Gospel Story Finder

While reading about Lezlie Bowden in the November New Era, I was reminded of the time I was running for a national office of the Future Homemakers of America. Five days before our state’s delegation to the national convention was to leave, I ended up in the hospital with acute tonsillitis. While there I received a blessing that I will never forget. In it my branch president assured me that “the Lord has a hand in all things.” l was able to attend the convention and did my best in competition. I wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t get that national office because I knew that the Lord had a hand in it. I had already been elected to seven chapter and regional offices and one state office. I had never yet lost! This was my chance to experience losing. In life we have to experience losing as well as winning. I knew that while the Lord didn’t need me as a national FHA officer, he was surely watching over me and giving me many other opportunities and experiences for which I will always be grateful. I know that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true, and I’m happy to be a part of it.
Lisa BuzanOnaway, Michigan

Eritai learned about hydroponic sustainability while attending Brigham Young University–Hawaii. He spent hundreds of hours developing that idea into a solution to take to his people.
In 2017, he returned to Kiribati and introduced innovative hydroponic gardening to families and communities in response to the challenges faced in accessing healthier food options. He explained that “it provided a healthy alternative to the processed foods that people were eating.”

Andrea peeked into her parents’ room. She smiled when she saw the blue beanbag gecko on Mom’s pillow. Andrea came in to look at it closer.
Mom brought it home from Hawaii to remind her of the lizards she and Dad saw on vacation. Sometimes she let Andrea and her younger sister, Stacy, play with it. Andrea liked how its bright beaded eyes shone in the light and how its shiny blue skin slipped through her hands.
But now something was wrong. Andrea could see a small rip in the gecko’s side. Little pebbles of filling were falling out onto the pillowcase.
Oh no! Mom would be so sad when she saw what happened. What could Andrea do?
Andrea spotted Mom’s sewing basket under the table in the corner. That’s it! she thought. Mom had been teaching her to sew. Could she stitch up the gecko all by herself? She searched through Mom’s sewing basket for a needle and some blue thread. Then she gently scooped up the torn gecko and cradled it so no more tiny pebbles would fall out. After a few tries, she threaded the needle and carefully started stitching the opening back together.
Andrea’s fingers fumbled with the tiny needle and the thread. It seemed to tangle with every stitch! Finally she made the last stitch and tied a knot. Andrea frowned. Her big, messy stitches made it easy to tell where the tear had been. But at least no more pebbles were falling out.
Andrea found Mom weeding in the garden. She held the gecko out to her.
"I found this on your bed with a hole in it. I tried to fix it," she said. "It isn’t very good," she added softly.
"Oh?" Mom put her shovel on the ground and wiped her hands on the bandana in her pocket. Then she gently took the stuffed gecko from Andrea’s hands. She examined the stitching, looking from the gecko to Andrea and back to the gecko again.
"You did this all by yourself?" Mom sounded surprised.
"Yes." Andrea traced a circle in the grass with her big toe. "I know you like to look at it to remember your vacation."
Mom grinned. "Well, now I can look at it and remember two things: our fun vacation and what a thoughtful daughter I have."
Andrea looked up at Mom. "It doesn’t look the same," she said.
"No, it doesn’t," Mom said. Andrea’s shoulders slumped. I knew it, she thought. But then Mom folded her into a great big hug. "It’s better!"
Andrea’s eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really," Mom said. "Thanks for rescuing my gecko!" She squeezed Andrea tight. Andrea grinned as she hugged Mom back.
"Can I help weed the garden?" Andrea asked.
"You bet!" said Mom. "But I have to put the gecko back first."
"I’ll do it!"
Andrea carefully carried the gecko inside and set it on Mom’s pillow. She patted its shiny head. "Glad I could help you out," she said. Then she ran outside to help Mom rescue the garden too!

The temple closest to me is the Mesa Arizona Temple. Every month, my school has early-release days. Last year, my friends and I started a new tradition on early-release days where we would wear our Sunday clothes to school, go out for lunch, and then attend the temple to do baptisms for the dead. It’s definitely helped me gain a deeper understanding of the temple, of what it means, and of how important it is. Regularly visiting the temple has helped me feel the Spirit more often. It’s definitely brought my friends closer to one another. Also, a lot of our classmates ask about our temple trips because they notice that at least 10 of us always dress up for early-release days. This attention encourages other youth to go to the temple too.

For years I was nervous that returning to Hungary would be difficult for me emotionally. When I eventually traveled there, it wasn’t until the second day that I realized that not only was I not feeling any pain, I was also feeling overwhelming joy to be back. I knew then that Heavenly Father had given me the opportunity to experience the healing power of the Savior’s Atonement. I now know that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, all things will be made right in the end.

Then one day my father dropped another bombshell. He’d decided to leave BYU—Hawaii to take a position at the University of Wisconsin. My heart began to thud. How could he? How could he be so cruel as to take me to a state only a lake away from Michigan? There wasn’t a dry eye among us when we boarded the plane.
But here I was in Wisconsin—my sobs and pleas had fallen on deaf ears. I shot the mirror another grim glare and turned away resolutely. No, this time I wouldn’t start a new junior high with secondhand clothes and expectant smiles. I’d grown up a lot since Michigan and knew better than that.
My ploy worked. I didn’t look or act like a nerd and found friends instantly—of the wrong variety. This was the crowd who had an ever-present cigarette on their lips and an expletive to fit every occasion. They were happy to draw me into their circle.
“Wanna drag?” became a phrase I was to hear repeatedly that year as someone in the crowd lit up and offered to share their nicotine.
Did I want a drag? Of course I did. More than anything in the world I wanted to fit in and be a part of this crowd. But I couldn’t—I was a Mormon. And that made me mad. It wasn’t cool to be a Mormon. There were only three Mormons at my junior high, including myself and my brother. I was okay, but in my estimation, the other two didn’t have a chance of being accepted. I didn’t want to be connected with either of them in any way. I kept my religion squashed as far under a bushel as I could. When kids offered me a cigarette I didn’t say, “No thanks, I’m a Mormon and we don’t smoke.” I said, “No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Why not?” they often asked.
“I don’t know,” I’d mutter uncomfortably. “It’s bad for your health, I guess.”
“You’re smart,” they’d respond thoughtfully, happily continuing to puff. I looked on in misery.
This crowd loved dancing to the music of Jimi Hendrix and “The Doors” and so did I. They also liked having parties in kids’ basements when their parents weren’t home. The lights were dimmed, the cigarettes glowed, and kids paired off. I wandered around pretending to fit in.
How I longed to do what the others were doing so I could truly belong. I clung to the memory of those happy years in Hawaii, marching barefoot down Moana Street to the beach with a slew of friends surrounding me. In Michigan it was different. I hadn’t fit in because my clothes were outdated and I looked like Popeye’s Olive Oyle in cat glasses. But that wasn’t the problem here. Now I was an identical clone of my Wisconsin friends, and I still wasn’t one of them. Outwardly we looked alike, but inside we were miles apart. I was like one of those Idaho Spud candy bars my dad loves so much—dark and rough on the outside, but full of fluffy, white, squishy marshmallow on the inside. I was a good kid trying to look bad. It wasn’t much fun.
I didn’t want to give up my friends, but how was I to fit in when I didn’t smoke, drink, swear, or pair off? Although I wanted to participate, I could never bring myself to that point. Something always stopped me. Still, the daily contact with these friends took its toll.
My parents watched me change from a cheerful, studious eighth grader to a belligerent, hostile ninth grader. I refused to attend early-morning seminary and Mutual activities—when I could get away with it. In our family, missing Sunday meetings wasn’t an option, or I would have done that, too. Because I was exposed to so much crude language, swear words came involuntarily to my mind each time something bad happened.
Like a brand, I carry the memory of the day one of those words found its way out of my mouth. I was strolling home from school with several friends when a male acquaintance snuck up behind me and playfully yanked my long hair. Shocked and angry, I whirled around to face him. The word popped out before I had a chance to think. Everyone used that word in such situations, but my friends stared at me in disbelief. I tried to pass it off, but inside I was terribly ashamed and made sure it never happened again.
My report card suffered when I figured out it wasn’t cool to get good grades. I’d always been very competitive and at the top of my classes. Now it was an embarrassment to admit I’d earned an A on a test. I became lazy and sloppy.
I don’t like to think what might have happened if my father hadn’t dropped another of his now famous bombshells—this time a happy one. He’d taken a position in higher education in the San Francisco Bay area, and we would soon be on our way to California! It wasn’t as good as announcing that we were returning to Hawaii, but the prospect of becoming one of those California girls the Beach Boys were always singing about appealed to me. I had no regrets about leaving Wisconsin. I was growing weary of the pretense. I’m not sure how much longer I could have kept that scowl on my face and in my heart without snapping.
It was a good move, and I found friends both in and out of the Church with solid values and morals. I’ve reflected many times since on that year in Wisconsin. I’m grateful I’ve never again been so sorely tempted and wonder what kept me from becoming as dark and rough on the inside as I was on the outside.
Maybe it was the 15 years of gospel teachings I’d internalized at home and church that I knew deep down were true. Maybe it was knowing how disappointed my parents would be if they found out I’d done something wrong. Maybe it was because I knew they trusted me. Maybe it was their righteous and sincere prayers in my behalf. Maybe it was because somehow I always knew I wasn’t like those kids.
I’m not proud of my behavior and attitude, but in any case, I weathered the year without any terribly serious mistakes.
Meanwhile, I’ve decided that while living the gospel can seem at times a chore and a bore, if I can hang on and trust what I’ve been taught is true, I’ll be grateful—sometimes rather quickly. In my case I’ve found I don’t have to wait until I die (like I used to think) to be glad I made good choices.
A year later, away from the influence of those friends, I was profoundly grateful I hadn’t given up important gospel standards. In fact, I’ve been grateful all my life.

Sara slipped into the long, soft, blue robe that she was to wear in the Christmas program. Pulling the matching hood over her brown curls, she turned to Jennie. “Do I look like Mary now?”
Jennie grinned. “You sure do, except for your size. It won’t matter, though, because Joseph is only eight too.”
Sara giggled at Jennie’s joke, then sobered. “I really wanted to be Mary in the program, but now that it’s time, I’m kind of scared.”
Jennie reached out to straighten the folds on Sara’s robe. “You’ll do just fine. Everything went well at rehearsal this morning.”
Sara’s stomach gave a little lurch when she heard the organ begin playing “Silent Night.” That was her cue to go on stage.
Sister Perkins came over and smiled at both girls. Looking at Sara, she said, “The curtains will be opening soon. It’s time for you to take your place.”
Sara hurried to her spot and sat down on a bale of straw. Eric, who was playing Joseph, was already there beside the manger. As Sara bent to arrange the blankets around the doll representing Baby Jesus, she heard the music change and the gentle strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” swell.
The curtains slowly opened on the quiet scene. A single spotlight highlighted Mary and Joseph admiring the Baby Jesus. Neither Mary nor Joseph had to say anything. Brother Egger stood out of sight with a microphone and told about the events of Jesus’ birth as they were silently portrayed on stage. The organ played softly while he spoke: “And it came to pass in those days, …”
Sara was distracted by something moving just below the stage. She moved her eyes carefully, trying not to turn her head and spoil the scene. There, climbing the stairs to the stage was her four-year-old sister, Katie.
Sara’s heart sank as Katie came toward her. What shall I do? she wondered. Why isn’t Katie sitting with Mom and Dad? Sara sneaked a peek at her parents. Her mother wore a stricken, helpless look. Sara felt Katie brush against her knees as she bent to look into the manger. Katie’s going to ruin the Christmas program! Why did she have to do this?
Sara was startled out of her thoughts by Katie’s awed “Oh! He’s beautiful!”
As Katie continued to just stand and intently watch the doll in the manger, Sara swallowed and felt calm. There was something about the spell around Katie that Sara couldn’t bring herself to break. I think the best thing to do is just let her stay, Sara decided. She’s being quiet.
So Sara reached out and slipped her arm around her sister’s shoulder and nestled Katie next to her on the bale of straw. Katie relaxed against Sara, still gazing lovingly at the Baby Jesus.
Katie sat watching quietly as the shepherds came. The organist played “The First Noel,” and Brother Egger read from the Bible about the shepherds coming to see Jesus. Even after the shepherds had left and the Wise Men had entered, Katie leaned against Sara, enraptured.
Katie really loves Baby Jesus, Sara thought. I don’t blame her for wanting to get close and see better. She gave Katie a little squeeze. I’m really glad now that she came.
When the curtains closed, Sara gently whispered into Katie’s ear, “It’s time for the next scene, so you must go back to Mommy and Daddy.”
Katie looked at her sister. “OK.” She started to leave, then paused and turned. “Thanks, Sara. I liked looking at Baby Jesus with you.”
Sara smiled. “I’m glad.” She led Katie to the side stage door. “Now go back to Mom.”
After the program the students looked through the crowd for their families. Just as Sara found her parents, she overheard an elderly man speaking to her mother. “I’m so glad I came. Because of your girls, I caught a glimpse of the Savior tonight that I’d never seen before. Thanks.”
Nobody at home said anything about Katie’s unexpected appearance in the program until Mother tucked Sara into bed. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Katie,” Mother said, “but I’m really sorry she barged in on your program. She’d slipped off Dad’s lap, and by the time we realized what she was doing, she was up in front, and it was too late to stop her.” Mother sat down beside Sara on her bed. “I hope it didn’t ruin things for you.”
“No. It was fine, Mother.” Sara squeezed her mother’s hand.
“I really admire the way you handled it,” Mother continued. “It’s hard to know what to do at times like that. What you did was beautiful. Usually people giggle when something unplanned happens, but people got especially quiet after Katie said how beautiful the baby was.”
“At first I was really worried,” Sara admitted. “I didn’t know what to do. Then I realized that the real Mary would have wanted her sister, as well as shepherds and Wise Men, to see her baby. Anyway, there was something special about Katie tonight. It was as though she really understood about Baby Jesus somehow.”
“You’re right, Sara.” Mother’s voice was soft. “Several people came up to me afterward and said the same thing. Even though Katie’s part in the program wasn’t planned, I think it touched people’s hearts. I think a lot of people will never forget tonight’s program.”
Sara settled back on her pillow. “I’m glad.”
Mother bent to kiss Sara. “I think you’re really special too. You taught us older folks a lot in the kind way you treated your sister. I’m sure Jesus was pleased with how you represented His mother tonight.”

Mathilde Felber joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when it was just taking root in her country, and she grew up with it.
LDS missionaries in Brazil originally labored among German-speaking members who had settled in the southern part of the country. Mathilde, from a German-speaking Swiss family, first met the missionaries in 1938 when she was only 10, and it was three years before her father finally allowed his wife and daughters to be baptized.
During Mathilde’s years as an investigator and new member of the Church, North American missionaries were frequently visitors in her family’s home. These visitors included young elders James E. Faust and Wm. Grant Bangerter, along with a number of others she can name as she browses through her photo albums.
The man Mathilde married, Enos de Castro Deus, attended meetings for five years, studying the doctrine carefully and even assisting the branch as requested, before being baptized in 1952. He would not allow himself to take on membership with anything less than a lifelong commitment, and he wanted to be sure of the truth.
Together, Enos and Mathilde helped strengthen the Church in Curitiba for three generations. She has held leadership positions in each of the Church’s auxiliaries, including 17 years in Relief Society presidencies and callings at both the mission and stake levels. He was a branch president four times, bishop twice, a district president, and a counselor in branch, mission, and stake presidencies. He was deeply involved in planning construction of the first Church building in Curitiba at a time when the Church itself was still largely unknown there. Enos passed away late last year.
“In the beginning, the Church grew very slowly,” Mathilde says. “It was difficult to baptize people here.” Now, the fruits of the gospel are seen in the lives of so many members who serve as missionaries by example that it’s much easier to talk to people about the Church.
Mathilde smiles as she recalls what happened when her daughter-in-law saw a neighbor woman peering over the fence on a Sunday morning. The neighbor excused herself by saying, “I just love to see your family going to church together!”

Giuseppe Garibaldi ran along the waterfront toward some fishermen.
“Take me with you,” he pleaded. “I can help man the sails or haul the nets.”
The fishermen laughed. “Hey, Peppino,” one of them called. “Are you playing truant from school again?”
Everyone called the boy Peppino, a nickname for Giuseppe. He was born in Nice, Italy (now part of France), in 1807.
Giuseppe frowned. He wanted to go to sea like his father and his grandfathers had done for years. But his parents insisted he go to school.
Giuseppe spent all the time he could along the waterfront. He was an excellent swimmer. His muscles were hardened by climbing the ropes of ships at port.
When Giuseppe was fifteen years old, he and some friends set sail for Genoa to find adventure and fortune as sailors. A few miles out to sea they were caught. After punishing his son, Giuseppe’s father decided he should send him to sea.
Within ten years Giuseppe Garibaldi was captain of his own ship. It was during these years that he decided to dedicate his life to a free and united Italy.
For many years, ever since the fall of the great Roman empire, Italy had been divided into small territories. Each territory was ruled by a different power. The Italians did not have freedom of assembly, religion, or speech. Most of them were not allowed to learn to read or write, and high taxes kept the people poor and hungry.
In 1834 Garibaldi took part in an unsuccessful revolution. To avoid going to prison, he disguised himself as a peasant and escaped to France.
Now he was a political exile. Since he could not go home, he decided to go to South America, where he became the leader of Italian exiles there. They were known as the Italian Legion, and they fought for the independence of Brazil and Uruguay. These men refused to accept any money for their service because they had not earned it peacefully. The government of Uruguay gave them red woolen shirts, which they wore for uniforms. The Red Shirts, as they were soon called, became a symbol of hope and freedom even in their native Italy.
One day after Garibaldi had been fighting for a town in Brazil, he saw a beautiful young woman named Anita. A bond of love was formed between them the first time they met, and the young couple eloped a few nights after their first meeting. Anita’s love for freedom of nations equaled that of her husband. She fought beside him in South America and later in Italy.
In 1847 several cities in Italy began trying to overthrow their foreign rulers. Garibaldi had been waiting for this. He sent Anita with their three small children to Nice to stay with his mother while he remained in South America, where he gathered his Italian Legion and made preparations for them to sail to Italy. These exiled men were eager to go back home to fight for their own country. They sailed to Nice and from there began the long struggle from northern Italy down into the south.
His men loved Garibaldi. He never asked any of them to do anything he wouldn’t do. He always led them in their battles and fought as hard as they did. This leader ate meals with his men and wore the same kind of clothes they did. They found him always humble, gentle, and fair.
One time some enemy officers were captured and brought before Garibaldi. He had been so feared by the opposing armies that the officers expected to face a cruel, harsh person. To their surprise, this great man shook their hands, told them they had fought bravely, and offered sympathy that they had been captured.
During the battle to defend Rome, Garibaldi was wounded in his side. He hid the injury with his poncho and quietly told the surgeon to secretly visit him that night, for he didn’t want his men to know he had been wounded.
The siege of Rome lasted a long time, because the revolutionary army was so small. Garibaldi refused to surrender, but he knew that if fighting in the city continued, every structure in Rome would be destroyed. His love for this city was so great that he decided to move the fighting up to the mountains to save the city.
Anita had come from Nice to help her husband. She refused to leave him even though they were both in great danger. A few weeks later she became sick and died. Although it was difficult, Garibaldi fought on to achieve their common hope for a free and united Italy.
He had no desire to rule, but only wanted to free the people. Victor Emmanuel, who was a just man, had become king over most of northern Italy. Garibaldi had won many battles in the south. The king was afraid Garibaldi, who was very popular, might be tempted to take over the kingdom. But when the two men met, Garibaldi greeted Victor Emmanuel as his king, and he asked the people to do so too.
Garibaldi was offered titles and money for himself and for his children, but he would not accept them. He chose instead to settle with his children on a small farm.
Italy became a united kingdom; today it is a republic. The people of Italy have a special feeling of gratitude for their country and for the sacrifices of Giuseppe Garibaldi. Every city and village has a street or square named for Garibaldi, or a monument built in honor of this man who loved his country and fought for its freedom.

Grandmother was visiting us, and we were just ready to go out on a fun family outing when a minor disaster struck—we couldn’t find the keys to the car. Children, parents, and Grandmother searched everywhere, but the keys were not to be found, and we thought in dismay that we would probably have to stay home. Then Grandmother excused herself and went into her bedroom. In just a few minutes one of the children suddenly found the keys—just barely hidden under a corner of a rug.
As we drove happily to our outing, someone asked Grandmother, “Why did you go into your bedroom instead of looking for the keys?” Grandmother’s answer was absorbed carefully by five young children; “I knew how disappointed everyone would be if we didn’t go on the outing, so I went in and prayed that we could find the keys. I just knew we would find them after that.”

Nils heard creaking, cracking, and then a great big crash! Everyone in the house jumped up to find the two missionaries buried in a pile of blankets and boards that had been Nils’s bed. His bed had been too small for these two grown men who were in Sweden preaching the gospel.
They had come just after supper and had stayed so late that Mama had insisted they stay the night. She had let them sleep in Nils’s bed while he slept on the floor.
Dismayed, Nils looked at his broken bed. Mama whispered, “Don’t worry. Papa will make you a new one.”
But Papa didn’t seem to have time. He worked all day and talked to the missionaries in the evenings. He said that the Book of Mormon explained everything he hadn’t understood in the Bible.
Soon Mama, Papa, Peter, Botilla, and Bengt were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Nils and his baby sister would have to wait for their eighth birthdays. Even though they were happy, everyone else in town seemed angry—especially Grandmother and Grandfather. Nils’s family decided to go to America where they could be with other Church members.
“You will like America, Nils,” Mama said, “and when we get there, we will get you a new bed.”
The ship to America was crowded with other Swedish and Danish members of the Church. Nils slept on top of two giant water barrels. He was afraid that when the ship rocked back and forth he would roll off! He could hardly wait to see land and sleep in a bed that held still.
But Nils’s first bed in America didn’t hold still. After leaving the ship, they got on a train. Nils fell asleep listening to the clacking of the wheels. When they got off the train at a place called Council Bluffs, they loaded their belongings in wagons pulled by oxen. Nils had thought the ship was crowded, but this was worse!
“No room for mattresses or pillows,” shouted the man in charge. “Pack only your clothes and blankets!”
“No pillow, no mattress, and no bed,” Nils sighed.
His family shared a wagon with a widow and a newly married couple. Every night Nils and his family slept on the ground, and day after dusty day they walked until they made it to Salt Lake City. Once there, they shared a house with another family.
The family’s first home of their own in the valley was a little room dug from a hillside, with a dirt floor. They slept in blankets that could be rolled up during the day. They longed for a more permanent home.
Finally Papa found them some land for a place of their own. Once again, they packed everything into their wagon and rode to Huntsville, Utah. The valley there was green and full of tall grass, and the hillsides were covered with trees. Their second home was a rough cabin with a leaky willow-branch roof and corn-husk mattresses on the floor.
Finally, on Christmas Day, they moved into a real log home with a wood floor, pine shingles on the roof, and real beds! Four and a half years after leaving Sweden, Nils snuggled under his quilt in his own new bed. It creaked a little when he moved, reminding him of the night his old bed broke. How much had changed! Nils smiled. Maybe someday he would grow up to be a missionary in Sweden, too. If he did, he would watch out for little beds!
Years later, Nils P. Lofgren did return to Sweden as a missionary.

Fifty-eight years ago, I knocked on the door of J. Roland Sandstrom, patriarch of the Santa Ana California Stake, with a recommend from my bishop to receive a patriarchal blessing. We had never met and would not meet again for 14 years. We met again 15 years later. This time, as one of the Twelve, I blessed him the day before he died.
The blessing was delivered by mail to my barracks at an air force base where I was stationed. I did not know then, as I know now, that a patriarch has prophetic insight, that his blessing would be more than a guide to me. It has been a shield and a protection.
The patriarch, who had never seen me before, made a promise that applies to every one of us. He told me to “face toward the sunlight of truth so that the shadow of error, disbelief, doubt and discouragement shall be cast behind you.” Many times I have gained strength from reading that patriarchal blessing given by an inspired servant of the Lord.

I marvel at the miracle of the birth of a child. Just recently we experienced it again in our family. You receive a phone call, and there is the anxious voice of your son-in-law on the other end, stating, “I am just on my way to the hospital with Linda Gay.” Then you sit anxiously all day waiting for further news. Finally it comes: It’s a boy! Then you drop everything and rush to the hospital to offer your congratulations. There you see this blessed miracle—your own child, now with a baby cradled in her arms with warmth and tender love. You see a son-in-law so excited, and he starts pointing out that the baby’s nose looks like his mother’s. Maybe the chin and mouth resemble his. Then he looks at the hands and says, “Surely, these must be from the Perry side of the family. Look how large they are!”

A deep love wells up within you as you witness this blessed event and realize the joy and happiness these new parents will now have as the process is repeated again in their lives.

You look up in your school’s cafeteria at lunchtime and see Chloe eating alone again. She’s a young woman in your ward who usually keeps to herself. You’ve talked to her a few times, but she’s quiet and doesn’t usually say much in return. You’ve never really understood why.
You think, “We have fun activities. We’re nice people. Why is Chloe still so quiet? Maybe she just doesn’t like us.” You don’t want her to be alone, and you want to reach out, but you don’t know where to start. “Does she even want friends? Will I make her feel awkward if I go over there?” Sometimes the unknowns can really trip us up and prevent us from trying at all. It’s fine if we don’t always know how best to proceed—but we can keep trying.
Here are a few things to keep in mind while trying to befriend people like Chloe who seem shy.
First step: if you like striking up conversations and find it natural and easy to do, understand that the way you like to interact with others isn’t always the way others do, especially if they’re shy. So when you’re trying to become friends with people who are shy, don’t try to change them or force them into a situation where they’re not comfortable. Some people just prefer more solitude or one-on-one conversations rather than group chats, and that’s fine. Make sure to respect their preferences.
You’re not going to break the ice instantly. Sometimes it takes a little while for shy people to feel comfortable enough to open up. They might not respond as you might expect or want them to at first, but that’s OK! Just keep looking for casual ways to talk to them. Keep saying hi and inviting them to activities. They’ll notice and appreciate your efforts. But remember to always respect their boundaries. That’ll give them the emotional freedom to come around when they’re ready.
“Shy” doesn’t always mean “silent.” Shy people usually talk more when the topic is something they’re passionate about. So ask them what things they like and then try to find a shared interest. Maybe it’s playing a sport, listening to music, watching movies, or reading books. By discovering things you have in common, you’ll create a connection that can make a huge difference in how comfortable they feel around you.
A big group of people can be intimidating for shy people, so when you’re reaching out for the first time, try going just by yourself. Next time, maybe bring a friend. If you ever sense that shy people are uncomfortable, though, give them some space. Just make sure they know you’re there for them when they’re ready.
When you’re trying to befriend anyone, shy or not, always make sure you’re being sincere. Befriend them because you genuinely want to get to know them and be their friend, not just because they might be sitting alone. Pray about how to best get to know them and help them feel of your sincere interest in becoming friends.
Now you look over and see Chloe. You make eye contact, and you smile at her across the room. She smiles nervously and looks away. You tell your friends you’ll see them later, and then you stand up and walk over to her. “Hi, Chloe,” you say. “Can I sit here?” She nods her head yes, and you sit down. You pull out the rest of your lunch and notice the book Chloe has next to her. You ask, “What are you reading? I’ve been looking for a good book to read!” She looks down at the book, smiles, and starts to tell you a little about it.

Audrey felt wiggly. It seemed to her that sacrament meeting would never end. She twisted and knelt backwards on the bench. Mom made her turn around. She slid to the floor and sat under the bench. Dad picked her up and set her back in her seat. She made a face at Rebekah, her older sister. Rebekah put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Shh!”
Audrey frowned. She leaned forward and looked down the long row. Except for Audrey’s family, the only person on the bench was an old man. A cane rested against his leg. Audrey looked at the old man’s cane. It was smooth and shiny. She looked at his hands, resting quietly in his lap. Then she looked at his face. He seemed to be listening to the speaker, but when the other people laughed, his mouth did not even smile. Audrey thought his eyes looked sad.
She wanted to help. Slowly and quietly, Audrey slid off the bench. Softly and reverently, she tiptoed over to the old man. Mom and Dad watched her go. She put her finger to her lips and smiled at them. Then she climbed onto the bench next to the old man.
He looked down. Audrey scooted closer to him and patted his wrinkled fingers. He opened his fingers and wrapped her little hand in his. Audrey leaned her head on the old man’s arm and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Be happy,” she wanted to tell him. She tipped her head to look up at his face. The old man smiled down at her and winked.
During the closing hymn, Audrey heard him singing. His voice was low and scratchy, but Audrey thought he didn’t sound sad. After the meeting, Audrey’s mom and dad came to shake hands with him.
“We’re Brother and Sister Noe,” Dad said, “and this is our daughter Audrey.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I am Brother Campbell,” he said.
After that Sunday, Audrey’s parents invited Brother Campbell to sit with their family during sacrament meeting every week. Audrey always felt less wiggly sitting next to Brother Campbell. And even better, Brother Campbell always smiled.

One such pioneer in Ghana is Joseph W. B. Johnson. Brother Johnson was converted after prayerfully reading the Book of Mormon in 1964. He relates that following his conversion “one early morning, while about to prepare for my daily work, I saw the heavens open and angels with trumpets singing songs of praise unto God. I heard my name mentioned thrice: ‘Johnson, Johnson, Johnson. If you will take up my work as I will command you, I will bless you and bless your land.’ Trembling and in tears, I replied, ‘Lord, with thy help, I will do whatever you will command me.’ From that day onward, I was constrained by the Spirit to go from street to street to deliver the message that we had read from the Book of Mormon.”

When the missionaries arrived fourteen years later, there were already many unbaptized congregations that Brother Johnson had organized, identifying themselves with the Church. Some of these early converts later rejected official membership in the Church, but many accepted it. A foundation had been established upon which later missionary work would build with increasing success.

Another thing I learned from my father is gratitude. When I was a child, there was a severe drought in our community. Weeks and weeks passed with no water, and our small farming community was suffering. As the bishop, Father told the ward members to fast and pray for water. He also counseled them to settle any bad feelings among each other so that we could have feelings of love and unity in our ward.
I remember gathering for the special fast and testimony meeting we held to plead for water. During the meeting, it began to rain. It rained so heavily that we couldn’t leave the meetinghouse! We had to wait for it to stop before we could go home.
Our prayers were answered. In gratitude, my father invited the ward members back the next week for a second fast and testimony meeting—this one to thank the Lord for sending the water. I learned at a young age to thank Heavenly Father for the blessings He gives us.

I scooted across an old twin mattress and braced my back against the Toyota Land Cruiser’s cab. Jean jumped in at the same time, almost knocking off her gray Akubra hat. Jean was 15, one year older than I am. I’d met her here a week ago, on the first day at my new school in Alice Springs. Even though she was LDS, and there aren’t many Mormons here, her khaki shirt, olive neckerchief, and camouflage pants made her seem so tough to me that I didn’t think we’d ever be close friends.
“Ouch!” said another Aussie, this one seated near the rear of the truck. Her name was Cherie. She looked up at me like I was guilty of something. But it was Jean who spoke.
“Liz,” she said, “you’ve got prickles.”
Prickles, I thought, what are prickles?
Her comment sent my mind into a whirl. So here I am in Alice Springs, Northern Territory, Australia. When your dad’s in need of work, you go where you have to go, even if it’s all the way from Massachusetts to Australia. There are other Americans here, mostly with the military. I can get along with them. But what I really want is to be friends with the Australians. I’ve been here a week and it seems like a year. How will I ever fit in?
I looked at Cherie again. She was so pretty. I wanted to exchange my straggly brown hair for her luscious strawberry blonde. I felt my pale face, knowing it was smeared with sunscreen. I compared it to her tan complexion. She was certainly no stranger to the sun.
You’re the one with prickles, I thought, almost maliciously.
But as quick as I thought it, Jean was speaking to me again, pointing at my feet.
“Prickles,” she said. “In your stockings, mate.”
I looked down at my white cotton stockings. They bristled with burrs. But what was worse, I’d infested the entire mattress with the clinging black barbs, and Cherie, climbing in after us, had been stabbed by one in the palm of her hand.
Prickles, I thought. Australian for stickers.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, and started pulling the stickers out of my socks.
This time it was Cherie who spoke. “Make room for me, mate,” she said, indicating a place between us. Now I was surrounded—Jean on one side, Cherie on the other, off the highway on a dirt road, on the edge of the outback headed to the sandy, silty, dry bed of the Hugh River. A couple of youth leaders were driving this truck; another Cruiser with more young men and women followed behind. Using four-wheel drive, the utes (short for utility vehicles), lurched forward through the soft earth.
To maintain balance, I grabbed a metal rod that supported the bed’s steel roof. I held on tight. Wheels ground over gravel. Dust flew. I coughed. Cherie bounced on the mattress.
“Yahoo!” Jean squealed. My knuckles were white from hanging on. My stomach threatened to foam over like a warm Pepsi (caffeine-free, of course). Just as I prayed for the truck to quit this nonsense and take us back to Alice, we stopped.
“So, howdja like bush bashing?” Jean asked.
“Um, I …” I never got a chance to finish the sentence.
“Bet you’ve never done this either, Yank,” she continued, pointing to a metal sled the young men were attaching to the rear bumper. “Here, let Liz go first.”
I got a quick explanation of how to ride the sled. I also got a quick impression that now Jean was out to get me, too. I felt like some sort of alien, at the mercy of my captors.
Then Cherie rescued me. Sort of. At least she came and sat on a second sled opposite to mine. She had a neckerchief knotted over her mouth, handed me one, and indicated I should tie it the same way.
“Scrunch up to the front of the sled,” she said. I obeyed.
Everyone checked to make sure the path was clear, and that we were in an area of smooth, soft silt. Cherie signaled the driver.
“Let ’er rip,” she said.
Jean let out a whoop and the sleds started skidding over the sand. My heart galloped, but I hung on. Surprisingly, it reminded me of water skiing on Chesapeake Bay back in the States. Look at me, I thought, I’m doing this!
That’s when the sled tipped sideways. I lost my water skis! Flumpf! I hit the dirt and was surprised how soft it felt, how instantly I was no longer moving, how much of the riverbed silt was now packed inside my T-shirt and my jeans.
I heard someone yelling, “Stop the ute! The Yank got dumped!” Cherie, Jean, and all the others were laughing. I’d had all I could take.
“You did that on purpose!” I yelled at Jean when she walked up. “You made me go first so you could all laugh at me!” I could see my whole existence turning into misery. But when I looked in Jean’s face, I knew I was wrong.
“No, Yank,” she smiled. “We let you go first because it’s an honor. You did great for your first ride. Everybody gets dumped—that’s part of the fun!”
And you know, it was. We kept sand sledding through the rest of the morning, and we only stopped when it was nearly noon and we knew we had to eat and drink or we’d wilt from the heat. All of us got dumped. All of us were covered with dirt. But all of us were laughing and talking and joking together. People kept telling me how well I’d done for my first time sand sledding.
I deliberately backed away from the group and looked around me for a while. We were in a beautiful location. Gum trees all around. Beautiful red rock country. A blazing blue sky. Hot, yes. Dry, yes. A lot different than my humid, green home in Massachusetts. But these were good kids here, Mormon kids just like me, having fun, trying to help each other live the gospel. How would I fit in in Alice Springs? Just fine, thank you.
I made my way back to the campfire.
“Make room for me, mate!” I said, wiggling my way between Jean and Cherie. One of the boys, Ian, was using a long-handled metal gadget to squish two pieces of bread and some sort of filling together and toast sandwiches over the flames.
“They’re called jaffles,” he said. “And the first one is for Liz.”
I picked it up and took a big bite. My jaffle was filled with spaghetti.

I am an eyewitness of that truth. Over a lifetime, my wife has spoken for the Lord and served people for Him. As I’ve mentioned before, one of our bishops once said to me: “I’m amazed. Every time I hear of a person in the ward who is in trouble, I hurry to help. Yet by the time I arrive, it seems that your wife has always already been there.” That has been true in all the places we have lived for 56 years.
Now she can speak only a few words a day. She is visited by people she loved for the Lord. Every night and morning I sing hymns with her and we pray. I have to be voice in the prayers and in the songs. Sometimes I can see her mouthing the words of the hymns. She prefers children’s songs. The sentiment she seems to like best is summarized in the song “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”
The other day, after singing the words of the chorus: “Love one another as Jesus loves you. Try to show kindness in all that you do,” she said softly, but clearly, “Try, try, try.” I think that she will find, when she sees Him, that our Savior has put His name into her heart and that she has become like Him. He is carrying her through her troubles now, as He will carry you through yours.

“During December 1987, I had some Church assignments in Bolivia, a beautiful South American country where the Church is growing rapidly but where the people have very little. The Regional Representative, Elder Philip Kradolfer, accompanied me, and he brought a large suitcase full of toys. Just before Christmas each year, his children give up some of their toys to help the children living in the Altiplano, or high plateau region, of Bolivia. It was wonderful to see the children’s faces as they received a doll, a game, a book, or a purse. Jesus taught that it is better to give than to receive, and I am sure that you have felt the same happiness when you have been a secret helper.
“While serving in South America last year,” Elder Cuthbert recalled, “I met many people who had little to eat and hardly a roof over their heads. Many are hearing the gospel and are being baptized. The children are attending Primary and are preparing for missions, just like you.
“In your prayers, would you remember these boys and girls who have a very hard life? As you prayerfully express thanks for the blessings that you enjoy, fill yourself up with gratitude and let it overflow into service. As you help other children, you will not want so much for yourselves.”