Gospel Story Finder

It was one of those warm summer afternoons, the kind of soft and lazy day that seems to envelop the mind in daydreams and push out thoughts of work or study. While I’d been on my mission, this had been the hardest kind of day to keep my mind on the work. Now it was the same way with school. Since before noon I’d been up in the foothills east of campus collecting root samples. My lab partner and I had been collecting them for a botany project. It had taken us about twice as long as it should have, because we spent as much time chasing butterflies as we did collecting plants. After we had finally completed our collection, my lab partner had given me a lift back to civilization, and I’d caught a bus for home. It was Friday afternoon, and with the quiet spell of the early summer day still tugging at my brain, I decided as I rode along to dedicate Saturday to sunny beaches and cool water.
I was beginning to envision the day in a little finer detail when the air brakes gave a familiar hiss and I noticed a small Chicano boy getting on at the front of the bus. The bus was only about half full. There were several empty seats between the front and myself, so I paid little attention. Gazing back out the window, I let my mind drift again to my imaginary weekend.
But just as I was getting back to my daydream, I caught sight of that boy again out of the corner of my eye. He had passed two empty seats and seemed headed straight for the one next to me. He was about nine or ten, dressed in well-faded but clean jeans and a red-checkered shirt. The shirt seemed a little too big, probably a hand-me-down. As he approached, I stared determinedly out the window, hoping he’d pass by my seat in favor of one of the empty ones behind. No such luck.
“Hi, mister,” he said, plopping down next to me. He had a smile so big it seemed about a size and a half too wide for his face. I didn’t want to smile back, but his grin was too contagious; I couldn’t help myself.
“Hello,” I answered, trying to regain my stern composure.
“Nice day, huh?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “nice day.” This time I managed not to smile, and I looked back out the window hoping that would end the conversation. It was a day too well suited for daydreaming to waste talking to some little kid about the weather. There was silence for a moment, and I began to relax again, conjuring up visions of playing volleyball on the beach.
“Hey, mister, you married?”
“What?” I asked, turning back to the boy. His smile, if possible, seemed even a little wider than before.
“You married?”
“No.” I answered coldly, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Oh,” he said, looking down disappointed, his smile fading. I seemed to have momentarily caught him off-guard. He was thinking. Then in an instant he looked up again, his eyes brighter than ever. “But you’re going to get married, right?”
I tried not to smile, but his eyes and that row of teeth made it impossible. “Yes,” I said smiling back, “I guess I will.”
“And when you get married, mister, are you going to love your wife?”
Now he had caught me off-guard. The question seemed out of place coming from someone so young. I felt like he was leading up to something, but I wasn’t sure what. “Of course,” I answered cautiously, “of course I will.”
“And when you love somebody, you always want to be with them, don’t you, mister, even after you die?”
Suddenly it hit me! He was asking me a Golden Question. He was a Mormon. I sat there looking at him. I didn’t answer; I didn’t know what to say. How many times had I asked almost that same question? How many times on the buses and streets of Brazil while I was on my mission? But that was my mission; that was then, not now. It seemed inconceivable that those same words were being repeated to me here, at home, by a ten-year-old boy. The bus was slowing rapidly and the boy stood up, taking something from his back pocket and handing it to me.
“Hey, mister, I got to get off here. Take this. It’s got the name of two of my friends on it. If you want to know more, give them a call. Good-bye, mister.” And he was gone.
I sat staring at the pamphlet he had given me. It was folded in half and a little tattered at the corners. I unfolded it and read the title, “The Plan of Salvation.”
I’d come home from my mission almost two years ago. I’d brought home my missionary journal, color slides, souvenirs, and a lot of memories. But I’d left my mission behind. How many people had I told about the Church in the time I’d been home? How many Golden Questions had I asked? How many nonmembers did I know who might be interested if only I’d bring up the subject? I’d just been taught a lesson about missionaries that I hadn’t learned in the whole time I’d been on a mission, and it had been taught to me by a young boy with nothing but a testimony and a smile.
The bus was filling up with people now. We were near the center of town and it was almost 5:00. A young man in a business suit sat down next to me. Self-consciously I stuffed the pamphlet in my shirt pocket and looked down at my feet. I was still thinking about that boy; as young as he was, he was still more of a missionary than I’d ever been. I glanced up again. The man next to me was looking out the window, probably daydreaming.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” I said without thinking.
“Yes,” he smiled back, “a very pretty day.”
I sat for a moment, fingering the pamphlet in my pocket. Then, mustering my biggest smile, I asked, “Say, are you married?”

Two years after the 1978 revelation on priesthood was received and announced, a group of young Durban township boys were contacted and taught by missionaries. By the end of the year, this group had joined the Church, and in early 1981, they became members of the first organized branch of the Church in the township of KwaMashu (located north of Durban). In late 1984, Sipho Khomo—one of those township boys—was asked by his branch president if he would be willing to serve a full-­time mission.
The decision was not an easy one for him to make. At the time he was baptized, black South Africans referred to the Church as “Isonto Labe Lungu,” meaning, “Church of the Whites”—not a flattering label at all—but reflected impressions that many held about the Church during the difficult apartheid years in South Africa. Rumors, false stories, and the social issues stemming from racial tension in the country all weighed heavily on Sipho as he considered the bishop’s invitation to serve.
But exercising great faith, and without fully knowing the impact his decision would have to himself and to many others, Sipho accepted a call in October 1984 to serve in the London England Mission—making him the first black South African to serve as a full-time missionary.
During his mission and afterward, Sipho’s pioneering spirit motivated other African young men to accept mission calls and to serve the Lord. In fact, during one of Elder Khomo’s Christmas phone calls from England, the township boys all gathered with his family to hear of his missionary experiences. The enthusiasm from that telephone call was contagious, and shortly afterward, those same township boys submitted missionary paperwork and received calls from the prophet to serve in the mission field themselves.
In his own words, Brother Khomo said, “I am glad I went on my mission—it helped make me strong. I followed the counsel given in section 4 of the Doctrine and Covenants and served the Lord with all my ‘heart, might, mind and strength’ so that I could ‘stand blameless before God at the last day’” (verse 2).
Brother Khomo still lives in KwaMashu, and he remains faithful to the gospel of Jesus Christ. His example influenced more than the township boys—and is felt even today as more than 1,000 full-time missionaries from the Africa Southeast Area currently serve in many countries around the world.

I was only 12 years old when the missionaries arrived for the first time to preach in the city where I was born in northern Chile. One Sunday, after I had been attending the small branch for six months, a missionary offered me the bread as he was passing the sacrament. I looked at him and softly said, “I can’t.”
“Why not?” he replied.
I told him, “Because I am not a member of the Church.”1
The missionary couldn’t believe it. His eyes were shining. I suppose he thought, “But this young man is in every single meeting! How can he not be a member of the Church?”
The following day, the missionaries were in my home, and they did everything they could to teach my whole family. But since my family was not interested, it was only my weekly Church attendance for more than six months that made the missionaries feel confident enough to continue. Finally, the great moment I had been waiting for came when they invited me to become a member of the Church of Jesus Christ. The missionaries explained to me that since I was a minor, I would need my parents’ permission. I went with the missionaries to see my father, thinking that his loving answer would be “Son, when you are of legal age, you will be able to make your own decisions.”
While the missionaries spoke with him, I prayed fervently for his heart to be touched so he would give me the permission I wanted. His answer to the missionaries was the following: “Elders, over the past six months, I have seen my son Jorge get up early every Sunday morning, put on his best clothes, and walk to church. I have seen only a good influence from the Church in his life.” Then, addressing me, he surprised me by saying, “Son, if you will be responsible for this decision, then you have my permission to be baptized.” I hugged my father, gave him a kiss, and thanked him for what he was doing. The next day I was baptized. Last week was the 47th anniversary of that important moment in my life.
How grateful and happy I am for the decision that my father let me make 47 years ago. Over time, I have come to understand that the condition he gave me—to be responsible for that decision—meant being responsible to my Heavenly Father and seeking my own salvation and that of my fellowmen, thereby becoming more as my Father expects and wants me to become. On this very special day, I testify that God our Father and His Beloved Son live. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“Elder Confer, teach me,” said the voice on the other end of the line, “but don’t teach me about the Book of Mormon.” Christine Yong, our new investigator, was wanting to know more about our religion.
As missionaries in the Singapore Mission, my companion and I were excited to have an investigator like Christine. She and her sister Sara seemed to be sincerely interested in the gospel. But during the weeks we had shared the gospel with them, they had some doubts about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. We weren’t about to give up on them though, so we set up another appointment.
I went with our branch mission leader, Patrick Lim, while my companion went with another member to other appointments. Brother Lim and I planned to teach Christine about repentance, baptism, and the gift of the Holy Ghost. We usually invited people to be baptized when we talked about baptism. But both of us wondered, given all the challenges she was facing, whether Christine would be ready for baptism. We prayed for the Spirit before meeting with her.
During the discussion, Christine seemed to understand repentance and baptism. But as Brother Lim taught about receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost, Christine voiced her concerns.
“Elders, I’m not sure if God is there and if He would really answer my prayer,” she hesitantly admitted.
We described to her the calm, peaceful feelings the Spirit brings, but she wasn’t familiar with the influence of the Holy Ghost. She had tried to pray and read the scriptures, but things just didn’t seem to be coming together.
For a moment, we were at a loss for answers. Then a scripture came to my mind, and I felt impressed to share it, even though it was in the Book of Mormon—the book she had requested us not to teach from. I asked Christine to read Ether 12:6: “I would show unto the world that faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.”
As I explained that our faith in the Lord is tested before we receive an answer from Heavenly Father, I felt the Spirit strongly in my heart. I prayed Christine would feel it too. And she did.
“I’m so touched. I’m really very touched,” Christine said, as tears flowed down her cheeks.
“This is the Spirit, Christine. This is what the Spirit feels like,” Brother Lim and I said as tears started to flow down our cheeks too.
After we had shared that verse with her and taught her further, Christine accepted our invitation and was soon baptized.

Ever wonder how we come up with the Mormonads? The Mormonad on page 13 started when we were trying to think of something that represented just how dangerous pornography is. We remembered seeing photos of crocodiles with just their eyes showing above water. The words Just Looking? seemed to fit exactly.
What was underneath? Of course, it was a big set of scary teeth that can clamp onto to you and not let go—a good illustration for what pornography can do.
We gave the idea to our designer, who sent a photographer to the zoo to take a photo of ominous crocodile eyes. Then he used his computer skills to make the teeth visible underwater and to make them bigger and more vicious than reality. We thought it made a great Mormonad that gives you something to think about.

When I was president of the Southern States Mission, I remember going to a conference down in west Florida. It seemed to me as if we traveled a hundred miles and never saw a house, and when we arrived at one of those little chapels, there it was filled with 250 people, and I said, “If you didn’t come out of the holes in the rocks, I don’t know where you came from. The Lord may know, but I don’t!” Well, that was literal, and we see that being fulfilled right before our very eyes.

Amy shuffled along the sidewalk. Her hand measured the spaces between the slats of the picket fence that outlined Sister Pedersen’s yard. It’s not fair, she thought. Why do I have to be cooped up inside reading the news to an old blind lady while everyone else is going to the movie with Emily. And how can I ever be Emily’s friend if I can’t go to the movie with her?
Grudgingly Amy unlatched the gate, trudged up the sidewalk to Sister Pedersen’s porch, kicked the newspaper off the steps, then relented and picked it up before rapping on the door.
The door swung open, and there stood eighty-year-old Sister Pedersen.
“It’s me, Amy, Sister Pedersen.”
“Bring the Chronicle, and come in, Amy. Sit down here in this armchair. I believe in business first, pleasure afterward. Shall I pay you a dollar each day?” Sister Pedersen asked, reaching for her purse.
“No, ma’am. Mother said that I shouldn’t take money. In family home evening we agreed to work on serving others, and you’re my assignment.”
Sister Pedersen snapped her purse shut, nodded her head, and said, “You may read now.”
Amy struggled through the newspaper’s front-page articles. She wondered how anyone could consider this a pleasure.
After about forty-five minutes, Sister Pedersen interrupted, “Let’s stop now, Amy. Do you like treasures?”
“I guess so. What kind of treasures?”
“Follow me upstairs, and you’ll see,” Sister Pedersen told her.
“My treasure room,” Sister Pedersen announced, ushering Amy into a small room with several curio cabinets. A pedestal table loaded with beautiful small figurines stood in front of the window.
Amy gasped with delight. Her eyes danced from one lovely object to another. Each cabinet was crammed with collectibles: red goblets, silk flowers in painted vases, tiny dolls in native costumes, crystal paperweights, and bright blue plates. “It’s like an antique shop!” she exclaimed, rushing from one cabinet to another to peer at the treasures.
“You probably wonder why a blind lady keeps so many knickknacks,” Sister Pedersen said. “You see, when I touch the smooth glass objects or the soft silk fabrics, my fingers experience beauty.”
Amy watched the old lady gently rub a delicate bird fashioned of blown glass. She traced the china roses on a pink vase. Then she picked up a crystal ball etched with an intricate geometric pattern.
“Go ahead. Touch them, Amy,” Sister Pedersen coaxed.
Fascinated by the beauty of the bird, Amy timidly picked it up from the table. It was a swan with its neck arched proudly and its wings spread wide, anticipating flight.
“This swan is wonderful!” Amy whispered.
“A glassblower made it for me when I was very young. He fashioned liquid glass into that lovely bird by blowing through a long metal tube. He let me feel all the glass figures in his booth, and he even helped me blow a glass bubble. Since that day, whenever I touch my swan, I know that I, too, have seen beauty. Now, you look around, and don’t be afraid to handle everything. I’ll go fix us some refreshments. I remember how hungry young people are after school.”
Amy held the swan and imagined herself a young blind girl. Hearing peals of laughter outside, she set the swan down and leaned over the table to look out the window. Emily and all her friends were returning from the movie. Amy didn’t feel as bad about missing it as she thought she would. As she turned away from the window, Amy’s hand accidentally bumped the swan, knocking it to the floor. She scooped up the pieces and frantically shoved them into her pocket.
Sister Pedersen called, “Come downstairs, Amy, and have some biscuits and milk. Then you’d better hurry home, or your mother might not let you come again.”
Amy gulped down her snack nervously. She was too afraid to say anything about the precious bird. She said good-bye and raced down the sidewalk.
What should I do? she wondered. I can’t go back, no matter what Mother says. As Amy shut the gate, she looked up and saw Sister Pedersen waving to her. It made her feel worse, somehow.
Walking home from school the next day, Amy passed Sister Pedersen’s house and sighed with relief. At least she wasn’t supposed to read to Sister Pedersen until next week. But she still felt awful, and when she got home, she dumped all the money out of her old tin-can bank onto her bed and counted it carefully. “I hope it’s enough,” she muttered as she went to find her mother.
After school Monday, Amy slowly approached Sister Pedersen’s porch, clutching a white box. When the door opened, she said, “It’s Amy, Sister Pedersen.”
“Come in, Amy. I didn’t think this was the day for your visit, but you’re welcome anytime.”
After they sat down, Amy carefully opened the box and placed the new swan in Sister Pedersen’s hands. Swallowing nervously, Amy said, “This is a replacement for the one that I broke. I’m awfully sorry. It was an accident.”
“It’s all right, Amy. I heard it break. I’m glad that you told me, though,” Sister Pedersen said, adding, “I’m sure that this bird cost you dearly, and I want you to keep it. Keep it and its beauty—you have given me something more beautiful. You have been an honest and good friend.”
When she left to go home, Amy happily walked down the sidewalk and turned at the gate to wave good-bye to Sister Pedersen, her new friend, who stood in the doorway, waving back.

I remember as a young boy walking to school and passing a home with a big cherry tree. The fruits were round and red. The family had taken great care of that cherry tree. In turn, the tree bore much fruit and the family would share the bounties of their harvest with others including my family.

Sometimes I would pass that cherry tree and could imagine how delicious the cherries were. I admit there were a few times I took some cherries from the tree without permission. The cherries were juicy and sweet. After eating the cherry, I would keep the pit in my mouth for much longer savoring the remnants of the sweet nectar. At that exact moment of pleasure it seemed worth it. But just moments later
I would feel a knot in my stomach knowing that I was stealing since I hadn’t ask for permission. Yet, I rationalized my action by convincing myself it couldn’t hurt to take just one or a few cherries. After all, they had a whole tree full of cherries and eventually they would give it to us. Because I remembered the sweet taste more than the guilt of stealing, I did it more than once.

The boy who lived in the house with the cherry tree became my best friend. One time I helped his family harvest cherries. What a great lesson I learned that day about the consequences of disobedience. I was informed that they sprayed their trees with insecticide to ward off or kill fruit-eating insects. These cherries needed to be washed thoroughly before eating so as to rinse off any remaining poison.

It’s a good thing I never got sick from stealing and eating their cherries. I had a newfound love and respect for this generous and gracious family who cared about helping people more than growing cherries. I vowed on that day never to take a cherry from their tree without permission and to be more obedient to God’s commandments.

Sometimes heavenly connections can be made in places that may not seem to be either spiritual or sacred. The following portion of my father's history will illustrate this concept.

My father graduated from high school in the midst of WWII. He wanted to enlist in the navy, but he needed to have a hernia operation first. While he was in the hospital recovering from the surgery, someone left a pamphlet about BYU on his bedside table.

My father recorded: "It said, 'Come to BYU, a friendly school.' I had no idea what I was getting into--but was intrigued by 'a friendly school.' I told my mother that I wanted to go to BYU in Provo, Utah--and she asked what BYU was. I told her it was a Mormon University, and I can still see her face when she looked aghast and said, 'What! You want to go to BYU with those Mormons out there?'"

His mother was a staunch Methodist, and he had been raised in that faith. Nonetheless, he attended BYU for one quarter and then enlisted in the navy. 50 years later, at my father's high school reunion, my parents learned that Jeane Berthelson, a high school classmate and friend, was also a nurse's aide at the hospital who listened to the Spirit and left the pamphlet in his room.

During the war, my father was assigned to serve on LSM (Landing Ship Medium) #389 when they landed in Guam. He was a quartermaster second class. Their ship sailed from the east coast of the US through the Panama Canal, picked up munitions and tanks in California, and headed out to the Pacific to deliver them to the Marines. In my father's words:

I remember when we pulled into the harbor...on Guam. It was a Sunday morning.
I looked down the beach and there were some huge quonset huts there. They used them as quarters for service men. I saw six sailors going into a quonset hut. They were in their dress whites. I thought: Gosh, in their dress whites? They should be in their standard uniforms. So, I asked the captain: "What do you think those guys are doing?" He said: "They are going to church." I said: "Well, who are they?" He said: "They are a small group of Mormons running their own church; they don't have a chaplain." I found that interesting, so I said: "Captain, could I have a leave to go ashore and join those six guys?" I shaved and decided to go over to the beach and see what was going on. There were six elders having their own little church meeting, so I joined them and I felt at home. That was the second time I had rubbed shoulders with the Mormons other than [at] BYU.

We all corresponded for years...I think things were planned very carefully that I would end up in the Mormon Church...That's my story...just at the right [place] in the right moment.

Elder Ronald A. Rasband spoke about coincidence versus "divine design" in his recent general conference address. He quoted Elder Neal A. Maxwell, who explained, "Coincidence is not an appropriate word to describe the workings of an omniscient God. He does not do things by 'coincidence' but...by 'divine design.'"[16]

Elder Rasband continues: "Our lives are like a chessboard, and the Lord moves us from one place to another--if we are responsive to spiritual promptings. Looking back, we can see His hand in our lives."'[17]

I don't believe it was by coincidence that a pamphlet was left in my father's hospital room. I don't believe it was by coincidence that he arrived on Guam on a Sunday morning and saw six sailors dressed in whites on the beach. I also don't believe it was by coincidence that, following WWII, my father met my mother at BYU in a history class because they were seated alphabetically (my mother's maiden name is Hale, and my father's last name is Hansen). God was in the details; heavenly connections were made in the most unexpected places.

In 1971, my father became so ill that he was hospitalized and was not expected to live. He was in the intensive care unit and the doctors told us that we needed to bring our family together as quickly as possible. My father invited me to come to his hospital room and bring a notebook so he could give some final instructions about his estate. He then said: "Son, I would like to receive a Priesthood blessing, and would like you to be the voice in that blessing." As a family we started fasting, and those who lived away arrived as soon as possible. We went to an empty room in the hospital where we knelt in prayer and closed our fast. It was a long walk down the hall to my father's room. We surrounded his bed, laid our hands upon his head and proceeded with the blessing, but there was nothing. I said a few words, and pleaded in my heart that the Lord would let me know what I should say. Of course we wanted him to live, but we knew that the Lord was in charge, and that His will would be done. Suddenly it seemed almost like a book was opened and I knew exactly what I was to say. I blessed my father to get well, and promised him that he would serve missions, (plural), for the Church. As I left the room I thought what have I done? Did I really listen to the promptings of the spirit? Did I say what I wanted to happen? The doctors were so certain that he would not live, why did I make all those promises? As I pondered the blessing, I knew that the Spirit had spoken clearly to my mind and heart. Dad slowly recovered, and soon left the hospital. From 1972-1973, he served with my mother on a stake mission. From 1975-1976, they were called on an 18 month mission to Calgary, Canada. From 1977 to 1979 they served for 18 months in Anchorage, Alaska. Upon returning, they served in the temple for nearly 10 years. The Lord knows the time appointed, and that decision is not ours to make.

What is more amazing than seeing a child smile for the first time?
Nothing, as Devan Griner found out personally when he served as a youth volunteer on a two-week mission with Operation Smile to Vietnam. There he helped very young patients overcome their fears about doctors as they waited for their turns to have cleft palates or other facial deformities repaired. Devan also started a Smile Club in Skyline High School in his hometown of Salt Lake City, Utah.
Devan is the first to tell that he is not the only LDS teen working long and hard for Operation Smile. When he was elected to serve on the national youth council, he met Amanda Fairbourne, also on the national council, who is a member of the Church from Plymouth, Minnesota.
The chapter Devan helped organize at his high school is also not the first in Utah. The Bountiful High School chapter was organized first, but the members unselfishly helped him get a chapter going at his high school.
But sometimes that’s what it takes to be an everyday hero, not the person who is doing the most, or even the one who is doing it first, just the one who is doing all he can to serve in a good cause. And Devan is doing just that. He persuaded his school to donate the proceeds from their annual Millions of Pennies charity drive to Operation Smile. Because Operation Smile was such a good cause, the school responded with unprecedented enthusiasm. The thought of putting a smile on a child’s face was enough to melt the toughest hearts. Their donation became the biggest youth chapter donation ever received at the national headquarters.
Operation Smile started 15 years ago when a plastic surgeon and his wife, who also served as his nurse, went to the Philippines and donated their time to repairing cleft palates for several weeks. So many children were turned away that they were determined to come again. And they did, this time bringing other volunteer doctors, nurses, and anesthesiologists.
The good work spread. Soon doctors from all over the United States were donating their time on surgical teams visiting countries where cosmetic surgery to repair deformities was too expensive or nonexistent.
Teenagers wanted to get involved. They started forming clubs to raise money for the supplies the doctors and nurses needed to take with them. The surgeons and medical personnel donated their time, airlines often donated the flight tickets, but money was still needed to fly all the equipment needed to set up operating rooms in countries around the world. The surgical teams would sometimes operate 16 hours a day, each doctor handling as many as 30 little patients. “That’s the cool thing,” says Devan. “In a matter of 30 minutes in cleft palate surgery, a child’s life is changed forever. Before, the kids have big huge holes. Sometimes they wear bandannas because they feel disgraced. They often aren’t allowed to attend school, and some are even abandoned by their parents. A 30-minute operation changes that.”
Devan got his club involved in fund-raising. His friends and fellow club officers Travis Nilsson, Jared Ellsworth, and Ruth Ann Romney were soon as enthusiastic as Devan about seeing healthy smiles on the faces of children. The Skyline Club used video presentations and plenty of talk to spread the word. Also, Devan was trained to be one of two youth volunteers to go on a mission with one of the surgical teams. Sent to Vietnam, Devan was not entirely prepared for what he would see.
“I met a kid about 14 who had a bad burn contracture. A contracture is when the scar pulls as it heals. He fell on a lamp when he was six months old. His burn was on his face and neck, and it pulled his head to the side and pulled his eye down. It kind of surprised me. I didn’t know how to react.
“I was juggling for the kids and blowing bubbles to entertain them as they waited for their turn in surgery. Every time I looked at him, he was watching me. He liked the bubbles. His chin was pulled down so far by the scar that he couldn’t bring his lips together enough to blow bubbles. I gave him the bubble wand, and he started making huge bubbles, putting on a show for everyone. It kind of hit me. He looks horrible, but inside he was great. I could tell he was trying to smile because he was having fun.
“I saw him after his operation. The surgeons released the burn scar and removed a lot of scar tissue. His eye went back to normal. His mouth came back up. He had some skin grafts. After the operation, I went over and shook his hand. He could actually smile. It was cool.”
Devan, Travis, Jared, Ruth and the rest of the club members have learned what it means to lose a little bit of themselves in the service of others. They have come to appreciate the blessings of their own lives and the good things that they sometimes take for granted.
It’s enough to make you smile.
After each child goes through surgery, he or she is given a Smile bag or Smile doll that has been made and donated by various organizations to help in the efforts to brighten the lives of children.
The Young Women of Logan First Ward, Logan Utah Stake (below), made 139 hand puppets which they donated to Operation Smile. The puppets were sent with a surgical team to the Philippines, where they were used to entertain the children and help them feel at ease prior to surgery. Dayna Conger, a Laurel whose brother is serving a mission in the Philippines, said, “This project was a lot of fun. It made me feel more connected to my brother and the people he is serving.”

Five years ago, I faced another health challenge. Doctors found a malignant tumor in my colon, and I had to undergo emergency surgery to remove 25 centimeters (10 in) of my transverse colon. During that time, I lost more than 15 pounds (7 kg) in two months. The chemotherapy treatments were so harsh on my body that I became extremely weak and couldn’t eat. Again, my family was told to prepare for the worst. I prayed if it was His will, I still wanted to see my youngest son go on his mission. A miracle happened by God’s great love, and I made it through. The tumor was removed entirely, and my youngest son is currently serving in the Maracaibo Venezuela Mission and is happy to share the gospel and help bring souls unto Christ.

Photo illustrations by Welden C. Andersen
Ever wanted to be a superhero?
Read on! While we may not be able to teach you how to fly or to shoot lasers from your eyes, we can give you a mission that could help lots and lots of people. The Savior taught, “Ye are the light of the world” (Matthew 5:14), and you can be a light to everyone you meet by reaching out and uplifting them.
The New Era asked youth to be their own variety of superhero by trying to make 10 people smile each day; their experiences were incredible. Are you ready to take the challenge? Here’s how it worked out for them.
“I found that making someone smile is not as hard as it seems. Sometimes all it takes is a joke or a friendly comment or a smile. Throughout my school day I saw countless people; some I knew, some I didn’t know, but that didn’t stop me. I tried to see people the way Christ would see them. Everything I said, I truly meant. I felt a connection between that person and me. But even more, I felt a stronger connection with my Heavenly Father. I know that as we strive to be more like Him through seeing and acknowledging our brothers and sisters, and looking for their Christlike qualities, we can see ourselves in the way Christ sees us and come closer to Him.”
Blaire A., Utah, USA

“You’re going where?” The Mexican official seemed genuinely amused.
“Quitovac.”
“But nobody goes to Quitovac,” he laughed. “There’s nothing there.”
“We’re going to the school. To see friends.”
“Okay,” he said, shaking his head. “Go ahead. But if I were you, I’d go to the beach instead.” He was still chuckling as we left.
Americans do come down this way from Tucson, Arizona, across the Tohono O’odham Nation (Papago) Indian Reservation to the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, through Lukeville, then over the border into Sonoita. Mostly the Americans are tourists or university students on break, looking for the sun. They find it on the beaches of the Gulf of California, which aren’t far away.
But nobody goes to Quitovac. Nobody.
That is, of course, unless you have friends there. And the LDS youth of Tucson have friends in Quitovac, more than 70 of them.
And now, here we were.
We turned from one dirt road to another, came over a small hill, and there, in the middle of nowhere, was the village. Now, months after Christmas, would the children even remember the earlier visit? Now, when the sun was hot and winds calm, would the friendship still be there?
The answer was quick in coming. The dust from our arriving vehicles had hardly settled when we were mobbed by children. Yes, we brought some supplies, some candy, some food. But again what mattered was the sharing. Children who didn’t speak English guided teenagers who didn’t speak Spanish around their school, their classrooms, their playground. Kids watched Brian, who brought along a tool kit, fix a broken swing and re-attach fiberglass panels on the pavilion.
Michael and Susanne organized volleyball and basketball games. Danyel gave piggyback rides. Crystal Smith, 15, of the Sonora 18th Ward, Tucson Stake, became an instant celebrity with school officials because she speaks Spanish and could act as an interpreter.
We were shown the school’s new hand-operated mimeograph machine. A flag ceremony and school assembly were held in our honor. And the principal presented a letter of thanks to the LDS youth.
But it was Walt Stone, a seminary teacher who accompanied the group, who summarized what meeting with the children of Alberque School taught us. “These kids have dignity,” he said. “Everything they own fits on the half of the bed they sleep in. But they share whatever they have.”
An example: “One boy brought out his bag of marbles—the only marbles in the school,” Walt said. “A bunch of us joined him in a game. Nobody argued about winning anything; they just had fun. And when the game was over, the marbles went back in the bag, and he put them back on his bed. He knew they would be safe.”
Many times we saw older children looking out for others, making sure the youngest (some are little more than one year old) weren’t neglected. If anyone tripped and skinned a knee, others were instantly there to help. When teachers asked students to do something, it was immediately taken care of. Students marched, stood at attention, posed with us for a school photo, hugged us over and over again, and literally clung to the teenagers when it was finally time to leave.
All the way home, the youth talked about their day in the sun.
“That was great, even better than Christmas,” Brian said.
“What you never forget are their faces,” Danyel added. “There’s such joy in their faces. Designer jeans and worldly things don’t really matter down here. What’s important is to enjoy life, and to share your joy with others.”
Nobody goes to Quitovac, the Mexican official said. But he was absolutely wrong. Friends come to Quitovac. And their friendship shines all the brighter when they leave. The tourists and the students who drive to the beach seeking the sun take the wrong road. The brightest light is found where people help each other. It’s the light of Christlike service, and it’s a light that shines brighter than any sun.

When I was in elementary school, we walked home on a paved trail that wound back and forth up the side of a hill. There was another trail, unpaved, called the “boys’ trail.” The boys’ trail was a path in the dirt that went straight up the hill. It was shorter but much steeper. As a young girl, I knew I could walk up any trail the boys could. More important, I knew I was living in the latter days and that I would need to do hard things, as did the pioneers—and I wanted to be prepared. So every now and then, I would lag behind my group of friends on the paved trail, remove my shoes, and walk barefoot up the boys’ trail. I was trying to toughen up my feet.
As a young Primary girl, that is what I thought I could do to prepare. Now I know differently! Rather than walking barefoot up mountain trails, I know I can prepare my feet to walk on the covenant path by responding to the invitations of the Holy Ghost. For the Lord, through His prophet, is calling each of us to live and care in a “higher and holier way” and to “take a step higher.”

The following news story, which was widely circulated in 1982, provides vivid evidence that, when faced with the unexpected, our actions are dependent on the principles we believe in.

Moments after Air Florida’s Flight 90 left the runway at Washington’s National Airport, it was clear that the Boeing 737 was not going to fly. As it shuddered and stalled, the co-pilot said, “We’re going down,” and the pilot answered grimly, “I know it.” With a deafening crash it slammed into the Fourteenth Street Bridge and plunged into the icy waters of the Potomac. Witnesses watched in horror as the fuselage, which had broken free of the tail section, rolled gently and sank beneath the surface, its rows of passengers still strapped into their seats. Only the tail remained afloat—with six people clinging to it.

One of them was Arland D. Williams, Jr., a balding, graying, middle-aged bank examiner and father of two, who was on his way to an investigation in Florida. Although divorced two years previously, he was soon to be remarried and was probably the one with the best chance, for while the others had broken limbs and collapsed lungs, he was relatively free of injury. All he had to do was hang on until help arrived.

At 4:20, nineteen minutes after the crash, the rotors of the U.S. Park Police helicopter were heard thwacking through the cold winter air. Bert Hamilton, who was treading water about ten feet from the floating tail, took the single lifeline dangling beneath the chopper and passed it under his arms. The others watched while the helicopter carried him a hundred yards to the Virginia shore and returned. This time Arland Williams caught the line. Instead of wrapping it around himself, however, he passed it to flight attendant Kelly Duncan. Soon she too was safe.

On its third trip back to the wreckage, the helicopter trailed two lifelines, for its crew knew that survival in the river was now only a matter of minutes. One of the lines was aimed at Williams. He caught it again and again passed it on, this time to Joe Stiley, the most severely injured survivor. Stiley slipped the line around his waist and grabbed Priscilla Tirado, who, having lost her husband and baby, was in complete hysteria. Patricia Felch took the second line, and the helicopter pulled away. Before it reached the shore, however, Priscilla Tirado lost her grip and fell back into the water, so the helicopter, on its next trip, had to return for her.

Arland Williams’ turn came at last. The chopper crew was eager to meet him and salute his selfless heroism. But, as they approached the wreckage, they saw that he was gone. It was 4:30. He had been in the paralyzing cold for twenty-nine minutes—a minute or so too long.

Rescue Officer Gene Windsor wept as he related the incident to his wife. “He could have gone on the first trip,” said the pilot, Donald Usher, “but he put everyone else ahead of himself. Everyone.” [News story quoted in Robert F. Bennett, Gaining Control (Salt Lake City: Franklin Quest Company, 1987), pp. 35–36]

Sister Fisher scared me. Whenever I saw her coming, I turned the other direction and hoped she wouldn’t see me.
The trouble had started three weeks ago. On my way to Primary, I stopped to play with the drinking fountain. The fountain wasn’t working right, and I knew it, but nobody else did. When ward members came by for a drink, I politely offered to press the button for them. Boy, were they surprised when the water overshot by about a foot and they got a face full of water!
Everyone fell for it but Sister Fisher. When I offered to hold the button for her, she whispered, “Hayley, don’t you think you’d better run on to Primary? You’re going to be late. Besides, I don’t want to be shot in the face by the drinking fountain.”
Red-faced, I ran to class. How had Sister Fisher known? I’d tricked everyone else.
But the fountain experience wasn’t the only thing different about her. Not only did she act scary, she looked scary. She had wild, frizzy hair that stuck out on the sides and was the color of a pumpkin. Honest—the color of a pumpkin! She wore thick, black-rimmed glasses and lots of smeared, red lipstick. And even though she was big and tall, her clothes made her look even taller. She always wore long skirts and high heels. She looked like she would fall off the heels, but she never did.
I knew I needed to get used to Sister Fisher’s odd looks, because she was my new Primary teacher! I couldn’t believe it—I’d gotten the scariest teacher in the whole Primary.
When Sunday came, I clung to my best friend, Marci. “What do you think of Sister Fisher?” I asked her.
Marci looked a little worried and said, “She’s strange. I’ve heard she wears a necklace with a real shark’s tooth on it. What do you think that means?”
“It means she’s weird,” I replied.
Just as I was going to tell Marci my ideas on why anybody would wear a shark’s tooth, class started. I sat up tall, determined to listen to every word. I was afraid Sister Fisher wouldn’t like me after the drinking fountain incident, so I thought it might help if I looked like I was interested.
“Good morning, boys and girls,” Sister Fisher said. “I’m happy to have you all in my class. We’re going to have a good time together.”
Easy for her to say, I thought to myself. We aren’t strange-looking.
Sister Fisher continued, “To start it off, let’s learn a little bit about each other. We’ll start with Hayley.”
Oh, no. Why does she have to start with me? I wondered. I just knew she was going to tell everyone that I was a mean girl who played tricks on all the grown-ups in the ward.
While I wondered what awful things she was going to say, Sister Fisher picked up a brown paper bag and pulled out a baby picture of me. “Here is Hayley when she was just six months old. Her mother told me that she was the happiest baby in the world. Wasn’t she cute?”
To my surprise, everyone agreed with Sister Fisher. I looked at the picture, and I had to admit that I had been a cute baby.
Next Sister Fisher brought out a picture of Jesus with the little children. It hung in my room because it was a picture of my favorite Bible story. “This is a beautiful picture, isn’t it, class? Hayley thinks so, and her parents told me that this picture helps her remember to pray. Hayley even reminds her parents to say family prayer. I could use someone like that at my house.”
I couldn’t believe it. Sister Fisher was saying nice things about me!
Sister Fisher reached in and grabbed the next thing—my pink piggy bank. “Hayley likes this bank because it’s her favorite color. She saves tithing in it, and her dad said that sometimes she even pays a little extra.”
Brian nudged me and wise-cracked, “Hey, Hayley-Whaley, next time why don’t you give your extra money to me?”
Everyone laughed, like they always do at Brian’s awful nickname for me. Sister Fisher calmly said, “Well, Brian, maybe she will. Hayley is a generous, kind girl.”
Sister Fisher knew just what to say to Brian. Amazing! Our last three teachers hadn’t known what to say to him.
She did Brian’s sack next and showed a raggedy, blue teddy bear, a soccer ball, and some pictures and said good things about him. After Brian’s sack, she showed stuff from bags and said nice things about each of the other members of the class. Marci’s bag even included a picture of the two of us, taken last year at summer camp.
Then Sister Fisher showed us her own bag! “This is a picture of my family,” she began. “I have two grown-up sons who live far away.”
Sister Fisher was a mother! I couldn’t believe it.
She showed other treasures from her bag. One was a dog-eared Book of Mormon she’d been given when she joined the Church four years ago. Another was an award she’d gotten for being the “Professor of the Year” at a college. And a shark’s tooth necklace!
The off-white tooth dangled on the end of a gold chain. It was huge! I’d have hated to see the shark it came from. It was pretty, if you didn’t know it was a tooth.
After she explained what it was, she said, “This necklace is special because my husband gave it to me before he died. He was fascinated by sharks. So whenever I look at this necklace, I think of him,”
Marci and I exchanged glances. I guess it wasn’t so weird, after all. Actually, Sister Fisher wasn’t so weird, after all, even if she had frizzy orange hair. And I guess she really needed the thick glasses. And maybe there were reasons for the other things I’d thought were weird. She didn’t seem to think what I wear and do are weird—she didn’t even tell on me about the water fountain. She was just a person, like everybody else. In fact, she was a nice person. She made me feel good.
When class was over, she hugged me and said, “Hayley, I’m happy I get to teach you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad you’re my new teacher.” And I meant it!

Thank you for printing “The Joy Is in Becoming” in the June New Era. The message is truly inspired, and I believe it with all my heart. One thought the article expressed that I feel is really important is that we never know when we are going to run into a nonmember. When we do, it might be the only contact that person has ever had with a Latter-day Saint. It is so important that we always be prepared (dressed modestly and neatly) to represent the Church.
While in California a month ago, my girlfriend and I went to Disneyland. Not being used to such hot weather, we were very tempted to wear shorts and tank tops. But we talked to my friend’s father and decided that it was better to be hot than to disobey a commandment. We soon became very grateful for that decision.
While we were there we met two guys from Norway. We were the first Mormons they had met, and we were able to do some missionary work. I know we couldn’t have done it if we were dressed improperly. We knew we had made a wise decision when they said, “Mormons are very decent people.”
Kathy BarlowSalt Lake City, Utah

There’ll be no “getting-to-know-you blues” when the students of Skyline Seminary (Salt Lake City, Utah) return to class. An unconventional sort of introduction to their faculty and student leaders last spring has already prepared them for the very best this fall.
A 40-minute slide show prepared by students Mark Woffinden and Mike Malan and three seminary instructors served not only to entertain students with ideas for summer fun and profit, but also introduced them to their current seven-member seminary student council and brought the students messages for the summer from the seminary faculty.
The presentation involved nine slide projectors, four 16-mm movie projectors, and a quadrophonic sound system. Three screens totaling a width of 55 feet showed the projected 10-foot-high images.
The production team took some 700 slides for the show and made their own soundtrack using a combination of student commentary and popular music. As a part of the show’s grand finale, four nature and wildlife films were added to the slides to produce a panoramic effect—an effect that drew a total audience of 2,000 during the one-week screening, exactly twice the anticipated crowd.
Skyline students came away from the show feeling better acquainted with their seminary officers and teachers and enthused at the prospects of a fun summer and a pretty great fall, too.

My first memories of a need for power came when my family moved the year I began third grade. I started figuring out more about friends and other people’s families. As my new friends talked to kids in the extended neighborhood, we sized up assets and numbers—who had shade trees you could sit in or chicken coops you could climb on. Besides whose dad was the strongest, I noticed many of the kids were older than I. Luckily, I had two big sisters with lots of friends. In fact, I once said I could call out the whole high school if needed. I felt I had the needed personal power for safety and self-preservation.
My eight-year-old world was enlarging. So was the need for the skills that help one cope in this civilized world. I started appreciating the safety one gets from size, numbers, resources. Our use of what I call personal or political power begins early. Most children learn about size first. “If you don’t stop that, I’ll call Mom.” “When Dad comes home, you’ll be in big trouble.” Resources can supplement our need for size. A toy becomes a stick. What begins as a snowman becomes a fortress. The world was at war in those days, but I was a third-grader. The physical danger I feared was the boy with a wooden gun that shot rubber rings taken from fruit jars. His target was girls’ legs. Friends told me you could give the boy bottle rings and he wouldn’t hit you, but adding to his arsenal seemed like a traitorous thing to do, and I doubted you could trust a commitment from a bully. I think a teacher eventually took his gun. In my world, I appreciated people who had power, like teachers and parents, especially if they had fair rules.