Gospel Story Finder

I remember visiting South Vietnam some years ago. I talked individually with two or three hundred men—men who had waded through the blood and heat of battle, but men who were virtuous in their lives. I remember one of them, a boy who had just come down from the Rock Pile near the Demilitarized Zone, who said in response to a question on morality: “Not on your life—I couldn’t do that. I want to be worthy of a great girl some day.”

Having been raised in an active Latter-day Saint family, I think I grew up having a testimony. I never seriously doubted the truthfulness of the gospel. Like many teenagers, I occasionally questioned things in my mind, but I never felt that the Church wasn’t true.
It was this faith that inspired me to serve a mission. I knew I needed to serve. But even though I had no serious doubts about the Church, I realized I had to gain a testimony of my own.
I began my mission in February 1961, leaving Salt Lake City’s winter for the heat of an Argentine summer. There was no language training for missionaries at the time, but my mission president promised us we would speak fluent Spanish after reading the entire Book of Mormon out loud. I had learned Spanish as a child and was speaking fluently within the first few weeks, but still I followed my mission president’s instructions.
In the first town I was assigned to, my companion and I stayed in the living quarters behind an old store. We couldn’t proselytize in the afternoon during the Argentine siesta, so I used that time to pray and read the Book of Mormon in the front entrance of the old store.
One day, thousands of miles from home in the front of that store, I stopped to think about what I was reading. When you pray and ponder about the Book of Mormon, the Spirit can influence you. I pondered what the Book of Mormon was teaching, I thought about Joseph Smith translating the plates, and I had a sudden feeling come over me. At that moment I knew that everything I had been taught all my life was true. It suddenly became very clear to me that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that I was reading the word of God. It was all true.
That sudden feeling was electrifying. It went through my whole body from my head to my toes. It wasn’t a chill, and it wasn’t a burning. But it was a sure witness.
I’ve never forgotten that day, and I’ve felt the Holy Ghost many times since. Because of that experience, I recognize the Holy Ghost when He is testifying to me. That feeling isn’t always exactly the same, but it’s always warm and secure.

Later, when I was offered work at a television station, I worried about temptations associated with the entertainment industry. But the answer to my prayers was, “Accept the job and show you can be an artist without compromising your standards.”
I have worked as a television artistic production assistant, as an assistant choral director for the Symphonic Choir of Guayaquil, and on the board of the Ecuadoran House of Culture for the province of Guayas.
I testify that it is possible to fulfill our dreams without sacrificing our principles. Today my name is recognized in my country and in my profession—thanks to my commitment to live the gospel and develop the gifts Heavenly Father has given me.

Not long ago, a friend recounted to me an experience he had while serving as a mission president. He had undergone a surgery that required several weeks of recuperation. During his recovery, he devoted time to searching the scriptures. One afternoon as he pondered the Savior’s words in the 27th chapter of 3 Nephi, he drifted off to sleep. He subsequently related:
“I fell into a dream in which I was given a vivid, panoramic view of my life. I was shown my sins, poor choices, the times … I had treated people with impatience, plus the omissions of good things I should have said or done. … [A] comprehensive … [review of] my life was shown to me in just a few minutes, but it seemed much longer. I awoke, startled, and … instantly dropped to my knees beside the bed and began to pray, to plead for forgiveness, pouring out the feelings of my heart like I had never done previously.
“Prior to the dream, I didn’t know that I [had] such great need to repent. My faults and weaknesses suddenly became so plainly clear to me that the gap between the person I was and the holiness and goodness of God seemed [like] millions of miles. In my prayer that late afternoon, I expressed my deepest gratitude to Heavenly Father and to the Savior with my whole heart for what They had done for me and for the relationships I treasured with my wife and children. While on my knees I also felt God’s love and mercy that was so palpable, despite my feeling so unworthy. …
“I can say I haven’t been the same since that day. … My heart changed. … What followed is that I developed more empathy toward others, with a greater capacity to love, coupled with a sense of urgency to preach the gospel. … I could relate to the messages of faith, hope, and the gift of repentance found in the Book of Mormon [as] never before.”19
It is important to recognize that this good man’s vivid revelation of his sins and shortcomings did not discourage him or lead him to despair. Yes, he felt shock and remorse. He felt keenly his need to repent. He had been humbled, yet he felt gratitude, peace, and hope—real hope—because of Jesus Christ, “the living bread which came down from heaven.”20
My friend spoke of the gap he perceived in his dream between his life and the holiness of God. Holiness is the right word. To eat the flesh and drink the blood of Christ means to pursue holiness. God commands, “Be ye holy; for I am holy.”21

Shortly before turning 30, Roberta Tuilimu realized she wasn’t happy. She had three beautiful children, and she loved their father, Daniel Nepia, but Roberta and Daniel weren’t married. Daniel wasn’t a member of the Church, and it had been a long time since Roberta had attended regularly.
She was a long way from the temple marriage she had always dreamed of as a young girl who went to church every week with her parents in Auckland, New Zealand. But turning her back on her eternal goals wasn’t a one-time decision; it had been a slow turn completed gradually through little decisions she made each day.
For Roberta one decision clearly sticks out as the moment she first stepped off the gospel path, though a number of other choices had likely brought her to that point. As a teenager Roberta skipped going to church a couple of weeks to do homework. “It’s interesting that it can start with something that seemed so small at the time,” she says.
After missing a couple of weeks it was much easier for her not to go the next week. Weeks of only sporadic attendance turned into months. After she turned 18, her friends convinced her to go clubbing late at night on Saturdays, which made it even harder to get to church on Sundays. It also led her to start drinking.
“I knew it wasn’t right, but I thought that I could stop straightaway if I wanted to,” she says. “I tried to justify my decisions.”
She was living a lifestyle incompatible with entering the temple, yet after meeting Daniel, she took him to the Hamilton New Zealand Temple grounds and told him she wanted to be married there.
“I knew that’s where I wanted to go,” she says. But each bad decision seemed to make the next bad decision easier—leading her further from her desired destination. Soon Roberta and Daniel were living together.
“There was a disconnect between what I wanted—what I knew was right—and the decisions I was making,” she says. “I was in the now. I didn’t connect current decisions with where they would take me.”
As far as she was from where she had intended to go, Roberta was not lost to the Lord. Though Daniel and Roberta didn’t realize it at the time, the Good Shepherd, who came “to seek and to save that which was lost” (Luke 19:10), had been seeking after them all along.
The Spirit had been working on Daniel, such as when Roberta had taken him to the temple grounds and when Roberta’s father had blessed their children. Though they had moved several times, with each move they ran into—and occasionally studied with—the missionaries.
Then, after relocating again in 2006, they ran into some old schoolmates, Dan and Lisa Nathan, who were active members of the Church. Daniel and Roberta had just moved into the Nathans’ ward boundaries.
For three weeks Roberta put off Lisa’s invitations to go to church with her. “I didn’t want to have to explain my situation,” she says. “But I decided I wanted my kids in Primary.”
Soon Daniel and Roberta were meeting with the missionaries again. Daniel began attending church, where a good Gospel Principles teacher made a difference. The visiting teachers visited every month. The couple even met Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles during a special devotional.
Roberta sees in their experiences evidence that Heavenly Father had prepared “a whole bunch of good people who helped us.”
Through various experiences and people, Heavenly Father had provided Daniel and Roberta opportunities to “consider [their] ways” (Haggai 1:7). But they had to “commit [their] way unto the Lord” (Psalm 37:5) before they could make any progress.
“I knew my ways had not been His ways,” Roberta says (see Isaiah 55:8–9), “but I hadn’t known how to connect the two.”
The turning point came when the missionaries asked Daniel and Roberta to decide where they wanted to go, spiritually speaking, and what they needed to do to get there.
“When we decided in the end that what we wanted was to be where His way leads,” she says, “we started looking at what it would take to follow His way there.”
In the months that followed, Roberta worked to turn her back on the poor decisions in her past and return to the path she had left more than a decade earlier. Just as her turn from the gospel path as a teenager began with small decisions, Roberta’s return to the path began with doing seemingly little things each day.
“When I started trying to do the basics every day—individual and family prayers, reading the scriptures, taking the kids to church, helping others when I can—I could feel Heavenly Father looking after us and hearing our prayers,” Roberta says. “Our family was happier.”
Those little decisions helped strengthen Daniel and Roberta when it came time to make the big decisions. They decided to get married. Then, nearly a year after Daniel and Roberta started meeting with the missionaries, their desire to be together with their family forever led Daniel to be baptized.
Finally, after two years of trying to match what they did each day to what they wanted in the future, Daniel and Roberta were sealed in the temple—fulfilling Roberta’s childhood dream.
As part of Heavenly Father’s plan, Daniel and Roberta have the opportunity to decide each day which way they will choose—theirs or His. The couple is now more conscious of the direction their daily choices will take them.
From personal experience they understand how easy it is to lose their way when daily decisions are made without considering their effect on eternal destinations. But they are also grateful to have learned firsthand that there is a way back.
“I know the Lord loves me and wants me back because He blessed our lives with the people we met along our journey who helped us return,” Roberta says. “He never forgot me during my time away from the Church.”
Thanks to the love—and the atoning sacrifice—of the Good Shepherd, “the wicked [can] forsake his way, and … return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him … , for he will abundantly pardon” (Isaiah 55:7).
Now the Nepias are trying to stay focused on where they want to be. “When you realize there is more to this life than what’s now,” Daniel says, “it changes your choices.”

It’s Saturday morning, Shannon McNally is wide awake, and she’s still snoring. Listening to her and egging her on is Shannon’s younger sister, Landis. It looks strange, really. But it’s not. It’s what Landis likes. So Shannon indulges her mentally retarded sister.

“She likes for me to snore for her,” Shannon says with a shrug. Shannon doesn’t know why Landis likes that, or why she likes her big sis to play “The Wedding March” on the piano. “That’s just one of Landis’s things too.”

Shannon, 15, and Landis, 12, share a bedroom in their Union Bridge, Maryland, home. And despite Landis’s disability, the two sisters are just that. “We’re like regular sisters who have special things between them,” Shannon continues. That would explain the snoring and “The Wedding March.”

It would also explain why Shannon is such a big help to her mother when it comes to dealing with Landis. “Right now, Landis throws a lot of tantrums, she pulls hair, she spits, and she scratches. She’s also speech-disabled,” says the girls’ mom, Anjela McNally. “Shannon probably understands [Landis] a tad better than I do. I’ll say, ‘Shannon, what’s Landis trying to say?’ Shannon knows her sister very well and can usually tell me.”

That doesn’t mean it’s always easy for Shannon, a Mia Maid in the Westminster Ward of the Frederick Maryland Stake. When Landis gets upset, she’ll begin, as Shannon describes it, “trashing the house.” Once Shannon was heating up some leftover pizza, when Landis decided she wanted pudding instead. When Shannon told her she’d have to eat the pizza, Landis began throwing her food around the kitchen and knocking things off the counter.

“I get frustrated a lot over the things she does. I don’t mean to get mad but sometimes I do. Then I feel bad because I know she doesn’t quite understand why I’m yelling at her,” says Shannon. It’s at moments like these that Shannon will give Landis a hug, or sit with her in a chair, look at a magazine, and just rock back and forth. “It helps my anger to go away.”

“What is so incredible about Shannon is she’s able to not let what Landis does get her down too much. She has a great sense of humor about it,” says Sister McNally, a single parent who also has two sons, K. C. and Lucas, still at home. “Shannon is always willing to help, and she’s very kind to Landis. And Landis turns to Shannon for help as much as me or maybe even sometimes a little bit more than me.

“Shannon is a good role model for Landis,” Sister McNally continues. “But I think she’s more of a hero for Landis. Shannon has always been really pleasant and easygoing. I call her ‘my cheerful giver.’”

Even with all the help she provides her mother, Shannon still finds time for seminary, and school activities, which include her participation in color guard, a precision performing group that twirls flags. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, days Sister McNally is at school, Shannon is there to help Landis get off the bus. She also helps Landis get dressed, and will occasionally help with her bath.

There are moments when Shannon stops and considers her sister’s plight. She’ll think about times when Landis cries and doesn’t stop, and how hard it is to see her sister sad and not be able to find out what’s wrong. There are other times when Shannon will think about the gospel, and specifically about the Resurrection. “Landis has been this way for as long as I can remember. It’s hard for me to imagine her being perfect, her being able to speak,” Shannon explains. “I can’t really imagine her that way, but I know she will be someday.”

Sister McNally says, “I try to teach Shannon that she won’t always be recognized here for the help she’s given Landis, or for the way she’s been kind to Landis and helped make Landis’s life easier. But I also teach her that someday Landis will be able to come up to her and talk, and that this is not a permanent condition. As a family, we have had to do a lot of soul searching and a lot of studying of the purpose of life.”

For now, Shannon will continue caring for Landis. Like the nights when Shannon wakes up and makes sure her sister has blankets on her, or when she takes Landis outside to ride her bike. Those are the times when Landis will smile and so will Shannon. And one thing will be readily apparent. They’re sisters, and they love each other very much.

Those who come from a family where no one attends the temple can be a great example to their families if they have a positive attitude toward the temple. A former temple matron describes hearing a young woman speak in sacrament meeting about the temple. “Her parents are divorced, and there has been a lot of sadness in their family. But this bright spirit stood at the pulpit telling how she wants to go to the temple and how to prepare for it. Her father was there to hear it, and he hadn’t been to church for years. She’s drawing their family together and has been a wonderful example to them.”

What was one experience you had on the show that illustrates how you had to live your faith?
There was one time where a group of teenagers wanted to go to a party and I thought, “Oh fun! Dancing and stuff!” But then I realized what they meant by it—drinking and stuff—and I felt sick to my stomach, because I’d already committed to going. What could I say? I really struggled with that. After worrying about it for a while, I realized what I had committed to, and I apologized to all of them. I just said that that’s not who I am and that’s not what I do, and I was just going to have to pass on this one. And it’s cool, because I actually just had a really close friend who found it really cool that I did that. He asked me a lot more about the Church, and he actually got baptized this last summer! It shows that good can come from standing up for what you believe in.

Young members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and their Muslim friends in Queensland are helping an Australian charity to bring light into communities in Vanuatu impacted by energy poverty.
Last October, 186 young single adult volunteers, including friends from the Ahmadiyyah Muslim community, Church members and friends, gathered to assemble 1,000 solar lights.
The workers also wrote a greeting or message of encouragement on the instruction sheet that accompanies each light.
One volunteer said, “Not only are we building the lights, but we are also writing a letter to send with the lights, and it really makes it personal, and it really feels good to help others.”
Billie Murphy, SolarBuddy representative, said, “These lights will be used for children to study at nighttime and to move about their community safely and hopefully give them a really good opportunity as they move forward.”
Carl Maurer, self-reliance manager and Area Seventy, said, “I see this as an opportunity to relieve suffering, to increase the capacity for education to be a profile in somebody’s home, to offer better health opportunities in their homes, where they can become more self-reliant.”
Volunteers registered on JustServe, a free community service platform for building unity through community service, where the service project was posted.
The lights were purchased as a humanitarian project, by Latter-day Saint Charities, the service arm of the Church, from Solar Buddy, which is an Australian charity with the goal of ending energy poverty for all children.
After assembling the lights, which took about five minutes each, the young adults continued to mingle with games, activities, and, of course, food.
Carl Maurer said, “I hope that this will be a significant opportunity for families and individuals to see not just the light from the light, but see the Light of their lives, Jesus Christ.”

When President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) was a young man, he and his family lived on a farm during the summer. He had this experience there:
“There was a dead tree I wished to pull. I fastened one end of a chain to the tractor and the other end to the tree. As the tractor began to move, the tree shook a little, and then the chain broke.
“I looked at that broken link and wondered how it could have given way. I went to the hardware store and bought a repair link. I put it together again, but it was an awkward and ugly connection. The chain was never, never the same.”1
Think of yourself as part of a chain—a family chain. President Hinckley said we should never let ourselves be a weak link in our family chain.

In October 2004 the Young Women and Young Men organizations in our stake had an event called “Modesty in Dress,” based on the pamphlet For the Strength of Youth. It consisted of a fashion show divided into three parts: casual wear, sportswear, and formal wear. We asked each of the young men and young women to select three changes of clothing, and we helped them choose which clothes were suitable. We invited their leaders and parents to this activity. We emphasized scriptural verses about the body being a temple (see 1 Cor. 6:19–20) and the counsel of our prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley. The activity had a positive effect; the young people in our stake are more concerned now about grooming and dressing in an appropriate way.
Teresa de Jesús Contreras de Ramírez, Mexico

Sometimes we are faced with keeping our covenants when there seems to be no logical reason to do so. I listened to a single sister tell of her experience of “coming to trust the Lord completely.” Her life had not worked out as she had expected. Sound familiar? This period of soul-searching was marked by changing jobs, new financial pressures, tugs from worldly philosophies. Now listen to what she did. She sat down with other sisters in her ward and found that they too were searching to find the peace the gospel brings. She asked for a priesthood blessing. She valiantly carried forward in her calling. She studied and tried to more fully commit her love, appreciation, and conviction to Jesus. She prayed. “I cried to the Lord,” she said, “and told Him I would do whatever He would ask of me.” She did all this despite those difficulties. And do you know what happened? No, her eternal companion did not appear on her doorstep. But peace made its way into her heart, and life got better.

Several decades ago an acquaintance of mine left a small southern Utah town to travel east. He had never traveled much beyond his little hometown and certainly had never ridden a train. But his older sister and brother-in-law needed him under some special circumstances and his parents agreed to free him from the farmwork in order to go. They drove him to Salt Lake City and put him onto the train—new Levi’s, not-so-new boots, very frightened, and 18 years old.

There was one major problem and it terrified him. He had to change trains in Chicago. Furthermore, it involved an overnight layover, and that was a fate worse than death. His sister had written, carefully outlining when the incoming train would arrive and how and where and when he was to catch the outgoing line, but he was terrified.

And then his humble, plain, sun-scarred father did something no one in this room should ever forget. He said, “Son, wherever you go in this church, there will always be somebody to stand by you. That’s part of what it means to be a Latter-day Saint.” And then he stuffed into the pocket of his calico shirt the name of a bishop he had taken the time to identify from sources at Church headquarters. If the boy had troubles, or became discouraged and afraid, he was to call the bishop and ask for help.

Well, the train ride progressed rather uneventfully until it pulled into Chicago. And even then the young man did pretty well at collecting his luggage and making it to the nearby hotel room that had been prearranged by his brother-in-law. But then the clock began to tick and night began to fall and faith began to fail. Could he find his way back to the station? Could he find the right track and train? What if it were late? What if he were late? What if he lost his ticket? What if his sister had made a mistake and he ended up in New York? What if? What if? What if?

Without those well-worn boots ever hitting the floor, that big, raw-boned boy flew across the room, nearly pulled the telephone out of the wall, and fighting back tears and troubles, called the bishop. Alas, the bishop was not home but, aha, the bishop’s wife was. She spoke long enough to reassure him that absolutely nothing could go wrong that night. He was, after all, safe in the room, and what he needed more than anything else was a night’s rest. Then she said, “If tomorrow morning you are still concerned, follow these directions, and you can be with our family and other ward members until train time. We will make sure you get safely on your way.” She then carefully spelled out the directions, had him repeat them back, and suggested a time for him to come.

With slightly more peace in his heart, he knelt by his bed as he had every night of his 18 years and then waited for morning to come. Somewhere in the night, the hustle and bustle of Chicago in the 1930s subsided into peaceful sleep.

At the appointed hour the next morning, he set out. A long walk, then catch a bus. Then transfer to another. Watch for the stop. Walk a block, change sides of the street, and then one last bus. Count the streets carefully. Two more to go. One more to go. I’m here. Let me out of this bus. It worked, just like she said.

Then his world crumbled, crumbled before his very eyes. He stepped out of the bus onto the longest stretch of shrubbery and grass he had ever seen in his life. She had said something about a park, but he thought a park was a dusty acre in southern Utah with a netless tennis court in one corner. Here he stood looking in vain at the vast expanse of Lincoln Park with not a single friendly face in sight.

There was no sign of a bishop or ward or a meetinghouse. And the bus was gone. It struck him that he had no idea where he was or what combination of connections with who knows what number of buses would be necessary to get him back to the station. Suddenly he felt more alone and overwhelmed than at any moment in his life. As the tears welled up in his eyes, he despised himself for feeling so afraid—but he was and the tears would not stop. He stepped off the sidewalk away from the bus stop into the edge of the park. He needed some privacy for his tears, as only an 18-year-old from southern Utah could fully appreciate. But as he stepped away from the noise, fighting to control his emotions, he thought he heard something hauntingly familiar in the distance. He moved cautiously in the direction of the sound. First he walked, and then he walked quickly. The sound was stronger and firmer and certainly it was familiar. Then he started to smile, a smile which erupted into an audible laugh, and then he started to run. He wasn’t sure that was the most dignified thing for a newcomer to Chicago to do, but this was no time for discretion. He ran and he ran fast. He ran as fast as those cowboy boots would carry him—over shrubs, through trees, around the edge of a pool.

Though hard to you this journey may appear,
Grace shall be as your day.
The words were crystal clear, and he was weeping newer, different tears. For there over a little rise, huddled around a few picnic tables and bundles of food, were the bishop and his wife and their children and most of the families of that little ward. The date: July 24, 1934. The sound: a slightly off-key, a cappella rendition of lines that even a boy from southern Utah could recognize.

Gird up your loins; fresh courage take;
Our God will never us forsake;
And soon we’ll have this tale to tell—
All is well! all is well!
(Hymns, no. 13)

It was pioneer day. The gathering to which he had been invited was a 24th of July celebration. Knowing that it was about time for the boy to arrive, the ward had thought it a simple matter to sing a verse or two of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” to let him know their location.

To get to the Monares family’s one-room home in the city of Cebu, you have to walk through a maze of narrow, crowded alleys. When you enter the tiny room, the first thing you see is a New Era poster. It’s a photo of one yellow balloon floating above a group of blue ones, with a caption: “Rise above the blues.”

One shelf of a small bookcase is filled with new copies of the Book of Mormon to give away. “Our son is on a mission,” Santos Monares explains.

Brother Monares buys and sells merchandise on the street, hoping to transact enough business to feed his family. When he and his wife, Julieta, first started talking about going to the temple, Julieta didn’t want to build up her hopes. She felt it was useless to even try to save enough money for the boat trip. And then Brother Monares was sick for a long time. But somehow, they got enough money together for themselves and four of their children to make the trip.

When Sister Monares went to the market to buy food for the journey, someone pickpocketed all her food money. Again she was tempted to give up. But fast-offering funds helped pay for food, and they finally made it to the Manila Temple in April 1990.

“In the temple, we forgot all the problems of the outside world,” says Brother Monares.

Twenty-year-old Vicenta agrees. “When we were being sealed to my brother who died soon after he was born, I heard the voice of a baby!” For her, it was a witness that he was accepting the ordinance.

One resident I personally interviewed during the pro bono project was a kindhearted 93-year-old woman named Lúcia. Grateful for our service, she jokingly exclaimed, “Marry me!”
Surprised, I responded: “Look over there at that beautiful young woman! She is my wife and the state prosecutor.”
She quickly fired back: “So what? She is young, pretty, and can easily get married again. All I have is you!”
The wonderful residents did not have all their problems solved that day. They undoubtedly continued to experience hardship from time to time like the Jaredites in their boats on the challenging journey to the promised land, “buried in the depths of the sea, because of the mountain waves which broke upon them.”
But that Saturday, the nursing home residents knew that regardless of their earthly anonymity, they were known personally by a loving Heavenly Father, One who responds to even the simplest of prayers.

As a member of the teachers quorum, which has the responsibility to prepare the sacrament, Scott was faced with an unfortunate situation one Sunday: there weren’t enough sacrament cups for his large ward.
“I felt bad—feeling that we hadn’t fulfilled our duty,” Scott says. “We decided that the teachers had to be more organized, and now our quorum presidency meets the hour before sacrament meeting for our presidency meeting to make sure everything is in order for the sacrament and to prepare for the next few weeks. I like the order in the Church. When there is order, you don’t have to worry.”

For a moment I stood on the front steps and stared through the rusty screen door at Mom as she hummed softly in the kitchen preparing dinner. Her back was to me, so while I built my courage to enter, I watched unobserved, detached momentarily from the familiar scene.
A cool breeze whispered through the elm trees down by the pasture and across the corrals, bringing with it the faint smell of clover mingled with the distinct but not entirely displeasing odor of sun-baked manure and hay. A calf bawled imploringly from the barn, and a pesky fly pinged persistently against the screen door, demanding entrance.
I filled my lungs with the aromas from the kitchen, savoring the rich mixture of Mom’s baking bread, a tantalizing roast, and a trace of lilac that drifted in from the lilac bushes blooming just outside the kitchen window. The table, draped in the old familiar oil cloth that was beginning to wear ragged around the edges, was covered with scrubbed carrots, chopped lettuce, a greased cake pan, and a sprinkling of flour.
I sighed ruefully and pulled the screen door open. It whined a welcome and then chattered noisily behind me as I stepped inside onto the scarred but polished linoleum floor.
"Robert!" Mom called out with surprise, wiping her brow with a damp forearm. Though it had been just a few weeks since I’d seen her last, the gray in her hair seemed more pronounced, and there were deeper lines of worry and stress written across her face. "I had decided you weren’t coming," she said, stepping toward me with a half-peeled potato in her hand and kissing me on the cheek.
I pressed my lips into a wan smile and set my duffle bag on a kitchen chair. Mechanically I glanced at the hook behind the door and noted that Dad’s faded felt hat was missing. That hat was an extra appendage with Dad. He would have no more considered leaving the house without it than he would have gone without his pants or boots. Mom followed my glance and deciphered my thoughts. "He’s been gone all morning," she explained.
I nodded, reached for a carrot, reconsidered, and stuffed my hand into my pocket.
"We thought you would be here last night," Mom called over her shoulder as she returned to the sink.
"I had a date," I replied sheepishly, avoiding her eyes. Actually I had spent the entire evening in my apartment, sitting on the edge of my bed, debating whether or not I should even come home, struggling with a nagging necessity to speak with Dad and yet perplexed by the simple how. I just couldn’t bear to witness his flesh waste away, the creases in his brow deepen, and his eyes groan in silent agony. I guess I hoped that by not seeing him he would always stay the way I remembered him, robust and full of life.
"Dad will be anxious to visit with you," Mom commented.
"Yeah," I muttered softly, pressing my lips together and nodding forlornly. There had been a time when speaking to Dad was the easiest thing in the world for me, but disease had made a stranger of him. I’m sure the inside of him was the same. But, oh, how the outside had changed, and it was this shocking outside, this terrifying shell of the man I had known intimately, which confronted me each time I returned home. I no longer knew the words or had the courage to form the words that would adequately express what was harbored so pointedly in my heart. Just when I most needed and wanted to communicate my feelings, I was driven into a frustrating and unnatural silence. I found myself turning away from Dad as though he were responsible for his condition. Each time I came home, I arrived determined to talk with him and brush away those difficult-to-explain feelings that had spring up from the seeds of my disappointment, but nothing ever worked out. Something was always awkward and wrong. And when I returned to school, I went with all my feelings churning inside me.
"You’ll be here the whole weekend won’t you?" Mom asked as she began rinsing off the potatoes and dropping them into a pan. I didn’t answer. I wanted her to hurry on to another question, but she waited and finally prodded. "You will, won’t you?"
"Well, most of it."
"You’ll go to church with us?"
I cleared my throat. "I have a test Monday. I’ll have to leave here early tomorrow afternoon. Finals are coming up." I laughed awkwardly. "I don’t want to blow it these last two weeks."
It was a lame excuse. We both knew it, but we pretended not to notice. I had changed. It was hard to believe, to hope, to pray, knowing that Dad was slipping away. I hadn’t turned into an infidel, gone inactive or anything that drastic, but there was definitely a portentous fracture in my faith.
I think Mom and Dad suspected, but they didn’t broach the subject. I don’t know if I could have told them had they asked. I didn’t really understand myself. Maybe I was trying to bargain with God, subtly announcing that my diligence was coupled with Dad’s recovery, that my faithfulness would be the payoff for his health.
"Your dad and I are speaking in sacrament meeting. It sure would be nice to have you there. I know you dad is counting on it."
"Where is Dad, anyway?" I asked, changing the subject.
"At the lot, working on the wall."
"I should have known," I mumbled, smiling. "I’ll put my things upstairs and go out and give him a hand." I turned to go but then stopped. As much as I hated asking the question I knew I would have to. "How has he been?"
Mom’s hands relaxed their grip on the potato she was holding. It dropped and she let her hands sag limply in the sink. "Not very well," she bemoaned. "His spleen is so swollen. It literally bulges when he lies down. He gets so tired, and he’s so skinny. He can’t keep his pants up now. He has lost almost ten pounds since you were here last. He keeps losing weight, and he just doesn’t have any to spare. I tell him to get suspenders, but you know how he hates them."
Turning and facing me, she laid bare her fears. "Robert, he’s bad. I can’t help thinking of what Doctor Hart told us when we saw him the first time. He charted the disease. I hate to admit it, but this is the last stage. He hurts all the time. He doesn’t say so until it gets really bad, but I can see it in his eyes. Sometimes I see him gritting his teeth and clenching his fists and I know what’s happening inside of him. I just want to go off by myself and cry."
"He still hasn’t talked about seeing the doctor again?"
"No," she whispered with a wan smile, "and he won’t. You know that."
"And the medicine?"
She shook her head. "He’s convinced that the medicine makes him worse. He’s probably right. He got such terrible headaches while he was on it. He felt drowsy or nauseated and he couldn’t work, and you know that if you dad can’t work, he’s miserable."
I nodded and smiled knowingly. Idleness was just not a part of Dad. As long as I could remember he was immersed in projects. He always had something going on the farm, in the house, on a piece of equipment, or wrapped up in a new invention—a better way to pump water to the lot, a more efficient way to feed the cattle, a handier way of irrigating the garden. He was the only person I knew who relaxed by working.
Pain, hardship, failure—these were the lurking monsters of most men approaching retirement, but Dad could face those unflinchingly. Idleness was his fear, and now, in his weakened condition, he found it increasingly more difficult to hold it at bay.
"What does Adams say?"
"Dad won’t see him, not as a doctor. He likes him as a friend and a neighbor."
"Have you talked to Adams lately?"
Mom shook her head tiredly and looked out the window. "He says your dad should be dead," she answered slowly. "He doesn’t know what’s keeping him going. He says he could drop over tomorrow or keep going another month or so." Mom paused and looked at me. "I know what’s driving him. His work. That’s what scares me, Robert. He gets so exhausted now. He works for just a few minutes, and he’s completely drained. If he is ever in bed for more than a week or so …"
Neither of us spoke. Neither of us wanted to end that foreboding sentence. We stood and stared out the window at the three milk cows ambling about the corral so we wouldn’t have to see the worry on the other’s face. Finally I picked up my bag and went upstairs to my room.
I sank on the bed, almost wishing I hadn’t come home. My eyes wandered about the room, seeing the things that had been such an integral part of me before going to college. I saw the pictures of my basketball and track teams. The trophies were still on the dresser where Mom kept them dusted and polished. The scrapbooks and the book of remembrance sat prominently on the shelf. My Duty to God pin was mounted on a plaque next to the mirror.
Eventually my eyes rested on the photo of Mom, Dad, and me the night of my Eagle court of honor six years earlier. That was where I always stopped. That was the pivotal point in my life. The week after that picture was taken, Doctor Adams made his doleful discovery. Dad hadn’t been feeling well for some time. He had spent the last 13 years in the bishopric, either as a counselor or bishop. We had just assumed he was run down. No one had ever suspected leukemia!
It was a shattering blow. Mom and the four girls didn’t attempt to disguise the shock, but I tried to be stoic. In reality I cowered behind a wall of impassivity. Behind that hastily built facade, my world teetered. It was so coldly unfair. I began to question the justice of God. Dad had been so good, so faithful, and now he was to be repaid like this.
"Robert," Mom called from the foot of the stairs. "I fixed a drink for Dad."
"Okay, I’ll be right down."
"Tell him dinner will be ready in about an hour. And don’t let him get too tired. He can’t be in bed tomorrow."
I grabbed a pair of patched jeans from the closet, dug out my work boots from under the bed, and headed for the lot. During the last two years Dad had leased most of the farm to our neighbor, Brother Maner, but he hadn’t been able to give up the lot. The lot was his first piece of ground, one he had bought from Grandpa when he was only 17. It had always been his prize. The best sweet corn in the whole county had been grown there. Of course, that was more a tribute to Dad than the lot itself.
Though the soil was rich, Dad seemed to harvest more rocks than anything else. There was no end to them. Soon he had piles of rocks all around the lot. But with those rocks, which anyone else would have cursed and discarded, Dad began to build a wall.
Every year he dug up more rocks, and every year he added to the wall. Building this rough, rugged wall became an art with Dad. He sighted and measured and leveled. He chose each rock carefully and set it into position with a precision that was unique to him. He met this challenge with the same zeal and meticulous care that he worked the soil, repaired his barns and fences, or performed his church duties.
There was only a hundred feet of unfinished wall when Dad learned of his leukemia. He began to joke that the Lord wouldn’t take him until he finished the wall. When Doctor Hart told him and Mom that he had between six months and a year to live, he smiled over at Mom and said, "I don’t know if I can finish the wall that soon. The Lord will have to give me some more time."
Dad had already lived six years since then. In fact, he had outlived Doctor Hart, who had died a few months earlier of a heart attack.
When I arrived at the lot that morning, I called to Dad several times, but there was no answer. I went to the bottom of the lot where the unfinished section of wall was, hoping to find him working, but the place was deserted. I stopped and stared at the gap in the wall. There was a 20-foot unfinished section. The rocks were there in a pile, but Dad hadn’t put them in place. I smiled and thought to myself, "He knows what he’s doing. He’s going to make sure there’s always a gap in that wall. If the Lord sticks to his end of the deal, I’ll be dead before Dad."
I set the ice water down and squatted on the ground in the shade of the wall. I closed my eyes, pressed my back against the rough but cool rocks and let my mind wander. A soothing peace prevailed as I remembered earlier days when I had come to the lot with Dad to hoe corn. I smiled. The novelty of the first spring work had always been so exciting, but the excitement soon dissipated. The sun warmed, and the plague of gnats descended. The swarming little insects had tortured me with their annoying, high-pitched whine and persistent biting. Many times I had thrown my hoe to the ground, screamed my agony, and clawed the infected air in frustrated anger. But Dad had always been there to encourage me and to wrap my itching head with his handkerchief to keep some of the gnats away. When they became unbearable, he sent me to sit in the shade while he finished my row of corn.
And there were the mornings I had followed behind him as he blazed a path through the towering stalks of corn, snapping off only the bulging mature ears and stacking them in his and my arms.
I recalled going to the lot in the spring and riding beside Dad on the tractor while he plowed, disked and harrowed the ground. I remembered trudging through the soft, black soil and lugging the myriad rocks that always found their way to the surface in the spring. I remembered watching Dad build the wall and listening to him as he told me Bible and Book of Mormon stories. I distinctly remembered the tears in his eyes when he had related stories of his own faith—the time his father had been healed, the time he had been working in the lot and had decided to go on a mission before marrying Mom, or the time on his mission when he had felt his bosom burn and had known for himself about God and the Church.
In my reverie I forgot the leukemia and the impending end. Here was complete contentment, and I suddenly longed to recapture those moments with Dad before he slipped away. I don’t remember how long I sat by the wall before deciding that Dad had already returned to the house. Finally I stood, brushed the dirt and dried weeds from my pants and left, fully expecting Dad to be waiting at the dinner table for me.
"Did Dad make it?" I asked Mom as I came into the kitchen with the jug of water still untouched.
"I thought you went to get him," she answered.
"He wasn’t there. I waited but …"
The blood drained from her face, and I added quickly to calm her sudden fear, "But he might have walked over to Brother Maner’s to check the fence. He does that you know. I’ll go look."
I made a pretense of calm and wanted to believe my own optimism, but an ominous gnawing in the pit of my stomach cautioned me to brace for the worst. I walked out of the house and across the yard, waiting until I had passed behind the barn and out of Mom’s sight before I broke into a sprint.
I didn’t find him. I was always thankful for that. I had often tried to imagine what I would do when I received word of Dad’s death. I had prepared myself for a phone call. I had never imagined meeting Brother Maner and discovering the dreaded truth etched on his contorted and sweating face. Even as he charged toward me, panting and red faced, I wanted to deny the obvious. Brother Maner had found him face down in the bottom pasture. He had been dead for about an hour.
The next three days were lost in a maze of confusing grief. I kept to myself and let my sorrow and disappointment fester. I didn’t want sympathy or pity. I didn’t want extended hands of comfort. I didn’t want sermons about life after death. I wanted to shake off my helplessness, grab death, strangle it, beat it with my fists.
The morning after the funeral I went down to the lot early. The sun was barely up, and the dew was thick on the grass. Dad’s corn was just beginning to push up through the soil. I walked around the lot twice, each time pausing at the unfinished portion of wall. It pulled like a giant magnet. As I stood and stared, the bitterness welled inside me, and I demanded an answer. Why did it have to be like this? Why did he have to be snatched away now with so much of his life unlived? And the wall? Why couldn’t he have finished the wall? He had eluded death so long, against such insurmountable odds. Why couldn’t he have been given a little more time?
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky that morning. The sun’s spring rays were soothing. This was Dad’s kind of day, the kind he would have chosen to work on the wall. Slowly I moved toward the pile of rocks. Picking the largest one, I staggered with it to the gaping hole in the wall and set it down. "It’s not much," I whispered, "but I will finish the wall."
Fighting back a growing wave of grief, I attacked the hole in the wall. I dropped every available rock inside the open section, piling them haphazardly. I didn’t care how the repair looked to anyone else; I just wanted to fill the gap in a bitter attempt to assuage my own grief.
In less than an hour I was almost finished. Panting, I stepped back and surveyed my progress. The shoddy workmanship mocked me. I wasn’t finishing Dad’s wall. I was merely filling a hole, something Dad would have never done.
I picked up a rock and hurled it against my section of the wall. I flew at the wall in frustrated rage, pulling the rocks down and throwing them aside. I ran to the house for a shovel, and when I returned to the lot, I was determined to complete the wall Dad’s way.
Taking a shovel, I cut away the sod and leveled the ground where the wall would go. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and beads of sweat formed on my brow and upper lip. With calculating care I began choosing rocks for the wall’s foundation, this time with a meticulousness reminiscent of Dad. The larger, flatter rocks were set in place first to give the wall stability. The gaps between were filled with smaller, odd-shaped ones. It was like putting together a gigantic, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Each gap had to be filled before another rock could be set into place. The base was broad and tapered gradually upward, the rocks above tying in and holding firm the rocks below.
When I wasn’t certain how to proceed, I studied Dad’s part of the wall, perusing his rugged pattern. He had always made it seem easy, but soon I discovered the truth. Before long my back ached and my fingers were rubbed raw and the palms of my hands were scratched and caked with dirt. I wished for a pair of gloves, but I refused to stop and run to the house for them. The sweat now poured down my face and neck and trickled from under my arms. My mouth was dry; my lips, covered with a sticky film of dirt.
My body cried for a rest, but I had become obsessed, refusing to stop for more than short breathers and pauses to survey my progress. I refused to stop even for dinner. Mom brought me a sandwich and a jug of water, which I ate and drank while I planned the next tier.
"Don’t push yourself, Robert," she had cautioned. "It’s only a wall."
"It’s Dad’s wall. He wanted it finished."
"But there will be other days."
"There were other days. I’ll finish today." Shaking her head and pushing her fingers through her hair, she had finally turned and left me to my obsession.
Many times I rummaged through the pile of rocks, unable to find the right shape or size, and I was forced to search along the irrigation ditch for one that would fit the hole. By late afternoon I was at the brink of exhaustion. The muscles in my back and arms ached, and my clothes clung to me. My lips were chapped, and the back of my neck was scorched from hours in the sun; but I experienced an all-consuming satisfaction that eased the dull ache in my tired body. Dad’s pile of rocks had shrunk, and the final section of the wall had emerged.
Stiffly I stepped back to examine the wall. I compared my section to Dad’s. I nodded, feeling confident that no one would see a difference. Completely drained, I dropped to my knees and closed my eyes. The day’s work had purged much of the bitterness that I had allowed to poison me, and with that purging came a staggering realization. Dad had said he would stay until the wall was finished. Now, it was finished, and not even I could contend with that numbing reality.
I opened my eyes and looked at the wall. Slowly the rocks melted into a watery blur as tears filled my eyes. I tried to fight them back. I had dammed them off in angry defiance, but now there was nothing I could do to hold them back. They were painful at first, but with time they began to wash and soothe, and gradually the last traces of bitterness crumbled and dissolved in the briny flood.
Suddenly I remembered why I had come home for the weekend. I rebuked myself for not having come sooner and bridged the gap between Dad and me. I don’t know why I prayed. Since going to college and watching Dad slip away from me, prayer had been difficult and far from spontaneous, but this evening the prayer came naturally, as a comforting balm, a sincere plea for understanding, just enough to grasp and accept Dad’s passing.
It was in that troubled state of importuning that a new thought occurred to me with stunning force: I had not finished Dad’s wall. Dad’s wall had been finished long before. The wall he had labored so faithfully to build was his legacy to me, his monument built in my honor. The gap I had filled, patterning it so carefully after his, had been the beginning of my wall. I sensed that Dad had known that all along and had left this last section for me.
The tears ceased. It was as though Dad were with me once again, just as I had always remembered him. I knew then that he had not been snatched away before his time; I had just been left temporarily behind to finish mine. As I stared across the lot and observed the work of Dad’s lifetime, I knew I had many walls yet to build. Silently, I prayed that I would build as well as Dad.

One of the strongest recollections I have of being a missionary is how close I drew to the Lord through the practice of regular prayer. In my day the mission home was located on State Street in Salt Lake City. It was a large house that had been converted to a missionary training center. It had large dormitory rooms with perhaps as many as 10 beds in a room. We checked in on Sunday night.

The week before I entered the mission field was an exciting time. There were a lot of parties and farewells. I am afraid that I was not properly rested and prepared for the training I was to receive at the mission home. As the evening of our first day in the mission home came to a close, I was weary. While waiting for the other missionaries to prepare themselves for bed, I stretched out on my bed and promptly fell asleep. My sleep, however, was interrupted by a feeling that I was surrounded. As the fog of sleep lifted, I heard the words of a prayer being said. I opened my eyes, and much to my surprise I found all the elders in my dormitory room kneeling around my bed, concluding the day with a prayer. I quickly closed my eyes and acted as if I was asleep. I was too embarrassed to get out of bed and join them. Even though my first experience with prayer as a missionary was an embarrassing one, it was the beginning of two wonderful years of frequently calling upon the Lord for guidance.

Throughout my mission, I prayed with my companion each morning as we began a new day. The process was repeated each night before we retired. We offered a prayer before we studied, a prayer as we left our apartment to go out tracting, and of course special prayers when special guidance was needed to direct our missionary work. The frequency of our appeals to our Father in Heaven gave us strength and courage to press forward in the work to which we had been called. Answers would come, sometimes in astonishingly direct and positive ways. The guidance of the Holy Spirit seemed to be magnified the more times we appealed to Heavenly Father for direction on a given day.

On the way home from church, Anna remembered the little slip of paper her teacher had given her. “Mom, guess what! I’m giving a talk in Primary next Sunday.”
“That’s great,” Mom said. “On what?”
“I have to talk about the Restoration. But I’m not sure what that is.”
“Restoration means that God brought back, or restored, everything He wants His Church to have,” Mom said. “Through the Prophet Joseph Smith, He brought back temples, the priesthood, baptism, and the gift of the Holy Ghost. Without the Restoration, we wouldn’t have the Church!”
Anna nodded. “I guess that makes sense. But I don’t think I can explain it like you did.”
“Hey, I have an idea,” Mom said as they got home. “Come with me.”
Anna followed Mom to the family room. They had started a puzzle last night, and the pieces were still spread out on a small table.
“Think of the gospel like a puzzle.” Mom picked up a piece. “Many pieces of the picture were on the earth at different times. But after Jesus and the Apostles died, many gospel truths were lost or changed. Those pieces of truth needed to be brought back.”
“So then what happened?” Anna shuffled some of the loose pieces.
“Many years later God called a young farm boy to bring the pieces back and put them together like when Jesus was on the earth. Who do you think that was?”
“Joseph Smith!” Anna said, smiling. “I think I’m starting to get it.” She and Mom talked more about Joseph Smith and the different pieces of the gospel that God brought back through him.
The rest of the week, Anna wrote and practiced her talk. She prayed to Heavenly Father that she could be brave and share her message in Primary.
On Sunday, when it was time for Anna’s talk, she stood up, took a deep breath, and held up a puzzle on a board so everyone could see. All the pieces were together in the puzzle.
“A long time ago, many of the important pieces of the gospel were on the earth. When Jesus and His Apostles died, some pieces got lost.” Anna took some pieces out of the puzzle and set them down. “Then Heavenly Father and Jesus called Joseph Smith as a prophet to bring back the missing pieces of the gospel. This is called the Restoration.” She picked up a puzzle piece to show the Primary. On the back were the words “Priesthood power.”
Then Anna showed the rest of the pieces. She read the back of each piece before she put it in its spot in the puzzle. “A living prophet … twelve Apostles … temple work for eternal families … baptism by immersion … laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
Anna showed the finished puzzle. “Now we have all the pieces of the gospel. That means we can see the big picture of how we can be happy and live with Heavenly Father again someday. I am grateful for the Restoration. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

I saw that same miracle a few short days ago in the aftermath of Hurricane Irma in Puerto Rico, Saint Thomas, and Florida, where Latter-day Saints partnered with other churches, local community groups, and national organizations to begin cleanup efforts.
Like my friends in Rexburg, one nonmember couple in Florida focused on helping the community rather than laboring on their own property. When some Latter-day Saint neighbors offered help with the two large trees blocking their driveway, the couple explained that they had been overwhelmed and so had turned to helping others, having faith that the Lord would provide the aid they needed at their own home. The husband then shared that before our Church members arrived with offers of assistance, the couple had been praying. They had received an answer that help would come. It came within hours of that assurance.