Gospel Story Finder

Bruce eased his paddle into the lake water, slicing the dark substance noiselessly, watching the droplets drip from the end of his wooden blade, interrupting the rhythm of his strokes to observe the shimmering return of water to water. Wet diamonds, Bruce thought, as he watched the droplets recombine with the lake.
For the moment, they were the richest and loveliest jewels he could know.
It was late September, and the predusk air was just beginning to acquire the distinctive and leafy mustiness of early autumn. The Connecticut evenings were chilly already, yet Bruce sensed the first morning of frost was still weeks away. When he was younger, the coming of the frost mattered little to him, for September meant only one horrible and inescapable event: the removal of freedom. He was not conscious of beginnings then, as he was today; he was aware only of endings. He smiled as he pushed the paddle deep into the water again, for he could still feel the horrible cringe in his mind that haunted him during the last weeks of summer every year. How he hated to relinquish the freedom of his summer to the walls of a school.
And they had been extraordinary summers. After finishing his job at the pet shop or completing his gardening assignments at Geysmar’s estate, he would hop into his beat-up VW, pick up Bob at the gas station, and they’d rumble and downshift their way over the winding roads to the lake. A few cans of soda, some bug repellant and fishing tackle, and they were set at least until dark. Sometimes longer.
Again Bruce smiled, this time more to the familiar back that occupied the forward seat of his canoe than to the endless water. He had picked Bob up tonight at his gas station, both of them curious to try out the old fishing spots one more time before Bruce took off for Utah and then Germany. They had left the station at 4:30, and when they arrived at the lake, there still were a few hours of daylight left.
“You really think there’s fish left in this puddle?” Bob asked, as he and Bruce lifted the canoe off the roof of the Bug and carried it over their heads to the water’s edge. “Bet the acid rain has just about wiped this place out.”
“Sure there’s fish. How can you doubt it? You just have to find them.” But they had found none so far, Bruce had to acknowledge, though the reawakening of memories had been well worth the trip.
“Hey Bruce, can’t you remember those stars?” Bob said. The silent onset of dusk had begun to slip in over the lake. “Don’t you remember those nights?” He was silent for a moment, then continued. “It really isn’t that long ago—just two years since the last time we were up here, right? But man! Those stars. Sometimes when I work the pumps at night now, I remember those stars.”
How could anyone forget them, Bruce thought, checking his line for bass as Bob spoke. They had been trolling the lake for about a half hour now, but still no luck. Sometimes it was like that.
“Those stars, Bruce.” Bob laughed. “Man, I still can’t say what they make me feel.”
They stopped paddling, then floated freely, words stuck in the stuff of their memories. Suddenly it seemed to Bruce that he was 14 again, and he and Bob were lying on their backs on the seats of their old rowboat, their lines limp at the side of the boat.
“Hey Bruce, do you think there’s ever an end to those stars?” Bob had asked. And Bruce had felt it then, as surely as he knew it again this evening, that the stars stretched on forever.
“Can’t you imagine a wall out there, Bruce? Can’t you feel it? You know, all of a sudden you reach the end of the space, and then there’s this big giant wall. Bam! That’s it. The big end.” And they had laughed.
But Bruce had found that he had to stop laughing that night. The waters licked softly at the base of the boat; a peeper sounded from the shore. There was nothing but blackness in the middle of the lake, all that black and silent water. Bruce shook his head vigorously, shutting his eyes, sitting up so suddenly that he hurt the bones in his back on the seat of the boat.
“No way, Bobby,” Bruce said, still shaking his head. “I just can’t handle that. It’s like something cracks—snap!—in my head. You know what I mean? I just can’t handle a wall in space. I just can’t handle it ending. Things have got to go on. Don’t you think, Bobby?” But it was more feeling than thinking, he knew.
Nights like that had made it easier to believe the missionaries, Bruce realized, when they had come knocking on his parents’ door. Nights like that had helped his new faith to seem almost reasonable. If space was endless, then life was endless, and endless life demanded a God. And if there was a God, Bruce just couldn’t imagine any other church being truer than the one that the missionaries had taught to him. He’d felt it as sure as he felt the warmth of the sun. And so he’d done it. He’d slipped gently into the bright waters of baptism, knees bending, his white clothes clinging to him as he felt his body going down and then up, lifted from the wetness by some power much greater than skinny old Elder Larsen. He had felt himself rising from the waters, a new person.
Water. It was always water for him. Once, when he was ten, he had tried to walk on the lake water. Lying on his back on the dock near his parents’ old cabin on the lake, he had become curious with the possibilities of faith. He had heard the story countless times in his Methodist Sunday School of the Savior walking on the water, but now his wondering made him restless. If he had enough faith, would the substanceless substance become firm beneath him? He stepped confidently out, then fell clumsily into the water.
“You caught any fish back there?” Bob asked, snapping Bruce back into the present.
Bruce looked at his line; it hung lifelessly in the dark.
“Maybe it’s time to head back,” Bob suggested.
Bruce said nothing. It was hard to stop fishing. He was always filled with the wild hope of just one more minute, just one more moment of patience, and then the tiniest movement of the line would come. If you weren’t careful, you would miss that gentle sign of interest, and the hope would be gone.
“Another 15 minutes, Bob. Let’s wait till it’s real dark. Then we’ll go back.”
Bruce reeled in his line, then pulled the pole back and cast out with one final hope for success. Setting the rod in the bottom of the canoe, he turned in the seat to get more comfortable and bumped his pole in the process. It jerked precariously, the line getting caught under the bow of the canoe. Impulsively, Bruce reached his hand into the black and unknowable water, the dark liquid now fused with the dimming horizon that was tentatively lit by a few of the earliest stars. Bruce tugged at the trapped line with his hand, freeing it, and then, for some reason, felt reluctant to let it go. Unexpectedly, the line raced through his enclosing fingers, pulled taut with certain promise.
“Hey Bob!” Bruce called softly, carefully pulling his hand in from the water, unwilling to disturb the pulse of the line. “I think I’ve got something, my friend.”

As I was learning from my own true-life experience, I stood alone in my bedroom a few days after the operation, preparing to go to church. I held a tie in my hand and thought, Now what am I going to do with this silly tie? I thought about having my mother help me but soon rejected the idea, knowing she couldn’t go on my mission to tie my ties and otherwise care for me. I simply had to fend for myself. With patience, I tied my tie, and although I used my teeth a little, I learned that I could do it and do it well. That day, a window was opened to my mind where I could clearly see that with patience, faith, and determination, I would be able to handle almost any challenge I would face.

When I first started repenting daily, I wasn’t sure what the point of it was. I would repent of my sins, but often, the next day I would make the same mistake again. I wondered, “Why should I repent if I can’t change my bad habits immediately?”
I went to Heavenly Father and told Him my concerns and asked why He wants us to repent every day. I felt the Spirit communicate to my mind that each time I repent, the Savior gives me a chance to start over. President Nelson also said: “Repenting is the key to progress. Pure faith keeps us moving forward on the covenant path.”
Repenting is not about getting things perfect; it’s about continuous reliance on Christ to change our natures over time! I realized that even if I make the same mistakes, when I sincerely repent of my sins and try to change, He will help me progress little by little.

Five years later I met some full-time missionaries serving in Delhi and knew immediately that I wanted to serve a mission. In August 1993 I received a call to serve in the India Bangalore Mission, but I was deeply concerned as I entered the mission field against my father’s wishes.
Halfway through my mission, I spoke with my mission president, Gurcharan Singh Gill, about my parents. Although by that time missionaries had been assigned to work in my hometown, my parents speak a native dialect and could not be taught by the English-speaking missionaries. My greatest desire was to have my parents united with me and my brother and sisters in the gospel.
Soon after my conversation with President Gill, he assigned me to go to Rajahmundry to assist with translation and to give me an opportunity to teach my parents. I had spent many years pleading with Father in Heaven to soften my parents’ hearts so they could recognize the truth. When I arrived after a 20-hour train ride, I could see that my prayers had been answered. My father had changed his mind and was supportive of me as a missionary.
A week later I taught my parents the first discussion. It was wonderful to watch my father, who had converted to Christianity when he married my mother, express his love and gratitude to Father in Heaven and Jesus Christ. My parents accepted the Book of Mormon and agreed to hear the other discussions. I was overjoyed.
Then my father began building a house and seldom had time to listen to anything more about the Church. Knowing the power of fasting and prayer, I decided to fast and pray that my father would be able to set aside time to hear the rest of the discussions. Soon after, we were able to continue with the discussions.
My parents accepted the challenge to be baptized. The zone leader interviewed them, and afterward I asked anxiously, “How did it go?”
“They’re ready!” he said.
I was very happy. During the baptismal service, I felt the Spirit so strongly that I cried for joy. Kommu Appo Rao and Kommu Mani were baptized in June 1994 on a very hot day in Rajahmundry. Finally my family was united in the true Church!
I am grateful to our Father in Heaven and to my mission president for sending me to be a missionary to my own parents.

When Roger awoke he remembered it was a special day. He had circled March 20 on the big calendar in the kitchen and today was that day. Daddy had told him the small blue letters beside the number read, “First day of spring.”
Roger loved spring. He liked the warm sun on his cheeks. He liked the easy wind that didn’t blow up his sleeves and send shivers down his back. And he liked the soft, cool air that didn’t sting the inside of his nose.
Roger put on his slippers, raced down the stairs, and flung open the back door. Then he stopped suddenly; the air was frosty and cold. Snow covered the ground, and an icy wind whistled around the corner of the house and blew his pajamas against his legs. Roger shut the door.
“Today is the first day of spring,” Roger said to his mother who was working in the kitchen, “and it’s cold. Why is there still snow outside?”
Mother smiled and explained, “The calendar keeps track of the time it takes for the earth to tilt on its axis far enough toward the sun so that spring can begin. But it doesn’t happen overnight just because of a date on a calendar. Spring comes slowly.”
“Oh,” said Roger, disappointed.
Then Mother said, “Every day when you go out to play you can look for signs that tell us spring is coming, OK?”
“Even today?” asked Roger.
“Even today,” answered Mother, smiling.
After breakfast, when Roger was bundled up in his snowsuit, cap, boots, scarf, and mittens, he went outside to play. He rode his tricycle on the driveway, making tire tracks in the snow. Then he ran around in the backyard, making footprints in the snow. Just before he went into the house, he ran around to the front yard. Underneath the evergreens that grew in front of his house he spied bits of green poking up out of the ground. He bent down and with a mittened hand pushed the snow away. Bravely sprouting in the frozen ground were the crocuses he and his father had planted last autumn.
“Mother! Mother!” he shouted. “I found it! I found it!”
“Found what?” asked his mother, who had hurried out the front door, wiping her hands on a towel.
“The first sign of spring!” said Roger, pointing to the crocuses.
As the days became warmer Roger found more signs of spring. The crocuses blossomed, skunk cabbages bloomed down by the creek, there were raccoon tracks in the mud along the creek bank, and the pussy willow catkins pushed out of their hard brown hulls. There were even some days when the sun and air were warm and Roger wore only a lightweight jacket and cap outdoors. The robins returned and built a nest in the evergreen tree by the mailbox.
One day it rained and rained, and Roger had to stay inside the house. He pressed his nose against the window and watched the rain streaming down the glass. It rattled in the rain gutters and ran in little streams along the ground.
The next day was warm and sunny, and Roger found brown, pointed spring mushrooms growing under the trees in the backyard. The shrubs around the house were dressed in bright pink and yellow flowers, and the branches of the flowering quince tree were frosted with blooms. Roger reported each new sign of spring to his mother, for she enjoyed this magic season too.
One morning Roger woke up and saw the sun shining in a blue cloudless sky. He put on his warm sweater and baseball cap and went downstairs.
He ran out the back door, down the steps, and through the trees at the end of his backyard. Suddenly he stopped. A cottontail rabbit was hopping off through the trees. A spot on the ground in front of him moved ever so slightly. He bent down and rolled back a soft covering of fur and matted grass. In a small, saucer-shaped nest dug in the ground were four wriggling, lightly furred baby cottontails. Roger stared with wonder at the tiny babies, their eyes still tightly closed and softly whimpering as they tried to crawl under each other. Then he gently replaced the soft covering and walked slowly back to the house.
“Mother!” cried Roger, “I just found the best-of-all sign of spring. A nest of baby rabbits! The mother rabbit put her little babies in the ground so she knows it won’t get cold again. And that means spring is finally here!”

This Sunday I was sitting in Young Women listening to a lesson on revelations and how to get them.
Earlier that week I had been praying and asking Heavenly Father for help in being a better person and daughter. I expected a big wow feeling, but I never got one. I got thoughts in my head, saying, “Is that what Jesus would do?” or “Do this for your mom,” and I thought that was me thinking.
But in church I realized God doesn’t always give you a loud answer. Sitting there listening, I felt the Spirit so much—the biggest, warmest feeling ever. I almost started crying. I now know that God doesn’t talk to you loudly or publicly. Sometimes it is just a quiet answer in your mind that you should follow.

Sister Mayra is a recent convert from Ecuador. Her joy in the gospel skyrocketed immediately following her baptism as she invited friends and loved ones around her through social media accounts. Many family members and friends who saw her posts responded with questions. Mayra connected with them, often inviting them to her home to meet with the missionaries together.

Mayra’s parents, her siblings, her aunt, two cousins, and several of her friends were baptized because she courageously invited them to “come and see,” “come and serve,” and “come and belong.” Through her normal and natural invitations, over 20 people have accepted her invitation to be baptized members of the Church of Jesus Christ. This came about because Sister Mayra simply invited others to experience the joy she felt as a member of the Church.

I was born in the Dominican Republic and was raised in the Church. I grew up surrounded by great leaders who tried to help me follow the right path. I dreamed of serving a mission and helping people.
Because my father moved to the United States to try to find a better life for us, my mother raised my sisters and me alone. Sometimes I felt alone, but I never was because I could talk about any difficulties in my life with my Church leaders.
When we moved to the United States, great trials began for me. We attended a small branch and I had great leaders who wanted to help me, but my school friends tried to pull me off the gospel path. Unfortunately, I began to speak to my mother in an unkind way and rarely listened to her counsel.
I would go to church every Sunday, but I really didn’t have the desire to go, and I didn’t know if I wanted to go on a mission anymore.
One morning I opened the Book of Mormon, and it opened exactly to the page of my favorite scripture, 3 Nephi 12:14–16:
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, I give unto you to be the light of this people. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.
“Behold, do men light a candle and put it under a bushel? Nay, but on a candlestick, and it giveth light to all that is in the house;
“Therefore let your light so shine before this people, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father who is in heaven.”
It gave me great joy to read this because it helped me remember what I learned in seminary and how marvelous the plan of our Father is. So I decided to try to be a light to the world.
I invited two cousins to come to church. One was less active, and he became active. The other was not a member, and I was able to baptize him.
A year later I received my mission call to serve in California, USA. As I served, I saw without a doubt that this is the true gospel of Jesus Christ. As I helped people, my testimony grew more and more, and every time I read my scriptures, I always recited the passage in 3 Nephi to be a light unto the world.

Illustration by Stan Fellows
When I got married, I began to diligently store food. My husband and I wanted to accumulate a large supply, but we couldn’t afford to buy it all at once, so we decided we would buy something extra every week. We looked for special offers on the things we bought regularly, especially canned foods.
I loved looking in my cupboard to see my little pile of canned and dried foodstuffs gradually growing bigger. Once we made the mistake of buying canned cheese, which was revolting, but my husband steeled himself and ate a can each week until it was gone. After we had a decent amount of food storage, we began to eat from it, resolving to replace each item eaten with two more items.
Soon our cupboard became quite full, so we bought storage items for our dog and cats. We also began to store herbs and spices, vacuum-packed wheat, water and soft drinks, and anything we used daily that wasn’t food, like soap, deodorant, and detergent.
Then we bought a house, and just before we signed on the dotted line, mortgage rates increased drastically. We had to live on our food storage for almost a year to avoid losing our home.
Food storage is just a part of general housekeeping now. We use it and are blessed by it every day. I am so grateful that we listened to the inspired counsel from the Lord’s prophets because it means that now I can look around in gratitude at my warm and cozy home.

Many years ago, our family had an experience which left an indelible impression as to the importance and value and power of a father’s blessing. The lessons learned may be of interest to you.
When our oldest children were ready to begin formal schooling, Sister Bateman and I decided that a father’s blessing would be given to each child at the beginning of the school year. The family home evening preceding the start of school would be the occasion. The year our oldest son, Michael, entered the third grade holds special memories for us. During the preceding summer he had participated in Little League baseball. He loved the sport. When we gathered for family home evening just before the start of school, Michael announced that he did not need a blessing. He had completed his first season in Little League, and blessings were for younger children.
Sister Bateman and I were stunned. We encouraged him, suggesting that a blessing would help him with his schoolwork. It would be a protection to him. It would help him in his relations with his brothers, sisters, and friends. Our encouragement, along with some coaxing, failed. He was too old. Believing in the principle of agency, we were not about to force a blessing on an eight-year-old. All of the children except Michael received a blessing that year.
The school year proceeded normally. Michael and the other children did well in school, and the family enjoyed their associations together. Then the following May arrived, and it was time for Little League baseball to begin. Following the last day of school, Michael’s coach called a team practice. Michael’s anticipation could not have been greater. His dream was about to be realized. He was to be the starting catcher. The baseball diamond was only a few blocks from our home. The boys and the coach walked to the baseball field, crossing a busy highway. Following the practice, the boys and coach started for home. Michael and a friend ran on ahead of the coach and the other boys. As the two boys approached the busy highway, Michael failed to look and darted in front of a car driven by a 16-year-old young man out for his first drive. Can you imagine the fear that must have struck the young man’s heart? He slammed on the brakes and swerved in an attempt to miss the boy. Unfortunately, the side of the front fender and bumper hit Michael and threw him down the highway.
A short time later, Sister Bateman and I received a telephone call from the police. Michael, in critical condition, was in an ambulance on his way to the hospital. It was important that we hurry. Before leaving, I called a friend and asked him to meet us at the hospital and assist in giving a blessing. The 20-minute drive was the longest of our lives. We prayed fervently for the life of our son and to know the will of the Lord.
As we parked the car by the door of the emergency room, we saw a policeman exiting with a young man who was crying. The policeman recognized us and introduced the young man as the driver of the car. We knew enough of the story to put our arms around him and tell him that we knew it was not his fault. We then entered the hospital to find Michael. As we entered his room, the doctors and nurses were working feverishly, attending to his needs. My friend had arrived, and we asked if it would be possible to have two or three minutes alone with him. My priesthood brother anointed, and I sealed. As I laid my hands upon Michael’s head, a feeling of comfort and peace came over me, words flowed, and promises were made. He was then rushed to the operating room.
For the next four weeks, Michael lay in a hospital bed with his head bandaged and his leg in traction. Each Wednesday, his Little League teammates would visit him after the game and give him a report. Each Wednesday, tears would well up in Michael’s eyes and run down his cheeks as the boys relived the game. After four weeks in traction, Michael was put in a body cast from his chest to his toes. On two or three occasions we took him to a game to watch his friends play. Another four weeks passed, and the body cast was replaced with a cast from his hip to his toes. Two days before school was to begin, the final cast was removed. As the family gathered the next night for school blessings, is there any wonder as to who wanted the first blessing? A nine-year-old boy, a little older and a lot wiser, was first in line.
Over the years our children have come to understand that accidents are not always prevented by priesthood blessings, but they also know that more than one type of protection is available through the priesthood. Today, our grandchildren are the recipients of priesthood blessings. The tradition is in the second and third generations. We believe that this practice, like the family, will prevail through the eternities.

“Mormons sometimes discriminate against other Mormons.”
This feeling was expressed in a recent rap between returned Latter-day Saint servicemen and institute students and faculty at Idaho State University. The returned servicemen were invited to talk to student and faculty leaders and tell them how they felt about the institute. The surface niceties were soon forgotten because these men were encouraged to talk frankly about their problems.
The result? A new program of help and encouragement and a resolution on the part of members of the Student Association to go out of their way to make any newcomer to the institute feel welcome.
The servicemen’s comments were accepted at face value by faculty and students alike. President Robert E. Thompson, president of the Idaho State University Stake, summed up the feelings of most when he said, “We have always felt that we were extending the hand of fellowship, that we were welcoming the returned servicemen, but when the truth came out, we found we were falling down. We didn’t realize that they needed something special, something extra. Whether we agree that their assessment of us is correct or not is not important. The important thing is, they feel they need something more and we are not providing it.”
The returned servicemen expressed their feelings of being left out, of finding no place or organization for them.
“When you have been treated like a second-class citizen for so long, you expect to get shoved off the street. I spent four years in the Navy, and the whole time was an intensive training period on catching the cold shoulder. So I’m probably more sensitive than most about recognizing it,” said Terry Van Orden.
Of course, the problem is more complex than it seems. There are many reasons returned servicemen feel as they do.
“A soldier is often in a poor environment. It is unfortunate, but the worst of mankind seems to reveal itself during war. And maybe this is the reason returned servicemen don’t feel equal to returned missionaries. Missionaries are in a situation to see the most beautiful and uplifting parts of mankind; military people see the opposite. This naturally created a state of inequity in my mind; I didn’t feel as good as if I had been serving on a mission. And, of course, I wasn’t treated the same as a returned missionary. But the most important difference to me was that difference inside of me.
“For the first while it was natural for me to be hostile and suspect that people were not sincere because this is what I had been conditioned to expect. But finally I had to get hold of myself and say, ‘Look, these people are trying to help you, and they want to be your friends.’ It took me a while to realize this, but when I did, the change started happening to me, and I began to come around,” said Warren Mallen, a Vietnam veteran.
One ex-Navy man said, “I kept my testimony all the time I was in the service, but when I came back to my home ward, I didn’t feel accepted, and so I became totally inactive. Now because of this special effort at the institute, I really feel that I am on my way back.”
Of course, adjustments back to regular religious life have not all been negative. “The first few days at the institute were a pain in the neck for me because people were unfriendly. So I decided that I had to get involved. I got involved in everything I could, and soon people seemed more friendly,” commented Craig Naylor.
“I went into the service with four of my best buddies,” added Chip Herndon, an ex-marine who was wounded several times and spent a total of sixteen months in hospitals. “One stayed in and the other three died while they were in the service. So I felt like burying myself in the Church when I got home. I had a lot of time alone in the service, and I didn’t like being by myself. I was real glad to be active in the Church, even though it is still hard for me to open up at times.”
The institute panel learned other things about returned servicemen. They learned that there are more than a hundred of them on their campus alone who do not even feel welcome or wanted enough to let others know they are Latter-day Saints, let alone set foot in an institute class.
They learned that being busy and preoccupied with your own studies and assignments can easily be misinterpreted by someone else. “I’ve tried to come here several times during the last two years,” said Terry Van Orden, “but I couldn’t get used to walking down the hall and seeing my people walk by with their chins in the air.”
Those listening to the panel realized that it is common for people to prejudge others. Just as returned missionaries are loved, ex-servicemen are looked on with suspicion. “Talk to any mother; they will all tell you they would rather have their daughters associating with a missionary than with a serviceman,” commented one person. The group feeling was unanimous: “People don’t look at you as a person first and a serviceman second. They don’t care what kind of person you are; most people won’t even give you a chance.”
They talked about specific problems that seem to keep returned servicemen from trying to get back into Church life. Some haven’t been keeping the standards, and they feel they need help from someone who can understand them. Others expressed the idea that it is only natural after feeling the spirit of true love and brotherhood from sincere people to want to reevaluate their own lives.
As a result of this session, a special seminar is held regularly at the institute. Some twenty returned servicemen are now attending, and they have been assured that they are loved and wanted. Here they discuss everything from the gospel principles to career advice to how to combat the feeling that girls are afraid of them. During the seminar they are making friends and beginning to feel at home at the institute.
Discovering how any child of God should be treated was one benefit of the returned servicemen’s session and its resulting seminar. People now understand and practice the quintessence of the gospel. Once these wonderful principles were applied, the servicemen’s seminar became a living, breathing part of the Student Association at Idaho State University. At the same time it promises to be a very important missionary tool.
Institute students and faculty learned several important lessons from this experience that could help you not only to relate better to others but also to be a better follower of the Savior.
“We should not be interested in the history of a person’s problems. If a guy is smoking, we are not going to put him down for that. We simply need to let him know that we are his brothers and sisters, that we want to help him, and that we care about him. We are not interested in what he was but in what he can become.”
“Many people are basically shy and have a hard time communicating—not the passing-the-time-of-day kind of talk, but really expressing their feelings from deep down inside. In order to do this they have to want to express their feelings and then feel comfortable about how they will be received.”
“It is easy for people who are extra sensitive to feel that they are being looked down on. In addition to the servicemen, non–Latter-day Saints on this campus feel that the Mormons are cliquish and that we look down on them because they are different.”
“Those returned servicemen who seemed to feel the best adjusted were welcomed back into their home wards with a ward party. Then they were asked to report to the bishop and the stake high council about their experiences and their conduct as ward members while they were away. This personal interest made them feel accepted and on more of a par with others in the ward who were returning from school or missions.”
“The most positive experiences these brethren had while they were in the service were when others reacted to them first as people and then as soldiers or sailors, not the reverse.”
Whether in the United States or Japan, people belonging to branches were generally more friendly than people in wards. An ex-sailor said, “One sister in a little branch in Japan kept a three-by-five-inch card for every serviceman who visited there. She and her husband would take you home, and you knew you really had a friend and a place to go if you were ever there again. This kind of experience is the gospel in action to a serviceman.”
“Many returned servicemen have experienced what they call a crash course in growing up. Even though they may be the same age chronologically as other students, they had to grow up under fire on a night patrol or crouched in a bunker with mortar rounds zeroing in on top of them, and so they have good reason for seeming a little older and a little more serious in many ways.
“Because of these kinds of memories, it is harder for them to be as light-hearted and gay as the average college student. They require more drawing out than most.
“It is natural when we see a person from a minority race at the institute to sort of go out of our way to be friendly. But we often tend to by-pass the average-looking student because there are so many of them.”
“There are many Latter-day Saint returned servicemen on this campus, but you can’t recognize them. You go to the student union building and you know that some of the people you see are returned servicemen, and yet you don’t know which ones. We have had some success in locating them by working through the registrars office and also by asking returned servicemen. Terry knew twenty Latter-day Saint returned servicemen on campus who were not affiliated with the Church in any way.”

Recently I watched as a 13-year-old young man was set apart as deacons quorum president. Afterward the bishop shook his hand and addressed him as “president,” explaining to the quorum members that he “addressed him as president to emphasize the sacredness of his calling. The deacons quorum president is one of only four people in the ward who hold keys of presidency. With those keys, he, with his counselors, will lead the quorum under the inspiration of the Lord.” This bishop understood the power of a presidency led by a president who holds and exercises sacred priesthood keys. (See D&C 124:142–43.)
Later I asked this young man if he was ready to preside over this great quorum. His response was: “I’m nervous. I don’t know what a deacons quorum president does. Can you tell me?”
I told him he had a wonderful bishopric and advisers who would help him become a successful and powerful priesthood leader. I knew they would respect the sacred keys of presidency he held.
I then posed this question: “Do you suppose the Lord would call you to this important calling without giving you direction?”
He thought, then responded, “Where do I find it?”
After some discussion, he realized that he would find direction from the scriptures, the words of the living prophets, and answers to prayer. We determined to find a scripture that would be a starting place for his search to learn the responsibilities of his new calling.
We turned to the 107th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, verse 85. It mentions that a deacons quorum president is to sit in council with his quorum members and teach them their duties. We noted that his quorum is not only a class but also a council of young men, and they are to strengthen and edify one another under the president’s direction. I expressed confidence that he would be an outstanding president who would rely on the inspiration from the Lord and magnify his sacred calling as he taught his fellow deacons their duties.
Then I asked, “Knowing you are to teach the deacons their duties, do you know what those duties are?”
Again we turned to the scriptures and found:
A deacon is appointed to watch over and be a standing minister in the Church (see D&C 84:111).
Because the family is the basic unit of the Church, the most important setting in which an Aaronic Priesthood holder can fulfill this duty is in his own home. He provides priesthood service to his father and mother as they lead the family. He also watches over his brothers and sisters, the young men of his quorum, and the other members of the ward.
A deacon assists the teacher in all his duties in the Church if occasion requires (see D&C 20:57).
We determined that if a deacon is to assist with the teachers’ duties, he needs to know their duties. We looked in the scriptures and quickly identified over a dozen duties for the office of teacher (see D&C 20:53–59; 84:111). What a powerful experience it would be for every young man—and his father, advisers, and all of us—to do exactly what this young man did: go to the scriptures and discover for ourselves what our duties are. I suspect that many of us will be surprised—and inspired—by what we find. Duty to God contains helpful summaries of Aaronic Priesthood duties and is a great resource for spiritual development. I urge you to consistently use it.
Deacons and teachers are also to “warn, expound, exhort, and teach, and invite all to come unto Christ” (D&C 20:59; see verses 46 and 68 for priests).
Many young men think that their missionary experience starts when they turn 19 and enter the missionary training center. We learn from the scriptures that it starts long before that. The Lord wants every Aaronic Priesthood holder to invite all to come unto Christ—beginning with his own family.
Next, to help this young president understand that he and he alone was the presiding officer in the quorum, I suggested he read three times the first duty listed in Doctrine and Covenants 107:85. He read, “Preside over twelve deacons.” I asked, “What is the Lord telling you personally about your duty as president?”
“Well,” he said, “several things have popped into my head as we have been talking. I think Heavenly Father wants me to be president of twelve deacons. There are only five of us who come, and one comes only sometimes. So how do we get twelve?”
Now, I had never interpreted this scripture the way he did, but then, he held sacred keys that I did not have. I was being taught by a 13-year-old deacons quorum president about the revelatory power that comes to those with the sacred keys of presidency regardless of their intellect, stature, or age.
I answered, “I don’t know. What do you think?”
And he said, “We need to figure out how to keep him coming. I know there are two others who should be in our quorum, but they don’t come, and I don’t know them. Maybe I can become close friends with one and have my counselors work with the others. If they all came, we would have seven, but where do we get five more?”
“I don’t know,” was my answer, “but if Heavenly Father wants them there, He knows.”
“Then we need to pray as a presidency and quorum to find out what to do.” He then asked, “Am I responsible for all deacon-age boys in our ward, even those who are not members?”
In awe, I said, “In the Lord’s view, does your bishop have responsibility for only the members of the ward or for all who live within its boundaries?”
This young “standing minister” got it. He recognized the role of every deacon, teacher, and priest in watching over the Church and inviting all to come unto Christ.
My thoughts turn to a scripture as I think of our wonderful young men and women of the Church—a scripture that Moroni quoted to Joseph Smith, saying that it had “not yet [been] fulfilled, but was soon to be” (Joseph Smith—History 1:41)—“And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, … your young men shall see visions” (Joel 2:28).
What “popped into” this young president’s head was a vision of what Heavenly Father wants his quorum to be. It was the revelation he needed to strengthen the active members of his quorum, to rescue those who were struggling, and to invite all to come unto Christ. Thus inspired, he made plans to carry out the Lord’s will.
The Lord taught this young president that priesthood means reaching out to serve others. As our beloved prophet, President Thomas S. Monson, explains: “The priesthood is not really so much a gift as it is a commission to serve, a privilege to lift, and an opportunity to bless the lives of others” (in Conference Report, Apr. 2006, 60; or Ensign, May 2006, 57).

Everyone can find ways to offer Christlike service. My counselor Sister Carol F. McConkie recently told me about her 10-year-old granddaughter Sarah who, when she realized that her mother was ill, decided on her own to be of help. She got her little sister up, helped her dress, brush her teeth, fix her hair, and eat breakfast so her mother could rest. She quietly performed this simple act of service without being asked because she saw a need and desired to help. Not only did Sarah bless her mother, but I am sure that she also felt joy in knowing she had lightened the burden of someone she loved and, along the way, strengthened her relationship with her sister. President James E. Faust said: “Serving others can begin at almost any age. … It need not be on a grand scale, and it is noblest within the family.”

One Sunday after church, my mother, my brothers, and I were in the car ready to go home. But we could not find the car key. Our dad had put all our bags in the car and walked home with my younger sister in the stroller. We looked everywhere for the key, but we could not find it. In Primary and family home evening, I have learned that we should always pray when we need help. I told my mom that we should pray so Heavenly Father could help us. My mom was very happy, and we prayed together. Suddenly our grandmother drove up and brought us the key. Our dad had accidentally taken the key and sent it back with our grandmother. I know that Heavenly Father helped us by sending our grandmother. He will always help us, even through other people.

An anecdote about the Prophet Joseph, dear to the hearts of the Kirtland children who knew it, concerned some baby mice. Workmen leveling a steep hill uncovered a nest of the tiny creatures, and one of the men carried it over to the Prophet, who seemed fascinated by them. He told the workmen that the mice were “pretty little innocent things” and to “take them back and put them where their mother can find them.”

Some months after my baptism I was called to serve in the nursery and then as a Primary teacher. A year later I received my endowment. I also met a great man at church. In September 1994 we were sealed in the Toronto Canada Temple. Three years later we were blessed with a beautiful son.
I continue to serve in Church callings, and I share my testimony of the gospel with all my loved ones. I know that the gospel of Jesus Christ comes from the heavens in all its glory and that through this gospel we can be transformed if we are obedient to the Lord’s commandments.

At youth conferences in the Orlando Florida and St. Albans England Stakes, teens received written “calls” to be member missionaries. They then participated in “mini missionary training centers,” where they were assigned a companion and attended workshops on how to share the gospel with others. “My understanding of the importance of missionary work has grown, and I feel I’m better prepared to share the gospel with my peers,” says 16-year-old Rachael Solomon of Orlando.

On Monday Jeremy wore his blue-and-white striped overalls. He was playing with his blocks when he heard his father’s car in the driveway. Jeremy ran to the front door.
“Hi there,” his father said as he came through the door. “I didn’t know a railroad engineer lived here.”
“No, Daddy, it’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy said. “These are only my overalls.”
Jeremy laughed as his father lifted him high in the air and swung him around until his mother called them for dinner.
Tuesday morning, when Jeremy came down to the kitchen for breakfast, he was wearing his astronaut pajamas, the ones with the rockets and stars on them.
“I didn’t know that a spaceship landed here last night,” Jeremy’s father said to Mother.
“No, Daddy, it’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy said.
“Well, we always feed hungry astronauts around here,” his father said, piling Jeremy’s plate high with pancakes and making zooming noises as he landed the plate in front of Jeremy.
Wednesday afternoon Jeremy ran to the door to meet his father when he came home from work. Jeremy ran fast because he was wearing his new running shoes and his sweat suit with the stripes down the arms and legs. He opened the door before his father reached the house.
“What do we have here?” his father called. “It looks like a famous athlete, right here in our own home.”
“No, Daddy, it’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy said. “I’m not a famous athlete.”
“Let’s see how fast you can run, anyway,” Jeremy’s father said. He chased Jeremy around the living room. Jeremy laughed as he tried to outrun his father, but he caught Jeremy in his strong arms, and they tumbled to the floor, wrestling and laughing.
Rain was pouring down on Thursday morning. After Jeremy ate his oatmeal, he got dressed for nursery school. He was pulling on his yellow rain slicker and his rubber rain boots when his father came into the room.
“Ahoy there, matey,” his father said. “Going fishing today?”
“What?” Jeremy asked, puzzled.
“Well, you must be a fisherman, dressed like that,” his father said.
“No, Daddy, it’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy said.
“Well, catch a lot of fish for dinner tonight, Jeremy the fisherman,” his father said as he went out the door on his way to work.
On Friday morning, Jeremy’s father stayed home. He was working in the yard when Jeremy woke up. Jeremy pulled on his favorite blue jeans and T-shirt and went out to help him.
“Who are you today?” his father asked. “A construction worker?”
“It’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy answered. “I’m a little boy.”
“A little boy?” his father said. “My goodness. All week I thought that you were someone else.”
“Maybe when I grow up, I’ll be a railroad engineer, or an astronaut, or a famous athlete, or a fisherman, or maybe a construction worker,” Jeremy said. “But right now I’m just a little boy.”
Jeremy’s father reached over and pulled Jeremy into a hug. “I know. You’re my little boy, and I love you just the way you are. But do you actually think that you could be someone else today too?”
“Who?” Jeremy asked.
“A gardener,” his father answered. He plopped a sun visor onto Jeremy’s head and put a rake into his hands.
Jeremy liked being a gardener. But Jeremy and his father didn’t get much work done. Every time they raked together a big pile of leaves, they jumped into the pile, laughing and scattering the leaves all over the yard. Then they stuffed leaves down each other’s shirt.
Jeremy and his father had a lot of fun that day, just being a little boy and his father.

Time for scripture study requires a schedule that will be honored. Otherwise, blessings that matter most will be at the mercy of things that matter least. Time for family scripture study may be difficult to establish. Years ago when our children were at home, they attended different grades in several schools. Their daddy had to be at the hospital no later than 7:00 in the morning. In family council we determined that our best time for scripture study was 6:00 A.M. At that hour our little ones were very sleepy but supportive. Occasionally we had to awaken one when a turn came to read. I would be less than honest with you if I conveyed the impression that our family scripture time was a howling success. Occasionally it was more howling than successful. But we did not give up.
Now, a generation later, our children are all married with families of their own. Sister Nelson and I have watched them enjoy family scripture study in their own homes. Their efforts are much more successful than were ours. We shudder to think what might have happened if we had quit trying.

Our next visit to Queenstown included stops at the Sada and Cimezile branches.
Church members at Sada met in a school building similar to the one at Ilinge, except that the floor is of pine strips. President Headman Gquola greeted us with his beaming smile as we arrived. Once again, each member of the sixty-strong branch stood in line, awaiting their turn to greet us eagerly with a handshake.
In these branches we use translators because the majority of the Saints can not understand English any more than we can understand their native Xhosa. (This handicap is being overcome, as high council members have been instructed by the stake president to learn that language.) The singing in these branches is a delightful experience. One has to hear the unique harmony and volume of their singing to appreciate fully the joy of their pure, resonant voices.
After a most uplifting meeting with the Sada Saints, we traveled to Cimezile on a winding gravel road. One has to be constantly alert to hazards such as wandering sheep and goats on these roads, as well as the perils of crossing rocky river beds; on one occasion, the muffler was ripped from the exhaust system of my car.
In Cimezile I met one of the most spiritual families that I have ever known, Wilson and Judith Nqunqa and their eight children. Brother Nqunqa had done the high-quality stone work of the outer walls of their typical rondavel African home. Pictures of the Church president and General Authorities and posters with the words to our hymns line the walls of their spotlessly clean home.
Brother Raubenheimer remarked that in their humble home, where even the children spoke in soft tones, the reverence and spirit we experienced was as it might have been in the house of the Lord.
Shortly after those early visits, Brother Raubenheimer was called as bishop of the East London Ward, and my family and I moved to Queenstown. With the aid of the missionaries in Queenstown and my family members, I visited each of the outlying branches on a weekly basis for a time, rather than the previous monthly visits.
This continued successfully until violence flared up in the parts of Queenstown inhabited by blacks. Church meetings became disrupted as violence increased. Part of the Sada school was burned, so members were left without a meetinghouse. For safety reasons, missionaries were recalled and visits to the troubled areas only took place as prompted by the Spirit of the Lord.
On one such visit, I traveled with my son Richard to Sada to find that all of the brethren in the branch, along with all the other men in the area, had been forced to attend a political meeting. But we were able to offer some spiritual encouragement to the sisters. We also administered to a sister who had been suffering from severe headaches.
Cimezile was our next destination; we visited Brother Nqunqa, who told us a group of local youths had terrorized several families the night before, breaking into their homes and beating them. The Nqunqa family had knelt in prayer and sought the Lord’s protection. When dawn came that Sabbath day, their home was undisturbed.
On a later visit to Cimezile, Richard and I found Brother Nqunqa very ill. We blessed and passed the sacrament—but not until after he had risen and dressed himself, insisting that he had to have his jacket and tie on to show proper reverence for the sacrament. He wept as he told us that he knew Richard and I would come that Sunday and that the Spirit had witnessed to him all would be well. Before we left, Richard and I blessed Brother Nqunqa through the power of the priesthood.
The next day, I went to Brother Nqunqa’s home to see how he was feeling. His wife, Judith, assured me he had been completely healed—he was down in the fields, attending to his plowing.
One Sunday I felt uncomfortable about going to meet with the members in Sada. I told my wife that I felt I would be letting them down if I did not go. “Ernie,” she replied, “if the Spirit is prompting you not to go, then you must listen to that warning.” I did—and my next visit to Sada proved the wisdom of her counsel. Had I visited that Sunday, I would have been caught up in a riot. Police used tear gas to break up an angry mob, and the Saints were forced to scatter when the gas drifted into the meetinghouse.
The government of the Transkei was able to restore a measure of peace, and regular visits to the Ilinge Branch continued. There was violence, however, in the Queenstown and Ciskei areas. Attendance at sacrament meetings in Sada declined rapidly.
Once again, I felt prompted not to travel to Sada for Sunday meetings. This time I heeded the warning without question. President Gquola told me later how fervently the members in Sada had prayed I would not keep my appointment that day. A group of men, convinced that President Gquola was an informer and I was a government spy, had been waiting to deal with me.
Sadly, I recommended that the stake president close the Sada area until the unrest abated. This was done, and the branch remained unvisited for the next four months. When Brother Brian Schimper and I returned to Sada in order to determine conditions there, we found that the members had weathered the four months well.
It has been a privilege to be associated with the members of the Ilinge, Cimezile, and Sada branches, as well as those of Queenstown, and the faithful missionaries who have given of themselves so freely. They have helped me gain a testimony of the great work that has yet to be accomplished as we labor to share the gospel with the people of Africa.