Gospel Story Finder

I was coming home from swimming lessons Saturday morning when I saw lots of people lined up for a parade. I asked my mom why we weren’t going to the parade. She told me it was because we needed to listen to general conference. I really wanted to go to the parade and was sad that we couldn’t go, but I told my mom that I knew it was more important to listen to conference and that I would do that instead. I liked listening to the prophet and other speakers. I know it helps us to learn more about Jesus.

Many years ago, on my first visit to the village of Sauniatu in Samoa, my wife and I met with a large gathering of small children—nearly 200 in number. At the conclusion of our messages to these shy yet beautiful youngsters, I suggested to the native Samoan teacher that we go forward with the closing exercises.
As he announced the final hymn, I suddenly felt compelled to greet personally each of these children. My watch revealed that the time was too short for such a privilege, for we were scheduled on a flight out of the country, so I discounted the impression. Before the benediction was to be spoken, I again felt that I should shake the hand of each child. I made the desire known to the instructor, who displayed a broad and beautiful Samoan smile. In Samoan, he announced this to the children. They beamed their approval.
The instructor then revealed to me the reason for his and their joy. He said, “When we learned that a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles was to visit us here in Samoa, so far away from Church headquarters, I told the children if they would earnestly and sincerely pray and exert faith like the Bible accounts of old, that the Apostle would visit our tiny village at Sauniatu and through their faith he would be impressed to greet each child with a personal handclasp.”
Tears could not be restrained as the precious boys and girls walked shyly by and whispered softly to us the sweet Samoan greeting “talofa lava.” A profound expression of faith had been evidenced.

As a small boy, I enjoyed visiting the home of my grandmother on Bueno Avenue here in Salt Lake City. Grandmother was always so happy to see us and to draw us close to her. Seated on her lap, we listened as she read to us.

Her youngest son and his wife now occupy that same home. I visited there recently. The fireplug on the curb seemed so small compared to its size when I climbed its lofty heights those long years ago. The friendly porch was the same, the quiet, peaceful atmosphere not altered. Hanging on the kitchen wall was a framed expression which my aunt had embroidered. It carried a world of practical application: “Choose your love; love your choice.” She who prepared that message is now in frail health. Her husband, Ray, cares for her constantly and is the epitome of faithful and enduring love. She reciprocates in her own way. They live the lesson they framed.

From my personal chronology of courage, let me share with you an example from military service.

Entering the United States Navy in the closing months of World War II was a challenging experience for me. I learned of brave deeds, acts of valor, and examples of courage. One best remembered was the quiet courage of an 18-year-old seaman—not of our faith—who was not too proud to pray. Of 250 men in the company, he was the only one who each night knelt down by the side of his bunk—at times amidst the jeers of the curious, the jests of unbelievers—and, with bowed head, prayed to God. He never wavered. He never faltered. He had courage.

Imagine my delight as I read the December 1979 Feedback letters and saw one from a very special returned missionary with whom we have not been in contact for at least two years. I say special (and all missionaries are special) because this young man—a “greenie”—and his senior companion taught our family of nine about the gospel of Jesus Christ. And may I add, we didn’t make it easy! Because of their dedication to the Lord and our (rather weak) testimonies, we were all baptized, and most of us continue to grow stronger in the gospel every year. One of us is attending BYU and planning a mission. Another is setting goals for a temple marriage. Others are fulfilling jobs in our ward. To top it all off, we were recently sealed in the Salt Lake Temple for time and all eternity. I wish our special elders had been there and that we had stayed in closer contact. Thanks to DeMar Clegg and Kevin Wagner for setting the example and leading the way. They will always be very special to us.
Incidentally, one of the first gifts we received as investigators of the Church was a subscription to the New Era.
Joyce TaylorEl Toro, California

Mozambique. The name, for some, conjures images of exotic wildlife, lush green vegetation, or white-sand beaches. More likely, it will send the average person scrambling for a map to discover its location in southeast Africa. But for Maria da Conceição, it means home. And thanks to the efforts of members in the Inhamízua Branch and a few missionaries, Maria now has a place in Mozambique to call her own.
Maria is a tiny woman with a gigantic spirit. Abandoned by her husband and oldest daughter, she was left to rear two small children on her own. Crippled by a debilitating disease she has had since birth, Maria struggled to pay the rent each month. In a country that has high unemployment, work and money are nearly impossible to come by. Yet Maria managed to make a meager living and do the best she could.
I was a full-time missionary in Mozambique. When I first met Maria, I was impressed by her positive attitude and zest for life. She worked relentlessly in her machamba (large garden) to provide for two children and herself and to pay rent on a small mud house.
Church members helped by providing food and medical care. Tragically, Maria’s two children died within three weeks of each other due to disease and no access to the right medical facilities. Death and suffering are common in Mozambique.
Serving as the branch president for our tiny branch, I was extremely concerned for Maria. Both the youth and adult members of our isolated branch did everything they could to help Maria. Some worked in the machamba, others offered food, and a few even helped pay the rent; but she needed a permanent answer.
Late one night, while I was pondering and searching for an answer, inspiration came to me in the form of an idea for an ambitious youth project: building a home for Maria. My companion, Elder Bis-Neto, and I proposed our idea to the younger members of the branch, and they jumped at the chance to help build Maria a house. There was little money and a great deal of work to be done, but with many willing hands and a vision of a traditional African mud-and-stick house, a plan took shape, and the youth went to work.
Everyone got down to business immediately. First job: get wood.
A trip into the African jungle to gather wood for building a home is not a job for the fainthearted. The youth and missionaries made many two-hour trips through thick, swampy savannas, endless rice fields, dense overgrown jungles, and waist-deep mud to find the perfect trees with which to build Maria’s house. Using machetes, we hacked down the slender trees and then organized them into bundles for the journey back. Some of the youth used tall wild grass to quickly weave hats to help protect their heads from the rough logs.
The most difficult leg of the journey now began. Carrying a heavy load on our heads, scratching our way through the dense undergrowth, and battling the scorching African sun, we hauled our loads back. As we walked, the youth sang hymns of Zion, with smiles on their faces.
Alves Elídio Eguimane Razão, 18, says, “It was a lot of hard work, and we loved every minute of it!”
The wooden frame went up stick by stick, with care given to ensure a sturdy and lasting structure. Many generous hands constructed the roof by laying down strips of plastic, which were secured with mats of woven weeds. This roof would need to repel the violent storms of the annual rainy season.
From mud walls to mud floors to mud pies, mud was the menu for most building days. Barrel after barrel of rich brown dirt was hauled in and then drenched in water. Dozens of youth and other branch members turned out to help hand mix the mud and cover the frame house. The exterior was done first, followed by the interior walls and partition. After we had packed the walls with several inches of strong, dried mud, the house started to take shape. To jazz up the interior, a special layer of mud was carefully applied to create the floor and solid water-resistant surfaces.
These days were full of hard work, but the atmosphere abounded in good humor and many smiles, not to mention the surprised eyes of the neighbors as they watched missionaries and youth carrying large bundles of sticks and gallons upon gallons of water and slinging handfuls of mud.
Finally the door was hung, a lock installed, and the house was done. After more than 1,000 service hours, given by more than 40 members and a number of missionaries, Maria da Conceição had a beautiful home of her own.

My dad always stopped at the same convenience store near our house to buy gas. After filling up the car, Dad went in to pay. I followed him and was through the door before I heard Cort’s voice. He was working behind the counter.
Suddenly a wave of embarrassment washed over me. I wanted to sneak out, but the store wasn’t that big. In only a second, he would see that I was there.
Cort looked up from the cash register and said, “Hi.”
Dad glanced from Cort to me then back to Cort. “Oh, do you know my daughter Jill?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He thinks so! my mind was screaming. Didn’t he remember how we were almost friends?
I was tongue tied. I wanted, more than anything, to say something clever and casual to cover up for the fact that I was blushing, but nothing would come out.
“That will be $15.75,” said Cort to my dad.
As Dad pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, he said, “I sure would like Jill to run the car down here and fill it up. She got her driver’s license three weeks ago, but she’s scared to drive the car. It’s a stick shift, and she panics every time she tries to drive it.”
I was mortified. I was standing there listening to my dad humiliate me.
“It’s not too hard to learn,” Cort said, looking at me. “I taught my sister and my girlfriend.”
“I’ve tried to teach her, but I guess there are some things you just can’t teach your own children,” my dad said, collecting his change.
“I’ll teach you,” Cort said. “I get off work at five tomorrow. Meet me here. It really isn’t that big a deal.”
Not a big deal, not a big deal! It was an incredibly big deal. Just wait until Laney heard about this.
“Okay,” I blurted out. Dad was halfway to the door before I made a move to follow him.
The next afternoon, I had changed my clothes three times and was working on my hair. I desperately wanted thick, smooth, straight blonde hair that would swing away from my face when I moved. What I had was no-color brown that kinked and twisted no matter how long I spent with the blow dryer. I was at the point of giving up when my mom stood in the door of the bathroom.
“What in the world are you doing, Jill?”
“Cort Tyler told Dad that he would help me learn to drive a stick shift this afternoon.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mom said, distracted by the screams coming from the bedroom where my two little brothers were fighting over a video game. Then she suddenly reappeared in the doorway.
“Why are you getting all dressed up? This isn’t a date, is it?”
“No, this isn’t a date,” I said, on the verge of getting sarcastic. But actually I halfway thought it was. I had even told Laney at school that day that I had to get home because I had to meet Cort at five. I said meet but I knew she would think date, and that was just fine with me.
I walked the couple of blocks to the store. Cort was still behind the counter. He saw me coming and said something to the guy beside him and was out in front by the time I walked up.
“Where’s the car?” he asked.
“It’s home,” I had to admit. “I can’t get it into reverse.”
We walked to my house in virtual silence. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and Cort didn’t seem to notice.
“You drive,” he said abruptly as we walked up to the car.
“But I can’t get it into reverse.”
“Yeah, well, let’s fix that,” he said, opening the passenger door and getting in. I walked around and got into the driver’s seat.
I started the car, pushed in the clutch, and tried to slide the gear shift into reverse. It made a horrible sound.
“Okay, stop,” Cort didn’t seem greatly concerned. “Let up on the clutch. Push it in again, then slide the gear shift over and down. Here, like this.”
He put his hand over mine on the gear shift. I think I remembered to do what he instructed, but I was paying a lot of attention to the feel of his hand on mine.
It took five minutes for me to get out of the driveway and into first gear. I kept letting the clutch out too far and killing the engine. I was afraid Cort was going to get upset, but he stayed remarkably calm. I found that after the car got going in first gear, shifting was a lot easier. I had second down cold.
At the end of the neighborhood, I had to turn onto a busy street.
“Take a left here,” Cort said.
“I can’t. I’ll get stuck in the middle of the intersection.”
“But we need to go left.”
“I’ll get us there,” I said. Desperation made my mind work overtime.
I pulled straight through the intersection and made a right at the next corner. I made another right turn, and another. This time I was at the light again, ready to go straight through. I had skipped making a left turn by making three right-hand turns.
Cort started laughing. “Give me a break. You can’t drive like this. You have to learn to turn left.”
“I can’t,” I said, tears starting to form.
“Sure you can. If the car dies in the middle, I’ll trade you places and get us out of there.”
I took a deep breath, signaled to turn left. But I was done in by self- fulfilling prophecy. As soon as I tried to pull forward in first gear, the car got to the middle of the intersection, jerked, and died. I panicked.
“I can’t do this. I can’t. You do it.”
Cort didn’t move. “Just start the car. Put it in first, and give it a little more gas.”
“You promised. You said you’d drive.”
“You can do it. You have to learn how to get yourself out of this situation. Just try.”
It took me three tries to get the car started and moving forward. I just made the turn before the light changed.
“I knew you could do it,” Cort said. “Now drive me back to work. You’re okay now.”
Secretly, I was pleased with myself. I drove Cort back to work and made a left turn back onto the street. This time I didn’t kill the engine.

Tillie carried her house on her back as all turtles do. Whenever she felt danger near, Tillie pulled her feet, her head, and her little tail inside her house and shut it up tight. Tillie went into her little house other times too. If she heard even the slightest strange noise or if she saw her shadow, into her house she went! Tillie was so shy, she spent most of her time inside her shell. Because she hadn’t made any friends, Tillie was feeling very lonely.
One day as Tillie moved slowly through some tall grass, she saw something move and quickly pulled in her feet, head, and tiny tail. Then Tillie felt a little thumping on her shell.
"What’s that sound?" Tillie asked herself.
"Someone is knocking on my shell!" she exclaimed. And in spite of her shyness and fright, Tillie was curious. When the knock came again, Tillie opened her shell just a crack and peeked out. But she couldn’t see anything so she poked her head out a little farther.
"Hi," squeaked a teeny voice that belonged to the smallest mouse Tillie had ever seen.
Tillie was so surprised that she forgot to duck back inside her house. "Who—who are you?" she stammered.
"I’m Morty. Who are you?" the little gray creature inquired.
"Tillie’s my name. Did you knock on my shell?" she asked.
"Yes," Morty answered. "I went to get some grain for Mother so she could make mouse cakes and now I can’t get home."
"Why not?" asked Tillie.
"Because you’re sitting on the doorway to my house," the mouse squeaked.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to," apologized Tillie.
"That’s all right. If you move over just a little, I can get by," said Morty.
Tillie slowly moved forward as Morty watched, amazed.
"You take your house with you when you move!" exclaimed Morty. "Will you please wait a minute until I call my brothers and sisters? They’ve never seen anything like this before either."
Morty hurried into his underground home, and it wasn’t long until he returned with four other mice.
"These are my brothers and sisters—Millie, Mindy, Mickey, and Monty."
They all stared at Tillie for a moment, then, rather shyly, they asked if she would like to play with them.
Tillie had never had friends to play with and she beamed with happiness. "Would you like to slide down my shell?" she asked her new friends.
They climbed up on her back, then slid down to the ground, landing on the soft grass.
"This is fun," they squealed as they took turns climbing up and sliding down.
When their mother called them to come in, the little mice asked Tillie if she would play with them again the next day.
"Oh yes," Tillie told them. "I’ll just move over there in the tall grass so I’ll be close to you. That will be a good place to live."
It was wonderful having friends like Morty, Mindy, Millie, Mickey, and Monty. Tillie was sure she would never be lonely again.

“But Dad, it’s not my fault!” Anne said. “I was being nice to Lacy, but she just kept yelling at me. When I finally yelled back, you came in and got angry with me. It’s not fair.”
“I know,” Dad said, “but you’re older than Lacy. You know better.”
“She should know better too.” Anne started crying and Dad hugged her.
“You’re her older sister,” Dad said. “Just like Jesus is a good example for you, you should be setting a good example for Lacy.”
Anne sniffed. “I try so hard to be like Jesus, but Lacy just makes me so angry sometimes and I forget. It’s hard to remember.”
“You’re right, Anne. It is hard to remember sometimes,” Dad said. “I have an idea. If you take extra big helpings of Vitamin L every day, soon it won’t be hard for you to remember to be like Jesus. Maybe Lacy will start to remember to be like Jesus too.”
“Vitamin L? What’s that?” Anne asked.
Dad kissed her head and said, “Love.”
Every day Anne tried to remember her Vitamin L. In her morning prayers she asked Heavenly Father to help her remember. Then she would imagine chewing and swallowing her Vitamin L.
But it was still hard to remember. Sometimes, when Lacy said something mean, Anne forgot all about Vitamin L.
On Sundays, Dad asked Anne how her Vitamin L was working. Anne told him about helping Lacy make her bed and letting Lacy play with her toys. But it didn’t seem to be helping. Lacy still got angry with Anne, and Anne still got angry back.
Dad hugged Anne and said, “Keep trying. Remember all the people who got angry with Jesus and said mean things to Him. But He loved them anyway. I know you can do it.”
Anne kept trying. She shared treats with Lacy and let Lacy sleep with her favorite teddy bear. When Lacy asked to borrow Anne’s fluffy, pink gloves, Anne only thought a moment before saying yes; and when Lacy fell down during recess, Anne ran to help her get up.
Day by day, it was getting easier and easier for Anne to remember Vitamin L. Then one afternoon Lacy walked into their bedroom holding Anne’s teddy bear. She climbed onto Anne’s bed. She wrapped her arms around Anne’s waist and squeezed tight. “I love you, Anne,” she whispered.
Anne hugged Lacy back. “I love you too.”

When I was two years old, my father died, leaving my mother and six children. My oldest brother, Lincoln, was seventeen at the time and was still in high school.
When he graduated, Lincoln began working full time to support us. He never complained about having to work so hard at such a young age or about not being able to go to college or serve a mission, both of which he wanted so much. Lincoln was always dependable and faithful, and later in life he managed a business and served as a wonderful stake president and mission president. Many people loved him because of his character and his cheerful, gracious personality.
It was Lincoln who taught me how important it is to feel needed.

When they reached Nauvoo, Orson Spencer directed them to the home of the Prophet. Joseph and Emma Smith welcomed them, inviting the Mannings to stay at the Mansion House until they found homes. Eventually all the members of the Manning family found jobs except Jane. The Prophet and his wife urged her to stay with them.

Jane did stay for several months. When the Prophet was martyred, Jane grieved for him, saying, he was “the finest man I ever saw on earth.”

Taking to heart the theme of their youth conference, Be Thou an Example—Strength through Service, youth from the Reno Nevada North Stake showed a lot of strength. One day of the conference was spent on a spring cleanup project at the Rancho San Rafael Regional Park. More than 134 youth were grouped in “families” and worked a total of 670 hours and filled 225 large garden bags with leaves and debris.
That evening youth-conference “families” performed cultural presentations from various countries or regions around the world to reflect the theme of being an example to all the world. The conference concluded with a testimony meeting.

That involvement and the support network that comes along with it make it easy for all the LDS students to let their gospel light shine. In every group and on every team, people notice that the Mormon kids seem to have their own fan club, which leads to questions about the gospel. Lisa Arrington, a recent convert to the Church, became interested in the gospel because she was friends with Mark. She wanted to know more about the friends that seemed to always surround him and why they always seemed so happy. Now Mark isn’t just her friend; he’s also her home teacher.

Heavenly Father knew that this strong-willed son needed a good father. He picked out a great one for me. My dad’s devotion to his children and grandchildren consumed much of his time. He loved the Lord and was about the Lord’s errand throughout his days. He was not only my dad; he was one of my heroes.
Dad was the president of my priests quorum and bishop of our ward during my teenage years. You who have been a bishop’s son know that sometimes performance expectations tend to be a little high for bishops’ sons.
During Dad’s tenure as bishop, a new meetinghouse was built in our area. Local financial shares were partially fulfilled by providing labor. Often I arrived home to find a note on the kitchen table inviting me to join Dad in working on the new building. These invitations were not always received with great warmth and enthusiasm. It seemed to me that the bishop’s son received more than his fair share of invitations to work on the new meetinghouse.
As the building neared completion, landscaping commenced. The priesthood brethren were extended a work opportunity to haul fertilizer to the site. Because the bishop was a part of the expedition, the bishop’s son felt an obligation to respond. We drove to a mountain sheep corral. Into a large truck we shoveled very finely ground, dry sheep fertilizer. The wind blew much of what we threw into the truck back to us. This unsavory material gathered in our eyes, throats, noses, ears, and down our backs. I can’t ever remember being more uncomfortable. I’m afraid I verbalized my feelings with emotion. When we arrived back at the meetinghouse to unload the material, I found my new bike had been stolen. My complaining was loud. Why would the Lord permit someone to steal my bike when I was about His work?
When Dad and I arrived home, we showered and sat down to an evening meal. My complaining about the day and my lost bike continued. As we knelt in prayer, Dad thanked Heavenly Father for the opportunity of the day’s service and expressed love for me. He asked forgiveness for the person who had taken the bike. He noted his sorrow for the loss but expressed gratitude that it wasn’t his son who had committed the theft. Dads make great heroes. I pray that if you are fortunate enough to have a father close by, he can be your hero. Dads, live in such a way that your sons and others can look up to you as heroes.

“Ah, come on,” called Mike impatiently. “It’s going to be time to go home before we get started.”
“All right! Don’t rush me,” Jerry called back. Jerry, who never liked to be hurried, came out of the house dressed in a pirate costume.
“Hey, you look super,” Mike said.
“So do you, Mike. Where shall we start?”
“Let’s start with the Andersons next door,” Mike answered.
When the door opened, Jerry said, “Give us a treat or we’ll give you a trick.”
“Goodness,” said Mrs. Anderson in mock surprise, “I certainly don’t want a trick. Wait here and I’ll get you a treat.”
The door closed and Jerry started to giggle. “Wouldn’t it be fun if she refused to give us a treat and we could play a trick on her?”
“What would you do?” asked Mike.
“Something that would really make her cross.” He laughed again. “She really looks funny when she’s excited.”
“Sh-h. Here she comes,” cautioned Mike.
Mrs. Anderson returned with a bowl of apples. “Will these do?” she asked, offering each boy an apple.
“Thanks,” they called as they ran down the driveway.
An hour later Mike peered into his bag.
“Look at all this stuff!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go home. It’s getting kind of cold.”
“Why the big rush?” asked Jerry. “There’s still a lot of houses we can go to.”
“I guess I should have worn a heavier jacket,” complained Mike.
“Let’s go to just one more house, then we’ll go home,” Jerry promised, turning into the next driveway.
“All right, but not this house,” said Mike walking on.
“Why not?” asked Jerry, hurrying to catch up with him.
“Mr. Johnson lives there and he’s an old grouch.”
“I know he is,” said Jerry, “but Dad says it’s probably because his wife and little boy were killed in a car accident a few years ago.”
“But why should he take it out on us? We didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I know,” said Jerry. “But Dad says that when some people are unhappy, they take it out on everyone around them.”
“He sure gets after us,” Mike complained. “The other day we walked across his lawn and you should have heard him. You’d have thought we were digging it up instead of just walking on it.”
“Dad says he used to be a real neat guy. He spent lots of time teaching the neighborhood kids how to play football.”
“Boy, has he changed! You wouldn’t catch him doing anything like that now,” Mike groused. “Say, I have a great idea. Since Mr. Johnson has been so crabby with us, let’s give him a little surprise.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“Let’s pile leaves against his front door so that when he opens it, a mountain of leaves will pour in on him.”
“That would be fun,” agreed Jerry, “but we’d better not. If my Dad found out, I’d be a goner.”
“Then what can we do?” Mike questioned.
The boys walked on in silence. “I know something we can do,” said Jerry finally.
“What?” asked Mike.
“The neighbors have given us lots of stuff, haven’t they?”
“Yeah?”
“We could fill a basket with some of our treats and leave it on Mr. Johnson’s porch. That would be a real surprise!”
“What kind of an idea is that?” Mike grumbled.
“Come on, Mike,” Jerry coaxed. “Let’s do it and see what happens.”
“Well, OK,” agreed Mike reluctantly, “but I think it’s a dumb idea.”
At Jerry’s house the boys found an old Easter basket and filled it with treats.
“Should we put a note on it or something?” Mike asked.
“Let’s write ‘Happy Halloween’ on a piece of paper and sign it ‘your friends,’” suggested Jerry.
At Mr. Johnson’s house the boys put the basket on the porch, rang the bell, and quickly hid behind some bushes. Mr. Johnson opened the door and peered out. When he realized no one was there, he scowled. “A prankster again. I should have known,” he muttered. Mr. Johnson started to close the door when he spied the basket. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up. He read the card. “My! My!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “What a surprise! Who would do such a nice thing?”
“He surely seems pleased,” whispered Mike.
“He does, doesn’t he,” answered Jerry.
The next morning Mr. Johnson was sitting on his porch when Mike and Jerry passed on their way to school. The basket was beside him. “Good morning,” he called, “would you boys come up here for a minute?”
Mike and Jerry exchanged glances. They started to walk across the lawn, then they changed their minds and walked on the sidewalk.
“Thank you for walking on the sidewalk and not across my lawn,” said Mr. Johnson. “I have a terrible time making it look decent with all these shade trees. Did you get lots of treats last night?” he asked.
“Yes sir, we did,” said Jerry.
“So did I,” said Mr. Johnson. “My treats were delivered in this basket,” and he lifted the basket up onto his lap. “It brought back a lot of memories. It reminds me of a basket my little boy once had. He used to fill it with treats for his grandmother then secretly leave it on her porch. Could you help me eat some of these goodies?”
The boys looked at each other and then helped themselves to a cookie. As they ate, Mr. Johnson went on talking. “Thinking about my little boy made me remember how I used to kick a football around with him. Maybe you boys would like to go to the park Saturday with me. I used to play a lot of football.”
“That would be neat,” said Mike.
“Yeah,” said Jerry, “we’d like that. Can we stop by on our way home from school and make plans?”
“You bet,” Mr. Johnson answered. “I’ll be expecting you.”
The boys started toward school but stopped to wave good-bye to their new friend before they turned the corner.
“Jerry,” said Mike just before they entered the school building, “I’m glad we didn’t do that dumb thing I suggested about piling leaves on Mr. Johnson’s porch. It was a lot more fun surprising him with the basket. I can hardly wait until Saturday!”

Finally, I learned that there are many kinds of pioneers. I am a first-generation member of the Church. My family was not happy with my decision to be baptized, which made it difficult for me to attend my meetings. Our small branch struggled because of a lack of members, especially priesthood holders. Eventually it became evident that the mission was going to close it.
As a result, I decided to move to Canada, which was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made. I was an only child and loved my parents very much, as they loved me, but my testimony would have been at risk had I stayed in an area where I couldn’t attend church. I can still remember the night I left—my father running alongside the train blowing kisses to me while my mother looked on. My heart was breaking, but I knew I had to leave.
I arrived in Calgary, Alberta, on Mother’s Day in May 1967. I attended church with the members I was staying with and cried through the whole meeting. I remember writing letters home to my parents with tears streaming down my face, telling them I loved Canada but missed England and my family so much.
I struggled to adjust to my new life, suffering homesickness, loneliness, and disappointments, but I stayed true to the gospel. I attended all of my meetings and accepted callings. These were my pioneer days.
Eventually I met my husband. We were sealed in the Cardston Alberta Temple and raised three children in the Church.

Illustration by Yevhenia Haidamaka
It was a regular day. I was getting my bike from the bike rack after school when I saw a girl around my age at the other end of the rack. I said, “Hi, my name is Mindy. What’s yours?”
“Hi, Mindy. My name is Madison,” she said. Madison had straight brown hair and dark red glasses. She was sitting next to her bike. As I talked to her, she said a swear word, and I automatically said, “Please don’t say that.”
“OK, I’ll just say, ‘Oh my peanut butter,’ because me and my brother have an obsession with peanut butter,” Madison said.
“That seems OK,” I said.
Somehow our conversation got around to religion. She told me she wasn’t a member of the Church. Madison told me that she lived with her mom and her mom’s boyfriend. Eventually I said, “Would you like a copy of the Friend?”
“What’s the Friend?” she asked, and I told her what it was. The next day I brought her a copy. After she read it, she told me she liked it, and I gave her the New Era. Madison read that, and we continued to meet. She told me that she wants to get baptized.
Someday I’ll give her the Book of Mormon and the Ensign. I hope that Madison will get baptized and, when she’s old enough, go on a mission and get married in the temple.

As a child, Isaiah John attended the Pentecostal church with his mother. At a certain point, he went to live with his brother in Monrovia. He continued attending the Pentecostal church after his move. One day he met a missionary who asked him about his beliefs and then asked him if he would be willing to visit The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Isaiah agreed. Right away he noticed a difference that he liked and that felt good. Isaiah began taking the lessons and prayed about what he should do. He wanted to do the right thing. He was baptized in October 2018. Isaiah was so happy to be baptized and confirmed. He was grateful for the gift of the Holy Ghost.
His mother came to visit and asked Isaiah if he was still going to church. He said “Yes, but not to the Pentecostal church”.
Isaiah said he will never forget what she said to him: “Brother Isaiah, do you know that the Church you are going to is a perfect church that has embraced the gospel of Jesus?”
He replied, “Yes, mom, I love the Church” and he explained that at church they talk about Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, the Holy Ghost, and they teach how to live. Before she died in 2022, she told him to continue attending his church if he knew it was true, which made him very happy.

It happened in the days when stake conferences consisted of two sessions during the day and a stake fireside in the evening. The visiting general authority always attended the 10 A.M. and the 2 P.M. sessions and occasionally remained as the speaker for the evening fireside. On one particular day it was our good fortune in the Wasatch Stake (Heber City, Utah) to have Elder Spencer W. Kimball as the guest for the day. Our family had been somewhat acquainted with Elder Kimball and were overjoyed when he accepted our parents’ invitation to have dinner with us and remain at our home until time for the evening meeting.
My eight sisters and I did a great deal of singing during the time we grew up and were accustomed to invitations that didn’t give us a great deal of time for preparation. However, on that conference afternoon, the telephone rang and I heard the voice of our stake president, H. Clay Cummings, on the other end. He told me that the person previously asked to sing the musical number for the evening fireside couldn’t perform and wondered if our family would provide some music. I placed my hand over the phone while I relayed the message and asked the others for their opinion. I mentioned to them that it was extremely short notice and that perhaps we should tell him no. While a short discussion ensued, our guest taught us all a great lesson: “Tell President Cummings we’d love to,” Elder Kimball remarked. “Your father and I will do the men’s parts and two of you girls can do the others, and we’ll sing them one of the beautiful hymns.”
I sheepishly gave the message to President Cummings and hung up the phone. Immediately, we gathered around the piano and prepared our presentation for that evening.
Can you imagine the thrill of singing that number with a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, the future President of the Church? It was an experience I shall never forget.

I met the missionaries when I was 17. At that time my older brother and I lived together. Our mother had passed away the year before, and life was difficult. When the missionaries taught me, I could see that this Church was the church I had always sought. But the influence of my friends prevented me from going to church on Sundays.
One time I went to a Church activity during the week. Seeing all the young people laughing and playing brought me great joy. The missionaries, with the youth, took that opportunity to teach me a gospel lesson, and I felt so good I resolved to be baptized.
But even after I joined the Church, I faced challenges. I was the only member of the Church in that part of town and lived far away from the meetinghouse. My nonmember friends no longer wanted anything to do with me. When I felt alone, I prayed and felt the love of the Lord.
Each month, I received a small allotment of money from a fund my mother left. It was difficult to sustain myself with so little money. But I determined to be obedient. I paid tithing and also had to pay for transportation to seminary and Sunday meetings. I didn’t understand how, but at the end of the month, I found that there had been enough money to do it all.
I know that I have been blessed by paying tithing. Obeying this commandment helped me gain a stronger testimony, serve a mission, and recognize blessings so I can strengthen new members who are facing challenges.