Gospel Story Finder

Some time ago I was in this same situation. My friend, who is not yet a member of the Church, went to a bar and brought back two bottles of beer. I said to him, “Don’t you know my Latter-day Saint principles?” He answered, “Excuse me, I had forgotten; so I have no friend to drink with.” Then he surprised me. He threw the two bottles in the garbage. He always goes out with me now, but he does not drink.
Our examples influence other people. We need to follow the example of Jesus Christ.

Mozambique. The name, for some, conjures images of exotic wildlife, lush green vegetation, or white-sand beaches. More likely, it will send the average person scrambling for a map to discover its location in southeast Africa. But for Maria da Conceição, it means home. And thanks to the efforts of members in the Inhamízua Branch and a few missionaries, Maria now has a place in Mozambique to call her own.
Maria is a tiny woman with a gigantic spirit. Abandoned by her husband and oldest daughter, she was left to rear two small children on her own. Crippled by a debilitating disease she has had since birth, Maria struggled to pay the rent each month. In a country that has high unemployment, work and money are nearly impossible to come by. Yet Maria managed to make a meager living and do the best she could.
I was a full-time missionary in Mozambique. When I first met Maria, I was impressed by her positive attitude and zest for life. She worked relentlessly in her machamba (large garden) to provide for two children and herself and to pay rent on a small mud house.
Church members helped by providing food and medical care. Tragically, Maria’s two children died within three weeks of each other due to disease and no access to the right medical facilities. Death and suffering are common in Mozambique.
Serving as the branch president for our tiny branch, I was extremely concerned for Maria. Both the youth and adult members of our isolated branch did everything they could to help Maria. Some worked in the machamba, others offered food, and a few even helped pay the rent; but she needed a permanent answer.
Late one night, while I was pondering and searching for an answer, inspiration came to me in the form of an idea for an ambitious youth project: building a home for Maria. My companion, Elder Bis-Neto, and I proposed our idea to the younger members of the branch, and they jumped at the chance to help build Maria a house. There was little money and a great deal of work to be done, but with many willing hands and a vision of a traditional African mud-and-stick house, a plan took shape, and the youth went to work.
Everyone got down to business immediately. First job: get wood.
A trip into the African jungle to gather wood for building a home is not a job for the fainthearted. The youth and missionaries made many two-hour trips through thick, swampy savannas, endless rice fields, dense overgrown jungles, and waist-deep mud to find the perfect trees with which to build Maria’s house. Using machetes, we hacked down the slender trees and then organized them into bundles for the journey back. Some of the youth used tall wild grass to quickly weave hats to help protect their heads from the rough logs.
The most difficult leg of the journey now began. Carrying a heavy load on our heads, scratching our way through the dense undergrowth, and battling the scorching African sun, we hauled our loads back. As we walked, the youth sang hymns of Zion, with smiles on their faces.
Alves Elídio Eguimane Razão, 18, says, “It was a lot of hard work, and we loved every minute of it!”
The wooden frame went up stick by stick, with care given to ensure a sturdy and lasting structure. Many generous hands constructed the roof by laying down strips of plastic, which were secured with mats of woven weeds. This roof would need to repel the violent storms of the annual rainy season.
From mud walls to mud floors to mud pies, mud was the menu for most building days. Barrel after barrel of rich brown dirt was hauled in and then drenched in water. Dozens of youth and other branch members turned out to help hand mix the mud and cover the frame house. The exterior was done first, followed by the interior walls and partition. After we had packed the walls with several inches of strong, dried mud, the house started to take shape. To jazz up the interior, a special layer of mud was carefully applied to create the floor and solid water-resistant surfaces.
These days were full of hard work, but the atmosphere abounded in good humor and many smiles, not to mention the surprised eyes of the neighbors as they watched missionaries and youth carrying large bundles of sticks and gallons upon gallons of water and slinging handfuls of mud.
Finally the door was hung, a lock installed, and the house was done. After more than 1,000 service hours, given by more than 40 members and a number of missionaries, Maria da Conceição had a beautiful home of her own.
On a tiny plot of land, in a remote village of Mozambique, Maria da Conceição’s home stands as a testament of love and obedience to the principles of the gospel. Maria and the members of the Inhamízua Branch have learned that, amid the harsh trials of life, there is hope to be found when Church members work together to make good things happen.

At one time, Ben, Jr., and Brad, my two oldest boys, belonged to a Japanese Scout troop because our ward didn’t have a Scout troop. One day the Scoutmaster took the boys on a hike in the Zion Narrows in southern Utah. Their progress was slower than anticipated. Concerned that the park officials whom they had checked in with would be worried about them, the Scoutmaster asked my sons and a couple of other boys to hike ahead by themselves and let the park officials know that everyone was OK. The boys took a wrong turn into a dead-end canyon and didn’t know what to do. The other boys were not Latter-day Saints, but they turned to Ben and said, “Maybe you’re the one who ought to pray for us to help us get out of here.” After he offered a prayer, Ben said, “Let’s go,” and they turned and walked out without any problem. How grateful I was that my children had learned to pray, that they had faith in that prayer, and that our Father in Heaven would help them find their way safely out of the canyon.

“I remember one experience I had as a little boy that had to do with my going to the grocery store. When I came back, I was eating an apple. Mother asked me where I got the apple. I said, ‘I found it.’ She asked where I found it, and I said, ‘At the store.’ She said, ‘You found it before it got lost.’ I had partly eaten the apple, but she made me take it back anyway. I can still remember crying all the way to the store. Mr. Goddard, who ran the store, said, ‘I saw you take it, but I didn’t say anything because I knew your mother would make you bring it back.’ I have thought of that experience many times and know that I learned the true value of honesty through that incident.

For a moment let me take you with me back to my college days. As a student at the University of Utah, I was attending a dance on campus. I was dancing with my date, a girl from West High School, when a young lady from East High School danced by with her partner. Her name was Frances Johnson, although I didn’t know it at the time. I just took one look and decided that there was a young lady I wanted to meet. But she danced away. I might never have seen her again.

About two months later I did. One day while waiting for the streetcar in Salt Lake City, I looked across the way and couldn’t believe my eyes. There was the young lady I had seen dancing across the floor. She was standing with another young lady and a young man whom I remembered from grade school days. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember his name. I had a decision to make. What should I do? I found in my heart an appreciation of the phrase: “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.” I squared my shoulders and plunged toward my opportunity. I walked up to that young man and said, “Hello, my old friend from grade school days.”

He looked at me blankly and said, “I can’t quite remember your name.” I told him my name. He told me his name, and then he introduced me to the girl who later became my wife. That day I made a note in my student directory to call on Frances Beverly Johnson, and I did. That decision, I believe, was perhaps the most important that I have ever made.

The Somali language had not been written, only spoken, until October 21, 1972, when the three-year-old revolutionary government announced it would be written.

Haroon still found writing and reading Somali a bit strange. Reading had always involved a foreign language. His experience was like those who speak English at home but must use French everywhere else. There would be no books or magazines in English, for everything to read and write would be in French.

Haroon was only four when he began going to school to study the Koran, the Muslim’s holy book. He chanted the Arabic words with his classmates, but he didn’t understand them.

At seven he began learning English.

“This is a book,” the teacher at that school said.

And thirty voices repeated, “This is a book.”

All Somalis who had gone to school in the past had to learn a foreign language, but there was no chance to learn to read and write their native tongue. Only about 5 percent of the people could get a proper education. Different ones had tried to write the Somali language, but before 1972 none were successful.

Haroon remembered the excitement of the day the announcement was made that the language would be written with the same alphabet he used to study English. Airplanes had dropped leaflets all over the city to tell the people the good news.

People began learning to read and write Somali at once.

Three months later Haroon’s father, who was a clerk in a government office, told him, “Next week I must pass a literacy test in Somali in order to keep my job.”

That same week Haroon and three of his friends sat at a sidewalk cafe sipping a spicy beverage. Jama ran up to them, waving the first edition of the Somali daily newspaper.

“Just look at this!” he shouted. Proudly he read the name “Xiddigta Oktoobar (October Star).”

Soon five heads were bent over the pages, sounding out familiar words that looked strange in print.

Radio Mogadishu began broadcasting literacy lessons daily. Everyone in town was learning to read now. Classes sprang up all over the city.

In August of 1974 the literacy campaign was taken to the nomads in the bush country. All schools, except technical schools and the senior classes, were closed for the year. Students fourteen years and older were sent into the bush to teach the nomads to read and write Somali.

Thousands of students were assigned to various sections of the nation. Haroon was one of these. He had stepped up to the official handing out the supplies. “Nabad miyaa,” he greeted.

“Haah waa nabad weeya,” came the cheerful answer. “Here is what you’ll need, Haroon: a blanket for cold bush nights; a folding blackboard that is also a box for the eraser, pens, pencils; a textbook; and a class register. Nabad gelyo. llaah ha ku barakadeya. (Go in peace with God’s blessing).”

Haroon began with great confidence, but he found the nomad chief was not interested in learning anything from a city youth who knew nothing about camels. Only the children and some women attended classes—sometimes.

Haroon longed for the comforts of his father’s house, especially plenty of water for showers. He longed for a chance to talk with friends, for most of the men here ignored him.

Just when he felt especially low in spirit, he met Osman, a former schoolmate, traveling with another group of nomads. Osman was bubbling with enthusiasm about the literacy campaign and all that he was learning from the nomads. “I even helped load the camels for this move,” he said with a grin. “I’d never touched a camel before. And what do you know?” Osman continued, stroking the flank of the animal near him. “This animal actually obeyed my command to get up after we had put on its load.”

After they parted, Haroon reflected on Osman’s words and obvious enjoyment of his experience. I guess I’ve just been thinking of one part of the president’s challenge. I think I know so much the nomads should learn that I haven’t thought about learning anything from them. He softly repeated the president’s words, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aqoon baro.”

That night he moved closer to the men around the campfire. He was captivated by the stories Chief Abdi told of Somali heroes of the past. Just before he fell asleep, he thought, I ought to write those stories in Somali. But the next day there was no time for classes nor for story writing, for the clan had to move to find more pasture.

Haroon tried to be helpful. By the time they got settled in their new location, he was feeling as though he were almost a part of the group. However, he was also feeling sick with a fever. He did not complain, but when Chief Abdi heard about his sickness, he was concerned. He sent a young man to find a special plant that was used for a fever medicine. To Haroon he said, “Perhaps you want to return to your father. Life in the bush is hard.”

But Haroon was determined to remain, now as eager to learn as to teach. After his recovery, when the chief observed Haroon’s genuine desire to learn of the nomadic way of life, he became more friendly. He ordered his people to attend classes.

Sometimes in the afternoon when the youths gathered under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, the camels shared the shade. It was very different from the classroom in the city where Haroon had studied English. Here the blackboard hung on a tree. And the strong, acrid odor of camels hung on the dusty air.

Some of the nomads were keen students and helped others. Little children chanted the alphabet as they herded goats. They wrote the letters in the dust while goats nibbled whatever they could find.

One evening when the full moon shone over the settlement, Haroon read to the group a story the chief had told some weeks earlier. The men sat enthralled, realizing in a way for the first time that these marks could tell a familiar story.

Chief Abdi was thoughtful as Haroon finished. “That is good, Haroon,” he said. “If we write our history, our children will not forget. I must learn this writing also.”

He became an earnest pupil, and with his constant encouragement, others came more regularly.

Later in Mogadishu, there was a big celebration when Haroon and thousands of other boys and girls returned to the capital after eight months among the nomads. Crowds lined the streets to welcome them and to celebrate the completion of one more phase in the fight against illiteracy.

The schools opened and these youths returned to being students again. But there was a difference. The experiences in the bush had changed them and increased their appreciation and understanding about some of the problems their country was facing. Many now had a growing respect for the skills of the nomads who could survive in the harsh desert. They also had a greater appreciation for the Somali nomadic culture of their ancestors.

Six months later Haroon was walking home from school one day through the noisy city streets when he suddenly caught the strong, unmistakable scent of a herd of camels. Memories rushed into his mind. Then he saw the herd come around the corner at the end of the block. They jostled each other as cars and taxis honked their horns. A bushman was bringing a herd to the slaughterhouse. Haroon went to talk to the nomad and found he knew Chief Abdi’s clan very well.

The man handed Haroon a letter showing sings of being carried many days in the folds of the man’s skirt. Haroon opened it and read greetings from many in the clan. It was written by the hand of Chief Abdi himself. He thanked Haroon for teaching him and his people.

Haroon was happy to know that Abdi was also following the president’s words: “If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.”

I looked at the photograph of her in my mother’s scrapbook, pasted in next to Grandma’s certificate of blessing. She wore plaited hair wound in a crown above her oval face. Her eyes were fine and slanted.
“That’s your great-great-grandmother Totshauna.” My mother used to point her out to me when I was a child and the relatives first started saying I favored her. “She crossed the plains with the pioneers, pulling a handcart for more than a thousand miles.”
“Is a thousand miles farther away than Grandma’s house?” We lived in Salt Lake, and my grandmother Harris lived in Spanish Fork.
“Oh, lots farther, honey. A thousand miles is … is almost as far away as the moon.” Mom was proud of her pioneer heritage, and she wanted to be sure her children appreciated their ancestry sufficiently. I still remember at five years marveling over the woman with the funny hair who pulled a cart to Utah from as far away as the moon. Now I’m 20, and three nights ago when I looked at the photograph (faded, and taped in one corner), I remembered again, and marveled.
I was born in Salt Lake City, the city that she, and others like her, built more than a hundred years ago with adobe bricks and irrigation systems fed from the streams of the Wasatch. The call to gather to Zion brought tens of thousands of Saints from the East and converts from Europe, mostly England, to the Great Salt Lake Valley between 1846 and 1900. The Church in those days, struggling for its existence, desperately needed the strength found in unity, for a scattered church stood little chance of developing into the powerful organization that would be necessary to carry out the Lord’s latter-day work.
Twenty-three-year-old Totshauna Svenstrup, her husband, Christian, and their two small daughters were four of those who responded to the call. They came out of Denmark and, after sailing to the United States, joined one of two ill-fated handcart companies that headed westward to Zion. Totshauna’s daughter, Anna Karil, at that time only five, years later wrote briefly of the trek in her journal:
“Father died just outside of Florence [Nebraska] in a wagon accident. Mother pulled the cart, and she with child. We buried Gury in the snow by the Sweetwater [Wyoming]. She froze one night next to me and Mother in the tent. We reached the Salt Lake Valley in October. In December Mother delivered a son.”
In the old museum on Temple Square there used to be a statue of two pioneers, husband and wife, their cloaks windswept, standing together beside a small grave. My seminary class once took a tour of Temple Square. We stopped and looked at the statue, and one girl said, “Isn’t that so sad?” and the girl next to her solemnly agreed, “It’s awful. How did they ever stand it?” Then we continued on to the Assembly Hall to exclaim over how beautiful the stained glass windows are.
My seminary class saw the granite temple that day, too. Totshauna died three years before its completion. Every summer thousands of tourists park their heavily loaded automobiles in the spaces posted “Out-of-State Cars Only” that surround the temple block. They go inside and listen attentively to how the seagulls ate the crickets, then flick coins into the fountain. They file into the Tabernacle where once she, too, shifted her weight on the hard, narrow benches, and they lean a little forward in their seats to hear a pin drop. They snap photos of the spired temple and murmur with admiration: “Forty years to build. Imagine that!” Totshauna’s second husband, Samual Hoopes, was killed while quarrying granite for the temple up Little Cottonwood Canyon in June 1872.
Sometimes when I stand outside the temple, my fingers clutching the iron gate, my head thrown back as I stare at the golden words “Holiness to the Lord,” I remember a widow with eight children. Anna Karil, by that time married, wrote: “Mother embroiders linens for pay. Her fine Danish needlework is admired by many. The children work as they are able. Mother also takes in boarders and washing.”
The spires of the temple and Moroni sounding his trump no longer dominate the Salt Lake skyline. The modern Church Office Building across the street now holds that position of prominence. The office building, 28 stories high, took three years to build. The project was financed by the tithes and offerings of Church members. Totshauna, I think, would be proud to see the tall building. (I can picture her craning her neck toward the top: “Twenty-eight stories high. Imagine that!”) I am proud, too, but sometimes I think of the days when a temple cost 40 years, and even lives, to build. I will be careful not to forget.
After reaching the Salt Lake Valley, Totshauna settled in what is today known as Holladay. Not long after her arrival, she became the plural wife of Samual Hoopes. (I wonder if Samual was as enchanted as I am by her plain and lovely crown of plaits.) She had nine children by Samual; only seven lived past infancy. Her husband, at one time, was two and a half years absent from his family, which included three wives and numerous children, while serving a mission for the Church in the British Isles. Totshauna later sent three sons on missions after Samual’s death, with each son proving an added hardship, for her boys were among the eldest of her children and were depended upon to aid in the support of the entire family. Her own sketchy journal (now kept treasured in soft cloth in my grandmother’s bureau), which she kept for a brief period following Samual’s death, reads: “Hyrum left with elders Whitney and Williams in a wagon and went to take the rail to Canada. I packed him two beef tarts and two loaves bread with chokeberry jam, and Samual’s Book of Mormon, and an extra shirt and pair socks. He is seventeen.”
When my older brother, Jeff, left on his mission to Quebec, we stood in the airport terminal and watched the big jet take off. In his two large suitcases he carried a missionary Bible and leatherbound triple combination, three new suits, five white shirts, and a brand-new woolen coat that Mom saved for three months to buy. He had a notebook with the missionary discussions in it, and he’d already memorized them in French. I asked my mom if we could pack him beef tarts and bread with jam for his send-off, but she just smiled and said, “Oh, don’t be silly,” and baked him a shoebox full of tollhouse cookies instead.
As I reflect upon Totshauna’s life, I can’t help but contrast her harsh and simple life-style with my own. I attend Brigham Young University (named for the prophet-colonizer she followed and revered) where I study English and music and religion. Occasionally I may wash a pair of socks in the sink (she washed all her clothing with a scrub board and lye soap) or take a break from my daily routine by baking wheat bread, but these interruptions are rare. I often wonder while buzzing down the freeway in my Volkswagen or listening to the prophet at conference time on television or radio, what part of her remains in me.
Somewhere inside me I feel a bittersweet ache as I reflect upon those early days of Mormonism. There is in me a kind of wistful longing to return to the days of seagulls and crickets, days when temples took 40 years to build, days of missionaries who traveled on foot or by rail with neither purse or scrip, days of adobe bricks, and martyrs. Such days formed my roots and the roots of my church. They are a part of me in ways that I feel though do not fully understand.
Yet, despite my shadowy longings for past times and things, I am immersed in modern Mormonism—the organization she spent her life building a foundation for. That it is an exciting and marvelous age I live in I cannot deny. (Totshauna would thrill to hear about the 25,000 missionaries who now tract the earth. I thrill, too.) But as the modern church grows in strength and size, and I grow along with it—full of vast and varied possibilities for personal development and eager to discover what part in the growth and development of today’s church I might play—I will be careful to remember and strive to understand that part in me that is Totshauna, that part that is there because of her. I will go to Brigham Young University and exert my mind in the study of Faulkner, Hemingway, and Shakespeare. I’ll learn how to be a writer and maybe one day write for Church publications. I’ll practice my violin for at least one hour each day, and I’ll study the scriptures and struggle to comprehend, as well as live, the gospel of Jesus Christ. But in the mornings as I prepare to meet each day of work and study, I will plait my hair and sometimes even fashion it in a crown above my oval face.

Because of construction, over 2,000 Muslims in Ghana didn’t have a place to celebrate their religious holidays in 2022. Leaders of the Takoradi Ghana Stake let them worship on the grounds of the stake center. Top: Brother Emmanuel Botwe (left) helped coordinate between the two groups.

That blessed tradition continues today in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Take, for example, the generous Saints of Ghana. Because of construction, local Muslims didn’t have a place where large groups could gather for worship during some of 2022. In April of that year, Latter-day Saints graciously allowed 2,000 followers of Islam to use the Takoradi Ghana Stake center for Ramadan meals and prayers. Two months later, Latter-day Saint leaders welcomed the group as they celebrated Eid al-Adha. These are two of Islam’s biggest holidays.6

Our Muslim friends were grateful. “We are all brothers and sisters. We are from one heritage,” said the local Muslims’ chief imam, Alhaji Mohammad Awal, alluding to Abraham’s sons Ishmael and Isaac.7

Emmanuel Botwe, called to lead communication in the Takoradi Ghana Stake, said he has cultivated relationships with other faiths in the area since 2018. He has invited them in to play football and attend a religious symposium, stake conferences, and the dedication of a new meetinghouse.

“We all have to respect and care for each other regardless of our differences,” Brother Botwe said. “That has prompted me to reach out—especially to our Muslim brothers.” Muslims make up only 19 percent of Ghana, a predominantly Christian country. “We are all sons and daughters of our Father,” he continued, “so we need to see eye to eye with them.”

Brother Botwe’s outreach balances kindness with principle. Muslims traditionally celebrate Eid al-Adha by sacrificing an animal such as a ram or goat. They do this in memory of God allowing Abraham to sacrifice a ram instead of his son Isaac.

“We told [our Muslim friends] that it’s not possible for them to slaughter the ram at our church premises. We explained our belief that the ultimate sacrifice has been done by the Almighty. And they respected our wish,” Brother Botwe said. “After the service, they moved to the mosque, where the sacrifice was done by the chief imam.”

For Brother Botwe’s kindness, the chief imam gifted him some of the ram meat. Brother Botwe graciously accepted.

“When you start by respecting their values and beliefs, respecting them for who they are—and not condemning them, not belittling them, even if you disagree with them—mutual respect will be there,” Brother Botwe said.

President Tandiman, a retired government official, was working in a law office in 1970 when he met Latter-day Saint attorneys applying for government recognition of the Church. At their invitation, he accepted the missionary discussions. He was affected by the conduct of the missionaries and their teachings and the fellowshipping he received. “These made a deep impression upon me, an impression that stayed with me and helped me remain active in those early years of my membership,” he says. President Tandiman’s wife and six children also accepted the gospel, and he baptized them. His daughter is now married and has a daughter of her own. Four sons have served missions in Indonesia, and a fifth son is looking forward to a mission call.

One year after his baptism, Brother Tandiman was called as president of the Djakarta Branch, then later as the West Java District president.

Last Christmas, my mom’s whole family came to our house. We all wrote down things that we were going to give Christ for the next year. Then we went around and said what we had decided to give.
My grandma said she was going to read the Book of Mormon in four months. My grandma has not gone to church since she was nine and has only read parts of the Bible. We were all surprised. She said she wanted to read it because all of her kids and most of her grandkids had read it. She wanted to know why it was so important to us.
All of my aunts, uncles, and most of my cousins decided to read the Book of Mormon with her. I wasn’t sure if she was going to do it, but she is now starting the book of Alma. She really likes it. I feel happy when I read the Book of Mormon and know that my grandma is reading it as well.

While I was a boy working in the fields with my mother, she taught me one of the most important lessons in life. It was late in the morning, the sun was up, and we had been hoeing for what I thought to be a very long time. I stopped to look back at what we had accomplished and said to my mother, “Look at all we have done!” Mother did not respond. Thinking that she had not heard me, I repeated what I had said a little louder. She still did not reply. Raising my voice a little higher, I repeated again. Finally, she turned to me and said, “Edward, never look back. Look ahead at what we still have to do.”

I have had the gospel in my home from birth, and thus my parents have always taken care to teach me good principles. In spite of that, I changed a lot during my junior high school years. I decided to take the way that seemed more fun and apparently easier too. I let myself be guided by my friends’ counsel to dress inappropriately, to go to undesirable parties, and even to use bad language once in a while.
At the same time, I started to have problems with my parents and I stopped reading the scriptures. Being popular was most important to me, and going to parties and dressing like my friends seemed good. But in reality I felt empty inside and more alone than ever. I had no peace of mind because I always had something to hide from my parents for fear of being scolded. Something always told me that I was doing wrong, but I still chose to follow my friends and be popular. It was not until the last part of ninth grade that I started feeling that everything that was said in church was especially prepared for me. During a sacrament meeting, the talks that were given were so much what I needed that I turned to my mother and asked her, “Mom, what have you told them about me?” She said that she hadn’t said anything to the speakers about me. It was then that I decided to change, and it was then that my friends turned their backs on me. I felt really bad. But I accepted that my parents had always been right. I came to realize that they were my only true friends.
It was not easy to make the change. I needed to be humble to recognize that I had been wrong. I really wanted to be different, so I began to work with Personal Progress. I started to feel better about myself little by little, experience by experience. Sometimes it was very hard to complete the value experiences, such as reading the scriptures. But even when I would just make the effort, I would feel better.
The first time I finished reading the Book of Mormon, I could feel that everything my parents had taught me about the Church was true, and I could draw nearer to Christ. When I began working on the Laurel projects, I started feeling satisfied with myself, and I began to feel the peace that I had been looking for through service to others in my Good Works projects.
I now have my medallion, and I think it was worth the effort. To me, it is more than a necklace. It really means my feeling of love to my Heavenly Father. It represents my personal worthiness, and it motivates me to go on doing what Christ wants me to do.
I am so grateful for the opportunity we have been given to choose between right and wrong, and I am also grateful for the opportunity to learn from our mistakes. The joy I now feel when I feel the love of Christ through my service to others and the knowledge of my worth has no comparison with my feelings of being popular in school. By now probably nobody in my junior high school remembers me, but I feel happy to know that Christ knows me and knows of my love for Him.
I know we can overcome the challenges that come our way because we are daughters of a Heavenly Father who loves us, and He will not let us be tempted more than we can resist. I know that Joseph Smith was a true prophet, just like President Hinckley is a prophet. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Scripture chasing is a popular pastime in many seminaries throughout the Church. In most cases seminary students learn to find scriptures within seconds after being given a clue or situation. Competition is intensified when youth are put on teams and given points for their speed and accuracy. And in the Champaign Illinois Stake, even the media took notice.
The students were given the challenge to memorize 40 scriptures in the Old Testament. The objective was to learn to locate the scriptures and then apply them in daily life. During practice sessions the students were given (1) a short clue, usually one word, (2) a verbal description of a life situation, or (3) a picture of some event. They then had to find the specific scripture in 15 seconds. The time was gradually reduced until each student could find every scripture in just a few seconds.
Out of 250 home-study and early morning seminary students in the Champaign Stake area, 15 became finalists in a run-off competition. In May 1976 the students with the fastest times formed three teams of five members each. Final competition between the teams was telecast over commercial television. The winning team, Robert Woolley, Carol Burdock, Deann Veach, Sue Ellen Emery, and Carol Retz, were given award plaques for their accomplishment.

The two missionaries serving in the Philippines San Fernando Mission are walking side by side, making their way up the stairs. This is no easy trick, and going up and down stairs is not an afterthought. Elder Dominador Sabit III takes his companion, Elder Michelangelo Benigno, by the arm and they begin their ascent. Elder Benigno struggles, and Elder Sabit patiently helps his companion along. It’s slow going, but there’s no other way. Elder Benigno suffers from Guillain Barre syndrome, a muscle disorder that he contracted when he was three. For as long as he can remember, his legs have never worked right. The braces he wears on both legs help him maneuver, but they’re made of iron and are plenty heavy.

Elder Benigno shows similar enthusiasm. He remembers the day his mission call came. “I was so happy I was almost jumping. I wish I could jump,” he says smiling.

Preparing to serve a mission had always been a part of Elder Benigno’s life. He had read the standard works by the time he was 11. “I could just watch my playmates chasing around while I was sitting down observing them,” he says. “That is why I read. I just focused on the books I read, and it helped me a lot.” Before leaving on his mission, Elder Benigno taught the youth in his ward about missionary service as Young Men president.

“I told myself, if I didn’t have this disability, I wouldn’t serve as an inspiration to others. I want to serve as an example to the young men in my home ward and to the people that I am teaching on my mission,” he adds.

When I was little, I lived in Zwickau, Germany. My grandmother had a friend with white, flowing hair. Her name was Sister Ewig, and she invited my grandmother to church. When our family went there, we saw many children. All of us were very impressed by the music, especially the singing. One song, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam,”* really impressed me. I felt very close to Jesus when I sang it. I knew that He wanted me to be a sunbeam for Him. I still love that song—and the testimony that it gave me of the Savior.

Another thing that matters most is following the promptings of the Spirit in our most important relationships and in our efforts to love our neighbors as ourselves, including in our private and public ministries. I learned this lesson early in my life while serving as a bishop.
Late one cold, snowy winter evening, I was leaving my bishop’s office when I had a strong impression to visit an elderly widow in the ward. I glanced at my watch—it was 10:00 p.m. I reasoned that it was too late to make such a visit. And besides, it was snowing. I decided to visit this dear sister first thing in the morning rather than disturbing her at such a late hour. I drove home and went to bed but tossed and turned throughout the night because the Spirit was stirring me.
Early the next morning, I drove straight to the widow’s home. Her daughter answered the door and tearfully said, “Oh, Bishop, thank you for coming. Mother passed away two hours ago”—I was devastated. I will never forget the feelings of my heart. I wept. Who more than this dear widow deserved to have her bishop hold her hand, comfort her, and perhaps give her a final blessing? I missed that opportunity because I reasoned away this strong prompting from the Spirit.

Joshua propped his spelling book against the box of cereal and slurped a spoonful from his bowl. He wrinkled his forehead and studied the list of words. Today he couldn’t hesitate or make mistakes. After all, he was the captain of his Spelling Baseball Team, and Mrs. Larsen had announced that the winning team would get pizza for lunch the next day.
Josh and Michael were the two captains. They were the best of friends, but they were always competing against each other. Josh’s soccer team had won the tournament, but Michael had earned the highest grade on the science test. Joshua really wanted to win the spelling contest. He mentally listed the best spellers in the class—Marcy, Tom, Alex, Jenny, and Kathy. Then he listed the worst spellers—Drew, Trevor, and Terry. He wouldn’t pick any more of them than he had to.
Joshua finished his cereal with a gulp and grabbed his backpack. “I’m leaving, Mom,” he called.
His mom hurried into the kitchen. “Time for prayer,” she reminded him.
Joshua rolled his eyes and groaned.
“You have time,” she said with an understanding smile.
Suddenly the kitchen was filled with his sister, two brothers, and father. They knelt around the table, as they did every morning, while his sister, Susan, prayed. Josh’s mind was not on the prayer. He was planning the lineup of his team so that the strongest speller could hit everyone home when the bases were loaded. “And,” said Susan in a louder voice, which interrupted Joshua’s planning, “help everyone on Josh’s team to spell his best.”
Josh winked a thank-you to Susan as he rushed for the door. He hopped on his bike and pedaled to school. Kneeling on the ground to lock his bike to the rack, he noticed Terry scrunched against the brick wall of the school. Josh couldn’t believe what he saw: Terry was reading his speller! He was so dumb that Josh didn’t think he’d ever studied in his life. He looked up, but Josh avoided looking into his eyes. He didn’t want Terry on his team. And he knew Michael wouldn’t want him either.
The bell rang, and the students rushed into the classroom. Mrs. Larsen announced that the baseball game would begin at two o’clock. A groan rose from the class, but Mrs. Larsen just smiled and told the class to take out their arithmetic books.
After lunch, Josh raced out to the playground.
“My team will slaughter you this afternoon,” Michael yelled to Joshua.
Josh laughed. “We’re going to cream you. I have first pick, remember?” He swung by his arms across the horizontal ladder. As he dropped to the ground, he spotted Terry huddled against the building, reading his speller again. “Look,” he shouted to Michael. “Look at Terry over there.”
“Hey,” jeered Michael, “if it isn’t Terry! When did you learn how to read?”
Terry looked up when he heard his name.
“You sure aren’t going to be on my team,” Michael snorted. “Josh is going to get stuck with you.”
Terry looked at Joshua quickly, then hid behind the spelling book. Joshua pretended he hadn’t heard Michael’s words.
After lunch, Josh kept thinking about Terry. Why was he studying so hard? Nobody wanted him on his team, anyway—he was a rotten speller. He would strike out at first bat. But Joshua kept watching Terry. At the end of science he noticed that Terry had again slipped his spelling book open to the review unit.
Two o’clock finally came.
Mrs. Larsen said, “Class, line up along the back wall. Michael, please line your team along the right wall; Josh, please line your team along the left wall.”
Joshua’s first pick was the best speller in the class. “Marcy,” he called. Marcy left the back wall to line up beside him. Michael quickly picked Tom. Joshua picked Jenny, but he was watching Terry.
Terry was trying to appear as though he didn’t care if he were chosen or not. He wore a blank expression on his face as he stared at his shoes. Josh wondered if he minded always being the last kid picked for teams, and he wondered how he would feel if he were picked last for everything. He pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on choosing his team.
Michael had chosen Peter, a very good speller. Josh was ready to call out Alex’s name, when Terry suddenly lifted his eyes and looked straight at him.
Joshua hesitated, the words of his sister’s prayer coming into his mind—“And help everyone on Josh’s team to spell his best.” Terry had been studying. He had been studying hard all day—and maybe on other days, for all Josh knew. Surely that was “his best.”
Joshua grinned and called out in a loud voice, “I choose Terry.” Terry’s face broke out in a matching grin as he marched across the room to Josh’s team. As the two crowded together along the chalkboard, both missed the look of happy surprise on Mrs. Larsen’s face.
When the game began, words were pitched to each team. If the player spelled his pitched word correctly, he moved to first base and then on around the field. It was late in the first inning when Terry came up to bat.
“Friend,” said Mrs. Larsen. Terry looked her straight in the eyes, spelled out, “f-r-i-e-n-d,” and went proudly to first base, moving Kathy from third base to home plate.
Joshua, now on second base, whooped, “That pizza is going to taste great tomorrow!”

Angelo kicked Lonnie in the chest and earned the point he needed to win.
“Match!” Mr. Haight, the coach, pointed to Angelo. Lonnie and Angelo sat down on the gym floor to watch two other green belts spar.
“Lucky kick.” Lonnie smiled at Angelo.
“I had to even things up.” Angelo grinned. “You beat me in the races at school today.” Lonnie was Angelo’s best friend, and they did everything together.
On the other side of the gym, the red belts were working on the demonstration they would give for the black belt ceremony.
“Soon we’ll be blue belts,” Lonnie said, but he was watching the red belts across the room.
“Yeah. We have the hours, the moves, and the test down for the blue belt,” Angelo said, “but I can’t wait till we’re red belts.”
“Oh, that’ll be easy,” Lonnie laughed. “We only have to earn the blue belt and purple belt first!”
Mr. Haight raised his hands in the air. “OK, enough sparring for tonight.” He waved everyone toward him and held up a piece of paper. “The tournament is two weeks away. This paper gives all the information you will need to have a successful tournament. Make sure your parents read it and sign it. Bring it back here next week.”
Angelo grabbed the paper and headed for the door. The tournament was the last thing he had to complete before becoming a blue belt! As he rode his bike home, he only wished his grandma could see him compete. Abuela Ana was serving a mission in faraway Romania.
Mom was stirring a big pot of chicken mole when Angelo sailed in and handed her the paper. “This is important. It’s about the tournament.”
“How was karate?” Mom smiled and took the paper.
“It was great! I lost one sparring match and won two.”
“Wow!”
“Yep. Now all Lonnie and I have to do is the tournament and we’ll get our blue belts.” Angelo opened the refrigerator.
“Did you know the tournament is on a Sunday, Angelo?” Mom said.
Angelo closed the fridge. “Sunday?” He frowned. His baptism wasn’t too long ago, and he had determined to keep the Sabbath holy.
“I know how much this means to you, Angelo, but Sunday … ?” Mom trailed off.
“I know, I know.” Angelo stomped off to his bedroom. Why did the tournament have to be on a Sunday? None of the other tournaments were. And if he didn’t go, Lonnie would be a blue belt and he would still be green.
Dad peeked into the bedroom. “Hey, Angelo. I heard about the tournament. Have you called Mr. Haight?”
Angelo brightened. “No. I’ll call right away.” He ran for the phone. Surely Mr. Haight would see his problem—maybe he’d even give him the belt without the tournament.
A few minutes later, Angelo shuffled back to his room.
“What did he say?” Dad asked.
“He said to get the belt, I have to meet all the requirements. I even told him Sunday was a holy day, but he just said the gym was booked on Saturday.”
Dad ruffled Angelo’s hair. “There will be other tournaments.”
Angelo looked up at Dad. “I know. But it might be months away. Lonnie will be a blue belt way before me. I might as well quit!”
“It’s your decision, Angelo.” Dad left, and Angelo lay down on his bed. He knew Mom and Dad didn’t want him to go to the Sunday tournament, but maybe he would go just this one time.
Angelo looked at the Dallas Texas Temple picture on his wall. Abuela Ana had given it to him on his birthday last September. Tucked into the corner of the picture was a photograph of his tiny abuela with a huge Romanian castle in the background. Angelo wouldn’t see her again until his next birthday.
He reached for the photograph and read the words she had written on the back.
“The work is hard here. We give lots of discussions, but no baptisms yet. Last week we went to the orphanages and arranged for children to have needed medical care. They were so grateful. I knew that whatever sacrifice I had made to come here was nothing. I’m following the Savior, so everything will be all right! Te amo, Angelo. I love you.”
Angelo turned the picture over and looked into his abuela’s smiling face. He knew he would not be going to the Sunday tournament. He smiled. “I am following my Savior too, Abuela Ana.”

I learned from my wife the importance of expressions of love. Early in our marriage, often I would open my scriptures to give a message in a meeting, and I would find an affectionate, supportive note Jeanene had slipped into the pages. Sometimes they were so tender that I could hardly talk. Those precious notes from a loving wife were and continue to be a priceless treasure of comfort and inspiration.
I began to do the same thing with her, not realizing how much it truly meant to her. I remember one year we didn’t have the resources for me to give her a valentine, so I decided to paint a watercolor on the front of the refrigerator. I did the best I could; only I made one mistake. It was enamel paint, not watercolor. She never let me try to remove that permanent paint from the refrigerator.
I remember one day I took some of those little round paper circles that form when you punch holes in paper, and I wrote on them the numbers 1 to 100. I turned each over and wrote her a message, one word on each circle. Then I scooped them up and put them in an envelope. I thought she would get a good laugh.
When she passed away, I found in her private things how much she appreciated the simple messages that we shared with each other. I noted that she had carefully pasted every one of those circles on a piece of paper. She not only kept my notes to her, but she protected them with plastic coverings as if they were a valuable treasure. There is only one that she didn’t put with the others. It is still behind the glass in our kitchen clock. It reads, “Jeanene, it is time to tell you I love you.” It remains there and reminds me of that exceptional daughter of Father in Heaven.

Giving to those in need is important. President Monson tells of a Sunday School teacher who taught him to share.
I express gratitude for a Sunday School teacher [named] Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She made the scriptures actually come to life.
We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys and girls with typical appetites, we [imagined] cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious occasion—the biggest party ever.
None of us will forget that gray Sunday morning in January when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.
The lesson that day was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Lucy Gertsch asked, “How would you like to follow this teaching of the Lord? How would you feel about taking your party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted very carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope.
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Noticeably absent was his mother. Always I shall treasure the tears which glistened in the eyes of each one present as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the delicate hand of our teacher to the needy hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. We [had] learned through our own experience that indeed it is more blessed to give than to receive.