Gospel Story Finder

When I started college, I joined the debate society. The other members discovered I was a Latter-day Saint when I corrected them on what was said about “the Mormons” after a debate. I had never talked about my religion before, so I got a lot of questions that day. I felt scared and almost avoided answering. I knew what I believed, but I did not know how to share it. I prayed but didn’t seem to get an answer.
A few days later, while I was on Facebook, I saw an article from LDS.org that my leader from church had posted. It made me realize I could also post things from the Church. I looked up the topics my debate team had asked about, posted links on my wall, and tagged all those who were involved. I felt they would be better satisfied with the answers.
I had never posted about my beliefs online before, so this has brought a lot more curious people asking about my religion. As they ask questions, I try to give the basic answers as well as links to Church materials. This way people do not have to rely only on my answers but can also rely on what the General Authorities say about their questions. When the conversations become more sensitive, I answer the person privately through messaging.
I am really glad the Church provides online materials. I still feel butterflies in my stomach whenever someone surprises me with a question about the Church. But now I no longer wait for their questions to come; I proactively post Church materials online. I know these materials can help both my member and nonmember friends alike.

Ryan Nelson was born with spina bifida, a birth defect that causes different degrees of paralysis. Ryan gets around mostly in a wheelchair, but he will often sit on his legs and scoot around the house. In fact, he uses this method when he plays football in the front yard with neighborhood kids. Ryan loves sports. He enjoyed watching his older brother and wanted to be on sports teams too. He started wheelchair basketball when he was about 5 and tennis when he was 12.
What has tennis done for you? It has opened up a lot of opportunities. I have found success. I went to England and played on the world team cup for tennis. Here at home I play for the Brighton High School tennis team. I think I am the first wheelchair athlete to make a regular high school sports team in Utah. Wheelchair players use spin rather than power. I can play against able-bodied players, but it’s hard to beat them. I love playing doubles.
How about basketball? I play point guard for both of the teams I am on. I’m pretty fast. Most of the other players are in wheelchairs because of injuries, so they sit regular height. I’m shorter, so I have to use my speed.

As I was growing up, there were no Church chapels in the entire state of New Jersey, and so for a time our little branch met in a hotel in a nearby town. My earliest memory of having a testimony of the gospel was when I was five or six years old and we were having a meeting in the ballroom of the hotel. An important visitor was there. I don’t remember now who he was, but he was very thin and tall, and I believe he had white hair.
I had grown restless near the end of the meeting as he was speaking, and my mother had been trying to keep me quiet, but she finally let me sit backward in my chair so that my legs were dangling from it. Although I wasn’t facing the speaker, I was listening to him. Suddenly I felt a burning in my heart, just like the burning described in Doctrine and Covenants 9:8: “And if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right.” [D&C 9:8] I remember turning around and seeing this tall man with the light streaming in from the large windows behind him, and I knew that he was a servant of God and that what he was saying was true. The feeling I had then was as clear and sure as anything could be.

Shakespeare from Miss Whitney had been a calculated accident that went awry. I had my credits for graduation. All I needed was an elective to fill space. There were a lot of classes that would have been acceptable, and I still could have maintained my GPA. With the schedule I had my senior year, I wanted something easy for the last hour of the day. Just a filler.
At Washington High I ranked fifth in a graduating class of 509. For the last three years I had been on the honor roll with straight A’s, and there were scholarships to consider. All were reasons for keeping my grades up and taking an easy class to fill in that one elective gap.
“I know what we ought to do,” my best friend Shan Stuart suggested the second day of school as we ate in the cafeteria. “Let’s take Shakespeare from Miss Whitney.”
I laughed. “Why would I want to take Shakespeare from Whitney? Or anybody else?”
Shan thought for a moment. “Well,” he finally said, shrugging, “I figure we need a little culture.”
Cultural refinement had never been high on Shan’s list of priorities, so immediately I was dubious. “I’ve got all the culture I can handle with chemistry and trig,” I responded dryly.
“But Shakespeare will be a snap. Read a few plays,” he said. “Nothing to it.”
“What does Shakespeare have that we can’t get in wood shop?” I asked.
Shan smiled slyly. “Well …” He cleared his throat. “Penny Simms.”
“Penny …” I stopped in mid-sentence. My eyes narrowed in recollection. “She’s not the new girl, the one …”
“With the reddish blond hair,” Shan cut in dreamily, “and the blue eyes, and the smile …”
“I know who she is,” I stopped him. “If you’re dying to know her, meet her at lunch. Why sign up for a semester of Shakespeare?”
“You don’t get it, Holdaway,” Shan answered. “It’s going to be a small class. Obviously we’ll need to spend some time studying old Bill and his plays.” He grinned deviously. “A small study group of three or four after school could prove helpful. In more ways than one.”
“Just one problem. There are two of us and one of her.”
Shan shrugged and smiled, “That’s the challenge.”
“I’ll stick to wood shop.”
I don’t know how he did it, but Shan actually conned me into taking Miss Whitney’s Shakespeare class. And all because of Penny Simms.
“So what brings you to Shakespeare?” Miss Whitney asked coolly, looking down at our add cards. Shan and I stood in front of her desk, fidgeting. This was Shan’s idea, so I was determined to let him do the talking.
“Do you have a genuine interest in Shakespeare?” she asked, taking off her glasses. She had commanding blue eyes that latched onto us.
I had seen Miss Whitney around school and had always thought her to be rather plain. She was in her mid-30s, probably an inch or so taller than I am, and trim. Up close her plainness was no longer prominent. In fact, as she looked up at us, I detected a shade of beauty behind the scholarly sternness.
All during my high school career I had steered clear of her English classes because it was rumored that she didn’t give anything higher than a B, unless, of course, the student could walk on water, academically speaking. I figured that in her Shakespeare class, though, it being an elective and all, she would loosen up and I would be able to pull my A without a sweat.
“Michael and I were just talking yesterday,” Shan began. I could tell he was about to launch into one of his famous snow jobs. “We were saying how little we know about Shakespeare. We’ll be getting ready to go to college in a year, and we really aren’t familiar with one of history’s greatest writers.” He folded his arms and pursed his lips, deep in thought. “I guess what it boils down to is that we want a more balanced education.”
“How admirable,” she commented, leaning back in her chair and biting down on her glasses. “Rarely do we see that kind of intellectual drive in our students these days. It will be a privilege to have you in class,” she replaced her glasses and signed Shan’s add card. I waited for her to do the same to mine, but she handed Shan his card, and then turned to me. “And, Mr. Holdaway, what is your interest here?”
I was taken by surprise. “Well,” I laughed half-heartedly, “Shan explained it pretty good.”
“Yes, he expressed himself quite well.” She emphasized the well and I made a mental note to be more careful with my grammar when speaking to her. “I would like to know how you feel.”
I groped for words as her penetrating gaze bore into me. “I thought it would be a … well, you know,” I stammered. “A good challenging course for an elective. Some real meat and potatoes so to speak.” I forced myself to grin. She wasn’t amused. “I want to expand my knowledge and understanding,” I pushed on lamely, wondering why she didn’t just take Shan’s word for everything.
“So your main reason is learning?”
“Of course.”
“And if things become difficult?”
I was insulted by the insinuation. “I’ve handled tough classes before,” I said. “Schoolwork comes easy enough for me.”
“You’ve never taken a class from me,” she pointed out.
“I can handle the load,” I bragged, suddenly irritated.
“Then if things get tough, you won’t just back out of Shakespeare?”
“No,” I declared, “I won’t back out. I can handle any class at Washington High. Even yours.”
She smiled, actually smiled as she picked up my card, signed it, and handed it back to me. “I demand work.”
“I’ve done all right so far,” I said, still simmering. “I’m not exactly at the bottom of the class.”
“She’s as bad as everybody said,” I muttered to Shan as we walked down the hall afterward.
“Penny Simms will sweeten things up for us.”
The following day, seventh hour, Shan and I swaggered into class and dropped into the back corner seats. The class was small, only 16 of us, and within minutes we discovered that Penny Simms was noticeably absent.
Miss Whitney called the roll. Penny’s name wasn’t on it. As Miss Whitney took the absentee slip to the door, Shan raised his hand and asked, “What happened to Penny Simms?”
“Penny withdrew from class this morning,” Miss Whitney said simply.
“I can’t believe it,” Shan grumbled as we left class. “We juggle our schedules to accommodate her and she backs out on us.”
I was amused and laughed. “Maybe you should have talked to Penny to see if our change met with her approval.”
“Well, if anybody thinks I’m going to endure Miss Whitney for my cultural enjoyment, they’re crazy. I’m getting out.”
“But we just got in.”
“I’ll find a way. We have until the end of the week to change classes.”
By noon the next day Shan was out of the class.
“Did she hassle you?” I asked him.
“Didn’t say a word. Just signed the withdrawal slip and wished me luck.”
I attended Miss Whitney’s class that afternoon, but I worked on my trig all hour because I had a withdrawal slip ready for her to sign. I had almost resigned myself to the challenge of Miss Whitney, to prove to her that I wasn’t afraid of her, but I finally concluded it would be easier and safer to get out now. I had a big enough load as it was.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked as I handed her the withdrawal slip.
“My schedule is heavier than I thought,” I said without looking at her.
“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?”
I wet my lips, surprised by the question. “Yes.”
“I knew another young man of your faith. He wasn’t nearly as talented as you. But he was honest. Completely honest. I don’t mean to imply that Mormons have a monopoly on honesty, but this particular young man’s most striking characteristic was his honesty. That always impressed me.” She looked up at me. “You remind me of that young man.
“The other day when you and Shan came in here, you couldn’t lie to me. You were willing to remain silent and let Shan lie for you, but you wouldn’t lie.” I could feel my cheeks glow warmly, and I shuffled my feet. “Do you realize,” she continued, “that the other day when I allowed you into my class, you promised to stay?”
“I said I wanted to get into the class, but I …”
“No,” she cut in, “you promised to stay, regardless of the work.”
“Miss Whitney,” I began, feeling embarrassed and frustrated but wanting to be completely up front with her since she had dragged my religion and honesty into our discussion, “I feel dumb telling you this, but the reason Shan and I wanted to get into this class was …”
“Because of Penny Simms,” she cut in.
I shrugged, and nodded. Her face didn’t change expressions.
“The fact remains, Mr. Holdaway, you promised to stay.”
“What difference does it make to you?” I asked, irritated by her insistence.
“I don’t like students running away from my class—especially good students.” She breathed deeply and shuffled some papers on the desk. “I can promise you two things if you stay. One, you’ll learn something. And two, I’ll make the learning interesting. That’s not a bad deal.”
I cleared my throat. “I don’t think you understand. I have a heavy schedule. I have a straight-A average, and I want to keep my class ranking. I have to think of a scholarship.”
“And you want all of those the easiest way possible. Do you ever wonder about learning?”
“I study all the time.”
“For grades? For class rankings? For scholarships? Do you ever study for learning’s sake?” I stared at her without answering. I wasn’t sure how to answer. “When you came to me, you wanted an easy class. Well, I don’t offer one.”
I tossed the withdrawal slip in the trash can on the way out, angry and unwilling to beg her to let me out of her class. I’d handle it, I told myself.
The first two weeks of class were easy enough. Even interesting! The first play we read was Richard the Third, and I was immediately fascinated by this villain king who had so much potential and yet chose to follow a path of willful destruction.
I had been exposed to Shakespeare in other English classes, but the study of his writings had always been dry and tedious there. Miss Whitney had an intriguing way of resurrecting characters from the tombs of the written page. The playwright and the characters were like old friends of hers. I actually found my interest sparked in her class.
But even though I read my assignments and followed the discussions with quiet fascination, I contributed very little to the class. I was sure Miss Whitney wondered if I was grasping the material, but I refused to satisfy her curiosity by opening my mouth. She’d find out how much I understood when I took her first test. And I was determined to blow the top off of it.
However, at the conclusion of Richard the Third, Miss Whitney made an announcement. “I have an aversion to tests,” she said. “Tests are inadequate for measuring a person’s understanding. I prefer a good composition. At the conclusion of each play I will ask you to write a paper. If you have read and understood the play, you should do well.”
Writing had always come easy for me. I had never had a problem in my other English classes scribbling out an A paper. I was convinced that I could do the same here. The night before the paper was due, I stayed up an hour later than usual so I could finish it.
Three days later, I got my paper back, fully expecting an A. Across the top and next to the bold red C- was scrawled, “This is not writing; this is rambling. I do not want to have to search for your meaning among the heaps of hollow verbiage. I will not allow you to peddle garbage. Even if this class is an elective!”
“What’s wrong with my paper?” I demanded as the others filed out of the room.
“You can write better than that, Mr. Holdaway.”
“Some of those others had B’s on their papers. Are theirs better than mine?”
“For you that is a C paper.”
“This would get me an A in any other class,” I came back.
“Mr. Holdaway, I don’t just give a grade. You must earn it here.”
“You’re just trying to make it tough on me because I wanted out of your class, aren’t you?” I burst out. “I need an A in this class.”
“You don’t care about learning?”
“I care about my grades.”
Miss Whitney thought for a moment. “Then you will have to earn them.”
For the next five weeks I fumed and fretted about Shakespeare. I was caught. I couldn’t drop the class without losing all credit. If I stayed in the class, I would be lucky to pull a C, unless I worked hard, harder than I’d planned for this elective. During those five weeks I wrote two more papers.
The best I could do was a C+ on my last one.
“What is this?” I demanded, exasperated as I threw my paper on her desk after class.
She looked at it and answered, “It looks like a C+.”
“Why?” I persisted.
“Your ideas are clearer now, but all you’re doing is coughing up someone else’s ideas. If you want your A, tell me what you have learned, not what you’ve been told.” The words weren’t spoken in rebuke. I detected a genuine concern on her part.
At first I resented being forced to stay in the class, but as Miss Whitney walked me through the world of Shakespeare, I began to look forward to that last hour of the day. My other classes were important to me because they were my solids; I needed them and I studied them with that objective in mind. I didn’t really need Shakespeare—except for the grade—but it was an intriguing break for me. I even accepted the compositions. It became a challenge for me to write something that Miss Whitney would accept as quality work. The turning point came while we were studying Hamlet.
All my life I had heard the famous line from Hamlet, “To thine own self be true.” For one of the first times in a class discussion my hand shot up and I burst out, “But those words are a mockery coming from Polonius. He’s not true to himself. It’s pure hypocrisy.”
“Can’t a hypocrite speak the truth?” Miss Whitney questioned.
“Sure, but all these years I thought that some great, wise person spoke those words. It’s a let-down to know that they come from … from a villain.”
“But the words are true, though the villain was not,” Miss Whitney pointed out. “Do we sometimes speak words of truth while leading lives of hypocrisy?”
The question was spoken gently, but the barb penetrated. Was I like Polonius? For my composition I chose to analyze Polonius. He fascinated me because I wondered if I would catch a glimpse of myself in his character. I went back and reread the play, not for a grade but for personal understanding. After reading it three times and reviewing parts of it many more times I was ready to write.
One full weekend I wrote. Page after page of rough draft was revised, improved, and discarded. But when Monday afternoon arrived, the paper was finished.
The following Friday the papers were turned back, face down on our desks. Curiously, even nervously, I turned mine over. A!
“I’d like to know something,” I asked at the end of class. “Did I earn this?”
Miss Whitney pursed her lips. “I don’t give anything.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s your work.”
Swelling with pride, I turned to leave, holding the A paper in my hand.
“Mr. Holdaway,” she called. “I’ve read better student papers in my life.” Some of the pride I had felt wilted. I turned to face her. A faint smile touched her lips, and she added softly, “But not many, Mr. Holdaway. And not for a very long time. I knew you could write a paper like that.”
From then on I was determined that everything I did in that class would be my very best. I didn’t want Miss Whitney to see anything less than that.
Then one day I wrote a paper for my history class. As I read through my final draft the night before the paper was due, I remembered thinking that it would easily get me an A. But I knew that if I were to submit it in Miss Whitney’s class her red pen would bleed it pitifully. I’d be lucky to get a C+. The words from Hamlet rang in my mind: “To thine own self be true.”
It was almost ten. The paper was due second hour the next morning, but I was determined not to turn in an inferior effort. I knew I had the A, but the A wasn’t good enough. I had to turn in my best.
For the next few hours I struggled with a rewrite, not for points or grades but for pure satisfaction. And when I turned it in the following morning, still sleepy and worn out, I was satisfied.
As I went around to my classes at the end of the semester and picked up my grades, I was not disappointed. I had straight A’s in my first six hours.
Miss Whitney waited until the end of class before handing out grades. The bell rang before I received mine. I waited at my desk. When all the others had received their grade cards, she turned to me and asked me to come to her desk. We were alone. She had two grade cards in front of her.
“I have struggled with your grade,” she confessed, looking up at me. “You’ve improved tremendously. You’re not the same young man who walked in here at the beginning of the year. I usually grade the work at the end of the semester more heavily than that at the beginning. You struggled in the beginning weeks, but you’ve come a long way since then.”
She took a deep breath. “When I figured out your grade, it ended up being a B. A solid B, a high B, but a B nevertheless.” She wet her lips. “I have struggled with that. Had you taken an easy class you would have received your A. You would maintain your class ranking and not jeopardize your scholarship.”
She pressed her lips together. “I’m stingy with A’s. When I give them, I want them to mean a great deal. I coerced you into taking this class. I feel responsible. You’ve worked hard. I’d feel good giving you this.” She picked up the card to her left and handed it to me. It was an A. I studied it for a moment.
“And the other one?” I asked. She didn’t answer. I reached down and turned the other card over. Our eyes locked. I had wanted that A. A few weeks earlier that grade would have been the all-important thing, but the familiar phrase from Hamlet was anchored in my mind. I replaced the A card and picked up the B. “I only take what I earn,” I said. “It’s something I learned from you.”
Miss Whitney swallowed and blinked twice. I detected a faint mist in her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Holdaway. I’ll keep the A for myself.”
I shrugged. “Thank you.” I smiled. “And you earned the A.” I started for the door; then stopped. “By the way,” I said, “I’ll be back next semester.”
“I was hoping you would,” she said softly, and I left the class with Miss Whitney’s B.

Although President Benson loved horses and would always admire a good team more than a good car, his timing was perfect for greeting the age of the auto in Whitney. “When I was 16, on the farm, Father purchased his first car, a 1915 Dodge. It was of solid, substantial construction, but rode like a hay wagon. There were very few cars in the community. Uncle John Dunkley was the first one to get a car, which was a Ford. The children would all gather around it after Sunday School, to see him crank it and start it off down the road. There were no paved roads in our county anywhere.

“Occasionally Father would let us drive to a distant town for a basketball game, dance, or other entertainment. One Saturday we drove to Logan. The only stretch of pavement between Whitney or Preston and Logan was from Smithfield to Logan. There is a slight slope to the south toward Logan. I pushed the Dodge to the limit this particular Saturday and got the speed up to 51 miles per hour. When I reported this to Father and to the people back in the Whitney Ward, they were shocked to think I had dared to drive at that terrific speed and seemed to question whether the car would actually go that fast or not. I finally had to get evidence from some of the other boys who were with me to confirm my claim of the 51 miles per hour, which was the highest record of speed known in the community at that time.”

I finally finished reading First Nephi when I was fourteen years old. Perhaps I did it partly so that I could say in Sunday School class “yes, I’ve read the Book of Mormon.” But beyond that, I felt within me that this was an important book that would have a significant impact on my life. My parents and others spoke of how they loved the book. I wanted to feel the same way and sensed that I’d feel that way sooner through my own reading than through listening to others.
For several “readings” I got a new copy each time, and was probably as interested in marking passages in red as I was in just reading. I loved opening it when someone was looking—in a couple of copies the passages that weren’t red stood out. Gradually, I found my pride in marking being replaced by a love for what was in this sacred book. I felt I knew some of the people, and I enjoyed going back again and again to be with them and to learn from them.

When Raimundo Carvalho was 18, his father died. His father had earned a living washing clothes for other families. Now that meager income was gone.
“I was the oldest child, the only son, with four younger sisters. So, I needed to help my mother provide for the family,” he remembers. “We faced a lot of challenges and we were really poor.”
Raimundo learned to make shoes. Soon, however, it became apparent that he couldn’t keep up on his studies and work enough to provide the help his mother needed. “Taking care of the family came first,” he says. “I was able to finish my classes that year and that was it.”
In his heart, he knew he would come back to school again. But when and how?
He continued to work, and the family survived.
“Then I met and married this beautiful woman,” he says, smiling at his wife, Eréroythe. “And we built a family of our own. Today we have three children and three grandchildren.”
Eró, as his wife is known, encouraged Raimundo to go back to school. “But because of my responsibilities as a husband and a father,” Raimundo says, “I knew I couldn’t pursue the education I wanted at that time. I didn’t abandon my dream—I just put it on pause. It became something I would do in the future.”
What he could do, he found, was to encourage his wife and children in their education.
“The scriptures teach us that the glory of God is intelligence,1” he says. “They also say we should bring up our children in light and truth2 and that we should seek learning by study and faith.3 These principles became standards for our family.”
Today, Raimundo is 62. And that dream he put on pause? It’s finally coming true. He recently graduated from high school. What’s more, he’s preparing to enter college. “I have to take a challenging test to get in,” he says. “But I want people, old and young, to see that they can set a goal and achieve it.”
Raimundo’s wife and children are also pursuing education.
“When I started college a few years ago,” says Eró, who is 57, “no one in the family had done any type of superior education. But I believed that when this wall was broken, education would fill our home. It would make things better going forward. I am a cook by profession, and I cook because I love to cook. But I thought I could learn more, and my daughter Dielle wanted to learn more too.”
They joined a Church self-reliance group, and the facilitator suggested that they apply for Perpetual Education Fund loans. “The loans were approved,” Eró says. “So, we enrolled at the university to study gastronomy. We did the same major, and we were daughter and mother in school together at the same time. We would work all day cooking food, then go to college at night.” Some days Eró started work at 5:00 a.m., worked all day, then had classes starting at 8:00 in the evening.
She admits to falling asleep sometimes. “Sure, it’s tough,” she says. “But you just trust that the Lord will help you, and you keep on going.”
Raimundo and Eró Carvalho on the day she received her degree in gastronomy.
Photographs courtesy of the Carvalho family
Now both mother and daughter have graduated. Eró no longer works at a restaurant. She is self-employed and works from home. “We’re both still cooking, but we’re more qualified and have more opportunities to advance. We’re earning enough to pay back our loans, and Dielle is working on a master’s degree in event management!”
Dielle is now working on a master’s degree.
Eró also explains, “Our son Odirlei, although incarcerated, is completing an online degree in accounting and has been accepted in a competitive federal university agronomy program. He is awaiting a judge’s decision that may allow him to attend classes in person. We encourage him to use his time to study, to become qualified, so that when he gets out permanently, he will be able to have a better life. He has learned that education gives you the opportunity to create a new reality, and he knows that God knows what he can become.”
Eró declares, “Education has made a great difference for our family. It’s not only knowledge; it’s an anchor in our lives.” And Raimundo notes that his mother, who was illiterate most of her life, as an elderly woman learned to read and write.
“Study and faith became standards for our family,” Raimundo says.
Raimundo and Eró also know about another type of education—spiritual knowledge.
“About 30 years ago,” Raimundo says, “we weren’t active in the Church. But our bishop asked Eró and me for an interview. He invited us to take a class about eternal marriage, and because of that class, we came back to the Church and together we studied and learned and built our testimonies. A year later, we were sealed to our family in the São Paulo Brazil Temple.”
Now they have given decades of service in their ward and stake, “and we’re still studying the gospel, still learning more truth,” Raimundo says.
“Even if we’re older,” Eró says, “we need to keep learning. We especially need to keep gaining spiritual knowledge. It’s all part of an eternal plan.”
Raimundo says he loves this quote from Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles:
“As a people, we rightfully place high priority on secular learning and vocational development. We want and we must excel in scholarship and craftsmanship. I commend you for striving diligently to gain an education and become an expert in your field. I invite you to also become experts in the doctrines of the gospel.”4
And Raimundo also loves this scripture:
“Whatever principle of intelligence we attain unto in this life, it will rise with us in the resurrection.
“And if a person gains more knowledge and intelligence in this life through his diligence and obedience than another, he will have so much the advantage in the world to come.”5
“That scripture motivates me,” he says. “It brings me happiness to know that there is more to come. I wake up early in the morning and I study the scriptures. Then I go to work satisfied because I was able to learn something early in the morning.”
Not long ago, Raimundo and Eró were called to advise their region’s young single adults.
“It’s wonderful!” Eró says. “We receive their positive energy, and we give them back wisdom. It is like a perfect connection. Age doesn’t separate us. The desire to improve brings us together. We have found that they can teach us skills we haven’t learned yet. And in exchange, we can give them life experience and help them understand how education can further their ability to be self-reliant. We’re here to support each other and learn from each other.”
“What a marvelous opportunity we have now,” Raimundo says, “to help young people see how education can help them to become self-reliant. But I hope we can also help them to understand that the glory of God is intelligence. I think we all have a desire to learn. I believe we will always keep learning.”

President George Albert Smith, after an experience with the spirit world, described the part of that world he saw:
“One day … I lost consciousness of my surroundings and thought I had passed to the other side. I found myself standing with my back to a large and beautiful lake, facing a great forest of trees. There was no one in sight, and there was no boat upon the lake or any other visible means to indicate how I might have arrived there. I realized, or seemed to realize, that I had finished my work in mortality and had gone home. I began to look around, to see if I could not find someone. There was no evidence of anyone’s living there, just those great, beautiful trees in front of me and the wonderful lake behind me.
“I began to explore, and soon I found a trail through the woods which seemed to have been used very little, and which was almost obscured by grass.” President Smith followed the trail and after some time met his grandfather, with whom he conversed. (Improvement Era, March 1947, p. 139.)

One year we went through almost two boxes of film before Dad was satisfied. Thirty-four times we had to stand up straight, say “cheese,” or “pizza” and then smile. When we got the photos back, someone looked awful in 26 of them, five were out of focus, and in three others, Dad didn’t quite get into the picture in time and all you could see was his back. We went with one of the out-of-focus shots that year, which sort of symbolizes the whole family photo ritual.

Joseph cherished the faithfulness and constant support of his beloved parents, as seen by his tender pleading with the Lord concerning his father’s failing health in 1835: “I waited on him all this day with my heart raised to God in the name of Jesus Christ, that He would restore him to health, that I might be blessed with his company and advice, esteeming it one of the greatest earthly blessings to be blessed with the society of parents, whose mature years and experience render them capable of administering the most wholesome advice” (History of the Church, 2:289).
Even when Joseph was most busy with his responsibilities as prophet and President of the Church, his concern for his family and parents came to the fore. His diary for 8–11 October 1835—when he had just commenced again to translate the writings of Abraham—records his concern for his father. No other business was more pressing or important.
“Thursday, 8.—At home. I attended on my father with great anxiety.
“Friday, 9.—At home. Waited on my father.
“Saturday, 10.—At home, and visited the house of my father, found him failing very fast.
“Sunday, 11.—Waited on my father again, who was very sick. In secret prayer in the morning, the Lord said, ‘My servant, thy father shall live.’ …
“At evening Brother David Whitmer came in. We called on the Lord in mighty prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, and laid our hands on [my father], and rebuked the disease. And God heard and answered our prayers—to the great joy and satisfaction of our souls” (History of the Church, 2:289).

The Church is well-known for its missionaries — well-dressed and cheerful young men and women, serving the community, often in lands far distant from their homes.
One of these missionaries is Elder Thomas Holton, born in Dublin, Ireland in 2001, and brought up in County Westmeath. However, because of COVID-19, his story is somewhat different.
Like countless others before him, Thomas had an ambition from his early years to serve a mission. He prepared diligently and faithfully. He was baptised by his father, also Thomas, when eight and ordained an elder by him in spring of 2019. Not long after, with the endorsement of his local leaders, he applied to be considered for full-time missionary service.
In October that year, he received a response. He was invited to serve in the far-off country of Zimbabwe, starting in March 2020, before which, he would spend a few weeks in a missionary training centre.
He looked forward to this with great excitement, but the global COVID-19 epidemic meant that things did not turn out as anticipated. For a start, Elder Holton was one of a dozen young people to attend the first ever virtual missionary training centre in the Church. In his own words, “This was a great occasion”. Then, when it became apparent that travelling to Zimbabwe was not going to be possible in the short or medium term, he was assigned to the Manchester area in the UK. He was excited about this because both of his parents had served their missions in England. But due to COVID-19, that expectation was also short-lived.
The solution came from an initiative, recently announced by the First Presidency of the Church, which focused on providing volunteer opportunities for young people who are unable, for whatever reason, to serve in the traditional way. Called ‘service missions’, they allow young women and young men to continue to live a consecrated life at home, while working in the Church and local community.
According to materials sent with a First Presidency letter, “Service missions are acceptable offerings to the Lord when a proselytizing mission is not possible. … All missionaries represent the Lord and carry out His work.”1
Elder Holton has demonstrated both courage and faith. He has been a pathfinder, ushering in a new generation as the first male service missionary in the whole of Ireland. He expects to have a transformative experience as he serves as the Saviour did. He acknowledges the support, example and love of his family and local leaders, including Mark Coffey, president of the Church’s Dublin Stake.
“The range of service prospects is remarkable, and I feel that this is a great opportunity to serve the Lord, help in the Church, cooperate with the community, and develop skills. Above all, serving a mission, of any kind, is a joy, because I get to be on the Lord’s errand. Among other things, I am teaching an online scripture class for teenagers, helping with financial auditing within the stake and volunteering where I can within the community. We are also implementing the JustServe programme locally and I’m heavily involved with that. And when the temples of the Church reopen fully after COVID-19, I intend to be working there regularly.”
Note

Retiring from a profession people often do not retire from, Elder Parmley, age 67, has had many opportunities to share the reason he is setting aside medicine. He recalls a man he recently met at an annual conference. He told attendees why after 39 years he would no longer be involved in the profession. The next day, a colleague approached him and said, “My wife and I couldn’t sleep last night because we were thinking about what you said. Tell us more about this mission.” Elder Parmley did, and the man simply said, “Can we go with you?”

In that same countryside, in the little town of Sainte Brigide d’Iberville, about 50 kilometers from Montreal, you’ll see cornfields, barns, and silos. And you’ll also see teenage boys—Latter-day Saints—gathering honey from the blue and white beehives.
Each boy is paid a bucket of honey for a day’s work of gathering and processing the honey. It’s a sticky salary, but they put it to good use. With the help of the other young people in the LeMoyne Ward, they package and sell the honey, then put the money into a fund for their upcoming trip to Washington, D.C.—twelve hours away by car. They are not going to the United States capital for sightseeing or touring. They are going to the temple to do baptismal work for the dead. Montreal is in the temple district of the Washington Temple.
“I’m really looking forward to going to the temple,” says Samuel Maltere, 14, of the LeMoyne Ward. “This way I don’t have to ask my mother and father for money for the temple trip. Working with honey is sticky, and you get dirty doing it, but it’s worth the effort. And after learning how honey gets to our dinner table, I appreciate it a lot more.”
How did the young people get involved with honeycombs and bees?
It started when Bishop Joseph Wilfred Serges Limoges talked to the teenagers in his ward about a temple trip. “Everybody wanted to go,” recalls Bishop Limoges, “but nobody was financially ready.” The ward clerk, who works with beehives, knew a beekeeper, Monsieur Marcotte, who needed help with his hives. When the bishop interviewed the youth, they all agreed they would like to take on the project.
Monsieur Marcotte taught the boys from the ward how to gather the honey and process it. “It’s fun working with the bees,” says Mark Pelchat. “The only thing I don’t like about it is getting stung.”
When the boys take their buckets of honey home, the other young people from the ward help pour the sticky stuff into smaller containers. Then they sell it to friends or to customers outside a health food store owned by a Church member in Montreal.
“We’ve been selling outside the store today for about six hours,” says Phillippe Cazeau, 16. “We feel that if we go to the temple, we need to work for it.”
Going to the temple is an event that the young people really look forward to. “We want to do baptisms for those people who’ve died who haven’t been introduced to the Church,” says Sonya Roy, 15.
They are also taking opportunities to introduce their honey customers to the Church. “We tell the people who walk by our stand that we’re raising money for a trip to our temple. We show them a picture of the temple and tell them what it means to us,” explains Frankie Belot, 17.
With a willingness to work and some new skills, the young people of the LeMoyne Ward are experiencing the sweet rewards of sharing the gospel—with the living and the dead.

Judy always seemed to be angry, but Raybell remembered one day last summer when she wasn’t. Raybell’s yellow kitten had disappeared. She had searched everywhere around their farm and finally had walked down the road calling it. Raybell was afraid a coyote had come down from the hills and eaten it. Tears were falling as she walked along the road. Suddenly she looked up, and through the blur of her tears, she saw Judy running across the field toward her with the yellow kitten in her arms. She held the kitten out to her. “Is this yours?”
Raybell gathered the soft kitten into her arms. It purred and rubbed its nose against her cheek. “Yes. Where did you find it?”
“When I cut through the field I heard a loud meow, and there it was, between the rows of wheat. I thought maybe it was yours.”
“Thanks for bringing her to me.” Raybell smiled, and Judy smiled back.

In my English class we were having a debate about evolution. We easily wandered into the topic of religion. Some students started to ask what members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints believe. My teacher could not answer the questions.
So he said, “Aleesha, why don’t you tell us what you believe?” I knew that I could not turn this opportunity down. I stood up and told the class some of our basic beliefs. They asked a few questions, which I was able to answer. After class, one girl came up to me and asked me how to learn more. I gave her a Book of Mormon the next day.
The gospel has never made so much sense to me. Being able to share my beliefs with my peers at school strengthened my testimony so much.

Last year around Thanksgiving, my family and I were sitting around the table, about ready to stuff ourselves full of warm, flavourful food. Starting our Thanksgiving tradition, my mom said, “Before we start to eat, let’s go around the table and say five things we’re grateful for. Don, would you like to start?”
“Sure thing,” my dad replied. “I’m grateful for you guys and your mom and that you’re always there for me even when work gets tough. I’m grateful for our home and that we’re all healthy and happy.” He turned to me. “What about you, Alison?”
“Um …” I said, thinking about how the year had flown by. It seemed like just yesterday that I was at last year’s Thanksgiving dinner, struggling to find five solid things for which I was grateful.
I thanked everyone in my family for being so loving and for each of their unique contributions in my life. This lifted my spirits for a few hours, but I soon felt like the gesture seemed inauthentic. Unsatisfied, I made a commitment to myself that I’d try to find reasons to be grateful every week instead of just around Thanksgiving.
This seemingly small decision made a huge difference in my life. I’m not sure how or if I’ve made a difference to my parents or siblings by being more grateful toward them, but I know I’ve been blessed. By committing to being more grateful in my life, I’ve been able to develop a stronger relationship with both my family and my Heavenly Father—something definitely worth feeling grateful for.

First, be glad for the question. I remember a conversation with a beautiful Jewish girl. She had been explaining her feelings about Judaism and her heritage when, quite suddenly, she said, “I’ve always wondered what Mormons really believe.” How exciting it was to explain our pioneer beginnings and our prophets, comparing them along the way to her people’s history. We exchanged ideas for over an hour and still correspond.

It was Little Wind’s unusual compassion and regard for the buffalo that caused his father to give the old four-legged special consideration. A great scaffold was prepared and its body carried on a litter to the sacred burial grounds that stood on the high jagged cliffs above the village. It was the first time such a thing had been done for any but a Sioux in the history of their people.
Little Wind climbed the steep trail in the icy November wind to the top of the butte to pay final tribute to the old buffalo. He watched as the mighty beast was hoisted up onto the scaffold, covered with furs, and secured with rope. Little Wind’s mother and little sister, Night Fawn, along with a few other village women, heaped brambles at the base of the scaffold to keep away wild animals. Then Ten Days Walking and the others left Little Wind alone to express his mourning.
When the sun had made its journey across the heavens, Little Wind turned from the wind-lashed scaffold and descended the darkened mesa to the village below.

The true church of Jesus Christ must have a living prophet. Ricardo Perez was convinced of that. But where was such a church?
His study of the Bible had led him to leave the church of his forefathers, in spite of what his family and friends might think. To them, this seemed like folly in the Guatemala of 1954. But Ricardo felt he could no longer practice some of the things he had formerly been taught. So in leaving the church of his youth, he felt that he had left error behind. He wanted to find the church God approved. He wanted to know the truth.
He investigated several evangelistic churches, but “I did not find a place to practice religion as the ancient Apostles taught,” he recalls. Study of the Bible had convinced him the true church would have certain unmistakable features—a living prophet, Apostles, baptism by immersion, and proper administration of the sacrament to members, for example.
Trying to find a place to buy a new Bible finally led him to the church he sought. “I often see some young men—North Americans—around here. They sell Bibles,” one of the employees in Ricardo’s tailor shop told him. At that moment, two Latter-day Saint missionaries passed by the door of the shop. “There they go!” the man said.
No, the missionaries explained, they did not sell books; they preached the gospel, teaching from a book called the Book of Mormon, as well as the Bible. They would leave a Book of Mormon with him for one week if he would read it.
“Since I was desirous of learning something more about the things of God, I started reading it immediately. As soon as I began, I felt the Spirit very strongly in the book. I knew it was of God,” Brother Perez reflects. “I reached a point where I would sometimes dream of events in the Book of Mormon before I had read them. Then when I would read the next day, it would be what I had already dreamed.”
When Ricardo Perez attended Church meetings with the missionaries, he found the Church offered all the things he had become convinced the true church must have—and more. He gratefully shared what he had learned with his family, and his children also believed.

Years ago our family lived and worked among people who in almost every case were not of our faith. When they asked us how our weekend was, we tried to skip the usual topics—like sports events, movies, or the weather—and tried to share some religious experiences we had as a family over the weekend—for instance, what a youth speaker had said about the standards from For the Strength of Youth, or how we were touched by the words of a young man who was leaving on his mission, or how the gospel and the Church helped us as a family to overcome a specific challenge we had. We tried not to be preachy or overbearing. My wife, Harriet, was always the best at finding something inspirational, uplifting, or humorous to share. This often would lead to more in-depth discussions. Interestingly enough, whenever we talked with friends about coping with life’s challenges, we often heard the comment “It’s easy for you; you have your church.”