Gospel Story Finder

One night when I was 16, I remember coming back from a Church activity with three friends. We were all in the priests quorum and enjoyed being together. We parked the car in front of my house, and we were talking about the fun we had at church when one of my friends made a suggestion.
Nearby was a club that was popular with teenagers. On Fridays and Saturdays they had dances. He said, “We should go to one of those dances.” He suggested we could even use the opportunity to preach the gospel to the youth there. The other three, myself included, tried to tell him it didn’t sound like such a great idea. The standards wouldn’t be the same as at Church activities. There would be people smoking and drinking. People would be dressed immodestly. Most of the music would be inappropriate, loud in its volume, and heavy in its beat, often filled with suggestive words.
This was a good friend, a very active young man. But he kept insisting that we should go. “As long as we don’t participate in the bad stuff,” he said, “it will be just fine.” The three of us tried to dissuade him but couldn’t. He finally said, “Then I am going to go alone. I am going to show you that there’s nothing wrong with it. And you are going to miss out on some great fun.” He was determined to stick his hand in the cumbuca.
On Friday he went to the dance. The next day, Saturday, he came to Church-sponsored activities bragging about how fun it had been. He invited us to go the next week. We never did go, but he ended up going on a regular basis until finally he began going to the Saturday night dances as well. Then he would be late to church on Sunday because he was tired from being out so late. Finally he began skipping church.
Over time he stopped coming to church regularly. He ended up not going on a mission. A few years ago I contacted him over the phone. He was living in a different town far away from me. When we started talking about the Church, he was totally cold, not the same person I used to know.
Looking back, I think of the four of us in that car. The other three all stayed active in the Church, married in the temple, and have served in priesthood leadership positions. But that one excellent friend fell away, married outside the Church, and today is totally inactive. His children do not know the blessings of the gospel. Even though he can still repent, and I hope he will, he is losing valuable time and opportunities.
That night in the car, the four of us were at a crossroads. I didn’t know the decision was that important at the time. We simply knew that it was not appropriate to go where he wanted to go. I remember he said, “We will go there, and through our good example we will convert some of those youth.” But he was being deceived, and he ended up being the one who was converted to a different path. As I look back, I can see that something that seems small can have a huge impact over the years. I am happy that I was able to choose what was right.

While on his mission, Brother Khanakam first met a newly called lady missionary, Sumamaan Srisarakham. Three years after his mission, he made contact with her again through a mutual friend, and they began a correspondence. When they started talking of marriage, Sister Srisarakham prayed for guidance and felt as though “the Savior’s hand was on my head confirming my decision to marry and have a family.” Currently, Sister Khanakam serves as the district Relief Society president and teaches a Primary class in the Chiang Mai Branch.

“What we do within the four walls of our home is most important to us and to those we can influence for good,” says President Khanakam. “For example, a neighboring couple has been taking the missionary discussions and now permits their son to attend church with us. This has come about because they liked what they saw in us as a family. As a family, as Latter-day Saints everywhere, we can perfect our lives through living the gospel.”

After graduation, I began to hang around three girls who weren’t LDS. As our friendship grew, I started smoking. I felt like life had no meaning, so I didn’t care that what I was doing was wrong. I couldn’t understand why I was on the earth, and figured I was probably better off dead. After a while, we went our separate ways and I vowed I would never smoke again. But many of my other feelings didn’t change.

I knew I wanted to marry in the temple and raise a family but wondered if I would get the chance. It was rather annoying when people I knew would become engaged, leaving me to question if I would ever get a date in this lifetime.

I wanted to blame the way I felt on something, so I blamed it on the color of my skin. It was stupid of me, I know. But I figured it was the only reason I didn’t have many friends.

By the time I was 20, I wanted to change. I decided to fix my appearance. I lost a little weight and bought new clothes and glasses. I found it helped me feel better about myself. But the actual change started when I began attending the single-adult ward and decided to go to college. This gave me the confidence that I could do things I had been too shy or scared to do before.

One day in sacrament meeting, my bishop spoke about the importance of attending church, the importance of paying tithing, reading scriptures, and praying. I felt the Spirit so strongly that I had no doubt the Church was true. It was at this time I decided to read the Book of Mormon.

For a month, I read my scriptures every night. Afterward, I would pray. I continued to pay my tithing and attend church, and I received a calling in the ward. My life couldn’t have been happier.

One day I looked in the mirror and stared at my reflection. “I’m pretty,” I said to the image before me. Tears welled up in my eyes that suddenly seemed to be looking at things differently. I saw myself, but it was as if I were looking at the face of a stranger. The fact I saw myself differently filled me with a happiness I can’t describe.

Without warning, the color of my skin no longer mattered to me. I’m Jennifer, a child of God. If God can love me, then I can learn to love myself, I thought. I now understand why they say you have to love yourself before you can show love to others. Today I can say I’m proud to be black. Four years ago I couldn’t even say it, much less mean it.

My promise now is to live the gospel and put my trust in God. After all, he’s given me the thing I needed most—a sense of my own worth.

Although I was active in my Catholic faith, I felt that something was missing in my life. At 16 years old I have investigated eight different churches as I searched for the truth that would provide meaning and direction to my life.
I discovered that my friend Clint was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and he introduced me to the missionaries. They taught me a lot of things: I learned how to pray, and I was introduced to the Prophet Joseph Smith. I read the Book of Mormon and prayed if it was true and if the Church was really of God. I didn’t know it was the Holy Ghost, but I definitely felt the truthfulness as I felt a burning in my bossom.
I was baptized on March 13, 2012, and I fully embraced the Latter-day Saint way of life. I attended Church services and other activities, served and volunteered my time, and really felt like a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

It was a hot day, and Audrey and her mom were driving home from the grocery store. Among the bottles and packages was a special treat that Audrey had picked out: a box of rainbow ice pops. They were Audrey’s favorite kind of ice pop, even if they did make her mouth turn blue and red. She could hardly wait to get home, have a rainbow pop, and play in the sprinklers to cool off.
“Oh dear,” Mom said, slowing down the car. “All the traffic is stopped ahead.”
As they slowly moved forward, Audrey saw several people standing in the road wearing hard hats and bright vests. They were holding up signs to stop the cars. They looked hot and sweaty.
“Roadwork,” Mom said. “I forgot they were doing that today. I guess we won’t be getting home soon. We’ll just have to be patient.”
“Mom, we need to get home soon, or all my rainbow pops will melt,” Audrey said.
“I’m sorry, but if we’re stopped a long time they probably will melt,” Mom said.
“Can I have one now?” Audrey asked.
“You know we have rules against eating in the car,” Mom reminded her. “Especially sticky things. Sorry, honey.”
Audrey frowned. She was sad to think her rainbow pops might be puddles by the time they got home.
Just then they pulled up next to a road worker. “I need you to wait right here, ma’am,” he said to Audrey’s mom. Then he pulled out a rag and wiped his forehead. “Sure is a scorcher,” he said.
Then Audrey got an idea. She reached into a shopping bag, pulled out the box of rainbow pops, and handed it to Mom.
Mom smiled at Audrey. “Great idea,” she said. She handed the box through the car window to the road worker. “Maybe this will help,” she said.
The man grinned. “I’ll have no problem sharing these. Thank you, ma’am.”
Mom pointed to Audrey. “It was my daughter’s idea. I bought them for her.”
The man waved to Audrey. “Thank you, miss. You’ve made our day.”
Audrey grinned back. She was glad the rainbow pops wouldn’t be wasted.
“That was very kind of you, Audrey,” Mom said. “Maybe when we get home we can make some juice pops instead.”
“Maybe,” Audrey said. She didn’t like juice pops as much as rainbow pops, but she was still glad she gave away her rainbow pops.
As they drove past more road workers, Audrey saw some of them holding up their rainbow pops to stop traffic, while others were doing their work with red or blue mouths. Audrey was sure they all looked a little cooler and a little happier, and that made her as happy as Christmas in July.

Julischka doesn’t just show her testimony—she talks about it. If friends don’t know which church she belongs to, they soon find out! “She isn’t afraid to talk about the gospel,” her dad says. “One day she came home sad because she’d had a discussion with a boy at school. He didn’t believe in Jesus.” Julischka bore her testimony to him and encouraged him to believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God.

I don’t think I worried about the promises I had made at baptism, until I met Darren. Getting baptized was just something a guy did when he turned eight. When I was baptized, Grandpa and Grandma were there, along with Uncle Rick and Aunt Teri and all of my own family. It was like a big celebration, so I wasn’t thinking much about promises. In fact, I didn’t really think about the promises until I was in the fifth grade.
The Sunday before Darren moved to our school, Sister Murray talked to us in Primary about when the prophet Alma was by the waters of Mormon and invited his people to be baptized. He told them that if they were willing to enter the waters of baptism, they needed to promise to mourn with those who mourned and comfort those who needed comfort. She gave each of us a small white card with these baptismal promises written on it.
Darren and his little sister, Tanya, were the first black people I had ever seen at my elementary school. Maybe that’s why he surprised me so much. When the principal brought Darren to Mrs. Riley’s class, all I could do was stare. In fact, the whole class was quiet and just stared.
When Mrs. Riley asked us where Darren should sit, no one raised a hand to invite him to sit next to them, which we usually did when a new student arrived. No one said anything. Everyone just stared silently. Finally Mrs. Riley invited Darren to sit at a desk at the back of one of the rows.
All during the morning lessons, I couldn’t help sneaking peeks at him. He seemed so different from the rest of us. I wasn’t the only one—everyone in class sneaked looks all morning. Darren pretended he didn’t notice by keeping his head down, working on his math and English papers.
I think Mrs. Riley was the only one in the whole class who said anything to him that day. At lunchtime, he got in line with the rest of us and picked up his tray from the kitchen. He went to the long table along the wall and sat down. Usually I sat there, but I didn’t go there that day. It wasn’t that I was afraid of him—it was just that he was so different. No one else went to that table, either.
During noon recess, I played football with the rest of the guys. Darren didn’t come over, and we didn’t invite him. He just wandered around the playground by himself.
In the afternoon, when Mrs. Riley had us work in groups on our science project, no one invited him to be part of their group. Mrs. Riley finally assigned him to work with Tanner, Whitney, and Lance.
As I started home after school, I saw Darren and Tanya walking in front of me. I was in a hurry, but they weren’t walking very fast, so I hung back, not wanting to pass them. I didn’t want them saying anything to me, and I didn’t know what to say to them. I ended up running to the other side of the street and walking past them, acting as though they weren’t even there.
As soon as I reached home, I rushed into my bedroom to change my clothes. My friend Brandon and I had decided to ride our bikes over to the creek to catch minnows. As soon as I stepped into my bedroom, I saw the little white card I had hung on my mirror, and I thought of Darren.
At first, I didn’t understand how that card could possibly be talking about him. When we had talked in Sister Murray’s class about mourning for and comforting others, we had thought of someone’s grandpa or grandma dying, or someone whose house had burned down. We hadn’t talked about someone like Darren. But I thought of him that afternoon.
For a long time I stared at that white card, and I remembered what it was like to move into a new school. Two years earlier I had been the new kid. At first I was afraid and was sure that everyone in the whole school was staring at me. Then Brandon invited me to sit next to him in class. His friends became my friends. We sat in the cafeteria together. We played at recess together. That very first afternoon he even invited me to his house after school.
I thought about Darren’s first day. No one had spoken to him. No one had invited him to join them. No one had eaten lunch with him. No one had asked him over after school to play. And all during the day, he had been forced to face the silent, scary stares from the rest of us.
As I stared at Sister Murray’s white card, I realized that although I had thought Darren was different from the rest of us, he really wasn’t. He had a different color of skin, and darker eyes and hair, but he felt and hurt just like the rest of us. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to have friends. He wanted to play. He wanted to go places without everyone staring at him.
Suddenly I felt sorry for Darren. I decided that by really feeling sorry for him, I was doing what Alma talked about at the waters of Mormon. I told myself that that was all I needed to do, that that was all I could do without the whole school staring at me like I was someone extra strange. I changed my clothes and rushed outside to play.
The next day I grabbed my football and charged out of the house for school. Before I could leave the yard, I slid to a stop. There were Darren and Tanya coming down the street on their way to school. Barry and Trevor were fifteen or twenty steps behind them. I saw Barry pick up something and toss it toward Darren and Tanya. Then Trevor said something that I couldn’t hear, and both of them burst out laughing. Darren and Tanya just kept walking with their eyes straight ahead.
Instead of starting down the street close to Darren and Tanya, I pretended to have forgotten something and slipped back inside the house until all four of them were far down the street. I tried as hard as I could to not think about the white card stuck on the mirror in my bedroom.
During the day, there were several times that I could have said something to Darren, but I didn’t.
I didn’t stare at him and snicker like some of the other kids, but I didn’t try to comfort him at all. At lunchtime, I was right behind him in the line, and when he went to sit down, I almost followed him to his table. Then Brandon called to me from another table, and I went over to him.
By the end of the day, I was glad that it was Friday because I had a whole weekend without having to think about or to see Darren. On Saturday, I hardly thought about him. By Sunday morning when I was rushing about to get ready for church, Darren was the last thing on my mind.
As sacrament meeting started, I sat on the bench next to Mom. She teaches Primary and had her manual and lesson materials piled neatly on the floor in front of her. Right on top was a picture of Jesus wearing a red and white robe. And He was staring right at me. We sang the sacrament hymn, and I began to think about my white card with those special baptismal promises written on it, promises that I was about to renew when the deacons brought the bread and water around. I was going to promise to mourn with those that mourn and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and I knew—and I knew that Jesus knew—that for me that promise included Darren.
For a moment I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see that picture of Jesus looking up at me. But I could still feel His eyes staring at me. They didn’t stare at me like the eyes at school stared at Darren and Tanya. Jesus’ eyes were asking me to do something for Darren.
That Sunday was the first time that I was a little afraid to take the bread and water as it came down the row toward me. I knew that I wasn’t eating plain old bread or drinking regular old water. I was supposed to be thinking of Jesus and promising to do what I thought He would do if Darren was in His class at school.
I hesitated as Mom handed me the bread tray. In fact, I hesitated so long that Mom nudged me. Slowly I reached out and took a small piece of bread. When I did, I knew that I was repeating the promise I’d made three years ago, when Dad had led me down the tile steps into the baptismal font. For me, that shiny clean baptismal font was the same as the waters of Mormon for Alma’s people.
On Monday morning, I said an extra long prayer because I needed all the help and courage I could get. I grabbed my football, slipped out the door, and looked up and down the street. Darren and Tanya were still over a block away. Barry and Trevor were a few steps behind them.
I knew that I could start for school without running into Darren just yet. I could wait until I was in Mrs. Riley’s class and look for a chance to be nice to Darren there. Then I thought of that picture of Jesus, dressed in His red and white robe, staring up at me.
I gripped my ball and waited for Darren and Tanya. I was going to keep a promise.
“Hi, I’m Steve,” I said with a nervous smile. “I think you and I are in the same class.” I glanced anxiously down the street toward Barry and Trevor; then my gaze returned to Darren and Tanya. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”
Darren thought a moment and then shook his head. I smiled and took a deep breath because my heart was pounding and my hands were shaking a little bit. I tossed my football to Darren and he caught it. “Good hands,” I said. “Do you like football?”
“I love it! I used to play at my old school.”
“He was good, too!” Tanya spoke up, grinning up at her brother and then over at me.
“Then you’ll have to play with us. We can always use a good football player.”
We started down the sidewalk. I heard Trevor and Barry snicker, and I knew that they were staring behind us, but I kept walking with Darren and Tanya.
“Did you think of a frightening experience to write about in class?” I asked, remembering an assignment that Mrs. Riley had given us on Friday.
Darren laughed. “I can think of a lot of scary experiences that I’ve had. I haven’t written anything down yet, though.”
“Mrs. Riley said we could work in pairs. Maybe you and I can work together,” I invited. “We can help each other come up with something really good.”
When we reached the school, we went over to where the guys were starting the morning football game before the bell rang. As we approached, the playing stopped for a moment and all eyes were on Darren, Tanya, and me. No one said anything, but I could feel all of those staring eyes on me.
For a moment, I wished that I had hurried to school without waiting for Darren and his sister. I wasn’t used to those staring eyes. Then I realized that ever since Darren had entered this school, he had been facing those same staring eyes all the time. There was no place for him to run and hide from them, and those eyes hurt him as much as they hurt me—probably even more.
“Darren’s going to play with us this morning,” I burst out boldly. “Before he came here, he played a lot of football. He’ll be on my team. We can play with my ball.” I silently prayed that my voice wouldn’t crack or shake as I spoke. I didn’t want anyone to know how scared I was.
“We don’t need any extra guys,” Rusty spoke up, staring up at Darren and me.
“We can always use someone good like Darren,” I came back. “He’s playing,” I repeated. “Go out for a pass,” I said, turning to him.
While all eyes were on us, Darren raced across the field. I gripped the ball, cocked my arm, and threw with all my might. My pass was a little high and a little long. I figured that Darren would probably miss it. But just as it sailed over his head, he leaped and stretched out his arms. The ball touched his fingertips. It was as though they had invisible glue on them, because he held onto the ball, pulled it into his chest, and clutched it tightly as he fell to the ground.
“Awesome!” I heard someone mumble behind me. “What a catch!”
I grinned and waved Darren back to us. “Come on, Darren, we’ll kick off.”
The eyes still stared, but I didn’t mind them so much, because I remembered the promise I had made the day before, when I had taken the bread and water. Into my mind came the picture of Someone in a red and white robe with His eyes staring at me. As I raced across the field alongside Darren, I was glad for His staring eyes and how good they now made me feel.

Trisha watched as Mommy taped the family job chart on the refrigerator. “Everyone’s name is on the chart,” Mommy told her. “Here is your name, Trisha. It’s the one with the smiling-face sticker next to it.”
Trisha was three years old. It made her feel very grown-up to have her name on the family job chart. She watched as Mommy wrote down assignments for her older brother and sister. Then she came to the name with the smiling face sticker by it.
“Now, Trisha, you have a special job,” Mommy said. “You get to be the Dust Bunny.”
Trisha had never heard of a Dust Bunny before, but she watched excitedly as Mommy got out one of Daddy’s old white socks. It had been made into a bunny!
“Each morning you can put on this Dust Bunny mitt and dust the living room like this.” She showed Trisha how to carefully dust the piano keys, the tops of the end tables, and the TV.
“Now, you try it,” Mommy said as she handed the Dust Bunny mitt to Trisha. The inside of the sock felt fuzzy and warm when Trisha put it on. She carefully dusted the piano keys, the tops of the end tables, and the TV.
“Super job, Dust Bunny!” Mommy declared. Then she gave Trisha a big squeeze. Trisha felt good inside.
That night when Daddy came home from work, she said, “Guess who came today.”
“Grandpa and Grandma?” Daddy guessed as he scooped her up into his arms and gave Mommy a kiss.
“No.”
“Santa Claus?” Daddy guessed.
Trisha giggled, “No, Daddy, that’s silly! It isn’t even Christmas.”
“Well then, who?” Daddy asked.
“The Dust Bunny!” Trisha said with a big smile.
“Who is the Dust Bunny? Is she related to Bunny Rabbit?” Daddy asked.
“No,” Trisha said with a laugh. Then she ran and got the mitt and put it on. “I’m the Dust Bunny!”
Daddy watched as Trisha showed him how she dusted the piano keys, the tops of the end tables, and the TV. It looked like so much fun that Daddy had to try it, too!

The name Rudger Clawson will, unfortunately, be unfamiliar to many of you. For forty-five years Brother Clawson was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and for twenty-two of those years served as the president of that quorum. But long before any of those responsibilities came to him, he had a chance to prove his faithfulness and demonstrate in his youth just how willing he was to defend his beliefs, even at the peril of his life.

As a young man Brother Clawson had been called on a mission to the Southern States. At that time in America’s history, well over one hundred years ago, malicious mobs were still in existence, outlaws who threatened the safety of members of the Church and others. Elder Clawson and his missionary companion, Elder Joseph Standing, were traveling on foot to a missionary conference when, nearing their destination, they were suddenly confronted by twelve armed and angry men on horseback.

With cocked rifles and revolvers shoved in their faces, the two elders were repeatedly struck and occasionally knocked to the ground as they were led away from their prescribed path and forced to walk deep into the nearby woods. Elder Joseph Standing, knowing what might lie in store for them, made a bold move and seized a pistol within his reach. Instantly one of the assailants turned his gun on young Standing and fired. Another mobber, pointing to Elder Clawson, said, “Shoot that man.” In response every weapon in the circle was turned on him.

It seemed to this young elder that his fate was to be the same as that of his fallen brother. He said: “I … at once realized there was no avenue of escape. My time had come. … My turn to follow Joseph Standing was at hand.” He folded his arms, looked his assailants in the face, and said, “Shoot.”

Whether stunned by this young elder’s courage or now fearfully aware of what they had already done to his companion, we cannot know, but someone in that fateful moment shouted, “Don’t shoot,” and one by one the guns were lowered. Terribly shaken but driven by loyalty to his missionary companion, Elder Clawson continued to defy the mob. Never certain that he might not yet be shot, young Rudger, often working and walking with his back to the mob, was able to carry the body of his slain companion to a safe haven where he performed the last act of kindness for his fallen friend. There he gently washed the bloody stains from the missionary’s body and prepared it for the long train ride home (in David S. Hoopes and Roy Hoopes, The Making of a Mormon Apostle: The Story of Rudger Clawson [New York: Madison Books, 1990], pp. 23–31).

I tell that story with some concern, hoping no one will dwell on the death of a young missionary or think gospel living brought only trials or tragedies in those early years. But I do share it for an ever younger and ever newer generation in the Church who may not know the gifts that earlier men and women—including young men and women—have given us in what our new film states simply in another single word—Legacy.

However, all was not going to go as planned because precisely one week before preparing to fly to Hong Kong, Sister Berry began to experience lower back pain. She tried to shrug it off, expecting it to heal on its own. Then, a couple of days later, after a volleyball game, she noticed the pain grew to the point where it was difficult to walk.
She was immediately seen by the MTC doctor and was horrified to be told that she would not be able to fly out for her mission but would need to return home to England to have surgery.
She was utterly devastated but determined to find a way to stay on track. She was able to see a surgeon in the USA who specialised in the surgery she needed. So, Sister Berry remained in the MTC for an extra three weeks, waving goodbye to her MTC group as she waited.
Within that time, the cysts on her spine had receded and drained enough to help the surgery process for which she was waiting.
Following her surgery, the recovery programme would take longer than six weeks, and so it was decided she would return home to England, but she went back with the mindset that she would not stay for long, and that her suitcase would remain packed!
To keep herself in the missionary frame of mind, she kept her daily missionary routine, reading her scriptures and studying the mission language. She also met with her MTC teacher online to practise the language.
She said, “I did not give myself the option even to consider staying home. My mind was firmly set that this was just temporary”.
On March 4, 2019, now stronger, she flew from England to Hong Kong, ready to meet with her mission president and his wife, President and Sister Phillips, from the USA (now living in Salt Lake City).

I close with another example of a family relationship. At a stake conference in the Midwest about 10 years ago, I met a sister who told me that her nonmember husband had been accompanying her to church for 12 years but had never joined the Church. What should she do? she asked. I counseled her to keep doing all the right things and to be patient and kind with her husband.

About a month later she wrote me as follows: “Well, I thought that the 12 years was a good show of patience, but I didn’t know if I was being very kind about it. So, I practiced real hard for over a month, and he got baptized.”

Kindness is powerful, especially in a family setting. Her letter continued, “I am even trying to be kinder now because we are working on a temple sealing this year!”

Six years later she wrote me another letter: “My husband was [just] called and set apart as the bishop [of our ward].”2

I didn’t know as much about fasting when I was seven as I do now that I’m eight. Oh, I knew what fasting was, but I didn’t really understand what it meant until one day when my parents called a family meeting.
“Grandma will be having surgery, and she needs our help,” Mom explained. “Your aunts and uncles and all of your cousins who are old enough will join us in a special fast.”
“A fast!” I gasped.
I love Grandma and really wanted to help her, but I’m a growing boy. Eating is one of my favorite things to do. It’s hard for me to go without food for two minutes, so I didn’t know if I could go without two whole meals! Couldn’t I send Grandma a get-well card or visit her at the hospital? I would even weed her garden. That would be as good as fasting, wouldn’t it?
“Who would like to join our fast?” Mom asked.
Both of my sisters raised their hands. “Sure,” I thought, “it’s easier for them. They have more practice.” Of course Mom and Dad would fast, too. They’ve been fasting for so long they’re practically experts. My brother wouldn’t have to fast because he’s only two.
“When would we start?” I asked.
“Tomorrow night,” Dad replied. “Grandma’s surgery is scheduled for the next morning. We’ll close our fast at dinner that night.”
I thought carefully. Watching all my classmates go to lunch without me would be tough.
Then I remembered some of the great things Grandma does for me. She always gives me treats from her cookie jar. She gives the best hugs, and she prays for me. Swallowing hard, I raised my hand.
“Good,” Mom said with a smile. “I’m glad you’re all willing.”
Before we started our fast the next evening, my family gathered for prayer and asked Heavenly Father to bless Grandma.
For a while after dinner I was fine, especially if I didn’t look at the food in our pantry. But after a couple of hours, my stomach started to grumble. I grumbled, too.
“Dad, I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow to eat,” I moaned.
Dad is pretty smart. He says things in a way I can understand.
“Son, I know it’s difficult for a boy like you to fast,” Dad said. “But Heavenly Father has told us that fasting is a good way to receive extra help. We hope that if we show faith in Him by fasting and praying, He’ll bless Grandma to have a successful surgery and get well. Do you think you can try something for me?”
“If I have the strength,” I mumbled.
“Whenever you feel hungry, think of the reasons you’re fasting. Remember Grandma. If you do, I believe you’ll be able to make it to the end of the fast.”
The next day I tried what Dad said. Every time my stomach growled, I thought about Grandma and how much I wanted Heavenly Father to bless her. It wasn’t easy, but I made it all the way to the end, just like my dad said. Even though I was hungry, I felt good inside.
Everything worked out OK. Grandma is better, and she still has treats for me in her cookie jar. After her surgery, people did lots of things to help her get better, like bringing her dinner and stopping by to visit. I even made her a get-well card. But in my heart I know that nothing helped as much as fasting for Grandma.

In order to field test the program, the New Era asked the students at the Highland High School Seminary in Pocatello, Idaho, to give gift subscriptions to their friends and see what happened. At the beginning of the program the seminary student council gave each student a marble to put in his or her back pocket, coin purse, or some other place where it would be hard to ignore. When the student gave a gift subscription, he was allowed to return the marble to a special thermometer board that would measure the program’s progress. Some students had more names than money, and some had more money than names, so both kinds gave what they had the most of. As a result, over 200 marbles found their way out of pockets and purses and onto the thermometer board, and about 180 New Eras found their way to brand-new mailboxes.
Unfortunately, the program is only about three months old as this article is being written, so no one knows what the final results will be, but a few things are clear already. Within a week or so of the day the student council first shared the idea with the students, an unexpected result developed across the street at the high school. It was clearly becoming a mark of status among the non-Mormon half of the studentbody to be given a New Era subscription. Even the rare students who didn’t want the magazine went around with wrinkled brows if they weren’t at least given a chance to turn it down.
Most of the seminary students found it easier to give a New Era than to bring up the gospel in any other way, and yet some of them still approached giving the gift with some fear and a little trembling. What if the gift were rejected? What if a friend were offended? They were amazed at the overwhelmingly positive reaction. Their friends were not only willing but eager to receive the New Era. There were exceptions of course. A few students wanted nothing to do with anything Mormon. A few parents objected, but those cases were a small handful, and it was never hard to find another friend who would say yes. Having given one subscription, students found themselves wanting to give another. One girl gave five. Another said, “Whenever I see someone now, I think, ‘I wonder if I ought to give him the New Era and the Book of Mormon and then maybe see if he wants the missionary discussions.’”
Captain M was starting to stir in Pocatello, Idaho. Improvising on the program, one girl sought out the most anti-Mormon teacher in the school and informed him she was giving him a subscription to the Ensign. Astonished, he accepted.
Robin Oakey caught the spirit of the program and gave a subscription to his friend Tony Collings. Robin probably won’t hesitate to do it again sometime because Tony was recently baptized. The New Era didn’t do it alone, of course, but it certainly didn’t seem to hurt any.
Susie Finlayson had been trying for some time to get a friend to have the missionary discussions, but he “kept not being too excited.” She gave him a subscription to the New Era, and while he was waiting for the first issue to arrive, someone gave him a couple of old copies so that he would know what he was getting. A day or two later he stopped Susie in the hall. “I’ve got a poem for you,” he said. He then quoted from memory a poem he had read in the New Era. A few weeks later he asked if he could start taking the missionary discussions. That success reminded Susie of another friend she had given the New Era to a year earlier. She checked with him and found that he was feeling bad because the subscription had ended. He is now receiving the New Era again.
The students found that even those who weren’t too excited about the gift at first usually warmed up after the first New Era came. One day at a debate tournament, Cherie Allen and some friends worked up enough courage to ask a non-Mormon debater if he would accept a New Era subscription.
“Do you take the New Era?”
“That Mormon magazine? Of course not.”
“Well, we’d like to send you one, then.”
“Fine! With the energy shortage I can use it for firewood.”
Cherie and her friends were a little crestfallen at the flippant response, but they gave the young man the magazine anyway. A few weeks later he sought Cherie out and said warmly, “Cherie, thanks for sending the New Era to me. I really like it.”

What truly converted me to the gospel was the Book of Mormon. I read some verses from it. Then one day I decided to follow Moroni’s promise to “ask God … if these things are not true; and … he will manifest the truth of it unto you” (Moroni 10:4). So I said a prayer and started reading the very first verse in the Book of Mormon. When I read it, the Holy Ghost witnessed to me in a wonderful way that the Book of Mormon truly is the word of God.

Mark and his mom tromped through the snow to the car. Dad had scraped the frost from the windows and warmed up the car, but he wasn’t coming to church. He was reading on the sofa instead.
“I hate going without Dad,” Mark grumbled as he settled into the front seat beside Mom.
“I’m sad that Dad’s not going with us too,” Mom said as she backed out of the driveway. “But I still love going to church.”
“Well, I do too,” Mark said. “But you know what I mean, right? I wish our family could be more like Doug’s family.”
Doug was Mark’s best friend at church. Doug’s dad went to church every Sunday. He always had a smile and a high-five for Mark.
Mom rounded the corner onto the main road. “I do know what you mean,” she said. “Doug has a wonderful family. And I always thought our family would be more like that. It’s hard that it isn’t. I hope Dad can work out his questions and problems and start coming to church with us again. But that’s for him to figure out. You and I can’t do it for him, and worrying won’t help.”
“What will help?”
Mom paused for a minute before she answered. “Keep loving him. Pray for him. Work on our own testimonies. Try to be happy. Remember what a good dad he is, even if he’s not the same as other people’s dads.”
Mark thought how good it felt to get into their nice, warm car with the windows cleared. “I think I understand,” he said.
Mark thought about Mom’s words all week long.
He thought about them on Tuesday night when Dad sat down to help him with homework.
“You’re working really hard,” Dad said. “You know what? I think you’re going to be really successful all through school. I hope you always remember how important it is to get a good education.”
He thought about her words on Wednesday afternoon when Dad surprised him by picking him up at school. They ate lunch together and watched ice skaters in the park.
“I don’t have to teach a class until later today, and I just wanted to hang out with you,” Dad said.
Mark thought about Mom’s words on Thursday evening when he came home from Webelos and found Dad listening to music while grading papers.
“Isn’t this song amazing?” Dad asked. “It was written by one of my favorite composers.” Mark had to agree that the music was beautiful.
And Mark thought about her words on Saturday morning when Dad took him snowshoeing. They saw intricate ice crystals clinging to tree branches, a rabbit whose fur had turned white for snow camouflage, and crows feasting on winter berries.
“Remember how blessed we are to live in this world, Mark,” Dad whispered as they watched wispy clouds drift overhead.
On Sunday, when it was time for church, Mark saw Dad lying on the couch. He had been praying that Dad would come to church this week, but he stopped and gave Dad a hug before he went out to the car. “I love you, Dad,” he said. “You teach me so many good things. I’m glad you’re my dad.”

The desire to help another, the quest for the lost sheep, may not always yield success at once. On occasion, progress is slow—even indiscernible. Such was the experience of my longtime friend, Gill Warner. He was a newly called bishop when Douglas, a member of his ward serving in the mission field, transgressed and was deprived of his Church membership. Father was saddened; Mother was totally devastated. Douglas soon thereafter moved from the state. The years hurried by, but Bishop Warner, now a member of a high council, never ceased to wonder what had become of Douglas.
In 1975 I attended the stake conference of Brother Warner’s stake and held a priesthood leadership meeting early on Sunday morning. I spoke of the Church discipline system and the need to labor earnestly and lovingly to rescue any who had strayed. Gill Warner raised his hand and outlined the story of Douglas. He concluded by posing a question to me: “Do I have any responsibility to work with Douglas to help bring him back to Church membership?”
Gill reminded me later that my response to his question was direct and given without hesitation. I said, “As his former bishop and one who knew and loved him, I would think you would wish to do all you could to bring him back.”
Unbeknownst to Gill Warner, Douglas’s mother had, the previous week, fasted and prayed that a man would be raised up to help save her son. Gill discovered this when, following the meeting, he felt prompted to call her to report his determination to be of help.
Gill began his odyssey of redemption. Douglas was contacted by him. Old times, happy times, were remembered. Testimony was expressed, love was conveyed, and confidence instilled. The pace was excruciatingly slow. Discouragement frequently entered the scene; but step-by-step Douglas made headway. At long last prayers were answered, efforts rewarded, and victory attained. Douglas was approved for baptism.
The baptismal date was set, family members gathered, and former bishop Gill Warner flew to the city where Douglas lived and performed the ordinance.
Bishop Warner, through the love of his heart and with a sense of responsibility to a former priest in the Aaronic Priesthood—even the quorum over which he presided—went to the rescue, that not one would be lost.

Examples of pure religion can be found on every hand. At a funeral about a month ago, I learned of a valiant young lady on a mission in a distant land who, after much prayer and many tears, wrote to her dying mom just before the terminal illness took its toll, and told her that even though she would like to be at her bedside, she would follow her mother’s teachings and stay in the mission field to finish her assignment and search out those who wanted to hear the gospel.

I served as a bishop during the period of the Korean War. We had received from Church headquarters a letter indicating that bishops should send a personal letter to each serviceman every month, along with a copy of the Church magazine at that time, the Improvement Era, and a subscription to the Church News. That took a little doing. In our large ward we had about eighteen servicemen. We did not have much money. The priesthood quorums, with effort, supplied funds for the subscriptions to the publications, and I took care of the letter writing. From my experience in the navy at the end of a previous war, I knew the importance of receiving word from home.
One day the sister who took the shorthand for those individually dictated letters said to me, “Bishop Monson, don’t you ever get discouraged?”
I said, “No, I don’t. Why?”
“Do you realize,” she explained, “that this is the seventeenth consecutive monthly letter you have sent to Lawrence Bryson, and you have never received a reply?”
I said, “Well, send number seventeen. It might do the job.” And it did. I received a reply from an APO number, San Francisco. Brother Bryson, far away in the Pacific, had written a short letter which began: “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writing letters [I could have told him that seventeen months sooner], but today has been a special day. I have been ordained a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood. My group leader has stayed close to me, and I am grateful to him.” Then he said, “By the way, thanks for the Church News. Thanks for the magazine. But a special thanks for your letter which comes each month.”
Years later at a stake conference in the Cottonwood Stake, when Elder James E. Faust was stake president, I mentioned that experience in a stake priesthood meeting. A man came up after the meeting and said, “Do you remember me?”
I looked at him. It had probably been twenty-two years since I’d seen him. I said, “Lawrence Bryson!”
He said, “That’s me. Thanks for the letters. That’s why I’m here today.”
Where is Lawrence Bryson now? He and his wife are currently serving full-time missions. Their lives demonstrate full activity in the Church. They are searching for sheep that are lost. I think they will know where to find them. I know they will save them.
I still have that wonderful letter written to me from Lawrence Bryson and dated “Christmas Day, December 25, 1953.” It was one of the most treasured Christmas gifts ever received by me. Sure, you sometimes wonder after seventeen letters have been sent why no reply has come, but I remembered a line of truth: “The wisdom of God may appear as foolishness to men. But the greatest single lesson we can learn in mortality is that when God speaks and a man obeys, that man will always be right.” The leaders of the Church had spoken. We as bishops needed only to obey. The blessing was sure to follow.

“Aw, Mom, do I have to?” Freddie stood scowling by the back door, hands on hips and holding his baseball glove. “I promised Brad we’d play ball this morning, and he’s waiting for me.”
Mom stood in the kitchen with a bucket of paint in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. She was wearing one of Dad’s old shirts and a bandanna over her hair. “I really could use your help, Freddie. I’d like to surprise Dad and get the hallway painted before he gets home this afternoon.”
Tossing his glove disgustedly on the table, Freddie grumbled, “Oh, all right, I’ll help. But let me call Brad first and tell him I’m going to be late.”
After the phone call, Freddie dragged himself back to the hall, where Mom had already covered the floor with a drop cloth. Fingering a hole in his shirt, he glumly watched her pry open a can of paint.
Mom glanced up at Freddie as she poured some into the paint tray. “Which would you rather work with, the brush or the roller?”
“The roller, I guess. Maybe that’ll go faster.” Freddie took a good look at the wall. It was a mess, covered with dark marks and smudges. With a sigh, he dipped the roller into the paint tray. Holding the roller firmly in his right hand, he made a large sweep with it across the dirty wall. A swath of bright, clean color adhered to the wall with a soft, sticky sound.
Freddie worked his way up and down the wall. Mom preceded him, using the brush to do the trim work along the molding and ceiling and in the corners. One especially dark smudge on the wall caught Freddie’s attention. “This is a really bad mark, Mom,” said Freddie. “How did it get on the wall?”
Mom squinted, trying to remember. “I think you made that one. Remember how angry you and Brad got at each other last month?”
“I sure do. I called him a poor sport at the ball game, and he called me a baby. I came home so mad that I wanted to kick him.” Freddie frowned. “I kicked the wall, instead. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, and I felt bad about what I’d done.”
“And as I recall,” Mom added, “Brad came over later, and you two made up.”
“Well, we both said we were sorry. Besides, we couldn’t stay mad forever. That’s why Brad and I are best friends.” With one quick stroke, Freddie’s roller covered the ugly mark with wet paint.
“There’s a bad one you’ll have to do with the brush, Mom,” said Freddie, pointing to a long smudge near the floor.
Mom raised her eyebrows. “I’m the one who made that. It was the time I had a really bad day at work. I came home so upset that I got careless and banged the wall with the vacuum cleaner while I was cleaning.”
“You were still upset after dinner, so Dad and I gave you a sandwich hug that night. Dad and I were the slices of bread and you were the peanut butter in the middle, remember?”
Mom nodded, and her eyes sparkled. “I sure do! It was the best thing that happened to me all that day.” With a few brush strokes, Mom covered the ugly mark.
The smell of new paint filled the hallway. Much to Freddie’s surprise, he had come to the end of the long hall. Standing on tiptoes, he made the final stroke of the roller with a flourish. He and Mom looked proudly at their work. The once dingy wall was now gleaming with clean, fresh paint.
“We do good work, Mom. It almost doesn’t seem fair that the wall will get dirty again.”
“Yes, it does seem a shame,” said Mom. “But at least you’ll never kick the wall again, and I’ll be more careful when I clean. And if we need to, we can always paint the wall again.”
Freddie looked at it thoughtfully. “That reminds me of last week’s lesson at Primary—we can repent when we make mistakes and forgive each other too. Right, Mom?”
Mom ruffled Freddie’s brown hair and hugged him hard. “Right, honey, especially with sandwich hugs. Now I’ll clean up, and if you hurry, you still have time for a ball game with Brad before lunch.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Freddie headed out the back door with his baseball glove. There was a big spot of paint on Freddie’s neck, but there was an even bigger smile on his face.

City of Sydney Youth Band: “We were looking for a band that didn’t practice or perform on Sundays,” explains Karen Mauger, 17, a clarinet player from the Castle Hill Ward. “The Aleknas (another LDS family) told us about a band that had changed practices from Sundays to Fridays.”
Since then, thanks at least in part to seven young Latter-day Saints who joined, the band has grown from 18 to 57 members and won several awards.
More important, “the LDS kids have gained the respect of other band members and their parents,” says Marnie Alekna, 17, of the Baulkham Hills Ward. The band steadfastly refuses to practice or perform on Sundays.