Gospel Story Finder

The Veranos’ struggles with faithfulness were not yet over, however, and neither was the loving work of others in fellowshipping them.
A fine home teacher, George Baker, helped keep them active in the Church, Brother Verano recalls. Unused to attending church meetings three times a day, beginning with priesthood at seven A.M., Brother Verano was ready to quit. The early meetings were difficult because he was working from midnight to six A.M. But Brother Baker, who could not go himself, arranged for someone to drive the Veranos to ward meetings, and kept them coming.
The Veranos’ spirituality grew as they faithfully attended meetings and obeyed gospel principles.

“There, it’s all done!” Jeff said as he knotted the bridle line to his kite. Jeff felt proud as he held up the kite to check the glued tissue paper edges. He was sure he would win the Highest Flyer Award in the kite tournament to be held the next afternoon.
As Jeff picked up scraps of paper and sticks from the porch floor, he heard the creak of rusty hinges. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Robin Hood has escaped again!”
With a sick feeling, Jeff remembered his father’s words, “If that dog steals something just once more, Jeff, he’ll have to go!”
Hurdling the porch steps in one leap, Jeff raced to the alley and whistled. He hoped that maybe this time Robin Hood hadn’t picked up anything belonging to someone else, but his hope faded as Robin Hood came around the corner dragging a big paper fish. With his tail wagging, the dog dropped his gift at Jeff’s feet.
“Bad dog!” Jeff scolded. Robin Hood retreated to the farthest corner of the yard. Jeff remembered to close the gate this time, but he felt guilty that he had let his dog get loose.
The paper fish was ripped, but Jeff could see that it had been skillfully painted with loops to look like fish scales. Turning it over, he saw the broken basswood and knew it had been a kite. Someone had probably made this strange-looking kite to enter in the tournament, and Robin Hood had stolen it.
Jeff knew what he had to do. He started walking toward Mr. Peterson’s fruit market, taking the broken fish kite with him. Mr. Peterson knew just about everybody, and many times before he had helped Jeff find the owner of Robin Hood’s other gifts.
“Has Robin Hood been at it again?” Mr. Peterson asked Jeff as he polished an apple. “That carp kite’s in pretty bad shape.”
“Do you know who it belongs to?” Jeff asked.
“Wouldn’t take much to figure out,” answered Mr. Peterson. “A new boy about your age has been coming into the store a lot lately. His name is Jimu, and he’s talked to me about carp kites. The carp stands for courage, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” said Jeff.
“Japanese boys fly carp kites every year on Boys’ Festival Day,” said Mr. Peterson. “It’s supposed to remind them to be courageous.”
“Do you know where Jimu lives?” Jeff asked.
“No,” said Mr. Peterson, “but he usually goes toward Miller Street.”
Jeff thanked Mr. Peterson and went back home. His shoulders drooped as he climbed the steps. Robin Hood, stretched out by the lilac bush, opened his eyes and watched.
“Come on,” Jeff called as he picked up both kites. “We have a job to do.”
Jeff and Robin Hood walked up and down Miller Street, but they couldn’t find anyone who knew of a boy named Jimu.
“Sorry I can’t help you,” said a lady who was watering her lawn. “Why don’t you ask your dog?” she joked.
“Why didn’t I think of that!” said Jeff. He gave the carp kite to Robin Hood to carry in his mouth.
“Take it back!” Jeff commanded.
Robin Hood seemed to understand. He held the kite tightly between his teeth and led Jeff to the corner, turned right, and then disappeared down an alley. Jeff followed the dog down the alley and through an opening in a high wooden fence, where Robin Hood stopped.
This must be the house, Jeff thought as he walked into a strange garden. There were dwarf trees in low vases sitting in raked white sand.
“Ohayo (good morning),” said a voice, and a short black-haired boy came around the corner of the house.
“You must be Jimu,” Jeff said. “I’m Jeff.”
The Japanese boy bowed. His dark eyes looked from Robin Hood to the carp kite and back to Jeff.
Jeff didn’t know what to say at first, but once he got started, the story came tumbling out.
“Sumimasen (very sorry),” Jimu said after Jeff finished. “Perhaps you should try a cardboard collar.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jeff.
“I have a friend who had a dog with a sore ear,” Jimu explained. “He cut a big wheel-shaped piece of cardboard and then cut a hole in the middle. He put it around the dog’s neck so the dog couldn’t scratch its ear. His dog also had difficulty picking up objects with his mouth.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Jeff said. “I’ll try it. But that won’t help you fix your kite, so I want you to have mine instead.”
Jeff held his kite out to Jimu, who took it and looked at it carefully.
“Very nice,” Jimu said at last. “But please come with me.”
He led Jeff to a sliding door at the back of the house. They both removed their shoes and went inside.
“Please sit on the tatami,” Jimu told Jeff as he pointed to the straw mat on the porch floor. He put Jeff’s kite on a low table covered with jars of paint and a brush.
Jimu picked up the brush and asked, “May I?”
Jeff nodded. He watched Jimu swiftly paint an outline of a fish on the kite Jeff had given him. Soon a carp filled the kite as Jimu painted half-hoop scales all over.
“Now you’ll have a kite to fly today,” said Jeff.
Jimu smiled mysteriously as he excused himself and disappeared behind a screen.
When Jimu returned, he said, “I already have a kite.” He held up a paper fish. “The first one I made broke, and Robin Hood must have found it in the trash.”
“But why did you paint this beautiful fish on my kite?” Jeff asked.
“Because it took much courage for you to come to me,” Jimu answered. “And the carp stands for courage. You would honor me to fly your kite with me today,” he added.
“That would be great,” Jeff answered. And the two boys, with Robin Hood tagging along behind, picked up their kites and ran out into the field together.

Here I am, I thought, three months away from my mission and I don’t even know how to feel the Spirit.
The truth was that I had been a member of the Church for my entire life, and I could never recall a time when I was certain that I had felt the Spirit. I had a firm testimony of the Savior and the prophet, but somehow I didn’t know what the Spirit felt like.
So there I sat in Brother Durrant’s missionary preparation class, as confused as ever. “It’s the Spirit that counts,” he quoted President Benson. Brother Durrant then began to speak of great missionaries like Alma and Ammon, who were successful in their work because they followed the Spirit.
How can I be a great missionary? I thought. I don’t even understand the Spirit. I continued to listen intently, desperately hoping that Brother Durrant could answer my question. I silently prayed that he could relate to me just one important piece of wisdom—how the Spirit felt.
Then my answer came, and not just from the teacher. It didn’t come like an electric shock, and it didn’t come like fire. But my answer did come, with its own gentle feeling only the Lord was capable of giving me. It came when my teacher stopped speaking about Alma and said softly, “I feel the Spirit so much. It makes me so happy. That’s when I know I feel the Spirit, when I’m happy and I know God loves me.”
As I thought about those simple words, I felt all of the confusion settle into a sense of understanding. My chest didn’t roar with fire and vigor, and my limbs didn’t sink without strength. Instead, I felt a calm peace inside, and I realized that whenever I had felt warm inside while singing a hymn in church, I had felt the Spirit. Whenever I felt good after a service project, I had felt the Spirit. And when I had walked out of a Church class feeling peaceful and happy, I had felt the Spirit. The feelings that I was searching for were often there, but I just didn’t know what they were. I had expected the Lord to present to me, in grand spectacle, an instant testimony of his power. Instead, he was gently guiding me to find out for myself.
I have learned that I must make an effort to understand the Spirit and invite that influence into my life. Now, whenever I read the stories of Alma the Younger or King Lamoni, I no longer doubt the power that influenced them. Although I have never felt the dramatic spiritual transformation that Alma did, I now know that the Spirit manifests itself in many different facets and that the Lord communicates with his children in various ways. The feelings of the Spirit are always there if I am trying to live worthily and if I truly seek them.

Mariah (as she preferred to be called) is one of the reasons my family is even in the Church. She was baptized in 1840 in England, was endowed in Nauvoo, Illinois, was sealed to her husband in Winter Quarters, Nebraska, and died in Utah. My thoughts about her while I was in the temple were not about her need to have ordinances performed but about how those ordinances bound her and me together across time and space.

When others see the only known photograph of my grandmother Mariah, they often comment on how grim or unpleasant she appears to them. I immediately defend her because I know her. I know the person that walked along the River Severn as a young girl and as a mother with small children. I know the person who sailed across an ocean, giving birth to her fourth child during the journey. I know the person who sent a husband to war and lost an infant child during his absence. I know the person who walked 1,000 miles (1,609 km) to a new home in the western American desert. I know the person who worked and covenanted and farmed and loved. And in knowing her, I get a taste of our heavenly parents’ love for her and for each of their children.

When the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., 17-year-old Yee Mun Lim got out of bed and got ready for the day. She left the house at 5:20 for seminary. At 6:30 a.m. she hurried to school, where she stayed until 7:00 p.m. for classes and cocurricular activities. Then she rushed to the stake center by public transport to practice for the stake musical production.

This was the standard routine of most youth in the Singapore Stake every Friday for five months. Sometimes exhaustion and fatigue set in, but throughout the entire preparation for the musical production, When a Prophet Speaks, there were no complaints or regrets, because the youth felt that the sacrifices they made were worthwhile. “This is the most amazing, awesome, spiritually uplifting, fun-filled, and heartwarming event I ever took part in,” said Yee Mun.

Photographs by Richard M. Romney
For a time, Leonard Singer lived in desperate circumstances. Today he serves as first counselor in a branch presidency. In this interview with David Olsen, a Church-service missionary who serves as his branch president, Leonard shares his story.
Leonard: I had become an alcoholic. I didn’t have a home. I wore the same clothes day in and day out. I slept in the bushes and ate out of trash cans. I didn’t have anything or anybody.
Elder Olsen: How did you change?
Leonard: I decided to pray. I asked the Lord for help, and somehow I found the strength to stop drinking. I kept thinking about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had felt at home there before. I thought I might find hope there again.
Elder Olsen: You’ve told me you started feeling urges.
Leonard: Yes, the Lord brought me along, and when I followed Him, He started blessing me.
Elder Olsen: How did local Church leaders help you?
Leonard: I had been excommunicated, but they helped me understand what I needed to do, and to do what I needed to do in order to come back to full fellowship. Little by little, I made my way there. The day I was rebaptized was the happiest day of my life.
Elder Olsen: Today you live just down the hill from our chapel [the Dennehotso Branch meetinghouse in Kayenta, Arizona, USA]. Your home is a small trailer, with no electricity and no running water, but you say you consider yourself fortunate?
Leonard: The Lord takes care of my needs. He has blessed me with this home and everything in it. I love having a quiet place where I can study the scriptures and pray. My sister lives nearby, and that’s where I get water. Sometimes when I need electricity, she lets me run an extension cord over from her house.
Elder Olsen: How else has the gospel blessed you?
Leonard: The Lord showed me there is meaning in this life. That’s something I had been missing for years. Now I want to help other people, just as He has helped me.
Elder Olsen: I see you helping people all the time. The other day, you helped a woman whose car got stuck in the sand.
Leonard: I just got a couple of other Church members and a couple of shovels. We started digging and pushing. Pretty soon she was on her way again.
Elder Olsen: What about that time you kept feeling an urge to visit your niece, who lives miles away in Farmington, New Mexico?
Leonard: I wasn’t sure why I was supposed to go, but I knew the Lord wanted me there.
Elder Olsen: So, you acted on the prompting, you found a way to get there, and you arrived just in time to give her some urgently needed assistance.
Leonard: The Lord knew she needed help, and He knew I could help her.
Elder Olsen: In your calling in the branch presidency, you help me with ministering assignments, meetings, branch activities, and the Church’s addiction recovery program. What would you say if someone asked you, “How do you love your neighbor?”
Leonard: With all my heart.
Elder Olsen: How do you show that love?
Leonard: I just give back to them what the Lord has given to me. People need to feel loved. They need to feel comforted. They need guidance. They need to understand what the Lord can give them. When you’re at the bottom of the pit, you need to feel that if you reach out, someone will be there.
Elder Olsen: You live in a little trailer, but your heart is as big as the great outdoors. You live humbly, without worldly possessions. But you are Christlike, always helping those in need.
Leonard: That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To help each other.

When I was a boy, my mother had to go to work at Garfield Smelter and work like a man to help support the seven children. She worked the graveyard shift as much as she could, I’m sure to be with us during the day. I don’t know when the poor woman slept. One Saturday morning, she got off work about 7:00 or 8:00 a.m. She went to bed for a couple of hours and then got up. She had invited all her relatives to dinner. There must have been 35 or 40. She decorated the tables and arranged the chairs and put all the dishes and silverware out. She cooked and baked all day long. The dirty pots and pans and dishes stacked up.

Everyone came to dinner, and after dinner all the dirty dishes were brought into the kitchen. The food was cleared and stacked on the table and cupboards; then the kitchen door was closed and the family began to visit. It was about 8:00 p.m.

I remember standing all alone in the kitchen. In my young mind, I thought: “My mother worked all night; she has worked all day to get this dinner. When everyone leaves, she will have to do the dishes and put the food away. It will take two or three hours, and that’s not fair.” Then I thought, “I will do them.”

I washed the dishes, did the silverware, the glassware. We didn’t have an electric dishwasher; ours was a manual dishwasher, and that night I was manual. I used a half-dozen dish towels. I was drenched from head to foot. I put the food away, cleaned off the table and drainboards; then I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floor. When I was finished, I thought the kitchen was immaculate. It took about three hours.

Then I heard the chairs shuffling, and everyone left. The front door closed, and I heard my mother coming to the kitchen. I was pleased and thought she would be. The door swung open, and even at the age of 11, I recognized that she was startled. She looked around the kitchen, looked at me, and then there was a look I didn’t recognize at the time. I do now. It was something like, “Thanks. I am tired. I think you understand, and I love you.” And she came over and hugged me. There was a light in her eye and a warmth in my heart. I learned it is a wonderful feeling to turn on the lights in our parents’ eyes.

With the help of my family, we decided to start a Billion Graves assignment, taking pictures at the Anfield cemetery in Liverpool. Everything was okay because the headstones were clear, and it was easy to take legible pictures- although we had to deal with English weather, trying to avoid the pouring rain, something difficult to achieve. The cemetery was about 20 minutes from our home.
We then realised that the task was too big, as it was not close enough, so we searched for something smaller and closer to our home. That is when we started at St Chad’s cemetery which was just five minutes from home. Whenever it was not raining, we just ran to take pictures.
There was a lot to do, not because of the number of headstones, but because of the challenges we had when we got there. We needed gloves to remove the grass and dust the leaves off the headstones, to get clear pictures. We found loads of weeds to remove, even stinging nettles (Urtica dioica) and we got many stings on our arms. There were so many weeds and we even found trees growing from some of these headstones.
Many headstones were buried in the ground so that the names and dates were underground. That was when we started bringing small shovels to remove the soil and dig up the headstones to read the information we could not see. We took spatulas, brushes and knee pads, to help in this work. Our tool bag kept growing bigger each time.
At the end of a row of headstones, we found a whole family: all five of their children had died in the same year. When we got home, we did some research and found out there was a cholera epidemic in that same year in England. We could feel the grief of that mother who buried all her children.
One day we found 2 headstones full of names, but they were buried in the ground, so we started digging and it took some time to uncover both headstones. But as I was observing what we had just done, I realised that there was a gap between those gravestones. I checked with my shoe, and there it was another huge headstone that we needed to unbury as well.
There were lots of challenges to overcome, but as a family, we were also blessed to know that this assignment needed to be done, and we felt appreciation from the ones on the other side of the veil that their information could be available online. This was a reminder of the words of King Benjamin (Mosiah 2:17): “when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”
When I had served for about twenty months, we reached 10,000 pictures taken and I received a special shirt for that achievement from Elder and Sister Hoar, my Service Mission Leaders.
In my last month, my mum went with me during the Easter break. It was a sunny day, but there were some grey clouds threatening on the horizon. We started taking the pictures and we really wanted to take advantage of my mother’s time off from work, but the grey clouds started getting closer and darker. We prayed asking Heavenly Father for help to achieve our goal. And then, in a blink of an eye, there was some wind and the clouds moved, and it was sunny again. And it happened again, so we prayed once more, and we had sun a second time. We did this three times, and we had positive results from our prayers each time. We completed our goal: we finished that section, and we ended up taking 405 pictures on that day.
When we were going back to the car, instead of going through the path on the side, we decided to cross over the section which we had done before. It was then when my mum felt like someone was calling to be found and we were prompted to look down.
There it was, a small headstone, probably no more than 15 by 20 cm, with two names on it that we had not recorded. If my mother had not followed that prompting, we would have missed that couple.
That experience reminded me that sometimes the veil between this life and the life beyond becomes very thin. There are so many people in the spirit world that didn’t get the chance to have the gospel in their lives, and we are the ones who can help them. It has been an incredible opportunity for all our family to serve others on the other side of the veil and, as President Nelson said, “[Now is] the most crucial time in the history of the world, to help gather Israel” because “the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 18:10).
I am grateful for the opportunity I have had to serve as a service missionary, to help people on both sides of the veil and for the love of my family who helped me to serve.
Elder Flores uploaded 16,431 pictures to Billion Graves by the end of his mission.

And I remember hearing in New Zealand many years ago the testimony of a man from the far side of Australia who, having been previously sealed by civil authority and then joined the Church with his wife and children, had traveled all the way across that wide continent, then across the Tasman Sea to Auckland, and down to the temple in the beautiful valley of the Waikato. As I remember his words, he said, “We could not afford to come. Our worldly possessions consisted of an old car, our furniture, and our dishes. I said to my family, ‘We cannot afford to go.’ Then I looked into the faces of my beautiful wife and our beautiful children, and I said, ‘We cannot afford not to go. If the Lord will give me strength, I can work and earn enough for another car and furniture and dishes, but if I should lose these my loved ones, I would be poor indeed in both life and in eternity.’”

Growing up, I loved sports. When I was a teenager, I played basketball and baseball and ran track. But I always knew that I would never play or practice on Sunday. When you know that you are on the Lord’s side, decisions like this are clear. So when my team was scheduled to practice or play on Sunday, I never begged my parents to let me play. I simply told the coach that I wouldn’t be able to participate. My decision was easy to make because I knew I wanted to be on the Lord’s side.

Keaton and Pug were best friends. They did everything together. One summer they decided to build a tree fort in the forest behind Pug’s home. Each Saturday they worked on their fort, using old pieces of wood and a hammer and nails Pug’s dad gave them.
One Saturday as Keaton and Pug worked on their fort, Pug’s mom called to them. They jumped down and went to the house.
“What’s up, Mom?” Pug asked.
“You boys are going to have another friend to play with today,” Mom said, pointing toward the back door.
Just then Jason came out of the house. “Are you my new best friends?” he asked, clapping his hands.
“Mommmm!” Pug protested.
Keaton rolled his eyes. “Oh, great!” he said under his breath. Jason was their age, but he was, well, different.
“Mom,” Pug whispered, “Jason won’t want to work on the fort. He won’t want to do anything but run around.”
Pug’s mom sighed. “Jason will be with us until after lunch when his mom gets back from the doctor. So you need to find something you can all do together. Now run along and play.”
Keaton and Pug walked away, glancing back at Jason as he followed them. “Now what are we going to do? Our day is ruined,” Keaton grumbled.
“Hey, I know,” Pug whispered. “Let’s play hide-and-seek and have Jason be it. We can run into the forest and work on our tree fort, and he’ll never find us.”
“Great idea!” Keaton exclaimed.
When they explained the game to Jason and told him that he got to be it, he waved his hands with excitement. “Now close your eyes and count to 20,” Keaton said. Jason put his hands over his eyes and started counting, saying each number loudly and carefully.
Keaton and Pug crept away. When they were out of sight behind the house, they raced to the edge of the forest, hid behind trees, and looked back to see if Jason was following. But they could still hear him counting—“13 … 14 … 15.”
They ran toward their fort, laughing and dodging trees. But soon Keaton slowed and fell behind. When he looked back and saw Jason searching around the house, he came to a complete stop. “This isn’t what the song says.”
Pug came back through the trees. “What song?”
“You know, that song we sing in Primary. ‘If you don’t walk as most people do, some people walk away from you. But I won’t! I won’t!’*“
“Oh, yeah,” Pug said. “I remember that song. ‘Jesus walked away from none. He gave his love to everyone. So I will! I will!’”
Keaton and Pug both stared at the ground, ashamed. Finally, Keaton looked up. “Why don’t we go back and hide someplace where Jason can find us?”
“Good idea,” said Pug. They ran back to the house and hid behind the swing set in the backyard.
Just then Jason ran around the corner of the house and spotted them. “I found you! I found you!” he yelled, clapping his hands.
“You sure did!” Keaton agreed.
“Way to go, pal!” Pug said happily, giving Jason a high five.
Jason looked back and forth between the two of them, beaming. “Are you my new best friends?” he asked.
Keaton grinned. “We sure are.”
“Why don’t we play again, and I’ll be it,” Pug suggested. Jason jumped up and down and cheered.
Keaton smiled at Jason. “Let’s hide together,” he whispered. “I know a perfect hiding place.” As soon as Pug started counting, he took Jason’s hand, and they walked together toward the tree fort.

Bloomington, Indiana—Few young Latter-day Saints have ever lived behind the Iron Curtain as has twenty-three-year-old Cenek Vrba, who presently studies violin and music performance at the famed University of Indiana School of Music. Already, Cenek is one of the great young violinists of our time.
What was it like living in Czechoslovakia?
“Most people in Canada and the United States to whom I have talked cannot even imagine what kind of life our family had in Czechoslovakia before escaping in 1968. People outside of Communism don’t even realize the value of their fantastic freedom to do as they wish. Freedom—that is the difference.
“My father was branch president and we had a good Mormon home. But in school we were taught that there is no God. We were taught to hate the ‘class enemy,’ or the owners of small shops and businesses. The USSR was held up as the shining example in everything. In school we were shown movies of how Russia won World War II and how they had given the Czech people their freedom and therefore had the right to occupy the country after the war.
“But at home I was taught love and the gospel and about God. We did not doubt God, even though we could not talk to others about the Church. We could not even tell them of our sacrament meetings. Once we told a trusted friend about our meetings and he informed the secret police. They stopped our meetings and interrogated my father. Although my father has three doctorates, he was released from teaching in the university because, he was told, his Mormon ideas would corrupt the students. He was offered wealth and position if he would join the Communist Party.
“When I was six years old our family had to begin to prepare for my baptism two years later. Since it would have been impossible for me to be baptized in a river or a lake, Father built a font in our garden. He worked on it for over two years so that no suspicions would be aroused. When the secret police asked him why he built it, he said it was to keep the children cool. When I was eight, Father baptized me in our 4? x 4? font in the middle of the night.
“Freedom is the difference between my life in Czechoslovakia and my life in Canada and the United States. Here I have freedom. I didn’t resent studying Marxism and learning about it, but it was terrible to live in it. It takes some principles that are close to the gospel and twists them into force and great unhappiness.”
And about music?
“Music to me is something almost spiritual, even though it can be material—I practice five hours a day and study much. Music lifts people’s spirits. My goal is to be a concert violinist. I look forward to being known as a Mormon. My life as a concert violinist and all the traveling will present challenges when I marry and children come, but I will stay close to the Church and build a good home. I love the Church and know from experience that God answers our prayers. To me, Jesus Christ and his gospel are wonderful.”
Cenek is close to attaining his professional goal. He was concert-master of a symphony orchestra in Czechoslovakia and won first place in the Czech Beethoven National Violin Competition. After his family moved to Calgary, Alberta, Canada, he won the Calgary Music Festival’s top award; the $1,000 grand festival award at the Spokane, Washington, Music Festival; and the top two $500 prizes in Alberta, Canada, music competition.

Samantha turned her back to the cheerful view outside her window. She tried to tune out the happy sounds coming from downstairs, but it didn’t work. A tear escaped from her eye, and she hastily wiped it away—she did not want to be caught crying. They have been so nice! she thought.
Other families had not been. They hadn’t really been mean or anything, and her physical needs had always been met—but she’d never felt like she had a real home where she belonged. And after a few weeks or months, she would move on to a new house and a new family—which was fine because she didn’t really miss the previous one much.
But the McMillans were different. Samantha could tell they really cared for her. That’s why thinking about leaving some day made her so sad. It’s better not to become too close, she thought. Another tear trailed its way down her cheek. Why am I upset? I should be happy. This is a nice family, I feel at home here, even though I’ve been here only four days.
Suddenly footsteps galloped up the stairs. That has to be Amy, she thought, smiling.
The door flew open, and six-year-old Amy bounded in, her pigtails bouncing and a huge smile on her face. “Samantha! Samantha! Mom has our dessert downstairs! You’d better hurry, or Kevin will eat it all up!” The whipped cream smeared across her cheek made it obvious that Amy had eaten hers already. She stopped abruptly and looked closely at Samantha in the darkening room. “Are you sad?”
Samantha jumped up. “Oh, I’m just thinking. What did your mom make for dessert?” she replied, trying to change the subject.
“Pumpkin pie, of course. We always have pie on Saturday night. You can even put cream on it if you want!”
“I bet you had cream on yours!”
“How’d you know?”
“A good guess,” Samantha said as she wiped the cream from Amy’s cheek.
“Well, come on!” Amy grabbed at Samantha’s hand. “You need to hurry if you want any.”
As Amy bounded down the stairs, Samantha followed, unsure of herself and of where she fit in with this family.
The McMillans were sitting at the table, eating their pie. A place was set for her, and a piece of pie had been cut and put at her place. She sat down silently and looked around the table. Everyone smiled a greeting except Kevin, who was eyeing her piece of pie. She smiled and looked down at her hands shyly.
“We already blessed the pie, Samantha,” Mrs. McMillan said. “Won’t you have some with us?”
Samantha was relieved. She felt awkward when they said these prayers. She remembered her first meal with them. All of a sudden everyone had bowed their heads and were quiet, and she’d had no idea what they were doing. She had glanced around the table and tried to copy what she saw. No one had noticed because they all had their eyes closed. Suddenly remembering Mrs. McMillan’s question, she quickly said, “Kevin can have mine, I’m still full from dinner.”
“Yes!” Kevin shouted.
“Kevin! You’ve had two pieces already!” Mrs. McMillan said in disbelief. “And you ate more than anyone else at dinner!”
“I know, Mom, but I’m a growing boy!” Kevin replied, reaching for Samantha’s pie and giving her a great big smile of thanks.
Samantha giggled and looked at Amy, who giggled too.
“Well, it’s time for bed now,” Mr. McMillan said a few minutes later as he stood up and began to gather the dishes on the table. “I’ll help your mother with these while you kids run up and get your pajamas on. We’ll come up and tuck you in shortly.”
As she and Samantha climbed the stairs, Amy grumbled about having to go to bed so soon. Kevin ate his last bite of pie and fell in step behind them.
Samantha followed Amy into their room, and they began to change into their pajamas. Samantha was eager to wear the new pink ones Mrs. McMillan had bought for her. But when Amy knelt at the side of her bed to say her prayers, Samantha felt the awkward feeling seep into her chest again. Mr. and Mrs. McMillan had offered to help her pray, but they didn’t insist when she said maybe later, after she got more used to the family routines. Amy soon stood up and hopped under the covers. She glanced over at Samantha and asked, “Are you going to say your prayers tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Samantha said, getting into bed. She turned out the lamp on the nightstand. Mr. and Mrs. McMillan came in and wished them good night and sweet dreams, then closed the door quietly. The moon shining through the trees cast shadows on the wall, and Samantha watched the shadows sway back and forth as the night breeze blew.
“Amy, why do you p-pray every night?” Samantha asked, feeling awkward even asking.
“Because I need to talk to Heavenly Father.”
“Why do you need to talk to Heavenly Father?”
“I need to thank Him for my mom, dad, and brother. And my friend Jesse is sick, so I need to ask Heavenly Father to bless her and help her get better. Oh, and I need to thank Him for the nice day we had—and for sending you to live with us.”
“For me?”
Amy nodded.
“And you’re praying to a person?”
“Sure, but not a person like us—God is our Heavenly Father and He’s perfect. Mom says He loves us and wants us to be happy. He answers our prayers, though sometimes not the way we want to have them answered.”
“Do you really believe that there is a Person who hears you when you pray?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure. I always feel good inside when I pray.”
“Do you think He will listen and answer prayers for anyone—even for me?” Samantha had many feelings inside that she wanted to share with someone who loved her, especially someone like the Heavenly Father Amy had described.
“Of course!” Amy chirped reassuringly.
“How do you say a prayer? I mean, do you say it like your family does at dinner?”
“Yep! Do you want to pray now? I’ll help you!”
Without waiting for an answer, Amy scrambled over and knelt beside Samantha’s bed. Samantha knelt next to her and closed her eyes. Amy thanked Heavenly Father for the nice day and asked Him to bless the family, including the goldfish. As Samantha echoed Amy’s words, she began to feel good inside. They ended their prayer in the name of Jesus Christ and climbed into their beds.
“We can pray together again in the morning, and you can do the talking,” Amy said and then was soon asleep.
Samantha couldn’t sleep. All she could think about was how she felt and what Amy had said. In her heart she began to say another prayer, thanking Heavenly Father for the McMillans.

One of the challenges, as well as a great blessing, of serving a mission is learning how to adjust to new situations. I served in the North German Mission and was still learning the language when I arrived. The first night I was in Germany, right after I dropped my bags off, my wonderful companion said, “Are you ready to go? Let’s go tracting!” I watched him go to two or three doors and talk to people. Then he pushed the doorbell and said, “It’s your turn!”
I’ll never forget the woman who came to the door while I stood there with a Book of Mormon in my hand. All those feelings of anxiety and nervousness that I’d felt when I stood at the pulpit as a child came back again. But because I had worked hard to learn the language and had experience teaching about the First Vision, I knew what I could say. She didn’t accept the Book of Mormon, and she shut the door on me. My companion looked at me and said, “Nice job, Elder Schwitzer. Welcome to Germany.”
Over time, being a missionary became easier as I had the opportunity to meet people and share the gospel. That’s what is amazing about the gospel of Jesus Christ: the more you testify, the more you grow as a missionary. You don’t just go out to serve a mission; you go out to become a missionary, and in the process you become a disciple of Jesus Christ.

My friend Jorge reached across the table, offering me a sip from his glass of champagne. I was surprised by his offer. He knew I was a Latter-day Saint and drinking alcohol was against my beliefs. I politely shook my head, indicating that this time, like all previous times, I would pass.
He brought his hand to his forehead and exclaimed, “¡Pero es nuestra graduación!” (But it’s graduation night!)
Yes, it was graduation night. And in Ecuador, this was our night to celebrate. The evening had begun with a formal dinner for our entire families. A bottle of champagne had been placed in the center of each table, and well-mannered waiters had served an excellent meal. After dinner, those of us who had just graduated danced a waltz with our father or mother.
Eventually all the parents left, and only the graduates and our friends remained. It was around midnight when Jorge approached me and offered me some of his drink. Jorge felt that just this once wouldn’t do me any harm, especially considering the event was a once-in-a-lifetime occasion and everyone was expected to have a drink.
I simply replied, “I know it’s graduation night. That doesn’t matter.”
All through high school, I had been invited to drink and smoke, but I had always refused, explaining that my religion taught me drinking and smoking were harmful. My friends usually did not persist after the explanation, but I never knew how they really felt about my turning them down.
To my surprise, Jorge smiled, extended his right hand, and shook mine. All he said was “I really admire this about you,” and he walked away.
Later, while reflecting on what happened that night, I remembered the counsel President Gordon B. Hinckley has given us to “stand for something” (see “True to the Faith,” Liahona, Sept. 1996, 4). To Jorge and my other friends, I had stood for something. I realized that often we may think our efforts to do the right thing make us unpopular. While that may be true in some instances, for the most part, people take note and see Latter-day Saints as people who stand for something worthy of admiration.

Three weeks after my return, my sister Shawna and her daughter came with a cousin from Brigham City to spend a few days. Bob, her husband, drove down in the Lincoln and spent an afternoon. Michele, their five-year-old, said, “You’re a General Authority now, aren’t you, Rick?” I tousled my niece’s blonde hair and smiled. I hadn’t seen Shawna for three years because before my mission she was at the University of Arizona. She and Michele wore designer clothes, and Shawna had her hair swept back, with curls on one side, kind of unnatural. Mother brought out the Harris family histories, and we sat around the living room; but Shawna, who had majored in interior design, daydreamed and looked at Mom’s furnishings and made faces at some of the color arrangements. When Bob came he lounged on the sofa and talked about the demise of the Dallas Cowboys, not my favorite early summer subject. He had played linebacker at BYU. About all he could stop now was a bowl of chocolate pudding. At dinner he ate thirds of both casserole and salad. He was full of good cheer about his younger brother’s prospects in the Deseret News Marathon. Of course Bob didn’t run anymore. After they left I asked Mom what had happened to my sister and her family.
“What do you mean?”
“They seem different.”
“You’re the one who’s changed, Rick.”
“I have?”
“Yes, you’re a lot more serious now.”
“Really?”
Two months now. Michele and Shawna were gone, Dad was in Houston on business, Mom was playing golf in Provo—and I sat under the locust taking in the dance of monarch butterflies along the hedge. So peaceful, so quiet, so dull. I amused myself by considering that the Savior was never a “returned missionary.” I had come to distrust the phrase. His mission was a mere three years, and he never went back home with nothing to do. Returning from a mission was a personal loss. You had to go on from there—become a goshawk and keep flapping your wings. I decided to make myself useful by helping Dad. He wanted the locust limbs trimmed away from the chimney before summer school.
On the roof I caught my breath after tossing off limbs. Gracious, I was thin! Wiping my forehead I saw Sister Hunter, two backyards away, bent over a rototiller—just as I had seen her husband do. Oh—it struck me: Brother Hunter had died of a heart attack a few weeks into my mission. How could I—I hated to even think the word—forget? Certainly he still hoed his beets and flooded his yard. Had he and Sister Hunter made it to the temple? Since my little medical problem I saw the temple as the abode of Deity, the place where, whatever the need, one found solace. Mom and Dad had worked with them after Brother Hunter joined the Church. But I hadn’t heard the results. As I grew up Sister Hunter offered me candy and nursed a bruised knee. She used to give me ice cream bars and a hug.
I climbed down from the roof and walked quickly down the block and into the driveway leading to her fence. After catching my breath, I said, “It’s the carburetor.”
“This pesky machine,” she said, “I want to kick it.” She was not old, only about 65, a small woman with hair the color of a fresh Oregon waterfall. She liked to wear a white cardigan sweater in cooler weather. Her eyes were green. She had a small, doll-like mouth that gave an appearance of youth. She loved to make vegetables and flowers grow.
With a screwdriver I adjusted the carburetor. But the short, frayed cord came taut under my jerked pulls. Nothing happened. I checked the oil—nothing wrong. Sister Hunter hovered above me like a mother eagle, watching first here and then there. Finally I got a spark plug out of our own lawn mower and, after more tinkering, the rototiller started. She said, “You’re a wonder. I never could have done that.”
After tilling her garden, which was deftly situated between the bank of grapes and the gray shed in the back, I helped her hand weed the corn against the side fences. I hadn’t had this much fun with dirt since the preparation day in Salem when I helped Brother Goss tie up his tomatoes. After a few mornings weeding by hand, we stood by her prospering garden as water filled the rows. She smiled and said, “Wouldn’t Henry be proud?”
Several “situations”—she refused to call them problems—plagued Sister Hunter. The grimy red pickup gathered heat in the driveway, and the water pump had quit in her washing machine on the back porch. I asked Mike Nelson, a young acquaintance at church, to help me, and within a few days we had installed a new fuel line in her ancient pickup. We road tested it through town with Jack, Sister Hunter’s faded-blond retriever. He wasn’t much help when I stalled at the Suprette Market. All he did was hang his head and loll his tongue. We ended up at the back of the store giving him water out of a discarded paper cup. Back at Sister Hunter’s we guzzled lemonade while taking breaks from her washing machine. I bought some frozen cans of lemonade to replenish her supply—and threw in a small pot roast for good measure. Mike thought I was nuts, but I wanted to do it. I found out she hadn’t had a special Sunday dinner since her husband died. Sure enough, at church she invited us over, and I graciously declined, not wanting to negate my good deeds. But she insisted. The next Sunday we arrived, and I discovered the table set with stunning china and sparkling silverware, a bouquet of peonies, and the steaming roast. Afterward I teased her about such a nice meal. Then we listened to a tape of a general conference talk by Elder James E. Faust on temple work while Mike fell asleep on the couch.
The next Tuesday I cornered Mike in an aisle of Pay Mart with a brilliant idea.
“Clean every one of her windows?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Inside and out?”
“Sure. It’s a small house.”
“You’re out of your tree.”
“So?”
So we armed ourselves with squeegees, clean rags, and spray bottles of glass cleaner and assaulted Sister Hunter’s windows, Mike outside, me inside. Her place sparkled, not a book out of place, not a dog hair on the couch, the islands of throw rugs floating on the polished hardwood floors. I spied on a lamp table a photograph of her husband, taken years ago. It stood behind an opened Bible which had on it a red pencil and glasses and which lay on an intricate doily. A hallowed feeling lingered in the house.
Both Mike and I figured our small act of kindness was finished. But one afternoon as I drowsed under the locust and thought about Sister Hunter, a strong feeling came over me that we hadn’t done enough. Her pickup ran, her washing machine purred, her windows shone, and her garden was a showpiece, the cool upturned earth mellowing in the furrows. What more could we do?
By now summer school was heating up, and I was busy as an instructor in the elders quorum. For diversion I hiked a few miles above Strawberry Reservoir, until I was too tired to go on and had to return. In the solemn hours I picked out lonely love songs on my guitar. Then late one evening as Mom and I endured our brewer’s yeast milk shakes I asked her about the Hunters’ temple sealing. Mom shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Since her husband died she has stayed pretty much to herself.”
That night, in the privacy of my room, I poured out my heart to the Lord for courage to finish our task.
On a Friday after class at the Y, without Mike, who was shopping for a quick-action .22, I found myself enjoying the pungent aroma of cut apples in Sister Hunter’s blue kitchen.
“I appreciate you and Mike so much,” she said over her apples. “I’m an old sourpuss, I know. I’m too set in my ways. Won’t even talk to Bishop Thompson that much, but the home teachers are a blessing. Those young rascals think I can’t do for myself. But I can.” She glanced up at me. “Since Henry passed away, I’ve had to.” She went back to slicing apples, their whiteness glistening under her knife. Then she stopped and looked up at me again. “I never had a more trying time than when I waited for Henry to join the Church. I thought he never would, and I kind of gave up. But through it all I had to stay true—true to what I felt. You know, you’re the first one to take a real interest. And I don’t know how to say thanks.”
Like the goshawk, Sister Hunter had fierce eyes. They were light like a hawk’s, but green. She had learned to take care of herself—to keep her eyes alive by the spirit of life. She had flown into the cold recesses of fear and come back. She had fought harsh winds and long boreal hours of loneliness. The contempt I had read in the goshawk’s eyes, as in Sister Hunter’s, was a disdain for giving up—for anything vulgar or hurtful—a disdain for anything that kept him from flying freely through his northern forests.
I told her thanks were not necessary, and then I said good-bye, without having asked her about going to the temple. In Grants Pass, Oregon, I had strenuously challenged a hardened truck driver to quit smoking and he did, but I had not yet brought up the matter of the temple with Sister Hunter because I hadn’t found the words. We had talked about the temple, and we had listened to the words of an Apostle, but just what I should say had not come to me, short of simply asking, “Why haven’t you gone to the temple?” Tomorrow I would ask her.
On the back porch she stopped me. “You wait here. I want to show you something.”
She came from the house with a flat, white box, tattered and crushed, but still with its lid. She sat down beside me and opened it. She lifted out a lace veil from the box.
“This was my mother’s temple veil.” The veil, pure and white, held a sacred aura.
Sister Hunter’s eyes were intense, sparkling. For some time we sat on the back porch steps. Quietly, still composing herself, she asked, “Would you—and your folks—come with me to the temple some day? If I am worthy? Would you stand in for Henry?”
“Need you ask?” I replied, in hushed voice. “Of course.”
For days I thought about Sister Hunter’s temple veil. I had spent too much time worrying about myself. I too wanted to attend the temple and consecrate my service. The goshawk, Dad said, had to keep flying, and it too, after long hours, must have wondered about going on, wondered how it might finish what it had started. Sister Hunter had somehow shown me the continuity I sought between my mission and my present life—simply by being available to serve.
A few days later, in the Provo Temple, I experienced an extraordinary event. As I participated in the ordinances of salvation a powerful thought came: covenant, covenant—the word echoed deeply. Covenant grows out of the faith that we can keep on going by serving others. I could fly out of the woods. The sensation I lived with before I spotted Sister Hunter from our roof was one of being lost in a dark woods, with no clear path for certainty, only the shadows of tall trees, and the sunny meadows behind me. I clearly envisioned my father’s goshawk, poised, eager, attentive, ready.
It was a special afternoon. I wanted to share the spirit of the temple with my parents—and especially Sister Hunter.
Outside the temple the air was fresh but warm. A couple, hand in hand, the man carrying a suitcase, strolled into the sunlight from under the white portico. I shouldered my blue canvas pack and walked down the hill. Utah Lake sparkled in the sunlight. The lake was incandescent. The mountains beyond shone faintly, hazed by a lingering mist. All of Provo became a green sea converted for a passage to the holy hills. Looking over this domain, I wished the goshawk might find, in his wanderings, such a place to light.

It was a noisy evening in my dormitory at the University of Ibadan in Nigeria. There was a downpour outside, and a cool breeze blew through the window. Music of different sorts came from many rooms on my floor, and girls were singing and calling to one another.
My older sister had gone to visit friends, but I chose to stay and prepare supper for myself and my roommates. I couldn’t explain why, but I had a strong feeling that I should stay behind.
As I began making soup, Ifeoma came in. She was a missionary for a church that met on campus. A discussion ensued between Ifeoma and my roommates. She preached to them for some time and invited them to attend her church. My roommates willingly accepted her invitation.
I was disappointed because my invitations for my roommates to attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had been unsuccessful. The first time I invited them, they ridiculed me and the Church. Subsequent attempts during the following three years were also failures. I felt like a poor member missionary. But a voice within me insisted, “Don’t give up.” So I often fasted and prayed to meet someone in school who would listen to the gospel.
“Hello!” Ifeoma said, turning her attention to me. “Would you mind listening to me while you cook?”
“Not at all,” I answered.
“Are you born again?” she asked.
“Yes, if you mean by ‘born again’ what Jesus taught Nicodemus,” I said (see John 3:1–21).
“That’s interesting,” she said. “May I know which church you attend?”
“I attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I answered.
“The Mormons?” she asked in amazement. “I understand they use a different Bible.”
“It is not a Bible but the Book of Mormon,” I explained. “It is another testament of Jesus Christ.”
“Would you tell me what your beliefs are?” she asked.
“Certainly,” I answered with confidence. I told her about the Articles of Faith and the Book of Mormon. I told her about faith in Jesus Christ, repentance, and baptism. She listened quietly. Then I bore my testimony and gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon I had intended to give to someone else.
“You mean I can keep this?” she asked.
“Yes. It is a gift from me to you,” I said. Then I asked her to open the book and read 2 Nephi 25:26. She did so gladly: “We talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”
When Ifeoma finished reading, her countenance had become sober. I sensed she was convinced that what I had said was true.
“And I thought members of your church didn’t believe in Christ,” she said softly.
I invited her to attend church the next Sunday, and she agreed. “Thanks, Ngozi,” she said. “I have never felt such a warm feeling as I did today while talking with you.”
She left, and I understood why I had had the strong impression to stay rather than go with my sister. I had been led by the Spirit and had at last succeeded in sharing the gospel with someone who was willing to listen.

Soon after my husband was called to preside over the Paraguay Asunción Mission in 1992, we attended a branch conference in an isolated community in the Paraguayan Chaco. We traveled four hours on a paved road and then seven more hours on a primitive road. The perils and discomfort of the long trip were soon forgotten when we greeted the happy and welcoming members of Mistolar.
Julio Yegros was the young branch president, and he and his wife, Margarita, were one of the few families who had been sealed in the temple. I asked them to share their experience of their trip to the temple.
At the time, the closest temple was the Buenos Aires Temple in Argentina. The trip from Mistolar required 27 hours one way to reach the temple, and they had gone with their two small children. It was in the middle of a very cold winter, but with much sacrifice they made it to the temple and were sealed together as an eternal family. On the way back, the two babies got very sick and died. They buried them along the way and returned home empty-handed. They were sad and lonely but amazingly felt comforted and peaceful. They said of the experience: “Our children were sealed to us in the house of the Lord. We know we will have them back with us for all eternity. This knowledge has given us peace and comfort. We have to remain worthy and faithful to the covenants we made in the temple, and then we will be reunited with them.”

1961. The horizon wasn’t even softened yet by the coming dawn when a train stopped at a siding in southern Mexico to take on water. There was no town in sight, nothing but the dim outlines of mountains and jungle. Before the train could chug out its first puff of steam to get underway again, a Mexican youth in a suit and tie suddenly dug an elbow into his “gringo” companion as they sat on a bench in the passenger section.
“Grab your bag,” he said. “We’re getting off.”
Overriding his sleepy friend’s inarticulate protests, he soon had them both standing by the tracks in the 4:00 A.M. chill as the train snorted, huffed, gathered speed, and pulled away. Finally awake, the companion said in disbelief, “But it’s the middle of the night, and we’re in the middle of nowhere, and there won’t be another train until tomorrow morning!”
“I know,” the young Mexican replied, “but the Spirit told me to get off; so we got off.” His companion shrugged. No arguing with that sort of thing. Elder Parra, district president of the Puebla District of the mission was no fool, and everybody knew he lived close to the Lord.
“So here we are,” the American said stoically. “So what next?” Elder Parra pointed into the darkness. “We start walking,” he said.
So they walked, stumbling up one side of a mountain and down the other. Dawn showed them another mountain beyond that, and another beyond that, and they climbed them. At last, about 17 miles later, they came to a village of very small, poor houses. They climbed a little hill nearby, took out their hymnbooks, and sang a hymn. When they had finished that hymn, they sang another, and then another, until all the people from the village came out of their houses and climbed the hill to see what was going on.
When everyone had gathered around the two missionaries, they started to preach. They preached for half a day, and when they had finished preaching, they dammed up a small stream nearby and baptized every person there who was eight years of age or older. They then ordained an elder to be president of the new little branch and hiked back to catch the next day’s train.
Today Elder Parra is back in southern Mexico, this time as president of the Mexico Vera Cruz Mission. The mission leads the Church in baptisms, has a high rate of member activity, and boasts a strong youth missionary program.
The little village in the mountains is a thriving branch of some 200 members. They have a full-time missionary in the field and hope to build a chapel.
To them it makes a lot of difference that one Mormon elder had enough faith to suddenly get off a train at 4:00 A.M. in the middle of nowhere.

One day my companion and I were teaching a couple, and we told them that the Father and the Son had appeared to Joseph Smith in answer to his prayer. The man said that no one could see God. Immediately the alarm on my watch went off, letting us know that we needed to head home. We left their home that day without answering that statement.
The next day I read a scripture in the Bible that says, “If there be a prophet among you, I the Lord will make myself known unto him in a vision” (Numbers 12:6). I knew this scripture would help this brother believe.
The time of the next visit arrived, and we spoke about prophets. I showed him this scripture, and his countenance changed. His eyes filled with tears, and he said, “This is true. There are people prepared to see God.” Later we taught him about Book of Mormon prophets who have seen God, and he knew it was true.
Elder Diaz, age 25, Mexico Mérida Mission