. Mom told the family to pack enough clothes for two or three days. “We were fairly new to this area,” explained Sister Foster, “and we’d never been through this kind of thing before. I though it was just going to be a little inconvenience.”
Ryan, however, took it more seriously. When they arrived at Moncks Corner, the family discovered that he had packed as if they might not be going back home for a long time. As their stay at the meetinghouse extended to many days, he was the only one who had clean clothes to wear. He’d learned from experience that it’s best to be prepared.
“I got comfort from the whole ward,” Ryan remembered. “The Young Women in our ward put on a carnival. Afterwards they had a bake auction, and they raised nine hundred dollars for us.” His Primary teacher sent him messages each week, a special fast was held for him, and ward members tended the other Foster children when Ryan and his mom had to be away. His home teacher gave him a special blessing before every trip to Denver. Friends at school raised six hundred dollars, and the principal brought the money to Denver. So Ryan learned to take serious things seriously, and the next year, after the family had moved to South Carolina and Hugo came, all that Ryan and his family had learned during his experience in Colorado was reinforced. Prayers were offered. Priesthood blessings were given to many. Members in areas not hit by the hurricane sent items from their emergency supplies to those in areas that were hurt. Church distribution centers sent stoves and lanterns and food. And teams of members, from Scouts to grandmas, came to help with the cleanup. The goodness and unselfishness of the community at large was also seen.
In the Foster family, however, Ryan seems to have been the one who best learned the practical lesson of packing for the unexpected. Now the entire family knows the lesson well. Emergency preparedness items are more in evidence at their house these days. Each family member has thought about what he or she would take if another emergency comes along. A battery-powered radio is on the list, as are the family photos, a camp stove and lantern, books, water, and some cash. But most important, as Loren said, “When a hurricane comes, grab the family!” The Foster home was slightly damaged by Hugo, but the Foster family was greatly strengthened.