Gospel Story Finder

When I was 17, people started asking me whether I was going to serve a mission. I hadn’t decided yet, so I always put them off.
But as my 21st birthday approached, I started thinking about it. I read my patriarchal blessing, talked to my parents, and prayed.
The desire never came; I never felt I needed to serve. I thought about the counsel of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008), who said that while sister missionaries are welcome, they “are not under obligation to go on missions.”2 I was also reminded of the Lord’s words in the Doctrine and Covenants: “If ye have desires to serve God ye are called to the work” (4:3).
That scripture helped me decide not to serve a mission. When I told the Lord in prayer of my decision, I felt peace and a confirmation that there were ways I could be a missionary without full-time service. I have since found I can share my testimony in many ways—through a conversation about the Lord’s tender mercies, while visiting teaching, or in doing family history and temple work. I am dedicating myself to missionary work by striving to live the gospel and follow the inspiration of the Spirit.
Amy Simon

I share with you tonight two experiences from my life—one which took place when I was a boy and the other pertaining to a friend of mine who was a husband and father of children.

Not long after my ordination as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, I was called to serve as president of the quorum. Our adviser, Harold, was interested in us, and we knew it. One day he said to me, "Tom, you enjoy raising pigeons, don’t you?"

I responded with a warm, "Yes."

Then he proffered, "How would you like me to give you a pair of purebred Birmingham Roller pigeons?"

This time I answered, "Yes, Sir!" You see, the pigeons I had were just the common variety, trapped on the roof of the Grant Elementary School.

He invited me to come to his home the next evening. The following day was one of the longest in my young life. I was awaiting my adviser’s return from work an hour before he arrived home. He took me to his pigeon loft, which was in the upper area of a small barn located at the rear of his yard. As I looked at the most beautiful pigeons I had yet seen, he said, "Select any male, and I will give you a female which is different from any other pigeon in the world." I made my selection. He then placed in my hand a tiny hen pigeon. I asked what made her so different. He responded, "Look carefully, and you’ll notice that she has but one eye." Sure enough, one eye was missing, a cat having done the damage. "Take them home to your loft," he counseled. "Keep them in for about 10 days, and then turn them out to see if they will remain at your place."

I followed Harold’s instructions. Upon his release, the male pigeon strutted about the roof of the loft, then returned inside to eat. But the one-eyed female was gone in an instant. I called Harold and asked, "Did that one-eyed pigeon return to your loft?"

"Come on over," he said, "and we’ll have a look."

As we walked from his kitchen door to the loft, my adviser commented, "Tom, you are the president of the teachers quorum." This, of course, I already knew. Then he added, "What are you going to do to activate Bob, who is a member of your quorum?"

I answered, "I’ll have him at quorum meeting this week."

Then he reached up to a special nest and handed me the one-eyed pigeon. "Keep her in a few more days and try again." This I did, and once more she disappeared. Again the experience: "Come on over, and we’ll see if she returned home." Came the comment as we walked to the loft: "Congratulations on getting Bob to priesthood meeting. Now what are you and Bob going to do to activate Bill?"

"We’ll have him there next week," I volunteered.

This experience was repeated over and over again. I was a grown man before I fully realized that indeed Harold, my adviser, had given me a special pigeon, the only pigeon in his loft he knew would return every time she was released. It was his inspired way of having an ideal personal priesthood interview with the president of the teachers quorum every two weeks. I owe a lot to that one-eyed pigeon. I owe more to that quorum adviser. He had the patience and the skill to help me prepare for responsibilities which lay ahead.

I went to the swimming pool with my mom and little brother. A boy I didn’t know started bugging me and my brother by pulling on us. My mom told him to leave us alone. Later, I was practicing swimming, and the boy came up to me and asked if I could teach him to swim. I taught him what I had learned in my swimming class. He was glad for the help and was nice to me after that. I felt good for helping him.
Seth Root, age 8St. George, Utah

Annie and Gerard have always tried to teach their children the gospel in ways that would make an impression. A year after their baptism, when their two children were ages two and three, they prepared to go to the temple to be sealed as a family. In a family home evening, the parents illustrated what it means to be sealed in the temple. Holding four match sticks, representing each member of the family, they dropped them onto a table. Of course, the matches scattered. They explained that the family could be like that if death separated them. Then the matches were bound with thread and dropped again. This time they stayed together. The children were told that their sealing would be like that—nothing in the world, not even death, could ever separate them if they obeyed the commandments and worked together.
Three-year-old Christophe was very impressed with the lesson and waited impatiently for the day they would go to the temple. When the day finally arrived, two serious little children entered the sealing room with their parents. The ceremony was beautiful. But as the family was leaving the temple, a perplexed little boy, almost in tears, asked, “But Mama, when are they going to tie us together?” Another lesson on temple sealings quickly followed!

Illustration by Taia Morley
When I was 13 years old, the prophet asked Church members to read the Book of Mormon in five months, by the end of that year, and promised blessings for doing so. One day as I was reading on the bus, a girl named Cynthia sat by me and asked what the book was. I said it was the Book of Mormon and that it was a special book. I said I wanted to finish reading it before the year ended so I could receive blessings.
She started asking more questions, and I told her she could come to my house so we could talk more about it. She accepted my invitation, and we spent several hours over the following days talking about the Book of Mormon and the Church.
The next Monday, I invited her to family home evening, where I introduced her to the missionaries. They started teaching her the lessons, and she began coming to church and to all the youth activities and other Church meetings.
She decided that she wanted to be baptized, and with her parents’ permission, she was baptized on her birthday that year. She said it was the best present she’d ever received. Her mother and siblings attended the baptism. She asked me to sing “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2), and she asked my father to perform the baptism. After she came out of the water, we embraced and cried. I will never forget that day because I felt such incredible happiness.
A year later my family moved away. It was difficult because Cynthia and I had become good friends and sisters in the gospel.
Even though we don’t live close to each other anymore, we’re still great friends. We talk often on the phone, and recently she called to tell me that her mom was listening to the missionary lessons. This made me happy because before that her mom didn’t want to listen to the lessons. Cynthia told me that someday she hopes to go to church with her entire family. She thanked me for introducing her to the Church.

Recently, I was at home with my 4-year-old daughter, Romana, and we were both in my bedroom. I left the bedroom and went to the living room, leaving her alone in the bedroom. A few minutes later, I called out to her: “Romana, you are alone in the bedroom, come to the living room to be with me and your dolls.”

Without hesitating, she replied: “Mom, I am not alone, God is with me! We are never alone, remember?” I was so touched to hear my little girl saying those words. A few days earlier, during our family study, my husband and I had taught our children that our Heavenly Father and our Savior are always with us, despite our weaknesses and challenges. We are never alone!

Najo could not believe his eyes as he looked out his bedroom window.
Snow was everywhere. It covered the bushes and trees. In fact, it covered the whole front yard.
Najo rubbed his eyes after looking at the bright white snow. He had never seen snow before, because it was always warm and sunny in the Indian village where he used to live.
Najo turned away from the window. Quickly he washed and dressed himself and ran downstairs. His mother was in the kitchen.
“Mama!” Najo cried. “Have you seen the snow?”
“Yes, little one,” Najo’s mother laughed. “I have seen it. The boys across the street have seen it too. Look out the front window.”
Najo ran to the front window and looked out. Across the street were four boys playing in the snow.
“The snow is wet,” Najo’s mother said, “and it packs together. The boys are building a man of snow. They will have a big snowman when they finish. Maybe you could help them.”
Najo shook his head. He plopped down in a chair and watched the boys. They were laughing and tossing snow at each other. Sometimes they fell down and rolled around in the fluffy whiteness.
Najo wished his family had never come to live in the city. He missed his old house, but most of all he missed his old friends.
“You will make new friends,” his father had told him encouragingly.
“How?” Najo asked.
“There are many ways. You will find one.”
But Najo had not found a way. In the two weeks he had been in their new house, Najo had made no friends at all.
Najo heard the boys laugh and he looked out the window to see one of the boys put a red cap on the snowman’s head.
Suddenly Najo jumped up. He could make a friend—a snowman friend.
Najo ran to the closet and put on his warm coat and mittens. He pulled on his boots and took his sombrero off a hook.
The breeze outside made Najo’s cheeks tingle. He jumped into the soft, cold snow and scooped it up with his hands. He threw a handful into the air and laughed when it landed on his upturned face.
Najo played in the snow for a long time before he stopped to make his snowman friend. First he rolled a fair-size ball of snow. But when he packed it more tightly to roll it bigger, it fell apart.
Najo stood up and looked over at the boys across the street. It seems easy for them to roll the snow, he thought.
Najo started again. This time he packed the snow even tighter and after a few minutes he had one small ball. Then he shook the snow off his mittens. But inside the mittens his hands were wet from the melted snow and his arms and legs felt tired.
Slowly Najo began rolling a second ball of snow. Again the snow just seemed to crumble. It’s not so easy to build a snowman, he decided.
Finally, the second ball was finished. Najo lifted it up and set it on top of the first ball. It tipped slightly where the snow had broken off.
The last ball of snow was the smallest and Najo was glad. His hands were cold and stiff and his feet were becoming cold and wet.
Carefully Najo set the third ball of snow on top of the other two. What a funny sight you are! he thought, looking across the street at the fine, big snowman the boys had made.
Najo looked at his snowman again and saw large holes where the snow had fallen out. It was small and not very well shaped.
He slipped off his sombrero, walked forward, and put it on the snowman where it completely covered its head.
“Your snowman can’t see!” called a voice from behind.
“The hat is too big,” another voice said laughingly, “or your snowman’s head is too small!”
Najo turned around. The four boys had just come into his yard. “I-I’ve never made a man of snow before,” Najo said softly.
“It’s easier when someone helps you,” the tallest boy said. “But if this is your first snowman, it isn’t too bad. Where’d you get the fancy hat?”
Najo looked at the sombrero. “I made it in the village where I used to live,” he answered.
The boys walked around the snowman, packing more snow on it, while Najo brushed the snow from his coat.
“I wish I had a hat like that,” the tallest boy said. “I’ve never seen one like it.”
“I have another one in the house,” Najo added. “This is my old sombrero. Would you like to see my new one?”
All the boys nodded.
“Did you make the new one too?” one of the boys asked.
“Yes,” Najo replied. “I can show you how to make one if you want me to.”
“That would be great!” the tall boy exclaimed. “Let’s finish rebuilding your snowman, then you can show us your new hat. Okay?”
Najo smiled. “Okay,” he agreed.
After the boys helped Najo complete the snowman, the Indian boy ran into the house, passing his mother in the hallway.
“Why are you in such a hurry, little one?” she asked. “It’s time you stayed in and—”
Najo started up the steps. “Please, Mama. I have to find my new sombrero. Some friends of mine outside—”
For a moment he stopped. “Friends” he had called the boys. Yes, they are my friends, he thought. New friends.
Najo smiled down at his mother. “Some friends of mine are waiting outside,” he called over his shoulder as he ran to get his new sombrero.

As my junior year in high school was about to come to a close, going on a mission was not one of my great desires. I had been associating with the wrong kind of friends and had done some things that were not right.
My parents had always encouraged me to go on a mission, but I felt that my friends and the things I was doing were more important. This feeling kept me from planning on a mission. The thought which continually ran through my mind was, “There is no way the Lord would want someone like me as his representative.” This thought only discouraged me more.
On May 17th, my life changed. I was at a party with a club from our high school at a nearby boat dock. I had arrived early so I could help set up tables and unload the grills and food. About 20 minutes later, people started to come and began playing volleyball and throwing Frisbees. After a while the food was ready. The weather was starting to turn bad, and the wind was blowing fairly hard. While I was eating, some guys playing volleyball hit the ball into the river. Someone yelled at me to go get it. Why they shouted my name, I don’t know. Foolishly I hurried from the table, ran as fast as I could, and jumped into the river, clothes and all.
The wind was causing waves which pushed the ball further and further away from me, and I kept going after it. The water was getting cold, and my strength started to give out. Before long the ball was out of reach, and I couldn’t swim any longer. I started yelling for help as loud as I could, but if anyone had jumped in from the dock to save me, they could never have reached me in time.
Gradually, things became blurry, and I couldn’t hear. I felt myself sinking, and as soon as my head was underwater, I felt someone grasp my hand. I was lifted into a boat. I had no idea where the boat came from. I had not seen it previously, but it was there when I needed it. I was taken to the dock, where I became oriented again after about 10 minutes.
Two days later, I received a call from the owner of the boat. He said he was at his house trying to get his boat ready for a trip when he felt he should take it out for a test drive even though the wind was blowing and the river was rough. Why did he go? I hadn’t realized it at the time, but it was to save a future missionary.
My close call made me think. If I was saved from drowning in that river, there had to be some purpose in store for me. That thought stayed in my mind. Then one day as I sat gazing over the river that nearly claimed my life, it occurred to me—a mission! I wonder if I am supposed to fulfill a mission.
I soon received my patriarchal blessing, which said that I had been spared for a special mission. That confirmed the answer to my question.
I served in the Ohio Columbus Mission. I had never before had such a peaceful feeling about doing something right in my life. Yes, the Lord did want me as one of his representatives.
I realized you don’t have to wait for an experience such as the one I had to decide whether to go on a mission. Decide ahead of time and do everything in your power to be prepared when the time comes.
Missionary work is a great work. It is an experience we all should share.

It may have happened several months ago, but being part of the Masskara opening number for the cultural show we staged during the welcome dinner for the Tabernacle Choir in February and during the area broadcast with Elder and Sister Stevenson in May still inspires me.
Looking back, I had to sacrifice my weekends to attend the practices. There were times when I felt so tired, especially since I had to juggle family, a ton of school work, and practices while also waking up early, traveling, dealing with sore muscles, and more.
Despite this, I knew that I was doing it for the Lord and that all of my efforts would be worth it. I felt the Lord’s hand every step of the way. On top of that, I got to know so many people, built unexpected friendships, and had so much fun!
We were only given less than two months to practice compared to previous cultural presentations which had several months of preparation, so I was amazed that we were able to learn the steps quickly. I was also inspired by the hard work of those around me, especially the trainers and those who arranged the show.
They were sacrificing so much of their time and effort (to the point that some even sacrificed their sleep), and they were so patient with us. They cared for each one of us. I felt this the most when our trainers gave each of us awards that were well thought out and personalized, which deeply touched my heart. Our trainers also pushed for us to bond with one another, and I think this bond we have with our fellow dancers would not exist without them.
On the day of the performance, we all gave our best. When I saw how the Tabernacle Choir members enjoyed our performances so much, and how they were moved to tears, it made me feel that all of the efforts and sacrifices we made were worth it. I was also surprised and moved to tears when they sang a song for us. It was such a memorable experience for me. That moment felt like we were Zion—of one heart and of one mind, all worshipping the Lord, all united by music. Nothing can replace the sacredness and joy that I felt that night.
Three months later, we performed our Masskara dance again, this time with Elder and Sister Stevenson, the Area Presidency and their wives, and the entire country as the show and the devotional were broadcast live! We experienced the same high, this time brought about by the inspiring words of Elder and Sister Stevenson. They counseled us to P.R.O. every day: Pray over and over, Read time after time, and Obey again and again.
My Masskara co-dancers and I have been trying to apply the things we learned during our rehearsal period and our recent performances, and today I am happy to note that among the Masskara dancers, three are already serving their missions, and two have received their call.

“We also used to go to Huntsville, Utah, every summer; that’s where my mother grew up. Mother was President David O. McKay’s sister. I can’t remember President McKay when he didn’t have white hair. He was a great man, loving and kind and never saying an unkind word about anyone.
“I was so impressed with Huntsville that when I was nearing eight years of age, I decided that I wanted to be baptized in Spring Creek, which runs just a half block north of the old McKay home. It was late November, and the weather was very cold. There was ice along the edge of the creek when we stepped across it into the old swimming hole where Mother and President McKay had both been baptized.
“My mother was a very spiritual person. She taught us well the importance of living to be worthy to receive the impressions of the Spirit and to follow them.
“When I was older, I had a remarkable spiritual experience. I had taken my family to Burley, Idaho, to see my wife’s family. Coming back, we had a flat tire on a very sharp curve. I stopped the car on the curve because I didn’t want to ruin the tire. As I pulled off the two-lane highway and started to jack the car up, I had the strongest impression to move the car ahead. I ignored the feeling and continued to jack the car up. Luckily the car slipped off the jack. I again had an impression to move the car ahead. I said, ‘OK,’ and I pulled it ahead about twenty yards from where it had been to the straight-away. I had the wheel off and was about ready to put the spare tire on, when I saw two cars speeding west, one car passing the other. Then I saw another car coming from the opposite direction. The three cars passed each other on the curve exactly where our car had been. I don’t know how many of us would have been killed if we had not moved. From then on I’ve tried to follow my impressions the first time—I don’t wait for a second time. When you follow your impressions, you don’t always know what would have happened if you hadn’t done so, but it pays to heed them.
“It’s important for us to learn that serving others is the only way to gain real happiness. My father taught me something that has always impressed me: There’s no limit to the amount of good that you can do if you don’t care who gets the credit. If we can keep this in mind and serve the best that we can, whatever our assignment is, and try to be thoughtful of others, our happiness will multiply. Happiness doesn’t come to us by just seeking it. It comes to us as we serve other people. It’s important to understand that and to do things that are beyond the call of duty, to be helpful to our mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and all our friends. By helping them in ways that will bring them happiness, our own happiness will be increased.”

When I was given the assignment to speak in the priesthood session of general conference, I immediately thought of a wonderful Primary teacher. Her great desire was to prepare us to be worthy of receiving the priesthood. She grilled us on the requirements then in place for graduation from Primary—memorize the names of the members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and the Articles of Faith. She also made us a promise—if all of us could recite the thirteen Articles of Faith by memory, we could choose the place and go on an outing for our last class.
We decided on a special spot we liked to hike to on the rocky slopes just above the first dam at the entrance of Logan Canyon, in northern Utah. There was a small, flat space in these rocky cliffs that had a natural fireplace where you could cook hot dogs and roast marshmallows. When we chose the location, however, we did not consider our teacher, who was older and certainly not the athletic type. If we had thought about it more carefully, it might have occurred to us that she would have a difficult time making the hike. Her promise was her bond, however, and she gamely followed us.
First we climbed up the small hill. In our day there were no power lines to prevent access. With some help our teacher made it up the hill. Once over the top we dropped down into a rocky ridge to a place we called “Turtle Back.”
After we arrived, it took our teacher a little while to catch her breath. By the time we prepared to sit down and eat, she had recovered enough to teach us our final lesson. She told us how she had enjoyed teaching us in Primary for the last two years. She complimented us on how we had mastered the Articles of Faith. She could call out the number of any one of them, and we could quote it back to her. Then she said memorizing the Articles of Faith would mean nothing more than a lot of words unless we understood the doctrines and principles contained in them. She encouraged us to study the gospel doctrine taught in each of the Articles of Faith. She explained that the doctrine found in the Articles of Faith was divided into sections.
The power of our teacher’s words has been a source of inspiration to me because of the emphasis she placed on gospel study. The scriptures guide us to a standard of truth by which we can judge the knowledge we are receiving, whether it be true or false. True doctrine comes from God, the source and foundation of all truths. The teachings and concepts of true doctrine are found in the gospel of our Lord and Savior. False teachings come from Satan, the father of all lies. His desire is to pervert, change, and alter revealed truths. He wants to deceive us so some of us will lose our way along the journey back to our heavenly home.
My Primary teacher instilled in me a determination to study the doctrines of the kingdom. She taught me to seek the deep meaning contained in these simple Articles of Faith. She promised me that if I would invest in learning these sacred truths, the knowledge I acquired would change my life for the better, and I testify to you that it has.
After my teacher’s wonderful lesson on that mountain in Logan Canyon, we noticed that we had stayed a little longer than we had planned. The evening was drawing to a close, and we realized we had a problem.
My teacher had struggled to arrive at our special spot, but returning presented a major challenge for us. This only compounded the poor selection of a place for our outing. The climb back was difficult for us, but even more so for a person of her age.
As we struggled to help her back up the hill, two policemen appeared. The Primary president had sent them out to find us, fearing we were lost. The drama of the event and the lessons taught made it an unforgettable experience in my life.

The news filled us with deep sorrow. Despite our grief, Liliana and I had to travel to Peru to retrieve Sergio’s body and personal belongings. We had difficulty thinking clearly, so we were grateful that someone from the Church—from the moment we left our home until we returned—was there to help us. We also received help from the Holy Ghost, who comforted us and helped us endure. We never felt alone.

It is well before 5 A.M. in the Tennessee hills when Tre (call him “Tray”) Pennington, 17, and his grandfather bump along an old dirt road in their pickup. There are no signs to point the way to the Duck River, no landmarks that would stand out to someone new. Mostly there are trees, thick, green, and heavy. It’s only where someone’s cleared out space for a farm or a home that you get any extended view.
Grandpa (call him ’Pa) slows the truck at a clearing and pulls in next to some trees. He doesn’t have to say a word. Tre knows it’s on foot from here. They scramble down a steep bank and pull their boat out of the underbrush, from the same place where they’ve tied it up every day for years. It’s a shallow boat, square on both ends.
They check to make sure there’s gas for the motor; they lift in the paddles and load a few plastic buckets on board. Then, for a few minutes, they wait.
It isn’t that there needs to be more light, although the sun is yet to crest over the hill. It isn’t a question of when the catfish will bite, because the trot lines ’Pa baited with grasshoppers yesterday have been in the water all night long. It isn’t even a question of sneaking a moment of rest before the work begins, because both the young man and his grandfather are eager to be on the river.
It is, quite simply, a moment of reverence, a pause to appreciate nature, to take in the beauty of a morning at its birth.
Finally it is ’Pa who whispers.
“Let’s go,” he says.
Tre responds with a nod. The boat glides into the mild current.
Soon they reach the lines. ’Pa holds the boat steady while Tre lifts each fish, flopping and slimy, out of the water. He brings them in one at a time, almost like taking laundry off a clothesline. Some fish, quite small, are set free. On the big ones, Tre guesses how many pounds.
“This one’ll go for five or six, won’t it Grandaddy?”
“More like four or five,” ’Pa responds.
Ask what kind of fish are in the river, and Grandpa will explain. “Lots of cats,” he says. “Blue. Yeller. Channel. Other fish, too. Perch, Bass, Carp. But you don’t take them often.”
This day when the four lines are cleared, the catch totals fifty catfish and one carp.
Tre does most of what little talking is done. He tells about the time ’Pa got knocked out of the boat by a tree limb and lost his hat. He teases Grandpa about the nickname Grandma gave him.
“She calls him a pelican,” he says, “because he could eat fish three times a day.”
Then there’s silence again, not the awkward silence of people who don’t know what to say, but the silence of men who know each other well.
“I wonder if we’ll see anything today,” Tre finally says as the boat turns for home. Often it’s deer, sometimes a beaver, once in a while a blue heron. Today they see a turtle.
Back home the catfish are cleaned and skinned, dipped in corn meal and fried. “What we don’t eat, we put in the freezer,” Tre explains. “We can trade it for beef.” The carp will be pressure cooked and bottled, then stored on the shelf like salmon. ’Pa can remember times during World War II when canned carp helped keep the family alive.

There sits in this hall a man known to many of you. Some years ago he received a missionary call to the Western States Mission with headquarters in Denver. He had been to Denver a number of times as a member of the university debate team. It was only over the mountain. He and his parents had dreamed of a more exotic field, of one of those “faraway places with the strange-sounding names.” His friends smiled. Some dear to him doubted the wisdom, the inspiration of his call. Why should so choice a young man be called on a mission from Salt Lake City to Denver? But he went. He became a powerful missionary. There are those today who thank the Lord for his coming. He was named counselor to his mission president and experienced marvelous opportunities for training in leadership. He met there a beautiful girl whom he later married. Out of the remarkable and peculiar opportunities of that mission, there emerged within him qualities that have made him preeminent in his chosen vocation. Today he sits here as one of the Regional Representatives of the Twelve.
I think I should add that a man who sits here behind me, President Harold B. Lee, went to the same field, under similar circumstances, and out of that obedience came some of those great and marvelous qualities which we have witnessed in his life, and for which we dearly love him.

When Juliana Circe da Costa, a member of the Colônia Branch, Jundiaí Brazil Stake, turned 18, she was worried about attending Relief Society. “I was afraid I would be alone and wouldn’t be comfortable with the adult women in the branch,” she says. “In the beginning it was strange, but the Lord has a purpose for everything. I’m not saying it was easy, but I’m grateful to the Lord and the sisters who were so wonderful to me.”
Juliana’s Relief Society president, Rita Ribereiro Pandolfi, played a key role in Juliana’s transition. “In our branch we receive the young women with open arms,” she says. “We know they face many changes when they leave Young Women and begin attending Relief Society.”

The fourth insight coalesced as we moved an old, heavy refrigerator from the basement of an elderly sister Clayton home taught. We had tried to find another ward member to help us but could not. Desperate, we asked Jim, a nonmember neighbor who happily agreed to help. It was a hot, horribly humid summer day, and soon our clothes were soaked with perspiration. When we reached the first turn in the staircase and had balanced the fridge on the landing, Jim said, “So tell me about the Mormon Church.”
Mopping his brow, Clayton responded, “Frankly, this is it.” He then explained how home teaching works and noted how much this sister needed us. We also told him that because graduate students and their families were moving in and out of our area all the time, our family was often helping someone load or unload a rental truck.
Jim was incredulous. “At our church we just listen to the sermon and go home. I have no idea who might need my help. They never ask, and there’s no way for me to offer. Will you ask for my help again when you need an extra pair of hands? I like this kind of thing.” Although Clayton had tried unsuccessfully to engage Jim in discussions about religion in the past, Jim was uninterested. But he was interested in opportunities to help others.
As a result, Jim subsequently accepted our invitation to take the missionary discussions.
Despite seeing much truth and goodness in our Church, Jim decided after the third discussion not to continue his investigation. Even though we know that many who discontinue investigating will later listen and accept the gospel, we were disappointed. But this taught us our fifth valuable lesson about member missionary work—we realized we had succeeded as missionaries. Jim had become a great friend, and we had given him the opportunity to understand the gospel of Jesus Christ more deeply. Whether or not he ever enters the waters of baptism, he has taken a step along the path of his own eternal progression and has made some important correct choices. Most of us fear failure. Once we realized that we succeed as member missionaries when we invite people to learn and accept the truth, much of the fear that kept us from sharing the gospel vanished.

On 26 July 1943, Ezra Taft Benson’s true vocation of serving in the kingdom became his full-time occupation when President Heber J. Grant called him to be the youngest member of the Quorum of the Twelve. He was set apart on October 7 of that year, the same day as Elder Spencer W. Kimball, whom he would follow as President.

Just over two years later, in December 1945, Elder Benson was assigned to preside over the European Mission in the aftermath of World War II. Specifically, his commission was to reopen missions throughout Europe and to distribute food, clothing, and bedding to the suffering Saints.

On an almost eleven-month mission of love, Elder Benson traveled more than sixty thousand miles to Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Scandinavia—often in freezing weather in unheated trains and planes. With typical optimism, he organized the “K-Ration Quartet” with his traveling companions, to sing away the tedious and uncomfortable hours.

Time and time again, when permission to enter war-torn countries or to distribute supplies seemed impossible to obtain, Elder Benson appealed to the Lord to open the way. Barrier after barrier was dissolved, and thousands of tons of Church welfare supplies were sent to the Saints in Europe. During this mission, Elder Benson also dedicated Finland for the preaching of the gospel.

Elder Benson met in bombed-out schoolhouses and meetinghouses with Saints who had lost homes, families, health—everything except their devotion to the gospel. The scenes of starvation and destruction never faded from President Benson’s memory. Nor did the faces and the faith of his beloved European brothers and sisters, of whom he often spoke throughout his life.

Not too long ago, I was struggling so much with anxiety. But instead of withdrawing from others, I prayed to Heavenly Father for help, and the Spirit helped me see a life-changing truth:
We need each other.
Even though anxiety can make me want to withdraw from others, isolating myself is not what Heavenly Father wants for me. The adversary wants us to feel disconnected—that we don’t belong, especially in our challenges. But when I rely on the Savior to give me strength to reach out to my siblings or friends about my challenges, they respond with love and help me keep moving forward.

“Few people know it, but Brother Monson is the self-appointed chaplain at a number of nursing homes around town,” notes Elder Boyd K. Packer, who sat next to Elder Monson in the Quorum of the Twelve for fifteen years. “He visits them anytime his busy schedule will permit, and sometimes even when he doesn’t have free time.”
(A well-meaning person once told President Monson that it was useless for him to visit these elderly people, talking at length with them when they seldom answered a word. “You might as well save your time and breath, Elder Monson. They don’t know who you are.”
“Whether they know me or not is beside the point,” the determined Thomas Monson replied. “I don’t talk to them because they know me; I talk to them because I know them.”)

A few years ago, the Campbells lived on Chestnut Street in town. Their home was spacious and it had a swimming pool. The Campbells had two sons, but were told by doctors that because of medical complications it was unlikely Sister Campbell would have any more children. So the parents decided to continue their family anyway—by adopting.

“We feel as though we’ve always been a family,” Phil said. “Some of us just took a little longer to get here. First came Mike (who is 19 and currently serving in the Washington Seattle Mission), then myself. Then we adopted Lynn. Then we decided Lynn needed a sister, and Julie was adopted. Then the agency called and asked if we would like another girl, and Christine joined us. Then we wanted Jabez (“J.J.”) to even up the boy-girl ratio.

“Dad and mom prayed and prayed about having another child of their own but had nearly abandoned hope, even though they felt the Lord would bless them. Then miraculously Sam was born without any problems. It surprised everyone, since we had figured J. J. was the caboose! Then when Joe (“Little Bear”) was adopted, he filled in the space between Christine and Lynn. Then we wanted another girl, but Monty Jr. (“June Bug”) needed a home, and we all fell in love with him.

“We thought that was it, but then the agency called and asked mom and dad if they wanted two more!” So Nicholas and Doug joined the family. Now the roll call at the dinner table reads like this: Mike (he’s always remembered, and sometimes his letters are read aloud), Phillip, Christine, Joe, Lynn, Julie, Jabez, Nicholas, Sammy (5), Doug (4), and Monty Jr. (2). “That makes 11,” Sister Campbell said, smiling. “And now we figure one more would be perfect.”

Sister Campbell explained that she and her husband are the only Indians listed with the adoption agency, and that because they have such a positive record, the local magistrate (himself one of 11 children) is eager to help. “It’s our experience in family court that we don’t find too many happy occasions such as this,” Judge Victor E. Manz said. “At a time when people say the family is falling apart, this family is a true inspiration.” Although the children come from various tribes, they are all adopted into the Cayuga tribe when they join the family.