Gospel Story Finder

When GayLynn Ribeira, an art student at Brigham Young University, heard the amazing stories of the pioneer Saints in Ghana, she knew she wanted to create their portraits for her bachelor of fine arts illustration project. In the fall of 2005, she began to pursue a way to do this. The result was a grant allowing her and three other art students—Jesse Bushnell, Emmalee Glauser Powell, and Angela Nelson—to spend May and June of 2006 in Ghana. BYU faculty member Richard Hull oversaw the project. The five gathered stories and images of not only pioneer Saints but newer members also. The wealth of information found its way onto canvas in the months following the trip and onto the walls of the B. F. Larsen Gallery at BYU in October 2007. Following is some of that artwork.
2. Joseph William Billy Johnson: Holiness to the Lord, by Emmalee Glauser Powell
“Gratitude and love emanated from him,” the artist wrote of Brother Johnson of Cape Coast. “He taught the gospel for 14 years, and over a thousand people were ready for baptism when the missionaries arrived in 1978. He is a man who consecrates his life and soul to God. He inspired me to strive to make the Christlike attributes of love and charity a part of my being.”

My mind raced back to the days of my youth on the farm. In the summertime one of our responsibilities was to haul hay from the fields into the barn for winter storage. My dad would pitch the hay onto a flatbed wagon. I would then tromp down the hay to get as much as possible on the wagon. One day, in one of the loose bundles pitched onto the wagon was a rattlesnake! When I looked at it, I was concerned, excited, and afraid. The snake was lying in the nice, cool hay. The sun was glistening on its diamond back. After a few moments the snake stopped rattling, became still, and I became very curious. I started to get closer and leaned over for a better look, when suddenly I heard a call from my father: “David, my boy, you can’t pet a rattlesnake!”

There are many ways in which we can misuse our opportunities. Some time ago I read a tender story written by Louise Dickinson Rich which vividly illustrates this truth. She wrote:
“My grandmother had an enemy named Mrs. Wilcox. Grandma and Mrs. Wilcox moved, as brides, into next-door houses on the main street of the tiny town in which they were to live out their lives. I don’t know what started the war between them—and I don’t think that by the time I came along, over thirty years later, they themselves remembered what started it. This was no polite sparring match; this was total war. …
“Nothing in town escaped repercussion. The 300-year-old church, which had lived through the Revolution, the Civil War, and the Spanish-American War, almost went down when Grandma and Mrs. Wilcox fought the Battle of the Ladies’ Aid. Grandma won that engagement, but it was a hollow victory. Mrs. Wilcox, since she couldn’t be president, resigned in a huff. What’s the fun of running a thing if you can’t force your enemy to eat crow? Mrs. Wilcox won the Battle of the Public Library by getting her niece, Gertrude, appointed librarian instead of Aunt Phyllis. The day Gertrude took over was the day Grandma stopped reading library books. They became ‘filthy germy things’ overnight. The Battle of the High School was a draw. The principal got a better job and left before Mrs. Wilcox succeeded in having him ousted or Grandma in having him given life tenure of office.
“When as children we visited my grandmother, part of the fun was making faces at Mrs. Wilcox’s grandchildren. One banner day we put a snake into the Wilcox rain barrel. My grandmother made token protests, but we sensed tacit sympathy.
“Don’t think for a minute that this was a one-sided campaign. Mrs. Wilcox had grandchildren, too. Grandma didn’t get off scot free. Never a windy washday went by that the clothesline didn’t mysteriously break, with the clothes falling in the dirt.
“I don’t know how Grandma could have borne her troubles so long if it hadn’t been for the household page of her daily Boston newspaper. This household page was a wonderful institution. Besides the usual cooking hints and cleaning advice, it had a department composed of letters from readers to each other. The idea was that if you had a problem—or even only some steam to blow off—you wrote a letter to the paper, signing some fancy name like Arbutus. That was Grandma’s pen name. Then some of the other ladies who had the same problem wrote back and told you what they had done about it, signing themselves One Who Knows or Xanthippe or whatever. Very often, the problem disposed of, you kept on for years writing to each other through the column of the paper, telling each other about your children and your canning and your new dining-room suite. That’s what happened to Grandma. She and a woman called Sea Gull corresponded for a quarter of a century. Sea Gull was Grandma’s true friend.
“When I was about sixteen, Mrs. Wilcox died. In a small town, no matter how much you have hated your next-door neighbor, it is only common decency to run over and see what practical service you can do the bereaved. Grandma, neat in a percale apron to show that she meant what she said about being put to work, crossed the lawn to the Wilcox house, where the Wilcox daughters set her to cleaning the already-immaculate front parlor for the funeral. And there on the parlor table in the place of honor was a huge scrapbook; and in the scrapbook, pasted neatly in parallel columns were Grandma’s letters to Sea Gull over the years and Sea Gull’s letters to her. Though neither woman had known it, Grandma’s worst enemy had been her [very] best friend. That was the only time I remember seeing my grandmother cry. I didn’t know then exactly what she was crying about, but I do now. She was crying for all the wasted years which could never be salvaged.”

Imagine a young man who is home alone and is getting hungry (it’s far-fetched, yes, but just try to imagine it). Now imagine that this young man decides to try to make a grilled cheese sandwich on his own for the first time.1 Imagine that this young man’s parents had never taught him how to make grilled cheese and that he had never observed them very closely when they made it.
Let’s say, though, that this young man gets all of the ingredients just right: bread, cheese, a little butter on the outside of the bread (and a little mayonnaise inside because he’s brilliant). Next, he gets out the pan and puts it on the stove. (We’re also imagining he doesn’t have a special griddle or other appliance for making this treat.)
Now imagine that a certain thought takes hold of his mind—a thought that so many people have been ignorant enough (or temporarily insane enough) to think: “If I turn the heat up high, it’ll be done faster.”
Imagine what happens next. (Or perhaps you don’t have to imagine.)
He’s going to get either perfectly crispy, golden-brown bread or perfectly gooey, melted cheese—but not both. Most likely, he’ll have bread that looks and feels (and probably tastes) like lava rock and half-melted cheese, which is about as appealing as half-told tales.
His problem, as you can see, was a combination of ignorance (which is excusable) and impatience (which, though understandable, is less excusable). If he were to repeat this mistake the next time, it would be even less excusable, since it couldn’t be blamed on ignorance but would result almost entirely from impatience.
To get it right, he would have to discover the miracle of medium heat.
The medium setting on a stove is perfect for grilled cheese and many other dishes because it allows food to be cooked through without being overdone on the outside. The only downside is that it requires more time and attention, which require patience.
It’s not just sticking the grilled cheese sandwich on the pan and forgetting it; it’s watching and flipping it at the right time.

“Hey, Matt, where’d he come from?” Aldo asked as he jerked his head in the direction of the pale figure leaning against the cultural hall stage.
Unfortunately, the reverberating thud of five basketballs bouncing in the gym had forced Aldo to speak a little louder than usual, and the figure obviously overheard. Without expression, he stared straight at Aldo and Matt, lazily extricated one black-gloved hand from his folded arms, extended two fingers, and flashed a peace sign.
The gesture, the figure, gave them both the creeps. He was about their age, but he was thin and blond, his hair slicked completely back from his face and tied in a small ponytail. He wore little, round dark glasses which he hadn’t taken off when he entered the meetinghouse. He also wore an earring, a large silver dagger dangling from his left earlobe. He had on a long, bulky, army overcoat that covered the remaining threads of torn black jeans, and a dirty T-shirt with the neck and sleeves ripped out. He also wore huge, black, lace-up leather boots. He didn’t look like the type who would enjoy socializing with the kids in the ward.
“That’s Courtney Pennington’s brother, Selwyn,” Matt explained as he dribbled a ball to the opposite side of the court. “You know Courtney. She’s new—blond hair—been coming to the ward for a couple of months.”
Aldo followed Matt. He knew exactly who Courtney was. Her dad was a big movie producer from New York.
“Her mom and dad never come to church,” Matt continued. “Neither does her brother. We would’ve noticed him. He kind of sticks out.”
So did Courtney, Aldo thought as he waited for Matt to take a practice shot. But not because she dressed strangely. “You guys were talking when I came in,” he said. “How do you know him?”
“Oh, Courtney and my sister have been hanging around together lately. Courtney says he needs some fellowshipping and asked if I’d do it,” Matt replied as he arched the ball toward the basket.
“You should have told him to bring shoes he could play in,” said Aldo rebounding Matt’s shot. “I don’t think they’ll let him on the court in Doc Martens. We could use his help, too. The guys from fourth ward are really psyched up for this game.” Aldo shot and missed.
“Don’t count on getting any help from Selwyn,” Matt replied, running to retrieve the ball. “He says he doesn’t ‘do the basketball deed.’”
“Oh yeah? Well, what deeds does he do?” Aldo called after Matt.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Matt said as he put the ball under his arm and started to walk toward Selwyn. “He might be a little weird looking, but he’s not blind. He knows we’re talking about him.”
Aldo caught himself. He usually wasn’t so thoughtless. It was just that this was an important game, and he’d been thinking more about that than anything else. He decided to make it up to Selwyn by being extra friendly.
“Hey—welcome to the ward,” Aldo said as they approached Selwyn. His best, broad smile lit up his dark features.
“Thanks, dudes!” Selwyn said, sounding like he’d just stepped off the set of a bad teen movie. Matt and Aldo were surprised at his friendliness and exchanged a relieved look. “I’m, like, totally sorry I can’t play, but believe me buckaroos, you wouldn’t want me on the court. I’m, like, a real dweeb when it comes to sports, ya know?”
“That’s okay,” Matt assured him. He was surprised to find himself wanting to help Selwyn fit in. “Your sister says you never go anywhere without your video camera. Maybe you could film a game for us sometime?”
“I was going to bring it tonight, but my dad, like, grounded me from it for a few weeks. So for now I guess I’ll just sit over here and chill.”
“Well, make yourself at home, man,” Aldo said. “We’ll go out and get something to eat afterwards, win or lose, so why don’t you come with us? Everybody’s good at eating.”
“For sure,” Selwyn said as Matt and Aldo ran off to finish warming up.
“Seems like an okay guy,” Aldo said to Matt as they began shooting again.
“Yeah—he’s probably pretty cool. But why is he sitting like that?”
Both boys looked over to see Selwyn, perched, with his legs folded in a lotus position, atop a folding chair that he’d turned upside down. It wasn’t your basic spectator stance. It didn’t look very comfortable, either, but Selwyn was smiling—and he flashed the peace sign again.
As soon as the game started, Matt and Aldo didn’t have much time to think about Selwyn. The team from the fourth ward was their biggest rival and they were playing rougher than usual. So rough, in fact, that tempers started to flare and angry words flew.
“What did you say, young man?” shouted an angry ref, two inches from Aldo’s nose.
“Whadaya think I said?” Aldo yelled back, with enough control not to repeat the word he’d used, but without enough control to cool down and apologize.
“I can’t believe a bishop’s son would say something like that—ever,” the ref continued. “So I’ll let it slide. But just watch your mouth, or you’ll be off the court and into your father’s office so fast it’ll make your head spin!”
“Lighten up, Aldo,” Matt said as they took their positions around the key while a fourth ward player aimed his free shot. “You are supposed to set an example.”
That did it. Aldo hated references to his being the bishop’s son and this was coming from his best friend. The ball bounced off the backboard, and as Aldo lunged for the rebound, he used the most colorful language he knew to verbally demolish everyone around him.
“You’re out! You’re done! You’re through!” the ref shouted, angrily motioning Aldo off the court. “The bishop’s son. The bishop’s son! I can’t believe it.”
Aldo stomped off the court and into the foyer. He flung the glass door open and was about to leave when he heard someone behind him.
“Hey, dude—I thought we were gonna, like, get something to eat after the game,” Selwyn said, loping up to him.
“Yeah, well, I guess I’m not very hungry,” Aldo answered, a little of the fire going out of him. He flopped down on the couch.
“So, like, you’re the bishop’s son,” Selwyn said, taking a seat in the chair next to the couch. “You look it, man, but you sure don’t talk it.”
“Oh yeah? Well you probably aren’t exactly like your dad either,” said Aldo, his temper heating up again. It always did when people told him he didn’t live up to the image of a bishop’s son.
“No lie! My dad hates the stuff I wear,” Selwyn responded, gesturing at his clothes. “Mr. Immaculate Diction hates it when I talk like a skater, too.”
“Right,” Aldo replied, slowly gaining control of his temper. He bent over to unlace his basketball shoes. “You dress and talk like you do just to get on your dad’s nerves?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Selwyn said, dropping the affected accent. “I’ve sort of developed my own style.”
“It’s definitely your own.”
“Yep—nothing like my dad would wear, and that’s just the way I want it. Take my ‘fashion footwear,’” Selwyn said sarcastically, hiking his big, black boot up on the corner of the couch. “I could wear Cole Haan loafers like my father’s, but he’d complain because I didn’t keep them perfectly polished.”
“And I bet if you had short hair, he’d say it wasn’t styled right,” Aldo said, almost beginning to enjoy the conversation. There was something familiar about it.
“You must know my dad.”
“No, but I know exactly what you mean,” Aldo said, nodding his head. He paused for a minute. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a problem with my mouth.”
“No lie!” Selwyn said again, but this time it was more agreeable. It made Aldo feel like talking.
“I kind of do it for the same reasons. I won’t ever be as perfect as everybody says the bishop’s son should be, and nobody even compares me when I swear.
“We’re not so different, then, are we? We both want to have control of ourselves,” Selwyn said.
“Some control,” Aldo responded slowly, taking his right shoe off and touching the beginning of a blister on his foot. “My mouth got me thrown out of the game.”
“Yeah, and my clothes just about get me thrown out of the house,” Selwyn replied thoughtfully, running his hand back over his slick hair and grasping his ponytail for a second.
“And you call that control?” Aldo asked, putting the question to himself as much as to Selwyn. “I mean, I know people think the wrong things about me when I swear …”
“… And you are supposed to be setting an example for ‘wayward’ types like me.”
“I’ve heard that before. But think about it for a second. The way you look might keep people from thinking you’re a copy of your dad. But what kind of an idea does it give people about you? Now that I’m talking to you, I think you’re all right, but at first I thought you were one scary guy.”
“That’s everyone else’s problem, not mine,” Selwyn said. “Church people should know that you judge by what’s on the inside, not by what’s on the outside.”
“Yeah, but some people aren’t ever going to find out what’s on the inside because they’re afraid to talk to a guy with a knife in his ear.”
Selwyn just sat there, touching his earring for several minutes. Aldo was afraid he might have been a little too honest with someone he’d just met.
“Okay, you could be right,” Selwyn conceded slowly. “My looks and your language might not be helping either one of us. But if I change, I worry about turning into a clone of my dad.”
“Actually,” Aldo responded, “I feel better when I do something that makes my dad happy than I feel when I do something that gets me thrown out of a game. One of the greatest feelings I ever have is when my dad smiles because of something I’ve done.”
Selwyn paused for a minute, trying to remember what it was like to have his father smile at him. It had been a long time. “I don’t know if it would make my father smile to know that I’ve come to church tonight,” Selwyn said quietly. “But at least I came. Hey, that’s definitely something different from what he’s doing. Nobody could accuse me of being his clone when I’m here.”
“Wait a minute,” Aldo said. Something was coming to him. “Coming to church on your own is not a bad way to be different from your dad. Who knows? If you set a good enough example, maybe he’ll end up trying to be like you.
“My dad wanting to be like me?” Selwyn asked, brightening. “Wow—what a concept!” He stopped for a second, thinking about the prospects, then went on. “Okay, now here’s one for you. You control your mouth, and maybe you’ll see more of those smiles on your dad’s face. We can even work together. Here. Watch this.”
Selwyn reached up to his earlobe and pulled the dagger off. “I just stuck it on with surgical glue, anyway. I didn’t have the guts to really pierce my ear.”
“Okay,” Aldo said. “Then watch this.” He stood up. “I’m going in there to apologize to my team, to the refs, and even to those guys from the fourth ward.”
“Totally bodacious, dude!” said Selwyn as he followed Aldo into the gym. “I mean—good idea, Aldo. Then can we go get something to eat?”

After a small accident, I have to use a cane, and I walk slowly. Stairs are very hard for me. At church I always felt scared of falling down the steps—until that Sunday when I heard a soft voice and felt a little hand holding mine: “Come on. I’ll go with you.”
I looked down and saw nine-year-old Gabriel’s confident smile.
“Very well!” I said. “From now on, you are my helper. Let’s go!”
No one sent Gabriel. He just saw a grandma needing help and presented himself.
Now each Sunday, Gabriel and I go down the stairs without fear.
I later told Gabriel’s parents: “It is not physical strength that makes me unafraid. It is the bucketful of love that he gives me each Sunday. Gabriel is a giant of kindness!”

My sweet Frances had a terrible fall a few years ago. She went to the hospital. She lay in a coma for about 18 days. I sat by her side. She never moved a muscle. The children cried, the grandchildren cried, and I wept. Not a movement.

And then one day, she opened her eyes. I set a speed record in getting to her side. I gave her a kiss and a hug, and I said, “You’re back. I love you.” And she said, “I love you, too, Tom, but we’re in serious trouble.” I thought, What do you know about trouble, Frances? She said, “I forgot to mail in our fourth-quarter income tax payment.”

I said to her, “Frances, if you had said that before you extended a kiss to me and told me you love me, I might have left you here.”

I had a similar problem at school where one certain girl seemed to really hate me. Finally, through prayerful study of the scriptures, I decided I would show some act of kindness to her every day, no matter how much I hated the thought of being nice to someone so undeserving. I prayed daily that the Lord would help me see this girl as a child of God and help me love her as He loves her. My goal was to smile at her every time I saw her. It sure was hard. Even though sometimes my smile was very slight, I kept my promise. Whenever she made a rude or unkind comment, I thought to myself, She is a child of God. By the semester’s end, I felt as if my smiles were sincere. I even found myself standing up for her when others had mean things to say about her. This year we are even friends. I think this same approach might work for you.
Jennifer Dobberfuhl, 16Barron, Wisconsin

In 2012 the Shamola family traveled almost 3,000 kilometres to the Johannesburg South Africa Temple to be sealed together. However, not having a temple in their home country made it difficult for them to return to the temple to perform ordinances for their ancestors. They were overjoyed when President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) announced the construction of the Nairobi Kenya Temple in the April 2017 general conference. They joyfully anticipate having a temple near their home so they can more easily perform ordinances for their ancestors. They are eager to do this work.

Let me tell you about this old set that my mom and dad gave me when I was seventeen. I had read the Book of Mormon before, but this time it was different. I was young, and I wanted to know for myself if the Book of Mormon was really true. On this day I had come to the part in Alma, chapter 32, [Alma 32] about faith. As I finished the chapter, I experienced a feeling which I recognized as a witness from the Holy Ghost—I knew the Book of Mormon was true. I wanted to stand up and shout. I wanted to tell the whole world what I knew and how I felt, but I was alone. So with tears of joy streaming down my face, I wrote on the margin all the way around on each side the feelings in my heart at that moment. I made a big red star up in the corner and wrote, “May 31st, 7:30 a.m. This I know, written as if to me.” Then I wrote on the other margin, “I have received a confirmation. I know the Book of Mormon is true.” On the other side I wrote, “One month ago today I began fasting each Tuesday for a more sure knowledge. This I know.”

“Betsy! Eliza! Wake up and get ready! We’re finally going to go.” Tommy called.
Betsy sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Go where?” she asked sleepily.
“Out west,” replied Tommy. “Brother Morley was just here, and he said our company would leave Winter Quarters this afternoon. We’ll have to hurry to get ready.”
“We have moved so many times,” Betsy grumbled. “Why can’t we stay here in our house with our garden and our friends?”
Betsy’s mother did not say anything at first. She walked over to the bed, sat down on the edge, and put her arm around Betsy’s shoulders.
“It’s been a long time, Betsy, since we left Nauvoo. You were six years old then; now you are almost eight. During that time you have been brave and I have been proud of you.
“In Nauvoo you left your home, your kitty, your clock, and your chair with the big round back. In Sugar Creek you gave your feather bed to Sister Johnson so that she could keep her newborn baby warm and comfortable. In Garden Grove you said goodbye to the log cabin your father built and the rope spring bed you helped to make. At Council Bluffs you waved goodbye to your father as he marched with the Mormon Battalion.
“Each time we moved, you left behind something that was precious to you. But each time we moved, we came closer to the place our Heavenly Father has prepared for us out west! Today we are leaving again. We’ll soon build homes and plant gardens in the valley, where we’ll have friends and go to school and serve the Lord the way he would like us to serve him.”
Betsy was thoughtful for a moment; then she looked up at her mother and asked, “What can I do, Mother, to help get ready?”
Betsy’s mother smiled softly as she answered, “We are almost out of match papers, Betsy. You may fold some. Where we will be traveling there are no stores, so our box of matches will have to last a long, long time.”
Eliza and Betsy folded small pieces of paper over and over again until the papers were thin and firm enough to light one fire from another. When they had folded a hundred of these, Betsy’s mother asked the girls to make twenty-five rag candles by tightly twisting pieces of cloth and wrapping them with string. These candles, soaked in grease and lighted, made a good light.
Tommy and Elija checked the wagons. Tommy took one wheel to the blacksmith for repair while Elija and Mother stretched new canvas over the wagons. When Tommy returned, they loaded the wagons and hitched up the oxen. Then Tommy and Elija climbed up in the drivers’ seats, and drove the two wagons to the square.
As soon as all those in the company reached the square ready to start, their leader quieted them and then gave some last-minute instructions. “As you know, Brigham Young and his company left several weeks ago. They are blazing the trial we will follow.
“Each night our wagons must form a corral by locking the front wheels of one wagon with the rear wheels of the next wagon until a tight circle is formed. We’ll keep the animals inside the circle.
“A bugle will sound at five each morning, at which time each family should gather for prayer. Then you will have two hours to eat and do your chores. At seven another bugle will sound to signal the wagon train to move forward.
“Tonight we will camp four miles from here, and tomorrow morning we’ll be on our way out west!”
Just then someone rode up beside Tommy’s wagon. The man handed Tommy a letter and said, “This letter for your mother was delivered to Brigham Young’s camp up ahead with mail from the Mormon Battalion.”
Mother hurriedly opened the envelope, scanned the letter, and then read it aloud:
“I know that you will probably be on your way by the time you receive this letter. It will not always be easy, but take comfort knowing you are not alone. The brethren will help you, and our Heavenly Father will be as close as you will let him be. I will meet you all in the valley.
“Tell Eliza and Elija that their father is well and sends his love.”
“It will be wonderful!” shouted Tommy. “We’ll all be together again.”
Tommy’s mother gave him a warm smile. “We really will be together, Tommy. This is truly good news.”
Just then they heard the bugle that signaled for the long wagon train to start moving. Betsy and Eliza waved to their friends who had come to the square to say goodbye. “We’ll be waiting to see you,” they called.
And the wagon train began its long journey out west.

I was a little curious when my mission president announced we were going to have a white Christmas. In Chile, December is the hottest time of year. President Wilcox explained that some families of missionaries in our mission had donated enough money that every missionary companionship could give a set of white temple clothes to a worthy, but needy, member for Christmas.
My companion and I immediately thought of the same person. This brother came from a tough background. He had made some big changes to be able to be baptized and later receive his own endowment. He remained faithful and active even when most of his family had not.
The day we visited him and entered his humble home we could feel hopelessness and despair. A recent death in the family, along with the usual economic problems that filled their lives, had left the home void of the Christmas spirit. We had brought the temple clothes with us but didn’t want to give them to him in front of the rest of his family. I silently prayed for a chance to give him our gift in private. Almost instantly the family began to disperse, leaving us alone.
I said, “Hermano, we have a special gift for you.”
He said, “Elders, you are kind, but I do not need charity.”
I explained how some families of missionaries had donated funds so that we could give him his own set of temple clothing. My companion held out the package. The brother didn’t say a word. His breathing became a little louder, and tears began to fall from his eyes.
After a while he lifted his head and said, “How can anyone tell me the Church is not true? I’ve been saving a little money for quite a while so I could buy my own temple clothes. When I finally had enough, my cousin told me he was going to the temple, and he is even poorer than I am. I decided he needed temple clothing more than I did, so I recently gave him a set. Now here are you two missionaries giving me the very gift I just sacrificed to give to my cousin. How can anyone tell me the Church is not true?”
He stood and gave my companion and me heartfelt hugs. What an amazing feeling. I think we floated home that evening. We also floated off our seats the following Sunday when this brother came to church with five of his inactive family members.
December 25 was a hot summer day in Chile, but we had a white Christmas I will never forget.
Treagan White served in the Chile Santiago East Mission; he is a member of the Dillingham Alaska Branch, Anchorage Alaska Bush District.

I belong to a family of five, and we attend church every Sunday, all except my dad. He is not a member of the Church, and this makes me sad. He is a very good dad and sometimes comes to parties or trips organized by the ward. I would like it if he always came.
My mom taught me in Primary that Heavenly Father listens to our prayers and wants to help us. So I said a prayer that He would help my dad understand how much the gospel means for our family.
On Saturday I was about to watch TV when something happened. My dad came and said there were better things I could be doing instead of sitting in front of the TV. “For example,” he said, “what would you think if I read you a nice story from the Liahona?”
So he sat down with me and my two little brothers and read to us. I don’t know how my dad knew those stories were in the Liahona. But I do know that Heavenly Father had listened to my prayers and answered, touching my dad’s heart so he read something in the Church magazine.
I thank my Heavenly Father because He listens to my prayers.

We were so happy, every Sunday attending sacrament meeting and seeing the love the members of the Church showed us. My mom and I waited for my father who was working in Dubai to come and be baptized, and my brother was studying in Vijayawada where there is no Church. Fortunately, a home group was started in Vijayawada and missionaries from Rajahmundry went there and taught him. I baptized him. The day came that my father arrived from his work the missionaries met him, taught him, and invited him to be baptized, but he had an issue with the Word of Wisdom. Finally, he overcame it with the help of the missionaries and he also joined the Church. My brother baptized him. Now all four members in our family have joined the Church and have seen many miracles in our lives.

When I was 11 years old, my father died, and at his funeral I was very touched as I heard the people speaking about what a kind man he had been. At the cemetery as they were lowering the casket down in the grave and starting to throw those shovels full of dirt and rocks down on the casket, I stood watching, thinking he was my hero, and I wondered what would ever happen to me having lost my father. I saw good men exercising the priesthood and doing what was right—the men who had helped in digging the grave and taking care of things—and I saw a good man push a five-dollar bill back into the hands of my mother, who had offered him some money for helping to dig the grave. He pushed that money back towards my mother and said, “No, you keep it because you will need this later on.” And so, I would like to declare to all of you in these assemblies tonight, in the Aaronic Priesthood and the Melchizedek Priesthood, isn’t it interesting in the wisdom of our Heavenly Father and His Son, in putting all of these things together, how in the lesser priesthood we learn to do the temporal chores? We’ll have temporal duties, learning in a humble, simple way those things that need to be done. This will teach us of service and of living the commandments of the Lord, preparing us so that we someday will be advanced to the Melchizedek Priesthood, with all of the majesty and the eternal glory that that entails.

I was taught a great lesson in loving service many years ago. I was on my way to a session of general conference when someone came up and took me by the elbow. It was President David O. McKay, whom I had come to know through my father’s relationship with him.
“Come with me, Joseph,” President McKay said. “I’ll help you find a good seat.”
For those few moments as we walked to conference, President McKay seemed to focus his entire attention on me. He spoke reverently of his love for the Lord and his love for the members of the Church. He looked me straight in the eye as he firmly shared his testimony with me.
“I want you to know, Joseph,” he said, “that the President of the Lord’s Church does receive revelation from our Lord Jesus Christ.” At that moment the Spirit whispered to my heart that President David O. McKay was telling me the truth. That testimony has remained with me all my life, filling me with reverence and respect for the office our President holds.
They were just little things: President McKay calling me by name, strolling with me to the Tabernacle, finding a place for me to sit, and sharing his testimony with me. But I felt his love and was enriched by his humble act of service during our few minutes together. And I don’t think I was ever quite the same after that.

At the same time, 10 miles to the south, Raul Hernandez and his wife, Anna Maria, have just finished preparing their martial arts studio for an evening class. A Liahona magazine adorns the counter adjacent to chairs and a bench where parents make themselves comfortable as their sons and daughters head to the studio’s colorful padded floor.

As different as the Hernandez and Yoshida businesses are from each other, they have something important in common. They owe their success, at least partially, to principles taught through the Church’s self-reliance initiative.

Raul Hernandez began martial arts training when he was only 6 years old. By age 13, he was teaching others, and by age 17, he had opened his first martial arts studio in Mexico.

“At first, I didn’t know if a self-reliance course would help us,” Raul says of his studio in El Paso. “But our business wasn’t going great, and I didn’t know what to do to improve it. I thought, ‘What can I do without having to spend more money?’”

Thanks to the same course attended by fellow ward member Julio Yoshida, Raul and his wife, Anna Maria, developed some great ideas. They used those ideas to improve their business organization, bookkeeping, professionalism, and advertising.

“We began to promote our business on Facebook,” Raul says. “It turned out great. All of our new clients now come from Facebook.”

Another important idea they received from the course was how to better use their gym.

“We were using the gym for classes only three hours in the evening, Monday through Friday, but we pay rent on it for the whole day,” Brother Hernandez says. “I’m an architect, but I don’t always have work, so my mornings are often free. After I started the self-reliance course, I began to pray about the training we were receiving.”

Those prayers were answered when, “through the guidance of the Spirit,” Raul felt impressed to begin using his gym during morning hours to offer classes on weight-loss management and to give therapeutic massage, which he is trained in.

“I’ve taken other courses designed to help me with my business, but the Church’s self-reliance course is different because of its spiritual part,” he says. “The most important thing we got out of the course was the Lord’s help through the Spirit. The course brings His blessings.”

“The most important thing we got out of the course,” say Raul and Anna Maria Hernandez, “was the Lord’s help through the Spirit.”

When I visited stake conferences as a member of the Twelve, I always took note of those stakes which had excelled in bringing to activity those brethren whose talents and potential leadership had lain dormant. Inevitably I would ask, “How were you able to achieve success? What did you do and how did you do it?” One such stake was the North Carbon Stake when President Cecil Broadbent presided. Eighty-seven men had been reactivated and, with their wives and children, went to the Manti Temple in the space of one year. President Broadbent, upon hearing my questions, turned to his counselor, President Stanley Judd, a large and good-natured coal miner, and said, “This is President Judd’s responsibility in the stake presidency. He will answer.”
As I restated my questions to President Judd, I concluded with the plea, “Will you tell me how you did it?”
With a smile, he replied, “No.” I was stunned! Then he said, “If I tell you how we did it, then you will tell others, and they will surpass our record.” I was still stunned. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, this wonderful man added, “However, Brother Monson, if you will give me two tickets to general conference, I’ll tell you how we did it.”
The tickets were provided; the success pattern was revealed. However, President Judd felt the contract was open-ended and asked for and received from me two tickets for each conference until he was eventually ordained a patriarch.
The formula was the same, generally speaking, in each successful stake with regard to this phase of the work. It consisted of four ingredients: one, put forth your efforts at the ward level; two, involve the ward bishop; three, provide inspired teaching; and four, do not attempt to concentrate on all the brethren at once; rather, work with a few husbands and their wives at a given time and then have them help you as you work with others.

As a teenager in Matsumoto, Japan, I was very interested in learning English. At age 17 I joined the English club at my high school. At the start of the school year, the club decided to find a native English speaker to teach us English conversation. We searched and searched, but the English instructors we spoke to charged a fee, and the club couldn’t afford to pay. Discouraged, we almost gave up.
Then one day, as I rode my bicycle to school, I saw some young American men in suits handing out flyers. I took one and put it in my pocket. After school I examined the paper and found that it was an invitation to attend a free English conversation class. On the flyer was the name “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” I had never heard of such a church, but I was excited; I had solved the English club’s problem!
On the day of the next class, about 30 club members attended with me. The missionaries taught the class, which we all enjoyed very much. From the very first day of class, I noticed that there was something different about the missionaries. Their warmth, love, positive attitudes, and cheerfulness deeply impressed me. There seemed to be a light around them—I had never before met anyone quite like them.
After several weeks I began asking the missionaries about their church, and they invited me to learn more. I accepted, and they taught me the missionary lessons. At the time I did not fully understand or appreciate the importance of what I was learning, but I felt the Spirit, and I understood that the principles the missionaries were teaching me were good. When they invited me to be baptized, I accepted.
Before I could join the Church, however, I had to receive my parents’ consent. At first they were very much against it—the teachings of Christianity were foreign and strange to them. But I was not yet ready to give up. I asked the missionaries to come to my home and explain to my parents about the Church, what they had been teaching me, and what would be expected of me. The Spirit softened my parents’ hearts, and this time they gave me permission to be baptized.
After I was baptized and confirmed, I attended the little Matsumoto Branch of 12 to 15 active members. I made friends, and it was fun to attend every week. About a year later I graduated from high school and moved to Yokohama to attend the university. The nearest branch was the Tokyo Central Branch, which had more than 150 active members. When I attended this new branch, I felt like a country boy in the big city. I had a hard time making friends. One Sunday I stayed home from church. Soon I stopped attending altogether. I began making friends with my nonmember classmates, and the Church drifted further and further from my mind.
This continued for several months. Then one day I received a letter from a sister in the Matsumoto Branch. “I heard you have stopped attending church,” she said. I was surprised. Apparently someone from my new branch had told her I was not attending church anymore! The sister continued her letter by quoting Doctrine and Covenants 121:34: “Behold, there are many called, but few are chosen.” Then she wrote, “Koichi, you have been baptized a member of the Church. You have been called, but you are no longer among the chosen.”
As I read these words, I was filled with regret. I knew I needed to change somehow. I realized that I did not have a strong testimony. I wasn’t sure if God lived, and I didn’t know if Jesus Christ was my Savior. For several days I grew anxious as I thought about the message in the letter. I didn’t know what to do. Then one morning I remembered something the missionaries had taught me. They had asked me to read Moroni 10:3–5, promising that I could know the truth for myself. I decided that I must pray. If I felt nothing, I could completely forget about the Church and the commandments, and I would never go again. However, if I did receive an answer, as Moroni promised, I would have to repent, embrace the gospel with all my heart, go back to church, and do all I could to follow the commandments.
As I knelt and prayed that morning, I pleaded with Heavenly Father to answer me. “If Thou live—if Thou are real,” I prayed, “please let me know.” I prayed to know if Jesus Christ was my Savior and if the Church was true. As I finished, I suddenly felt something. I was surrounded by a warm feeling, and my heart was filled with joy. I understood the truth: God does live, and Jesus is my Savior. The Lord’s Church was truly restored by the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Book of Mormon is the word of God.
Needless to say, I prayed for forgiveness that very day and resolved to follow the commandments. I returned to church and promised the Lord that I would do whatever it took to remain faithful.
A short time later the Church began making plans to build a chapel in Yokohama. At that time members of the branch were expected to contribute money and provide labor for the building’s construction. When the mission president challenged the branch members to contribute all they could, I remembered my commitment to do whatever the Lord asked of me. So every day for nearly a year, I helped with the construction after my university classes were over.
About this same time, Elder Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, visited Japan and encouraged the youth of the Church to achieve four goals: (1) receive as much higher education as possible, (2) serve a full-time mission, especially the young men, (3) marry in the temple, and (4) gain skills to support a family. Until that point I had never planned to accomplish these four things. But I later knelt and prayed: “Heavenly Father, I want to accomplish those four goals. Please help me.”
I knew that in order to stay on the path of the chosen, I needed to follow the counsel of the Lord’s servants. I committed to do all I could to follow Elder Kimball’s advice and to work hard to build up the Church.
For the next several years I continued to work toward my four goals. I served as a construction missionary for two years, helping build two chapels in my home country. Then I was called to serve a full-time proselytizing mission. Soon after returning home, I married in the temple the woman from the Matsumoto Branch who wrote me the letter. Later I landed my dream job in a foreign trading company. As I followed the word of the Lord and the counsel of the prophets, I felt that again I was on the path of the chosen. And I am striving to stay on that path today.

Coach LaVell Edwards says of Gary’s success, “He has one of the strongest arms I’ve seen in a long time, but even more important, he has a sense of timing. He knows when to release the ball, when to really throw it hard, and when to ease up and drop it over the linebacker’s head. He has a quick release, and he can throw a lot of different kinds of passes. He can throw long, or he can throw intermediate or short. He can lay it out soft or he can throw it hard, and he always knows which to do.”
Sportswriters credited Sheide with leading the BYU Cougars to their first bowl game ever, but Gary tells it differently: “We had some great coaches. LaVell Edwards was like a father to me. But you’d have to have been in our Tuesday night meetings to understand what made champions of a team that lost its first three games. The coaches would talk to us, and then they’d leave. And there was just the team. We’d sit there for a while, and any one of us could stand up and say whatever he wanted. Often you’d hear something like, ‘I’m so grateful to know each of you. And you mean so much to me that I’m going to do all I can out there for you.’ ‘I’m so glad to be part of this team, I’m going to give it all my strength and effort.’ ‘Somehow, I’m going to see that you get the extra seconds that might make the difference.’ ‘I’m going to be in there playing 150 percent.’
“You know,” says Gary, “those guys had a couple of important things going for them—character and commitment. There were times in those meetings when you wanted to cry, and you knew somehow you’d do better than your best.”