Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago I went to Chapman College, and at the time I was the first Mormon to enroll in the school’s history. It is a religiously oriented school. I majored in the New Testament because of my lack of background in the Bible. I was so rare they used to put me on display there every Friday—you know, a real, live Mormon. Go look at him. I took time while at school to study our faith all the more diligently so it was kind of a two-pronged approach. I fell into the good graces of a marvelous professor of New Testament who later became a close friend of mine. In fact, I had the privilege 23 years later of performing his baptism—think of it—23 years of teaching and fellowshipping.

That fellowshipping started the first day I walked into a New Testament class. We met frequently during their so-called coffee breaks, and we would talk. We corresponded after I graduated. We had several personal meetings. I had him in my home. He later became critically ill. I left Salt Lake City on one assignment to the South, stopped off in Los Angeles, and went out to the Veterans Hospital to give him a priesthood blessing in a ward of about 200 men, none of whom belonged to the Church. It was interesting on that occasion to find that, when I called them to order the way the priesthood would do it, many others witnessing the scene were very interested. It’s in that kind of environment I find the real power of what we are and what we have, if we are not embarrassed, or if we will take the lead and go with it.

He later joined the Church. I had the privilege of confirming him. A few years later it was my honor to perform the sealing for him and his wife right here in the Provo Temple. He later became a member of this faculty. He died two years ago. I had the privilege of speaking at his funeral. I met him, I taught him, I baptized him, I fellowshipped him, I performed his marriage, and I buried him. Can you think of anything I left out? It’s that kind of wholeness that I think the gospel basically requires.

I underwent an operation on September 24, 2018, and had many people by my side taking care of me. A few days after the operation and being discharged, while at home, I felt a lot of fever inside me. I visited the clinic again, and after several tests, they found that during the surgery to remove the colon tumor, they had left a small hole causing the fever. I developed sepsis because no hole was supposed to remain after the operation. I had to stay in the clinic for one more week.
On the third day of being hospitalized, I felt extremely sad. I prayed to Heavenly Father and asked many questions. After finishing my prayer and shedding many tears, there was a knock on the door of my room, and to my surprise, it was the two missionaries who were attending my ward at that time. Seeing me crying, they prayed with and encouraged me. I told them about the prayer I had made and how the Lord had sent these two messengers to me.
Thanks to my Heavenly Father, I overcame the sepsis and moved on to the next stage, which, although difficult, was a true miracle. I had to undergo chemotherapy, and when I received the first treatment, I suffered another health setback. A port was inserted to administer the chemotherapy, and the doctor who placed it put it in too high, causing me to have four embolisms and two pulmonary infarctions. My oncologist couldn’t explain how I had survived the embolisms and infarctions. I told her that I believed God was keeping me alive because I still had important work to do for Him.

A particularly special moment occurred one morning while a group of youth were in the temple. A couple entered the baptistry and asked the youth if they would be willing to perform the proxy baptisms for the woman’s sister who had passed away. Tears flowed down the couple’s cheeks as they watched a priest and young woman enter the font and perform the proxy baptism. The Spirit could be felt by everyone in the baptistry as the Holy Ghost bore witness of the importance of the work being done.

It was 1935, and in the middle of the Great Depression. Many men were out of work, so we were lucky that Dad had a job that summer as a miner in the Oro Del Rey Mine. All of us children got to live in a tent in Goshute Canyon. We played in the creek, and we even had a pet horned owl.
But one afternoon, I noticed that my parents looked worried.
“What are we going to do?” Mama asked Dad.
Dad’s shoulders hunched. His face was dusty with dirt from the mine. “I don’t know,” he said. “They’ll pay me eventually. Just not now.”
“Well, we need money,” Mama said. “The children need to eat.”
They were silent. What would we do if Dad didn’t get paid? My sister Carol came over by me. She looked scared, so I squeezed her hand.
Finally, Dad said, “I think we need a family prayer.”
Our whole family knelt in the dirt. Dad said the prayer. He asked Heavenly Father to help us know what we could do.
Afterward, I started walking toward the old wood stove where Mama had put the doughnuts she’d been frying. She made the best doughnuts, all golden brown with flecks of sugar. I was just reaching for one when—
“Stop!” Mama yelled.
I stared at her.
“We can sell them!” she said. “Don’t you think my doughnuts are good enough that people would buy them?”
I nodded. “Of course they are!”
“You kids can take them door to door when you go into town before Primary on Wednesday afternoon,” Mama said.
So that’s what we did. We sold a dozen doughnuts for a dime. We did it week after week.
Then one awful day Mama said, “We’re out of yeast, and I don’t have a penny to buy more.” She sat down and put her head in her hands.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Shh,” she whispered. “I’m praying.”
I folded my arms and closed my eyes too.
A few minutes later, Dad pulled up in our old car. He’d been down in the valley getting the mail. He handed a fat envelope to Mama. “What do you think is in that?”
Mama opened it and gave a little gasp. With shining eyes she pulled out a sample packet of yeast!
“But, Mama,” I asked, “when the baking company sent out that sample, you hadn’t even prayed yet.”
“True,” Mama said. “But in Isaiah the Lord says, ‘Before they call, I will answer.’”

Two members of the St. Niklaas Branch, Antwerp Belgium Stake, demonstrate what it means to keep these gospel covenants. Jeanine Craet joined the Church about 25 years ago. Her faithful service, even in times of extreme trial, became a beacon for many, including her neighbor Paula Buysse, who was baptized after Sister Craet shared her testimony with her. Years later, Sister Craet was stricken with a brain hemorrhage and fell into a coma. Sister Buysse, who was serving as Relief Society president, spent hours at her friend’s side, talking, reading, and singing to her. When Sister Craet finally emerged from her coma partially paralyzed, Sister Buysse helped nurse her. Sister Craet slowly regained her ability to speak. During her first Sunday back at church, Sister Craet bore her testimony. While confined to a wheelchair, she thanked the Lord for His blessings and asked Him to help her recover—so she could continue to serve Him.

We live on the shores of Flathead Lake in Northwestern Montana. Flathead Lake is 16 miles wide, 30 miles long, and the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. When calm, it is a clear, pristine, beautiful lake; however, it can quickly turn into a tumultuous, raging body of water. Several times a year, there are storms that pound the waves over our docks and onto the shore. I love watching these storms roll in, and I’m always amazed at how quickly they appear and how much damage they can do in a very short amount of time.
Last summer, on a beautiful Sunday morning, I was outside inspecting some new landscaping when I noticed a tube resting on our dock that someone had forgotten to tie up. I had an impression that I should grab the tube and tie it to the dock, but I glanced at the clear, blue sky and brushed aside the prompting, thinking to myself that there was no wind and one of the kids could do it as soon as they woke up.
A short time later, I was inside when one of my boys came running down the stairs saying that the wind had just blown a tube off the dock. What was a calm, peaceful lake an hour earlier was now a white-capped, furious body of water. It took about 10 seconds for my son to reach the dock, but it was too late. The tube had been snatched into waves pulling it away from the shore. It was quickly taken out of reach, and within a few short minutes, it was hardly visible from the shoreline.
While this wasn’t a life-changing experience, it still reminded me of several important lessons. First, listen and act on promptings. Whether we feel a nudge, a burning sensation, a whisper, or an impression, we need to pay attention and act. It is easy to second guess the impression we feel, rationalize it away, or do what I did and simply ignore it. It would have been so easy for me to follow this prompting, grab the tube and secure it to the dock.
The second thing I realized that morning is we need to always have strong anchors to keep us secure. We live in an intense, crazy world and without anchors to keep us grounded and safe, we are in danger of being pulled into the storms of life. If we are not consciously working to stay tethered to the gospel of Jesus Christ, we are at risk of being pulled into the willing arms of the adversary.

While they were living in Florida an incident with a persistent bug taught him a lesson about keeping small sins out of our lives. He wrote: “One evening as my neighbor and I stood on the front steps, he noticed a little bug crossing my sidewalk. ‘You better spray your lawn,’ he warned. ‘There goes a mole cricket.’ I had sprayed the lawn with insecticide not too many weeks previously, and I hardly felt that I had the time or money to do it again so soon.

“In the light of the next morning, I examined my lawn closely. It was lush and beautifully green. I looked down into the grass to see if I could see any of the little bugs. I could see none. I remember thinking, Well, maybe that little mole cricket was just passing through my yard on the way to my neighbor’s yard.

“The story, however, has a sad ending. I came out the front door one morning, about 10 days after the conversation with my neighbor. Shockingly, as if it had happened overnight, brown spots covered my lawn. I ran to the garden store, bought the insecticide, and sprayed immediately, but it was too late. The lawn was ruined, and to return it to its former state required a new crop of sod, long hours of work, and large expense.

“My neighbor’s warning was central to my lawn’s welfare. He saw things I could not see. He knew something I did not know. He knew that mole crickets live underground and are active only at night, making my daytime examinations ineffective. He knew that mole crickets did not eat the leaves of the grass but rather found nourishment in the roots. He knew that these little inch-long creatures could eat a lot of roots before I would ever see the effect above the ground. I paid a dear price for my smug independence.

“We live in a wonderful day. The blessings of our generation are lush and beautifully green. With faith in the Savior and obedience to the commandments, our lives can be full of satisfaction and joy.

“Our challenges in choosing to serve the Lord are more subtle than those of former days. There are spiritual mole crickets that burrow under our protective walls and invade our delicate roots. Many of these insects of wickedness appear small, at times almost invisible. Yet if we do not combat them, they will do damage and attempt to destroy that which is most precious to us. …

“With the influences of evil that surround us, can we even imagine going out in the morning without kneeling and humbly asking together for the Lord’s protection? Or closing the day without kneeling together and acknowledging our accountability before Him and our thankfulness for His blessings? (“Debugging Your Life,” New Era, Aug. 2000, 4).

No plush seats. No ornate decor. No subdued lighting. No modern sound system. No ushers. Of course not. After all, this isn’t a concert hall; it’s Montréal’s busiest metro station. And yet it is a concert hall—the home of la Chorale de l’Accueil Bonneau. Under the harsh fluorescent glare of this noisy, cavernous station stand 18 men in black pants, white shirts, and a smattering of caps, berets, scarves, and bandannas. The singers range in age from 22 to 69. Their weathered faces glow with a joy that almost masks the lingering evidence of misfortune and rejection. “Oh happy day!” they sing, and you can’t help but believe them.
A subway train rumbles to a stop and releases a host of Saturday shoppers, weary students, and weekend workers. Many pause to listen. A few step forward and drop coins into a hat resting on the floor where you would expect the director to stand.
The performers don’t look much like a choir. In fact, they look as if someone just pulled them off the street. They don’t act like a choir either. They don’t stand up straight, and they don’t stand still. One of the older singers—sporting a long, shaggy beard—wanders through the crowd, presenting roses to women. During one of the more lively numbers, two of the singers find partners among the listeners and start to dance.
The choir’s repertoire is varied—everything from “Nearer My God to Thee,” straight from the Latter-day Saint hymnbook, to the pop song “California Dreamin’.” Although some of the men have good voices, these are not professionally trained musicians. One of the soloists even sings a bit off-key. But their energy more than compensates for any lack of training or natural ability. They sing with their whole hearts, and it is clear they are enjoying themselves. So is the audience, which changes about every three minutes as trains come and go.
By the end of two hours the hat is nearly full, and the concert is over. Only then is it evident this choir has a leader. As the last song ends and the crowd disperses, a slender man with dark hair, glasses, and a radiant smile steps from the ranks. His name is Pierre Anthian, and the choir, he will tell you, is merely an extension of his religious beliefs.
The choir ascends the stairs to street level. A yellow school bus will soon arrive to take them to a Catholic church on the outskirts of Montréal where they will perform later this evening. The afternoon sun is pleasant, and the autumn leaves, though past their prime, still adorn the city with splashes of faded yellow and rusty red. While waiting for the bus, one choir member, Jean-Louis, tells how the choir has saved him from harmful addictions. “Now I get high on music,” he boasts. Others have similar stories.
It is late Saturday evening. It has been a long day for the choir, and you can tell they are tired only because their voices don’t blend as well as they did earlier in the program and they hit a few painfully flat notes. But the more than 200 listeners at the church don’t seem to mind. The singers still exude the same level of energy they did this afternoon in the metro, and several of them patrol the aisles, pulling people at random from the audience to join them onstage.
The listeners have been treated to hymns and popular songs—but now comes the audience’s favorite part of the concert. The melody and words might be unfamiliar to a visitor from outside Québec, but it is obvious this song has special meaning to the locals. Everyone is standing, holding hands, swaying back and forth in time with the music, singing with his or her whole soul. Tears flow freely. The song ends, and for a magical moment there is only silence. Then the audience, sensing that this was the final number yet not wanting the magic to end, breaks into wild applause and calls for an encore. The choir obliges, not once but twice, and finally the audience lets them go.

This is a dear story. It reminds me of another sacred place in the land of the Restoration. The Palmyra Temple opened in the year 2000. After the close of the pageant that year, after the cast and crew had gone, and on the day before my return home, I went to the temple. When the session was over, I looked out the west foyer windows, through which the tops of the trees of the Sacred Grove are visible. From one of the most significant manifestations of the restored gospel, the temple, I could see in the setting sun the place where it all began: the Sacred Grove.

There is a connection between these sacred places: one is the place where Elohim and Jehovah opened the gates to the fulness of times; the other, the fulfillment of the promise, is the place where Jehovah and Elohim visit today. It is Their home: “Holiness to the Lord. The House of the Lord.”

I had been told there were fireflies in the grove at night—though because my previous visits had always been during the day, I had never seen them. On that particular night, over the next 45 minutes fireflies began to flicker. Thousands of them emerged from the undergrowth. For me, it was a mystery. I was astonished. Where did such a population live? The darker the night became, the more fireflies emerged, flickering amongst the dark maples and birches. Silently they told of another world within the one I perceived. I wondered, “What else exists in this universe of ours without my knowledge?” I yearn to know those truths. An eternity exists with a just Father, a compassionate Savior, and a Holy Spirit. Yet I cannot see Them with my eyes!

The flickering fireflies were beautiful—more often dark than they were light. Their momentary brightness enthralled me. Collectively they were a pulsing, living community throbbing in the spaces between the benevolent trees, dark beyond my capacity to see, silent beyond my ability to hear, and alive in a place whose sacredness is beyond my ability to fully understand.

Nothing much more happened to the fireflies that night. They didn’t stop flickering; they didn’t fly away. They continued to create momentary intensities without illuminating anything other than themselves and the awareness of silent tree trunks reaching skyward in the dark. But something more happened to my heart. I knew again there were many more truths I did not comprehend that would require greater faith than I was currently exercising to recognize.

I left the grove on a trail I hadn’t seen before. The path wound around in the direction of the newly built Smith cabin through the trees. I suspected this trail might be closer to the one Joseph walked in 1820. I paused by the cabin, pondering the visit of Moroni to Joseph. While the household slept, Moroni taught Joseph through the long night of September 21, 1823. Three times he visited, repeating the same message. And no one awoke. The only way anyone but Joseph could know it happened was if they believed.

Walking back to the temple, I came full circle from 1820 to the year 2000. Today, 188 years later, a beacon radiates the night sky: a light on a hill, seen by thousands, yet comprehended by relatively few.

I returned to Cumorah’s hill, climbed up its face, and stood on the crest. Somewhere near, Moroni had appeared to Joseph, teaching him the doctrines and the gospel and about a civilization long lost to the modern world. From a picture of the hill taken around the end of the 19th century, we can tell that it was basically bare. Accounts suggest that during the years Moroni visited Joseph Smith, there were few trees on the hill. Yet no one saw the visits: a restoration on Cumorah’s hill, radiating truth through a young man who could see it, revealing a world of faith and light that shines amongst the dark shadows of doubt and disbelief.

“One of my fondest childhood memories is of my dog. Mother and Father bought me a collie, and I named him Scotty. Collies are smart, but this dog had an uncanny ability to know what time it was. Every morning Scotty walked with me through the park to the corner and left me there to cross the street on my way to school. He seemed to sense that that was as far as he should go. I live close to school and came home for lunch, and every day at noon Scotty was there to walk home with me and then back to the corner after lunch. At 3:30 he was there again to walk home from school with me. He was as faithful a companion as you would ever want to have. Scotty lived with us many, many years. He and I were inseparable. He was my protector, and ours was a great relationship. I was very sad when he died. I never had a brother, but it didn’t seem to matter because my best pal was Scotty. I hope that other children have pets that mean as much to them as Scotty did to me.”

As I grew older, the world was changing. There was a war, and as a result, the number of missionaries each ward could send was limited. I didn’t think that I could go on a mission at age 19 even though I had always wanted to.
Then one day my mother said to me, “The bishop wants to see you this afternoon.”
When I arrived at the bishop’s office, he said, “David, our ward has been given the blessing of being able to send one more missionary. The bishopric has been praying about who should go, and I want you to know that now is the time that the Lord would have you serve your mission.”
I was stunned. I had no idea that’s what we were going to be talking about. I had always known that President David O. McKay wanted me to serve a mission, that my mom wanted me to serve, and that I wanted to serve. But no one had ever said to me, “The Lord wants you to do something now.”
I asked the bishop if I could think about it for a week. Then I got in my car and drove around for an hour before ending up back at the church. I went to the bishop’s office and knocked on the door. When I opened it, he was still sitting there. Nothing was on his desk. He didn’t seem to be doing anything. “Bishop, what are you still doing here?” I asked.
He said, “I’m waiting for you.”
I told him, “Bishop, if the Lord wants me to go, then I will go.”
I’m grateful I did. Children, do what the Lord asks you to do when He asks you to do it. If the bishop asks you to do something, obey. If your Primary teacher asks you to do something, say yes. The Lord will bless you, even as you face challenges.

While my father attended LDS High School, he worked and lived in the home of President Joseph F. Smith. He wrote in his life history about President Smith:
“Most great men that I have known have been deflated by intimate contact. Not so with the prophet Joseph F. Smith. Each common everyday act added inches to his greatness. To me he was a prophet even while washing his hands or untying his shoes.”
My father tells of one experience in which the prophet taught him a practical lesson late one night as he entered the Beehive House. Again quoting from my father’s life history:
“I walked with guarded steps through the office, then into the private study to the door at the foot of the steps that led to my bedroom. But the door would not open. I pushed and I pushed to no avail. Finally I gave up and went back to a rug that I had noticed in the hall with the intention of sleeping there until morning.
“In the darkness I bumped against another partially opened door and the collision awakened the prophet. He turned on the light and, seeing who it was, came down the stairway and inquired concerning my difficulty.
“‘The door is locked that leads to my room,’ I explained. He went to the door and pulled instead of pushed, and the door opened. Had he been disturbed by my foolish blunder I would not have been surprised, for I had robbed him of a precious night’s sleep by a thoughtless act. He only smiled and stopped to inquire of a strange stable boy what I had stumbled into. I pointed to the half open door at the other end of the hall.
“‘Let me show you something.’ He took time at midnight to explain, ‘When in the dark, never go groping with hands parted and outstretched; that permits doors to get by your guard and hit you. Keep your arms in front, but hands together; then you will feel with your hands and not your head.’ I thanked him and moved to my quarters. He waited until I reached the rear stairway and then he retired.”

In 1965 I headed to Vietnam for my third tour of duty with the U.S. Air Force. We were flying combat missions just about every day, with our squadron’s F-100 Super Sabers taking small arms hits regularly. In this environment, I easily developed faithful habits of prayer, and I found strength in knowing that my family back home was praying regularly for my safe and speedy return.
Looking back, I can see clearly that these prayers helped build a protective shield around me. I felt this protection especially on the morning of March 30, 1966. About halfway through a mission, I noticed that my fire warning light had lit up. I had been hit! I was in trouble, so I headed east toward the nearest friendly airfield.
I was feeling pretty good about things until my wingman told me that I was burning badly, with flames trailing several feet behind the aircraft. A moment later, the aircraft quit responding to the control stick. It was time to bail out. I squeezed the trigger, firing the ejection seat charge. It fired much more violently than I had expected, but at least I was separated from the burning F-100.
As soon as I ejected, things quickly went from bad to worse. The jolt of the ejection put me into a rapid, head-over-heels tumble. The tumble was so violent that I couldn’t think through the remainder of my memorized emergency procedures. My only clear thought at the time was that the human body was not built to withstand such violence. I expected an arm or a leg to be torn off at any minute!
I finally calmed down enough to recall a parachute free-fall training film I had seen just before my deployment to Vietnam. An image soon became crystal clear in my mind: Spread eagle to slow down and stabilize. As I responded to the image, which I knew was an answer to the many prayers that had been offered in my behalf, I immediately stopped spinning and tumbling. I was then able to concentrate on other pressing matters—like opening my parachute! If it had opened automatically, I wouldn’t have found myself tumbling with such violence.
My mind then cleared further, as if a small TV screen had appeared before me, outlining the rest of the critical emergency procedures I needed to remember. Check chute. I didn’t have one. If no chute, pull D-ring. The D-ring is the rip cord, which I quickly pulled. Immediately the parachute popped out and filled with air to break my fall. Deploy seat kit. I pulled the lanyard to release the heavy, hard-shelled survival kit that was strapped to my seat. No luck. The kit stayed attached, hanging dangerously behind my thighs.
Later, in my debrief of the ejection, a flight surgeon told me that in every case he knew of, an undeployed seat kit had resulted in a crushed pelvis. I was thankful I was not aware of this grim statistic as I floated toward the earth.
I hadn’t realized that Vietnam was in its dry season, and the soft rice field I expected when I landed was concrete hard. I hit my head on the ground and was briefly knocked unconscious. Fortunately, I had kept my helmet on throughout the ejection.
When I recovered, I unstrapped myself from my parachute and took a quick inventory. I had no broken bones and saw no enemy troops, but I knew I had landed in hostile territory controlled by the Vietcong. Within 30 minutes an Army helicopter arrived, picked me up, and flew me to my intended destination.
When I finally came down from my adrenalin high and could focus on all that had happened, I became immediately aware of the divine intervention that had occurred in my life. I had experienced major equipment problems: neither the automatic feature on my parachute nor the survival kit release system had worked. My spinning had prevented me from thinking clearly until mind-clearing images came to me. And I had landed safely and been rescued from hostile, Vietcong-held territory. In short, it was clear that my prayers and those of my family had been answered in a remarkable fashion.

Howard Long was a World War II vet, and he wasn’t in the best of health. Of course, he and his wife, Stella, managed all right. They were pretty independent and really active in the Church. They didn’t need much more than a short home teaching visit to keep their spirits up.

While walking home from school that Tuesday afternoon, I was mulling over in my mind how to out-campaign Tony Toronto, Jill’s opponent. I was piecing together terse, catchy campaign slogans when I spotted Howard Long a half-block down the street. He was on his front lawn, trying to start his mower. My first inclination was to move to the opposite side of the street and pass by as inconspicuously as possible.

Just as I started across the street, Sister Long opened the front door and called out, “Howard, just leave it alone.” There was genuine worry in her voice. “Get one of the neighbors to give you a hand. You’re going to have a heart attack if you’re not careful.”

“It’s always hard to start,” Brother Long huffed.

Generally I was on the shy side, especially around adults. But for some reason I cut back to the sidewalk running past the Longs’ front yard. “Hi, Brother Long,” I called out awkwardly. He looked in my direction, nodded and smiled. “Could you use a hand?”

Howard took a breath and shook his head. “Oh, I think I can get it, Kyle. But I appreciate your asking. I just …”

“Howard,” Sister Long cut him short, stepping out the door and onto the front step. “Don’t be so bullheaded. Let the boy help you.”

Brother Long glanced over his shoulder toward his wife and then looked back at me, winking. “Well, if you don’t mind,” he conceded, stepping back. “I better not rile the boss. I wanted to get the lawn mowed before the garbage truck comes tomorrow.”

I didn’t say anything. I just grabbed the pull rope and worked on starting the motor. It wasn’t long before I was wiping at my brow with the back of my hand. “Doesn’t look like it’s going to start, Brother Long,” I concluded.

“It was getting a little sluggish last fall,” he admitted. I could see the worry in his eyes.

“Look, my friend Joel Manning knows a bunch about engines,” I offered. “If it takes gas, he can fix it. I’ll give him a call.”

“Oh, we don’t need to bother you anymore,” Sister Long said. “You’ve got plenty to do without worrying about us. We’ll make out.”

“It’s no problem. Can I use your phone?” I asked, moving toward the house.

A moment later I jabbered into the phone. “I need your help, Joel, old buddy. I told the Longs you could fix anything that guzzles gas.”

“Huh?”

“Get over here. Their lawn mower’s dead and I’ve been bragging about you so long and hard that they insist you come over or they’ll call me a liar.”

“That sounds like your problem.”

“Come on, Joel. You’ll be helping me make my home teaching visit,” I joked.

Fifteen minutes later Joel and I were hunched over the mower. Joel figured out the problem right away: a loose spark plug connection. He was magic. It wasn’t long before that mower was just humming. The Longs didn’t have a huge yard so while Joel mowed, I grabbed a leaf rake and cleaned up the dead grass. There were also some leaves and branches in the backyard, so we hauled those out to the curb for the garbage truck to pick up the following morning.

It was pushing 6:30 when we finally finished, and both Brother and Sister Long were shaking their heads and apologizing for taking our whole afternoon. “I just didn’t know how Howard was going to get all of this done,” Sister Long commented in amazement.

Brother Long pulled out his wallet and started digging for a few dollar bills. “How much do I owe you?” he asked.

Joel turned to me with a quizzical expression and asked seriously, “Does your bishop let you take money for home teaching? Mine doesn’t.” He winked and grinned.

I coughed and shook my head, trying to appear serious myself. “I don’t think we accept pay for home teaching unless we get it done the first part of the month. Maybe next time.”

Turning to Brother Long, Joel said, “I guess you got the famous end-of-the-month home teaching bonus package. It’s a special deal for families that have to wait to the end of the month for the home teachers to show up,” he joked. “I figure that Kyle’s families probably qualify for this bonus package every month.”

I felt good leaving the Longs’ place that afternoon, but I didn’t think any more about further home teaching. After all, it wasn’t something that preyed on my mind often. I had lots of other things to worry about.

“On two different occasions I have tried to approach friends about the missionary discussions but was rejected!” said 16-year-old Mari. “I was embarrassed when they let me know that they weren’t interested in finding out about our church.”
Mari is an attractive, intelligent high school student. She attends seminary and comes from a devout, missionary-minded family. And I can understand her frustration at wanting to do what the prophet has asked us to do, yet seeming to alienate good friends in her attempts to do so.
There is no question but what a successful missionary experience is rewarding, but how can we avoid the unpleasant ones? Perhaps we can’t experience 100 percent success, but let’s try a few other approaches.
Robin was just 19 years old when she enlisted in the navy and was assigned to the East Coast of the United States. Her roommate was an LDS girl whom she quickly grew to love.
“I admired my roommate’s way of life, her high ideals and standards. She stood for everything that I wanted to have in my life. I wanted to be in her company and those who shared her standards. I wished and longed for an invitation to join in the activities of her youth group but was never given an opportunity to join them.”
A few months later Robin was transferred to the West Coast in another navy installation. Unusual as it seemed, her new roommate also proved to be an LDS girl. As they talked together on their first night it became apparent that this Church group was just as busy as the other group had been. The difference was that Robin was immediately invited to accompany her new roommate to all of these functions.
Within a few weeks Robin began the missionary discussions and was baptized. She became the best member missionary in the area and was constantly bringing fellow workers to Church functions so that they could investigate the Church. As soon as she was discharged from the navy, Robin was called as a full-time missionary.
A second experience concerns an elder serving in our mission, who gave this account of his conversion:
“During my first year in high school I became aware of a small group of fellow students who seemed to have a tightly knit bond of fellowship between them. They acted differently from the rest of the students. Their language was clean, their standards were high, even their appearance was different. They were not on drugs, and they did not smoke or drink. I admired them and tried to become acquainted with them.
“They were always having such a good time together, holding their own parties, dances, and other socials. I was told by someone that they belonged to the LDS church, but that did not matter to me. I still wanted to belong to their group.
“I hinted as much as I dared that I would like to attend some of their socials, but they didn’t take the hint. Finally in my senior year, I summoned the courage to ask them outright if I could possibly attend some of their socials, even though I was not a member of their church.
“Within a few weeks I was baptized into their church, and here I am now, about a year and a half later, on a mission for our church. When I see how difficult it is to find converts in the mission field, I wonder why these fellow students of mine found it so difficult to invite me to go with them.”
As I was interviewing the young people in our ward as their bishop. I asked each of them: “Are you going out with anyone who is not a member of our church?”
Susan said, “I go out with Bill. We know each other very well. We’re good friends.”
“Do you know him well enough to invite him to our student ward party?” I asked.
Susan brought Bill to our party and our ward missionaries did the rest. Bill is now in the bishopric in Houston, Texas, after having served a mission for the Church. And Bill and Susan’s experience has been duplicated all over the Church.
Does this give you any ideas? How many of your friends would like to attend your socials, your dances, your outings? How many would like to join you in all the fun times you have? Is this not an easy and inoffensive way to introduce them to the gospel of Jesus Christ? In most cases you can let the missionaries invite them to take the discussions and to teach them.
I recall when my wife and I invited our teenage sons and daughters to take a challenge, one which they accepted. They were to pray earnestly that the Lord would help them identify a person they were to help come into the Church. There would be no time limit. They were to pray and search and wait until the Spirit spoke to them, until they found that special person who would accept the invitation to either participate with them in a Church activity or to listen to the message of our missionaries.
We promised them that they would know for sure because it would be just as though the Lord were pointing his finger at that person. They were also to pray that they would know what to say to that person at the time.
One son returned in about two weeks with the story that he definitely had been impressed to approach a young man who sat by him at the university. He approached him about the Church and was rejected. Naturally he felt discouraged and questioned the validity of our project.
“Did you truly love him?” I asked. “Or were you just trying to compile a statistic? Did you have love in your heart and in your eyes when you approached him? Were you listening to the Spirit to help you as you approached him?”
“Let me try again,” our son asked. “Let me fast and pray about it. Then I`ll try again.”
After fasting and praying about it, he still felt impressed that this was the young man he should introduce to the Church. He approached him once more, this time with great love in his heart, in his eyes, and in his soul. The young man agreed to meet with our son and the missionaries to learn about the Church.
Not only was the young man baptized but his inactive wife was reactivated and their three children will now have the blessings of being reared in an LDS home.
Even a young man who was going out with one of our daughters (later became her husband) accepted the challenge to pray and search for someone who would accept the missionary message. He was directed to a friend whom he had known all his life but had never approached about our Church. Within a month this young man was baptized into the Church.
Everyone has a different approach, one that seems in keeping with that individual’s personality and that he feels comfortable with. Although the person we talk to may not join the Church now, he may accept the message later. We are convinced that some of these individuals will come into the fold sometime in their lives.
Whether we accept the fact or not, we are different from the world if we are living what we believe. Let me tell you about two of our missionaries.
It was the dinner hour, and it was raining without any sign of stopping. In spite of the rain, these two missionaries continued tracting. But let the father in one of these homes tell what happened that night:
“I had come home from work tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than to be left alone. I might also add that I dislike ‘door knockers’ and salesmen.
“I had just sat down to my dinner when the knock on the door came. I don’t know what I expected to find at the door, but I didn’t intend to be very pleasant about the disturbances at this particular hour.
“Perhaps I was too stunned at first to be angry, but for some reason or other I did not slam the door in their faces. There in the doorway stood two young men, smiling from ear to ear and literally beaming as they told me that they had a special message for me and my family. I still don’t know what prompted me to invite them to come in, except that there was something very special about them. There was a certain quality about them that I had never experienced before.
“I can tell you that when I invited them to come into our home. I also invited the greatest blessings that have ever come into my life and the life of my family. Yes, we were all baptized into the LDS church.”
In Doctrine and Covenants 88:67 [D&C 88:67], we are told: “And if your eye be single to my glory, your whole bodies shall be filled with light.” We are different when we are living the way the Savior taught us to live. Our bodies will be filled with light, and people will become aware of this.
A man came into the mission home one day asking to know more about our church. “I sat on an airplane next to one of your members,” he said, “and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again. He told me about his family and the love they had between them. His face almost glowed as he talked.”
This man was far more worldly than the average man on the street. “I know I will have to make some drastic changes in my life, but I want what that man has. My family means a lot to me,” he said.
If we live what we believe, our example may serve as an effective missionary for us and for the Church, especially for those who are searching for the “more excellent way” (Ether 12:11). There are many people who admire our way of life and our standards of conduct. They want this way of life for themselves and for their families.
Doctrine and Covenants 123:12 [D&C 123:12] tells us that “there are many yet on the earth among all sects … who are only kept from the truth because they know not where to find it.” So how can we help them find it? How can we be effective member missionaries?
It just might be that your best method is to be your best self. Be friendly and be sharing. Invite those around you who are not members of our church to share with you the fun and the joy that they may be secretly wishing they could also have.
Instead of losing friends, you may develop friendships that will endure through this life and the life to come.

When my mother was young, her mother abandoned her. A few years later, her father passed away, and she was given to a family that was unkind to her. This experience made her believe she could not find happiness in a family.
When she joined the Church, however, her attitude changed as she came to understand the importance of family in God’s plan of happiness. She served a mission and eventually married my father. Together they formed a family full of faith in Jesus Christ and did their best to live according to their covenants with God. That’s the kind of family I grew up in in a small Argentinian town called Lima.

Feeling the urge to get up and dance, friends Reagan N. and Lauren A. of Pennsylvania, USA, came up with the idea to organize a dance for all their friends. They also thought this would be a fun opportunity to fulfill a 10-hour Personal Progress value project for Choice and Accountability. They planned and organized everything needed, from invitations and decorations to refreshments and a disc jockey. But what made this dance stand apart from others is that this was a dance for charity.
Everyone attending the dance brought a nonperishable food item to act as an admission ticket. There was even a prize for the person who brought the most cans. The dance was a big success. Reagan and Lauren collected over 180 cans of food, which they donated to a local homeless shelter. They also completed a 10-hour project that helped the community and provided a fun evening for everyone who attended the dance.

I’m not good at basketball. But for some reason, my friends still invited me to play. During one game, I hoped the ball would never come to me. Well, it did, and I decided to take a shot. As the ball flew toward the basket, I was sure it would miss. The ball hit the backboard and then fell through the hoop.
I made the shot!
My friends cheered as I stood in disbelief. I didn’t contribute much else to that game, but it felt good to be part of a team and to participate in my own small way.

One day at school, I heard that a boy was being bullied. I felt sad. No one should be treated that way.
Later that day, our grade had a party. The boy who had been bullied earlier came to the party and sat by himself. When I saw him, I remembered what had happened. I heard a voice tell me to sit by him. But I didn’t want to be the only one sitting by him. He’ll be fine, I thought. He doesn’t need someone to sit next to him. I pushed the feeling away.
The voice came to me again, stronger. Go sit by him.
I looked at the boy. He looked lonely and sad. OK, I thought. When I sat down by him, he looked uncomfortable. I told him my name and asked him about himself. At first, I was nervous. But as we talked, I felt peaceful. And he didn’t look lonely or sad anymore.
When he had to go back to class, I said I’d talk to him later. He smiled a little and said OK. My teacher came to me and said, “Thank you, Sierra. That was very kind.” I just nodded my head.
The rest of the day went by quickly, but that peaceful feeling didn’t go away. I knew I did the right thing. Sometimes people aren’t treated right when they’re different. I don’t like it, but it happens.
We are all God’s children. We should treat others kindly. If we do this, I know that God will bless us.

I remember other Mexican Saints who, because floods had destroyed their crops, were fearful that they would not be able to attend the conference but who, after fasting and prayer, sold some of their belongings and pooled their money for transportation. For many there was no money left for food, but it did not matter. They decided they could fast for the three or four days of the conference. As you would expect, other loving Saints filled their plates as the Lord had filled their souls.