Gospel Story Finder

Dan Jones had been baptized into the Church in the spring of 1843, and he was with Joseph Smith at Carthage Jail the night before the Prophet was killed. As they lay next to each other on the hard floor, the Prophet asked his Welsh friend if he was afraid to die.
“Has that time come think you?” Dan asked. “Engaged in such a cause I do not think that death would have many terrors.”
The Prophet then gave what would be his last recorded prophecy as he told Dan, “You will yet see Wales and fulfill the mission appointed you ere you die.”

For example, on Christmas morning in 1925, three men walked down to the river’s edge in a park in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Most of the city was probably still sleeping late on a holiday. But these men had left their families behind and spent 21 days on a steam ship to get here. Elder Melvin J. Ballard, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, had been sent by President Heber J. Grant to dedicate the entire continent of South America for the preaching of the gospel.
So while the rest of the city still slept, Elder Ballard entered a willow grove with Elder Rulon S. Wells and Elder Rey L. Pratt. They sang hymns and read from the Book of Mormon. Then Elder Ballard offered a prayer and used his apostolic authority to “unlock and open the door for the preaching of the gospel in all these South American nations.” From that time on, like a stone tossed into a pond, the ripples of the gospel message spread outward across a continent.
Since Elder Ballard’s visit to Buenos Aires, Church membership in South America has grown from less than a dozen to over a million. Tens of thousands more are joining every year. There are an increasing number of LDS chapels, and temples have begun to dot the land.
That’s why seminary graduation time in Buenos Aires isn’t just another weekend. When Elder Ballard offered his powerful prayer in that willow grove nearly 70 years ago, he asked the Lord to “remember in mercy … the youth of thy Church who are to bear the responsibilities of the future, that they may keep themselves clean … and come to their glorious destiny.” For the LDS youth in Argentina, seminary has been one of the most direct answers to that prayer.

Jeff wanted to be a missionary just like his older brother who was on a mission in Colombia. But how can I be a missionary when I’m afraid to talk to people? Jeff wondered.
Just last week the Primary president asked all the children to be missionaries and bring somebody new to Primary.
“We have a wonderful Primary,” she told the children, but think how much better it would be if we had more children to share our Primary with.” Then she asked the boys and girls to raise their hands if they thought they could bring a friend the next week. Jeff raised his hand. Now he wondered why he had done it. How was he ever going to get the courage to talk to anyone at school about the Church?
Jeff and Jimmy were the only two LDS boys their age in school. They were also the only Blazer boys in the Primary. They had a good teacher and Jeff knew that one of the reasons why he had raised his hand to be a missionary was to please her. He knew that if other boys came, they would like Sister Labrador and the good lessons she gave.
Jeff remembered one time the two full-time missionaries in their sacrament meeting telling them about the good feeling they had when they shared the gospel with others. Jeff wanted that good feeling too. But how was he ever going to have it when he was so timid?
Jeff walked into the kitchen and slumped down in a chair by the table where his mother was decorating some dish towels with her textile paints. Jeff asked, “Won’t that paint wash out of the cloth, Mom?”
“No, Jeff, the paints are made to stay right in the fabric.”
“Hey, that’s neat. Can you paint anything on the towels you want to?” asked Jeff.
“Sure, son. You sound excited about something,” replied Mother.
Jeff was excited. He had an idea. “Mom, can I paint something on my yellow T-shirt?” he asked.
Mother laughed. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but go ahead.”
Jeff was back in a few minutes, grinning and waving his shirt. He laid it on the table and smoothed out all the wrinkles. Then, with Mother’s black painting pen, he drew on the front of the shirt a great big face with two round eyes and a large smile. Underneath the face he wrote, HAPPINESS IS GOING TO PRIMARY.
When the paint was dry, Jeff turned the shirt over and on the back he printed in large letters, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT PRIMARY—WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE? He could hardly wait to wear his shirt to school. The next day they were having a school activity and they could wear their play clothes, Jeff put on his yellow T-shirt and went to school. When he walked into the coat hall there were several boys there already. As Jeff took off his jacket and hung it on the hook, one of the boys was quick to notice the bright yellow T-shirt with the big face painted on the front and the letters on the back. “What does your shirt say, Jeff? Let me read it,” said Andy.
Jeff stood still, his heart pounding. All of a sudden he thought, what if they make fun of me?
Andy read the words on the shirt out loud. “Primary?” he questioned? “What’s Primary?”
Here was Jeff’s big chance. He prayed inside that he would say the right thing. “Well, in Primary we learn to—” Jeff’s voice tightened upon him and the words got stuck in his mouth.
All of a sudden, Greg, one of the other boys, interrupted. “Hey, Jeff, isn’t Primary where you learn about Scouting and other neat things you were telling me about the other day?”
“Scouting?” questioned Andy. “My dad was a Boy Scout and he wants me to be one too. Can I go to Primary with you Jeff? Can just anyone go?”
Before Jeff could answer, Greg said, “Me too! I never have anything to do after school. My parents both work and nobody’s ever home.”
Jeff could hardly believe what he was hearing. His voice came back and he felt relaxed and happy. “Sure,” said Jeff, “anybody can come—the more the better. It’s on Tuesday and we learn lots of neat things besides Scouting. You’ll really like our teacher. She’s just great.”
The bell rang and the boys filed into the classroom. Jeff’s seat was by his Primary friend Jimmy. As Jeff sat down, Jimmy looked at Jeff’s shirt and said, “Do you think that’s going to work?”
Jeff’s smile got bigger and bigger as he whispered, “It already has!”
At recess Jeff told Jimmy about Andy and Greg. He could hardly believe what had happened. Jimmy became excited about painting a missionary T-shirt too.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “If we can get the whole Primary wearing these shirts to school, a lot of kids will soon be interested. Our Primary will grow bigger and bigger.”
Even shy boys can be missionaries. It just takes some doing, Jeff concluded.
Already Jeff was beginning to have that good feeling that the missionaries had talked about. Wouldn’t they be surprised when they heard about the first T-shirt missionary!

When I first met Uanci Kivalu, she was smiling broadly. But as she sat down and her tone turned serious, I wondered what this friendly 16-year-old would share. “My story is about the temple,” she said.
Uanci is from Tonga, an island nation filled with towering coconut trees, majestic banana trees, and broad taro plants. Most of the youth I had seen on the island seemed content with life, with smiles as broad as Uanci’s had been only moments before. Tongan youth her age like to dance, sing, play netball, and spend time with their families. They are generally a happy bunch. But Uanci’s seriousness was mixed with a deeper emotion I could not identify, and it surprised me.
“I want to talk about the temple,” she repeated.
“When I was growing up,” Uanci began, “my brothers and sister and I were members of the Church. We would attend church every Sunday with my mom. I loved the temple, and I loved going with the youth to do baptisms for the dead. I would feel the Spirit when we went there. But my dad wouldn’t come to church.”
Uanci’s voice began to quaver. I glanced up from my notepad and saw tears in her eyes.
“One day my little brother ’Alekisio had an injury in his hips that got infected,” she continued. “He got better for a while. And my dad came back to church. But then my dad fell away again.”
The tears were now streaming down Uanci’s face, and the tissue I handed her was immediately soaked, as were her sleeves, as she tried unsuccessfully to dry the tears.
“My little brother got worse, and then he died. He was only 12 years old.”
Uanci paused for a moment, overcome by her feelings, and I began to understand why she had been so serious. This young woman had already felt great tragedy in her life. But there was also a glimmer of hope shining through her eyes.
“Then,” she began again, “my dad finally decided to come back to church. At first, it was hard for him. Our bishop, leaders, relatives, and family encouraged him that the only way our family would be together again—to see my brother again—would be to be sealed in the temple.
“We struggled after my brother died,” Uanci continued. “But my parents worked hard and received their ordinances. Finally, we were sealed in the temple as a family on October 10, 2008, exactly one year after ’Alekisio died. My bishop stood in place of my little brother. It was the most indescribable feeling I ever felt.”
Uanci’s tears were not tears of sorrow but of joy. She and her family had been to the house of the Lord and sealed in the temple, and she knew what that meant. If her family lives worthy of their covenants, they will be together forever.
As I think about Uanci, I imagine her walking across the Liahona campus, the Church-owned high school in Tonga that sits adjacent to the temple. As she walks, Uanci gazes over at the spire of the angel Moroni, its golden form glistening in the sun. There are tears in her eyes again, but she is also smiling, for she knows she will see ’Alekisio again.

James Peter Fugal was an honest man! He herded sheep much of his life in the rolling hills of Idaho—both his own sheep and sheep for others.
On one bitterly cold winter night, he was herding sheep for another man when a blizzard set in. The sheep bunched together, as sheep do, in the corner of a fenced area, and many died. Many other sheep on surrounding ranches also died that same night because of the weather.
Though the death of the sheep was no fault of his, James Fugal felt responsible and spent the next several years working and saving to repay the owner for his lost sheep.
This was the type of deep moral honor and accountability that was fostered by scripture-reading, God-fearing settlers on the early frontier.
I thought of James Fugal, the humble sheepherder, and how wonderful it was that these children were being taught the same values that made him a man of such noble character.

Trying to be a good example at all times is important to Aubrey, because “people are watching us all the time,” she says. “They notice that we have different standards from theirs. A boy in my biology class would always refer to me as ‘the Mormon.’ Then one time he said, ‘Aubrey, you’re always so happy all the time. It’s different.’ In band I’m nicknamed the ‘Mormon baritone’ because I’m the only Church member in my section. The others sometimes stop cussing when I’m with them, and sometimes they stop because I ask them to. But people are watching you all the time.”

Fourth, those who have charity love their neighbor. Charity is to realize that the all-seeing Lord truly considers our acts of neighborly service and love as demonstrations of our personal love for Him. Elder Bruce R. McConkie told this story:
My grandmother Emma McConkie was a widow at the time she was president of the Moab Relief Society. A nonmember who opposed the Church had married a Mormon girl. They had several children . . . and a new baby. They were very poor and Mother was going day by day to care for the child and to take them baskets of food. Mother herself was ill. One day she returned home especially tired and weary. She slept in her chair. She dreamed she was bathing a baby which she discovered was the Christ Child. She thought, ‘Oh what a great honor to thus serve the very Christ!’ As she held the baby in her lap she was all but overcome . . . Unspeakable joy filled her whole being . . . Her joy was so great it awakened her . . . and these words were spoken to her, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Now I think the Lord first tried her faith. When she had proved worthy by manifesting that charity which never faileth, he gave her a glimpse within the veil.[47]

Still, there were happy memories of his school days. Martin and several of his schoolmates formed a choir and sang Latin chants at St. George’s Church across the square from the school. Among Martin’s good friends at school were some older boys who would carry their young friend to school on their backs when the wintry roads became clogged with mud. Many years later, as a fond remembrance, Martin gave one of those boys a Bible in which he had written: “To my dear old friend, Nicolas Oemler, who often carried me, a schoolboy, on his back to and from school.”

Twenty Scouts and their leaders of the Lanakila Ward, Honolulu Hawaii West Stake, hiked over 50 miles through the world’s largest dormant volcano, Haleakala. The volcano, called the House of the Sun, stands 10,025 feet above sea level on the island of Maui.

The group struggled through the changes in altitude as well as differences in temperature that sometimes tested their endurance. But they were rewarded with some amazing sights. They happened upon some silversword plants, famous because they are found only in that particular volcanic crater. At the summit they had a panoramic view of four of the Hawaiian Islands through the mist-filled, chilly air.

Besides earning their Historic Trails Awards, the group helped repair the trail by filling in the dangerous eroded shortcuts made by other hikers. Following their week-long hike before they left for home, the group presented an inspiring sacrament meeting to the members of the Hana Branch.

The boys and their leaders had many experiences that brought them closer together and which taught them to rely on our Heavenly Father for guidance and protection. They were glad to return home but were glad to have been on what they considered to be a great adventure.

A letter and an old ashtray came to the office of the Presiding Bishop. The letter reads: “Dear Sir, I stole the enclosed ashtray from your hotel in 1965. After these many years, I want to apologize to you and ask for your forgiveness for my wrongdoing. Sincerely, (signature)
“P.S. I have enclosed a check that attempts to reimburse you for the ashtray.”
The check was in the amount of $26.00, one dollar for each year he had kept the ashtray. I can imagine that during those twenty-six years, each time he tapped his cigarette on the rim of that tray he suffered a twinge of conscience. I do not know that the hotel ever missed the ashtray, but the man who took it missed his peace of mind for more than a quarter of a century and finally ended up paying far more for the stolen tray than it was worth. Yes, honesty is the best policy.

Once while serving as a mission president in Kentucky, I was faced with a direct conflict on family activity and Church activity. The Kentucky Derby was soon to be held, and our family had looked forward to going for weeks. Three days before the big event, the schedule for the Lexington Stake conference was shifted one week forward, and the Saturday leadership meeting was now scheduled for Derby Day. As mission president, I was invited in a midweek phone call from the visiting general authority to be at those sessions.
In the conversation, I told the leader about my previous plan and asked him his opinion. He replied, “Sometimes we just have to choose.” And that is all he said.
What would you have done?
Church work often requires that fathers be away from home. But by setting proper priorities, planning, and delegating, a father can organize himself to be effective in church duties and to be home much more often than he would suppose.
Some fathers who spend undue amounts of time in church callings are proud of these long hours away from home and consider them a sign of dedication. Often it is dedication, but in some cases it is just a way of not going home. Some fathers feel more capable in activities away from home than they do with their families. We should examine ourselves to see if, under the guise of “dedication,” we’ve left to our wives the most important of all causes to which we should be dedicated—our families.
Some feel that if they devote many hours away from family to their church duties, the Lord will compensate by ensuring that all will be well at home. But fathers who are faithful in the Church can and sometimes do have critical problems at home, and one reason may be a lack of father-family experience.
On the other hand, a father who feels successful at home comes out of that home filled with the spirit of love. His heart has been warmed by the home fires of his own family, and he is then able to warm the hearts and souls of his brothers and sisters. A man who devotes sufficient time and energy to family activities and who likewise is dedicated to the Lord and building his Church receives the Spirit of the Lord. It is the Spirit and not endless hours at Church activities away-from-home which brings success in church work.
In my opinion, some Church planning and leadership meetings are far too long. I was once asked by a Church leader, “Are you as a leader punctual in conducting meetings?”
I said, “Yes, I always start meetings on time.”
He said, “But are you punctual?”
I answered again the same way, “We start on time.”
He asked me the same question again, and as I sat looking perplexed he said, “I know that you begin your meetings on time, but do you end them on time?” He added, “End the meeting at the appointed time and let people go home to their families. Those who neglect the appointed quitting time are as much in error as those who neglect the beginning time.”
Sometimes a father will excuse himself for not being home enough by saying, “It isn’t the quantity but the quality of time spent that matters.” There is some truth in this statement for some people, but we must not use it to soothe a conscience that tells us we are too much away from the family.
When I was called to be a mission president, I was fearful that at a most critical time in the lives of my eight children I might not have sufficient time to be a good father. I had determined that being a father was as important a call from the Lord as being a mission president. That meant that even though I would dedicate myself to the mission, I would have to double my dedication as a father.
With that in mind, one of my first important tasks was to tie a big rope to a high limb on the huge ash tree that grew in our front yard and make a swing. With the swing came instant neighborhood friends for our younger children.
A few months after our arrival, we attended a mission presidents’ seminar. Each president was asked what he felt was the best idea he had put into practice so far in his mission. When my turn came, I said, “The best thing I’ve done so far is to build a swing.” Everyone laughed. I described the swing and explained that my major goal was to be a good father and that the swing was my symbol of this priority. The leader sustained my action.
I’ve found that I allow more time for my family if I remind myself that playing with the children is church work. While I was mission president, I would often go to a beautiful amusement park with my family. I would just walk around the park with a smile on my face, holding hands with my children, eating candy.
Once in a while, the thought would enter my mind. “You’re the mission president. You’d better get back to the office.” But then I’d smile again and say to myself, “Well, I’m doing my church work here. I’m with my children and my wife. We’re having a fun day, and tonight I’ll be able to write in my journal that I did six hours of glorious church work today.” I’d eat a little more candy and let the children lead me wherever they wanted to go.
Church work with your family doesn’t mean you leave other church work undone. It merely means that you do both—and you can do both. Some days you can spend a whole day with the children. Other times it will have to be a ten-minute wrestle or one paper airplane constructed after the evening meal.
Some years ago I was serving as a bishop. At the same time I was working on a doctor’s degree at a university and working a full-time job. I was under some strain, fearing that because of my desire to succeed in so many areas I was really failing as a father.
One Sunday evening I stayed late at church to complete some work. As I walked into the chapel to turn off the lights before going home, I suddenly felt lonely. I felt that my back would not bear for another day the heavy burdens I was carrying.
I fell to my knees near the pulpit and cried to the Lord. I poured out the feelings of my soul to him and described in detail my seemingly insurmountable tasks. When I finished I remained kneeling. And then I heard the Spirit speak to me in my heart. The answer it gave me was all I needed. It said just three things: Go forward. Do your best. Love your family.
I arose a new man.
Since then, whenever specific conflicts have come up between my family and church work, I’ve remembered those words and followed the advice given me years ago in Kentucky by a great Church leader—“Sometimes you just have to choose.”
Perhaps the only mistake we really make is when we choose one way over the other all of the time.

One day my English teacher was telling us how she thought Clinton Central didn’t welcome new students and left others out. A week later I received the October 1987 New Era. As I was glancing through it, the story “Everyone Belongs” caught my eye. While I was reading, all I could think about was how much this school in the story sounded like my own. Since I am a class officer, I felt I could try to do something.
I showed the story to my English teacher, who is also my freshman class adviser. While the class was doing the assigned homework, she read the story. I couldn’t help but notice a tear running down her face. When she had finished reading she said she thought we as a school needed to do something to make everyone feel as if they belonged. She had me take the story to Mrs. Pearson, who is in charge of the student council and to Mr. Thompson, who is in charge of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes at Clinton Central.
I know this article is going to affect many people at my school, and I can already see the efforts being made to include others by those who have read it.

When I was in high school, I had the same thoughts as you do. I did poorly and was close to failing. I dropped out in my junior year. I thought I was miserable in school, but it was worse in the working world. Employers are biased against those who don’t hold a high school diploma. Most better-paying jobs require a college degree. If you hate high school now, how will you adjust to college? It’s no fun to work low-paying jobs and not be eligible for better employment. The best thing you can do is to stick it out. It’s a small investment of your time. Pray to our Heavenly Father for the strength and patience to finish high school. If you pray with a sincere heart he will help you.
I am currently in prison. I wish I had the words to tell the hardships I have encountered by dropping out of high school. Not all dropouts end up here, of course, but I’d say at least 80 percent of the population here are dropouts.
Name withheld

The final story is one that I felt I could relate only if I was able to verify that it was more than a faith-promoting rumor. My inquiry made it as far as a senior Church officer who heard the young woman tell the story, and who confirmed the details I’ll share with you. That gives me sufficient confidence to tell the story to you.
A few years ago, a young woman in Guatemala had been taught by the missionaries, but decided not to continue with the lessons. One day as she was riding a local bus, several young men climbed aboard. She said that she and everyone else on the bus immediately recognized them as gang members by their appearance, including the evidence of handguns under their shirts. This was an all-too-common occurrence in that place. They knew they were about to be robbed. The gang members separated, some going to the front of the bus, some to the back, according to their standard procedure.
The bus came to the next stop and a group of young Mormon elders came aboard. They, too, separated, one standing up front, and the others going back into the bus to sit next to the passengers. The one in front got up and began to teach, sharing with the passengers a message about the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The young woman said that he spoke with great power. The bus came to the next stop. The gang members all arose and exited the bus.
My guess is that those missionaries had no idea what had just happened. Of course I cannot say what went through the minds of the gang members, but it seems quite possible that they were repelled by the spiritual light and power the elders had brought with them, and that they wanted to be away from it. If I am right, a spiritual power and light not only had touched the heart of one who gave heed to it, but had driven darkness away. After the bus ride, the young woman sought out the missionaries, resumed her study of the Gospel, and related this story at her baptism.

I will share with you an experience I had before I was a General Authority which affected me profoundly. I sat in an airplane next to a man who so strongly expressed his disbelief in God that I bore my testimony to him. “You are wrong, I said, “there is a God. I know He lives!”
He protested, “You don’t know. Nobody knows that! You can’t know it!” When I would not agree with him, the man, who was an attorney, asked perhaps the ultimate question on the subject of testimony. “All right,” he said in a sneering, condescending way, “you say you know. Tell me how you know.”
I felt perhaps, that I had borne my testimony to him unwisely and was at a loss as to what to do. Then something came into my mind. I said to the man, “Let me ask if you know what salt tastes like.”
“Of course I do,” was his reply.
“When did you taste salt last?”
“When I just had dinner here on the airplane.”
“You just think you know what salt tastes like,” I said.
He insisted, “I know what salt tastes like as well as I know anything.”
“If I gave you a cup of salt and a cup of sugar and let you taste them both, could you tell the salt from the sugar?”
“Now you are getting silly,” was his reply. “Of course I could tell the difference. I know what salt tastes like. It is an everyday experience.”
“Then,” I said, “assuming that I have never tasted salt, explain to me just what it tastes like.”
After some thought, he said, “Well, I suppose you could say that it is not sweet and it is not sour.”
“You’ve told me what it isn’t, not what it is.” After several attempts, of course, he could not do it. He could not explain, in words alone, so ordinary an experience as tasting salt. I bore testimony to him once again and said, “I know there is a God. You ridiculed that testimony and said that if I did know, I would be able to tell you exactly how I know. My friend, spiritually speaking, I have tasted salt. I am no more able to tell you in words how this knowledge has come to me than you are able to tell me what salt tastes like. But I say to you again, there is a God! He does live! And just because you don’t know, don’t try to tell me that I don’t know, for I do!”
Since that day, I have never been embarrassed or ashamed that I could not explain in words alone everything I know spiritually. The Apostle Paul said it this way:
“We speak, not in the words which man’s wisdom teacheth, but which the Holy Ghost teacheth; comparing spiritual things with spiritual.
“But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.” (1 Cor. 2:13–14.)

“The challenge,” announced Brother Anderson to our institute class, “is to carry a copy of the Book of Mormon with you at all times while on campus. And hiding them in your purses and backpacks doesn’t count,” he added with a chuckle.
Piece of cake, I thought. How hard can it be to carry around a Book of Mormon?
Faithfully, I stacked the Book of Mormon on top of my books, hoping it would attract attention. It did. One look at the trumpeting angel sent most people running for cover. No one wanted to hear about my book or my religion. Not until Lifesaving 101, that is.
My lifesaving class was a small one, mostly competitive swimmers and divers. It was there that Chris*—tan, blond, and built like Mr. Atlas—asked to see my Book of Mormon. My heart thumped wildly as I handed him the book.
“Do you know what it says in this book?” he shouted, waving it over his head. Instantly, all eyes were on him. “It says that there are eight-foot-tall men on the moon who wear long black coats and stovepipe hats. And they all have 20 wives!”
Some missionary tool this is, I thought, as I considered trying to squeeze my 5-foot, 8-inch frame into the two-foot space beneath my desk. What would my teammates think of me? No sooner had that thought appeared when a scripture from the Bible forced it out:
“For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth” (Rom. 1:16).
I met Chris’s haughty stare with a challenge of my own. “If you can show me where in the Book of Mormon it says anything like that,” I said, “I will leave the LDS church.”
A united gasp rose from the class, followed by a deafening silence. Chris shuffled furiously back and forth through the pages of the Book of Mormon. Finally, thrusting the book back at me, he retreated to his seat, defeated.
I then bore fervent testimony of the Book of Mormon and of the prophet Joseph Smith to Chris and to the rest of the class. No one talked to me much that afternoon during swim practice, except for a quiet guy named Dorian. “May I see your book?” he asked.
Three years later, as Dorian and I knelt at the altar in the Washington D.C. Temple and were sealed for time and all eternity, I was grateful for the challenge of an inspired institute director, grateful too for a prophet of the Lord who challenged us to read daily from the Book of Mormon.

Although the Church began its first decade with only six members, “unhallowed hands” made every effort to stop the spread of the gospel and destroy the Church in its infancy. Joseph Smith soon learned how mobs may combine. From Church history we read:

Certain residents of Hiram, Ohio, vented their personal feelings with mob action directed against the Prophet and Sidney Rigdon. Stimulated by whiskey and hidden behind blackened faces, a gang of more than two dozen men dragged Joseph from his bed during the night of March 24, 1832. Choking him into submission, they stripped him naked, scratched his skin with their fingernails, tore his hair, and then smeared his body with tar and feathers. A vial of nitric acid forced against his teeth splashed on his face; a front tooth was broken. Meanwhile other members of the mob dragged Rigdon by the heels from his home, bumping his head on the frozen ground, which left him delirious for days. The Prophet’s friends spent the night removing the tar to help him keep a Sunday morning appointment. He addressed a congregation that included Simonds Ryder, organizer of the mob. [James B. Allen and Glen M. Leonard, The Story of the Latter-day Saints (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1976), p. 71]

Ryder was a convert who disaffected because the Prophet Joseph misspelled his name.

I learned why during a religion class I taught once at Ricks College (now Brigham Young University–Idaho). I was teaching from section 25 of the Doctrine and Covenants. In that section Emma Smith is told that she should give her time to “writing, and to learning much” (verse 8). About three rows back sat a blonde girl whose brow wrinkled as I urged the class to be diligent in developing writing skills. She raised her hand and said, “That doesn’t seem reasonable to me. All I’ll ever write are letters to my children.” That brought laughter all around the class. Just looking at her I could imagine a full quiver of children around her, and I could even see the letters she would write. Maybe writing powerfully wouldn’t matter to her.

Then a young man stood up near the back. He had said little during the term; I’m not sure he had ever spoken before. He was older than the other students, and he was shy. He asked if he could speak. He told in a quiet voice of having been a soldier in Vietnam. One day, in what he thought would be a lull, he had left his rifle and walked across his fortified compound to mail call. Just as he got a letter in his hand, he heard a bugle blowing and shouts and mortar and rifle fire coming ahead of the swarming enemy. He fought his way back to his rifle, using his hands as weapons. With the men who survived, he drove the enemy out. Then he sat down among the living, and some of the dead, and he opened his letter. It was from his mother. She wrote that she’d had a spiritual experience that assured her that he would live to come home if he were righteous. In my class, the boy said quietly, “That letter was scripture to me. I kept it.” And he sat down.

I attended a stake conference some time ago in Modesto, California, where I was to divide the stake. As I was preparing to do so on Sunday morning, I let my mind go back 10 or 15 years. I remembered that I had previously attended a conference in that area. At that time it was called the Stockton Stake, and Modesto was a unit in that stake. I thought to myself, What was the name of the stake president? Then it came to me; his name was Rooker—Clifton Rooker. I asked the stake presidency as they sat on the stand, “Is this the same stake over which Clifton Rooker presided?”
The brethren said, “Yes, it is. He was our former president.”
“It’s been many years since I was last here,” I said. “Is Brother Rooker here today?”
“Yes, we saw him this morning.”
Then I asked, “Where is he seated?”
“We don’t rightly know,” they replied.
I stepped to the pulpit and asked, “Is Clifton Rooker in the audience?” There he was—way back in the cultural hall. I felt the inspiration to say to him publicly, “Brother Rooker, we have a place for you on the stand. Would you please come forward?” With every eye watching him, Clifton Rooker made that long walk up to the stand and sat by my side. It became my opportunity to call upon him, one of the pioneers of that stake, to bear his testimony—to give him the privilege of telling the people, whom he loved, that he was the real beneficiary of the service he had rendered his Heavenly Father and that he had provided the stake members.
After the session was concluded I said, “Brother Rooker, how would you like to come with me into the high council room and help me set apart the new presidencies of these two stakes?”
He said, “That would be the highlight of my life.”
We went into the high council room and, with his hands joining my hands on the head of each person, set apart the two new stake presidencies. We embraced one another as he said good-bye and went to his home.
Can you imagine the shock I received the next morning when I received a telephone call from his son, who said, “Brother Monson, I’d like to tell you about my dad. He passed away this morning, but before he did so, he said that yesterday was the happiest day of his entire life.” As I heard that message, I thanked God for the inspiration that came to me in the twinkling of an eye to invite this good man to come forward and receive the plaudits of his stake members, whom he had served, while he was yet alive and able to enjoy them.

One day, the sisters brought us uma surpresa—a surprise that would help me and my sister and brother know the Book of Mormon was true. It was a storybook with colored pictures telling the stories of the prophets in the Book of Mormon. “This is my chance to know if it’s true or not,” I thought to myself. I wanted to read it right away.
After the sisters left that night, I got ready for bed and started reading the storybook. Then I remembered that the sisters told me to pray before I read it. I knelt down to say my prayers and I asked Heavenly Father to help me know that the Book of Mormon is true. I said if I could stay awake until I finished reading the book, I would know that it was true. Then I started reading and was excited about the big trip Lehi and his family took across the waters in the barca [ship], and the wars between the people in the land. I liked reading about the 2,000 jovens guerreiros—the young warriors who fought for their families. I wished I was one of them. Before I knew it, I was finished with the book. And I wasn’t even tired.
Then I knew that the Book of Mormon was true and that everything the sisters taught was right. But the greatest thing to know was that Heavenly Father loved me so much he answered my prayer. Now I knew that if I obeyed his commandments he would answer my prayers. I was ready to be baptized.
Mother and I prepared for our baptisms. My brother and sister were too young to be baptized but they couldn’t wait until it was their turn. When the Elder baptized me and I came out of the water, I was proud and excited to be a new member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—a name I would never forget.