Gospel Story Finder

As a young boy, George Albert Smith was very ill with typhoid fever, a disease that killed many people at that time. The doctor advised his mother to give him coffee to drink, but George refused it. Instead, he asked for a priesthood blessing from their ward (home) teacher. The next morning, when the doctor arrived, he found George Albert in the yard, playing. “I was grateful to the Lord for my recovery,” he said. “I was sure that He had healed me.”

The second recent event that has forever changed me took place as I was on a business trip to the East Coast. I arrived late at the Idaho Falls Airport. The gate agent told me that I had missed the cut-off time to be able to check my bags by one minute. In a post-9/11 world there was nothing she could do, try as she might, to get the computer to allow her to check me in. I told her I appreciated her efforts and asked her if she could book me on a later flight. I texted my traveling companion and told him that I would not catch up to him until the final leg of our journey at Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C. Because I was leaving later in the day, my flight connections were very tight and there was no room for error, or I would be sleeping in an airport that night. I came back and caught the next flight to Denver a couple of hours later. Everything was going smoothly, and I made that connection with no problems. We were all set for an on-time departure when the pilot announced that there was a group of vets who had been in Denver for training and were on their way to the airport. If everything went well, we would only be 30 minutes late departing and he felt he could make most of that time up in the air. As I sat there for the next half hour, I became somewhat agitated that we were waiting for a group of people who had probably thoughtlessly lost track of time while they were in the field tending to cows or horses or whatever veterinarians might be training on in the Denver area. After 30 minutes, the pilot came on and said that they were in the airport and being rushed through security. We would be on our way shortly. Soon a group of young men and their traveling companions entered the cabin of the airplane. Each of them was missing at least one limb. I quickly realized the error in my thought process. Because I was concerned only for myself, I hadn’t even considered that “vet” meant veteran. For the next three and a half hours I sat silently and ashamed for the frustration I had been feeling towards these young men that had sacrificed so much for me. As we began our descent into the Washington, D.C., area the pilot once again came on and said he had in fact made up most of the time we had lost in Denver. He said he knew that there were many on the flight who had tight connections but wondered if it would be appropriate as a demonstration of gratitude to allow these young vets to grab their gear and exit the plane first. We landed and taxied to the gateway. I was amazed as not one of the over 200 people on the plane jumped out of their seats and into the aisle to grab their bags to be the first out the door. All sat patiently, in a joint demonstration of respect, gratitude, and thankfulness to these young soldiers.

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

Before he became a member of the Church, Peter had spent most of his adult life chasing financial success. By all outward appearances, he seemed to have found it. After all, he had owned and run several businesses.
When a local Church leader in West Midlands, England, asked Peter to join a personal finances group offered through the Church’s self-reliance initiative, he doubted that the course could teach him anything. Once Peter started attending the group, however, he quickly realized how much he still had to learn.
“The course is not just about finances; that is only half of the story,” he says. “The most important thing for me was learning to have faith in Heavenly Father—how He provides us all temporal blessings and opens the door to true self-reliance if we follow His spiritual guidance.”
As a member of a personal finances group, Peter learned practical skills such as tracking family spending, creating and living on a budget, reducing debt, and saving for the future. Using these skills, along with exercising faith in Jesus Christ and working hard, Peter and his wife repaid a large debt.
“I am feeling significantly lighter and freer without the fear associated with debt and financial disorganization,” he says. “I am feeling the abundant blessings of Heavenly Father in a way I have never felt before. I have learned how to petition Him and listen to His answers when I need help with my temporal affairs.”

Our first meeting occurred 30 years ago. I was a newly appointed secretary to the stake MIA. She was a board member from one of the wards. My job was to call the roll at our stake leadership meeting. In those days when we had a standing roll call, I remember a particular evening when I was calling out the various wards. I had no difficulty in making an accurate count of the young men in attendance; then I started on the young women’s roll. Suddenly my eyes met a charming, beautiful young woman. I completely lost my ability to count. I confess to the Church Historian today that those records that are in the archives of the Church are not accurate for that particular meeting.
Eight months later I was kneeling at an altar in the house of the Lord, holding her hand, and hearing the most glorious words ever to be uttered on earth, “For time and all eternity.” I realized that I was receiving the greatest gift of God. I was being sealed in marriage by one having the authority to act for the Lord in uniting myself and my lovely companion together for time and all eternity, if I would but live worthy of her. We had only been married a few days before I found out I had married a woman with great empathy in her heart for her fellowmen. All of those wonderful aromas which came from the air around her kitchen were not all intended for me, for when she would find someone in need, she could not rest until she had made an effort to supply a relief.

This story happened in the USA.
You broke my truck!
Well, you started it!
Grant broke my truck!
Joey stole my football!
It sounds like you’re both having a problem sharing. Do you want me to solve the problem, or do you want to solve it yourselves?
Joey, wait. Remember what happened last time Dad solved our problem? We couldn’t do anything fun for a whole week.
Fine. We can try to solve it.
Great. I want you to politely talk things over and come up with some ideas for how you can get along better.
I’m sorry I took your football. I just wanted to look at it. I should have asked you first.
I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I’m really sorry I broke your truck. I know it’s your favorite.
Were you able to solve your problem?
I think so.
I’m going to ask for permission before taking things.
And I’m going to buy Joey a new truck. I’m going to be nicer too.
I’m proud of you both for being peacemakers.

Together and with the help of the Spirit we chose our secretary. She was a dependable, friendly mother of five who had always been dedicated to the Church. We knew we could depend on her to be there every week.
Our first challenge was to get to know each child and teacher personally. In particular we noticed one ten-year-old boy who was the only one in his class. His name was Troy. His attendance had begun to drop off as he was assigned one teacher after another, and he continued to miss Primary often. Several times we heard his teachers say, “Why prepare a lesson just for one child, when he usually doesn’t even show up? I’m wasting my time.”
There were suggestions that we move Troy forward or move him back a class so that he could be with a larger group. We tried both. Before long, Troy wasn’t coming to Primary at all. We sensed a real loss, and as a Primary presidency we decided to fast and pray about how to help Troy.
Once again I was amazed to see this principle at work. When we met, we all seemed to have our thoughts turned to our secretary, though we wondered how we could ever replace her.
When I talked to her, I found that she had just completed the Teacher Development Basic Course. We gave her name to the bishop and told him we felt certain Jackie was the one the Lord wanted to help Troy. She accepted the position, knowing it was a class with only one boy who often didn’t come; and she, too, had heard other teachers talk about how hard he was to handle and how discouraging it was to teach just one child. Nevertheless, Jackie tackled this teaching job with a very positive attitude and a feeling of love towards a boy who would very likely give her every reason not to love him.
I made it a point to tell Troy that he had a great new teacher. Unconvinced, he missed Primary that week, and the next.
But as the weeks slipped by, Troy occasionally came to Primary as if checking to see if his teacher really was there to teach just him. Jackie always was. And many times she went to Troy’s home to get him to come.
Jackie prayed often to know how she might be able to reach him. One night as she was thinking about Troy just before going to sleep, the thought came so strongly to her: “Be his friend.”
We gradually watched this ten-year-old boy being loved right back into Primary. There seemed to be a special relationship between Troy and Jackie, his friend. She taught him in the good, usual ways and used the Scouting program for the many fun and interesting activities she created for Troy. Those invaluable teaching moments were used so well by a dedicated teacher who truly knew the value of one child. It wasn’t long before we had perfect attendance from Troy.
Jackie remained Troy’s teacher, advancing with him until he graduated from Primary. Everyone was very proud of him. There were few who knew that if it hadn’t been for the efforts of one special teacher, it just wouldn’t have happened.
Not long after his graduation, Troy developed a serious infection around his heart and, critically ill, was taken to the Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, Utah. It was many weeks before he began to slowly improve. Troy’s mother remembers how amazed everyone was as he taught both nurses and the other patients around him about the gospel. He was not afraid to inquire about their religious faith, and his parents noticed that he was teaching the same basic principles he had learned from his Primary teacher and in his home.
Troy did not recover, and we were greatly sorrowed when we heard he died. He was only thirteen years old. The ward and community were stricken with this news. Most devastated were his family, who had to let go of many hopes and dreams for Troy.
As the plans for his funeral were made, Troy’s parents chose someone to give his life sketch who had been especially close to him—his former Primary teacher. As she spoke that day, everyone could feel her love for Troy, and we understood why he had responded to her.
The years have come and gone, but I have never forgotten this experience. I know that the worth of one soul is great in the sight of our Heavenly Father. That is a testimony I will always have because of Troy and Jackie.

In President Daines’s stake down here we have a man by the name of David Seamons, and his wife, Ann, is on the Young Women general board. Some woebegone, ill-thinking soul last Christmas subscribed to Playboy magazine for this wonderful family. It came in January, and they were offended. As I understand the story, Brother Seamons called up the circulation department and told them they were members of the Church and didn’t appreciate the subscription and that they would like to know who subscribed for them. The subscription department wouldn’t tell them who it was. Then Brother Seamons told them, “Don’t send us anymore. We don’t want your magazine. We refuse to accept it.”

Well, the next month the second copy came. Chris Seamons, their eight-year-old boy, took things into his own hands. He wrote a letter to Playboy, and these are the exact words:“Playboy, I think the magazine you sent us was quite uncalled for. I think your magazine is quite perverted. If you send us another one, I personally will take action.” You just have to admire a kid like that. The best part is that on the back of the envelope he put, “Please send back my stamp.”

Every Saturday my bishop works his way down our street edging people’s lawns. What a tremendous image it provides for us to see this good, humble man serving his neighbors in this way. I didn’t ask him to do our lawn. He just showed up one day and did it. At first I was embarrassed to see him working in my front yard. He’s a very busy man with much to do, and I hadn’t edged our lawn since the 1980s. But receiving his service has been a blessing far beyond the appearance of our yard. And the beautiful, straight edge of our lawn is a reminder of a service freely rendered and gladly received.

A Sunday School teacher once said to her class, “How many of you would like to go to the celestial kingdom?” And everyone held up their hands except one little boy. The teacher said to him, “Bill, wouldn’t you like to go to the celestial kingdom someday?” And he said, “Oh, sure, someday. But I thought you were getting up a group to go tonight.” Everyone wants to go to the celestial kingdom sometime; they just don’t want to get ready right now.

I will never forget walking the grounds at Winter Quarters, Nebraska, USA, where pioneers had lived years before. The ground felt sacred, almost as if I were visiting an outdoor temple.
My eyes filled with tears, blurring my vision. I saw a statue but could not make out the figures. When I wiped away my tears, I saw a man and a woman whose faces were full of grief. As I looked closer, I saw the figure of an infant lying in a grave at their feet.
This sight filled me with so many emotions: sadness, anger, gratitude, and joy. I wanted to take away the pain those Saints felt, but I was grateful at the same time for what they had sacrificed for the gospel.
My experience at Winter Quarters helped me realize that Heavenly Father gives the gospel to His children and allows them the agency to do with it as they will. The parents of that baby could have chosen to take an easier course. Following the prophet and living the gospel required these pioneers to press forward even when it meant burying their child. But they chose to take the gospel into their lives and accepted their challenges. I learned that the Saints’ dedication to the gospel and their determination to press forward were driven by faith and hope—hope for a bright future and faith that the Lord knew them and could ease their pain.

Paola Fava has been a member of the Church for 10 years. Her home is in Genoa, a beautiful port city on the northwestern shore of Italy that is famous for being the birthplace of Christopher Columbus and of a traditional Italian food called pesto. Her husband passed away in 2009. She has a little dog, Bak, and she stays busy serving in the Church and doing family history. Here is her conversion story.
A number of years ago, I knew a girl who worked at the London branch of the same company I worked for. She was brilliant in her job and delightful as a friend. I didn’t know she was a Mormon. For many years we kept in touch by letter, and every time she said that she had a lot of work to do for her church, I never understood what sort of work it might be. Then one day she wrote that she was doing “baptisms for the dead,” and this made me curious.
Some years passed, and I went to see her in England. One day during my visit, we sat on the grass and she asked me if we could talk a little bit about God. “How strange,” I thought, but I told her yes. She said to me, “Did you know that a boy in America found plates of gold that told the story of ancient Americans to whom Jesus Christ appeared?” She told me that the boy was also given the message to restore on the earth the ancient Church of Jesus Christ, and he did this despite many difficulties.
This message struck me profoundly. I felt it was indeed true, and that night at her house, I found a copy of the Book of Mormon on the nightstand. But I didn’t want to involve myself with a different church at that time, even though I didn’t feel spiritually well.
One day in another letter she told me that her husband had become a member of her church and things had never been better. “OK, I really must get to know this church!” I said to myself. I called the mission office and arranged to meet with the sister missionaries.
After I received the lessons, I entered the waters of baptism. I shed many tears and felt immense joy, and I experienced innumerable blessings, which continue to this day. My conversion was the fruit of the patience and perseverance of a special friend. She had conviction that her message would deeply impress my heart. I experienced a great change in my life, and I am finally happy in the faith, truly knowing who I am, where I come from, and especially where I want to go.

6. Soon after arriving home from World War II, I had “promises to keep” (Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” in The Poetry of Robert Frost, ed. Edward Connery Lathem [1969], 225)—meaning going on a mission now. I grew tired of waiting for the bishop. And in some early ark-steadying, I went to the bishop’s home and said I had saved the money and wanted to go, so let’s “get this show on the road.” The good bishop hesitated, and then said he’d been meaning to ask me about going.
Years later, I would learn from that bishop’s devoted ward clerk that the bishop had felt I needed a little more time with my family after having been away so far and for a tenth of my life. Hearing this, I chastised myself for having been too judgmental. (See Bruce C. Hafen, A Disciple’s Life: The Biography of Neal A. Maxwell [2002], 129–30.)

I recently was made aware of a touching example of loving kindness—one that had unforeseen results. The year was 1933, when because of the Great Depression, employment opportunities were scarce. The location was the eastern part of the United States. Arlene Biesecker had just graduated from high school. After a lengthy search for employment, she was finally able to obtain work at a clothing mill as a seamstress. The mill workers were paid only for each of the correctly completed pieces they sewed together daily. The more pieces they produced, the more they were paid.

One day shortly after starting at the mill, Arlene was faced with a procedure that had her confused and frustrated. She sat at her sewing machine trying to unpick her unsuccessful attempt to complete the piece on which she was working. There seemed to be no one to help her, for all of the other seamstresses were hurrying to complete as many pieces as they could. Arlene felt helpless and hopeless. Quietly, she began to cry.

Across from Arlene sat Bernice Rock. She was older and more experienced as a seamstress. Observing Arlene’s distress, Bernice left her own work and went to Arlene’s side, kindly giving her instruction and help. She stayed until Arlene gained confidence and was able to successfully complete the piece. Bernice then went back to her own machine, having missed the opportunity to complete as many pieces as she could have, had she not helped.

With this one act of loving kindness, Bernice and Arlene became lifelong friends. Each eventually married and had children. Sometime in the 1950s, Bernice, who was a member of the Church, gave Arlene and her family a copy of the Book of Mormon. In 1960, Arlene and her husband and children were baptized members of the Church. Later they were sealed in a holy temple of God.

As a result of the compassion shown by Bernice as she went out of her way to help one whom she didn’t know but who was in distress and needed assistance, countless individuals, both living and dead, now enjoy the saving ordinances of the gospel.

A group of returned missionaries from the Philippines Baguio Mission (1985–1988) gathered and toured the temple.
Willie Almaras from Bacolod said that the group prepared for a year for the reunion. He was excited to meet the people he taught and baptized. Many of them have their own families already and their children have gone on missions.
He recalled the times he walked past the acacia trees along McArthur Hi-way in Urdaneta City, when he was serving a full-time mission 30 years ago. “I wondered what those trees were for,” he said.
Willie was amazed to see the same trees which now surround the magnificent Urdaneta Temple.

In 1980 I was a missionary serving in the Philippines Cebu Mission when I was transferred to a city called Ormoc. This district had normally shown steady growth, but for several months there had been very few baptisms.
I arrived in Ormoc on 28 October and met my new companion, Elder Alexander. The first few weeks were extremely slow for us. We had few teaching appointments and almost no referrals. In spite of working long hours and praying to find people to teach, we met with very little success. I remember praying for guidance and receiving confirmation that the Lord was preparing people for us to teach.
On 15 November Elder Alexander and I were tracting in the Barrio Isla Verde, a community on a small island in the Ormoc River. To get there we had to cross the shallow river some 23 meters on stepping-stones, which proved to be a feat in itself. However, the local residents traveled the path with ease.
While there, we met Petronilo and Andrea Ygonia and their grandson Allan Sueto Sungahid. They accepted our invitation to hold a family home evening in their home. That evening was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. After playing some games, we introduced a gospel message and bore our testimonies.
Our visits continued with this family for the next two weeks. It was exciting to watch as their countenances began to shine. By the end of November all three had committed to be baptized the following month.
I will never forget the teaching experience we had in the Ygonias’ home on 2 December. Brother Loa, the ward mission leader, came with us to a neighborhood meeting at the Ygonias’. More than 30 neighbors had accepted the Ygonias’ invitation to listen to the first discussion. As we bore testimony, the Spirit became so strong I believe everyone present was touched.
We explained that the warm, peaceful feeling each person was experiencing was the presence of the Holy Ghost. Prompted by the Spirit, we invited each person in that room to continue investigating the Church and commit to baptism. All 30 neighbors accepted the invitation.
Brother and Sister Ygonia, their grandson, and seven others were baptized in December. The work in Ormoc had begun to prosper once again, due in large part to the faith of this good family. Shortly thereafter I was transferred from Ormoc. Although I had spent only six weeks there, these weeks were some of the best of my life. Never had I worked harder for such a worthy cause. Never had I felt closer to the Lord. During the six weeks I served there, the Lord had allowed us to teach and baptize 9 souls, and another 30 individuals were preparing for baptism.

I am grateful that I could always count on the Lord’s guidance in what I did in my life. None of us knows life’s length; none of us knows its breadth, what experiences lie ahead, even where we will live. Some of you don’t yet know whom or if you will even marry. Looking back on my own life, I marvel at the rich adventures I have enjoyed, much of it unanticipated and unexpected. Believe me, if I had my choice, I would not have programmed some of those experiences. Let me give you an example:

I was drafted during the Second World War and took my basic infantry training at Camp Wolters near Mineral Wells, Texas. We believed that after training at Camp Wolters, anyplace was an improvement, even combat. Trained in heavy weapons, I was immediately sent to war in the Pacific. Can you imagine my feelings as I watched the Golden Gate disappear in the distance?

The day before we shipped out, I received a telegram announcing the birth of our baby daughter. If I had not received that telegram then, I would not have known of her birth for four months because it took that long for my mail to catch up with me overseas. I really was discouraged. Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this? Would I ever be able to hold my baby in my arms? Would I ever see this land again? How would I ever survive the war?

And yet, my young brothers and sisters, looking back, I count that chapter in my life as one of the most character building in all my years. I learned so much. I gained a real appreciation for my wife and family during that separation. I developed a deep love for my country and my home in the mountains. After a few months in the tropical heat of New Guinea, I even appreciated the blizzards of winter. I realized how adaptable I could be under any circumstance and how essential it is to be in control of my life instead of victimized by my circumstances. I learned to take advantage of every day, living it the best I could, grateful I was alive.

I came to the realization of my absolute dependence on my loving Father in Heaven and counted on his inspiration, guidance, and consolation. I recognized what a sublime gift my Savior had given me through his living ministry, his death, and his resurrection. I was grateful for the guidance that the gospel gave me and understanding of the purpose of life. I returned from that war a better man, better prepared for life.

From Florida:
“As I knelt in prayer, I expressed a sincere desire to share the gospel with someone and asked my Heavenly Father to please send someone to me.
“The very next morning there was a knock on my door, and it was a neighbor wanting to borrow a pan. Although she had lived by us for some time, we had not had much contact. Two days later both she and her husband came over to visit with us. During our conversation she mentioned that they had been looking for a church. I told her how my husband and I were once in that very same position and how our church filled that very special need we had. We invited them to church that Sunday, and they eagerly accepted. Afterward, we asked them if they would be interested in learning more by having the missionary lessons in our home. They told us that, indeed, they would be interested.
“On Christmas Day, my husband baptized and confirmed them members of the Church. They have grown so strong, and they set a shining example to all. They are looking forward to the day when they and their new baby girl can be sealed in the temple for time and eternity.”

Some years ago, a client seeking my professional advice described to me the nature of his business, which involved selling secondhand furniture and household goods in partnership with his father. They acquired their stock by attending auctions and market sales and by clearing unwanted items from homes. They were always careful to ensure that they could realize more money in reselling than they had expended in the purchase.
On one occasion, the son had contracted to clear the contents of a home following the death of an elderly occupant. Hanging in one of the rooms was a painting. Pausing to examine it, he considered the possibility that one day he would discover an antique or painting of far greater value than the previous owner had realized. But concluding that this painting was not in that category, he removed it from where it was displayed, carried it to his vehicle, and put it among the other items.
Later, as he and his father were unloading the vehicle, the father picked up the artwork, examined it carefully, and said, “I wish I knew more about paintings and how to tell if they are valuable.” The son responded that he was sure this one would not be classified as such. Nevertheless, the father felt it would be worth having the painting checked by a friend who managed an art gallery.
Several days later, the father’s friend informed him that the painting probably had a value of at least £12,000 (almost U.S. $29,000 in the early 1970s). Excited by the news, the father and son set out for the art gallery to collect the painting. This time they took a blanket in which they carefully wrapped the work of art. The son held it securely in his arms as they returned to the shop. The painting sold at auction for £12,500.
In telling this story, my client concluded by saying, “I can’t imagine why anyone would be prepared to pay so much for such an ordinary painting.”

As we have taught these principles in our Student Living program, there was a young woman who took them to heart. She became aware of her good friend and roommate’s problem of a serious sin. They confided, talked, and cried together. Finally, she counseled her roommate to go to the bishop. Reluctantly, the roommate went and confessed. The bishop, as a common judge, held a disciplinary council, and this wonderful sister was disfellowshipped and had to withdraw from school. The young woman that encouraged her to go to her bishop felt guilty. She said, “I encouraged her to go the bishop, but I didn’t want that to happen.”

These things are hard, but for this good sister to qualify for her full measure of the Atonement, she needed to go through this process.
When she has corrected her life, we hope she will want to return and fulfill her destiny. We will open our arms to her as an institution. She will be clean and better prepared, more confident to move along the path of discipleship.