Gospel Story Finder

What were fifty pioneer children, handcarts, covered wagons, rag dolls, pets, and stick horses doing on the streets of St. George, Utah, in mid-April? Although they didn’t look out-of-place in front of the historic Brigham Young Winter Home that day, something very eventful was taking place. It was the shooting of photographs for the July 1993 Friend cover. Preparations started months in advance. City officials were contacted for permission to block off the busy street, a local sign company donated and set-up traffic signs, props were built or borrowed, and costumes were made, especially lots of pioneer bonnets. When the big day came, the weather was beautiful, the trees already leafy and green. The Primary children, from a number of St. George wards, were cheered on by dozens of wonderful moms. Thanks to a local merchant’s donation, a snack break was provided, and that was all the kids needed to make it through the three-hour session with the photographer and the Friend designer. All the children who participated were happy to have taken part in this exciting day!

“Ship 3527 to mission control. We’re entering launch codes. Stand by.” Nathan’s four-inch-tall stuffed monkey couldn’t really talk, and he wasn’t really the copilot in a brigade of intergalactic star fighters, but as Nathan sat on a swing outside his elementary school on a warm Saturday afternoon with the monkey perched in his lap, he couldn’t help letting his imagination get carried away. He pictured his miniature copilot typing in a flurry of complicated formulas, preparing their ship to launch.
Nathan gripped the swing ropes and shuffled backward, careful not to let the monkey slip from his lap. He was now in ready position.
“5, 4, 3, 2, 1 … we have ignition!” With an explosive whoosh, Nathan shot forward into motion. Pumping furiously, he propelled himself higher and higher, faster and faster, as he imagined the two of them soaring past the moon, past Mars, out of the solar system, out of the galaxy.
“Nathan! Come over here!” The voice of one of Nathan’s neighborhood pals brought him back to reality. “Look at this sand village I built! Do you want to help? We could make it huge!”
Nathan leaped from the swing and tossed his monkey onto a nearby bench so it wouldn’t get dirty. “OK,” he said. “I’ll start on the roads.”
The boys were just finishing the town when Nathan’s mom called out from a nearby bench, “Nathan, it’s time to go home.”
Nathan stood up, brushed the sand from his clothes, and headed toward Mom. They walked across the grass, down the street, around the corner, and into their front yard. Suddenly, Nathan gasped. “Oh no! My copilot!”
After a quick explanation to Mom, Nathan ran around the corner back to the school playground. Drawing close to the familiar bench, he was puzzled to find it bare. He checked under it, around it, and behind it, but there was no stuffed animal. Desperately, he scanned the area for any sign of his favorite toy, but all he could see were swings, slides, an abandoned city of sand, and a couple of kids playing catch with their dog. The monkey was gone.
Nathan carefully retraced his steps around the playground but couldn’t find the monkey anywhere. Losing hope, Nathan was about to give up the search when he remembered something his mom had told him about prayer: “If you ask the Lord for something that’s right, you’ll receive it.” He knelt on the ground and pleaded, “Heavenly Father, could you please help me find my monkey?” When the prayer was finished, he stood and thought for a moment. “I’ll just look one more time,” he decided.
He looked up and saw the children who had been playing with their dog walking by. He was about to walk right past them when a thought came to his mind: maybe they could help.
“Did either of you see a little stuffed monkey?” he asked them.
The kids looked at each other and laughed. “Yeah,” one of them said sheepishly. “We didn’t think it belonged to anyone, so we tossed it around and let our dog try to catch it.”
“I threw it too hard,” the other boy said, “and it landed on the roof of the school. I’m really sorry.”
Nathan couldn’t help grinning in relief. “It’s OK,” he said. “I’ll get it down. Thanks!”
Later, with the help of his parents, Nathan was able to get his monkey down from the roof. He realized how blessed he had been to meet those kids before they left, and how fortunate it was that he had thought to ask them about his toy. Without their help, the monkey would never have been found. He was grateful that his prayer had been answered.
Nathan tucked the monkey firmly into his pocket and radioed mission control. “This is ship 3527. Copilot recovered. We’re ready for launch once more.”
And with a nod from his parents, Nathan shot down the road toward home, happy to be back in the pilot’s seat with his favorite stuffed friend.

In February 1993 Lamjav Purevsuren became the first native Mongolian baptized in the country. Purevsuren grew up in western Mongolia in a round, felt-lined tent called a ger. His family’s major challenge was providing for their animals during Mongolia’s harsh winters, when temperatures regularly fall as low as 40 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. Several times during the year, the family would dismantle their ger and move elsewhere to find new grazing pastures.
Purevsuren met Elder Stanley Smith when he took Elder Smith’s marketing class at the Mongolian National University. “My classmate Tsendkhuu Bat-Ulzii and I were curious why this American professional would come to Mongolia,” Purevsuren recalls.
“Elder Smith told us about his church and invited us to attend, but he gave us an apartment address. We were very surprised!”
Purevsuren and Bat-Ulzii attended the small service with the missionary couples and agreed to hear the discussions. Both men joined the Church, and Bat-Ulzii was eventually called as president of the Ulaanbaatar Tuul Branch. Total membership in the nation now exceeds 550, with three branches in Ulaanbaatar, one branch in Erdenet, a city of 44,000 located northwest of the capital, and one branch in Darkhan, a city of 65,000 located north of Ulaanbaatar.

One night when his father was away from home, David O. McKay heard noises outside his house. He was sure it was burglars, and he was very frightened. He decided to pray.
David had always said his prayers while kneeling beside his bed. It took all his strength and courage to climb out of bed now and kneel and ask Heavenly Father to help him.
Then, just as clearly as one person speaks to another, he heard a voice say to him, “Don’t be afraid. Nothing will hurt you.”
David climbed back into bed and fell fast asleep.

One month ago I turned 13, and my mom wanted me to start reading the New Era, so I started looking through some old copies. In the April 1973 issue I read an article called “Becoming Saviors on Mount Zion,” which explained that we should never stop giving—not gifts of money but of service to others. All my life my sister had helped me and I had never helped her. Just then she walked into the room and said she had to get the dishes done in half an hour and that she was too tired to do them. Right then I told her I would do them, but of course, she wouldn’t let me do them alone; she had to help.
In the last month my sister and I have become very close. We have been sneaking around helping each other and doing our work together. You know, it’s a lot more fun helping someone. Before it was just me trying to keep the commandments, but now it’s both of us. My sister has told me how much she appreciates me bringing her closer to the Lord. I don’t think it was me so much as it was the New Era.
Name Withheld

Her life changed forever when she awoke in the Prince Charles Hospital in Brisbane with two artificial heart valves. As a patient, surprised to be alive and able to serve, Jane wandered around the hospital visiting other patients.

Jane says, “I feel a deep and abiding gratitude, what a gift all these extra days and years have been. I’ve gained significant insights to pain and patience and have become compassionate in ways that I doubt I could have grasped from any other experience.”

As a young man not of our faith, General Thomas L. Kane assisted and defended the Saints as they were required to flee Nauvoo. He was an advocate for the Church for many years.
In 1872, General Kane, his talented wife, Elizabeth Wood Kane, and their two sons traveled from their home in Pennsylvania to Salt Lake City. They accompanied Brigham Young and his associates on a trek south to St. George, Utah. Elizabeth approached her first visit to Utah with reservations about the women. She was surprised by some of the things she learned. For instance, she found that any career by which a woman could earn a living was open to them in Utah. She also found Church members were kind and understanding with respect to Native Americans.
During the trip they stayed in Fillmore at the home of Thomas R. and Matilda Robison King.
Elizabeth wrote that as Matilda was preparing a meal for President Young and his company, five American Indians came into the room. Although uninvited, it was clear they expected to join the company. Sister King spoke to them “in their dialect.” They sat down with their blankets with a pleasant look on their faces. Elizabeth asked one of the King children, “What did your mother say to those men?”
Matilda’s son’s reply was, “She said ‘These strangers came first, and I have only cooked enough for them; but your meal is on the fire cooking now, and I will call you as soon as it is ready.’”
Elizabeth asked, “Will she really do that, or just give them scraps at the kitchen-door?”
Matilda’s son answered, “Mother will serve them just as she does you, and give them a place at her table.”
And so she did, and “they ate with perfect propriety.” Elizabeth explained that this hostess rose 100 percent in her opinion. Unity is enhanced when people are treated with dignity and respect, even though they are different in outward characteristics.

Guy de Maupassant, the French writer, tells the story of a peasant named Hauchecome who came on market day to the village. While walking through the public square, he caught sight of a piece of string lying on the cobblestones. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. His actions were observed by the village harness maker, with whom he had previously had a quarrel.
Later in the day the loss of a money purse was reported. Hauchecome was arrested on the accusation of the harness maker. He was taken before the mayor, to whom he protested his innocence, showing the piece of string that he had picked up. But he was not believed and was laughed at.
The next day the purse was found, and Hauchecome was absolved of any wrongdoing. But, resentful of the indignity he had suffered because of a false accusation, he became embittered and would not let the matter die. Unwilling to forgive and forget, he thought and talked of little else. He neglected his farm. Everywhere he went, everyone he met had to be told of the injustice. By day and by night he brooded over it. Obsessed with his grievance, he became desperately ill and died. In the delirium of his death struggles, he repeatedly murmured, “A piece of string, a piece of string.” (In The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Roslyn, New York: Black’s Reader Service, pages 34–38.)

When I got home from school, Jerry was sitting on the living room floor, cutting pink tissue-paper snowflakes. “Hey!” I said as we slapped hands in our usual greeting. “How’s it going?”
Jerry held up his hand for me to examine. “Blisters?” I asked, not really surprised. “I’ve been cutting all day,” he said. “Do you think I have enough?” He held up a thick stack of snowflakes.
“It looks like you have enough there to decorate the gym for the grand ball,” I said. I guess Jerry’s a little young to appreciate my sense of humor. Every time I say anything funny, he just looks at me with his big brown eyes as though I’d just said something profound that he should store away for later use.
I snickered, not really sure if I was laughing at Jerry’s gullibility or at my desire to tease him. I tease Jerry a lot, I guess. It’s pretty easy to do because he’s so serious and so believing.
Jerry had been cutting snowflakes almost steadily since Sunday morning. Mom had given him the idea and the pink tissue paper. She had explained to him that even though it wasn’t white, it would be easier to cut through ten layers of tissue paper than typing paper.
“Besides,” I had added, “just think what the world would be like if it snowed pink snow.” Jerry’s eyes got that trusting, faraway look in them as I continued: “Pink lakes, pink trees, pink oceans. …”
Mom gave me a warning look, and I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “Hey, I can’t help it if he believes everything that I say.”
Jerry had immediately made five snowflakes, and everybody made quite a fuss over them. They were pretty good snowflakes, considering that they were cut by a five-year-old with kindergarten scissors. I even told him that I thought they were pretty neat. But Mom added the clincher. “What beautiful snowflakes, Jerry—snowflakes of love.”
Well, you could just see the gears turning in Jerry’s head. He spent the rest of the morning cutting snowflakes. He took them to church and gave them to everyone—the bishop, the ward clerk, his Primary teacher, his classmates, the organist. I think that Jerry was trying to make his own personal pink snowstorm with his snowflakes of love.
He didn’t stop with those, though. He kept at it the next day. I even pretended patient indifference when my good buddies, Mark and Wayne, came over to play basketball and Jerry presented each of them with three pink snowflakes.
They looked at me, hoping for a logical explanation for the gift. “It’s his contribution to world peace and brotherly love,” I explained and went in for a perfect lay-up. The guys were nice about it and folded their snowflakes and put them deep into their pockets.
After family home evening, while I pondered some math problems in our room, Jerry was still cutting snowflakes. When I caught him watching me, he’d just smile and keep on cutting. I’d chuckle and nod and go back to calculating. I didn’t think any more about it until the next day.
The morning hadn’t gone well at all. I had hit the snooze button on my alarm one too many times, and I was going to be late for school. I grabbed my books and folder and bounded down the stairs, trying to put on my jacket as I went. Jerry was sitting at his usual spot at the kitchen table. “Hi, Jer,” I mumbled as I shoved some scrambled eggs into my mouth.
“I made a surprise for you,” he said.
“Great!” I said, grabbing a piece of toast and heading for the door.
I ran the two blocks to school and hit the front door just as the second bell sounded. I dashed down the hall, opened the door to my first-period history class, and in one gliding motion threw my books onto the desk and slid in behind them. But the books didn’t stop. I grabbed for them, but they sailed on out of my reach and across the aisle, bumped against the opposite desk, and flew in every direction. Fifty-four eyes were riveted on my folder as it flew open and released a pink snowstorm of pastel, tissue-paper snowflakes.
The air currents from the heat vent sent the snowflakes sailing into the air. Everyone watched as they twisted and turned and fluttered down to cover the floor like a soft, pink blanket. I watched in a trance until the last snowflake had fallen. Suddenly, Jerry’s words registered in my mind: “I made a surprise for you.”
All eyes in the classroom were focused on me, waiting for the explanation that they felt they deserved. What could I say? I threw open my arms in a gesture of helplessness and admitted to the world, “My little brother loves me.”
And as I bent to gather each gift of love, my heart sang out, “I love you, too, Jer.”

Mum spent nearly two months in the hospital and doctors kept saying she might not make it. Hospital workers even discarded her clothes, thinking she wouldn’t survive. We would have family prayer every night with my mum on video call and we would hear her breathing heavily, with the beeping sound of the monitoring machines in the background.
Most nights at 7 PM sharp, Mum called to listen in on our family prayer. On nights she didn’t call, we knew she was not feeling strong enough, so our prayers were even more earnest. Our service to the other patients and our wrestling with the Lord through personal and family prayers helped us through this frightening time.
Our service might have helped others, but we were the ones being blessed—Mum came home alive!

We were lined up along the edge of the sidewalk next to the curb as straight as a flock of crows on a barbed wire fence.
We had been told by reliable sources that a more boisterous bunch had never graced the halls of our elementary school. Today, however, we were on our best behavior as a requirement for witnessing a great display of skill. Even the mayor was there wearing his dark suit and white shirt, his collar button straining to hold everything together. Somehow, Mayor Smith still looked like a mechanic even when he left his garage and shed his coveralls.
But our attention was not on the mayor. It was focused on our school principal, Mr. Redding, and the event that was about to take place. Mr. Redding was standing next to some of the teachers at the street corner, his right hand held aloft, firmly grasping a stopwatch which was held for all to see.
This was a great day! Not only were we released from our classroom prisons, but we were to witness the unparalleled skills of the volunteer fire department!
Already we could hear the siren wailing and bells clanging. We strained on tiptoe to be the first to see the fire truck coming. A cheer erupted from 100 boys and girls as the bright red truck came into sight.
It rounded the corner on squealing tires with dust flying and dogs barking. Three brightly clad firemen jumped from the moving truck and braced their feet against the ground, holding firmly to the long, limp canvas hose. The spool whirled as the hose unwound and the moving truck pulled over to stop near the closest fire hydrant.
I yelled “Hi” to Bill Jenkins, but he had no time to talk to kids. He was a member of the volunteers, drilled and trained to a fine edge of efficiency. There was an economy in every movement.
Precious seconds were ticking off the stopwatch, but already the hose was trained on the imaginary flames licking at the walls of our house of learning.
The hose was quickly coupled to the hydrant and the nozzle trained upon our hypothetical blaze. A volunteer ran to the hydrant with a special wrench to turn it on. A look of alarm came upon his face—the wrench didn’t fit.
There was a scurry of movement as each area of the truck was ransacked to find the crucial missing wrench. The search continued, and the watch kept ticking.
Buzzy Harris was getting nervous. He stood first on one foot and then another. The length of time a boy can stand in line on the edge of a sidewalk has some definite limitations. Buzzy bent over and picked up a small stick and with a practiced swing scribed a perfect circle in the soft dirt beside the walk. Into this circle he threw down his best cat’s-eye marble. It was an unspoken challenge for anyone willing to take him on in a game of “migs.” I was out of the running because Buzz had already taught me how to play. All of my hard-earned marbles were resting securely in his swollen marble bag.
Three boys soon joined him kneeling in the dirt, doing their best to win that cat’s-eye and teach Buzz a lesson he’d never forget. Walter was chasing Suzie Adams, trying to pull her hair. She was screaming at the top of her lungs but not really running as fast as she might.
Mr. Redding was becoming visibly agitated. He glanced at the stopwatch still held partially aloft in his tiring right arm. He lowered his arm to rewind the watch.
Meanwhile, our volunteer fire department was searching for the right wrench. A pickup truck had taken off in a wild dash, its tires throwing gravel. It was headed back toward the fire station on a search mission.
Walter had caught Suzie, but what do you do with a cornered wildcat? Three of Suzie’s girl friends had come to her rescue, and there was some question as to whether he would escape alive.
Buzzy was looking for more takers as he poked newly acquired marbles into his bag. Mr. Redding wound his stopwatch. Three boys had come to Walter’s rescue, but Suzie was now receiving reinforcements.
There was no longer a straight line. The crows had hopped off the fence.
I glanced at the schoolhouse and our hypothetical fire. I decided by now the fire would have consumed the bottom floor, engulfed the second floor, and spread to the principal’s office on the third.
Meanwhile, our volunteer fire department was still looking for the right wrench. The watch kept ticking.
No one really noticed when the pickup truck came screeching back on the scene. Mr. Redding and the other teachers were busy picking boys and girls off a “dog pile.” Walter and Suzie were on the bottom and getting squashed. Buzzy was being threatened by a larger opponent who said he was only playing “funs,” not “keeps,” and wanted his marbles back. Mayor Smith had quietly gone back to his garage.
Suddenly the long white hose that had lain limp and useless began to take on life. The swelling motion began moving along its length toward the nozzle. Our volunteer firemen were sitting in the shade of the tree with the nozzle lying inertly in their laps. Suddenly the hose came to life. Like an angry cobra, it raised itself poised to strike, lashing out in every direction. Our volunteers bravely tried to control the maverick stream, but it kept dodging from their grasp. Dirt and grass were being washed down to native gravel, and mud was flying everywhere.
Our firemen didn’t catch the runaway hose. It caught them. But they grabbed it and held on. It took three of them to control it, and, in the process, Mr. Redding was drenched along with the rest of the faculty. The few crows that were still on the fence were unceremoniously washed off. Eventually, the stream was pointed in the right direction toward the imagined embers that had once been our schoolhouse. Mr. Redding promptly said, “All right, that’s it! Let’s go back inside!” It was Johnny Trump who asked the obvious question, “How long did it take, Mr. Redding? How long did it take?” There was no response.
The question was now chorused by a multitude, “How long did it take, Mr. Redding?” With some difficulty, Mr. Redding extracted his run-down stopwatch from a wet pocket. With a sigh of resignation he said, “Twenty-nine minutes, fourteen and five-tenths seconds.”
I glanced over at our hypothetical fire. Our schoolhouse had just burned down.
Through the years I have observed again and again that bright uniforms and shiny engines are useless if we don’t have the right wrench. Success comes to those who plan ahead and pay attention to details. Since that day on the school ground I have never accepted a responsibility without asking myself, “Am I really prepared? Do I have the right wrench?”

When our eldest daughter was to be married to a fine Latter-day Saint boy the two mothers were in the corner of the room talking to each other, and the mother of our oldest daughter said, “You know, from the time my little girl was born, I have been praying all my life that somewhere a mother would be preparing a son worthy to marry my daughter.” And this other mother smiled and said, “Isn’t that strange? This is my only son who is being married to your daughter, and ever since he was born, I, too, have been praying that somewhere there would be a mother preparing a daughter worthy to meet and to marry my son.”
It is that kind of home attention—mothers preparing daughters, fathers and mothers, sons—that will make us and our homes stronger today.
President Harold B. LeeConference Report, October 1964, p. 86.

Joey Berger liked lollipops. He liked red ones, yellow ones, orange ones, green ones, and purple ones. He was only allowed one very small one each day after school. His older brothers, Nick and David, groaned when it was his turn to choose a treat for family home evening, because he always asked for lollipops. They called him the Lollipop Kid, but Joey didn’t mind.
Now he had a problem. Even sucking on his favorite cherry-flavored lollipop didn’t help. He bit off part and chewed it as he wondered what he could do to help Brother Sawyer feel better.
Joey had been four years old when the Sawyers moved next door to his family three years ago. His mother had asked him to visit the new neighbors with her when she took them a plate of cookies. They’d found Brother Sawyer sitting on the porch swing, sucking on a red lollipop.
Right then, Joey had known that he and Brother Sawyer were going to be friends. Brother Sawyer, who wore bib overalls like Joey’s Grandpa Berger did, invited Joey to visit him after school each day, They would settle down on the swing and read a story together. At first, Brother Sawyer had read the stories and Joey listened. Then, when Joey had learned to read and Brother Sawyer’s eyes had begun to fail, Joey read while his friend listened. They always sucked on lollipops as they read. Brother Sawyer joked that he was the only person he knew who ate more lollipops than Joey did.
Then, about a year ago, Sister Sawyer had died and things changed. For a long time Brother Sawyer didn’t invite Joey to join him on the porch. Gradually, though, he started to feel better, and he and Joey once again spent many happy hours together.
But yesterday Brother Sawyer’s eyes were sad, and he told Joey that it would soon be a year since his wife had died.
“Do you still miss her?” Joey had asked.
“I’ll always miss her,” Brother Sawyer replied softly. “We would’ve celebrated our sixtieth anniversary this year.”
Joey wanted to do something for his friend. “Mom, can I take some of the cookies you baked to Brother Sawyer?”
“That’s a good idea, Joey.” She placed some of the still-warm cookies on a plate. “Invite him to dinner tonight too. He’s probably lonely.”
Brother Sawyer wasn’t on the porch swing when Joey arrived. Carefully balancing the plate of cookies in one hand, he rang the doorbell. After several minutes, Brother Sawyer answered the door. His eyes were red, as though he’d been crying.
“These are for you,” Joey said, handing him the cookies.
“Thank you, Joey.” Brother Sawyer set the plate on a small table by the swing without taking a cookie.
“Would you like to have supper with us tonight?”
Brother Sawyer shook his head. “I wouldn’t be very good company right now.”
Joey took the wrinkled hand in his own. “I think you’re good company.”
A smile touched Brother Sawyer’s eyes briefly. “You’re a good friend, Joey. But sometimes a person needs to be alone.”
“You’re thinking about Sister Sawyer,” Joey said.
The old man nodded. “I wish it was the right season to plant flowers. Martha always loved flowers. She said they reminded her of a rainbow.”
“I’ll help you plant lots of flowers in the spring,”
Brother Sawyer patted Joey’s hand. “Thank you.” He pointed to a small tree in the front yard. “Do you remember when we planted that tree?”
Joey nodded. He’d helped Brother and Sister Sawyer plant it shortly before she’d died.
“I promised Martha that I’d take care of it. It looks forlorn now.”
Joey stared at the tree, its branches stripped of leaves. He didn’t know what forlorn meant, but he supposed it meant sad. Like Brother Sawyer, Joey thought.
Joey stayed a little longer, but nothing he did cheered up his friend. Finally he trudged home, more discouraged than ever. But what could he do?
Joey thought and thought. “That’s it!” He rushed to his room and grabbed his piggy bank, Turning it upside down, he shook it until all the coins tumbled onto his bed. Two dollars and thirty-seven cents. That wasn’t enough, but it was a start.
He took the stairs two at a time and ran into the kitchen, where his mother was paying bills, “Mom, do you have any chores I can do to earn some money?”
His mother looked thoughtful. “I might. What do you need the money for—or is it a secret?”
“It’s a secret, but I can tell you.” Quickly he explained his plan to his mother. “That’s a wonderful idea!”
He did jobs for his parents all the rest of the week. By Saturday he had seven dollars and thirty-seven cents. That should be enough, he decided, His father took him to the grocery store, where he bought five sacks of lollipops. At home he looked at them, thinking about how much he’d enjoy eating them. But he had a much better plan …
That evening his whole family helped him decorate the little tree outside Brother Sawyer’s house, tying lollipops to the branches with pieces of yarn. When they were finished, lollipops “blossomed” from every branch.
“Do you think Brother Sawyer will like it?” he asked his mother.
“I’m sure he will,” she answered. She kissed Joey’s cheek. “I’m very proud of you.”
The next morning, he woke early, eager to see the tree in daylight. Drawing back the curtains, he looked out the window. Lollipops splashed brightly against the pale blue sky.
Pulling on his clothes, he ran next door. He smiled when he found Brother Sawyer sitting on the porch.
“Look what happened to our tree,” Brother Sawyer said with a little catch in his voice. “It’s blooming lollipops! Martha would have loved it.”
Joey didn’t know what to say, so he threw his arms around his friend and hugged him tightly.
“You’re a fine friend, Joey,” Brother Sawyer said, tears in his eyes, “Come on, let’s go have a lollipop.”
Joey looked at the tree, but Brother Sawyer shook his head, “Lollipops from that tree are too special to eat. I have some red ones in the kitchen.”
Joey slipped his hand inside his friend’s and followed him inside.

Lilia, the mother, was baptized in the United States while she was visiting on a grant from the U.S. government, making her the first Moldovan baptized. That was in May 1997.
Then just six months later in November, her daughter, Lilia, became the first person baptized actually in Moldova. Since she was the first of several to be baptized that day, she treasures the honor of being allowed to be the first to join the Church in her country. Today both Lilias have been members for more than six years.
At first the only Church members in Moldova were three Latter-day Saint Americans: John Nielson and Paul and Betty Morris. They met in the Morrises’ home for sacrament meeting. Two elders from the România Bucharest Mission were sent to Moldova, and then the sheep began to recognize the voice of the Shepherd. Lilia and her mother began attending meetings after Lilia’s mother returned from the United States.
The younger Lilia tells the story of her conversion: “I started attending Church meetings six months before my baptism. I had my mother’s example this entire time. She introduced me to the Church by giving me a hymnbook. I came to love the first hymn I looked at, ‘Love One Another.’ I knew then that God wanted me to feel special and loved.”
In the six years since Lilia’s baptism, the branch has grown to 180 members, with many of the members being youth or young adults. Five young people from Moldova have already served as full-time missionaries and returned. Four more are serving missions now.
These young people love to talk about how the Church has changed their lives. “It makes me want to shout for joy,” says Alin Constantinescu, “when I realize that I belong to the only true Church. A deep feeling of thankfulness pierces my soul every time I think of the love the Lord has for us and the trust He has put in us as pioneers here in Moldova.” Alin is now serving a mission in Manchester, England.
“It shows in our countenances that we are a happy people,” says Mariana Turcanu, “and it is because of the gospel. It has changed my whole existence here in Moldova.”
The small country of Moldova looks like a slice of melon squished between Romania and Ukraine. The nation has about four and a half million people; they speak Russian and Moldovan, a language closely related to Romanian. The people who live in the capital city of Chisinau live in concrete high-rise apartment buildings. But in the country and villages, people still live in small self-constructed homes without running water, and many travel by wooden horse-drawn wagons or on foot. The countryside has fertile black soil that produces beautiful fruits and vegetables. The hills, though not high enough to be known as mountains, are covered with meadows of trees and grass with patches of bright yellow sunflowers.
The largest branch of the Church in Moldova is in Chisinau. President Ion Virlan is the first Moldovan to serve as branch president. His teenage daughter, Natalia, was among the first five to be baptized in November 1997. And a few months later the rest of her family joined the Church. There is also a smaller branch in the town of Orhei.
A lot of the youth activities organized by the Church have been firsts as well. The branch in Chisinau has had its first seminary and institute classes. The youth have held their first Super Saturday. And best of all, the branch has its first brand-new meetinghouse. The building was dedicated in December 2002 and is a monument to the pioneering efforts in Moldova.
It may sound a little strange to call such young members of the Church pioneers, but these youth understand they are leading the way for many more from their country. Juliana Musteata says, “Being a modern pioneer in Moldova brings joy and happiness into my heart and soul. I believe that if we work hard, we can influence the growth of the Church. I know that the Lord has blessed each one of us with the opportunity to set an example for others and share the gospel.”
“Yes, we are pioneers!” says Gheorghe Zugravu. “It is amazing to be the pioneers of our Lord Jesus Christ. We feel closer to our Savior as we share the gospel here in this country. We are the first, but after us will come many others who will love Jesus Christ as we do. We believe this with the whole power of our hearts.”
Part of their love for the Savior is shown in the ways the young people have chosen to serve. Just like others around the world, the young women in the Chisinau Branch have organized service projects. They made one project a yearly event. For the past several summers, they have helped care for children at orphanages in the city.
“We young women try our best to make these children’s lives more pleasant,” says Natalia Gligor. “We try with all our hearts to offer them love and comfort, to play with them, and to make them understand that there is somebody who loves them. We have a special program that can develop certain abilities. We try to inspire them to be attentive and curious. They lack many things, both material and spiritual. The spiritual things that are lacking are more painful, and the wounds are much deeper.”
Irina Vizitiv also helps with the orphaned children. She says, “Families are the biggest blessings of our Heavenly Father. I think through this service project, we have brought some light into the children’s lives. And I know this is very important to my Heavenly Father.” Irina, like many of the youth, is the only member of the Church in her family. She hopes her family will someday accept the restored gospel.
Coming to know their Savior is one of the best experiences these young people have. Katerina Bejan was the first seminary teacher in the branch and is currently serving a mission in England. She says, “I know that Jesus Christ is always with us and that He is the cornerstone of this Church.”
“I love to hear people say, ‘Jesus Christ lives!’” says Mariana Turcanu. “It feels so wonderful to know it for myself. And as sure as He lives, I know that my Redeemer loves me.”
Slava Schiopul knows many Moldovans are waiting to hear about the gospel. He says, “We must concentrate our lives in obedience to the commandments of Heavenly Father, yet there are only a few of us here in this country to help each other. However, by this obedience, we grow closer and closer to our Savior Jesus Christ, and He helps us to live in the light.”
Vasile Botan, now serving a mission in Paris, France, sees the Church coming to his country as one step in fulfillment of prophecy: “I know that before the Second Coming of Jesus Christ here on earth, His restored gospel has to be known by every nation, kindred, tongue, and people. I am very happy that this message has arrived for the people of Moldova. In this tiny country, we know God remembers us too.”
Like most pioneers, members of the Church here are struggling economically. The Republic of Moldova is a young country with few jobs or opportunities available. But Moldovans’ acceptance of the gospel of Jesus Christ and their determination to live righteously are their hope for the future.

In 1832 Martin Harris’s older brother, Emer, who is my great-great-grandfather, was called on a mission from Ohio (see D&C 75:30). Emer spent a year preaching the gospel near his former home in northeastern Pennsylvania. During most of this time Emer’s companion was his brother Martin, whose zeal in preaching even caused him to be jailed for a few days. The Harris brothers baptized about 100 persons. Among those baptized was a family named Oaks, which included my great-great-grandfather. Thus, my middle name and my last name come from the grandfathers who met in that missionary encounter in Susquehanna County in 1832–33.

I had talked to my parents once before about receiving that blessing, but they were against it. This time, armed with a tiny testimony, I tried again.
“Faith,” my father told me, “is not something that is grown in one or two days. It is the process of many years.” He felt that, to a student, school is more important even than religion, and he emphatically refused to give permission for baptism.
That had been a painful experience. But I got a grasp on myself, thought over what my father had said, and decided that one thing he had said was right. Religion should not be just a two-day spree, but a life-long adventure! I began attending seminary and studying the Old Testament in earnest. Fun lessons helped me gain insight into a subject that was new to me, and my knowledge of the gospel became fuller. However, I could not buy the home study manuals because that year was also the year for high school entrance exams, and my parents wanted me to spend time on school work, not religious homework.
I was overjoyed when the students in the class gave the manuals to me as a present! What could I give them in return? The best thing was to study those manuals hard. Even though my progress was slower than others, I was able to finish the manuals and turn them in to the teacher.
I also passed the high school entrance exams and felt relieved. My heart was lighter as I once again approached my parents about baptism, figuring I had proven I could be active in the Church and still succeed at school. Their response knocked me back into reality. “No,” my father said, “from now on school will be even tougher. You won’t have time for church and school too.”
My parents became increasingly upset by my diligence in attending Church meetings and would speak harsh words when I left the house on Sundays. After many months, however, they finally realized I wasn’t going to stop attending, and their resistance slackened somewhat. I continued studying seminary manuals, and my testimony grew more and more firm. But baptism still seemed impossible.
Finally, Naomi suggested that we should fast and pray about the situation. So every Sabbath day—for an entire year-we fasted. Naomi fasted and prayed right along with me. I could always feel God’s presence nearby, and my testimony became unshakable as we realized many other blessings that year. But my parents remained firm.—
Last of all, my thoughts drifted to the beginning of this school year-my last in high school, the year of preparation for the college entrance examinations. I knew I would not be allowed to join the Church until the exams were over. I also wondered if my parents would allow me to be baptized even after the tests. One thing was certain, though. If I failed the exams, my parents would say, “The reason you failed is because you spent so much time with that church!” I had to prove that what they were thinking just wasn’t right. Somehow I knew that passing those tests was the key to my baptism, but I couldn’t see how.
I studied harder than I ever had before. Schoolwork passed ahead of everything, even Church assignments. Seminary studies began to pile up, but I rationalized that in order to be baptized, it was worth neglecting seminary in favor of schoolwork. The lack of seminary study worried me, however, for it was there I had grown the most and felt the strongest testimony. Now that testimony seemed to be shrinking as 13 home study books cluttered my shelf. My conscience told me I wasn’t doing what was right, that even with school there should be time for Church work and seminary too. On February 25 I promised myself I would complete all 13 books by March 4, the day exams began. Sandwiched in between my other schoolwork, seminary workbooks became a welcome break. On March 2, I handed all of my assignments, completed, to my amazed seminary teacher.
“It’s time,” the teacher supervising the exam said. I looked at the clock and whispered a prayer. Like a squadron of robots, the college entrance exam candidates rose and entered the testing area. Reluctantly, I joined them.
I passed! I couldn’t believe it! I was so excited! But several days later, when the scores were posted, I was listed. I would be able to go to college! I rushed to my parents with the good news and also asked if now I could finally have my wish—to become a member of the Church.
“No,” my father said simply. He startled the words right out of my mouth.
But my mother, although she had never done so before, came to my defense. She reminded him that I had been true to my studies and true to my religion for four years. “That’s such a good church that I don’t think my daughter would be doing anything wrong by joining it,” she said. “It is such a good church. I can understand why my daughter wants to go to it all her life.”
The three of us talked for hours, and I slowly realized my parents weren’t against me but loved me. They were concerned for my welfare and didn’t want me doing something blindly. I’m grateful to have such wonderful parents. I think they realized, too, that I wasn’t joining the Church on a whim. They gave me permission to be baptized! I made that covenant and received that ordinance on the same day I graduated from the Young Women program. My friends from seminary helped plan the baptismal service, and most of my family attended.
Of the high school and college-age members of the Church in Japan, only about 5 percent have parents who are members. They may find that sharing the gospel with their families can be difficult and that parents of the Buddhist and Shinto faiths don’t always understand the joy that comes into someone’s heart through the knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ. But I truly believe that the Lord is mindful of us and will provide a way to help us. For me, it was through four years of patience that allowed my faith to grow strong.

In 1980 I was a missionary serving in the Philippines Cebu Mission when I was transferred to a city called Ormoc. This district had normally shown steady growth, but for several months there had been very few baptisms.
I arrived in Ormoc on 28 October and met my new companion, Elder Alexander. The first few weeks were extremely slow for us. We had few teaching appointments and almost no referrals. In spite of working long hours and praying to find people to teach, we met with very little success. I remember praying for guidance and receiving confirmation that the Lord was preparing people for us to teach.
On 15 November Elder Alexander and I were tracting in the Barrio Isla Verde, a community on a small island in the Ormoc River. To get there we had to cross the shallow river some 23 meters on stepping-stones, which proved to be a feat in itself. However, the local residents traveled the path with ease.
While there, we met Petronilo and Andrea Ygonia and their grandson Allan Sueto Sungahid. They accepted our invitation to hold a family home evening in their home. That evening was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. After playing some games, we introduced a gospel message and bore our testimonies.
Our visits continued with this family for the next two weeks. It was exciting to watch as their countenances began to shine. By the end of November all three had committed to be baptized the following month.
I will never forget the teaching experience we had in the Ygonias’ home on 2 December. Brother Loa, the ward mission leader, came with us to a neighborhood meeting at the Ygonias’. More than 30 neighbors had accepted the Ygonias’ invitation to listen to the first discussion. As we bore testimony, the Spirit became so strong I believe everyone present was touched.
We explained that the warm, peaceful feeling each person was experiencing was the presence of the Holy Ghost. Prompted by the Spirit, we invited each person in that room to continue investigating the Church and commit to baptism. All 30 neighbors accepted the invitation.
Brother and Sister Ygonia, their grandson, and seven others were baptized in December. The work in Ormoc had begun to prosper once again, due in large part to the faith of this good family. Shortly thereafter I was transferred from Ormoc. Although I had spent only six weeks there, these weeks were some of the best of my life. Never had I worked harder for such a worthy cause. Never had I felt closer to the Lord. During the six weeks I served there, the Lord had allowed us to teach and baptize 9 souls, and another 30 individuals were preparing for baptism.

From a young age Elder Otto Vincent Haleck paid tithing, fasted, and studied scriptures—and then he met the missionaries and was baptized.
Elder Haleck was born in January 1949 in American Samoa. His parents, Otto and Dorothy Haleck, sent him to school in California, USA. At the age of 17, he noticed that some friends in student government were different from other students. “They invited me to Mutual, and the rest is history,” Elder Haleck says.

A dramatic change occurred in the life of Howard W. Hunter on 9 October 1959. He and Claire had gone to Salt Lake City to attend the October general conference, and Howard received a note saying President David O. McKay would like to visit with him. President McKay informed him: “Tomorrow you’re going to be sustained as a member of the Council of the Twelve.”

After his name had been presented in general conference and he had been sustained, President Clark invited him to take his place with the Twelve on the stand. He recalled, “My heart increased its pounding as I climbed the steps. Elder Hugh B. Brown moved over to make room for me and I took my place as the twelfth member of the Quorum. I felt the eyes of everyone fastened upon me as well as the weight of the world on my shoulders. As the conference proceeded I was most uncomfortable and wondered if I could ever feel that this was my proper place.”

This calling came, of course, as a great surprise, and it brought great changes into the lives of Elder Hunter and his wife, Claire. After twenty-five years in Los Angeles, they left their business associates, Church members, and cherished friends in California. But the decision itself was easy because Elder Hunter had long ago established a hierarchy of values upon which his personal, professional, and spiritual decisions were based. Service to God ranked highest of all on his list of priorities.

Recently I went on a soccer recruiting trip to a university in another state. I went to decide if I wanted to go to school there.
While I was there, some girls already on the team decided they would show the recruits what college life was like, so they took us to a party. This party was not the kind I was used to. Everyone there was drinking and smoking.
One guy at the party announced that all the recruits had to get in the middle of a circle and he would pass around a bottle of liquor for us to drink.
When I wouldn’t even touch the bottle, he said to me, “You’re not even going to taste it?”
“No thanks,” I told him.
He continued to harass me for a few minutes.
Throughout the party I felt very uncomfortable and wanted to leave. Finally we did.
The following day as I listened to general conference, I heard Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles say, “Be grateful that your righteous life molds you so that you don’t fit where you don’t belong” (“The Power of Righteousness,” Liahona, January 1999, 81). I am thankful that I have lived my life in such a way that I was uncomfortable at the party. I felt that I was out of place there, and I am glad I was. I am also grateful I decided long ago that I would never drink. That decision helped me in my time of need.