Gospel Story Finder

There are other “lost battalions” comprised of mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, who have, through thoughtless comment, isolated themselves from one another. An account of how such a tragedy was narrowly averted is this occurrence in the life of a lad we shall call Jack.
Throughout Jack’s life, he and his father had many serious arguments. One day, when Jack was seventeen, they had a particularly violent one. Jack said to his father: “This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’m leaving home, and I shall never return.” So saying, he went to the house and packed a bag. His mother begged him to stay, but he was too angry to listen. He left her crying at the doorway.
Leaving the yard, he was about to pass through the gate when he heard his father call to him: “Jack, I know that a large share of the blame for your leaving rests with me. For this I am truly sorry. I want you to know that if you should ever wish to return home, you’ll always be welcome. And I’ll try to be a better father to you. I want you to know that I’ll always love you.”
Jack said nothing but went to the bus station and bought a ticket to a distant point. As he sat in the bus watching the miles go by, he commenced to think about the words of his father. He began to realize how much love it had required for him to do what he had done. Dad had apologized. He had invited him back and had left the words ringing in the summer air, “I love you.”
It was then that Jack realized that the next move was up to him. He knew that the only way he could ever find peace with himself was to demonstrate to his father the same kind of maturity, goodness, and love that dad had shown toward him. Jack got off the bus. He bought a return ticket to home and went back.
He arrived shortly after midnight, entered the house, and turned on the light. There in the rocking chair sat his father, his head in his hands. As he looked up and saw Jack, he rose from the chair and they rushed into each other’s arms. Jack often said, “Those last years that I was home were among the happiest of my life.”
We could say here was a boy who overnight became a man. Here was a father who, suppressing passion and bridling pride, rescued his son before he became one of that vast “lost battalion” resulting from fractured families and shattered homes. Love was the binding band, the healing balm. Love—so often felt; so seldom expressed.

Next, young men, may I admonish you to participate in a program of daily reading and pondering of the scriptures. We remember the experience of our beloved prophet President Spencer W. Kimball. As a fourteen-year-old boy he accepted the challenge of reading the Bible from cover to cover. Most of his reading was done by coal oil light in his attic bedroom. He read every night until he completed the 1,519 pages, which took him approximately a year; but he attained his goal.

So your first question is “What’s an Iditarod?” Well, it’s a famous sled-dog team race held each year in Alaska. Your next question is “An Iditarod in sunny Arizona?” The answer to this question has more to it.
For the past six years the young men and Scouts from four different stakes in central Arizona have participated in a modified Iditarod race at their annual winter campout in Flagstaff, Arizona. Only instead of dog power, these sleds use Scout power. This past January, 375 young men were divided into teams of about 10. They pulled sleds over and through snow, mud, and dirt to the finish line. Each team built a sled equipped with both skis and wheels to handle any conditions. The course was two-and-a-quarter miles long with 10 activity stations along the way where Scouts competed in activities like archery, log sawing, and target ax throwing. The winning time along with the individual scores in the events determined the winner.
Friday night before the race, camp was set up, dinner prepared and eaten, and campers gathered around a campfire for a genuine fireside, where they heard an inspiring message from a member of the Peoria Arizona North Stake presidency. Saturday morning two teams at a time set out every 15 minutes to begin the race. An awards ceremony rounded out the day of fun and team building.
Brett Wood from the Sierra Verde Ward said, “The Iditarod is so awesome. The race course competition challenges you mentally and physically. It teaches you teamwork. It is hard but rewarding.”
“We really enjoyed the Iditarod,” added JC May from the winning Daisy Mountain Ward. “It is a time for us to get to know each other and work as a team. Everyone pulled together and worked hard.”

“Jessie,” Mother called, “are you OK? You’ve been in the bathroom for a long time.”
“I’m getting my family home evening lesson ready,” Jessie called back.
“In the bathroom?”
“I can’t part the Red Sea in the living room,” Jessie replied.
“That’s true,” said Mother.
Jessie had a little water in the bathtub. She put in several drops of red food coloring, just for effect. Her father had carefully installed a rotating fan on a shelf above the tub for her, and if she stopped the fan from moving back and forth, turned it on high, and used only a little water in the tub, she could part the Red Sea.
But this only solved part of her problem. She couldn’t turn the fan off to drown Pharaoh and the Egyptians while she was still getting Moses and the Israelites to the other side of the bathtub. And how was she going to get Pharaoh into the sea to begin with? There was also the cloud that separated the Israelites and the Egyptians. She could use cotton for that, but someone else would have to hold up the cloud.
David came into the bathroom to comb his hair. “David,” asked Jessie, “would you turn this fan off and on for me when I ask you to?”
“If it won’t mess up my hair,” said David.
“It won’t, I promise.”
Just then their sister Ruth came into the bathroom to get some nail polish. “Playing in the water I see, David,” Ruth teased.
“Be quiet,” said David. “I’m helping Jessie part the Red Sea.”
“Ruth,” said Jessie, “I need you to get the Egyptians into the Red Sea so that David can drown them.”
“Clever!” Ruth exclaimed, picking up the small figures. “They’re plastic cowboys and horses dressed up in Egyptian capes.”
Jessie’s little brother, Jared, came into the bathroom to see what was going on. He picked up the cotton. “Soft,” he said.
“Jared,” Jessie asked, “Can you hold that cotton cloud right here to protect the Israelites?”
“Me water,” said Jared leaning over the bathtub and swishing the water with one hand and swinging the cloud with the other.
Dad came into the bathroom to brush his teeth. “Well, it looks like we’re having a meeting in here,” he said.
“We’re parting the Red Sea,” said Ruth.
“Tonight’s lesson?” asked Dad. “So that’s why you wanted the fan set up in here, Jessie.”
“Yes,” Jessie replied. “Will you please help me get Moses through the Red Sea? I can’t move all these Israelites by myself.”
“The robes on these army men of yours look great,” said Dad. “They make good Israelites.”
“Thanks, Dad,” said Jessie.
Mother poked her head into the room. “What on earth is going on in here?”
“Oh, Mom,” Jessie answered, “we’re ready for my part of the family-home-evening lesson. Will you sit on the clothes hamper and watch? We need a watcher.”
“I’d love to,” said Mom.
“Ready, begin,” announced Jessie.
David turned the fan on. The Red Sea parted. Jessie and Dad led the Israelites through the bathtub. Jared held the cotton cloud and swished his hands in the red water. Ruth rode the caped Egyptians into the tub on their horses. David turned off the fan, and the Egyptian soldiers and Pharaoh drowned. Mom clapped and cheered.
“Whew,” said Jessie, wiping her forehead, “that was quite a job.”
“A great family effort,” said Dad.
“Jessie, I’ve made your favorite red sugar cookies,” Mom said, “in honor of your parting the Red Sea.”
“Boy, I’m luckier than Moses,” said Jessie.
“Why’s that?” asked Dad.
“I’ll bet Moses didn’t get red sugar cookies after he parted the Red Sea.”

Twenty-four years ago this next October, I received a long-distance telephone call at our home in Chicago. The caller in Salt Lake City asked if I planned to attend general conference, which convened the next morning. To this I answered, “No,” whereupon he asked if I could. I responded, “I suppose I can if you want me to.” The caller said, “The President of the Church would like to see you tomorrow morning at 8:00 in his office. Now have a good night’s sleep because it will be your last.” After some twenty-four years, it looks as though I may get that good night’s sleep—perhaps.
These years have been the most challenging and rewarding years of my life. I have had the indescribable blessing of being tutored every week, with few exceptions, by four Presidents of the Church and eight different Counselors in the First Presidency, and of course, for eleven years of that time, by a wonderful Presiding Bishop, John H. Vandenberg. It was a great blessing to serve with Elder Robert L. Simpson as Counselors to Bishop Vandenberg. Words cannot adequately express my love and my appreciation for my own faithful Counselors, Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone, Bishop H. Burke Peterson, and Bishop J. Richard Clarke, for their loyalty to me personally, and for their outstanding contribution to the Church during these thirteen years. We’ve been abundantly blessed by men and women of great faith and commitment—both here at home and from all over the world—who joined with us in response to the assignment from the First Presidency to accomplish the temporal work of the kingdom in these latter days. I express my heartfelt appreciation and gratitude to all, wherever they may be, and thank them for the blessing of being associated with them.

Before he met the missionaries, Brother Dupont said, he had been like a wanderer in a drought-ravaged land. Then suddenly he stumbled into a lake of water. The gospel was rich and refreshing to him, and he could not drink his fill. In his exuberance to immerse himself in his new-found treasure, he could not understand why others did not want to savor the same message. This lack of communication spilled into his marriage. His wife didn’t understand what had changed her husband.
As we ate, she told us of the war years, when he was bedridden. She had managed to find food for both of them, even during shortages. She had nursed him daily. Even after the war, he had required her constant care for several years before he gained the strength to walk. Then he had spent more years training and rehabilitating himself while she supported the family. No sooner had he started working again than two Americans began talking religion with him. Then he joined their church—he was the only member in town, and they baptized him in the river—and more and more of his life belonged to his church, not to her. She felt deprived, then embarrassed, when parishioners laughed at her, the wife of the town fanatic.
President Dupont repeated over and over again that the Church was true, that he knew it was true, and that he would do whatever he could to share it with his wife. “But,” he said, “she just won’t listen.”
“Can’t you see?” I said one night after they had been sharp with each other. “What you’re really saying is that you love each other. Sister Dupont, all these years you’ve been asking your husband to spend more time with you. That’s important and it’s right. And President Dupont, all you want to do is share with your wife the thing that’s most precious to you. Right?”
He nodded yes. I turned to Sister Dupont.
“Can’t you see that he wants to share the gospel with you because he loves you?”
She didn’t say anything, but you could tell she was thinking. We excused ourselves quietly and went home.
Elder Granville’s prayer that night was straightforward and concerned.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help the Duponts to understand each other. They’re both good people.”
“Amen,” I said. And it sounded so good that I said it again in a whisper.
We had teaching appointments elsewhere for the next two weeks, and then we had to go to Bordeaux for district conference. Although we stopped to see President Dupont on branch business a couple of times, it was almost a month before we were asked back to the Duponts’ home. President Dupont delivered the invitation.
“You won’t believe it,” he said. “My wife’s been reading Church books! and she’s asking questions, good, honest questions. I try to answer them, but I get too pushy. She really wants to talk to you again.” If we hadn’t had another teaching appointment, we might have rushed over right then.
“C’est incroyable!” Sister Dupont said the next time we all sat in the kitchen. “It’s incredible. Or it’s stupid! A 14-year-old boy can’t talk to God. And the Bible. It’s complete. Why should we need any more scriptures than we already have? And the priesthood. My husband’s never been to divinity school. Why should he be able to hold the priesthood?”
Good questions, all right. How could we handle this? I could imagine Elder Granville thinking this was more like the Sister Dupont of old. Maybe the niceness had been too good to last.
“Sister Dupont,” Elder Granville’s calm voice interrupted my thoughts, “we can answer all those questions for you. But we can’t answer them all at the same time. We have a series of discussions that will answer them one at a time. Would you be interested in listening to those discussions?”
She said yes.
How about that! I said to myself. There’s hope for this junior companion yet!
I wouldn’t exactly say that Sister Dupont became a golden investigator. But she did become our friend. She listened intently to the first discussion. She even joined us as her husband kneeled in prayer. And she invited us to dinner again the following Sunday. It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”
During the next two months Sister Dupont read the book—at least, she read more than half of it. And she had two more discussions, and prayed, and was talking to her husband more and more. And he was seeming happier and happier all the time. That’s when my transfer letter came.
I was moving north to Brittany where I would finish my mission. Elder Granville would be getting his third senior missionary companion. The letter had been delayed by postal strikes. I would have to catch the first train in the morning.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave, Elder Granville,” I said. “We’ve been working so well here. The branch president’s happy and excited again, and the members are working with him. We’ve got some inactive members coming out to church and a couple of solid investigators. The Marcellas family is getting ready for baptism. I guess I’ll just have to leave it up to you.”
A knock at the door.
“President Dupont!” Elder Granville greeted the visitor. “Come in, come in.”
President Dupont looked at me.
“I heard about the transfer,” he said. “I know you’re leaving tomorrow. My wife wants you to come say good-bye.”
There was a lot of packing and farewelling to take care of, but I knew I had to visit his wife.
“Of course we’ll be by,” I said.
The living room was dark. The wallpaper, however, was a bright combination of browns, yellows, and tans. Sister Dupont was seated on the orange couch, a tray of cookies and hot chocolate before her.
“Hello, elders,” she said. “Have a seat. What’s this about Elder Romney leaving?”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Tomorrow morning.”
“That means there will be a new missionary here, too.”
“That’s right. Elder Taylor. He’s from New York.”
“I guess I’ll have to get to know him, too.”
I could see the smile on President Dupont’s face.
“I hope you will,” I said.
“Will you write to us?”
“Of course I’ll keep in touch,” I promised. “Trust me.”
“If you can’t trust the elders, who can you trust?” she said.
I thought I might cry.
I did keep in touch, especially five months later when I got home from my mission. It was hard, and President Dupont wrote to me more than I wrote to him. But we did exchange photos (I still have a nice picture of the Duponts with their grandchildren on vacation on the Spanish coast), and Christmas cards, and news of our families. Whatever I sent, even a postcard, I always got letters back, scrawled out in President Dupont’s longhand. He would let me know when he heard from one of the elders, especially from Elder Granville. He always included greetings from his wife, but I never received anything written personally by her. Other missionaries told me that she remained friendly and supported her husband, but she never joined the Church. Every once in a while I would write to her personally and bear my testimony to her through the mail.
I’ve been home for several years now, and this week I received an unusual letter from France. The address was strange, the handwriting unfamiliar. I opened it before I got to my desk.
“Dear Elder Romney” it began. “I’ve wanted to write to you many times over the years, but I always figured my husband kept us in contact with you. Now my husband is gone. I wanted to let you know so that you could tell the other missionaries. He loved them all so much. Let them know the Church members held a funeral for him.
“I remember much of what you both told me about life after death. Perhaps my husband is there waiting for me, as you said he would be. I never did understand all you tried to tell me, all that he wanted to share with me, but I know you both believed it was true. I’m living with my daughter and her family now. Please write to me if you will.”
You know I will, Sister Dupont. You know I will.

American Indians in Nottingham’s Old Market Square?! Someone must have their history mixed up. But no, it’s all part of a program to help teach the British people more about the Book of Mormon.
President Eldon J. Callister of the England Birmingham Mission realized that one of the biggest hindrances to missionary work in England is the misconception the people have of Mormons. “Oh yes, you have more than one wife and think it wicked to drink tea” is what missionaries hear when they ask the question, “What do you know about the Mormon church?”
The Book of Mormon is one of the greatest tools for missionary work, so in order to help people become interested, President Callister assigned two elders to produce an entertaining and educational show that could be used to teach about the Lamanite people. Within the mission was an elder with considerable experience with Indian dances and customs, Elder Kim Larson. Another elder, Tom Spencer, who had theatrical experience was assigned to help with the program, and the two elders wrote “Ancient America Speaks.”
Elder Larson sent for his handmade Kiowa Dance costume, which he had used in the U.S. while performing with the Koshare (pronounced co-shar-ee) Indian dancers of LaJunta, Colorado. Elder Spencer sat down and began to write. Their production showed the modern American Indian in his rightful position as a descendant of a once-Christian people. They tell about the legends and dances that illustrate how the Indians changed their form of worship from Christianity to those of a more pagan nature.
During their first year of performances, the elders danced and spoke before thousands. During the summer months they performed in town fairs and carnivals. Open houses were held in all of the four stakes within the mission boundaries. Countless shopping centers, market squares, town centers, and colleges were the stages for the tom-toms and storytelling. A slightly modified program was written for public schools. More than 100 schools were visited, which resulted in a good feeling toward the Church. Many have asked for the program to return next year.
The program has been such a success in introducing the British to the gospel that two more elders were assigned to carry on the presentations after Elders Larson and Spencer were released.
The elders have appeared on TV twice, and newspaper articles have continued to be published. The British find the American Indian story interesting, but it’s the gospel story they learn that really affects them. The Indian program seems to make it easier for many to want to learn more. So for these Indian-missionaries there are no reservations concerning missionary work.

I was asleep in my bedroom one May morning when my older brother shook me awake and said, “Get up! They think Dad is dead.”
Those words and that situation are branded vividly into the far corners of my mind even though I was only eight when Dad died. The clear memory of that morning never leaves, and I’m glad it doesn’t. That’s part of the link between life and death.
When I sat on the front porch that spring day, I thought, If I live to be an old man, it’s going to seem like an eternity before I see Dad again. I was feeling sorry for myself, and I believe it was a normal reaction for anyone who loses a family member. As well as feeling very, very sad, I also felt cheated.
The week of Dad’s death and burial was hectic, traumatic, and totally different from anything else I had ever done. Life was a blurred and chaotic state. Existing schedules were thrown to the wind as life suddenly took a direction that seemed almost a reversal from previous paths and routes. Confusion entered my mind like it never had before.
For my family, the memories were far too painful after Dad died, so Mother sold our house and we moved to another city. She felt strongly that our lives would be happier in a different location where we could all look ahead instead of looking back. I think she felt that way because her immediate plan was to remain a widow the rest of her life. For me, the rest of my life was a long, long time to go.
As I thought and prayed about the move away from lifelong friends—a deeply traumatic experience for any young person—the Holy Ghost whispered to me, “Trust her. She is your mother. She will not lie to you or deceive you. Everything that she is doing is for your own good.”
As time passed, I longed for Dad on many occasions. Nevertheless, my life went on with joy, happiness, and pleasure. My grandfather—Dad’s father—spent much time with us, striving to be a father figure. The bishop often took us on father-and-son outings. Home teachers took us fishing and saw to other needs. School teachers showed great interest. Many adults gave of their time and talents so that we could experience those things that normally happen to young people.
Still, I longed for both parents to be in attendance when I was elected student-body vice president, when I scored three touchdowns in the first football game of my senior year, and when I graduated from high school.
None of this is ever meant to imply that Mother did not do a great job. But growing up with only one parent is a tough assignment. One parent can only do so much, and one is never as good as a team of two.
What I learned, though, is that when a parent dies, the world does not stop. There were days when I wished it would slow down so I could sort out the feelings of my heart. However, God will not ask more of us than what we are capable of giving. He will watch over us and protect us as we strive to do what’s right.
The hurt of burying one parent never goes away. The deep longing to be near them will never totally disappear. Dad’s comments to me during my childhood are so vivid that my memory signals that we will never be completely separated. As time goes by now, the storm clouds mostly pass like speeded-up, time-lapse photography. I quickly see that the sky is blue again.
That is the promise we each have, for God said, “Blessed is he that … is faithful in tribulation. … Ye cannot behold with your natural eyes, for the present time, the design of your God concerning those things which shall come hereafter, and the glory which shall follow. … For after much tribulation come the blessings. Wherefore the day cometh that ye shall be crowned with much glory; … Remember this, … that you may lay it to heart, and receive that which is to follow” (D&C 58:2–5).

Amber Martin and Kortney Kline are closer to earning their Young Women Personal Progress Award after organizing all the youth in the Valley Forge Pennsylvania Stake to donate their reading books to an inner-city school in Philadelphia. A stake youth dance was held and the “admission fee” was to bring some books. Amber and Kortney managed to collect over 500 books. These two young women said it was an awesome experience to give youth in their stake an opportunity to donate books to students in need.

One day my friend Viviana and I heard about an important fireside from our Young Women leaders. They encouraged us to go, even though it was far away from where we lived.
We were not familiar with how to get there by bus, and we couldn’t afford a taxi. However, we trusted in the Lord and went on the bus. On the ride, my friend saw someone she knew, and the woman suggested that we catch the metro at the next stop. So we did. When we got off, we were already quite close to the stake center. And since the metro ride happened to be free because of its recent grand opening, we were able to use that money to pay for a taxi to our destination.
After we got to the fireside, we had a problem: we were out of money! We didn’t tell anyone, but when the fireside ended, our bishop came and gave each of us a tithing envelope with money in it. He said, “I’m afraid you put more money into your envelopes than you had recorded on the donation slip, and here is what you overpaid.”
At that moment, Viviana and I embraced each other. We knew that because of our diligence in following our leaders and paying our tithing, our Heavenly Father was blessing us. That experience reminds me how much He is aware of me and loves me. I know that when we obey His commandments in faith, He will bless us.
Maria C., Venezuela

We challenge parents, home teachers, elders quorum presidents, and bishops that from today you show your concern for these young people. Flood them with affection, letters, tapes, cards, packages, birthday and holiday greetings of all types. Give your Young Adults, teenagers, and others in your ward a stimulating project. Sixteen-year-old Debbie Trujillo wrote a serviceman, “Hi. My name is Debbie Trujillo, and I’ve just been baptized in the Church. I don’t know much about you, but our class is doing this project, and I think it’s neat.” The serviceman said, “I hope my reply can be as sweet and uplifting as her letter.”

A few years ago, my family and I were driving home when we decided to stop by a friend’s house to see their new baby goats. My little sisters, in their excitement, managed to lock the keys in the van. We were far from home, and my dad was working, so he couldn’t bring us his set of keys.
My mother started to get frustrated. She enlisted the help of a local fireman who tried for 45 minutes to unlock the door, but to no avail. He threw a hopeless glance at my mother, said he was sorry, and walked back to the fire station across the street.
Once the fireman had retreated, six-year-old Leah plopped herself down on her knees and proceeded to offer a fervent prayer to help us get home. My mother watched in silence and gave Leah a giant hug as soon as she was finished.
About 10 minutes later, my mother’s friend pulled up. Her husband emerged from the car and asked what the problem was. After we explained, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “I used to have an old Ford van just like this one. I still have the keys. Shall we give it a try?” We were all for it, and, miracle of miracles, the key fit!
We gave out a whoop and piled into the van. As my mom started the engine, little Leah approached her and said, “See, Mommy? Heavenly Father always helps us when we ask him.”
Once she heard these words, my mother’s eyes filled with tears. She praised Leah for doing the right thing. Leah taught us all a very important lesson that day—to turn to our Father in Heaven. We should all remember to have the faith of a little child.

I grew up in Panguitch, Utah, a small town of 1,500 people. I was a big fish in a little pond. When I graduated from high school, I received a scholarship to attend Brigham Young University. When I got there, I quickly discovered that I was a little fish in a huge pond, and I became discouraged. I thought, “I want to get out of here.” I started to go home on weekends. I attended church at home—not on campus. I didn’t keep my grades at a level at which I ought to have kept them. I didn’t get acquainted with people. By the end of the year, I said, “I’m not going to return. This is not for me.”

I went home that summer. About mid-August I discovered that I wanted to return to school. So I did. This time I immediately joined a social fraternity and a service organization. I moved into the dormitory. I started attending church on campus rather than going home on weekends. My grades improved. I began to realize that life on campus was a good life and that I was happy to be there.

Later I attended law school. My first year was difficult because I was studying a different discipline than what I had studied as an undergraduate, and my grades, again, were not as good as they should have been. The second year, I got a part-time job in a law firm while I was going to school. My grades went up. At the end of my second year, I married my wife, Joy. Even with my additional responsibilities, everything was going well. My grades became better than they had ever been.

The last experience I’d like to share came when I passed the bar exam. A salty old trial lawyer approached me and said, “Bob, you can’t be a successful, effective trial lawyer and an active member of the LDS Church at the same time.” I considered others who were successful in their law practices and active in the Church, and I determined to be active in the Church. My decision didn’t affect my success as a trial lawyer. In fact, it enhanced it because I had balance in my life. I was trying to do what the Lord had asked me to do, and He gave me additional strength, understanding, and help.

The Lord’s hand is apparent in many other callings. As leaders are needed, they are prepared, and then they are called. José Acedo was living in Lima, Perú, as a young adult. “I wanted to get married and felt the time was right,” he says. “I took time off work to go to the temple and then went out to the countryside to ponder.” Days passed, and toward the end of his vacation, he felt directed to La Paz. He made the long trip and arrived in time to attend a district conference on a Sunday. As he sat in the chapel, his attention was drawn to a certain young woman sitting in the choir. After the meeting, he met Rosaura Sainz, and the two began talking. By the end of three hours, they had begun to consider a serious relationship. Four months later, in October, they became engaged. At Christmas, they were married. “We are so grateful to the Lord for bringing us together,” José says.

When the Acedos moved to La Paz, José was called as bishop of the Norte Ward, La Paz Bolivia Constitución Stake. As bishop, he faces the ongoing challenge of helping ward members learn what it means to sustain others in callings and to give of themselves in service. “Love is the key that opens hearts,” he says. He began visiting families to help them catch the vision of Church service. “When I visit a family, I love them and teach them to love others. I pray with them. I ask for greater harmony to bless their homes. As love increases in the homes, it also increases in our ward.”

With love as a foundation, Bishop Acedo extends callings to ward members. “We work with people. We talk of accepting callings and learning to fill the callings. And we talk about what it means to support others in leadership positions,” he explains. With that basis, ward members grow and develop leadership skills.

Learning to rely on the Lord in Church callings can bring the Spirit in abundance. Rachel Murdock, a Primary president in American Fork, Utah, found that when she needed to recommend someone to fill a vacant position in the Primary, she often simply submitted the name of the person who had most recently been released from a calling in another organization or who had just moved into the ward. But now she prays about each calling. “I don’t know that the results have been any different,” she says, “but I have given myself the opportunity to receive confirmation from the Spirit that the choice is acceptable to Heavenly Father.”

This morning, Brian gets out of bed and runs downstairs to look at the calendar. “Hurray—it’s June 10!” he shouts. “Today is my one-on-one day with Daddy.”

Brian likes being with his dad. He likes the way he feels when Dad takes his hand or hugs him or tells him that he loves him. Most of all, he likes it when Dad tells him what an important part of their family he is.

When it’s time for his one-on-one with Dad to begin, Brian kisses Mom and says good-bye to his brothers and sister. Then Dad takes his hand and they are off.

Today they go to a museum that has big dinosaurs and dinosaur bones. They share with each other all they know about dinosaurs. It’s funny, Brian thinks, how even Daddy looks very small standing next to those dinosaur bones.

Afterward, they have an ice-cream cone and talk about their day. Daddy tells Brian about the haircut he had that morning. “And when the barber was finished, he brushed the hair off my shirt with a soft brush.”

“I fell down and skinned my knee this morning,” Brian says as he points to his sore knee. I asked David to take the training wheels off my bike. Now it’s too hard to ride.”

“I’ll help you learn to ride your bike after dinner tonight,” Daddy says.

“That’s super, Dad!”

After Dad parks the car in the garage, he gives Brian a ride on his shoulders into the house. Then Brian hurries to the kitchen to look on the wall, next to the fridge, above the toaster, and under the clock. He flips the calendar up one page to make sure that his name is written on one of the days in July. “There it is—July 14!” he declares joyfully.

In 1965, Cliff and his wife, Betty, invited missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints into their home. In 1966, Betty was baptized. Cliff attended Church with her and was asked to play the piano at meetings, and also acted as branch clerk on assignment from the branch president. In 1968, the year the branch was made a ward, he was baptised and called as second counsellor in the bishopric. In 1973, the ward was blessed with a small organ, so his talents were used to accompany the Sunday services, and this has continued ever since.

William W. Phelps was one of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s close friends. William was appointed printer for the Church. He moved to Missouri and became a leader in the Church there.
Later, because of some faults he thought he saw in the Prophet Joseph, he became an enemy of the Prophet. He signed a certificate defending the actions of one of the enemies of the Church. Because of William’s and others’ actions, Joseph not only lost a loved and trusted friend, he and other Church leaders were sent to prison!
Two years later, William realized what he had done was wrong. “I am as the prodigal son … ,” he wrote to the Prophet Joseph. “I know my situation, you know it, and God knows it, and I want to be saved if my friends will help me. … I have done wrong and I am sorry.” He asked to be received again as a member of the Church.
Joseph answered immediately with love and forgiveness. He wrote: “Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. … ‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past, / For friends at first, are friends again at last.’” (See History of the Church, 4:141–42, 163–64.)
Joseph forgave his friend, and William became a valiant servant of the Lord once more. William wrote the hymn “Praise to the Man” (Hymns, number 27) about his forgiving friend, the Prophet Joseph.

Swimming, like football, is not a mission activity, yet Mark McGregor knew he must stop swimming for the entire two years of his mission. A freestyle swimmer on the BYU swim team, Mark had every intention of returning to the team, and he kept in good physical condition by following the exercises outlined in the missionary physical fitness program, along with an arm exercise especially for swimmers.
In high school Mark had been selected high school All-American. The year prior to his mission he set the BYU school record and won the Western Athletic Conference championship in the 200- and the 500-meter freestyle. While he was gone, his record for the 200 meter was broken.
“The hard part about being away from swimming,” says Coach Tim Powers, “is that the records get faster while you’re away.” Mark couldn’t just come back and regain his old speed—he had to do better. And he is, doing better much to the inspiration of fellow teammates who are considering going on missions. Since returning, he has rewon the school record for the 200 meter freestyle and broken his old record in the 500 meter (although that school record is now held by teammate John Sorwich). Mark has another year at BYU, and he and his coach are looking forward to what it will bring.
Do these athletes feel that they are better for having served a mission? The answer is unanimous—yes! As Mark McGregor put it, “There are many similarities between the mission field and athletics, especially regarding the mental attitude. A positive mental attitude is imperative in both. I learned a lot about what it takes to gain this positive mental attitude in the mission field, and it has had a beneficial effect on my swimming.”
Although some missionaries do return and do not continue in sports, it is usually due to a change in interests rather than inability. Ed, Mark, and Lance are convinced that any athlete who serves a mission will be able to regain his previous ability upon diligently applying himself.

The mental image of his wife also gave Viktor Frankl the strength to survive the agonies of a Nazi concentration camp: “As we stumbled on for miles, … dragging one another up and onward, … my mind clung to my wife’s image … her look was then more luminous than the sun. … for the first time in my life … I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love.” Therefore, “He who has a why to live can bear with almost any how” (Man’s Search for Meaning, 1984, 56–57, 12). His “why” was the vision of being together with his sweetheart. Full of such hope, he could live with the awful “how” of imprisonment.