Gospel Story Finder

The prophet Micah declared: “He hath showed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” (Micah 6:8). There is enough for a long sermon in that one command. Let me talk about one point only: “To love mercy.” As an example, may I read a paragraph from a letter I received from a young woman who is engaged in this kind of activity as president of the Relief Society.
Yesterday [she writes] I spent most of the day picking up welfare groceries and delivering them. One of the two cases I called on was tragic. She is a woman who, years ago, was in a fire and her head was badly injured. For years she has undergone constructive surgery and has a number of pins holding her scalp together. She is divorced, and in order to support herself and her four-year-old girl, she works doing any small job she can find, until she is through surgery and can return to school to complete her training as a dietician. She has no car and relies solely on her bicycle for transportation in this great and busy city. She has ridden that bike all winter, with her little girl on the back, sometimes going as many as 48 kilometers in a day to get to and from a small job.
A week ago she slid on a patch of ice while riding her bicycle, fell, struck her head, and suffered a concussion. She refused to go to the hospital because she had no money to pay medical bills, so she remained in her apartment, suffering from pain until her sister found her and got medical help. Her mother was able to assist her just a little. Her home teacher happened to call and discovered her plight. When I, as the Relief Society president, called her, I discovered she had no food in the house, no medication for her diabetes, and no money. So yesterday I went to deliver the groceries and take her some medication. What an opportunity to serve someone so desperately in need!

“Come on, Jodi! It’s only one soccer match! God isn’t going to hate you for playing just this once on Sunday.”
“That’s right,” thought Jodi Allen, a seventeen-year-old from Sandy, Utah, and the best goalkeeper on her championship soccer team. “It is only one soccer match.” But to play in it would break a personal promise she’d made to Heavenly Father years before.
But how could she explain that to the teammates who were pressuring her to play? As a team, they had worked hard all season, winning the Utah state championship and traveling to the regional tournament in San Francisco, California, to compete against other winning teams from throughout the western United States. They had successfully played a couple of tournament matches and now had the opportunity to play a team that had beaten them the previous year. Jodi’s team wanted revenge, and a win for the team would place them in the regional finals.
But the game was scheduled for Sunday.
“Oh Jodi! Who do you think you are? Some of us are members of the Church too, and we’re playing on Sunday. Do you think you’re better than we are?”
So there was never a question about playing on Sunday—not even in this tournament. But making her teammates understand was another story.
“Look,” she tried to explain, “if I don’t play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint my team, and I feel bad about that. But if I do play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint so many more. I’ll disappoint myself, because I’d be breaking a promise. I’d disappoint my parents, who know how important that promise is to me. I’d disappoint my cousins, who don’t play on Sunday because of my example, and I’d disappoint my seminary teachers, who have taught me better. But most important of all, I’d disappoint God. I just can’t do that.”
It was a great explanation, but it didn’t do Jodi much good. All Saturday night the team tried to convince her to play. They made fun of her. They called her every name they could think of. Finally, at about midnight, Jodi telephoned home in tears. It wasn’t that she was tempted to give in. It’s just that she felt so alone.
Her parents listened. Her parents understood. Both her mother and father got on the telephone and had a prayer with her. After they hung up, they called an old friend in the San Francisco area and asked her to give Jodi some support.
The next morning Jodi got up and got dressed—in a dress, which she wore as she stood on the sidelines watching her team play. The final score was one-to-one. After the game, many of her teammates apologized for being so critical of her.
The team took third place overall in the tournament, which was better than they’d ever done before. Jodi thought this would be a highlight on which to end her soccer career.

It was just a few days before Christmas in Western Australia, and all the missionaries were excited about the scheduled mission Christmas party. But no one could have been as excited as I was. It had been two weeks since I had received any mail from home, so I was sure I would receive my Christmas package at the mission party.
In our mission, all mail went to the mission office and was forwarded from there. A short mail strike had just ended, so the office staff had decided to hold everyone’s mail and bring it to the party as early Christmas presents. Anyone who knows how much letters and packages mean to a missionary will appreciate the intent behind this plan.
There were 108 missionaries in our mission, but only 107 got mail that day. It was difficult watching everyone with their Christmas packages, cards, and letters, but I tried to appear as though I was having a good time. My parents had told me in an earlier letter that a package was on its way. So I kept telling myself that it must have been delayed by the mail strike.
The day after the party was the last mail delivery day before Christmas. Once again I was disappointed when no mail arrived from home. I began to focus on Christmas day and the dinner my companion and I had been invited to enjoy at the home of some Church members. I knew this family from my first area of service and always looked forward to the quality and quantity of the food they typically prepared for the missionaries.
On Christmas Eve, we received a call from the zone leaders, who informed us that the mission president had decided no one was to leave their area on Christmas Day. They instructed us to cancel all plans to do so.
I was devastated. It just did not seem fair that all of these things should make my Christmas so miserable. I kept thinking, Here I am dedicating my life to the work of the Lord and this is the “thanks” I get.
Since we had no telephone in our apartment, my companion and I had to impose on our landlady to phone our regrets to the family. Sensing our disappointment at having to cancel our plans, she invited us to join her for Christmas dinner. We gladly accepted the invitation.
Upon returning to our apartment, I lay staring at our borrowed 12-inch aluminum Christmas tree. It sure didn’t look like any of the trees we had back home. This isn’t what Christmas is all about, I kept thinking until I fell asleep.
I awoke Christmas morning to find a Christmas present under our little tree. It was addressed to me from my companion. Overwhelmed by shame, I pretended I didn’t see the gift. I suggested that we get dressed and go do some contacting at the city park. As we rode our bikes to the center of town, we did not see a single person. There were no children to race us on our bicycles and no cars to contend with at the intersections. The normally bustling park was completely deserted. With little reason to stay in town, we headed back to our apartment. Along the way, we stopped at the only shop open for business. My companion began visiting with the shopkeeper, so I tried to discreetly select a gift.
This was not easy since the store catered mainly to convenience shopping. I did manage to make my purchase, and we returned home.
I made up an excuse to keep my companion occupied while I placed the box of chocolate-covered hazelnuts under the tree. Unfortunately, he saw me and suggested that I open my gift from him.
I will never forget the embarrassment I felt as I unwrapped the present. Inside the homemade wrapping paper I found several little items, including a mechanical pencil and some erasers.
There was little monetary value to the gifts, but the value of the lesson I learned can hardly be measured. At that moment, I recognized that I had been right the previous evening. This isn’t what Christmas is all about. It’s not about packages, presents, and decorations. Christmas is about thinking of others and giving of oneself.
I had become so wrapped up in self-pity that I had completely forgotten the true meaning of this special day.
My companion, though, just as far away from home as I was, had remembered the purpose of Christmas. He went to the effort of buying, wrapping, and putting the gift under the tree without my even knowing. He quietly gave me the joy I seemed unable to find on my own. My sad attempt to make up for my thoughtlessness was just that, a sad attempt.
I have come to look upon that Christmas experience as one of my favorites. My missionary companion gave me one of the greatest gifts anyone could receive—an understanding of the true meaning of Christmas.
I still have the pencil given to me those many years ago. Each time I use it, I am reminded of the real gift he gave me that morning.

I was afraid a lot.
I was afraid my dad would kill himself while driving drunk. I was afraid he’d kill someone else when he was driving drunk.
Late at night I would lie in my bed with all the lights out. I would wait and wait to hear his car pull in. I’d pray over and over, “Please help him get home safely. Please don’t let him hit anyone.”
In the morning I’d look at how the car was parked in the driveway. Sometimes it would be barely an inch from the house. Sometimes it would be over into the neighbor’s flowers.
I was afraid he’d embarrass me. He did. He’d wake up from sleeping off a drunk and not really be sober. He’d stumble out of the bedroom. He’d stink of beer. He’d say dumb things. I hated it.
My real friends still liked me. Still, it was embarrassing.
I was afraid my parents would get a divorce. Many times they would have fights when my dad drank. He had a black leather suitcase in his closet. He’d get it out and start packing his clothes. If it were daytime I’d run out of the house. One day I took my dad’s white pocketknife with me. I wanted to have something of his if he left.
Sometimes I was afraid my parents would not get a divorce. I was afraid they would keep living together and I would never have a home that was nice. I thought my mother and I could go live with my grandparents. It sounded so safe.
Fear
Your friend may worry that her dad will get into an accident while driving drunk.
She may be afraid her parents will divorce. Or she may be equally afraid this painful way of living will go on forever.
She fears that her dad may embarrass her with inappropriate behavior.
She’s afraid no one will like her because of her father’s actions.
Of these fears only the last one is within your control. Make very sure your friend knows that you love and respect her. Your friendship can help reduce the corrosive effects of all the other fears.
Fear
Your life is full of fears—fear of a drunken accident, fear of divorce, fear of humiliation—the list seems endless.
I wish I could give you an easy formula for banishing fear, but I can’t. For one thing, many of your fears are well grounded.
I can only give you two bits of advice. First, when you are afraid, pray. Our Father in Heaven knows your fears and can help you master them.
Second, let some trusted adult counselor help you distinguish between real dangers and imaginary ones. With so many real things to fear, there is no room for phantoms.

During World War II, I came home on leave early one September. It was time to put peaches in bottles to preserve them for winter. My beloved mother-in-law called an old friend, George B. Andrus, of Holladay in this valley. The conversation on the telephone was brief: “George, do you have any peaches for sale?” mother asked.

Patriarch Andrus answered, “I have a few, but they are not very good.”

I volunteered to drive Mother Wright to pick up the peaches. When we arrived she said, “George, where are your peaches?”

Brother Andrus opened his garage door, and I saw bushel baskets filled with large golden fruit with red kisses from sun ripening. Each basket was filled so full that when I lifted them into the trunk of the car some of the luscious peaches on top of the piled basket rolled off and bruised. Brother Andrus immediately replaced them with other perfect fruit.

On the way home I said to Mother Wright, “What did he mean when he said his fruit was not very good?”

She answered, “If you knew George Andrus, you would know that any fruit he would put on the market would be good and that he would give more than full value.”

I wondered what the fruit would have been like if George had said it was good. Brother Andrus’s self-imposed expectations led him to go beyond what we expected of him in his dealings with us.

Several years ago, Philip Xaxagbe (the Xs are pronounced like Hs) was working in Nigeria, so deeply involved in his job that his family life was withering. He was troubled by drinking. He and his wife had drifted apart, and each was secretly contemplating divorce when she met the missionaries. Philip agreed to listen to them. “It seemed that everything they were teaching me I had heard somewhere before, but I didn’t know where.” He was baptized after a dream convinced him that if he did not accept the gospel, he would eventually be separated permanently from his wife and daughter.
Since returning to Ghana in 1992, he has shared his faith with loved ones and friends and has seen three members of his extended family come into the Church. He currently serves as president of the Christiansborg Branch of the Accra stake. President Xaxagbe credits the gospel with saving his marriage and his spiritual life. “All I am now, I am because of the Church.”

Seminary students in the Medicine Hat Alberta First, Second, and Third wards decided to do something special to better understand the Old Testament.
One morning each week, seminary students and leaders devoted time to building a replica of the tabernacle the Israelites built while they were in the wilderness. The students studied the scriptures carefully to make sure their building was accurate, although they built their tabernacle two-thirds the size of the one described in the scriptures. They also built the structures for the inside of the tabernacle described in the Old Testament.
This project served as a great way to learn a little more about the experiences of the Israelites. The students became very involved in reading the Old Testament as they were better able to see what was a so carefully described in the scriptures.

As part of its mission to care for families, LDS Social Services had arranged with Church members in the United States to care for about 550 Vietnamese refugees, most of whom were not members of the Church. Lien and her family were sponsored by Philip Flammer, a professor at Brigham Young University, and his wife, Mildred. They helped the family relocate from California to Provo, Utah.
At first, Lien struggled to find work. Philip took her to a thrift store to apply for a janitorial position. But during the interview, the manager tore her high school diploma in half and told her, “This does not apply here.”
She soon found temporary work picking cherries at a nearby orchard. She then found work as a seamstress and added to her income by baking wedding cakes. With help from Philip, she also earned money by typing reports for BYU students.
Amid her family’s hardships, Lien remained faithful to the Lord. She taught her children about the power of prayer, knowing it could carry them through their ordeals.

One more story is from the life of Ida Jensen Romney, wife of President Marion G. Romney, who served in the First Presidency. Her grandparents joined the Church in Denmark.

[My grandfather] left a wet farmland, green with fertility, to come to Zion. The missionary told him how wonderful it was to live in Zion and that he would be given 40 acres of farmland when he came. He was sent down to Levan, Utah, to colonize a land that was not nearly as verdant as the land he had left behind. He wanted to get on the first wagon that would take him back to the old country. Grandmother insisted that they stay.

Alan Shaw shifted his pickup into second gear as he turned off the highway and began the long climb up the mountain road. The narrow dirt road threaded its way between the boulders, the white crashing water of the creek, and the trees of the forest.
He glanced over at his son Todd who had been sleeping for the past two hours but now, because of the jarring as they went over the large chuck holes, was beginning to stir.
“He looks so young when he sleeps,” Alan thought. “Like when he was four or five and I’d come home late at night from the computer center and peek in to see him; he could never keep a blanket on him. Now he’s 12. I’m growing old,” he smiled to himself, imagining his wife would say to him, “Yes, you are, but I’m not.”
It had seemed like a great idea when he first thought of bringing Todd back to Montana to spend a few days at the lake where Alan had spent time with his father as a boy. It meant that the family vacation would be cut short, but there was something to be sorted out.
Just a week before Todd had been ordained a deacon. It had caught Alan off guard.
“He’s growing too fast. What can I tell him about becoming a man?” Alan thought. “What patterns for manhood exist? Can I teach him which pattern to follow?”
Todd was awake now. Alan pulled over and stopped. They got out and looked around. Alan opened a sack and got a couple of tuna sandwiches for them. They climbed up on a boulder and while they ate watched the water dancing down the mountain.
“Dad, do you think there are any fish in here?” Todd asked.
“Sure. Plenty. It’d be hard to get ’em this time of year though. You’d have better luck later on in the summer when the water’s down. Your grandfather and I used to come here in August to fly fish.”
They got back in the pickup and started up the road.
A few minutes later as they rounded a curve, they saw a deer in a small meadow. It bounded off into the safety of the trees.
“Bang! I gotcha!” Todd shouted, his hands holding an imaginary rifle sighted on the fleeing deer. “Dad, did you ever hunt in these mountains?”
“Almost every year when I was a boy.”
“Dad, I can see the lake,” Todd said, causing Alan to return to the present. Below them was the small mountain lake. They drove down the switchbacks to the dam, crossed over, and made their way to a campsite.
After they’d set up the tent and stashed their sleeping bags in it, they took a few minutes and picked up the empty beer cans someone had strewn around the campsite.
Alan and Todd assembled their fishing rods and divided up some of the worms to get ready for the afternoon fishing.
“What are you going to use, Dad?”
“I think I’ll try a spinner first.”
Alan worked the spinner, varying the depth and the speed of recovery, all with no strikes. Todd cast, retrieved, moved a few feet, and tried again.
He’s a persistent fisherman, Alan thought. I hope he’s like that when he’s a fisher of men.
“There’s so much to learn, Todd,” Alan thought to himself. “I hope I can teach you.”
Todd by now had worked his way around to the other side of the lake. He had switched to a fly on the end of a bubble.
Alan looked at his watch. It was 5:00. “Sherry will be getting home from Primary with the kids about now,” Alan thought, wishing a little he had brought the whole family. He was missing Sherry already.
“Todd, I hope you find a wife as wonderful as your mother,” Alan thought.
Alan’s thoughts were diverted by shouting. Todd, across the lake, was holding up a large fish and yelling to Alan. Excitedly, Todd picked up his gear and began running around the lake toward Alan.
When he arrived, he proudly showed the trout, a two-pound rainbow. “I got it on a fly, Dad. Maybe you should change too.”
They cleaned the fish and placed it in a cooler until they could fix it for dinner. Todd munched on a candy bar and talked about his success.
“Todd, before dark could you get us some firewood for tonight? Get plenty because there are some things I want to talk to you about. So we’ll need plenty of wood for a campfire.”
“Okay,” Todd answered, placing the last piece of candy bar in his mouth as he started up toward the trees.
“Oh, Todd,” Alan asked, “what would you think about me giving you a father’s blessing tomorrow morning?”
Todd turned around, “What for, Dad?”
“You get the firewood and tonight I’ll try to tell you what for.”

My name is Christopher. My feet jump, jump, jump, and run, run, run, and hop, hop hop, so much that Mom calls me Chris-hopper.
On Sunday, Mom said, “Chris-hopper, it’s time to be Christopher. Tell your feet to slow down.
I told them, but they forgot.
On Monday, Mom and I went to the zoo. We saw giraffes, lions, elephants, and monkeys. Best of all, I liked to watch the kangaroos hop. I call them roo-hoppers. Then we saw a giant turtle moving oh … so … slow. I call it a no-hopper. It gave me an idea.
On the next Sunday, I put on my best clothes and my best shoes. Then I taped a little picture of a turtle on the toe of each shoe. “No-hoppers!” I exclaimed and ran to show Mom. She gave me the thumbs-up.
At church, I looked at the turtles on my shoes and said to my feet, “No-hoppers at church.” Now my feet remember to walk in the meetinghouse.
But when I go outside, I’m Chris-hopper again.

When one couple used a wide-angle lens, they started to see their trial of cancer as a marital intimacy gift. The wife explained, "When my husband was diagnosed with colon cancer, we were both devastated and in anguish. However, cancer gave us permission to talk about things that we had never spoken of before. Travel to and from his treatments gave us uninterrupted time together-something we had not taken for years. Over time, cancer, this life-threatening illness, actually brought life to our relationship! Truthfully, I was a bit sad when my husband's treatments were over, because we slowly shifted back into living our parallel lives, where although we both felt love for each other, we didn't take time to express it in the very special ways we had during those intensive cancer days"

We challenge parents, home teachers, elders quorum presidents, and bishops that from today you show your concern for these young people. Flood them with affection, letters, tapes, cards, packages, birthday and holiday greetings of all types. Give your Young Adults, teenagers, and others in your ward a stimulating project. Sixteen-year-old Debbie Trujillo wrote a serviceman, “Hi. My name is Debbie Trujillo, and I’ve just been baptized in the Church. I don’t know much about you, but our class is doing this project, and I think it’s neat.” The serviceman said, “I hope my reply can be as sweet and uplifting as her letter.”

We will find happiness as we show our love to God and to our neighbors through our actions. Over the last six years, we have lived in three different countries and five different cities. Although it may sound exciting, it was very difficult to learn and adjust to new cultures and make new friends. Many times, we felt very lonely, but we quickly learned that the best way to connect with people and to find happiness was through service. During the time that we lived in Florida (United States) our kids would get up early on Saturdays and help in the local community food pantry for a few hours. That sharing of love through service helped them feel happiness despite the difficulties they were facing at the time. My wife, too, on special holidays would bake goodies and then as a family, we would go around the block and share them with our neighbors. Through these very small acts we were able to make new friends, share the gospel and find happiness.

Lily was also able to serve when she completed her Divine Nature value project. For this project, she decided to babysit for free so that a couple could attend the temple the day before their child with Down syndrome underwent a major medical procedure.
Lily’s mom took Lily to the family’s house and stayed with Lily while the parents were gone. “I was a little scared at first,” says Lily, “but then I started playing with the kids, and they were really nice.”
After Lily spent the evening playing with the children, she got them in their pajamas, helped them brush their teeth and hair, and read them a bedtime story. Lily’s mom sat back and read a book, letting Lily do her job. Through this experience, Lily learned about service and about caring for and interacting with others. “I felt happy after I babysat. I learned I could do something I hadn’t tried before.”

The state of New Mexico has a dot-to-dot line called Highway 66. This line comes across the state boundary near the northeastern corner and connects dots Gallup, Bluewater, Grants, and Albuquerque. Although Bluewater is the smallest of these dots, to me it is the most important. Here I was born and raised. It was my world. Here I learned many lessons, not the least of which was one taught by the episode of the “gentile cow.”
In Bluewater, nature is not a soft, sweet, green Mother who gives of her bounty. Here she is a rugged individual who demands the utmost of man’s endeavor for the yield she lets him have. She does have a strong beauty here, however. Mt. Taylor stands to the east and the range of Rocky Mountains to the west. North, toward Gallup, are red sandstone bluffs and black jagged malpais (volcanic ridges). Much of the level valley floor is covered with red soil. When it is dry, which is nearly always, this sandy loam is sifted around fence posts in miniature mountains by the ever-present wind. It used to be a delightful experience to walk barefooted through the sand, but the Russian thistles that thrive here made walking pleasant only for the wary. It was a status symbol to have feet tough enough to walk barefoot over thistles.
An arroya (deep gully) begins from the northwest hills and zig-zags diagonally across the valley. This arroya is usually dry, but in rainy seasons it holds a red, raging torrent. Near the head of the arroya where there is a runoff from the hills, some cottonwood trees have managed to send their roots down deep enough to be sustained by underground water. They are so firmly situated that they are not affected by wind or drought. As a child I had hoped my testimony of the gospel would become as deep-rooted and as unbendable as those cottonwood trees.
Bluewater was really a community divided between the Mormons and the gentiles. Northward lived the rich (we thought) gentiles. They owned the General Merchandise Store and the garage with a gas pump. There also was a small Union Pacific Depot and the United States Post Office. Southward, the Mormons had a little concrete church house and a red brick, four-room schoolhouse. There was not much socializing between the groups. The Mormons went up to the store to get produce and to fill their gas tanks at the garage and get their mail at the Post Office. Few trains ever stopped at the depot, so few people went there. The gentile children came down to school, and the gentile adults came occasionally to Church socials or dances.
During the depression of the 1930s, we lived mostly on potatoes and pinto beans. The ultimatum was, “If you don’t raise it, you don’t eat it.” Momma could make potatoes and beans taste like gourmet food, but she couldn’t make them into milk for the children. In this little town there were no telephones, sidewalks, electric lights, or paved streets—and no dairies. There wasn’t even any money to buy canned milk. A milking cow was a necessity for a family. Our cows were all dry. My parents worried about their eight children. As the oldest child, I worried too.
One day as I helped Momma with the dishes, I asked, “Are we going to starve?” She countered, “We haven’t starved yet, have we?” I knew we hadn’t starved, but we had hungered for variety, and now we needed milk. She continued as much for herself as for me: “So long as we pay our tithing, I can’t think the Lord will let us starve. He has always looked after us.” I knew this was true, and I knew that my parents always paid an honest and cheerful tithe on every cent they received. Every tenth calf went for tithing. I saw Momma write on the calendar each night the number of eggs she had gathered that day, and each month a tenth went to the Lord. I was reassured. Besides, it was spring and new crops were being planted.
One day not long after this, I hurried home from the school bus. As I came up the path to the house, I saw my two little brothers and my sister looking at something by the gate. It was a smoldering cigar butt. I could not think how a fat cigar butt could have gotten inside our gate. The only smoking Mormon I knew smoked thin cigarettes.
“Where did it come from?” I asked.
The answer could only make more questions. “Mr. Thigpen threw it there.” Mr. Thigpen was the arch-gentile. He owned the General Merchandise Store.
“Why was he here?”
Their next answer did nothing to solve the mystery: “He’s going to give Daddy a cow.”
My sister reached out her foot and kicked the cigar butt. We stood aghast. But lightning didn’t strike, and the earth didn’t swallow her up, so my brother took the shovel and covered the remains with sand.
Daddy came out of the house and put a bridle on the horse that was in the corral. Momma came out and said, “Are you going now?”
“Yes. Mr. Thigpen said to come get a cow. He’ll change his mind when he sobers up, but we’ll milk her tonight anyway.”
He threw the saddle on the horse’s back and fastened the cinch. “I’ll be back in a little while.” He got on the horse and trotted off to the north. I was too mystified to ask if I could go too.
While Momma got supper, I worked on my lessons. I had to get them done before dark because we were out of coal oil for the lamp. Momma put wood in the stove. She stirred the food in the kettles, then pushed the kettles to the back of the stove where they would keep warm but not burn. She took the bread from the oven and turned it out of the pans onto the sideboard by the stove. Then she set the table.
By this time the children who had been watching at the gate came running through the house. “Daddy’s home! The cow’s here!” They ran out of the kitchen door. I ran out too. Momma followed with a milk pail. My brother quickly opened the corral gate. We all watched as the beautiful little Jersey cow with the big milk bag stepped daintily inside. She stood waiting to be milked. No prima donna ever had a more appreciative audience.
Daddy milked the cow. We stood there listening to the sharp zing of the stream of milk as it hit the pail, beating itself into a standing foam that soon muffled the zing to a mellow swish. We all filed into the house behind Daddy who carried the milk pail. He opened the stove door to light the darkened room. He strained the milk and set the pitcher on the table. Momma broke a warm loaf of bread and set the beans, potatoes, and bread on the table. We all sat down, and Daddy said the blessing on the food and thanked the Lord for his kindness to us that day.
Mr. Thigpen did come back a few days later. He was a bit chagrined by his generous offer. However, he saved face by offering Daddy a job to pay for the cow and also to draw “store pay.”
“Well,” said Momma, “we don’t know in what way the Lord will help us. I never thought a drunk gentile could answer a prayer.” The roots of my testimony anchored about ten feet deep.
It has been many years since we sat around that table eating our supper by firelight, but the scene is as bright to me as an unshaded light bulb. I have traveled many fine lines on the map and eaten many remarkable meals. I have sampled milk that has been pasteurized, homogenized, pulverized, refined, and vitalized, but no milk has ever surpassed, or even equaled, the soul-satisfying milk that the Lord sent to us by that gentle “gentile cow.”

For years, Aarika’s grandparents Raymond and Marilyn Perez supported Aarika and her brother, Aaron, as they went to church. But becoming members themselves wasn’t in the Perez’s plans. “I’m not going to become a Mormon,” Marilyn would tell her granddaughter. And the granddaughter would just smile because she had other ideas.
When Aaron left as a missionary to the Chile Santiago South Mission, Aarika began inviting her grandparents to church, and the Perezes accepted the invitations. Meanwhile Aaron wrote them letters from the mission field.
“And when Aaron got home from his mission, things got more and more serious about the Church,” Aarika recalls. Not long after that, what they said wouldn’t happen did. Raymond and Marilyn were baptized in December 1999.

On November 7, 1843, Joseph recorded that: “Mr. [Joseph M.] Cole moved the tables back into the hall, when [Willard] Richards and [William W.] Phelps called to report that the noise in the school disturbed them in the progress of writing the History. I gave orders that Cole must look out for another place, as the history must continue, and not be disturbed, as there were but few subjects that I have felt a greater anxiety about than my history, which has been a very difficult task, on account of the death of my best clerks, and the apostasy of others” (History of the Church, 6:66).

Recently I had the privilege of meeting with some missionaries in Stuttgart, Germany. We talked of the urgency of our work and examined ways to improve the effectiveness of their proselyting efforts. We discussed the challenge by President Kimball for missionaries to become eight times more effective in obtaining teaching opportunities. As one group of elders returned to their apartment following the meeting, one of them said, “If the prophet of the Lord says we can do it, we can. We’ll find a way.” And they did! They studied, prayed, and worked. By the close of their next week’s proselyting period the five companionships had given more than 200 discussions. Each pair of missionaries met their goal, to be eight times more effective.

I liked the story in the April 1977 Friend called “A Better Way,” and I would like to tell about the missionary experience our family had.
When I was eight years old, we moved to Fountain Valley, California. Since we had some friends who were Mormons, Mom and Dad wanted to learn about the gospel. So when the missionaries knocked on our door, Mom asked them to come back that night when Dad was home. They did. The feeling was so good that evening that we asked the missionaries to return.
Later on Mom, Dad, and I were baptized, and a few weeks later my little sisters were blessed. Then my older sister was baptized. A year later my dad died of cancer. About a year after his death our family was sealed together in the temple.
I am really thankful that we have the gospel in our home.