Gospel Story Finder

I started taking the discussions from the missionaries, and in June 1992 I was baptized and confirmed. I will never forget that very special day. Before entering the waters of baptism I could feel a great weight, as if I were walking with feet of lead. But when I came out of the water, I felt like I was flying in the air. And when the missionaries placed their hands on my head and gave me the gift of the Holy Ghost, a warm feeling entered my body, and I was filled with a peace I had never felt before. The tears began to roll down my cheeks. To my surprise I realized I was crying not from pain or sadness but for the great joy and peace in my heart.

John Stephen Akhwari, a marathon runner from Tanzania, competed in the 1968 Summer Olympics. As he was suffering along the way from fatigue, leg cramps, dehydration, and disorientation, “a voice called from within to go on, and so he went on” (The Last African Runner, Olympiad Series, written, directed, and produced by Bud Greenspan, Cappy Productions, 1976, videocassette). Exhausted and staggering, John Stephen Akhwari was the last man to enter the stadium, more than an hour after the winner of the marathon had completed the race. When asked why he would complete a race he could never win, Akhwari replied, “My country did not send me 5,000 miles to start the race; my country sent me to finish the race.”

We are not brought to earth just to be born into mortality. We came with a mission and a purpose—and that is to endure to the end.

Mele, daughter of ‘Ahongalu and ‘Ana Fulivai of Vava‘u, was also healed. Nine years ago, Mele collapsed with an unknown illness. From March to December she lay in the hospital with fever, seizures, and hallucinations. Her mother stayed with her during the day. At night her father, who had worked all day, came to the hospital and sat by her bed. Mele would relax as she held her father’s hand all night, drawing comfort from the knowledge that he held the priesthood.

Mele has recovered gradually, with only occasional problems. “We have learned to trust in the Lord,” says ‘Ana. “He has blessed us in ways we did not expect.”

I particularly noticed this some time ago when I talked with a group of about 20 Laurels whom I had never met before. I asked them what their goals were. The first few mentioned educational goals such as getting a PhD; some said they would like to go on a mission—all worthy goals. Finally one girl timidly expressed the desire to be a mother. Then a few more girls talked about other goals. After one more girl mentioned motherhood, the rest of them joined in. But it was quite courageous for those first two girls to admit they wanted to be mothers. And this was in a very safe setting.
Besides the fact that admitting this goal may set a girl up for ridicule, it may also set her up for feeling like a failure. She knows she doesn’t have complete control over achieving this goal, which may make her feel vulnerable in stating it. It is also a goal that requires great unselfishness; it may require setting aside other more glamorous goals. I am sensitive to the many issues facing our young women, but I still feel that I must teach eternal principles.
I would like to affirm motherhood, to talk about the newest phrase in our Young Women theme: “be prepared to strengthen home and family.” I will address five things we as parents and leaders must do for our young women.
All families, from the best to the most troubled, are in need of strengthening. Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said, “If we think other families don’t have any difficulties or any problems, we just don’t know them well enough.” We need to encourage girls to turn to their mothers and fathers not only to receive help but to give help.
Several of our general board members grew up in homes with parents who were less active in the Church. One of them had a wise Young Women leader who counseled her to be with her family when they did recreational things on Sunday but to maintain her personal standards. So if they went to a swimming club, she would go with them to visit with them, but she herself would not go swimming. She was able to build a tender relationship with her family.
I know a young woman who ruefully saw her brother associating with the wrong group of friends. After praying fervently for him one night, she followed an impression to pick him up from the party he was attending. She drove around with him for some time just talking to him about who he was as a member of their family and who he was as a member of Heavenly Father’s family and of his responsibility to honor those identities. He was able to turn things around in his life, partially because of the love of his sister.
Youth often feel lonely or isolated either socially or spiritually. Friendships and close ties with their brothers and sisters are the best antidote. One teenager was rejected by a group of girls at her school. Her brothers and sisters eased her sorrow by including her in their activities and giving her extra doses of love.
All these are examples of young women who strengthened their homes and families. Serving families is a way of covenant keeping, and covenant keeping reaps the promised blessing of having the Spirit in our lives. We must help our young women begin where they are, in whatever kind of family they are in, to strengthen their homes and families.
I believe that one way we can arm our girls spiritually is to help them develop temporal skills or talents. We know that to the Lord all things are spiritual (see D&C 29:34).
Homemaking skills are becoming a lost art. I worry about this. When we lose the homemakers in a society, we create an emotional homelessness much like street homelessness, with similar problems of despair, drugs, immorality, and lack of self-worth. In a publication called The Family in America, Bryce Christensen writes that the number of homeless people on the street “does not begin to reveal the scope of homelessness in America. For since when did the word home signify merely physical shelter, or homelessness merely the lack of such shelter? … Home [signifies] not only shelter, but also emotional commitment, security, and belonging. Home has connoted not just a necessary roof and warm radiator, but a place sanctified by the abiding ties of wedlock, parenthood, and family obligation; a place demanding sacrifice and devotion, but promising loving care and warm acceptance.”
So we must teach homemaking skills, including practical ones such as cooking, sewing, budgeting, and beautifying. We must let young women know that homemaking skills are honorable and can help them spiritually as well as temporally. Making a home appealing physically will encourage loved ones to want to be there and will help create the kind of atmosphere that is conducive to the Spirit.
Sunday lessons, Mutual, and Personal Progress are all programs that provide times and ways to teach these necessary lessons. I think of my own experience as a Laurel adviser. The young women in my stewardship had one year until they would be out in the world on their own. I asked them what they needed to know to be ready for that independence. From their list of needs—balancing a checkbook, applying for colleges and jobs, cooking something besides cookies, and so forth—we planned our Mutual activities. I no longer had any problems with attendance, because we were preparing skills the young women needed to fulfill their important future roles. I could see that in the process of learning temporal skills, some spiritual skills were developing simultaneously. There was more genuine friendship and concern for one another. Mothers told me that the spiritual tenor of their homes improved as the young women shared some of their newfound skills.
This is what we as parents and leaders must do. We must help young women develop practical and spiritual skills that will bless their future homes.
The two most powerful tools we have to inspire our young women are our examples and our sincere words.
I’ve seen many inspirational Young Women leaders who exemplify living their roles with nobility and joy. I remember the powerful example of my Laurel adviser, who was faithful in rearing her children in the Church even though her husband was less active. I know a young woman whose parents weren’t active in the Church. She was impressionable and teachable and learned well from the examples of her leaders. She learned how to fast and how to hold family home evening by participating with her teachers in these activities.
My best and most consistent example in learning the joys of homemaking and mothering was my own mother. She told me many times every day how much she treasured being a mother and homemaker, and then she lived those words in every action. She sang as she folded laundry; she exulted over the clean smell in a freshly scrubbed bathroom; she taught me how to read and write, sew and cook, love and serve. Because she emanated the Spirit and the fruits of love, joy, peace, meekness, long-suffering, and temperance, I felt it, and I knew I wanted the same things in my life (see Gal. 5:22–23). Her example continues to teach me daily.
I want all of you to know the great joy I feel in being a mother, wife, and homemaker. We should express our joy often through our words, actions, and countenances.
It has been alarming recently to feel the full fury of Satan’s attack on families. Alternative lifestyles, abortion, cohabitation, divorce, immorality, and violence are issues that are screaming in our faces at every turn.
Even though I feel alarm, I do not feel fear. Fear is the opposite of faith. Paul told Timothy that “God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind” (2 Tim. 1:7).
I feel faith in Jesus Christ and in His restored gospel upon the earth. I feel empowered by the truths of the gospel succinctly stated in the proclamation on the family. It takes a stand on each of the issues I just mentioned, as well as others. For example:
Alternative lifestyles: “Gender is an essential characteristic of individual premortal, mortal, and eternal identity and purpose. …
“… We further declare that God has commanded that the sacred powers of procreation are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife.”
Abortion: “We affirm the sanctity of life and of its importance in God’s eternal plan.”
Cohabitation: “Marriage between man and woman is essential to [God’s] eternal plan.”
Divorce: “Husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children.”
Immorality: “We warn that individuals who violate covenants of chastity … will one day stand accountable before God.”
Violence: “We warn that individuals who … abuse spouse or offspring … will one day stand accountable before God.”
Not only do I feel strengthened by these truths, I feel loved by a wise and all-knowing Father in Heaven, who has blessed us with prophets and apostles to guide this Church. If our young women can know of His love, if they can have the truths of the gospel embedded in their hearts, they will not fear. With strong testimonies of the gospel and a firm knowledge of eternal doctrines, our young women will have the courage to face a world that is desecrating families.
President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) talked about the influence of strong women of God upon the world: “Much of the major growth that is coming to the Church in the last days will come because many of the good women of the world (in whom there is often such an inner sense of spirituality) will be drawn to the Church in large numbers. This will happen to the degree that the women of the Church reflect righteousness and articulateness in their lives and to the degree that the women of the Church are seen as distinct and different—in happy ways—from the women of the world.”
We are distinct and different in happy ways because we know who we are eternally. We are all divinely appointed to these womanly roles of mothering and nurturing.
My cousin Carrie was a sterling example of a single sister who was a happy, generous, loving woman, blessing all with whom she associated. She was killed in an automobile accident when she was in her late 30s, but her final act of goodness prior to her untimely death was finishing scrapbooks for each of her nieces and nephews. She was fulfilling her mission to the degree that she could within her opportunities.
Now a word to you wonderful Young Women leaders. I hope the Spirit will help you know how to simplify—by that I mean to spend your valuable time on the important things. Teach principles and doctrines. Give love. Be examples. Make your teaching appealing and as simple as possible.
While what we as leaders are doing with young women now is crucial to saving this world, what we are doing with our eternal callings is of even greater importance. We also carry a mantle for our callings as wives, mothers, and homemakers. We need to call upon the Lord for His Spirit to be with us in these eternal roles. Our homes may be our last and only place of refuge, as our prophets are prophesying. I am pleading with you to be exemplary leaders but not to neglect your home responsibilities.
How significant are our roles as parents! How crucial are our roles as leaders! How imperative that we properly train the future righteous women of God! I know this work we are engaged in is His work, and I am grateful for the wonderful privilege we all have to be His instruments.

This is the true story of "The Back and Forth Cow" as told by Lynn C. Jaynes in the January, 1994 Ensign:
Several years ago my sister, Jane and I inherited a wringer-type mop bucket. We were next-door neighbors, so sharing the bucket was a simple matter of organizing our cleaning days. Although we both had young families, lived on farms, and had large linoleum floors that needed frequent mopping, we didn't have any problems getting the bucket back and forth. She knew where I stored the bucket and I knew where she stored it, so we just helped ourselves on mop day.
Jane and I shared other things, too. I borrowed her bread pans on baking day, and she borrowed the pressure cooker during canning season. We planted gardens side by side and raised chickens in the same pen. We used each other's lawn mowers and fed each other's children. She taught my children piano lessons. When her three-year-old daughter "ran away" to my house, I assigned the little girl some work that was harder than usual - and she was soon ready to go back home.
We cried when changes in our husbands' employment separated us. Tearfully, we divvied up our wares. I knew I would miss her greatly.
About a year later, we were thrilled to be neighbors again. By that time, she had a pressure cooker and I had bought my own bread pans. I got to keep the mop bucket because Jane's new house was mostly carpeted. That's when we bought the five hundred-dollar milk cow.
I don't even recall now who bought the cow first. But our arrangement was for one family to milk her in the mornings and the other family to take care of her at night. The cow gave enough milk to supply both families, and we raised calves besides.
Through the years, both families occasionally had financial struggles. I remember a time when taxes came due for my sister's family. They were short about five hundred dollars. At that time, they owned the cow. So we bought the cow from them, and they were able to pay their taxes. Meanwhile, they still milked mornings, we still milked evenings, and nothing really changed.
Then one day we needed funds to pay medical bills. My sister and her husband bought back the cow.
I guess we've lost track now of how many times the cow has been bought and sold, but during these ownership shuffles, the cow has never even changed pastures or had her milking routine interrupted. As far as I could see, there was never any real advantage to ownership. Sometimes we had to concentrate to even figure out who the current owner was.
And Jane seemed to agree. One day as ownership was changing hands again, she remarked, "This is silly that we pass this cow back and forth and declare 'ownership' as if it really meant something. We ought to just give each other the money whenever it's needed." We laughed about it and dubbed the animal our consecration cow.
Awhile back the pump on our well broke. A new one was going to cost a fair bit, and my husband and I were trying to decide how to pay for it when the phone rang. It was my sister.
"I can't believe your pump went out! Listen, do you need us to buy the cow?"
I smiled. It didn't even matter that they already owned her.

These words have special meaning to me. I grew up in a small Mormon community. I was raised in a fine Latter-day Saint home. I was taught to love the Lord, to reverence His name, and to communicate with Him in prayer. I was very young when I learned that the Father and the Son had appeared to Joseph Smith. I believed as a boy and I have never doubted as a man.

However, until I enlisted in the navy, I had not experienced the shock of meeting so many people who had never seen a Mormon or who had never heard of Mormonism. I soon realized how limited was my knowledge of the gospel. I was asked some pretty tough questions about the Church that I had difficulty answering. I was the only Mormon in our outfit and so there was no one with whom I could counsel. The only scripture I had was a small military copy of the Book of Mormon. I am ashamed to confess that I left Lehi and his family somewhere in the wilderness on a number of occasions.

While I had grown up as an active member of the Church, I had felt no special need or urgency to study the scriptures and the writings of the prophets. When asked a question or when strong ridicule was directed at me and the Church, I could only state the personal beliefs I had learned from my family and teachers. I tried to compensate for my knowledge deficiency by being a good example of the principles I professed.

After leaving the navy, I received a mission call. I still had not developed a real appetite for gospel knowledge. I had not equated understanding the holy scriptures with being a good Latter-day Saint. Following some brief training in the old mission home in Salt Lake, my companions and I were exposed to a few weeks of tracting in Texas while waiting for the ship that would take us to South Africa. That exposure expanded my vision of what I was going to be doing for the next two years. I gained a lot of humility in a hurry.

An unusual quirk of fate changed my whole life as we sailed toward Cape Town. It was to be a twenty-eight-day voyage, but our ship developed boiler problems crossing the equator. Limping into the port of Recife, Brazil, we hit the rocks, gashing the ship’s hull. A tugboat rescued us; but before we finally arrived in Cape Town, we had spent eighty-four days on board ship. I was fortunate enough to share quarters with a fine companion, Roy Stevens, who was a dedicated student of the gospel. His father had also been a missionary and had sent a large box of Church books with his son. It was during this confinement that a whole new world of gospel knowledge opened up to me.

It was a time to study, to ponder, to pray. I read all the standard works from cover to cover, as well as Jesus the Christ and several other Church books. On this voyage I received my witness from the Lord that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. It was here that I came to know that Jesus is the Christ. It was here I developed an insatiable appetite to know the eternal truths. What a pity I had waited so long. I had wasted so much time during military service. What a priceless treasure I had ignored! I am persuaded that we will be held accountable for how we use our discretionary time.

The stunningly beautiful island of Bermuda is only about 21 square miles (54 km) in total area. It’s also one of the most isolated inhabited islands you can find—the nearest land mass is over 600 miles (966 km) away. I was one of six full-time missionaries in Bermuda, four elders and one senior missionary couple, serving in the single branch on the island when we decided to try something a bit unusual.
We were going to put on a play! And not just any play.
I can’t remember exactly how the idea first cameup to produce a play about Mormon pioneers for the general community, but once the idea was out there in the open, we all felt a spiritual confirmation that it was worth pursuing.
The other missionaries and I had never written a play before. But why let that stop us? With the help of the branch, we came up with a simple storyline based on Church history. The play included early Church hymns, such as “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30).
We built simple sets and cobbled together costumes from various sources. The branch members and missionaries made up the small cast.
All along I kept wondering how many people would actually attend a play about Mormon pioneers who had lived half a world away from this scenic island.
Still, we pressed on, both with our regular missionary work and in our free time by memorizing lines and practicing hymns.
In time, we were ready. Our branch president placed an advertisement for the date of the free-to-attend production in the newspaper.
Showtime! As you might have guessed, the room was not exactly packed to standing-room-only status (there might’ve been 60 people). Still, we were happy with the turnout and enjoyed spending an evening honoring and celebrating the faith and courage of the early Saints.
And then the following Sunday rolled around. A woman we didn’t recognize sat down with the congregation.
We hurried over to introduce ourselves.
This sister turned out to be a member of the Church who hadn’t attended in years. She was new to the area, so her records were not with the branch. After seeing the newspaper ad, she decided to watch the performance. From that Sunday on she attended regularly and became a big blessing to the branch.
I’m sure plenty of other good came out of this pioneer play effort, but for me it’s also a reminder of how important is the “one” (see Luke 15:4). Elder M. Russell Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught, “Brothers and sisters, never, never underestimate how precious is the one.”1
It well may be that the entire reason we were inspired to put on this play was to reach this one sister. On an island already so full of beauty, isn’t that a beautiful thought?

During one of those hunting seasons in Wyoming, I had an experience that taught me an important lesson—one that I have always remembered. It occurred in a year when the weather had been rather unusual. The early snows that generally fall in the high country by late September had not come. The days remained warm and sunny even into mid-October when the big game season opened. The deer and elk stayed in the more remote high country, making it very difficult for the hunters to get to them.
Finally, late in the season, the snows came, and I made plans with a friend to go into the Big Horn Mountains close to the border between Montana and Wyoming for a last try at finding an elk. We traveled in his four-wheel drive vehicle to a spot at an elevation of about 9,000 feet where the Little Big Horn River has its beginning. A new blanket of snow almost one foot in depth covered the ground. We began our hunt just as the first daylight showed over the eastern ridges. We decided to separate from one another, designating a point of the mountain at some distance where we would meet later in the day.
As I crossed over the small stream near which we had left our vehicle and started into the timber on the opposite slope, I came to some fresh tracks in the new snow. They were bear tracks—big ones! The tracks came as something of a surprise to me. Bear are not uncommon in much of the mountain country of Wyoming, and they are numerous enough that they are considered legal game. However, bear were not common in the Big Horn Mountains, and this sudden encounter with the fresh tracks filled my mind with some interesting possibilities. I had never hunted for a bear; in fact, I had never had the inclination to do so. The meat would have been of no use to me.
This bear was no immediate threat to my companion or to me. If he were still in the area and aware of our presence, he was likely trying to remove himself from any confrontation with us. Still, as I studied the tracks and discovered how fresh they were, my thoughts continued to stir me. I confess that I began to have visions of a bearskin rug for our home. Since the tracks were going in about the same direction I had intended to go, I decided to follow them.
Within a hundred yards or so I came to a place where the snow was scattered about among traces of blood and deer hair. I could tell that one way or another, the bear had taken a deer in that place that morning. The trail that was left was easy to follow as the bear had partly carried and partly dragged the deer through the brush and into a thicket of pines and spruce. There I found the deer. Its head and horns had caught in the juncture of some limbs of a fallen tree, and the bear had not stayed to dislodge it. Perhaps my coming on the scene had affected that decision.
As I continued to follow the trail of the bear, I climbed up a steep slope where the going was made more difficult by the dense underbrush. I put my rifle with its leather sling over my shoulder and used my hands as well as my feet to force my way up the incline. Every few yards I stopped to catch my breath and rest a moment.
During one of these pauses I looked about me and assessed my situation. Because of the density of the undergrowth, I was aware that it would be impossible for me to get a clear shot at anything more than eight or ten yards away. I began to wonder who would have the greater advantage if I were to come upon the bear.
As these thoughts went through my mind, I felt a most interesting sensation come over me. I experienced a tingling in my skin, and I could feel the hair rise on the back of my neck. I had the strong impression that I was in grave danger and that I should leave the area immediately. The impression was so powerful that I got to my feet, went back down the slope to where the country was more open, and there felt that I was in better control of things. Any further desire to pursue the bear evaporated, and I went about the business for which my friend and I had gone into the mountains that day.

Joseph Smith’s life helps us understand this principle somewhat. By all outward appearances, there was probably not a darker period in his life than the winter of 1838–39 when he was imprisoned in Liberty Jail. The Saints were being persecuted, robbed, and murdered, and there were dissension and apostasy in the ranks.

We may be inclined to underestimate Joseph’s suffering. I don’t speak of the coldness and dampness of the jail, but of his discouragement. We may think his anguish would be mitigated by his memory of seeing the Father and the Savior, by his memory of the visits from Moroni, John the Baptist, Peter, James, and John, and a host of other heavenly messengers. In reality, this knowledge may have intensified the pain. After all, he had a perfect knowledge that God could free him.

It was in this setting that Joseph cried unto the Lord, “O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place?” (D&C 121:1).

To this agonized plea came the Lord’s answer, “My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment” (121:7).

“Know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good” (D&C 122:7).

For thy good? What possible good could come from that experience? B.H. Roberts gave his insight when describing Joseph’s reaction to a similar experience in 1842.

But what is most pleasing to record of this period of enforced seclusion while avoiding his enemies, is the development of that tenderness of soul manifested in his reflections upon the friends who had stood by him from the commencement of his public career. . . . No act of kindness seems to go unmentioned. No risk run for him that is not appreciated. Indeed he gathers much benefit from those trials, since their effect upon his nature seems to be a softening rather than a hardening influence; and the trials of life are always beneficial where they do not harden and brutalize men’s souls; and every day under his trials the Prophet seems to have grown more tender-hearted, more universal in his sympathies; his moments of spiritual exaltation are superb. No one can read them and doubt that the inspiration of God was giving this man’s spirit understanding. [HC, vol. 5, introduction, p. xxviii]

My heart raced with anticipation as the truck slowly wound its way up the twisting mountain road.
“How long is it now?” I asked my dad. My eyes strained to spy our destination.
“Soon, I think,” Dad said as he put his hand on my shoulder. “Just sit back and enjoy the scenery.”
This was my first fishing trip to a real lake. Turning eight was great! I was finally old enough to do exciting things. The Cub Scouts had been invited to go on a fishing trip with the Boy Scouts, as long as our fathers came too.
We had gathered all our fishing gear—rods, tackle boxes, bait, nets, towels, and hats—before we left home.
“We’re getting close now,” Dad said as he followed the road along a fast-moving stream down toward the lake. “We just need to find a place to park.”
We soon noticed some boys on the other side of the river climbing on the rocks.
“Dad, they’re jumping in the water! Can I go swimming too?”
“Sure,” Dad said. He parked the car under some big trees and started unloading our supplies.
I dashed toward the riverbank. When I got there I could see that the boys were jumping off a large boulder that hung out over the river. The flow carried them swiftly downstream. Each boy would ride the current for a while and then swim to the shore to do it again. It was like a natural waterslide. I had to try it! I jumped in.
The force of the water nearly took my breath away. It was fun to be swept along so fast. Suddenly, I felt the water pull me back toward the boulder. The whirlpool was so powerful that I was pulled under and pushed against the underside of the boulder. I struggled to find an air pocket above the water against the rock, but there wasn’t one. I was running out of breath.
Then I heard a quiet voice: “Turn upside down and push!”
That seemed wrong. Wasn’t air to be found above the water? But I was desperate. I immediately pulled my body into a tight ball, turned upside down, and pushed off the bottom of the rock with my legs.
The next thing I knew, I popped out of the water downstream. I was relieved, but everything looked so blurry. I had forgotten to take off my glasses, and now they were lost. I felt that I should run beside the river. Quickly, I swam to shore and ran downstream. I found a calm place to wade and saw my glasses floating toward me.
Turning eight really was great. Because I was baptized, I was able to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. I knew as long as I was worthy, the Holy Ghost could help keep me safe.

As she became more active in the Church, Sharon had a great desire to go to the temple. “After many months, my bishop assured me that I had done all possible to [qualify for] a temple recommend,” she says. But she wondered: “Was I really worthy? Would I be able to live up to the covenants I would make? …

“Upon entering the temple that day, I felt a definite warmth and comfort. My loneliness eased away because I felt that many seen and unseen sisters and brothers stood near. … Tears filled my eyes as feelings of uneasiness and unworthiness slipped away.”

David recalls his father’s willingness to sacrifice for his children. Once Jeffrey Holland took several days out of his BYU schedule for a one-on-one trip to southern Utah with his younger son. Later, when the family prepared to move after Elder Holland was called as a General Authority, he drove an hour out of his way each day for nearly two months to take David to football practices at his new high school.

Remember my great-grandfather, Samuel Bennett? His call to abandon other plans and serve a mission working on the St. George Temple was not the only time he was available to sacrifice at the call of the Lord. In 1902, when Samuel was 49 years old, married with 11 children, the youngest of whom was 4 years old, he was surprised to receive a letter from the President of the Church calling him to serve another mission. Without any advance warning, Samuel was asked to leave his farm and family and serve as a missionary for two years in Great Britain. Can you imagine? The letter calling Samuel to serve has not survived, but we do have Samuel’s letter of response. I think you will find it interesting and a little amusing. Here it is in full:

Holden City UtahJune 23, 1902Dear Br[ethre]n,
In your letter Dated June 20, Inquiring as to my feelings in regard to being called on a mission to Great Britain to preach the Gospel, I feel to try and comply with any and every call under the direction of the Holy Priesthood.
I have no money on hand at Present. But with the Blessings of the Lord, I believe I will be able to raise the necessary amount that it will require. I would rather my Brethren Set the date and I will try to work to that end or to that Date.
My Health at Present is Pretty fare. And I believe as my Day my Strength Shall be.
I do not keep the word of wisdom in every Particular. But believe I can live nearer to that principle from time to time.
I am unacquainted with any other Language. I hope that this letter will meet the approval of my Brethren.
I am your Bro[ther] in the Gospel.Samuel Bennett

My heart swells with joy when I read this letter. My gratitude for my grgreat-grandfatherills the cup of my heart and runs over. As you heard, Samuel developed a little problem with the Word of Wisdom, which he resolved through repentance. But the overriding truth of Samuel’s life is that he was available to the Lord.

Samuel served for two years. This caused great hardship to his wife and family, but never did they falter and never did their faith fail. On one occasion, a well-meaning bishop, recognizing the financial hardship which had come to the family as a result of Samuel’s service, offered to relieve her temporarily of the obligation to pay tithing. “Aunt Martha,” he said, I don’t believe the Lord expects you to pay tithing while Sam is in the mission field.” In response, she was a bit indignant in refusing the bishop’s offer. She said, “Bishop, nobody must keep me from receiving that blessing.” Like the widow woman of Zarephath, who in faith gave her last morsel of bread to the prophet Elijah, the Lord kept the promise of His prophet that the “barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of oil fail.” [47]

Such are the eternal blessings that come to those who make themselves available to the Lord, who say when the Spirit calls, “Here am I, send me.”

I was about 12 or 13 when our family decided that we wanted to visit some of the Church historical sites in upstate New York. For months we planned and replanned the trip.
As I got off the school bus on the last day of class, there parked in the driveway was the camper, that wonderful vehicle that was going to take us on our trip. My dad owned his own business, so we were fortunate to be able to take extended trips.
We saw Niagara Falls. We attended the Hill Cumorah Pageant and looked at the Joseph Smith farm. After a few rigorous days of touring, we arrived at the place I had dreamed of visiting someday, the Sacred Grove. This was the place where young Joseph Smith had the glorious vision that started the restoration of the gospel.
As we piled out of the camper, we all knew how special this place was. When we walked into the cool shade of those big trees, we were overcome by what had happened here. My dad suggested that we kneel and have a family prayer. We scouted around for a quiet, peaceful place, similar to the one where Joseph Smith might have knelt for an answer to his prayer.
As my father prayed, I felt the Spirit of God stronger than I had ever felt it before. It seemed to grasp my entire body. The feeling had such intensity that I could hardly remember to pick myself up off the ground. It was wonderful. It was at that time that my own testimony began to develop.
I gained my testimony because of a wonderful earthly father who had a strong desire to instill in his children the testimony he had, and because of a kind and loving Heavenly Father who knew that I would need the gospel in my life.

“I want to tell all the members of the Church that I loved my mission very much,” said Cambodian member Eng Bun Huoch, who was baptized on October 25, 1998. He served a mission in Phnom Penh two years later. “Serving a mission is not easy, but it is worth it. I can’t describe how important and profitable it was to my life. My two-year mission instilled in me leadership skills and teaching skills and showed me how to be a better friend, son, and member.”
After returning home on July 17, 2002, Elder Huoch was able to find a job that improved his quality of life. His testimony had been strengthened, and he felt better prepared to deal with the challenges of life.
“I thank the Lord that He brought the gospel to Cambodia before I was too old to serve a mission,” he says. “I would be very sad if I missed the opportunity to do this marvelous work.”

I know of another little boy who came home from school one day long ago to find a rented piano in the house. “What’s this piano here for?” he asked his mother.
“It’s for you,” she replied.
“For me?” he asked. “Why for me?”
“Because,” she said, “you are going to take piano lessons.”
He said he didn’t want to take piano lessons. But she had already arranged for a teacher.
Well, this little boy began to miss a few lessons. One day his mother asked, “How was your piano lesson?”
He said, “Fine. I’m doing pretty well.”
“That’s interesting,” she said. “I just talked to your teacher, and she hasn’t seen you for a while.” He had been caught. He didn’t know what the punishment would be, but he knew it would be bad. Then his mother said, “Just for that, you may not take piano lessons.”
He tried to look punished, but inside he was very happy with her decision. Mother, he thought, you have hit on the perfect punishment. I hope you use it often. Within his heart he felt that he had just been liberated. He was free from practice, free from lessons, free from discipline, routine, and regimentation—free from all that seemed to limit his freedom.
When he grew to be a man, he was sitting one day in a church meeting during which a woman was to sing a solo. When her time to perform came, she walked up to the podium and announced, “My accompanist could not come today. I need someone to accompany me.” Looking over the congregation, she saw a man who used to teach piano. “Will you accompany me?” she asked him. The man came forward, and she handed him the music.
As he watched this happen, my friend who had avoided music lessons thought, What would I have done if she had asked me? If she had asked me, I would have been free to do only one thing: to say no. Suddenly, he realized that what he had assumed to be one of the great liberating moments of his life—when his mother said, “You may not take lessons any more”—was in fact a moment of bondage, not freedom. As he sat in that church meeting, he might as well have been handcuffed, for he could not have played the piano if he had wanted to. The other man was free; he could choose to play or not to play. Ultimately, then, freedom is more a matter of capacity and ability than of permission.

Sam pushed through the doors of the restaurant. His stomach grumbled. He was so hungry! This restaurant made the best fried chicken ever. His family often came here after soccer practice.
Sam and Mom walked to the counter to order. “Hi, Emma!” said Sam. Emma was their favorite server. She was always friendly and nice.
“How was soccer practice?” Emma asked with a big smile.
“It was great. We’re going to win our next game!” Sam said.
“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Emma said.
Sam grinned, and his family placed their order.
The next week Sam’s team did win! He couldn’t wait to tell Emma. But Emma wasn’t at the restaurant.
She wasn’t there the next week either. Sam missed seeing her.
A few weeks later, Sam’s family came to the restaurant again. Sam saw Emma cleaning tables. He hurried over to say hello.
“You’re back!” said Sam. “We’ve missed you.”
“We are so happy to see you again,” Mom said.
“Thank you.” Emma kind of smiled. But her eyes looked really sad.
“Are you OK?” Sam asked.
“No. My husband passed away. That’s why I haven’t been here.”
Mom gave Emma a hug. Seeing Emma sad made Sam sad too.
When their food was ready, Sam helped carry the tray to their table. He couldn’t stop thinking about how sad Emma looked. He sat down but didn’t feel like eating anything. He wanted to help her feel better. But what could he do?
Then Sam remembered something. Their bishop had given little cards to all the families at church. The cards showed what times people could watch general conference on TV or listen on the radio. The bishop said that conference was a wonderful time to feel peace.
“Mom, can we give Emma a card for general conference?” Sam asked. If Emma watched conference, maybe that would help her feel a little better.
“That’s a great idea.” Mom reached into her purse and pulled out a card. “Here,” she said. “You can give her this one.”
Sam took the card from Mom. He walked to the counter and asked the worker if he could talk with Emma.
“I’m sorry, but she’s busy right now,” the man said.
“That’s OK,” said Sam. “Could you give this to her? It’s an invitation to watch a special conference for my church.” Sam handed the man the card. “You can watch too, if you want!”
The man smiled. “Thanks! I’ll be sure to get this to her.”
When Sam walked back to their table, he felt warm inside.
“How did it go?” Mom asked.
“Emma was busy, so I gave the card to another worker to give to her,” said Sam. “Now two people will see the card! Maybe they will both watch conference and feel peace.”
This story took place in Guam.

I served a mission in South Africa, where, as with other missionaries, I told many people that if they prayed they would soon receive an answer from heaven telling them our teaching is true. They could ask directly if the Book of Mormon is the word of God, and if so, the restored gospel came through the Prophet Joseph.

My companion enjoyed his time when he could listen to music, it did not have to be Mo Tab. I had determined that I would use the Sunday night when he disappeared into his head phones to test the promise, the promise that I had been making to others. I had entered the mission field due to the prompting of great parents and good church leaders. I remember when I was 14 my Bishop, John Adams asked me if I was going on a mission. That day I told him yes, so nothing else mattered, I had made a promise. I would go.

I clearly remember that night in the mission field in great detail. I placed a pillow under my knees.
I knelt down; my companion was lost in his music, so I began to pray out loud. I explained to my Heavenly Father that I needed to know if the promise I was giving to others was valid. I told Him that I had faith in Christ as Moroni instructed. I had a sincere heart; I really wanted to know. I had real intent, I told Heavenly Father that if it were not a valid promise, I would go home. I told Him I would not get off my knees until I received a yes or a no.

I am so very grateful that Heavenly Father was kind to me. He might have even chuckled a little bit over my demand to know.

I cannot express what happened after that. What I can express is that without any doubt I was given an answer from Heavenly Father that The Book of Mormon is as it claims to be. It is the word of God, Joseph Smith is a prophet. The promise I had been giving to others is valid. I do not remember how long I had prayed before the answer came, nor do I know how long it lasted but I cannot deny the sweetness of that answer.

One by one tiny droplets hit the windshield of the bus. Soon a silver mist formed on the glass. The driver reached over and turned a knob. Carlos watched the rhythm of the slim wipers as they flung the droplets into the wind.

Carlos brushed away the tears that had formed in the corners of his dark eyes. It will be lonesome this Christmas without Papa, he thought. He remembered last Christmas, with Papa laughing and bouncing little Maria on his knee. Now Mama worked, Carlos went to school, and Maria stayed with a baby-sitter.

Carlos sighed. Two days till Christmas, he mused. I haven’t a present for Mama or Maria, and I’ve spent my last quarter for the bus.

Carlos had wanted to buy the flowered scarf he’d seen his mother admire. And for Maria he’d seen a fuzzy white lamb in a toy shop window.

The boy felt inside his pocket one more time. There was the strange-looking button he had found on the sidewalk today. And, of course, the silver dollar. The dollar had been a tenth birthday present from Papa. But Carlos couldn’t spend that. It was the last thing his father had given him before his death. Whenever Carlos felt the coin, he thought about Papa.

The bus hissed to a stop, the front doors snapped open, and a man wearing a mud-spattered raincoat got on.

What a mess! Carlos thought. Mr. Raincoat’s hat is squashed too. Maybe the car that spattered mud on his coat ran over his hat. And he looks tired.

As Mr. Raincoat paused to shake the water from his coat, the bus lurched, and he plopped into the seat next to Carlos. The man settled into his seat, and Carlos heard him mumbling to himself: “Why did my car have to break down on a rainy Sunday when the garages are closed? I enjoy walking in the rain, but not pushing a car on a busy street.”

Then, relaxing a little, Mr. Raincoat looked at Carlos and smiled.

Carlos watched the water spray up from the passing cars, then glanced at Mr. Raincoat’s window reflection. The man has the same smile Papa had, he thought. As he gazed at the shimmering lights through the wet window, Carlos breathed a long, shaky sigh.

“What a deep sigh,” Mr. Raincoat ventured. “With Christmas only two days away, I suppose you’ll have a big family celebration.”

“Yes,” Carlos said, folding his arms. Every time the man spoke, Carlos felt more lonesome for Papa. He felt relieved when he saw his stop coming up. Carlos reached up and pulled the signal cord. “Excuse me,” he said.

Mr. Raincoat stood up and said, “I’m getting off here too.”

Several people stepped off with Carlos and Mr. Raincoat. A cold wind ruffled Carlos’s thick hair. He turned up his jacket collar, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and fingered the silver dollar as he started down the street. Something made him stop when he heard someone say to Mr. Raincoat, “Mister, did you know you have a button missing from your raincoat?”

“Yes, thanks, I do,” Mr. Raincoat answered. “I’ve looked all over for it. After church I even stopped at my office. I thought I might have lost it there. I often walk this way, so I’ll look for it again as I walk home.”

Carlos paused for a moment to tie his shoelace. He heard their fellow passenger continue: “I hope you find it. Your coat buttons are very unusual. It would be a shame not to have a complete set.”

“Yes, it would. They’re antique silver. My wife gave them to me last year,” Mr. Raincoat responded.

Carlos retied his other shoe and waited until the two men strolled closer. He raised his eyes so he could see Mr. Raincoat’s buttons. Then he stood up and pushed his hand deep into his pocket. His fingers found the button. Carlos knew it matched the buttons on the man’s raincoat. It must be valuable if it’s an antique, he decided. It’s silver, too, so that means I could get a lot of money for it.

Carlos imagined how pleased Mama would be when she unwrapped her scarf and how Maria’s eyes would sparkle when she buried her face in the fuzzy lamb’s wool.

In the middle of his happy thoughts he heard Mr. Raincoat saying, “My wife bought these buttons when we were in Spain last year. As a surprise last Christmas, she sewed them on my favorite coat. Every time I button my coat I think of her. She died shortly after Christmas last year. Because of these buttons, I’ve had some interesting conversations and made many new friends. Her gift has helped me in my loneliness.”

Carlos’s throat tightened. Pulling the silver button out of his pocket, he strode toward the two men. He handed the button to Mr. Raincoat. “Merry Christmas, sir,” he said. Then he hurried down the street toward home.

One day, caught in an unexpected windstorm, they sliced over the corner of the state prison and made a panic landing just a little beyond, opening the rip panel just before touchdown. Tony says of that adventure, “We ripped before hitting and slid for 300 feet before the air emptied out. The basket was dragging along on its side. You just crouch down at times like that and pull the rip panel and try to get the thing open. You just close your eyes and hope it stops before you come to the barbed wire fence. Someone from the prison called the sheriff’s department, and they came and checked us out.”