Gospel Story Finder

I had always considered myself to be a “good listener” until that night. Being raised in the middle of a large family had forced me to do my share of listening just to keep the noise level low in my home. But I didn’t realize, until that night, that listening required more of me than just being quiet. I didn’t realize, until that night, how desperately someone could need to be listened to.
It had been a long day. In order for me to stay in school at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, I had to work part-time at night and go to school and study during the day. I was feeling tired and a little sorry for myself as I walked into the cafeteria late that night after a particularly hard day. The cafeteria was almost empty at that late hour.
I picked up my dinner tray and turned around to find a table. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a girl sitting alone at one of the tables. She was staring at her food with her head bowed. A large backpack, books, and papers were scattered all over the table where she was sitting. By all appearances, she obviously wanted to be left alone. There were plenty of empty tables and I started to walk toward one of them to sit down.
Suddenly I felt impressed to sit down next to the girl that I had noticed. Even though I was usually reserved, I found myself walking toward her table. I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if I could sit next to her.
She silently and reluctantly agreed as she began to move her books and papers off the table. Her appearance and posture and manner all told me that she wanted to be left alone, and I wondered why I was being so intrusive.
Then we started to talk, slowly and cautiously at first. I felt strangely as if she were a lifetime friend of mine that I hadn’t seen for a long time, and I wanted to know all about her and what was happening to her. We both spoke freely, maybe even more freely than real friends because we had no images to maintain and no reputations to uphold.
The young girl told me about some extremely depressing things that were happening in her life at that time. We talked for hours. Then the tears came.
After several hours had gone by, she looked at me and said, “Tonight I was sitting here alone again, and I felt and really believed that I didn’t have a friend in this whole world. I couldn’t think of even one person that cared about me. I was sitting here thinking how I could end my life when you walked up and asked me if you could sit next to me. You’ll never know what you’ve done for me tonight. I’ve only known you for a few hours, but I know that you are my friend and that you care about me. There must still be a God that cares for me if you can care for me.”
Later we embraced and walked away in separate directions. I turned, suddenly remembering that I didn’t even know her name. But she had disappeared into the night.
As I walked toward home, I was feeling pretty good about myself knowing that I had heeded the impression to sit next to the girl. My problems seemed pretty small compared to hers.
Then suddenly I remembered all the times I had been similarly impressed to speak to someone, to spend time with someone, to telephone someone or to say an encouraging word to someone. I remembered the excuses of not wanting to be too presumptuous, or being too tired or worried about my own problems, or all the millions of reasons I had used for not heeding the promptings that I often received.
I suddenly wondered how many of those people I had neglected had needs as desperate as those of the young girl that I had just talked to.
Never before had I realized that to truly be a “good listener” I had to first learn to listen to the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. Alone, without the Spirit, I was unable to discern the real needs of the people around me. With the Spirit, I could listen with my heart as well as my mind.
I will probably never see that girl again, but I hope I will never again fail to listen to the impressions that the Spirit gives me.

As a college student, I was taking a class in a large amphitheater classroom. Entering the classroom on one of those first days of the semester, I sat in the very back, far from the professor. As he began writing on the blackboard, and as those around me began taking notes, I realized that I could not see what they could see on the chalkboard. Up until that very moment I had not imagined that I needed glasses. I had not anticipated glasses in my future.
But that experience led me to the optometrist and to a pair of glasses. Suddenly my world improved immensely. I could see many things that I had not been seeing for some time. The world became much more alive for me. I remember asking myself, “Why didn’t I realize before that I needed glasses? How could I have not known that I was not seeing?”

Harold B. Lee once visited Tokyo, Japan, to speak at a conference for soldiers. After the meeting, a man came up to shake his hand.
Soldier: I am not a member of the Church, but I understand that you are going to be in the Philippines in a few weeks. I’ll be there with the U.S. Seventh Fleet, and I hope to be able to tell you then that I have been baptized.
Harold: I hope so, too!
Weeks went by, and Elder Lee traveled to the Philippines to give another fireside. He noticed that the man he had met in Tokyo was sitting on the front row.
Harold: I remember you! Have you been baptized?
Soldier: Yes. I can’t wait to go home and tell my wife that I will live righteously from now on. You see, when we met in Japan, my arm was hurting me terribly. After I shook your hand, the throbbing stopped. I took my arm out of the sling. When I went back to the ship, I didn’t need any treatment. The infection was gone. I know that you had the Lord’s power to heal me.
Years later, Elder Lee traveled to Virginia to organize a new stake. The man he had healed sat on the front row with his beautiful wife. That day the man was sustained to serve in his elders quorum presidency.
In a speech to Ricks College students, President Lee told this story and taught that God can heal us, both by taking away illness and by allowing us to repent.
President Lee: There is a power beyond the sight of man that heals not only sick bodies but sick souls. The greatest miracle we see is the healing of sick souls.

Finally, let’s look at maintaining gratitude in physical trials. Elder Uchtdorf said, “True gratitude . . . comes from acknowledging that we do not always understand the trials of life but trusting that one day we will.” [18] Danny Seplak is my husband’s cousin. He is an example in our family of a strong spirit. While serving as a missionary he was diagnosed with an aggressive form of bone cancer. Treatment gained him two more years, but the cancer eventually overtook him. Before he passed in June 2000, he drafted the following:

I’m not angry [and don’t] feel cheated in getting this disease. . . . I’ve realized that the important things in life [are] to enjoy my family, my friends, my time, and to find meaning and purpose in my life. . . . Some of the most pleasant and happy moments occur when we just take the time to reflect on life and be grateful. . . . I do have faith in a loving God. I have faith that He cares about our welfare and that He has a plan for us.

When I was assigned to home teach a sister whom I shall call Ruth Elliott, she was new in the ward. I wanted to learn a little about her before I first called at her home, so I talked with her former bishop, with her daughter who lived in another ward, and with others who knew her.
Sister Elliott lived alone in a small apartment that was furnished with a broken-down upholstered chair. She spent most of her time in that chair—or in bed. She seldom left the apartment and had no outside interests.
Sister Elliott smoked and depended heavily on medications. Through the years her doctors had prescribed a number of medicines, and she continued to take many of them. Her appearance, manner, and conversation reflected a bitter attitude toward her life and circumstances. She harbored deep resentment toward her father and others, and an unfortunate incident with a Church member had wounded her deeply. I prayed fervently to know how best to serve this troubled woman.
Shortly after I had been called as her home teacher, an opportunity came. Her landlady was having the apartment painted, and she had asked Sister Elliott to move her furniture outside before the work could be done. Our ward’s high priest group leader and I moved the furniture out and then back in after the paint had dried.
Once, when Sister Elliott was out of town, my wife, Virginia, and I decided to repair the broken-down chair. It had a good frame but needed new padding and fabric. Virginia did an excellent upholstering job on the chair, and we had it back in the apartment before Sister Elliott returned from her trip.
My junior companion and I visited sister Elliott regularly, and Virginia and I also went often to visit, talk about the gospel, and offer a prayer. Gradually, she began to accept and return our friendship, and we became closely involved in each other’s lives.
One spring, when Sister Elliott had to undergo surgery, Virginia and I spent many hours with her. We kept in touch daily, taking her to church, to the doctor’s office, and to the store, and she would telephone us each night before going to bed. She was lonely and needed someone to listen to her.
We were out of town when Sister Elliott had the surgery, but we telephoned her at the hospital and offered words of encouragement. She had received a priesthood blessing and felt that the Lord would watch over her. After her operation, she determined to stop smoking. Before her grandson had left for his mission, he had asked her to give up this habit—and she was able to accomplish the task through the Lord’s help and through her own strong desire to please her grandson.
As the months passed, Sister Elliott made new friends and found outside interests. Her church attendance improved, and she began to pay tithing. At first she did not want to go to tithing settlement, but I asked her to be ready when I stopped to give her a ride to the meetinghouse. Afterward, she radiated happiness. She had paid a full tithing for the first time in her life.
By now, her attitude toward life had changed dramatically. The bitterness was gone, replaced by a humble and contrite spirit. She forgave those who had offended her. And as she increased her tolerance and love for her children, they gradually changed their attitude and behavior toward her.
Sister Elliott eventually moved to a new apartment, furnished it attractively, and made more friends. A new physician helped her overcome her dependency on medication. She learned to rely on the Lord and on her own strength to cope with problems.
The blessings that have come to the “new” Sister Elliott have been many, including participation in the sacred temple ceremonies with her family and friends. I am deeply grateful for my opportunity to serve as her home teacher. Indeed, I loved the “old” Sister Elliott as much as the “new” Sister Elliott—but now I don’t need to feel sad because of her dreary life. Today her life is full and pleasant, enriched by the blessings of gospel living.

Every Sunday night my dad and I sit down together and work on my goals in my Faith in God booklet. One of the goals I wanted to complete for developing talents was to paint a picture of Christ.
After I made the goal, a friend of mine from school invited me to her first communion. The first communion is a very special occasion in the Catholic Church. It is the first time someone can partake of the sacrament. My friend had done a lot to prepare for her first communion, and I knew it was very important to her.
I decided to paint the picture of Christ to give to her as a present. I worked very hard on my painting. After I finished it, I bought a nice frame to put it in and gave it to my friend. She was very grateful for it. It made me feel good inside to give it to her and to be part of her special day.

Brother Renzo Molly Barrios Matias, of Guatemala, learned the power of using scripture study to receive personal revelation for his own life.

“After Hurricane Mitch passed through Central America in 2001 and left everything in desolation, I had many questions,” he says. “Seeking answers, I went to a friend I greatly respect. He said, ‘Read the scriptures. You will find the best answers to your questions in them.’

“This revolutionized my life,” says Brother Matias. “After studying the scriptures for quite a long time, I began to find answers to my questions. I was able to see that my life did have meaning. It was then that I decided to serve a full-time mission.”

Soon Elder Matias was serving in the Honduras Tegucigalpa Mission, helping others discover the power of scripture study.

My thoughts turned also to my righteous parents, who raised me in the principles of the gospel. I was reminded in particular of a moment when my loving mother knelt with me to pray by my bedside when I was around 10 years of age. She must have felt that if my prayers were going to reach my Father in Heaven, they would need to improve. So she said, “I will pray first, and after my prayer, you pray.” She continued this pattern for many nights, until she was confident I had learned by principle and by practice how to speak to Heavenly Father. I will be forever grateful to her for teaching me to pray, for I learned that my Heavenly Father hears my prayers and answers them.

The speaker that day, Edmond Lee, is a successful entrepreneur and the fourth of 13 children. He related the following story:
In the late 1960s Dad supported our family by working full-time at Boeing during the daytime and delivering newspapers in the early morning. He would rise at 3:45 a.m. to work the paper routes, return at 5:45, eat a quick breakfast, then drive us to early-morning seminary on his way to work. There was little time for rest. In addition to overtime work and the day-to-day demands as father of a large family, he spent two evenings per week serving as a stake missionary.
Dad’s modest income somehow met the family’s needs. However, by 1969, with three children serving full-time missions, two in college, and eight to follow, additional income was needed.
About this time there was advertised an opening for a part-time janitor position at the institute of religion building. It required evening work three nights per week. The Seattle economy was slow, so there were numerous applicants, all waiting in line for a chance at the job. Dad didn’t feel confident in his chances.
However, during his interview the institute director didn’t ask the typical questions. Instead he simply asked Dad to explain the circumstances of his life.
Upon hearing of the 13 children, the paper routes, the church service, and the added financial obligations of missions and college, to Dad’s great surprise, he was offered the job on the spot.
Additionally, the institute director made special arrangements to make the job a family affair. Instead of Dad toiling alone late in the evening, we would often work there as a family and do the job in an hour or less. Not only did it take less time, but the chance to work together served to teach us responsibility and to strengthen our family.
This institute director was none other than Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, now a current member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and former president of Brigham Young University.

Traveling without purse or scrip, Brigham found that $13.50 given them by the Saints and kept in his trunk became like the Old Testament widow’s cruse of oil and barrel of flour that were continually replenished; drawn from again and again, it provided $87 worth of fares and meals as they traveled by stage across Indiana and Ohio to Kirtland. There they found John Taylor; he had left earlier while in good health but had been stricken enroute by a near fatal illness from which he was just then recovering. Brigham, showing the expanding dimensions of his spiritual leadership, met with the apostles in the temple where he anointed and blessed Elder Taylor and washed the apostles’ feet.25

In addresses to Church members, Elder Uchtdorf has stressed the importance of knowing one’s eternal destination and always seeking to be on the right path. He recalled one flight when, as an airline captain, he was crossing the Atlantic in a Boeing 747 with 386 passengers on board. At one point he saw the contrails of two other jetliners ahead. Soon he was flying directly between the two jetliners, with one 2,000 feet (600 meters) above him and the other 2,000 feet below. “As we slowly overtook those beautiful aircraft,” he recalled, “my copilot mentioned how remarkable it was that because of true and accurate information entered into the navigation units at the start of our flights, all three jets were precisely on the same track, separated only by altitude. And we would continue to be so if the crews used identical navigational points leading to the same destination.

“As I have contemplated the truth of this statement and its application to our lives,” he continued, “I arrived at the question: Do we all know our destination, and are we on the right track? … Heavenly Father has prepared a flight plan for us that will lead us back to him” (“Happy Landing,” New Era, Mar. 1995, 4).

Following the children’s baptisms, we continued to meet frequently in the family’s home. We held family home evenings, shared scriptures and uplifting experiences, and introduced them to many ward members and helped them to get integrated into the ward. However, despite the continued gospel experiences and the regular Sunday attendance of the children and their mother, Kuk-Won and Mi-Jung were no closer to setting their own baptismal date. We just continued to love them and support them the best we knew how.
As the months went by, Elder Ricks was transferred, and my new companion, Elder Minor, was an elder straight from the missionary training center. He was full of faith, energy, and excitement, and I honestly had a difficult time keeping up with him! After meeting with Kuk-Won and Mi-Jung on a few occasions, Elder Minor approached me and asked whether or not my previous companion and I had fasted with them. We had not. In fact, I was a bit embarrassed to admit that the thought had not even occurred to me! So we met with this loving family and suggested a fast. I was amazed to discover that after learning of fasting from us, they had already been periodically fasting on their own, both for the health of their son and for a change in work schedule that would allow Kuk-Won to attend church with his family. We asked if we might join them in their family fast, and soon their faithful prayers were answered: Kuk-Won’s work schedule was changed. While we thought this was the only thing keeping them from getting baptized, Mi-Jung still did not feel ready to get baptized.
On one visit to their home, Elder Minor had another inspired idea. After we shared a scripture message, he pulled out his pocket-sized hymnbook and asked if we could sing with them. Though we had sung together with their family on previous occasions, I had never seen Mi-Jung join in the singing and just assumed that she did not like singing or was uncomfortable because the music was new to her. Elder Minor asked her if she had a favorite hymn, and to my astonishment, she got choked up and replied that she loved singing hymns and that ever since she was a little girl, her favorite hymn had been “I Need the Every Hour” (Hymns, no. 98). We asked if she would sing that hymn with us, and she tearfully agreed. Soon we were singing a four-part harmony, with Kuk-Won and his children singing the melody, Mi-Jung singing alto, Elder Minor singing tenor, and me singing bass.
The Spirit was as strong in the room as we had ever felt. As we sang the third verse, emotion overcame her, and her voice dropped out as we continued:
I need thee every hour,
In joy or pain.
Come quickly and abide,
Or life is vain.
I need thee, oh, I need thee;
Ev’ry hour I need thee!
Oh, bless me now, my Savior;
I come to thee!
As we completed the fourth and final verse, she was sobbing.
Illustration by Julia Yellow
As her husband tried to comfort her, she was eventually able to compose herself. She looked me right in the eyes and said, “I need to get baptized.”
The baptismal service for Kong Kuk-Won and Pak Mi-Jung that following Sunday afternoon was a truly joyous occasion! Their children, Sung-Gyun and Su-Jin, participated in the program, and numerous local members attended to show their support for the newest convert family in their ward. And Elder Minor and I provided a special musical number: “I Need Thee Every Hour.”
Eventually I finished my mission and returned home. After a year at Brigham Young University, I returned to South Korea for a summer internship, and each weekend I made a point of visiting the many special friends and families I had met while serving on my mission. After a few weeks, I made my way back to meet with this special family. Upon arriving at their home, I noticed that someone was missing—their son, Sung-Gyun. With tears in her eyes, Mi-Jung broke the news to me: their son’s cancer had come out of remission, and at age 14 he had lost the battle.
As I tried to express my heartfelt condolences to their family and also process the deep sorrow and pain I was feeling, Kuk-Won assured me that they knew everything would be OK. They loved the gospel, attended church faithfully, and looked forward to the day when their family might be sealed together for eternity in the Seoul Korea Temple. Despite the heartache and loss they felt, they knew they would again see Sung-Gyun and be reunited. Mi-Jung also told me that singing hymns daily helped her and her family find the strength to cope with the loss of her beloved son and feel the accompanying peace the Spirit brings.
As I left their home that evening, I reflected again on the words of Mi-Jung’s favorite hymn. I am grateful that Heavenly Father blessed this amazing family with peace after Sung-Gyun’s passing, and I am especially grateful for the Spirit’s role in Mi-Jung’s personal conversion and for the faith and hope their family held for the eternal blessings of the temple.

Two years before, when Jeanette and I were at girls’ camp, a testimony meeting was planned for the last night. When we were leaving our cabin for the bonfire, I told Jeanette, “When this night is over, I think I’ll know for sure the Church is true.” But even after testimony meeting I didn’t, not for sure. Not for sure—that was the problem.

That night after the meeting we told ghost stories. One of the older girls told about a story this German guy wrote. It was all about Christ coming back at the end of the world, but instead of saving everybody and taking them to heaven, he tells everyone the resurrection is called off—just a fake. Then everything starts falling apart and flying every which way. The whole universe comes apart at the seams. I had nightmares about that story. It still makes me shudder.

Equally unwelcome was the “shower” that fell on the little town of Coonamble, Australia. People dashed for cover and shops closed hurriedly as millions of beetles fell from the sky. Householders worked at top speed trying to make doors and windows beetle-proof, but it was practically impossible to keep the invaders at bay. It was two days before life in the town even began to return to normal and much longer before the beetles were completely cleared from pantries, cupboards, bedrooms, and attics.

Our family were the only Latter-day Saints in our town of 60,000 people. We did our best to live the gospel. I felt the Spirit often, and I never really doubted that the Church was true. But while serving in the military, I felt a strong desire to know for myself that the Book of Mormon is true. So I went to a private place and did just as the Book of Mormon counsels (see Moroni 10:4–5). I asked God. And I received a witness—a spiritual feeling of warmth, comfort, peace, and great happiness that I shall never forget.

One of the most famous runs that Steve Young made with the 49ers was in the game where he lost his helmet. Did he stop to pick it up? No, he kept running down field full bore, leaving himself open to serious injury. Steve had a couple of little chinks in his football armor. One, he didn’t appreciate the wisdom of the slide, often playing like a blocker—taking on linebackers and trying to flatten them. And sometimes—actually a lot of times—his shield, his pocket, was shattered, and he was flattened by a 300-pound lineman. Fortunately Steve had good people around him to help him back up, to help him replace his chinks, to help him evaluate and repair his body, and to help him make wise decisions—like that of retiring. We all need our stripling warriors—family, friends, and leaders who have high values, who are loyal and fearless in their righteous desires, who know truth, and who have immense faith. I hope we can all be stripling warriors for others as they discover the cracks in their armor.

Today he still manages to see the lighter side of things. When I started bringing home fairly respectable grades from my English courses at BYU, dad asked me to tell my professors who my father was. I looked at him, shocked.
“Dad,” I said, “I don’t want to win points that way.”
“You?” He looked at me in surprise. “Look, I wasn’t talking about you. I’m the one who needs to earn points. We football players can stand some good publicity in the English department.”
The fact of the matter is, both dad and mom have always encouraged my brothers and me to work hard in school, to be teachable. Dad demonstrated his own enthusiasm for learning in the summer of 1978 by earning a doctorate in education from Brigham Young University.
My father’s commitment to his family and friends, to his players and his church, is another quality I admire. As my brothers and I were growing up, dad and mom made it a point to attend the activities we were involved with, no matter how marginally. The summer after my senior year in high school, I was cast as a servant in a local production of King Lear. Since I didn’t have a single line in the play and spent more time in the wings handling props than I did on stage, I told dad he didn’t have to come watch me, particularly since mom was out of town and wouldn’t be able to accompany him. Opening night, however, found dad sitting front and center, and he stayed there the entire four hours although I was on the stage for less than three minutes. Now that’s commitment.
This quality of commitment shines in other facets of his life. It is the basis of his relationship with players. One of the ways he demonstrates his commitment to players is by demanding that they give their best on and off the field. He knows, I suppose, that self-respect is attained by giving 100 percent over and over again. Commitment also characterizes his involvement in the Church. A home teacher and a priests quorum adviser, he has lately accepted the additional responsibility and pleasure of speaking to youth groups everywhere from Los Angeles, California, to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
In the final analysis, however, it is his kindness that makes dad a special man, a special parent. I’ve seen him engaged in quiet deeds of goodness from the time I was small: playing catch with a seven-year-old neighborhood girl, writing a personal letter of encouragement to a sixth-grade boy, inviting a nephew to eat with him at the training table. Dad is a man with a great gift for humble acts of kindness. I’ll never forget one evening when this gift made the difference to me. When I was a young girl, our ward used to sponsor an event known as the daddy-daughter dinner date. Now this was an occasion that I looked forward to with a good deal of excitement. Being proud of my father, I naturally seized any opportunity to show him off and the daddy-daughter dinner date seemed like the ideal occasion to do so. After weeks of anticipation, we Primary girls made and delivered invitations to our fathers. I watched eagerly as dad read mine. He looked at the flimsy construction paper I had given him, and then he looked at me.
“I’m sorry, honey, but I’m going to be out of town that week. There’s nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” I tried hard not to show my disappointment. I even opened my eyes wide so that the tears I felt coming would dry before they had a chance to spill down my face. “Well, that’s okay.”
He gave me an affectionate hug. Looking back on it now, I realize that he was as unhappy about the whole state of affairs as I was.
During the week before the daddy-daughter dinner date, my parents made arrangements with our bishop to be my special escort. The day before the event, my father left town after apologizing once again for having to leave.
The day of the dinner date arrived quickly. On the way home from school, listening to my friends chatter excitedly about the evening’s planned activities, I made a silent decision not to go; as nice as the bishop was, I preferred to stay home and feel sorry for myself. When I shuffled into the house, prepared to tell my mother that the whole thing was off, I found a surprise waiting for me in the living room: my father was sitting by himself on the sofa.
“Well,” he said, “is the date still on?”
It wasn’t until some years later that I learned just what my father’s act of kindness cost him in terms of time and money. In addition to losing one day of valuable recruiting time, dad had to purchase another round-trip ticket so that he could fly out once again on the following morning. That night, though, I had no idea of the sacrifice he had made to be my escort—I was too busy having the best time of my life.
No wonder I’ve always considered myself the luckiest girl around.

A few weeks ago while in Idaho reorganizing a stake presidency, I not only met some outstanding priesthood leaders and set three of them apart as a new stake presidency, but I also met a very special young lady I will not soon forget. The newly called presidency, one of whom was serving as a bishop at the time, asked if I could interview a prospective bishop so if he were cleared he could be installed the following Sunday after conference. The appointment was made. I sat in a private office with a well-groomed, attractive couple.
After a few words of greeting and introductions, I looked at her and said, “Tell me about your husband.” She hesitated and finally said, “Elder Ashton, I really don’t know him very well.” Since this was a most unusual response, I promptly said, “Please tell me about that.” She responded with, “We have only been married three weeks.”
This young couple, both in their early thirties, he an attorney and she a schoolteacher by profession, were still honeymooning, and their deep, newly found love for each other was most evident. When I said, “I want to talk to the two of you about your husband becoming a bishop,” she said, “Some nights ago I had a dream indicating Randy would be a bishop. I just hoped it wouldn’t come too soon.” She continued with, “Even though we are newlyweds [and incidentally, they told me the reason they had waited until their thirties to marry was because they had spent a long time finding each other] if you are impressed to call Randy to be a bishop, he will be a good one, and I will help him.”
What a beautiful attitude. What sustaining support. Her commitment to her husband, Church, and self was made long before I asked my questions. She had resolved to choose the good part, reminding me of the meaningful statement made about Mary in Luke 10:42: “One thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.”

When I was young, my mother taught me how to pray, and I would attend church with her every Sunday. My sister and brother were members of the choir at the local parish church in Hertfordshire, England, and it seemed natural to follow their example and attend.
Because I was only eight years old, I wasn’t required to attend communion service early on Sunday mornings. I would sleep in but eventually would get up and cycle to the main morning service.
In the middle of the winter of 1952, with a foot of fresh snow on the ground outside and frost on the inside of my bedroom windows, I snuggled down in bed, determined not to go to church that Sunday.
My mother called for me to get up, but I pretended to be asleep. Then I could hear her footsteps as she started to climb the stairs. I called out, “It’s all right. I’m getting up.”
But then I said under my breath, “What’s the point? There is no such person named Jesus Christ anyway.” Immediately a voice came into my head and said to me, “There is, and you will serve me one day.” The voice seemed so natural, as if a friend were talking to me. The years went by, however, and I forgot about the experience.
I grew up, joined the Royal Navy, and after nine years began working for a fire-protection company. One evening after work, I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, two sister missionaries introduced themselves. I was tired, dirty, and hungry, so I suggested that they come back later in the evening or some other time.
To my surprise they returned an hour later. I invited them in. As soon as they started talking, I knew there was something special about their message. My home felt different, and I knew it emanated from these two sisters.
They gave me the first discussion that night and the second discussion the following night. Two elders then came every night until I had received all the discussions. I began reading the Book of Mormon and praying. Getting down on my knees to pray for the first time in 20 years was the most spiritual experience I had had in my life.
I made the commitment to be baptized a week after finishing the discussions. After my baptism, Elder Ross and Elder Fullerger laid their hands on my head to give me the gift of the Holy Ghost. As soon as their hands touched my head, my experience with the Spirit 20 years before came back to me. Something precious that had been preserved within me—but had been suppressed by all the mistakes I had made in life—was spiritually reunited with my memory. I was overwhelmed to think that I meant so much to the Savior that He had not forgotten me.
I’m grateful to the missionaries who taught me the gospel and to the members of my first ward who nourished me. Most of all, I’m grateful to my Savior, whose existence I had once doubted but whom I now gratefully serve.

The cry of a newborn infant pierced Sarah’s sleep. Quickly she sat up on her sleeping mat and looked across the dimly lit room where she saw the midwife gently rubbing a tiny baby with oil and salt.
“Such a shame! Another false treasure,” the woman muttered.
“I hope my husband will not be too disappointed,” Sarah’s mother said as she watched the midwife wrap the baby in swaddling clothes.
Sarah knew what a false treasure was. After all, wasn’t she one herself? It was the name Jewish people gave to girl babies. If Sarah’s new little sister had been a boy, her family and friends would have celebrated for seven days. But it wasn’t to be. Sarah’s heart felt so heavy that she didn’t want to remain in the one-room house any longer. She slipped on her robe and sandals and tiptoed to her mother’s side.
“It’s almost dawn,” she whispered. “May I meet Father’s boat and tell him about the baby?”
“Perhaps you should,” Mother said with a tired smile. “I think he would like to hear it from you.”
Sarah looked down at the baby who was resting in her mother’s arms. Her tiny head was covered with black hair, and her dark eyes blinked solemnly.
“She’s very beautiful. Will you tell your father that?” Mother asked.
“Oh, yes,” Sarah promised, her eyes filling with tears as she hurried from the mud-brick house.
Sarah continued to run until she reached a grassy knoll that overlooked the Sea of Galilee. There she threw herself down on the grass and waited. The hills around her were silent and dark against the sky. Ahead in the distance she could see lights winking on the horizon. She wondered if they were the torches that the fishermen used to attract the fish. Sarah hoped her father had caught many silvery fish in his nets. Maybe a good catch will help ease his disappointment at getting a second false treasure, Sarah thought.
She tried to shake her sadness by remembering that at least she and her sister had been allowed to live. If they had been born in another country, they might not have been so fortunate. Traders who passed through Galilee, selling linens and spices, had told many stories about what happened to girls who were born in foreign lands. Still, it was a painful feeling knowing you weren’t really wanted.
Now Sarah could see the fishing vessels heading homeward across the ruffled water. When her father’s boat docked at last, she leaped to her feet and skittered down the hillside to the beach.
“Father! Father!” she called to him as she ran.
Her father turned toward her. “What is it, Sarah?” he asked.
“Did you catch many fish?”
“Yes, I did,” he replied, laughing at her through his full beard. “But I do not think you got up at dawn just to ask me that.”
“No,” Sarah said quietly, and she began kicking at the sand. “I came to tell you that the baby has been born.”
“No wonder I had such a lucky night at sea!” her father said, giving Sarah a hug that swept her off her feet.
“But the baby is a false treasure, Father,” she said, searching his eyes.
“Is she healthy?” he wanted to know.
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“And your mother? How is your mother?” he asked.
“She is all right. She said to tell you that the baby is very beautiful.”
“And you, my Sarah? Are you sad because the baby is a false treasure?”
“I am sad for you, Father. You have no son to head your family when you grow old,” Sarah said. “Why can’t a daughter do that? Why does she have to be the false treasure?”
Father sat down on the sand and pulled Sarah down beside him. “Do you know why our people call a girl that?” he asked.
Sarah shook her head.
“It’s because she will marry and leave home when she is thirteen,” he explained. “She will live with her husband’s people, for that is our way.”
“But that isn’t her fault,” Sarah pointed out. “She didn’t make those rules. A girl isn’t allowed to do important things like making rules. And why is she called false when she spins and weaves and draws water and cooks and cleans?”
“Enough!” her father said, smiling and covering his ears with his rough hands. “You’ve convinced me. A girl is a treasure of great worth.”
“You’re teasing me,” Sarah said.
“No, I’m not,” Father said, growing serious.
“Then why don’t you let me head your household for you?” she asked. “I would try to do a good job.”
“I can’t,” he answered. “It is a son’s place to do that, but you have taught me something this morning, Sarah. You, your mother, and your sister have important jobs to do. I know I’ll never call a girl a false treasure again.”
“Then neither will I,” Sarah said.
“You know, Sarah, when the day comes for you to leave home,” Father said, “I will give you away proudly.”
“Why?” Sarah asked, puzzled.
“Because I know I will be giving your husband someone very special.”
“Will you feel that way about my sister too?” Sarah asked.
“If she’s only one-tenth as precious as you, I am sure I will,” Father answered lovingly.
Sarah smiled up at him. She thought that the sun rising above the hills of Galilee had never looked lovelier.
“Do you have time to see the baby before you take care of the fish?” she asked.
“I shall make time,” Father said. “It’s not every night that God sends us a baby. Besides, we must help your mother think of a name for her. A beautiful treasure has to have a beautiful name, doesn’t she?”