Gospel Story Finder

Eric stood in the darkened living room, looking out the window at the lighted spires of the temple on the hill. It was wonderful to have the temple so near.
Now that his family had moved, the temple was within walking distance, instead of several hundred miles away. In fact, his mother had walked there tonight.
Eric’s father came into the room. “Time for bed, son.” He glanced out the window, then quickly pulled the curtains shut.
“I was looking at the temple,” Eric said. “It’s beautiful when it’s all lit up. Don’t you think so?”
“Sure,” Dad answered gruffly. “Now head up to bed.”
Eric went upstairs to his room and began to undress. He was worried about his father. Several years ago, Dad had been an active member of the Church and had gone with Mom to the temple often. Now he never went to church with his family, and Mom attended the temple alone.
Eric finished putting on his pajamas and knelt beside his bed. “Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “please help us find a way to help Dad go back to church.”
It was the same thing Eric had prayed about since he was seven years old. Now, even after three years, he hadn’t given up.
When Eric finished his prayer, he climbed into bed. He stared at the dark ceiling, thinking. After a while, he heard Mom come upstairs. She poked her head into his room. “Are you still awake?”
“Yes—I can’t go to sleep.”
Mom walked in and sat down on the bed. “What’s bothering you?”
“Why did Dad stop going to church?”
Mom took a deep breath. “One of the ward members said something that offended him. He’s never been able to forgive that person.”
“Do you think he’ll ever decide to go back to church?”
“I don’t know. I pray for him all the time.”
“I pray for him too.” Tears began to well up in Eric’s eyes, and he brushed them away. He could see that his mother was crying too. She put her arms around him.
“Heavenly Father loves your dad,” she said. “He knows what he needs. We have to pray and then listen to what Heavenly Father tells us to do.”
Suddenly Eric thought of something. “Mom, I have to give a talk in Primary next Sunday. I think I’ll invite Dad to come and hear it.”
“That’s a good idea,” his mother answered. “But don’t be too disappointed if he doesn’t.” She squeezed his hand. “Good night, Eric.”
“Good night, Mom.”
The next morning, Eric felt like his insides were ready to burst. He had decided that he’d give a talk about why he loved to go to church. Then, when Dad came to hear it, maybe he’d remember all the good feelings he used to have a long time ago.
When he found Dad alone in the bedroom, he felt that it was just the right time to talk to him. “Dad,” he began, “I’m giving a talk in Primary next Sunday. I’d really like you to come and hear it.”
Dad didn’t look up from the shoelace he was working on. “I’m sorry, son—I can’t come.” He looked up at Eric. “But you can practice your talk on me. I’ll be glad to listen, no matter how many times you want to practice giving it!”
That night, Eric wrote his talk. It was the most difficult one he had ever written, because he was writing it “to” his dad. He wrote about the good feelings he had when he went to Primary and Sacrament meeting. He didn’t write anything about wishing Dad would come to church, even though he wanted to.
When he had finished, he went to find Dad. Halfway down the stairs he stopped. Dad was sitting quietly in front of the living room window, staring out. Was he doing the same thing Eric had done the night before? Was he looking at the temple? Eric turned and went back upstairs. Practicing the talk could wait.
That week, Eric practiced his talk many times on Dad, praying each time that something he said in it would make Dad want to come to church on Sunday.
But when Sunday finally came, only his mother and his sister, Lisa, were there to hear him. Eric had a hard time giving the talk. He had to keep swallowing to keep from crying.
On the way home, Eric stared out the car window. He had wanted so much for his dad to go to church. Finally he said, “I’d like to walk around the temple this afternoon.”
“Me, too,” said Lisa. “We talked about temples in my Primary class.”
“That’s a good idea” Mom agreed. “It’s such a beautiful day—that would be a perfect Sunday thing to do.”
When the family was seated at the dinner table, Eric told his father. “After dinner, we’re going for a walk around the temple. Do you want to come too?”
Eric’s father chewed for a minute. Then he spoke. “I’d like that.”
Eric felt warm all over as they walked together on the temple grounds. They didn’t talk as they walked, but Mom and Dad were holding hands, and he could tell that they felt something special too.
After they had walked for a while, Dad stopped them. “I want to talk to all of you. How about sitting down over there?”
They sat down on a bench, and Dad sat on the grass beside them. “I don’t know how to explain this,” he began. “Since we moved here, the temple has been, well, ‘following’ me. I see it out the windows of the house. I drive past it on my way to work. It stands over me when I’m taking the garbage out to the curb.” Tears began to stream down his cheeks. “The temple has turned on a light in my heart where there used to be only darkness.”
Eric’s heart began to pound, and tears filled his eyes too.
Dad continued, “This week, as I listened to Eric’s talk, I realized that I’ve been missing too much. I’m going to go to church again, if that’s OK with all of you.”
“Oh, Dad!” Eric cried. “It’s more than OK—it’s fantastic!” When he threw his arms around his dad, he found himself entangled with two other pairs of arms, as Lisa and Mom joined in the hug.
Dad looked up at the temple spires. “Soon I’ll be able to come here with your mom again,” he said. “But it won’t be easy. I’ll need your help and prayers.”
Eric and Mom looked at each other and smiled. “For as long as you need them, Dad,” Eric said.

Probably all of us have had experiences when we really needed someone to help us. I remember once as a small boy I surely did. While playing on a mountainside near our home, I fell into the middle of a huge, prickly cactus plant. Oh, did it hurt! The prickly spines of the cactus went through my sneakers, through my stockings, through my trousers, through my shirt—they went through everything! I felt like a human dart board.
Immediately I let out a cry that was loud enough to shake the mountains. I couldn’t move up, down, in, or out. Every movement I made seemed to send those needles deeper and deeper into my skin. I just stayed there and howled.
I was five years old at the time and my older brother, who immediately rushed to my rescue, was eight. He was overwhelmed at the sight of me and the complexity of my plight. Nevertheless, he began to pull out some of the spines, but they seemed to hurt more coming out than going in and I howled even louder. Furthermore, the pin-size wounds bled so when the spines were removed that after a few minutes I looked like an advertisement for Red Cross donations.
Finally my brother saw that his feeble plucking was hopeless. There were dozens of spines yet to pull, and I was still screaming at the top of my lungs. He did the only thing an eight-year-old brother could do. He ran down the mountain, got his small red wagon, and labored painfully to get it up the side of the hill to where I was awaiting death—I thought. With some tugging and hauling and lifting—and plenty of noise from me—he got me out of the cactus and into the wagon. Then in some miraculous way, known only to children and Providence, he navigated me down off that steep mountain in his wagon.
The rest of the story is blurred in my memory. As I recall, my mother got me out of my clothes and the rest of the prickly spines out of me. What I do remember clearly and will never forget is the sight of my brother tugging that wagon and determinedly making his way toward me. He was so concerned that he worked wonderfully hard to get to me. If I live to be one hundred, I suppose no memory of my brother will be more vivid than the view I had of him that day. I needed him desperately. And there he was, coming to help!

Our youth activities should reflect our belief that “men are, that they might have joy,” and we should be willing to share that joy with others. Not long ago I met a woman from the East who is now living in the Salt Lake Valley. She is a devout member of another Christian church, and I asked her how she enjoyed living among the Latter-day Saints. She said: “My husband and I get along fine, but I worry about our teenage daughter. Each Wednesday evening about seven o’clock, several girls in our neighborhood walk right past our home headed somewhere together, and not once have they stopped to invite our 14-year-old daughter to go with them.”
I said, “My dear, this is your lucky day; I am in a position to get that problem fixed.” She readily gave me her daughter’s name and address, and we made contact with both the stake president and the seminary principal.
Our friends and neighbors are children of a loving Father in Heaven, who desires that all of us return to Him. Can we be content when not all the members of our quorum are in attendance Sunday morning? Surely we can extend ourselves to the less active and those of other faiths and warmly invite them to our Young Men and Young Women Mutual activities, seminary, Sunday School classes, and sacrament meetings.

I played a Nephite girl in the Mormon Miracle Pageant in Manti, Utah. When Jesus visits the righteous Nephites in the pageant, the children get to sit by Him and be taught by Him.
On the last night of the pageant, my group was assigned to go up to Jesus. I wanted to be the child to sit on the knee of the man playing the part of Jesus as he taught the children. I planned to walk quickly up the pageant steps where the man sat so I could sit on his knee. When it was time for the children to walk up to him, I tried to hurry, but my little brother Benjamin took my hand and said, “Wait for me. I want to be close to Jesus too.”
I listened to the Holy Ghost and held my brother’s hand and helped him so he could sit close to the man playing Jesus. Many children were able to get in front of us, so I didn’t get to sit on his knee. I was very sad and told my mom. She said that our Savior, Jesus Christ, is very pleased with me for helping my brother. The next day my mom asked the man who dressed up as Jesus if I could sit on his knee for a picture, and he said yes.

Many in the Methodist congregation where Elder Pratt preached were thrilled with his message until he told them of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the gold plates. Several of the men refused to listen further. John Taylor reminded them: “We are here, ostensibly in search of truth. Hitherto we have fully investigated other creeds and doctrines and proven them false. Why should we fear to investigate Mormonism? This gentleman, Mr. Pratt, has brought to us many doctrines that correspond with our own views. … We have prayed to God to send us a messenger, if He has a true Church on earth. … If I find his religion true, I shall accept it, no matter what the consequences may be.”3
John Taylor continued investigating the gospel, and on 9 May 1836 he and Leonora were baptized. In his later years, President Taylor remarked, “When I had investigated the subject, and became convinced that it was true, I said, ‘I am in for it; I must embrace it; I cannot reject the principles of eternal truth.’”4

When a fire swept through Santa Barbara, California, and destroyed over 500 homes and businesses, the Young Women in the stake were on hand to help clean up the ashes.
At least 14 LDS homes burned, including that of Young Women president Bobbi Boden. In the six inches of rubble that had once been her two-story home, the young women donned air masks and gloves, then with shovels and sifters began searching for Sister Boden’s wedding ring. They found an heirloom ring that had been in the family for over a century.
The young women spent many hours helping LDS and non-LDS members alike rebuild their lives and homes. “It really makes you realize that earthly things aren’t very permanent,” they agreed.

Elder Craig Zwick and I shared a precious moment in Fortaleza, Brazil, where we were privileged to bless a special seven-year-old boy who was dying of leukemia. His names—Jared Ammon—tell you much about his parents and family. Accompanied by a thoughtful mission and stake president, there was scarcely room for the four of us to stand beside the bed in the tiny room where Jared Ammon’s faithful 14-year-old sister held him in her arms. His stomach was so severely swollen. When the stake president lifted the oxygen mask to ask if he would like a blessing, Jared said, “Yes, please.” It was a privilege to bless him and to call him to serve beyond the veil. Tears flowed, for the Spirit was strong. The oxygen mask was then lifted again, and Jared Ammon was asked if there was anything else we could do for him. Jared meekly requested that we sing for him “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301). Weepingly, we responded to a submissive Jared Ammon’s last request, and two hours later he was released from this life.

Before emplaning the next day, we went to the viewing at the chapel. His wonderful parents were full of faith, composed, and reverently “willing to submit” (Mosiah 3:19). The sister who held Jared plans to serve a mission later on this side of the veil while Jared serves on the other.

“Come in, Thad!” said the bishop, rising from his chair in the tithing house, where he ran the affairs of the United Order of Orderville. “Thank you for coming.” On his desk was a very strange-looking machine—a combination of gears, spindles, and reels, with a handle to turn them—attached to a wooden base on which “Peerless Easy Rope Maker” was printed in gilded letters. I had never seen anything like it.
The bishop came around his desk and shook my hand. “We ordered it all the way from Philadelphia,” he said, nodding toward the machine. “If you’re willing, I’d like you to learn how to use it to make rope from the flax and cotton we grow that aren’t good enough for our cloth factory.”
I tried to look calm and grown-up, but a big grin spread across my face in spite of myself. I had been waiting a long time for a real assignment in the Order. “I’ll do my best, Bishop,” I said.
The bishop patted me on the shoulder. “Thad, I’m sure you’ll be a good worker, just like your brother.”
That hurt. Everyone was always comparing me to my twin brother, Theo, and I usually got the worst of it. He was bigger than I was, had no freckles, and at thirteen looked more like a man than I did. He had already been given many important assignments. This was my first chance. I had to make the most of it.
The bishop handed me the machine. “Take it over to the harness shop, and Brother Spencer will give you any help you need. You will work under his direction.”
The machine was heavy, and it was a hot day and a long way to the harness shop. When I finally got there, I felt as if my arms were stretching. And maybe they were—Sunday Mom complained that my good shirt’s sleeves were getting too short. Anyway, at the harness shop Brother Spencer put the machine in a wheelbarrow and told me to take it to the cabinet shop and have a stand made to mount it on.
The cabinet shop was part of the carpenter area of the Order and was a beehive of activity. The carpenters’ goal was to have a new two-bedroom home completed every six days all summer. The rest of the morning I helped Brother Carling find, measure, mark, and saw the boards into the correct length and size, and drill the holes needed to mount the rope-making machine.
That afternoon we loaded it and its stand on a wagon and took them to the blacksmith shop to be bolted together. Brother Worth, the blacksmith, was a powerful man with huge arms and shoulders. He loved to sing and could be heard singing Church songs as he heated and hammered iron. He was not singing when I arrived but was loading his tools into a wagon. “I have to go up to the factory to help fix a breakdown, Thad. Leave your things, and I’ll send word when we can work on your stand.”
The water in the irrigation ditch looked cool and inviting as I headed back to the cabinet shop. I knew that the swimming hole would be full of my friends keeping cool and having fun. I wondered if running a rope machine would be the end of having a good time.
“Go join the boys for a swim,” Brother Spencer said when I arrived. “Tomorrow we’ll start learning how to make rope.”
At dinner I told everyone about the Peerless Rope Machine and my new job. Theo jokingly said, “You won’t be able to make a rope good enough to hold up a bed.”
Everyone laughed until Dad said, “That’s enough. Let’s kneel down and have prayer.” How good it was to hear Dad pray that I would become a good rope maker.
That night I dreamed that all the horses in town were tied up with my ropes. They broke the ropes and ran away, and someone was calling me to go find them. But it was just the morning call to get up and do chores.
After breakfast I hurried over to the harness shop. By the side of the shop was bundle after bundle of flax and cotton made into short pieces of twine. The machine was still at the blacksmith shop. Brother Spencer picked up a piece of twine and handed it to me. “What does a spinning wheel do to the fibers to make them into thread or string?”
That I knew. I had watched lots of wool being spun. “It twists all the fibers in the same direction,” I answered.
“Right! Has that been done to the cotton and flax we have here?”
“Yes, but they’ve put so many fibers together that I’d call it twine, not thread or string.”
“You’re observant, Thad. But the pieces of twine are short, just leftover bits. How are you going to make them longer?”
I spoke without thinking. “Just tie them together with a knot.”
“Think again. Would that make a nice smooth rope?”
“How else could I do it?”
“Watch! You untwist each end, then lay them together and twist them back together to make a simple, twisted splice. When it’s pulled tight, it will be almost as strong as any other piece of twine. Let’s try it.”
Brother Spencer made it look easy. I tried and tried, but it took a long time to get mine to go together and stay, Finally I could make a good splice almost every time. It wasn’t long until I had a mixed-up mess of newly spliced twine scattered around me.
When Brother Spencer came out to check on me, he said, “Good work, Thad, but where is the end? Find it and start winding what you have connected together into balls. When you get the machine, you will put the twine on the spools as you splice it.”
Early in the afternoon Brother Spencer sent me back over to the blacksmith shop and said, “If you can’t help there with the machine, go ahead and go swimming.”
I went swimming. The boys asked, “Thad, can you make a rope that we can hang from a tree to swing out over the water?”
“Sure!” I said. “That will be a good place to test the rope to see how strong it is and how well it lasts.”
On my way home I went back by the blacksmith shop, and there was the machine, bolted to its stand.
Brother Worth said, “The next wagon that comes by will take it over to the harness shop.” All the way home I hummed the song I had heard him singing. Tomorrow I would make rope.
We took the rope-making machine from the blacksmith shop the next morning and we put it close to the harness shop door so that I could work outside but move it inside easily at night.
Brother Spencer took a spool off the machine and handed it to me. “Fill it with twine.”
Round and round I wrapped the twine. One ball was soon used and then a second, and the spool wasn’t even half full. “Can I put some on a second spool?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I put two balls on the second spool. Brother Spencer watched me. “Go ahead and try to make a two-strand rope. Can you see which holes to thread it through on the tightener?”
“Yes—the ones marked with a two. There are also three holes marked with threes and four with fours.”
“You’re a smart young man, Thad. Now pull both strands over the take-up roller and tie them to the big take-up spool.”
Following his instructions, I threaded the machine and began turning the handle. At first the twine kept breaking, but we kept resplicing it, making adjustments, and trying again. After several failures, we finally got it right, and I saw real rope emerging on the take-up reel. “It’s working! It’s working!” I kept turning. Just as I got the feel for how it should be done, one of the little feed spools ran out of twine. My first attempt at rope making had ended.
Brother Spencer unwound the finished rope and handed me one end. We stretched it out, and it was at least twelve feet long! We again each grasped an end and pulled against each other. We couldn’t break the rope.
“There you are, Brother Rope Maker,” Brother Spencer said. “For the rest of today, make rope with just two strands. Tomorrow you can make some of three strands, and the next day four. Be sure to save samples so that you can see if you’re getting any better. Take this first piece home to show your family. I’m proud of you, Thad.”
That night I sat a little straighter next to Theo at the dinner table. It felt good.
The next two weeks, I untangled lots of cotton and flax twine, joined it together, and made it into rope. We got a long plank and put it up on saw horses so that I would have a good place to join the ends together. The pile of short pieces of twine got smaller and smaller, and my pile of finished rope got bigger and bigger. On Saturday I loaded what was done into the wheelbarrow and hauled it to the tithing office. There I turned it over to the clerk, who wrote up a receipt that read: “One wheelbarrow load of assorted sizes and lengths of machine-made rope of both cotton and flax. Quality excellent.”

Four months later my twin was still asking questions. I told him that I was happy to talk to him about it but that ultimately he would have to ask God for himself. A few weeks later he came to me and said: “I asked, and now I know the Book of Mormon is true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. How do I get in touch with the missionaries?”
Imagine my joy a month later when I had the opportunity of baptizing my twin brother. We both served missions; I was called to Chile and my brother to Mexico. Like Paul of old, we are trying to give back a little of what we received.

“Not Ivy! She’s a girl,” Braden whispered behind Adam.
But Adam was team captain for dodgeball for the day, and he had made his choice. “I pick Ivy,” he repeated a little louder. Tyler, the other team captain, smirked. Even Coach Garcia looked surprised at Adam’s second pick.
Ivy looked surprised too and then shyly stepped forward. Braden groaned.
Ivy wasn’t just any girl. She was the smallest girl in the class. She didn’t look very fast, and the ball seemed bigger than she was. “She probably can’t even lift the ball,” Braden said as Ivy walked over.
“Maybe she’ll be our secret weapon,” Adam said, trying to sound sure. But that’s not why he had picked her. Ivy had once told Adam she didn’t like it when they played sports because she was always picked last. The other boys teased Ivy, but Mom and Dad had told Adam that boys should show respect for girls. So he picked Ivy. As he watched Tyler pick the biggest boy in class, Adam gulped. What would this game be like?
After everyone was on a team, Coach Garcia blew the whistle, and the teams ran to opposite ends of the court. Coach Garcia handed Tyler the ball, and Tyler scanned Adam’s team before he focused on Ivy. He pulled back his arm and let the ball fly.
Bam! The ball smacked the ground and bounced without hitting anyone. Adam blinked. Ivy had moved just in time. Everyone around him seemed surprised, but Adam just smiled. Maybe picking Ivy had been a good idea after all.
The game continued. Tyler kept trying to hit Ivy with the ball, but she kept dodging and diving out of the way. No one could hit her with a ball. Tyler and some of his teammates were so busy trying to get Ivy out that they didn’t spend much time aiming for anyone else. Adam grinned—Ivy’s size actually made her better at dodgeball because being small and fast made her harder to hit.
At last Adam’s team won the game. “Secret weapon was right,” Braden said. “Ivy’s pretty good.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “Next time, she’s on my team. We’ll win for sure!” Ivy smiled as she walked back to class, surrounded by teammates.
Adam couldn’t stop smiling as he followed the group. He had been nice to Ivy, and he had helped the other boys respect girls a little more. The greatest secret weapon wasn’t a secret at all—it was just being kind.

A few years ago in Italy, LDS missionaries were harassed by some Italian youths. Among the group on two occasions was a young man named Felice Lotito. He was challenged by a bold elder to come to the local LDS branch so that he could judge for himself. It was a dare which Felice accepted. He came. He heard. He studied. He believed. He was baptized. Later he was sent on a mission to England where he increased his faith and his facility with English. He served honorably, came home, married a lovely Italian girl in the Swiss Temple, and became one of the directors of the seminary and institute program in Italy, which now serves nearly 1,000 students.

In July of 1980, Felice Lotito left at age 32 to be the mission president in the Italy Padova Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! God saw in Felice possibilities that Felice did not see in himself. When the gospel was presented to him, Felice had the integrity of heart and intellect to believe it, even though he had been hassling the missionaries just days before. The Lord reached out for Felice Lotito who will now reach out to thousands of his countrymen and touch hundreds of missionaries—missionaries like those of whom he was so critical just a few years before.

In Elder Sonntag’s ward a group of twelve boys his age played ball together and were good friends. They were also energetic and drove many Sunday School and Primary teachers away. Elder Sonntag relates that “the teachers all loved us, but they didn’t want to teach us. One, however, Sean Christensen, knew how to get through to us by teaching us a game that used our hands and kept us from hitting each other. Meanwhile, he would bear his testimony that God lives and that Jesus is the Christ.
“This teacher challenged us to go on missions. It meant a great deal to him to have ‘his boys’ be worthy to be missionaries, and Brother Christensen’s challenge greatly helped us to prepare.
“I had been taught to obey the Word of Wisdom, and I earnestly tried to obey it all my life. When I was married and a young bishop and the father of three children, my brother and I were involved in a serious car accident. I walked to get help for the other people in the accident, who were unconscious. By the time I got to the hospital myself, I’d lost a great deal of blood, and the doctors thought that I wouldn’t live. I asked the Lord to let me live to fulfill my responsibilities as husband, father, and bishop, and I heard a voice speaking, just as clearly as I might speak to you, say that because I had lived the Word of Wisdom all my life, I would ‘run and not be weary, and … walk and not faint’ [D&C 89:20] and that I would receive even more blessings. When my wife arrived at the hospital, someone suggested that she not go into my room because I looked so terrible. She asked, ‘Is he breathing?’ and went in anyway. She also received the same witness that I would live.”
Elder Sonntag wants the children of the Church to know that “it is a privilege to be a member of the Church and to live the commandments. The commandments are easy when you decide that you are going to keep them. The Word of Wisdom is not a hard thing—it is a blessing. It is within the power of each of you to determine what you want to be. There is no other you in the whole world. You are the only you; you are an individual. You alone can decide what you want to be and where you’re going to go. Choose the Lord’s way and live the gospel, for that will bring you the greatest happiness.”

I remember as a child looking at my grandmother’s wrinkled cheeks. Lines creased the corners of her eyes, and tiny lines graced her upper lip. I asked her how I could keep from getting wrinkles.
“Don’t smile,” she said. “And don’t cry.”
I followed her advice—for one day. Then I gave up. How could anyone live without smiling or crying? I decided I’d rather have a face that shows the lines of laughter and tears.

Many of the LDS kids in Alice attend St. Philip’s, a private school run by another church. St. Philip’s has a strict dress code. There are even rules about jewelry—only one pair of earrings, no bracelets, no rings.
That was a problem for the Mormon kids—no rings. Like many Latter-day Saints worldwide, they like to wear CTR rings. But they were told to remove them, even though exceptions had been made before for jewelry with “religious significance.”
“I had explained why it was important to me,” says Lavinia Archibald, 16. “But one of my teachers kept saying to take the ring off or she’d confiscate it.”
The LDS students and their parents talked to the principal, who knew the LDS youth were some of his best students. He talked to the faculty, explained that CTR stands for “choose the right,” and gave his approval for Latter-day Saints to wear the rings.

We love the Friend and read from it almost every morning. After reading “Conference Reverence Tent” in the October 2008 issue, we decided to make our own conference reverence tent for the next conference. We decorated the inside of the tent with pillows, blankets, and a picture of Jesus. We were happy we were listening when President Monson announced there was going to be a temple built in Calgary—that’s where we live!

Two years after the 1978 revelation on priesthood was received and announced, a group of young Durban township boys were contacted and taught by missionaries. By the end of the year, this group had joined the Church, and in early 1981, they became members of the first organized branch of the Church in the township of KwaMashu (located north of Durban). In late 1984, Sipho Khomo—one of those township boys—was asked by his branch president if he would be willing to serve a full-­time mission.
The decision was not an easy one for him to make. At the time he was baptized, black South Africans referred to the Church as “Isonto Labe Lungu,” meaning, “Church of the Whites”—not a flattering label at all—but reflected impressions that many held about the Church during the difficult apartheid years in South Africa. Rumors, false stories, and the social issues stemming from racial tension in the country all weighed heavily on Sipho as he considered the bishop’s invitation to serve.
But exercising great faith, and without fully knowing the impact his decision would have to himself and to many others, Sipho accepted a call in October 1984 to serve in the London England Mission—making him the first black South African to serve as a full-time missionary.
During his mission and afterward, Sipho’s pioneering spirit motivated other African young men to accept mission calls and to serve the Lord. In fact, during one of Elder Khomo’s Christmas phone calls from England, the township boys all gathered with his family to hear of his missionary experiences. The enthusiasm from that telephone call was contagious, and shortly afterward, those same township boys submitted missionary paperwork and received calls from the prophet to serve in the mission field themselves.
In his own words, Brother Khomo said, “I am glad I went on my mission—it helped make me strong. I followed the counsel given in section 4 of the Doctrine and Covenants and served the Lord with all my ‘heart, might, mind and strength’ so that I could ‘stand blameless before God at the last day’” (verse 2).
Brother Khomo still lives in KwaMashu, and he remains faithful to the gospel of Jesus Christ. His example influenced more than the township boys—and is felt even today as more than 1,000 full-time missionaries from the Africa Southeast Area currently serve in many countries around the world.

We started the research on Leone Jacobs by reading Leone’s obituary, which included the names of her children, and I immediately felt that I should call Geraldine, Leone’s daughter. The results were extraordinary.

At the outbreak of World War II in Europe, Leone lived in the Palestine-Syrian Mission with her two children and her husband, Joseph, who was mission president. The mission encompassed Palestine, Lebanon, and Syria. She kept two diaries while she lived there and wrote articles about the mission for the Deseret News when she returned.

Geraldine was generous. She let us borrow and scan these priceless documents, so now digital copies are available for visitors to study at the Church History Library. Reading the diaries gave me a more intimate sense for who Leone was and what it felt like to help run the mission, and I tried to bring that to the introduction that I wrote.

When I read Leone’s promises that we can change our lives, “One of the most glorious principles of life is that we can always rise above our present level,” I imagined her in Beirut, helping with a program at her children’s school, teaching a young woman to play the organ, greeting Church members at the mission Christmas party that she planned.

Coming to know Leone through her diaries felt sacred.

My sophomore year of high school was really hard for me. I was struggling—I needed to know that someone loved me. We were studying the Book of Mormon in seminary that year. One day, I had to give a devotional thought, and I decided to give one on love. To make a point, I replaced some words in verses 10 and 12 in 1 Nephi 8, which talk about the tree of life and its fruit, but I paid no particular attention to the words I wrote.
The day of my devotional came, and I didn’t want to go to seminary. I had had a really bad morning, and all I wanted to do was feel sorry for myself and stay home. I went anyway and prepared for my devotional. When the time came, I read what I had written:
“And it came to pass that I beheld [God’s love, and it] was desirable to make one happy.
“And as I partook of the fruit thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy; wherefore, I began to be desirous that my family should partake of it also; for I knew that it was desirable above all other fruit.”
As I read those words, the Spirit testified to me that they were true, and I was overcome with tears. The spirit of love and peace was so great! He really is aware of our problems, and He will help us through them. I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, and Their love is greater than any other! Anytime I feel like I need a boost and need to feel Their love, I just read this scripture, and it helps me to remember that I am loved.

“The missionary work of the Church is a panorama of more than a century of service and privations and hardships and sacrifices. The closer one is to the program, the more completely one can understand and appreciate it. When my grandfather Heber C. Kimball left for his mission, he and Brigham Young left their families destitute and ill and they themselves needed help to get into the carriage which took them from their homes. As they started off they raised themselves … and waved back to their weeping wives and children. Thousands of people came into the Church as a result of those missions, and tens of thousands have been benefited indirectly and are now enjoying the blessings of the gospel because of those sacrifices. To one who did not understand, such devotion and sacrifice on the part of those men would have been considered foolhardy and silly. But to the Young and Kimball families it was a mark of great faith. And to the thousands who will, through the eternities, call the names of those missionaries blessed, the privations and sacrifice were not wasted.”President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), The Teachings of Spencer W. Kimball, ed. Edward L. Kimball (1982), 253.

When Jamie’s mother came to get him from his Primary class, he was very excited. “I’m giving a talk in Primary next Sunday.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Mother. “You ask Daddy to help you.”
While Mother fixed dinner, Daddy helped Jamie think about what to say. That evening, Mother helped him practice the words.
On Monday Jamie practiced as he swung back and forth in the swing. On Tuesday he practiced while he shoveled sand from the sandpile into his dump truck.
He even practiced in front of the mirror in the bathroom at night before he went to bed.
Later in the week, he gave his talk to his best friend, Grandpa Strong.
“Good talk,” Grandpa told him.
Jamie’s sister, Ann, listened to his talk while she curled her hair. “Nice job,” she said.
On Saturday Jamie said his talk to the dog while she was sleeping in a patch of sunlight. I know every word now, Jamie thought. I’m ready to give my talk tomorrow.
In the morning, Jamie put on his blue pants and white shirt and red bow tie and blue jacket. In Primary he sat on a seat behind the pulpit and listened to the prayer and scripture reading.
Sister Dodson said, “Jamie will give his talk now.”
Jamie stood at the pulpit. His mommy and daddy sat in the back of the room and smiled at him. All the other children looked at him. Then something happened: When Jamie started to say the words, nothing came out of his mouth! He tried to think, but all he could think of was that he had forgotten his talk. Big tears came to his eyes. He stood there and didn’t know what to do.
Then he saw Daddy come toward him. Daddy knelt down beside him and put his arm around him and told him the first words of the talk. Jamie started to remember the rest of his talk. With Daddy’s arm firmly around him, Jamie said every word.
After Sharing Time, lots of people told him that he had given a good talk. Jamie felt good. He had tried hard all by himself, and with Daddy’s help, Jamie had given his first talk.
After church Jamie took Daddy’s hand. “Thanks for helping me,” he said.
Daddy squeezed his hand. “You know, Jamie, when I get stuck I ask my Father to help me. I can depend on his help. Do you know whom I’m talking about?”
Jamie smiled. “Heavenly Father.”
“That’s right, son. Heavenly Father will always be there to help you.”