Gospel Story Finder

While working in the aircraft electronics shop at Ft. Lewis, Washington, I was in the habit of reading the classified ads in the Daily Bulletin. These ads often led to interesting bargains. Over the years they had provided us with the family car, a camping trailer, and various other items, both large and small. Little did I know that they would also provide us one of the greatest testimony-building experiences of our lives.
One day I came across an ad that said, “Guitar for sale. Contact Daniel Troxel.” Although I play the guitar, the ad itself was not what captured my attention. I already had a guitar. What did interest me was to see my surname (an uncommon one) in print. It was even spelled like mine. I decided that Daniel Troxel must be a relative, and so I made the first of what was to be many fruitless attempts to call and talk to him. He was on detail. He was in the field. He was on duty. He couldn’t be reached at that time. He was out. Would I please call back. It seemed that Daniel Troxel and I were not destined to meet. After several days of trying, I put the bulletin aside and forgot about Daniel Troxel.
Several weeks later I was surprised to see the same ad in the bulletin—“Guitar for sale. Contact Daniel Troxel.” With renewed enthusiasm I made another call and was again disappointed. But this time I was assured that if I would call later in the evening I would be sure to reach him as he was leaving the service and had to return to pick up his clothes. I carefully folded the bulletin and placed it in my pocket. When I arrived home that evening, I mentioned it to my wife for the first time. “Why don’t you call again now?” she said.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s try it one more time and see.” I called. There was a pause and a yell in the background for Troxel. He was there! I was elated. When he came to the phone, we talked of many things. I told him I was sure we were related. He agreed. He said it was lucky I called when I did because he had been discharged that very day and was leaving in the morning for his home in California. The only reason he was not leaving immediately was that a preacher was coming all the way from Alabama to speak and he just could not miss it. When I found that Daniel was interested in religion, I knew that I had to tell him about the true church.
“Daniel,” I said, “I have just got to talk to you. Can I meet you after your meeting?” I offered to pick him up, but he said he didn’t know how late his meeting would be. I let him know that I didn’t care how late his meeting was. I wanted to meet him and introduce him to my family. He must at least meet my lovely wife. He promised he would come to my house that evening no matter how late his meeting lasted. I gave him our address and explained carefully how to get there.
That evening the mealtime conversation was dominated by Daniel’s name. My wife became excited. Maybe we would convert Daniel. One thing was sure—Daniel Troxel would not leave our home without hearing our testimonies.
The evening slipped by—8:00, 9:00, 10:00. We began to become anxious, but at 10:30 the doorbell rang. My wife and I went to the door together. Sure enough, there was Daniel. He wore pinstriped bib overalls and radiated a simple country charm. He smiled broadly as we invited him in. We relaxed together around the fireplace, and the subject fell easily to religion as we discussed his meeting. He was greatly excited and talked enthusiastically of the preacher and the great religious revival he had just attended. There was a pause in our conversation, and I was moved to bear my testimony to him.
“Daniel,” I said, “you are here tonight because our Heavenly Father wanted you to be.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “I know that. If you hadn’t called exactly when you did we would never have met because today was my last day at the fort. I would already have been gone if it hadn’t been for the revival. Boy, you should have heard the speaker! He was really great!”
I agreed that he must have been, and then continued with my testimony. “Daniel, I want to tell you about the true church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” As I spoke the Spirit seemed to fill the room.
Daniel’s expression changed. He looked surprised. “Are you a Mormon?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “My wife Barbara and I are both Mormons. As a matter of fact, our whole family is Mormon.”
Then it was our turn to be surprised. “I’m a Mormon too,” Daniel said. “I’m a deacon in the Church.”
We found as we talked that Daniel did not have a testimony of the Church. His mother often wrote to him about the Church, but he always answered that when he got home he would attend many churches. We talked into the wee hours. We bore our solemn testimonies in love and gratitude that he was with us. We knelt in prayer, and as we prayed, the Spirit brought tears to our eyes and deeper sincerity to my voice as we asked our Father’s Spirit to enlighten Daniel’s mind and turn his understanding to truth. We shook hands, and Daniel promised to pray and study.
A year passed, and then I received a letter from Daniel and his mother. Daniel wrote: “After I got home from the army, I went back to the Church. It’s the best thing I could have done. I am now an elder, and my testimony is growing strong. I’m grateful for my army experience and especially for that last day at Fort Lewis when we got together.”
His mother added: “Dan certainly thought highly of you, and you must have set him a good example, because he is now very active in the Church. He is an elder, and I expect them to send him on a mission soon.”

Victor Cave from Tahiti, a bishop, stake president, an area 70 and a member of the South Pacific area presidency, came to CCH in 1968, as a nonmember as well. In his narrative he said that he was taught the gospel on campus by the missionaries but had resisted their every effort to convert him. He writes:
One day as one of my dorm friends from the Philippines, Bien Flores, was leaving for class. He greeted me, then asked out loud: “Victor, when will you be baptized?” I replied, “Never.” He then asked why. I said because I don’t know that the church is true. Then walking away to class, he yelled words that hit my heart like a sledgehammer: “Why don’t you pray about it?
My roommate had already left for an early class that morning. So I went to my room, locked the door, and for the first time with real intent and a sincere desire, I knelt down to ask my Heavenly Father if this Church was true. No sooner had I begun to ask than I was overcome with tears to the point that I could not speak. I could only cry because the spirit replied to my heart that this is the Lord’s church, and it is the only true and living church on earth.

And another incident: A member of my student branch had stopped in to see me. “President,” she said, “my dad has a birthday and I want to send him something worthwhile. But he is having such a financial struggle to keep me in school, I don’t think I should spend much. Can you suggest anything?”
I remembered the wonderful gift my own son had given me and then suggested to her: “Jan, why don’t you fast and pray for a true appreciation of your father. Then write down all the things he has done for you over the years—list all the reasons you are proud of him. Next list the things he has done for which you failed to thank him. Finally, sit down and pour your heart out in a letter that will convince him how much you love him. It will be the finest present he has ever received from you, and it will cost only a stamp.”

On Friday, Jimmy came home from school tired. He dumped his books on the floor and tossed his jacket onto the couch. But it seemed to him that the picture of Jesus was looking directly at his books on the floor. Jimmy knew that the picture couldn’t really see anything, but he remembered how he had felt before they recognized Brother Park. If Jesus were to come into his home, he wouldn’t want his books to be on the floor. So Jimmy put them away and hung his jacket in the closet. As he munched on an apple and relaxed, he was glad that his house looked neat and clean. He knew that his mom would be glad too.

Many times the most beautiful examples of obedience and service are given by ordinary people who live close to us. Sister Ana Rita de Jesus, an elderly widow, lived in Anápolis, Brazil. She could not read or write. The missionaries would go to her home every week to read the scriptures to her. She was loving and kind. Every Sunday she would ask the missionaries to help her fill out a tithing slip. Sometimes her tithing and offerings were not more than a few cents, but she knew the law and wanted to obey it. After paying her tithing, she would walk into the room where the sacrament meeting was held in the rented house used as a chapel and would place a flower on the pulpit. In doing so, she served her brothers and sisters, bringing beauty to the place where we worshiped the Lord. That sister, in a very simple way, taught us obedience and service through her faith. She knew that obeying the commandments is the best preparation to serve. President Monson advised us in the last April general conference to “obey the commandments” and “serve with love” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1998, 63; or Ensign, May 1998, 47). Sister Ana Rita did so throughout her life.

It wasn’t long ago that Lem Guluka became our new bishop. I had never met him before, so I had no strong feelings about his being called. He was a smart-looking man and a convert from Africa. He started performing his duties the very day we sustained him. He’d come to our lessons in Young Women and hold youth activities at his house. The first time he did this, most of the youth were still in the “getting to know you” stage. One of us asked what his favorite animal was. He replied, “The rooster.” The rooster? I was surprised at such an odd response, and the others seemed to share this reaction. Then he broke into an imitation of a rooster’s strut. By this time, we were in hysterics. It was then that I realized how much his calling had really affected me.
I grew to love this man, my bishop, who could make us laugh and who was always there when we needed him. It made me think of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and how getting to know Him, as a convert myself, made a big difference in my life. Bishop Guluka is the most Christlike person I know. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we gain testimonies by drawing closer to God and His Son. Likewise, by befriending our Church leaders, we can receive guidance. I learned that lesson through one of my most reliable friends—the bishop.

In 1931 Amelia married George Palmer Putnam, a publisher who had interviewed her before her flight across the Atlantic. And in April of 1932 Amelia was eager to try another major flight. She had flown over one thousand hours in the preceding two years, but she wanted a new challenge. She decided to fly the Atlantic Ocean alone, in spite of the warnings of her friends and family.
On May 20, 1932, she climbed into her Lockheed Vega and took off from Harbor Grace, Newfoundland. The flight was torture. Heavy rain and fog enveloped the plane. Then ice began to form on the wings. Raw gasoline, leaking from a broken gauge, flooded the floor and made sickening fumes. Amelia began to fear that fire might break out at any time. Suddenly, the plane began to dive. The ice had weighted the wings too heavily. Amelia tried everything she’d learned from her past flying experience, and, finally, one hundred feet above the Atlantic, she pulled the plane up.
Hour after hour the plane droned on. Then a patch of green appeared. Ireland! Amelia had made the flight in fourteen hours and fifty-six minutes, becoming the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic.
Before returning to America, she was entertained by European royalty. King George V and Queen Mary of England, Belgium’s King Albert, and dignitaries from several other nations decorated her.
America welcomed her home with more honors. She received the Distinguished Flying Cross from Congress and the National Geographic’s premier gold medal. Cheering crowds greeted her everywhere she went.

From England:
“In my calling as branch president, I decided one day to invite our whole community to join us in fasting [and giving a fast offering] for the people of Ethiopia. I had 4,000 leaflets produced, which we distributed to homes in our area.
“One of the leaflets was delivered to a nonmember, and his wife felt impressed to take part. It was the name of the Church on the leaflet which first impressed them.
“The husband came to the chapel with the fast offering as invited, and I met him there. I gave him a tour of our small building, shared my testimony with him, and invited him to come to church Sunday. He came, and I introduced him to our missionaries, who arranged to call on the home.
“I was privileged to join with the missionaries on several joint teaching visits, and I developed a close relationship with the family.
“On the evening of March 2, the night before the date I had set, I baptized the wife. Her husband will follow soon, and their daughter.
“We have now met other families through this one, who are being taught. As for my wife and me, we have set another date!”

Years ago, when my brothers and I were boys, our mother had radical cancer surgery. She came very close to death. Much of the tissue in her neck and shoulder had to be removed, and for a long time it was very painful for her to use her right arm.
One morning about a year after the surgery, my father took Mother to an appliance store and asked the manager to show her how to use a machine he had for ironing clothes. The machine was called an Ironrite. It was operated from a chair by pressing pedals with one’s knees to lower a padded roller against a heated metal surface and turn the roller, feeding in shirts, pants, dresses, and other articles. You can see that this would make ironing (of which there was a great deal in our family of five boys) much easier, especially for a woman with limited use of her arm. Mother was shocked when Dad told the manager they would buy the machine and then paid cash for it. Despite my father’s good income as a veterinarian, Mother’s surgery and medications had left them in a difficult financial situation.
On the way home, my mother was upset: “How can we afford it? Where did the money come from? How will we get along now?” Finally Dad told her that he had gone without lunches for nearly a year to save enough money. “Now when you iron,” he said, “you won’t have to stop and go into the bedroom and cry until the pain in your arm stops.” She didn’t know he knew about that. I was not aware of my father’s sacrifice and act of love for my mother at the time, but now that I know, I say to myself, “There is a man.”

“Father, where are you going?” George asked.
“To the duke’s court,” he was told.
“May I come too?”
“No,” his father said sternly.
George knew that his father had to be obeyed. But there were musicians at court, and George longed to hear them play. Father said that music was foolish child’s play, not work for men. George must become a lawyer and forget about music. His father didn’t know that George spent hours practicing in secret on a clavier (the “grandfather” of the modern piano).
But George needed to hear other musicians play, so he decided to go to the court at Weissenfels anyway. It couldn’t be very far from his home in Halle, (Saxony, Germany).
He watched as his father climbed into the carriage; then, as the horse pulled it down the street, George ran behind the carriage. By the time they reached the edge of town, George’s breath was coming in great gulps, and the carriage started to go faster. The distance between George and the carriage became greater, no matter how hard he ran.
Suddenly the carriage stopped. The driver climbed down, ran to the boy, picked him up, and carried him to the carriage.
“What are you trying to do?” his father scolded him. “A seven-year-old boy cannot run as far as Weissenfels. I told you that you could not come. Why did you disobey me? You may sit with the driver, but you’ll be punished when we get home.”
When they entered the castle, George heard music. He followed the sounds to a large room where a man was playing the organ. The boy listened happily until the last note died away. “May I play?” he asked.
“Only for a minute.”
George sat on the organ bench and began to play. He was thrilled at the beautiful tones that filled the room. Not until he had played the last note did the man speak to him. “Who are you?” the man asked.
“George Frideric Handel,” he answered.
“You play well. How old are you, and who is your teacher?”
“I’m seven, but I don’t have a teacher. My father doesn’t want me to be a musician.”
Just then George’s father entered the room. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he said to the man, who happened to be the duke, “if my son has disturbed you.”
“You are the boy’s father?” the duke asked. “He tells me that he has no music teacher. Don’t you realize that he is very talented? Get him a music teacher at once, and bring him to play for me again.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” George’s father said meekly.
When they returned home, George was sent to bed in disgrace. But the very next day Father arranged for the organist of the largest church in Halle to teach George, and he was allowed to prepare for a life in music. But George also respected his father’s desire for him to be a lawyer, and completed law school.

One who listened and who followed was the Mormon missionary Randall Ellsworth, about whom you may have read in your daily newspaper or watched on the television set in your home.
Six months ago, while serving in Guatemala as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Randall Ellsworth survived the devastating earthquake which hurled a beam down on his back, paralyzed his legs, and severely damaged his kidneys.
After receiving emergency medical treatment, Randall was flown to a large hospital near his home in Rockville, Maryland. While confined there, a television newscaster conducted with Randall an interview which I witnessed through the miracle of television. The reporter asked, “Can you walk?” The answer, “Not yet, but I will.” “Do you think you will be able to complete your mission?” Came the reply, “Others think not, but I will.”
With microphone in hand, the reporter continued: “I understand you have received a special letter containing a get-well message from none other than the president of the United States.” “Yes,” replied Randall, “I am very grateful to President Ford for his thoughtfulness; but I received another letter, not from the president of my country, but from the president of my church—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—even President Spencer W. Kimball. This I cherish. With him praying for me, and the prayers of my family, my friends, and my missionary companions, I will return to Guatemala. The Lord wanted me to preach the gospel there for two years, and that’s what I intend to do.”
I turned to my wife and commented, “He surely must not know the extent of his injuries. Our official medical reports would not permit us to expect such a return to Guatemala.”
How grateful am I that the day of faith and the age of miracles are not past history but continue with us even now.
The newspapers and the television cameras directed their attention to more immediate news as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months. The words of Rudyard Kipling described Randall Ellsworth’s situation:
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Rudyard Kipling’s Verse, Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1946, p. 327.
And God did not forget him who possessed an humble and a contrite heart, even Elder Randall Ellsworth. Little by little the feeling in his legs began to return. In his own words, Randall described the recovery: “The thing I did was always to keep busy, always pushing myself. In the hospital I asked to do therapy twice a day instead of just once. I wanted to walk again on my own.”
When the Missionary Committee evaluated the amazing medical progress Randall Ellsworth had made, word was sent to him that his return to Guatemala was authorized. Said he, “At first I was so happy I didn’t know what to do. Then I went into my bedroom and I started to cry. Then I dropped to my knees and thanked my Heavenly Father.”
Two months ago Randall Ellsworth walked aboard the plane that carried him back to the mission to which he was called and back to the people whom he loved. Behind he left a trail of skeptics, a host of doubters, but also hundreds amazed at the power of God, the miracle of faith, and the reward of determination. Ahead lay honest, God-fearing, and earnestly seeking sons and daughters of our Heavenly Father. They shall hear His word. They shall learn His truth. They shall accept His ordinances. A modern-day Paul, who too overcame his “thorn in the flesh,” has returned to teach them the truth, to lead them to life eternal.

When Relan G. Macam (third child of Yolanda Gayatin and Reuel F. Macam of 39-F Tabayok, Sta. Mesa Heights, Quezon City) was born on September 17, 1975, his father and mother gradually fell away from the Church, after being members for only three months.
It was a situation difficult to understand. Both were active in the beginning. Ruel expressed spiritual joy to relatives present during his baptism at being born again together with Yolanda. He developed new interest and experienced excitement in reading and pondering upon the Scriptures. He avoided friends who were inclined to passing time with drinking and smoking sessions. Upon the birth of Relan, his life began to change. Sabbath day did not anymore provide him with a feeling of spirituality.
Home teachers called on the family, only to be turned away by Yolanda with the shallow excuse that household duties occupied her time and that Reuel was busy with provincial assignments. A group from the Elders Quorum of his branch paid a special visit, but Yolanda was prepared with the excuse that her husband was still in the provinces on business (he was in fact upstairs, impatiently waiting for the group to leave). As a last resort, the missionary elders who baptized them tried to bring them back to the Church—without success—as Reuel reverted to his old ways of smoking, drinking and carousing with friends.
Not long thereafter, strange occurrences began to disrupt the family life of the Macams. Relan became sickly, and his parents had to bring him to the hospital at frequent intervals. Unpaid bills and household expenses began to mount, and Reuel soon found himself heavily in debt. He, too, looked pale and sickly. The burden of motherly chores also exacted heavy toll on Yolanda, looking after the other kids in between hospital visits to Relan. Life for the two of them began to look like a trail of thorns.
Then, during one evening of soul-searching, Reuel was jolted by a thought in his mind. Could it be that son Relan was protesting in his cradle of innocence over the wayward life of his father? Could it be that Relan, in his guiltlessness, was telling him that turning his back to the covenant he made was not pleasing in the sight of God?
For, Relan had an extraordinary experience while still throbbing with life in his mother’s womb. On June 21, 1975, when Reuel and Yolanda were baptized by Elder Round in the Quezon City chapel, Yolanda was heavy with child, in fact, six months in the family way with Relan. This baby boy was immersed in the baptismal font with his mother even before he was born into this world!
The second day of January, 1977, a repentant father entered the Quezon City chapel. A cry of joy came from one of the members. “It’s Brother Macam, it’s Brother Macam! Welcome back!”
After having been away from the Church one year and three months, Reuel F. Macam returned like the prodigal son—silently nurturing the thought that his infant son, Relan, showed the way back.—P. Ocampo, Jr.
Editor’s Note: Bro. Macam is now Sunday School President, Quezon City III Ward, Quezon City, Philippines Stake.

This is an adaptation from material found in the diary of Solomon Hale. He was a nephew of the Prophet Joseph Smith and lived in Nauvoo at the time the Prophet acquired the Egyptian mummies described in this incident.
As the nephew of Joseph Smith, I had access to the many mysteries of the then fabulous Nauvoo Mansion House. When I think of that place, and time, I remember a joke I was fond of playing on the children my age in our neighborhood.
Many people had heard of the “mummies” my uncle had in his study, but I don’t think too many knew for sure what or who they were. In some, superior knowledge breeds contempt, and my twisted sense of humor had a field day with the naive children of Nauvoo. You see, not only had I seen the mummies, but I also knew they were harmless.
I would gather four or five of my intended victims together in front of the Mansion House, with the promise that they would soon see the strange and bizarre sights of the upper floor. I told them they were about to go back in time to the land of the pyramids and savage demons, half lion and half man. My party and I would climb the stairs slowly so as not to disturb the slumbering spirits of the mummies and carefully enter the room where the treasures were.
I would arrange my trusting friends in a line facing the closet where the mummies were kept and, with all due reverence place my hand on the black drape hiding them from view.
I would count slowly to three, whisk the curtain aside. and watch with glee as my former friends would dash down the stairs in terror of the shriveled and dusty Egyptians.
Later I would meet them in the street with a self-contented and, I assure you, very smug smile. Once I brought down an old rag with me and chased them down Mulholland Street with it; I had told them it was the very piece of cloth used to cover the hearts of the mummies and could turn them into youthful reproductions of the monsters in the closet.
One day I found an especially dumb bunch of kids playing outside my uncle’s home. After my usual opening explanation, I led them into the Prophet’s study and began my act. I looked at them very carefully to impress upon them the miraculous thing they were about to behold. I had changed my act and had added what I felt sounded like an authentic Egyptian chant.
I finished the chant, pulled aside the drape, and was appalled by the lack of reaction; no one yelled or ran; the little girl present didn’t faint. Either my friends had amazing self-control or someone had done something to the mummies. They did, however, see something, for their mouths were opened so far their chins nearly touched the tops of their shoes. I looked around the corner of the closet and came face to face with my uncle’s watch bob.
There he stood, the Prophet Joseph, right where the mummies should have been. I looked for the telltale mark of the not-too-mad-adult, that amused-but-not-showing-it-over-the-childish-prank look, but it wasn’t there. So, giving him my toothiest smile, I ushered my audience out the door and down the stairs. That was the last time I ever went to see or ever wanted to see the mummies of Nauvoo.

Not content with merely being very good, the post gets together every Wednesday to practice their routines and become even better.
In the ward cultural hall balloons squeak as several clowns practice making balloon animals under Howard’s guidance. Others work on a skit. Brother Buchanan’s voice is heard. “Remember to work the crowd. Don’t just stand around. Work the crowd. Get them involved!”
Howard is demonstrating an airplane. Dr. Funnybones, experimenting, suddenly discovers that he has created a monkey hanging from a branch. Several other clowns stop to look. “How did you do that?”
Dr. Funnybones looks at his creation in awe. “I have absolutely no idea.” There is a camaraderie here, a palpable warmth and love, but there is also a serious sense of taking care of business. The Explorers have often prayed that they can make a difference in the lives of those they clown for. Now they are working hard to become part of the answer to their own prayers.

Although Cyrena feared setting off on her own, she trusted in the Lord and His promises. She soon found that her new religious community, her fellow Saints, cared for her as if she were part of their families. Because she lived in Alexander Stanley’s home for a short time, she was able to set out with his company for Far West, Missouri.

During the trip, Cyrena fell gravely ill and spent much of her time lying sick in a wagon. She wrote, “I shall ever remember how kind and good the sisters and brethren were to me during that long ride from New Portage, Ohio, to the Missouri River. They gave me every attention that could be given under the circumstances, many times sacrificing their own comfort for mine.”7 Although some felt she would not recover, Cyrena held on to her faith and the promise of her patriarchal blessing that she would go to Zion. She survived the journey, reaching Far West in the fall of 1838, and her health continued to improve.

Saturday morning, when Dad said he had to cut Brother Ballard’s hay, I told him that I could take care of things at home. Ever since I had turned nine, I had been bragging that I was almost a man and could handle things on the farm about as well as Dad could. “I’ll be all right,” I insisted as Dad headed for the tractor. “Just let me look after the farm.”
“What about taking the cows and the General to the meadow?” Dad asked. “Can you do that all by yourself?”
I swallowed hard. The cows were no problem, but I’d forgotten all about ornery old General.
“I can help Jacob drive the General down the lane to the meadow,” Mom spoke up from the steps. She knew I was a little afraid of our big roan steer, General, and she’d always been the one to drive him to the meadow when Dad wasn’t around.
“I don’t need any help,” I insisted. “A man doesn’t need his mom herding the cows for him.”
“The General isn’t mean or anything,” Dad pointed out, “but he does have a mind of his own.”
I nodded. I knew all about the General. I was the one who had practically raised him. I’d fed him from a bottle and later taught him to drink out of a bucket. And when he got older, I brought him lots of grass and grain. What he liked best, though, was carrots, so I often got a handful of carrots from the cellar and let him eat out of my hand. He’d close his eyes and munch on those long, crisp carrots like they were orange candy bars.
When the General was still a calf, he even let me ride him. But then he grew to be more than 450 kilograms.
I still liked him, but I liked him from a distance, and I always wanted a fence between him and me. Even so, I said, “I’ll be able to handle the General.”
Dad nodded. “I know you can do it. You’re a good worker.” He started the tractor, then called to me, “Now, remember, Jacob, after you take the cows to the meadow, make sure that you close the gate at the top of the lane. I don’t want those cows in the alfalfa. They’d get sick for sure from eating it, and we could lose every one of them.”
“I know,” I said.
I fed the calves their grain and hay. I carried slop to our three pigs, Dandy, Pandy, and Mandy. I gathered the eggs from the chicken coop and gave the chickens their grain. I scattered fresh straw in the shed so that the cows would have a soft bed that night. Then I opened the corral gate so that I could herd our seven milk cows and the General to the meadow.
About that time the General decided that he wanted a drink from the water trough, so every one of those old cows decided she wanted a drink too.
Those cows always did everything he did. I yelled at them and waved a stick and threatened to throw a rock at them, but they didn’t care. They just followed the General. I had to just wait until that stubborn old steer decided he wanted to go to the meadow.
He sniffed at every clump of grass, every fence post, and every rock between the corral and the lane. And what did the cows do? Why, they sniffed at every clump of grass, every fence post, and every rock, too.
Since I couldn’t hurry those cows and the General along, I started daydreaming. Then a big old green frog came jumping through the tall grass and landed right in front of me. Well, I never let a good frog get away, so before long I had it in my hands.
I was looking for something to put my frog in, when right there, sunning itself on a flat rock, was the biggest water snake I’d ever seen. I dropped the frog and grabbed the snake right behind its head. It wrapped itself around my arm and stuck its red forked tongue out at me, but I just smiled and headed back to the barn for a bucket to put it in. The General and the cows were starting down the lane toward the meadow, so I decided to look after my snake then and close the gate later.
I didn’t think I was gone very long. I did stop for a drink at the water trough and let my snake take a swim, and I checked on our cat and her four kittens. That just took a few minutes, though. But when I got back, that ornery old steer had decided that he didn’t want to go to the meadow after all. Partway down the lane he’d turned around and headed toward the alfalfa field, and the seven cows had followed.
When I saw the General wandering toward the alfalfa, I dropped the bucket. My snake slithered out of it and off through the grass, but by then I was running for the gate.
I was too late. The General and the cows were through it and wandering along the ditch bank that led to the alfalfa field. Luckily he wasn’t in a big hurry. He’d sniff at fence posts, munch clumps of grass, and swish the flies from his back with his tail. I knew, though, that if he ever made it to the alfalfa field, he’d never leave. He’d stay until his belly was clear full; then he’d lie down, get sick, and die. And those silly cows would eat and get sick and die right with him.
I found a big stick and filled my pockets with rocks. Then I circled around in front of the General. I waved the stick over my head and stomped my feet. I tried to shout to get his attention, but my throat was so tight that all I could do was squeak.
Digging into my pocket, I pulled out a good throwing rock, reared back, and let it fly. It hit that old steer right on the nose. His head jerked up, and he shook his head and blew angrily through his wet nose.
I didn’t figure there was any need to get myself killed trying to keep those crazy cows out of the alfalfa. I dropped my stick, jumped the ditch, sprinted to the fence, flopped on my belly, and scrambled underneath the bottom strand of barbed wire.
When I finally opened my eyes, I expected to see the General on the other side of the fence, snorting and pawing. But he wasn’t anywhere around! He was still along the ditch bank, ambling closer and closer to the alfalfa field.
I thought of running to the house to ask Mom to help me, but after telling Dad that I was old enough to take care of things around the place, there was no way I could do that.
Then I thought about praying. Heavenly Father would help me out! I dropped right to my knees and asked Heavenly Father to get that stubborn steer straightened out and headed back to the meadow, away from the alfalfa field.
When I finished my prayer, I figured I’d just wait until Heavenly Father had a chance to get the job done. When I thought I’d waited long enough, I looked toward the meadow. There wasn’t a single cow in it. I looked up and down the lane. No cows. I looked along the ditch bank. And there they were, ambling along toward the alfalfa field behind that ornery steer.
I couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t Heavenly Father heard me? Wasn’t he going to help me out? Maybe I prayed for the wrong thing, I thought. I dropped to my knees again. This time I prayed that Dad would finish Brother Ballard’s hay and get home before the cows were dead.
It was a pretty long prayer. I wanted to make sure that I didn’t leave anything out. When I finished, I waited on my knees and counted to 200 to give Heavenly Father plenty of time to get the message to Dad.
As I got to my feet, I listened for the growl of Dad’s tractor, but I couldn’t hear anything. And all I could see coming down the road was a truck. I waited and waited, but Dad didn’t come. And the General and the cows were almost to the alfalfa field.
Tears were running down my cheeks as I ran past the barn, looking for a place to hide so that I wouldn’t have to watch the General kill himself. There was only one place I could go—I dashed down the cellar steps.
Once more I knelt down. This time, though, I just prayed that Heavenly Father would help me to know what to do and to be brave enough to do it.
When I finished praying, I sat down on a sack of carrots to think. I pulled one of the carrots out of the sack and absentmindedly wiped it off on my pants and started chewing on it. Then it came to me—I could turn the General around with carrots!
I hurriedly emptied the rocks from my pockets and stuffed carrots in their place. With my arms full of carrots, too, I raced up the cellar steps, past the barn, and over to the ditch. The General was still munching along the ditch bank a little way from the alfalfa, and the cows were munching right behind him.
I said one more quick prayer, then marched right up to the General and dropped the biggest, fattest carrot under his nose. That old steer didn’t even look up at me. His big long pink tongue just wrapped around the carrot and popped it into his mouth. That carrot gone, he looked to me for another one. I held one out and started walking backward toward the gate in the distance. The General watched me slowly walk away. At first he didn’t move. He took a long look at the alfalfa field and a long look at me. And then he came.
My heart was thumping wildly, but I kept moving closer to the open gate and dropping a carrot every few steps or so. As always, those silly cows stayed right behind the General.
I don’t know how long it took me to get to the lane, but by the time I got there, I was so worn out that I could hardly walk. As soon as the seventh cow went through the gate, I dropped the last two carrots and ran and closed it and even tied it with a piece of wire. Then I knelt right there and thanked Heavenly Father.
That night at supper time, I didn’t brag about taking care of everything. In fact, I just sat quietly and ate. When Dad asked me how things had gone that day, I mumbled something about getting along pretty well; then, to change the subject, I asked for another slice of bread.

Years ago, as a campus stake president, I called a local Tongan brother to serve on the stake high council. "But how can I serve in a university stake?" He protested, "I know very little English. I’ve had no formal education. I will be a laughing stock among all those smart students." This man recited a list of reasons why he couldn’t possibly serve among smart people. I held to my conviction that this appointment was from the Lord. His wife finally said in her own native tongue, "I know my husband. I know his weaknesses. He is a good man and if the Lord wants him to speak in any language, I know he will find a way to do it."

This man did serve in the BYU-Hawaii Stake for several years. For the first few weeks, he was in torment with fears and feelings of inferiority but he took his calling seriously. When he had to speak in his role as high councilor, he prepared with all his might, mind and strength. He practiced in front of his mirror. He memorized and recited and repeated over and over the difficult lines. You can all predict what happened. This brother became one of the most popular speakers in the Stake. He never became fluent in English but he had a humble style and a fervor and wonderfully fresh ways of putting words together. That made him beloved and appreciated. When he stood at the pulpit before all those smart people, they paid rapt attention. He fed the hungry, gave drink to the thirsty and liberated the captive.

While living in Winter Quarters, she and her brother went down the Missouri River to purchase provisions and clothing. They had two wagons, each having two yoke of oxen. Camping for the night, they discovered in the morning that their two best oxen were gone. Young Joseph and his uncle spent the entire morning looking for the lost animals. They found nothing. Disheartened, he returned to tell his mother. Their situation was desperate, terribly so. As he approached, he saw her on her knees praying fervently, speaking with the Lord about their problem. When she arose to her feet, there was a smile on her face. She told her son and her brother to get their breakfast and she would look around. Following a little stream of water, and disregarding the words of a man who was in the area, she went directly along the bank of the river.
Pausing, she called to her son and brother. She pointed to their oxen, which had been tied to a clump of willows growing in the bottom of a deep gulch. The thief, who had tried to misdirect her, lost his prize and they were saved.
Mary’s faith imprinted itself in her son’s boyish heart. He never forgot it. He never doubted her closeness to the Lord.

“Are we going to make this marriage work, or not?” he asked.
Seven months married, six months pregnant, I sat on the bed, tears streaming down my cheeks and spotting my nightgown. I couldn’t give my husband an answer!
Jim, a nonmember, and a lieutenant junior grade aboard a U.S. destroyer, sailed out of San Diego, California, harbor every other week. He loved his duty, his friends aboard ship, and coming home to his sweetheart. But I was miserable! Because I was alone every other week and living in a strange city with no friends, no family, and (since I was inactive) no Church affiliation, I sank often into a state of despondency. Morning sickness, nausea, and a growing waistline did not improve my attitude. I felt trapped!
At the end of each “out to sea” week, Jim would return, ever the optimistic, expecting to find a happy, smiling wife. But after too many days of lonely vigilance, I was anything but sunshine. A dark gloomy cloud settled over our little rented bungalow. Doubts assailed me. I wasn’t sure I loved him. He didn’t seem to understand me or my needs. Was this what wedded bliss was supposed to be like? We had tried to talk it out before, but each time we satisfied only surface deficiencies, never the real problem.
Now we sat facing each other across the bed, our relationship teetering seriously. What were we going to do? The word divorce arose. Is that what we wanted? It carried a sound of finality, of permanency, and made us involuntarily shudder. But how could we change?
We sat in silence, pondering. Then Jim looked up. “Judith,” he said, “I think our problem is one of selfishness. Are you willing to make an honest effort to try an experiment? For the next thirty days, I’ll think only of you and your needs, and you think only of me and my needs. If at the end of that time our marriage has not improved, then we’ll talk about … about another solution.”
I agreed. I wanted—hungered for—happiness.
“But we must guard against one thing,” Jim warned. “We must not predetermine each other’s actions judging them against what we would like. Our wants may be out of proportion to what we receive, and disappointment may occur. This is to be a total concentration of what we can do for each other.”
The next morning I slipped out of bed early, fighting nausea and bleary eyes. Jim loved large hot breakfasts; I preferred sleeping later, with a light morning snack. Nevertheless, I cooked a large breakfast for him. Jim smelled the food and came into the kitchen smiling. So much for sleeping in! Even though every morning I still fought nausea, I cooked special breakfasts.
“Honey, I can hardly wait to get up in the morning just to see what exciting menu is on the table,” Jim said. “You’re a marvelous cook and I love it!” With this encouragement, my breakfasts continued to improve—and so did my willingness to prepare them.
The second big change came during those week-long assignments when Jim was out to sea. I took walks every day, started conversations with the local grocer and his wife, immersed myself in uplifting books and music, and shut every thought of self-pity out of my mind. Fridays required long preparation. I knew his optimism envisioned me running out the door and into his arms—so I ran! And then I led him back into the house to a carefully prepared meal. Romance blossomed again!
One night he said, “I feel like seeing a movie. Would you like to go?” Actually, I was tired and thinking about retiring early, but I remembered the commitment and grabbed my coat. Perhaps the hardest part is doing what you don’t feel like doing, without minding. The key, I’ve found, is attitude. Discomfort becomes insignificant when you have a genuine desire to please each other.
Of course I didn’t do all the changing in our marriage. Jim, too, kept his part of the commitment—and he did it in ways he knew would be most meaningful to me. His largest contribution was personalized attention. Five-minute rubdowns to my aching limbs and back expanded to an hour, soothing my nerves as well as my body. He provided more opportunities for talk and relaxation—taking me away from our four walls on weekends into the sunshine, to the beach, or to the park for archery or picnics. And he listened more attentively to what I was feeling and going through. He perceived how easily my feelings of confidence could fail, and so he reminded me of my positive traits during those periods to bolster my ego.
Even though he was only twenty-three years old, Jim commanded one hundred men aboard ship—men who saluted and followed his orders daily. Sometimes I had suspected he unconsciously desired the same behavior from me. But, happily, during our thirty day experiment, that harsh edge disappeared. In a matter of two weeks, I began to feel cherished, appreciated, and loved.
Our “extreme” commitment meant keeping each other’s needs always in the background of our thoughts; it meant asking ourselves each day “What can I do for him/her? How can I show I care?” It meant—for both of us—literally eliminating the feelings and thought of “I demand!” and “What about me?” and “Why doesn’t he/she … ?”
At first changes in our marriage were changes of attitude, but they were based upon the true principle of unselfishness, and our understanding and acceptance of the principle dictated our actions. We paid the price to please each other, and in that process discovered the beginnings of true love. All it took was to give instead of take; to be thoughtful instead of thoughtless; to desire to please rather than be pleased.

The missionaries held up a photo. “What do you see?” they asked.
“A happy family,” I answered.
“Are all families happy?”
I shook my head no. “You’ve seen my family,” I explained.
I was a 16-year-old living in Brazil, where I had lived all my life. The missionaries had been teaching me for several weeks, but nobody else in my family wanted to listen. During that time, the missionaries had often seen my family fight and argue. My family and the grinning family in the photo had nothing in common.
One of the elders said, “Well, maybe your current family isn’t this way. But you can build your future family differently.”
When we ended the visit, they asked me again to pray about what we’d been studying. As always, I didn’t exactly promise to do so. I enjoyed how I felt when the missionaries visited, and the gospel made sense to me. But I was afraid of the answer I might receive. If the gospel was true, I would have to make a lot of changes.
After the elders left, I couldn’t stop thinking about happy families. Ours wasn’t even close. My dad wasn’t in my life. My relationship with my mom wasn’t great. Grandma was the one who took care of us, but none of us behaved like a family the way the missionaries taught. None of us expressed love to each other or even spent much time together.
All my life I promised myself I would be a good dad someday. I would be the parent I never had. Yet as the missionaries taught me, I started realizing that I was doing the same things my parents did at my age. I stayed out late, did whatever I wanted, and lived like a rebel. Without meaning to, I was repeating the same story.
It was time to ask God.
When I finally prayed, I received
the answer I had expected all along. The Church is true! Now it was time to make a choice.
My grandmother had to give permission before I could be baptized. She was against it, but I persisted.
“Grandma, which Leonardo do you prefer?” I asked. “The one who was out drinking and smoking and coming home late? Or do you prefer who I am now? These changes are because of the gospel.”
Grandma finally agreed, and I was baptized and confirmed. From that moment, something interesting began to happen in my family—something I didn’t realize fully until a few years later.
Right before I left for my mission to southern Brazil, Grandma attended stake conference with me. Afterward we held a small testimony meeting with family and friends. To my surprise, Grandma wanted to say something.
“Ever since Leonardo joined your church, my family started becoming a real family,” she said. She then listed ways our entire family had grown closer: We now spent time together. We started saying “I love you” to each other, when we never had before. The fighting and arguing stopped. Real friendships developed among all of us. We had more to eat and were blessed with abundance in other areas.
I had noticed these changes too, but I hadn’t realized the timing could be linked back to when I was baptized.
“I may not be a member of your church,” she said, “but I am a friend of your church. And I know our family has been blessed because of Leonardo’s choice.”
I could hardly believe it! And yet, as Grandma spoke of how our family had grown closer, I suddenly remembered the photo the missionaries had shown me years before. Back then, I thought my only way to have a happy family was with my future family.
But I was wrong. My current family was happy! We had grown to love each other.
Maybe none of my family members will join the Church in this lifetime. But even if they don’t, I know that God has already blessed us in so many ways. The gospel of Jesus Christ shows us how to improve our families, no matter what our family situation looks like.