Gospel Story Finder

I have always been interested in animals and birds and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.
When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from a wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.
President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.
“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.
We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.
“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.

May I tell you of a special experience. Shortly after I was called to the First Quorum of Seventy I went back to my mission in Canada. The next month, we held a solemn assembly in eastern Canada for all of the priesthood leaders. The First Presidency, the members of the Twelve, and one of the assistants to the Twelve came. It was a glorious experience. I was placed as the chairman because I was the presiding priesthood authority in the area.

At the end of the solemn assembly I drove the First Presidency back to the hotel where they were staying. The Brethren bade me good night and went to their rooms. President Kimball’s secretary was detained at the counter of the hotel so I went over and asked him if I could take the key up to President Kimball so that he might get into his room. He handed me the key. I took the elevator to the ninth floor and went down the hall. There I saw President Tanner and President Kimball. I said, “President, here is your key.”

He thanked me in his loving way and then President Tanner took my arm and said, “Russ, how would you like to come in and have prayer with us?” Can you imagine closing the day with the First Presidency of the Church? I had never had that experience, and I went into President Tanner’s room with President Kimball. It was but a moment before President Romney and the other Brethren came in. I was overwhelmed. Tears welled up in my eyes as we knelt down around that bed.

I was kneeling next to President Tanner and I think he sensed what was happening to me, for he said, “President, we would like you to pray.” And then I heard a prophet pray. I learned a great lesson in that prayer. I felt the Spirit as I had never felt it before—you can understand it—for when a prophet talks to God, it is close friends speaking.

In a very short prayer, he said this, among other things: “And, Heavenly Father, we pray above everything else that the labors of this day have been acceptable unto thee.” That penetrated my heart like nothing else ever has on the principle of prayer. Oh, that every one of us might always be found closing the day pleading with the Lord that the efforts of that day had been acceptable unto him! There is great power in that. There is great strength in understanding that he is our Father, that we are his sons and daughters, that we are on his errand. May our labors always be acceptable.

Grandpa, you’re bald.Thanks for noticing.
When you get resurrected, will you still be bald?Certainly not! I plan to have a magnificent head of curly black hair. Do you think you’ll still know me?
Hmmmm. Will you still be old?As a matter of fact, I expect to be rather young and handsome.
Will you still have your same happy smile?Well, it may be even happier.
Will you still love your Mandykins?More than ever.
I’ll know you, Grandpa.I’ll know you, too.

“Hi, Mom,” Ben called as he rolled his bike into the garage. “Hi, Ben,” Mom answered. Closing the recycling bin, she turned to look at him, and her smile faded. “Where’s your helmet?” she asked.
Ben slid his bike into its place. “I don’t need it anymore.”
Mom’s eyebrows went up. “Ben, what is our family rule about helmets?”
Ben took a deep breath and slowly repeated: “If you’re riding your bike, you wear a helmet.”
Mom looked steadily at Ben until he squirmed. “But, Mom!” he protested.
“Please go inside. We’ll talk about it in a minute.”
Ben went in and sat down at the table. Pretty soon Mom and Dad joined him. “So, Ben, tell me about your helmet,” Dad began.
“Dad, I don’t need it anymore. I’m a great bike rider now.”
“You are a good bike rider,” Dad said. “But helmets aren’t just for beginners. I’ve been riding a bicycle for many years. Do I wear a helmet?”
“Yes, you do,” Ben admitted. “But the kids at school think only babies wear helmets.”
“Oh,” Mom said. “So it isn’t cool to wear one?”
“No, it’s not!” Ben exclaimed.
“Ben, do you know why we have the helmet rule?” Dad asked.
“To make me look stupid?” Ben answered with a wry smile.
Dad chuckled. “No. For exactly the opposite reason. It’s to help keep that brain of yours safe.”
“As a matter of fact,” Mom added, “every rule, whether it’s a family rule or one of Heavenly Father’s commandments, is given to help us be safe and happy.”
“But having kids make fun of me for keeping the rule doesn’t make me happy,” Ben complained.
Dad thought for a moment. “Sometimes we have to be obedient even when other people make fun of us for it. I know that in the long run you’ll be happier because you obey.”
Mom looked Ben in the eyes. “Ben, this wasn’t the first time you went riding without your helmet, was it?”
Ben’s shoulders drooped. “No,” he admitted.
“Thank you for being honest,” Dad said. “Your Mom and I both feel that it is very important that you obey our family rules. You’ve broken this one. What do you think a good consequence would be?”
Ben was quiet for several long moments. “Maybe a time-out from my bike?” he said at last.
Dad nodded. “That sounds fair. I think maybe it should be long enough to help you remember the rule. How about until the end of summer?”
Ben groaned.
“OK,” Mom said. “When school starts, you get your bike back.”
As the sunny days of August went by, Ben often looked wistfully at his bike hanging on the garage wall. “Next time I’ll obey the rule,” he told himself. He remembered what Mom had said about obedience helping people be happy. “Well,” he thought, “It’s true that I’ll be happy when I can ride my bike again, even if someone makes fun of me.”
When school began, Mom helped Ben lift the bike down. First he checked the tires and oiled the chain. Then he picked up his helmet, adjusted the fit, and snapped it onto his head. It felt great to be riding again!
One bright sunny afternoon in December, Ben was riding home from school. When he came to an intersection he stopped and looked carefully both ways. But a young lady who had just learned to drive turned right without looking or stopping. The bumper of her car struck Ben’s bike and sent him flying headfirst into the sidewalk.
A neighbor who saw the accident called Mom. As she ran down the street, she heard a siren and saw the ambulance. “Ben!” she shouted.
“I’m here, Mom.”
Two paramedics were checking Ben. “Your son is going to be just fine,” one of them said. “He was wearing this, and it saved his life.” He handed her Ben’s helmet. There was a big dent in it.
Mom gave Ben a long hug. “I’m glad you were wearing your helmet today,” she whispered.
“Me too,” he said. “Obeying the rules really does help keep me safe and happy.”

Geoffrey got off his bike in front of Bob Tschaggeny’s home and sat down on the front steps with him.
“Monday it will start all over again,” said Bob. “School isn’t bad except for that first day. The teacher looks at my name ‘Tschaggeny’ on the card and doesn’t know how to pronounce it. He’s embarrassed and so am I. The same thing happens every year.”
“I know just what you mean,” said Geof, “but it’s my first name they can’t pronounce. The teacher starts to say ‘George,’ then tries ‘Geeof,’ and then ends up with ‘Jeff.’ Half the time they just call me George and I have to explain that my name is pronounced ‘Jeff.’”
“What would it be like to have a simple name?” mused Bob.
“Hi, Geof,” called their friend Mary who was walking along the sidewalk. “What are you two talking about? You look like the end of the world has come.”
“Not the world,” said Geof. “It’s the end of summer.”
“I’m glad,” said Mary. “I like school.”
“You would,” said Bob, “with a name like yours.”
“My name is dull,” responded Mary. “Mary Jones—how plain and ordinary!”
“Right,” said Geof, “but you don’t have to spell it or tell people how to pronounce it. Bob hates to have his name said wrong too. No teacher has said my name right yet.”
“But your names are distinguished. They’re different. They make you a somebody. Mary Jones—how bland. I wish my name were exciting. One year a girl named Huttaballe sat in front of me. The teacher said to her, ‘What an interesting name. What nationality is it?’ Then she looked at my card and just said, ‘Oh, Mary Jones.’”
That night Bob said to his parents, “Isn’t there something we could do with our name so it would be easier to pronounce? Why do we have a silent T in front?”
“Tschaggeny is an honorable Swiss name, son. You should be proud of it,” Father replied. “Our name has been on the records since 1500.”
In the Gordon home that night, Geof said to his mother, “Why did you have to name me after the old poet Geoffrey Chaucer? If you wanted to call me Jeff, why didn’t you spell it J-e-f-f?”
“We didn’t name you after the poet, Geof,” said his mother. “We thought that spelling your name with a “G” looked better with Gordon, and it seemed to suit you very well.”
As Mary Jones helped her mother with the dishes that night, she said, “I always thought it would be nice to have a distinctive name, but Bob Tschaggeny and Geoffrey Gordon are disgusted because they have to spell and pronounce their names for our new teacher every year. I guess none of us are satisfied.”
“Mary,” said her mother, “every time I say your name I remember all the lovely Marys I’ve known or read about. It makes your name even more beautiful to me.”
Monday morning, Bob, Geof, and Mary were seated at their desks in school, waiting to welcome their new teacher. He stood behind his desk, very tall and very straight. He nodded to the class and then wrote the word “One” on the chalkboard.
When the bell rang, the teacher said, “You will each notice a number on the upper left-hand corner of your desk. That number will identify you. We will no longer use names. Your number should be put at the top of all your papers too. You are to address me as ‘One.’”
The class began, and through reading, social studies, arithmetic, and gym, each student was called by a number. No names were used. Bob and Geof thought the idea was great. Their problem seemed to be solved.
During supper that night, Bob’s father asked him if the new teacher could pronounce his name correctly.
“He didn’t have to,” laughed Bob. “We don’t have names this year. The teacher gave each of us a number instead.”
“Do you like that better?” asked his father.
“Well,” said Bob, “It’s been great so far.”
“So you really don’t need a name,” his father questioned further. “It seems very impersonal to me.”
“I still like it fine,” Bob insisted, but he didn’t sound quite so sure this time.
When Geof came home from school his mother asked, “Well, who is it this time? George, Geeof, or Geof?”
“None of those,” said Geof. “This year I’m ‘Ten.’” Then he explained the new teacher’s system of using numbers.
“That’s interesting,” said Mother, “How does he call the numbers? Does he say each one loudly with a different feeling or tone?”
“Nope,” said Geof, “he just stands tall and straight and says numbers without a smile or a nod or any feeling.”
“Guess what? We don’t need names this year,” Mary told her mother when she reached home after school.
“What do you mean?” asked Mother.
“We all have numbers so we don’t use any names. And would you believe it, I’m ‘Thirteen.’ Isn’t that different for me to be called something distinctive?”
In a few weeks the novelty of being known as numbers had worn off. Mary, Bob, and Geof were glad when Friday night came so that for two days at least they would be called by their own names. All the children agreed that school didn’t seem the same as it had other years. Everyone was disinterested. There was no spirit of competition or sharing and little concern about success or failure.
One Monday morning on the way to school Mary saw Bob and Geof just poking along.
“What’s wrong now?” she called.
“What fun is it to go to school and just be ‘Ten’ again?” Geof asked.
“Or ‘Thirteen’” Mary replied. “I don’t like being called ‘Thirteen.’ I like the way my mother calls me ‘Mary’ and I wish everyone else would too.”
“Well, I wish …” But Bob’s wish was cut off by the sound of the bell, and the three friends hurried to class.
At the door of the classroom the teacher stood smiling. He handed each of them a piece of chalk and said, “Good morning. Please take this chalk and write your full name on the board with the others.”
After the last student sat down, they all looked up at the chalkboard. It was covered with the names of everyone in class and it looked good! Across the top in large letters the name SAM SMITH was written.
The teacher turned to the class. “Thank you,” he said, “for cooperating with me in my experiment these past weeks. You helped me prove something. When you became a number, you each seemed to become less of a person. You were interested and excited boys and girls at the beginning of the school year. Now you don’t seem to care much about school or each other.”
The students looked around at their classmates as the teacher continued, “My name is Sam Smith. I’m glad to know each of you by your names—Thomas Ward, Robert Tschaggeny, Geoffrey Gordon, Mary Jones, John Martin. …”
Mr. Smith looked at each one with a friendly smile on his face as he said the names. “Now let’s remember who we really are and work together,” he suggested.
“Thank you, Mr. Sam Smith,” Bob said.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Smith,” the other boys and girls chorused. “That’ll be great!”

On my street lives a little boy known as the Sidewalk King. This little boy cruises the neighborhood on his black and gold plastic racing tricycle, living in his own world of make-believe and heroic deeds. One of his favorite things to do is to back that little vehicle up against his house and then—gathering up all the power and energy at his command—shoot dangerously out onto the street. Then, pulling handlebars around hard, he pedals back again. Nearby neighbors can’t help but hear him.
His parents, understanding more than he does about the dangers involved, have warned him and pleaded with him. Not long ago, his father found it necessary to give his young son a strong chastising to help him understand how dangerous it is to ride out in the street. As he ran into the house he sobbed to his parents, “You just want to ruin all my fun.”
To the mind of a four-year-old, that is exactly what it appeared. But, oh, how wrong he was. His parents weren’t trying to ruin his fun; they were trying to keep him from harm, perhaps even death. Freedom to him was largely doing what he wanted without restraint and interference.
I know of another little boy who came home from school one day long ago to find a rented piano in the house. “What’s this piano here for?” he asked his mother.
“It’s for you,” she replied.
“For me?” he asked. “Why for me?”
“Because,” she said, “you are going to take piano lessons.”
He said he didn’t want to take piano lessons. But she had already arranged for a teacher.
Well, this little boy began to miss a few lessons. One day his mother asked, “How was your piano lesson?”
He said, “Fine. I’m doing pretty well.”
“That’s interesting,” she said. “I just talked to your teacher, and she hasn’t seen you for a while.” He had been caught. He didn’t know what the punishment would be, but he knew it would be bad. Then his mother said, “Just for that, you may not take piano lessons.”
He tried to look punished, but inside he was very happy with her decision. Mother, he thought, you have hit on the perfect punishment. I hope you use it often. Within his heart he felt that he had just been liberated. He was free from practice, free from lessons, free from discipline, routine, and regimentation—free from all that seemed to limit his freedom.
When he grew to be a man, he was sitting one day in a church meeting during which a woman was to sing a solo. When her time to perform came, she walked up to the podium and announced, “My accompanist could not come today. I need someone to accompany me.” Looking over the congregation, she saw a man who used to teach piano. “Will you accompany me?” she asked him. The man came forward, and she handed him the music.
As he watched this happen, my friend who had avoided music lessons thought, What would I have done if she had asked me? If she had asked me, I would have been free to do only one thing: to say no. Suddenly, he realized that what he had assumed to be one of the great liberating moments of his life—when his mother said, “You may not take lessons any more”—was in fact a moment of bondage, not freedom. As he sat in that church meeting, he might as well have been handcuffed, for he could not have played the piano if he had wanted to. The other man was free; he could choose to play or not to play. Ultimately, then, freedom is more a matter of capacity and ability than of permission.
Too often, we believe the myth that we are free to do whatever we want to do. True, most of us are free to develop any ability or skill we choose; but until we develop them, we remain in bondage to our own lack of capacity. Even in lands of great political freedom, I fear that many of us live in bondage. Misunderstanding the principle of freedom, we lead lives of limited capacity and, thus, diminished choice. We tell ourselves that the only mason we are not doing certain positive, productive things is that we don’t want to. If we don’t play the piano, for example, we like to think it’s because we don’t want to. Actually, we don’t play because we are not free to. Remember, if we are only free to choose one thing—that is, not to play—we are not really free.

As we talked about it and as I looked at that beautiful little baby, I thought of last summer. Ruby and I were up in Idaho for a short visit, and we met some people from Mountain Home, Idaho, the Goodrich family. Sister Goodrich had come to see us and had brought her daughter Chelsea with her. In part of the conversation that we were having, Sister Goodrich said Chelsea had memorized the proclamation on the family.

To Chelsea, who is now 15 years old, I said, “Chelsea, is that right?”

She said, “Yes.”

I said, “How long did it take you to do that?”

She said, “When we were young my mother started a program in our house to help us memorize. We would memorize scripture passages and sacrament meeting songs and other types of things that would be helpful to us. So we learned how to memorize, and it became easier for us.”

I said, “Then you can give it all?”

She said, “Yes, I can give it all.”

I said, “You learned that when you were 12 years old; you’re now 15. Pretty soon you’ll start dating. Tell me about it. What has it done for you?”

Chelsea said, “As I think of the statements in that proclamation, and as I understand more of our responsibility as a family and our responsibility for the way we live and the way we should conduct our lives, the proclamation becomes a new guideline for me. As I associate with other people and when I start dating, I can think of those phrases and those sentences in the proclamation on the family. It will give me a yardstick which will help guide me. It will give me the strength that I need.”

Another time when I learned the importance of prayer was when I was preparing for my first piano recital. I was about seven years old, and I was very nervous. I was afraid I would forget the piece, and I was also worried that my hands would shake so badly that I couldn’t play.
My mother knew I was scared, and she suggested that before I go on stage to play, I bow my head and ask Heavenly Father to help me feel calm and remember what I had practiced. I followed Mother’s advice, taking a moment to pray right before I performed.
He answered my prayers, and I learned that Heavenly Father could help me at all times in my life, even during piano recitals! I started to realize that He could help me in school. I prayed and asked Him to help me study and learn and take tests.
A few years later, when I was ten, my family visited the Hill Cumorah and the Sacred Grove. I remember standing on the Hill Cumorah and listening to Daddy explaining exactly what happened there. Then we went to the Sacred Grove, and Daddy told us about Joseph Smith praying to Heavenly Father for the truth. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to young Joseph, blessing him with the answer to his prayer. I knew that if Joseph could get answers, so could I.
Throughout my life, I have talked to Heavenly Father regularly through prayer. I am very grateful to my parents for teaching me that Heavenly Father lives and that He always listens to us. He listens to me, and He listens to you. I know that He will always be there for you.

I am filled with emotion when I see my wife read the Book of Mormon every day. As she does so, I can feel her testimony just by seeing the joy in her countenance as she reads over the passages that testify of the mission of the Savior.
How wise are the words of our Savior: “Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.”
Inspired by this, I asked my grandchild Raquel, who had recently learned how to read, “What would you say about setting a goal to read the Book of Mormon?”
Her answer was “But, Grandpa, it’s so hard. It’s a big book.”
Then I asked her to read me a page. I took out a stopwatch and timed her. I said, “You took only three minutes, and the Spanish version of the Book of Mormon has 642 pages, so you need 1,926 minutes.”
This could have scared her even more, so I divided that number by 60 minutes and told her she would need only 32 hours to read it—less than a day and a half!
Then she said to me, “That’s so easy, Grandpa.”
In the end, Raquel, her brother, Esteban, and our other grandchildren took more time than this because this is a book which needs to be read with a spirit of prayer and meditation.

The Lord tells us in Doctrine and Covenants 100:6 that “it shall be given you in the very hour, yea, in the very moment, what ye shall say.” [D&C 100:6] But I didn’t really believe him. That is, until I met Michelle.
Michelle and I worked together in a restaurant one summer. We were hired the same day, so we became acquainted at new-employee orientation. As time passed and we struggled through each day together—refilling glasses, clearing tables, and spilling on restaurant guests—we became good friends.
One day Michelle startled me by asking, “Marissa, are you a Mormon?”
I nodded my head sheepishly, not wanting to attract too much attention. I was content in being a quiet member missionary. If others were taught by my example that was fine, but I didn’t want to be known as the restaurant preacher.
“I thought so,” she continued. “All of the most sincere, kind people I’ve ever met are Mormon.”
I smiled at the indirect compliment, unsure of how I should respond. Luckily, the lunch-hour rush hit, and we were quickly put back to work.
As I left work that day, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Michelle had said. It had been a nice thing to say about Church members, but it was more than that—I felt as if she needed to hear the gospel. And this feeling frightened me.
That night the ward missionaries came to our house for dinner, and I told them about Michelle. I thought they would respond by commending me for being such a stalwart example, that they would tell me to keep up the good work. But instead they gave me a Book of Mormon to give to her. As I told the missionaries good-bye that night, I looked down at the book I was holding and wondered what I had gotten myself into.
After the missionaries left, I took the Book of Mormon downstairs to mark some key verses I had been studying in seminary. I then placed the book in my bag with my work clothes and vowed to bring it with me to work every day. I also promised myself that I would pray for the Lord’s help in giving me the opportunity to share the gospel with Michelle.
For the next few days, it seemed as if Michelle and I were scheduled to work different shifts. Instead of serving the same tables and having the same lunch hour as we usually did, I rarely saw her.
But I continued to pray and I kept the Book of Mormon in my bag. After about a week of not seeing each other, we finally had the same lunch hour. It was a little later than most of the other employees stayed, so Michelle and I were alone in the lunch room. We were talking and laughing as we usually did, but then she became quiet.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
Suddenly every off-the-wall question people usually ask about the Church came whizzing through my head.
“Sure,” I said, praying that I would be able to answer her question.
“What’s a Book of Mormon?”
I couldn’t believe what she was asking. It was the exact question I had been praying for.
“It’s another testament of Jesus Christ written by prophets in the Americas,” I said, as my knees rattled against the table.
I then briefly explained Lehi’s journey from Jerusalem, Mormon’s compilation of the records, and finally, Joseph Smith’s experience in the Sacred Grove.
Michelle seemed interested in what I was saying, but she had a confused, pensive look on her face.
“I don’t know if this will make sense,” she began, “but I feel like I’m looking for something in my life right now. It’s like I’m walking around a pool of religions, dipping my foot in to test the waters of each one to see where I belong.”
It seemed as if time stopped; it was all too perfect. My thoughts raced. This can’t be happening, I thought. Things this perfect don’t happen in real life, only in Church videos. I wasn’t sure how I should respond, so I silently pleaded with the Lord to tell me what to say.
“You remind me of Joseph Smith,” I said. “He didn’t know which church to join either. Then he prayed and was told that none of the churches was true. Later on he received instructions from God about how to restore and organize the true Church of Jesus Christ on the earth. He also received the Book of Mormon, which contains the fulness of Christ’s gospel.”
As we walked to the elevator, I took out the Book of Mormon I had brought for her.
“After we talked the other day, I thought I should bring this for you,” I explained. “I marked some verses for you to read. Now you can see for yourself what the Book of Mormon is.”
She happily accepted it, and we said good-bye.
“Great,” I said to myself, relieved that all had gone well and that I had done my duty as a member missionary. “Mission accomplished.”
That night, whenever the phone rang, I expected it to be Michelle calling to say she wanted to join the Church. After all, the Lord had made everything else so easy. As far as I could tell, Michelle was as good as baptized.
But that’s not exactly what happened. In fact, I don’t know if she’ll ever join the Church. She quit her job a few weeks later, and then I went back to BYU.
For the longest time I thought my first attempt at missionary work had been a failure. I even questioned why the Lord would go through so much trouble, answer my prayers, and then let things turn out the way they did. But then I realized that there had already been one person converted during this “useless” attempt at proselyting—me.
It was because of my missionary efforts that I gained a testimony of prayer. I knew that my experience with Michelle in the lunchroom was not a coincidence; the Lord had prompted her to ask me about the Book of Mormon.
I also learned that the Lord does what he says he will do. He told me that he would fill my mouth with words; he told Michelle that she would be given the agency to make her own choices. And in the end, both promises were kept.

I learned important lessons about life through playing sports, whether I was shooting hoops with a friend or playing on basketball and football teams. One of the lessons I learned was how to make decisions. For example, I grew up loving to play basketball more than football and played college basketball for two years. When I was given the opportunity to participate in college football, I knew I had to commit to one or the other, and I had questions about what I should do.
My parents taught me that when I needed to make a big decision in my life, I should get out a piece of paper and a pencil, draw a line down the middle of the paper, and then write down the pros on one side and the cons on the other. After that, I was taught to call upon Heavenly Father to help inspire my thoughts. I learned to keep writing the pluses and minuses on both sides of the paper about the decision I was making, and to take my time. I found that as I did this with patience, it was amazing to see how the Lord revealed thoughts that were not originally there to help me with the process. Finally, when I made my decision, I went to the Lord again in prayer and took time to just listen, so I could sense if He agreed with my decision.
We don’t always understand what the Lord is revealing at the time that He’s giving us inspired thoughts. If you had asked me before I sought heaven’s help about my decision, and I had been told to stop playing basketball and to start playing college football, I would have thought, “Are you crazy? Why would I do that?” But that was the prompting the Lord gave me. Even though I didn’t know why, I knew by the confirming feeling in my heart that I was doing what the Lord wanted me to do. I had gone through a process that allowed me to have confidence in my choice. That knowledge helped me through some rough times.

“Sister Sylvia Gaitan was in a four-car freeway accident last week,” explained my Young Men president. “She’s in the Westlake Medical Center, and we need someone to take her the sacrament.”
“Westlake?!” I thought to myself. That was at least a 20-minute drive.
I pleaded for volunteers. One hand went up. “I don’t have a car,” said Russell, “but I’ll go with someone.”
On the way to Westlake, I said to Russell, “Next week we’ll make someone else take this time-consuming drive.”
We arrived at the hospital and wasted a few minutes getting lost. When we finally found Sister Gaitan’s room, my heart fell right into my stomach. Not even five feet tall, she seemed even smaller lying in a giant hospital bed surrounded by medical equipment. Looking at her I immediately felt guilty for having complained.
“How are you feeling, Sister Gaitan?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m all right,” she said, “but I’ll be much better after they perform those two surgeries they keep telling me I need.” I was amazed by how upbeat she was.
Russell and I blessed the small piece of bread we had brought and then blessed the water in her hospital drinking cup. She was so grateful to us for coming. I smiled and said, “We’re just doing our priesthood duty.”
I decided that I would bring the sacrament to her the next week, too. I took Sister Gaitan the sacrament every week until she recovered. Seeing her always made my day brighter.
The brightest day was when I saw her back at church for the first time. I was happy, not because I no longer had to drive to the hospital each week but because she was finally able to take the sacrament with her ward family.
I’m grateful I was able to take Sister Gaitan the sacrament, but I’m even more grateful that she taught me to fulfill my priesthood duties with a smile and a happy attitude.

My dear wife, Irene, and I joined the Church 31 years ago when we were newly married. We had both grown up in Colombia, but a few months after our marriage, my career took us to live in Germany. We were very young and had great hopes and expectations; it was an especially exciting and happy time for us.
While I was concentrated on my career, Irene was feeling that we would receive some kind of message from heaven, without knowing how or when. So she started letting into our home all kinds of door-to-door salespeople with encyclopedias, vacuum cleaners, cookbooks, kitchen appliances, and so on, always waiting for that unique message.
One evening she told me that two young men in dark suits had knocked on our door and that she had felt a very clear and distinct impression to let them in. They had said that they wanted to talk to her about God but would come back again when I was also at home. Could this be the expected message?
They began to visit us, and with their guidance, we read in the scriptures and came to understand the crucial importance of Jesus Christ as our Savior and Redeemer. We soon regretted that we had been baptized as little babies, which had not been a conscious covenant. However, being baptized again would also mean becoming members of this new Church, so first we really needed to understand everything about it.
But how could we know if what the missionaries were telling us about the Book of Mormon, about Joseph Smith, and about the plan of salvation was actually all true? Well, we had understood from the words of the Lord that we could “know them by their fruits.”2 So, in a very systematic manner, we started examining the Church by looking for those fruits with the eyes of our very rational minds. What did we see? Well, we saw:
Friendly and happy people and wonderful families who understood that we are meant to feel joy in this life and not just suffering and misery.
A church that does not have a paid clergy but one in which members themselves accept assignments and responsibilities.
A church where Jesus Christ and families are at the center of everything, where members fast once a month and donate to help the poor and needy, where healthy habits are promoted, teaching us to abstain from harmful substances.
In addition:
We liked the emphasis on personal growth, on education, on hard work and self-reliance.
We learned about the remarkable humanitarian program.
And we were impressed by the general conferences, with the wonderful music and the profound spiritual principles shared there.
Seeing all this, we could find no fault in the Church. On the contrary, we liked everything we saw very much. However, we still could not decide to be baptized because we wanted to know everything before doing so.
But, even in our indecision, the Lord was patiently preparing us, He was molding us, and He was helping us to discover that we should learn to discern the truth not only through our rational minds but also through the very still and small voice of the Spirit, which speaks especially to our hearts.
That voice and the resulting feeling came one evening after 10 months of learning the gospel, when we read in Mosiah 18, “As ye are desirous to … bear one another’s burdens, … and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, … if this be the desire of your hearts, what have you against being baptized in the name of the Lord?”3
That passage from the Book of Mormon entered our hearts and souls, and we suddenly felt and knew that there was really no reason not to be baptized. We realized that the desires mentioned in these verses were also the wishes of our hearts and that those things were what really mattered. They were more important than understanding everything because we already knew enough. We had always relied on the guiding hand of a loving Heavenly Father and were confident that He would continue to guide us.
So, that same day, we set up a date for our baptism, and soon we were baptized, finally!

I once fasted for an older relative of mine. He was having back problems and was going to have surgery. A great deal of my extended family in the area fasted for his welfare. Whenever I felt hungry throughout the day, I’d remember him, and all of my selfishness would slide away. After the day of fasting, we had a large family home evening with my extended family. Thankfully, he healed fairly quickly. His back still hurt a lot, but he could do so much more than before. I said a prayer, thanking Heavenly Father for watching over him.

Brother Folau Neria and his wife, Leute, think of Sauniatu as a place of blessings because they have seen the Lord’s hand there. They were dorm parents while most of the work was being done, and Sister Neria worked with the girls who made one of the roads.
Brother Neria explained his feelings about Sauniatu. “I love that place. That’s where I met my sweetheart in 1942. Some of the first schoolteachers there taught me. I learned to take care of the work of the Lord there.
“We built that place with our hands and made it beautiful, then the Lord blessed it for us. Taros, bananas, everything grows better there than in any other place in Samoa.
“We learned how to work together and to teach each other to work. I was serving as bishop, and I learned that if we show people how to work and start first, they will soon follow.”

“I needed a personal second witness of Jesus Christ,” says Jodi Burr of Danville, Pennsylvania. “I wanted to know Christ. I had no doubt of his reality and atonement, but I wanted to come to a knowledge of him as a person and as a loving God. As I reread the Book of Mormon, no individual verse or story provided what I was looking for. However, my knowledge of Christ formed piece by piece as I studied about him in the various Book of Mormon settings.
“I bore my testimony in sacrament meeting, and my soul was flooded with the Holy Spirit as I received what I had longed for—a second witness of Jesus Christ. After church, one sentence kept repeating itself in my thoughts: ‘I know the Master; I know the Master.’ This testimony is priceless to me. What I was given that day was exactly what I had been searching for—‘and it came to pass’ through reading the Book of Mormon.”

One day my instructor was giving an explanation to five of us in the ready room. In order to explain a certain maneuver, he went to the blackboard. Inasmuch as he was smoking a cigarette, he handed it to me to hold while he made the demonstration, and by this means I had the “privilege” of holding my first cigarette. After he had finished his demonstration at the blackboard, he took his cigarette back, and then he said, “Mr. Bangerter, I apologize for handing you my cigarette. I know you don’t smoke, do you?”
I said, “No, sir, I don’t.”
He said, “You don’t drink either, do you?”
I said, “No, sir.”
He asked, “Do you drink tea?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you drink coffee?”
“No, sir.” He turned to the other four students standing together and said, “Now, men, that’s the Word of Wisdom. We would all be much better off if we lived that way.” You can appreciate that I felt uplifted by that experience.

As a new member of the Church, I really wanted to serve because I constantly saw other people serving. I prayed a lot that God would give me someone to serve. One night in a dream, I saw a woman on the subway who needed help after falling off her chair. Later, while my dad and I traveled on the subway, I saw a woman fall off her chair. It was the same woman from my dream! It was a sacred experience for me to be able to help her.
“I prayed a lot that God would give me someone to serve. One night in a dream, I saw a woman on the subway.”

I had a real problem with procrastination. One day, I went to a quiet place alone and reflected on how I felt about myself and how God felt about me. I thought about all the things I hadn’t done, and I felt totally discouraged.

Then I knelt and prayed to Heavenly Father, and I asked him to forgive me and give me the strength to do better. Little by little I have felt a change for good in my life. I have come to allow myself spiritual time to meditate on my responsibilities. Such time helps me to keep focused on what is important in my life and not worry about other things. I have developed faith in myself as I have come to know that I am a daughter of God and that he cares for me.

Maria Veronica V. Basilio, 16Tagig Ward, Pasig StakeManila, Philippines

Gary and I met at the corner of Walnut and Grove. There was nothing to do, so we just nodded at each other and kept walking along Walnut. At Ace’s Bike Shop a really neat racing bike was parked out front. I swung my leg over the seat and wiggled the handle bars back and forth a couple times.
Mr. Smith came outside. “Nice bike, Skip—it’s on sale this month too.”
I hopped off. “We’re just looking.”
Gary and I started walking away.
“Stop back any time,” Mr. Smith called. “Ask for me.”
I waved. “OK.”
At Wallace’s Used Books, we rummaged through the racks for a while, then went back outside.
“Which way?” Gary asked.
I nodded toward the alley. “Let’s go that way. It should take us to the park.”
Gary shrugged, and we walked along Reed Alley and watched the little kids playing. When we got to Nelson Street, I realized we’d taken the wrong alley to get to the park, so we sat on the low concrete wall that surrounds the fire station parking lot and watched firefighters wash their truck.
“Some summer this is going to be!” Gary said with a sigh. “This is boring, Skip! Plus, it’s hot!”
I frowned. “At least we’re not sitting in a classroom, so quit complaining!” I swung my legs back and forth, but inside I had to admit that Gary was right. It was boring. Then I saw an elderly woman across the street a half a block away from where we sat. Her front yard was tiny, but she must have had a hundred rose bushes. In front of her yard was a low stone wall that separated her yard from the sidewalk. The yard was so small and tight that she could barely turn around—at least with a lawn mower, and that’s what she was trying to do. Her lawn mower had to be one of the first ones ever made, and she looked like a good breeze would blow her away. She needed help!
“Let’s go give her a hand,” I suggested.
Gary frowned. “Who?” Then he saw her. “She’ll just tell us to mind our own business,” he muttered.
I shook my head and stood. “Naw. We’ll just tell her we want to help.” I started toward her. She struggled on. First she’d push the lawn mower six inches ahead, then drag it back and push again.
“What if we scare her and she has a heart attack?” Gary asked. “A lot of old people don’t like to be bothered. What if she thinks we want to rob her?”
I chuckled. “Get serious! Do we look like the criminal type?”
As we neared, she must have thought we did, because she eyed us suspiciously. When I stopped at her front steps, she looked really scared. I gave her my friendliest smile. “Want some help?” I offered.
She stared at me as if I had just dropped in from another planet. “I can manage,” she replied in a timid voice.
“Honestly,” I said as I touched the handle of the mower. “My buddy and I don’t have anything to do, and we need the exercise.”
She looked at me doubtfully but stepped aside. I mowed forward toward a rose trellis, then wriggled the mower to one side and took a long swipe at the yard. After I’d made about ten passes around the bushes and stopped just short of the stone wall, Gary pushed me aside.
“Here,” he grumbled, “I’ll cut some too.”
I wiped my sleeve across my face and stepped back. The old woman was still watching, still suspicious.
“Are you from around here?” she asked.
“I live on Duff Road,” I replied. “I’m Skip Geer. My buddy’s name is Gary Staley. He lives on Colfax.”
“Do you know the Markhams?” she asked hopefully. “They live on Duff.”
I shook my head. “No, but the Barnharts are my neighbors.” I blew upward at my face. “This is hot work,” I added.
“My nephew usually cuts it,” she said. “But he’s away this month, and I can’t afford to pay anyone to do it.”
I shrugged. “We don’t expect to be paid.”
“Can I give you some lemonade?”
I nodded. “Thanks. That’d be good.”
When she came back outside with a tray, Gary was still cutting, but she motioned to him to come and join me for lemonade. While we drank it, she stood near her front door, like she was still on guard.
“I don’t own much,” she said. “And I’m not in good health. My nephew wants me to get an operation the doctor says I should have, but I won’t do it. Once you get to be my age and they put you into a hospital, you end up in a nursing home or something! They won’t get me to give up my home,” she insisted. “Edmond, my husband, and I came here seventy-two years ago. He’s gone now, but as long as I can, I’m holding on to my home!”
Boy! I thought, She must be ninety, atleast! I finished my lemonade. Gary was still huffing, so I went back to the mower. By the time we pulled all the weeds from around the bushes, the woman was sitting on her front steps. She seemed more relaxed.
“I’ll get a trash bag,” she called as she struggled to her feet.
“Let’s pull the tall grass away from the front of her wall, too,” I suggested.
Gary frowned, but gave me a hand. When we were finally done, the woman acted like she wanted to keep talking, so we drank some more lemonade.
“All these houses weren’t here then,” she said, almost to herself. “Our yard went clear out to the middle of the road. Then they came along and paved the street. That’s when we had the wall and sidewalk put in.”
Gary and I listened. Sometimes we smiled or nodded. Finally she slowed down, and I could see her eyes beginning to droop in the heat, so I stood. “Where does the lawn mower go?” I asked.
“It goes in a little shed in back,” she replied. “But I’ll take care of that.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “I don’t mind.”
Finally Gary and I stood on the sidewalk, ready to leave.
“Here, boys,” she said as she dug a pair of scissors out of the pocket of her dress. “You’ve helped to make my day, and I want to give you each a rose.”
Gary and I walked away holding our roses. I knew Mom would like mine for the middle of the table. At the corner we looked back and waved.
“I’m glad we came up the wrong alley,” Gary said. “But I told you she’d think we were going to rob her. Did you see those scissors? She was ready to fight us off.”
I chuckled. “Maybe. It’s gotta be hard to get old. But she isn’t giving up! She’s going to hang on to her house. Good for her! Besides, I think we did come up the right alley, after all—she said we made her day.”
“But cutting her grass won’t help her keep her house,” Gary argued.
“I know, but like she said, it helped her get through today. And who knows, maybe that’s all the help any of us needs.”