Gospel Story Finder

Let me share a few experiences that have resulted from members and missionaries working together. An elder wrote:
“Because we were able to have lunch with an inactive family, they are now back into full activity in the Church. When we ate with them, they recognized the importance of prayer before each meal. A wonderful spirit prevails in their home now. They are not only active again, but we baptized a member of the family and later baptized their neighbors as well—all because they invited us to share their food.”

Sometimes cities and nations bear special labels of identity. Such was a cold and very old city in eastern Canada. The missionaries called it “Stony Kingston.” There had been but one convert to the Church in six years, even though missionaries had been continuously assigned there during the entire interval. No one baptized in Kingston. Just ask any missionary who labored there. Time in Kingston was marked on the calendar like days in prison. A missionary transfer to another place—any place—would be uppermost in thoughts, even in dreams.
While I was praying about and pondering this sad dilemma, for my responsibility then as a mission president required that I pray and ponder about such things, my wife called to my attention an excerpt from the book, A Child’s Story of the Prophet Brigham Young, by Deta Petersen Neeley (Salt Lake City: Deseret News Press, 1959, p. 36). She read aloud that Brigham Young entered Kingston, Ontario, on a cold and snow-filled day. He labored there about thirty days and baptized forty-five souls. Here was the answer. If the missionary Brigham Young could accomplish this harvest, so could the missionaries of today.
Without providing an explanation, I withdrew the missionaries from Kingston, that the cycle of defeat might be broken. Then the carefully circulated word: “Soon a new city will be opened for missionary work, even the city where Brigham Young proselyted and baptized forty-five persons in thirty days.” The missionaries speculated as to the location. Their weekly letters pleaded for the assignment to this Shangri-la. More time passed. Then four carefully selected missionaries—two of them new, two of them experienced—were chosen for this high adventure. The members of the small branch pledged their support. The missionaries pledged their lives. The Lord honored both.
In the space of three months, Kingston became the most productive city of the Canadian Mission. The grey limestone buildings still stood, the city had not altered its appearance, the population remained constant. The change was one of attitude. The label of doubt yielded to the label of faith.

A few years after her marriage to a fine young man in the temple, when they were concentrating on the activities of young married life and raising a family, one day a letter came from “Box B.” (In those days a letter from “Box B” in Salt Lake City was invariably a mission call.)
To their surprise they were called as a family to go to one of the far continents of the world to help open the land for missionary work. They served faithfully and well, and after several years they returned to their home, to set about again the responsibilities of raising their family.
Then this little woman focused in on a Monday morning. It could perhaps be called a blue washday Monday. There had been some irritation and a disagreement. Then some biting words between husband and wife. Interestingly enough, she couldn’t remember how it all started or what it was over. “But,” she said, “nothing would do but that I follow him to the gate, and as he walked up the street on his way to work I just had to call that last biting, spiteful remark after him.”
Then, as the tears began to flow, she told me of an accident that took place that day, and he never returned. “For fifty years,” she sobbed, “I’ve lived in hell knowing that the last words he heard from my lips were that biting, spiteful remark.”
This was the message to her young home teacher. She pressed it upon me with the responsibility never to forget it. I have profited greatly from it. I have come to know since that time that a couple can live together without one cross word ever passing between them.

Bathsheba had only two children of her own, so it was with great sadness that she heard that her eighteen-year-old son had been killed. Only two months later, her daughter married and moved away. Fortunately Bathsheba’s niece, Julina Lambson, lived with her. Together they made dolls and doll clothes for Julina, who was like a daughter to Bathsheba. After Julina married Joseph F. Smith (later the sixth President of the Church), she had ten children, who were like grandchildren to Bathsheba. They and her daughter’s fourteen children brought Bathsheba much joy. She knit them mittens, wove them dress fabric, and sewed them clothes. She hid these things in her flowered carpetbag when she went to visit them. After running to hug and kiss her, they eagerly waited to see what gifts were in the carpetbag for them.

Five years later, two young men in suits stood at Mark and Letitia Stoon’s front door. They wanted to come in and share a message about Christ, they said. “No, I don’t think so,” Mark began, but Letitia, who had come to see who was at the door, stopped him. “Wait, are you the people with the Book of Mormon?”
The young man smiled. “Yes, we are,” one of them answered.
“I have a friend, Amy Richards. She was my roommate at college for a couple of years. She gave me one of those before she left to be a missionary in Mexico.”
“Really? That’s great. Did you read it?”
“I read some of it. I thought it was interesting. Amy always seemed to care about it. And she still writes to me. She’s a good friend.”
“Do you mind if we come in and talk about it with you a little bit?”
“Not at all,” Letitia smiled. “Come on in.”

Some time ago I was at a gathering in Frankfurt with Church leaders from all over Europe, preparing for a large event, which we would later need to postpone to 2021 because of the pandemic.
At this meeting, Elder Massimo De Feo, counselor in the Area Presidency, concluded his teaching, and the entire meeting by showing a video, a piece of music with the Norwegian singer Sissel Kyrkjebø and The Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square called “Slow Down.” This is from a concert she held with The Tabernacle Choir in 20192, but I had simply not seen or heard this, even though I am also from Norway.
I was indeed not prepared for what I experienced when Elder de Feo started the video. Just seconds into the performance, it was as if I heard Him in a way that I perhaps never had heard Him before. My emotions completely overpowered me, and I cried like a child. I tried to not let my body shake too much and I looked down so it would not be apparent that I was weeping. I was afraid it would ruin the moment for all others present. The piece of music prompted me to experience God‘s grace, love, and forgiveness through the Savior Jesus Christ for me personally, that all my mistakes in life were mixed with all the demanding experiences life had offered, could be healed and taken away. I felt a glimpse of heaven, a taste of a celestial existence.
Later, I went online and read some of the comments others had left on the video. The following are two comments: “I will NEVER forget when I first saw this. I am autistic and have struggled with chronic depression and suicide ideation. The last few weeks before that concert were pure torture for me, and I was completely lost in what to do anymore. A few days before this song was performed, I asked a few friends of mine in the Choir for some support which they gave and when I first heard this song, I was drowning in tears. Truly the light will always come at the end of the tunnel. Thank you, Tabernacle Choir, my dear friends, for being such heroes in my life and such wonderful friends! I love you all forever!”
And the second comment: “I’m so glad they didn’t edit out the applause. That moment when she realizes that approximately twenty thousand people are giving her a standing ovation is magical.”
Dear friends, hearing Him is magical; it is a celestial experience and it touches our hearts, our spirits, and helps us continue our journey home to Him. That is worth fighting for. What can you do to hear Him more often?

One of my earliest recollections happened when I was about four years of age. Several blocks from our home was a little wooden grocery store. In the front of the store windows the proprietor had built a ledge about four inches wide, where at this time of the year he placed big juicy apples to attract those passing by. As I walked by the front of the store, I saw those beautiful red apples, and my mouth began to water. Without realizing what I was doing, I took one and continued walking up the street.

When I got a short distance away, I looked at what I had in my hand and suddenly realized I had stolen an apple. I began to run but made the mistake of running the wrong way.

On the downhill side of our front porch, there was latticework between the porch level and the ground level. A small door enabled us to store gardening tools under the porch and also gave us access to a convenient place to hide.

I ran all the way home, crawled under the porch, and sat there all afternoon shivering with fear—and eating the apple. I knew that I had done wrong, and I knew that my Heavenly Father knew that I had done wrong.

I have often reflected upon how I suffered from a remorse of conscience at such an early age. The Light of Christ, which lights every man that comes into the world, was evident that day, which in later years caused me to ponder about how the Light of Christ can influence our lives.

Mary Ann Young and her children were equally ill when Brigham left on the same mission, and their financial situation was equally precarious. One heartrending description describes her crossing the Mississippi River in the bitter of winter, thinly clad and shivering with cold, clutching her infant daughter as she went, going to the tithing office in Nauvoo to ask for a few potatoes. Then, still suffering with fever, she made her way with the baby back across the forbidding river, never to write a word to her husband about such difficulties.

Almost three decades have passed, but the day I met Atiati is still vivid in my memory. As a young missionary serving in Samoa, I had already learned much, but nothing had prepared me for Atiati.

My companion, Elder Matagi, and I had visited the village of Sasina many times but had enjoyed little success. As we entered the village this particular day, we saw no adults, only children. The children told us that most of the villagers had gone to the next village for a wedding. Atiati was the only adult around, we were told.

We had never heard of this man before, so we asked the children where Atiati lived. They gave us directions and then followed in a curious little group as we walked there.

Located on the outskirts of the village, Atiati’s fale (house) looked forbidding as we approached. It was a sunny day, but all the polas (shades) were drawn. When we asked the children why, they started to giggle. “Go in and find out for yourself,” they replied.

As we walked up to the fale, I called out. I heard a noise as though someone were in pain. One of the older boys darted forward, pulled aside a pola, and shouted, “Atiati, the Mormons want to see you.” The children then ran off quickly.

Reluctantly, Elder Matagi and I entered the fale. When my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I noticed a bed in one corner of the fale. On the bed lay an unshaven, unkempt, distorted figure. I felt so uneasy that I would have bolted out of the house except that Elder Matagi was holding tightly onto my arm. When we calmed down, we noticed that the figure, a man, was trying to speak. I moved closer, and he asked if we would raise the polas so he could see us in the light.

As light streamed into the fale, we could see that Atiati was crippled from the neck down, his limbs misshapen. At his invitation, we sat down and introduced ourselves. He asked us questions about the Church and our beliefs, and we taught him the first discussion. We ended with our testimonies and then prepared to leave.

I was touched when Atiati asked if we would pray with him before we left. What a pleasure to have someone ask us to pray! Humbled, Elder Matagi and I knelt and prayed. As we left, we promised Atiati that we would visit him again soon.

Heading home that evening, my companion and I discussed our new friend’s condition. Atiati had contracted polio 22 years earlier, and the disease had left him without the use of his arms and legs. The only part of his body he could move was his neck, and even that movement was limited. What if he were converted? Could he be baptized, being so completely disabled? We knew very little about assisting a man with disabilities, and we felt awkward. Finally we agreed that to avoid any embarrassment for Atiati, we would not visit him as missionaries; we would visit him only as friends.

The next day we set out again for Sasina. We had several people we wanted to see. However, when we arrived in the village, everyone seemed too busy to listen to us. After several hours of fruitless tracting, we decided to see Atiati before heading home.

Upon entering Atiati’s fale, I sensed a change immediately. Atiati was still lying in the same position in which he must have lain for the past 22 years, but there was something different. The Atiati with whom we had spoken the day before had no will to live. He had spoken in a whisper and had been unkempt in his appearance. The man now lying in the bed had a smile on his face. In a clear voice, he invited us in and asked us to sit next to his bed. He was clean-shaven, and his clothes were fresh.

Seeing our confused expressions, Atiati told us that he had paid someone to shave and bathe him. He had even had his bedding changed. “Today,” he said, “I begin to live again, because yesterday my prayers were answered and you came to me.”

Looking directly into my eyes, he continued. “I have waited for more than 20 years for someone to come and tell me that they have the true gospel of Christ. I want you to know that for over 20 years, I have done nothing but lie here and read the Bible. If what you tell me is really the true gospel of Christ, I will know and recognize it.”

Teaching Atiati was an experience I will never forget. He could quote many parts of the Bible almost word for word. His questions were sincere, and he understood concepts quickly. We talked about principles of the gospel in detail, including the priesthood. Atiati knew nothing of this power because the Samoan version of the Bible did not mention it. We showed him several references in the King James Version of the Bible that included the word priesthood, and then we pointed out to him that when the Bible was translated into Samoan there was no Samoan word for priesthood, so those who did the translation omitted the word and the meaning.

Soon, Atiati was converted. He wanted to be baptized. He wanted to receive the priesthood. Now it was up to us to baptize him.

A day was set, and the site for the baptism was selected. Atiati asked us to fast with him that he would have strength to endure the physical ordeal of the baptism. We asked the district leader and his companion to assist us. Some of the villagers were scornful of a church they did not yet understand, and some even ridiculed Atiati because of his disabilities. For these reasons, very few people in his village were told of the baptism; we did not want to attract a scoffing crowd.

The baptism was scheduled to take place at the chapel in Fagamalo, a village about eight miles distant. The baptismal font, located in front of the chapel in the middle of the churchyard, was open to the view of passersby. Anyone wishing to observe could do so from the road.

The day arrived. To avoid attracting a crowd, we left early to pick up Atiati. However, by the time we arrived, Atiati’s house was surrounded by people.

At first, I thought something terrible had happened to Atiati during the night. But when we got out of the car, someone cried, “Atiati, the Mormons are going to drown you.” Laughter filled the air. The villagers had somehow learned of Atiati’s baptism and had come to mock and ridicule him.

The laughter continued as we carried Atiati to the waiting car. We were discouraged, but Atiati’s faith didn’t falter. As we drove to Fagamalo, we all wanted to forget the incident in Sasina, and conversation was light. Upon our arrival, however, we were horrified to see the road packed with mocking people.

As we carried Atiati past the insulting crowd and into the chapel for the service, I fought feelings of anger and frustration. Our district leader, sensing our mood and the mood of those milling outside to view the spectacle, shared a stirring and spiritual testimony of the importance of baptism. When he finished, we picked up Atiati and carried him out to the font. When we emerged from the chapel, the taunting began again.

“Atiati, you foolish old man, don’t you know that the Mormons are going to drown you?”

“Hey, Atiati, can you swim?”

“Go ahead, Mormons, sprinkle him since he can’t be immersed!”

We all felt the forces of evil surround us as we prepared for this, one of the most sacred of all gospel ordinances. Atiati had asked me to baptize him. I entered the water and turned to assist the elders in carrying Atiati into the water. As I reached up toward him, he looked at us and said, “Please, put me down.”

My heart sank. I feared that Atiati, steadfast and unwavering throughout all the weeks of our sharing the gospel with him, was now giving up. We hesitated, and again he requested that we put him down.

The crowd was aware that something was happening, and their taunts and laughter increased. Our faith in Atiati wavered.

Atiati, guessing the reason for our hesitation, smiled and said, “This is the most important event in my life. I know without a doubt in my mind that this is the only way to eternal salvation. I will not be carried to my salvation! I will have faith in the Lord and his help.”

We lowered Atiati to the ground. Those who came to mock felt rewarded. To them, it appeared that Atiati was refusing baptism and that the Mormons had failed.

Atiati asked us to raise his hands so he could take hold of the railings. Exerting mighty effort, he attempted to pull himself up. The laughter faltered and began to die down. With his body shaking and perspiration breaking out on his forehead, Atiati stood. We all ached to reach out and assist him, but no one dared move. We were witnessing a miracle. A man who had lain in bed, twisted at every joint, unable to walk or even raise his arms, was now standing.

The crowd stood silent and astounded. No one moved or spoke.

Slowly, one trembling step at a time, Atiati descended into the water. Overwhelmed by what was happening, I couldn’t even remember the words to the baptismal prayer. It took a few reassuring words from Atiati before I regained my composure and was able to perform the sacred ordinance. After I baptized him, Atiati asked to be carried from the font to the chapel, where we confirmed him a member of the Church and bestowed on him the gift of the Holy Ghost.

Atiati continued to be an inspiration. With the use of a cane, he quickly regained the ability to walk unassisted. The closest branch of the Church was three miles up a steep hill in the village of Aopo. Atiati left home at 4:00 A.M. each Sunday in order to arrive before the 10:00 A.M. meeting began.

On my final visit with Atiati, I asked him how he had known he would be able to walk on the morning of his baptism. He said, “Elder Peters, the Bible teaches us that faith can move mountains. Since faith can move a stubborn mountain, I had no doubt in my mind that it would mend these limbs of mine.”

The cooperative effort of both priesthood and Relief Society in these councils continues to be a significant factor in successful ward and stake welfare services operations. Such cooperation was exemplified recently when a flood swept over many of the homes in an Ogden, Utah, stake. The stake president reported, “The stake Relief Society president didn’t wait for me to go to her. She came to me first.”
At his direction, she mobilized the sisters and obtained food for the victims and their rescuers. She quickly set up serving areas in mobile “kitchens” improvised in vans and station wagons, taking hot, home-cooked food to the actual work sites. As the flood waters receded, men and women worked together to clean muddy walls and floors.

I’m not sure why I strayed from the Church. Maybe it was because I grew up in the turbulent ’60s and took up the social causes of the day. Perhaps it was because I distanced myself from my extended family. Whatever the reason, I stopped going to church, and for many years I was less active.
I was attending a university in Idaho when a young Native American woman came to me and said, “I know you’re a member of my church. Do you want to go to church with me?”
I was shocked, to say the least. I wasn’t living the type of life Latter-day Saints are supposed to live. How did she know I was a member?
“Sure,” I replied. So Rosemary and I went to sacrament meeting together, and from there our friendship grew.
Just before summer break, Rosemary invited me to spend the summer with her family in Alaska. With no firm plans for the summer and wanting some adventure, I agreed.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when our airplane touched down on an emerald green island with peaks shrouded in fog. We were greeted by Rosemary’s three brothers in an old pickup truck. As we rumbled into town on the island’s only paved road, I suddenly realized I was in a special place.
I learned many things that summer. I learned how to slime fish at the salmon cannery. I learned to respect the ancient Native American customs and culture. I learned to love the sea as I explored the rugged, rocky, solitary beaches.
But most of all my heart began to be softened toward the Church as I was accepted by strangers who didn’t care what I looked like on the outside but cared deeply about who I was on the inside.
The branch on the island met at a deserted World War II Coast Guard base. As a handful of Native American Saints gathered on a Sunday morning, I was amazed to realize that the Church here was the same as the one I had known as a child. A feeling of comfort came to me, and I realized that even here, so far from home, I could worship as I had once been taught. I learned that no matter where one goes in the world the gospel is always the same and the Church is for everyone, regardless of culture or background.
I was forever altered by my stay on the island. When it was time to go back to school, I understood I had been given new insight into the meaning of life. My heart had been touched, and although I didn’t realize it at the time, I was beginning my long journey back to activity.
Over the years, Rosemary and I eventually lost contact. But in quiet times my mind still wanders back to that magical summer when a dear friend and a small group of Saints on a starkly beautiful island helped reawaken in me a remembrance of my gospel roots.

When I was elected junior class vice president of Edgemont High School, I wasn’t just surprised, I was in temporary shock. I had entered the race at the last minute for the experience. At least that’s what I had told myself. When I actually won, it seemed impossible, incredible! What seemed even more incredible was that I had apparently won by a landslide. At least that’s what Molly Pratt claimed.
“Boy, Mark, are you ever popular. You got almost every vote. I helped count them.”
I shook my head for the hundredth time. “I just can’t believe it. It’s incredible.”
“Not really,” Molly said smiling.
Although I couldn’t figure out how it had all happened, I did know one thing: I planned to do a good job—a great job. I didn’t want anyone to think he’d made a mistake by voting for Mark Bennion.
Just a few days after I’d talked to Molly, I was standing by my locker cleaning out some of the election handouts when I heard a soft voice behind me. I knew whose voice it was even before I turned around. Although she was in my history class, Rhonda Jackson had never spoken to me before, and I could feel my face getting warm. Up close she was even prettier than at a two-row distance. A sprinkle of small, delicate freckles peppered her nose, and her warm smile made me quiver.
“Oh, hi,” I said, trying to sound casual but sounding more as if I had just swallowed a baseball.
“We’re having a little get-together at my place tomorrow night,” she said. “We’re going to study for the history test. Well, just for a little while. Then we’ll have some fun. You know, talk a little, dance or something.” She touched my arm lightly with her forefinger. “Would you like to join our group?”
“I, uh, I can’t think of any reason why I couldn’t. Yes, sure.” I knew about her little group. Who didn’t? It was the elite group at Edgemont. The thought of being included seemed unreal. Just last week I had thought of myself as a Joe-average with just a few friends, like the guys I palled around with in the neighborhood. Now hundreds of students seemed to know me and find me important. And I had a chance, a real chance, to belong to the most exclusive group at school.
“Oh, by the way,” Rhonda smiled again and looked straight into my eyes. “We’ve got a copy of the test so you won’t need to bring your book. We’re just going to memorize the answers. We’ll probably be able to get copies of some of the other tests coming up, too.”
“Oh?” Her words hit me like a thud. “How did …”
“Don’t ask.” She put her hand over my mouth and giggled softly. “Let’s just say we have connections. See you tomorrow night.”
I watched her walk away. She turned and smiled, fully aware that I was staring after her. Wow, she was beautiful. I sighed. “Too bad.”
The next day I was prepared to tell Rhonda that I couldn’t make it to the get-together. I couldn’t afford to go and then make a fool of myself by being a goody-two-shoes and refusing to participate in the cheating. I wouldn’t say the word cheating or make any accusations. But when I saw her walking toward me with that appealing smile, the brave words began slipping from my mind. I wanted her to like me. Oh, how I wanted Rhonda Jackson to like me.
“You’re coming tonight, I hope,” she said, emphasizing the words “I hope.” There was a nice lilt to her voice.
“Well, I’d really like to, but …
“I’d really be disappointed if you didn’t come. You’ve just got to come. Everybody’s going to be there. Bill Spilker, Audrey Madsen, Nicki Simmons, and Frank, you know, Frank Lake. They’re all going to be there, and you really should get to know all of us better.” The names she had mentioned were familiar to me—familiar to everyone at Edgemont. They were the officers of the school, the “in-group” of in-groups.
“I have a little secret to tell you,” Rhonda began whispering in a confidential manner. “Frank said something about you.”
“What was that?” I asked, impressed that my name had even come up in conversation. Frank was the student-body vice president.
“He thinks if you play your cards right you could be president of the school.”
“Oh, sure.” I felt myself blushing in pleasure.
“You don’t know how popular you are, do you, Mark? You have a lot of power already. A little more, some friends in the right circles, for instance, could put the presidency right in your pocket.”
“You really think so?”
She looked down dramatically, then up into my eyes. “Believe me, I know so. See you tonight about eight or eight-thirty.”
As I watched her walk away I stood grinning. Again I sighed.
Come on, I thought. Me, president of the whole student body? Me, in Rhonda Jackson’s league? This is all too incredible. I shook my head. “Nah,” I said out loud. But then I began wondering. With some friends in the right circles, maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t so farfetched. I had won junior class vice president by a landslide. Maybe further miracles were also possible. I’ve been pretty naive, I thought. There are probably a lot of things going on in this school that I know nothing about. Everyone probably cheats once in a while to keep up the old grade-point average.
In my mind, I went over the people Rhonda had mentioned would be at her house. Slowly it began registering that everyone was matched up—except Rhonda. My face grew warm again. Could it be Rhonda had me in mind for herself? “Impossible!” My stomach did a backflip, and I walked to my locker to get rid of my history book. I wouldn’t need it tonight!
Later in the day, while I was on my way to study class, I passed my last year’s history classroom. Mr. Hancock was just closing the door to his room. As I nodded a hello, he motioned that he wanted to talk to me.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’m glad you walked by, Mark. An interesting thing happened that I wanted to tell you about. Can you come in for a minute?”
“Sure thing.” As I sat down by his desk, I looked around at the pictures of some of the presidents and other historical figures I could remember learning about in his class. My sophomore year in Mr. Hancock’s class had been quite the year for hero worship.
“I don’t know if this will mean anything to you,” he said. “But I thought you should know.”
“What’s up?” I asked. “What happened?” I was curious now.
“Well, a few days ago I gave a test, and my last question was ‘What great person, living or dead, would you most like to use as an example in your own life?’ I mostly got the kind of answers I was expecting: Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin; but a most peculiar thing happened.”
“Oh?”
“One of the boys put your name.”
“My name?” I was confused. “Why would he do that?”
“I guess he thinks you’re a ‘great man,’” he said, smiling. “Thought you might want to know.”
“That’s incredible,” I said, staring at him.
“Glad it makes a difference to you. You’ve been getting quite a bit of attention lately, and I wasn’t sure you’d care; but, well, I thought I’d tell you.”
I nodded and kept staring. Then I looked around the room and nodded again. There was a knot beginning to form in my stomach. “It makes a difference,” I said. “Thanks, Mr. Hancock.”
“Good to talk to you, Mark, and good luck to you.”
“Thanks again,” I said. I felt two feet taller as I headed toward the door. Without hesitation I turned down the hall in the direction of my locker. I had a history book to retrieve and some hard and fast studying to do. People were counting on me, wanted to be like me. There was no way I was going to let them down!

Third, we must live courageously in accordance with the light and testimony that we have received. We are promised, “He that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter until the perfect day.” It takes real effort and sacrifice to live the gospel courageously. For some years temple worship for the Saints who live near Manaus, Brazil, has meant traveling two days in a crowded riverboat on the Amazon River, followed by two days’ travel in buses through the hot tropics to the Recife Temple. Arriving worn out and tired, they would shower, dress appropriately, and immediately begin their temple worship. After several days of service to the Lord, they would make the long, difficult journey home. The words “but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” were beautifully reflected by their sacrificing actions.

Elder Adam S. Bennion once told me of an incident that occurred when he was visiting the Utah State Penitentiary. If you will, speculate for a moment how difficult it is to speak at such a place with six to eight hundred or a thousand inmates. You cannot address them, “My dear brethren, I am glad to see so many of you here this morning.” You cannot address them as fellow citizens because they are not while they are felons. About every other manner of address seems quite as inappropriate.
This great teacher stood before them and said, “Now, I am going to talk with you. I am going to ask you some questions, and I want you to get up and answer me. What was it that brought you here as inmates of this penitentiary? I am frequently a speaker at various gatherings of young people and at graduation exercises, and I would like you to tell me so that I can warn them.”
With the adroitness of a skilled teacher, he finally had them on their feet, and they began to answer. Do you know what they said, almost without exception? “We are here in the state penitentiary because there came a time in our lives when we were made to feel that nobody cared what happened to us.”
As a young boy I was out on a farm away from our home waiting for my father to finish his day’s work. I was playing about, manufacturing things to while away the time, when I saw over the fence in the neighbor’s yard some broken-down buildings with the sheds caving in and with rotting timbers. I imagined as a young boy that that might be a castle I should explore, so I went over to the fence and started to climb through.
Then I heard a voice as distinctly as you are hearing mine: “Harold, don’t go over there.” I looked in every direction to see where the speaker was. I wondered if it was my father, but he couldn’t see me; he was way up at the other end of the field. There was no one in sight. I realized that someone was warning me of an unseen danger—whether there was a nest of rattlesnakes, or whether the rotting timbers would fall on me and crush me, I don’t know. But from that time on, I accepted without question the fact that there are processes not known to man by which we can hear voices from the unseen world, by which we can have brought to us visions of eternity.

When I was young, my family was not active in the Church. My parents were good people, and they taught my brothers and me to make good choices. We always knew they loved us and wanted us to be happy.
In my home, my parents expected us to obey. Every Saturday was “work day.” Dad was a doctor, so he got up very early to go check on his patients. Before he left, he wrote a list of chores on our big chalkboard. Every week we tried to do the chores as fast as we could. But somehow the chores always lasted the whole day!
It wasn’t terrible, though. We liked spending time together. Mom made us lunch, and Dad came home to eat with us. We all took a break and sat outside together. We were happy when we obeyed.

Then one night Jim returned home from an institute class and asked me about several terms he had heard there. “Do you know what these mean?” He spoke them, and they bounced against the blank wall of my mind. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” I answered. As we talked, a suspicion arose in us, awesome, even terrible, that we did not fully understand the doctrines of this gospel we professed to believe in—that our knowledge was shallow and unenlightened.
We started a concentrated study program immediately. We went back to the beginning again to understand faith, baptism, repentance, and the Holy Ghost. We chose vacations with the express purpose of studying together, weeks or weekends, in quiet places where we could relax, research, pray, and ponder.
Growth and understanding came in sudden leaps, as well as line upon line. Our efforts again meant selflessness, sacrificing other interests occasionally, in order to keep pace with one another and to share what we learned with our family. To drag a foot was to slow the rest of us, and neither wanted to be guilty of that.
Today, gospel study and service continue to be a central activity between us, a privilege, we hold most precious. As we look back, our first successes seem small now. But we will always acknowledge a certain ray of light that came one late winter evening to two desperate, seeking newlyweds. The gospel has reaffirmed to us that selflessness and service are truly a vital part of our Heavenly Father’s formula for an enduring marriage.

Another time I was sent to speak to leaders of churches in the United States and ministers of those churches who had met in Minneapolis to deal with the problem of competition among churches.
When I arrived, I found that I was assigned to be a speaker. My subject was to be: Why there was a need for a restoration of the true Church through Joseph Smith. I was a last-minute substitute for Elder Neal A. Maxwell.
When I arrived in the city the night before the meetings and looked at the program, I called President Hinckley. I told him that the meetings were to last three days, that many talks were to be given at the same time, that the crowd could choose which one to attend. I told him that I thought if I told the truth, I feared that no one would come to my second session and that I might be coming home very quickly. I asked him what he thought I should do. He said, “Use your best judgment.”
I prayed through the night. Somewhere near dawn, I was sure I was to say about the Restoration not, “This is what we believe happened to Joseph Smith and why we believe it happened,” but, “This is what happened to Joseph Smith, and this is why the Lord did it.” In the nighttime I was given no assurance of the outcome, just a clear direction—go forward.
To my amazement, after my talk the ministers lined up to speak to me. Every one of them, one after another coming to me, told essentially the same story. Each of them had met a member of the Church somewhere in their lives that they admired. Many of them said that they lived in a community where the stake president had come to the aid of not just his members but of the community in a disaster. They asked if I could take back their greeting and their thanks to people I not only didn’t know but had no hope of ever meeting.
By the end of the three days of meetings, larger and larger crowds were coming to hear the message of the Restoration of the gospel and the true Church of Jesus Christ not because they believed the message but because they had seen goodness in people’s lives—the fruits of that restoration.

I recall an experience I had on one occasion as a young man in the military service. I thought about it a few years ago when some of our military men returned from overseas. I’d been away from home for about four years. We were given points. You got a point for every month you’d been overseas, a point for the number of battles you had been in, and so on, and high-point man went back to the United States first.

Of course, there were millions of men to be brought back and shipping was strained, so there was nothing more important than to look at the bulletin board and see the points accumulate. At once you were earning more, and someday you got to the point where you knew the next ship in would be the one that would take you home. I saw that on the bulletin board and thanked the Lord that I could go home finally.

It was the day that my commanding officer called me in and told me we were opening a new flight at Osaka and that I was to be the operations officer. Well, I expressed myself to him. I might have been court-martialed for what I said. I think I’ll even admit I used a few scriptural terms out of context. He listened very patiently, and when it was all over with he said, “Well, that’s all right, Packer, you’re still going.” And so it was.

That afternoon, on a C-47, with all my gear and the others who’d been assigned, I sat bitterly grumbling over the fact that it would take months again, that it wouldn’t be just an assignment of a week or two. Then I challenged the Lord, saying, “Why is it?” I had never wanted anything so much as I wanted to be home. I’d prayed for it, I’d tried to earn it, I’d tried to deserve it, I’d tried to behave myself, and then when it was within grasp, the very thing I wanted most was denied me.

Somehow, I don’t remember how, I took hold of myself; but looking back now, I can say the Lord was answering my prayers then. There came from that experience, from things that happened in those few months, lessons essential to the preparation for the calling that is now mine. I couldn’t see that far ahead, but by those tests or trials that we receive, ofttimes the Lord will prepare for us what He has in mind.

When I was 10 years old, my mother had a massive heart attack. She spent many weeks in the hospital fighting for her life.
During this time, my Primary teacher, Sister Ellen Johnson, came to my home once a week to see me. I had just started attending Primary and had limited understanding of the gospel. Every week Sister Johnson bore her testimony to me and talked about prayer. She taught me that if I prayed, Heavenly Father would answer.
After several weeks, Mom’s health deteriorated further. She had a damaged heart valve that needed repair. Her doctor said she would die without experimental heart surgery. Her chances of recovery, however, were only about 50/50.
Open-heart surgery was new and risky in the early 1960s. Surgeons planned to cut Mom open from her chest to her backbone and then split her rib cage to access her heart. Many patients did not survive the surgery. I was upset and afraid my mother would die.
Dad was mostly at work or at the hospital with Mom. My older sister, Pam, took care of my brother and me. At night, I felt lonely and afraid, but I thought about what Sister Johnson had been teaching me about prayer. I often knelt by my bed and cried, pleading with Heavenly Father to spare Mom’s life.
During one such crying prayer, a great peace came over me and I stopped crying. I felt that everything was going to be OK. I felt reassured that my mother would live to see me grown and that I need not worry. I didn’t hear a voice or see a vision, but I had quiet, peaceful feelings. I did not doubt them. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer, and I knew it.
Mom survived the surgery. She was weak and sickly most of her life, but Heavenly Father had answered my prayers and spared her life. She lived to see me grow up, marry, and have children.

The gospel principle of love suggests action in the injunction to “love one another.” (John 13:34.) When these words are translated into a determined effort to change a behavior that brings hurt or embarrassment or sorrow to one who loves you, it becomes a key to solving a family problem. These few lines, written by a wife to her husband, underscore the need to make a principle more than a word:
Valentine’s Day 1951
Dear Bill,
I feel I love you more today than I have in all our twenty-three years together. Although you have always told me of your affection, nothing has so convinced me that you really care as your recent preparation to take our family to the temple.
In spite of the exciting things we have done together, there has always been, for me, a sadness, a kind of lingering unhappiness, because we weren’t really one. I am filled now with great expectation and joy when I think of the closeness we can have in studying the gospel together, in sharing the same friends, and, above all, the eternities that are now possible for us with our children and their children and theirs.
My admiration for you has grown as I have seen you succeed in the difficult struggle to give up enslaving habits that had become so much a part of you.
Your sons, your daughters, and I are not only extremely proud, but deeply grateful too.
Love,
Ellen