Gospel Story Finder

One Thursday evening at branch meeting at the Provo Missionary Training Center, a large group of Primary children filed into the chapel. The children gathered on the stand, facing the missionaries, and sang about being in the army of Helaman and hoping to be called on missions.
When the children finished singing, they remained standing. The elders and sisters arose, hearing the piano introduction to “Called to Serve,” the hymn which has become a missionary anthem. The missionaries had been so moved by the children’s songs that many were on the brink of tears. Starting their own song was not easy. As they sang I noticed the children. They were not looking at the floor or at each other. They were gazing intently into the faces of the missionaries whose song bore testimony of faith. The children believed the words they heard, and they knew the missionaries believed them too.
Both missionaries and children were witnesses to a demonstration of faith that borders on the miraculous, and both accepted it matter-of-factly as they would a more routine event. Yet, in that group of missionaries were individuals who had saved for years to serve a mission. All of them were willing to go where and when they were asked. Most had received a letter from someone they had never met which informed them they were going to a place they had never been, to meet people they had never seen and learn languages and discussions they did not know. Most were going at their own expense or were helped by other equally faithful people who made contributions.
As a branch president at the MTC, I was able to watch several hundred young men and women begin their missions. The power in their devotion and faith impressed me greatly. I never found an end to what seemed a tremendous willingness to give, learn, teach, and serve. If tired or less productive on one day, they arose the next filled with more resolve. Some had minor complaints. Collectively they had their immaturities and weaknesses. Some worked faster, some slower. Some were more prepared than others. Some worked hard to learn; others gave less effort. A few were unprepared. Overall, however, it was evident that a strong sense of purpose was driving them.
There is one part of missionary life, however, I am certain that all have in common. When faced with the work involved, possible hardship, new and strange places, the missionaries all spent time thinking, talking, and probably praying about their reasons for serving a mission.
I noticed many group discussions on the subject. I learned that companions often discussed with each other their reasons for serving missions. The search for reasons to serve a mission was also a major part of talks given in church meetings. Many speakers related conversion stories about how they had been prepared through spiritual means at a very young age. Some told of vivid dreams that were confirmed when they later heard about the gospel.
One missionary, for example, told of a dream she had at the age of nine or ten about the idea that God was an individual person, not three in one, and of a Heavenly Father whose son was Jesus Christ. Her views, which she held to faithfully, caused her and her family much discomfort during the time she went to private religious schools. Anyone she spoke to about religion was asked to satisfy her question, “Do you believe God is a person who has a son?” She often asked her friends at school, which was why she was troublesome to them and to her teachers. After a while, getting no satisfaction, she tired of asking.
Years later at work. when she was in her early twenties, she started talking with a co-worker about religion. These talks continued until the woman asked her to attend church with her. “I must ask you a question first,” she said. She asked the woman, and for the first time in her life received an answer that satisfied her. The woman answered, “Yes, my church teaches that God is the father of us all and has a son who is Jesus Christ.”
Missionaries were found, the young woman was taught the gospel, and as soon as possible she began serving on her own mission. On her first day of class when her MTC teacher walked in, she recognized her as the missionary who had taught her the gospel months earlier in a place far away from the Missionary Training Center.
There were many ideas presented as reasons for serving missions. Some missionaries wondered if they were going just to please their parents, to satisfy a girlfriend or boyfriend, or because their family and ward expected them to go. Others considered the possibility that they were part of a cultural tradition where the importance of missionary work had been taught through song and lesson from the time they were young. Many had other more individual reasons such as gratitude for miraculously surviving accidents, or seeking forgiveness for something they were ashamed of.
Faced with being away from home and family and the difficult parts of missionary life, they searched for “real” reasons. They did not want to undergo the challenges and hardship confronting them unless they had good, inspiring reasons for doing so. Straining to learn a difficult language, for example, might not seem worth doing if a missionary were only trying to please his or her parents.
I was interested in their conversations. I wanted to learn what they concluded. As I watched them from the day they arrived, I could tell they were progressing and beginning to sense and understand some things they could not verbalize. It appeared in their faces, in the diminishing number of pranks, in the gospel focus of their language, and in what they did in their private moments. Most quickened their scripture study and increased their attention to learning language and discussions. Watching all this, I finally recognized it for what it was—the real reason missionaries serve.
They were like salmon. They had originated in one place but had gone to live in another. After spending time away from their origins there was a pull, unyielding, subtle, but very dramatic in its persistence. It beckoned them to return or find a way to commune with what they had once known. I remembered the scripture:
“For what man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in him? even so the things of God knoweth no man, except he has the Spirit of God.
“Now we have received, not the spirit of the world, but the spirit which is of God; that we might know the things that are freely given to us of God” (JST, 1 Cor. 2:11–12).
I noticed that most of the missionaries were unaware of what was truly taking place. As they received this Spirit they were separated from the world and educated in the communication of spiritual things. They comprehended it at a level of understanding beyond words. It was clear they could feel it, were fed by it, and wanted more.
I learned then that a mission is a joining between a mortal soul who prepares and embraces the things of God, and God’s Spirit. When this happens, every missionary learns he or she is part of something greater and more important than self. Missionaries have an important part to play for themselves and for others. It is not the same as a ball game or a date. It involves being entrusted with the most essential ideas and ordinances of all. As they feel the Spirit and share his work, they come to know and love his Son—and to understand why they serve.

Often, the activation energy needed for blessings requires more than just looking or asking; ongoing, repeated, faith-filled actions are required. In the middle of the 19th century, Brigham Young directed a group of Latter-day Saints to explore and settle Arizona, an arid region in North America. After reaching Arizona, the group ran out of water and feared they would perish. They pled with God for help. Soon rain and snow fell, allowing them to fill their barrels with water and provide for their livestock. Grateful and refreshed, they returned to Salt Lake City rejoicing in the goodness of God. Upon their return, they reported the details of their expedition to Brigham Young and pronounced their conclusion that Arizona was uninhabitable.

After listening to the report, Brigham Young asked a man in the room what he thought about the expedition and the miracle. That man, Daniel W. Jones, tersely replied, “I would have filled up, went on, and prayed again.” Brother Brigham put his hand on Brother Jones and said, “This is the man that shall take charge of the next trip to Arizona.”

My assignment at the university requires me to have some infrequent contact with Church headquarters, especially as it relates to hosting or to a program I direct in China. A couple of years ago, Amy and I were making our annual pilgrimage to Disneyland with the kids when my cell phone rang. We were driving south on I-15 at the time, just passing through Las Vegas. I looked at the caller ID, knowing that I had asked my secretary to forward only emergency calls, and I saw that it was coming from a 240 prefix—the prefix of the Church Office Building.

Knowing I had to answer this call, I asked the kids to be quiet and said hello. A formal female voice replied, saying, “Please hold for Elder Oaks.” Immediately I was nervous. For him to be tracking me down on my cell phone suggested that there was a problem. For some reason I felt guilty even taking the call while I was driving through Vegas on my way to Disneyland, so I told the kids to be quiet with a little more urgency and waited for Elder Oaks to come on the line. Fortunately, I had a ready answer to his question, and, mercifully, the call ended quickly.

I’ve been thinking about that call, and other calls I’ve had over the years, in connection with prayer. If I respond so seriously to conversations with General Authorities and other Church officers, why am I inclined to occasionally treat communication with my Father in Heaven so casually?

I had the privilege as a general secretary of the Aaronic Priesthood one time of going to a home, and I thought about this visit. I wanted specific guidance. I didn’t want to shoot with a shotgun. I wanted this boy and he was the only one I was concerned about at this hour. And so as I walked up on the porch and knocked, here came a fine, sharp-looking fellow in a T-shirt. He was working in cement work and he was strong, a towhead in the sun, and as he stood there in the door, I said, “Duane, I have come to arm-wrestle you.” And he motioned to me to come in. And I want you to know I thought I had been had, but I went in anyway. He took everything off of the coffee table and we knelt down, and then we arm-wrestled. And I slowly put down his right arm, and he said, “Do you do it with the other arm?” And I said, “I do,” and so we arm-wrestled with the other arm, and I slowly edged him down. Then he said, “Do you Indian-leg wrestle?” I made a great mistake and said yes. We got down on the floor, and I don’t recall what happened after that. He rolled me over about three times to the fireplace. Then I made a second mistake and I said to him, “Do you do it with the other leg?” He said yes; then he rolled me back from the fireplace.

After this was over, I looked at him and said, “Duane, we need you over at church. We need your kind of person. Can you make it Sunday morning at priesthood meeting?” He looked at me for quite a while and said, “I will be there.”

The other letter came to me from an FBI agent in New York. He said, “I am here involved in a very, very important case. The days are long and the nights are longer because I am away from my family. I have had a little bit of time to think. As I have been thinking, I am impressed to write you a letter.”

In the letter he didn’t say, “I am thankful you are a member of the Council of Twelve Apostles.” He said, “I want to thank you for what you did for me when I was a deacon, teaching me to be true to myself, my family, and my Church. I will never forget your interest in me. You taught me to try and be a one hundred percenter. Thank you.”

Jennie shivered and drew the patchwork quilt more tightly around herself. She snuggled close to Susan. Outside the wagon, the wind whipped fiercely across the prairie, snapping the white wagon cover above her. Frightened, she wondered if the big wagon could withstand the raging storm. Papa had said the wagon was to be their home on the long journey to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. But suppose the wind shatters this old wagon, she conjectured, then how would Susan, baby Sarah, Mama and Papa, and I get to the valley?
Although the wagon was cold and uncomfortable it did provide substantial shelter from storms, and it was large enough to carry the things that Jennie’s family would need to start their new home in Salt Lake. Besides all of Papa’s tools, there was a heavy iron blade for a plow. Mama, too, had packed many things. Her beautiful dishes were carefully wrapped in bedding and linens to protect them from breaking as the wagon creaked and jolted across the land. She had also packed a sewing box of scissors, thread, and needles. Along with the grain and vegetable seeds there were tiny packets of flower seeds. Lovely flowers blooming in the yard would help make their new house a home. There had been no room to carry furniture, so Mama’s beloved carved vanity had been sold, as had Papa’s dresser and Susan’s bedstead.
Jennie remembered their pleasant home in Nauvoo. It had been hard to leave it, but cruel men had forced them to go. Papa had promised her that someday they would have a new home in the Rocky Mountains where they would all be safe and happy. Now thunder rumbled loudly across the prairie, and the wind moaned through the night. Jennie buried her head in her pillow and wished that the days of happiness and safety would come soon.
“Sister Quigley! Sister Quigley!” It was Brother Olenslager’s urgent voice. The light of his flickering lantern could be seen through the canvas wagon cover. “Are you awake? You must come. My wife is having her baby!”
“Yes, Brother Olenslager, I’m awake and I’ll come at once.”
Jennie heard Mama hastily dressing in the cold darkness of the wagon box. Tonight Papa was gone, for it was his turn to guard the stock. Jennie suddenly realized that she would be alone in the big dark wagon with four-year-old Susan and Baby Sarah.
“Mama?” she whispered.
“Jennie, I must go to help Sister Olenslager. Please watch after the little ones if they wake.”
“Yes, Mama.” Jennie’s throat was dry and she could scarcely speak. How she wanted to cry out, “Don’t go, Mama. I’m frightened!”
“If I’m not back before morning, Jennie, you must get breakfast and prepare to roll at daybreak. The morning bell will signal when it is time to wake up.” Then Mama slipped from the wagon into the sodden night and was on her way to Sister Olenslager.
BOOOOM! A frightening clap of thunder directly overhead split the night, jolting Susan from her slumber. “Mama!” she cried.
“She isn’t here, Susan,” Jennie explained, trying to soothe her frightened sister. “She’s gone to help Sister Olenslager with her baby.”
“I want Mama,” Susan began to cry. “I’m scared.”
Jennie hugged her younger sister and said softly, “Don’t be afraid. Everything will be all right. I’m here with you. It’s just that this noisy storm woke you up! Go back to sleep now.”
Jennie held the trembling little girl in her arms, concealing the terror that she herself felt. Unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks and onto Susan’s blonde hair. Oh, if only Papa were here! she wished. He always laughs at storms. Jennie believed that Papa’s booming laugh was louder than thunder and his muscled arms stronger than a fierce wind.
“Shhh …” Jennie whispered. “Be still, Susan.” But the little one, shivering beneath the patchwork quilt, was not easily quieted. Soon her sobs woke Baby Sarah, who began to fuss and whimper.
All the while the storm grew wilder, and the rain beat unceasingly against the canvas. Lightening crackled, brilliant and white, and thunder boomed and echoed across the sky. A cold knot of terror tightened in Jennie’s stomach. She could no longer bring herself to speak to her sisters or to comfort them. Mama had told her to tend the little ones, yet she, herself, was frightened. Oh, what can I do? she wondered pleadingly.
Then Jennie remembered something Papa had told her before they had left their home in Nauvoo. He said that there would be times in her life when she might be lonely or frightened and that during those times she might have to do things that she felt she could not do all by herself. But even though he and Mama might not be close-by, she need never be alone. He explained that Heavenly Father was anxious to help her in times of need. He was eager to comfort her when she was fearful, and happy to be near her when she was lonely. All she need do was pray and ask for His help and her prayers would be answered.
Swallowing her fear, Jennie sat up and knelt beside her two sisters. Then she prayed with all her heart for Heavenly Father to bless her and Susan and Sarah and be with them during the storm. When she had finished praying, she crawled back under the covers.
Soon both Susan and Sarah were sleeping soundly next to her. As she lay beside them Jennie felt the cold fear drain from her own heart, to be replaced by a warm calm. And weary from listening to the roaring of thunder, she, too, fell into a peaceful sleep.

Completing my full-time missionary service, my mission president gave me great counsel about dating and finding a wife. After being home only a few short weeks, I convinced my dad to allow me to return to Ricks College. Entering the library to work on a report, I went to the circulation desk for help.

There my heart was stolen by a beautiful, blue-eyed, blonde, library worker. After that experience, I spent a lot of time studying in the library! Vickie had graduated with her associate degree and was thinking of moving to attend Utah State University. In my mind that was unacceptable. I had to work fast. We began dating and the rest is history. We met in July, became engaged in October and then married December 18, the day after finals. As much as I thought I loved her then, referring back to Alma's teachings, we had just barely planted the seed of our love. For the last 35 years, we have nurtured and watched over that seed as our love grew; first for one another and our Heavenly Father, then for children, grandchildren, and our many dear friends.

What do rabbits, postage stamps, and children’s music have in common? They are some of the things that have helped nine-year-old David Whitworth to save for his mission.
For nearly two years David raised Harry, then Jule, two Angora rabbits. Angoras need their loose fur plucked frequently, and David plucked the soft, fine fur and sent it to his grandmother in New Mexico. She paid David for the fur, which she combined with wool on her spinning wheel to make soft yarn for knitting.
He saved most of his rabbit money in a special missionary bank that his Uncle Tim made for him one Christmas. The bank looks like a brown leather book, and it sits on the bookshelf; but it is really made of wood and is hollow.
Although Harry and Jule died recently, David plans to get more Angora rabbits as soon as possible. Meanwhile, the savings in his missionary bank grows. Before the family’s recent move from California to Kentucky, his older sisters, Erin (16), Shaunda (14), and Katie (12), paid him for helping them deliver newspapers on their five routes. Now he gets paid for helping his parents in two small businesses that they run from their home. He helps his dad put postage stamps in vending machines, and he helps his mom with office work, booths, and workshops in her business of selling children’s music.
Besides saving money, David prepares in other ways for his future mission. He is learning to be responsible and dependable. He can cook a whole meal when asked, is learning to sew, and takes his turn at washing dishes and other household chores. He can even change the diapers on his two-year-old sister, Maryvonne!
Missionaries do not sleep in late, and David has learned to get up early: On school days, the family is usually awake by 6:00 A.M. so that everyone can eat, dress, have prayers, and read the scriptures before the bus comes at 7:15. During the summer, they get up at 6:00 A.M. to help in the family’s large garden for an hour before Dad leaves to work in nearby Lexington.
David is also following the prophet’s counsel to learn a second language. In California, David was in a bilingual classroom. At his Kentucky school, his mother teaches Spanish twice a week to David’s class and to the classes his brothers, Josiah (5), and Jonathan (7), are in.
David works hard in school. He is a member of his school’s Academic Team, which competes with teams from other schools to give the fastest correct answers to questions on many subjects. And for a special school project, he recently typed and illustrated a science fiction book that he wrote called “Survival in Z-P.”
David also has plenty of time for just having fun. He likes quiet activities like reading, drawing, and chess. And he enjoys basketball, baseball, tennis, swimming, Cub Scouts, and exploring the small woods around a clubhouse built in the hollow behind the family home.
If you ask David what he wants to be when he grows up, he’s likely to answer, “A missionary, a dad, an artist, a baseball player, and a cartoonist—maybe.”

Looking back, I see that my life in the ghetto was difficult and that a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances, no matter where we are. He desires above all things that we find true happiness.

After graduating from high school, I felt impressed to visit all four of my grandparents. I had some free time, and I realized that I might not have this opportunity again, so I spent one week with each set of my grandparents.
I spent my time going through old boxes, reading old letters, and looking at old pictures. I recorded my grandparents’ life stories, walked around cemeteries, and visited where my grandparents and their relatives had lived and worked. It was fun! I learned so much about my ancestors, my grandparents, my parents, and myself. I realized that I wouldn’t have the life that I have if it weren’t for my ancestors.
After my trip, I came back with about 1,000 of my ancestors’ names and have been able to do the temple work for many of them. Following the promptings of the Holy Ghost and visiting with my grandparents was one of the best decisions I have ever made.
Shenley P., California, USA

I knew before the race started that it would be tough—a four-mile cross-country trek through the sandhills. There were plenty of ups and downs, and several places where your feet sank into the sandy soil and slowed you to a walk.
I knew it would be hard, because I’d helped my dad mark out the trail two days before. He’s the gym teacher at my school. It’s his job each fall to choose and mark out the route for the divisional cross-country races.
“I want it tough, David, but fair,” he said to me as we tied up small blue ribbons to mark the route. “There’ll be good runners as well as some who race just to get an afternoon off school. I want the course tough enough to challenge the serious runners.” He grinned at me and said, “You wouldn’t want it too easy, would you?”
I grinned back and shook my head. This was the first year I could be in the race. Each year I’d heard Dad talk about it, and I’d heard the older kids at school say it was really tough. I was eager to compete in it.
I’m in fine form, I thought. I’d been practicing for six weeks, and my legs and lungs felt ready. In gym class I easily beat the other boys at two miles, but we’d never run the whole four miles. That, plus all the hills, might make a difference. And, of course, kids from five other schools would be in the race too. I’d heard rumors that one of the other schools had a really good runner in my division.
When we lined up for the first race of the meet, I knew who it was. His classmates called him Mike, and urged him on. I was determined to beat him, even though he was a good six inches taller than me. That meant his legs were a lot longer—I’d probably have to take four strides to cover the same distance he did in three!
The route began with a really steep hill with stunted oak trees scattered over it. “Why did you put the start here?” I’d asked Dad when we set it up. “Do you want to scare everybody at the start?”
“That’s the idea!” He grinned, then explained that the actual reason was to make the runners spread out instead of bunching together. “They’re less likely to bump into each other that way.”
Now, racing up Heartbreak Hill, I saw what he meant. Everyone was soon walking, including me! At the top I resumed running. Only one runner—Mike—was ahead of me as I followed the course-marking ribbons down the other side. I didn’t try to catch him. This side was much shorter, but steeper, so I was careful to keep my legs under control.
At the bottom, the trail flattened out and wound through poplar trees. Then it took a sharp right turn through an open wire gate before twisting alongside a creek for half a mile or so. By the time we turned away from the creek, Mike was about a hundred yards ahead, going at a steady lope. The rest of the runners were so far behind that I couldn’t see anyone else.
We were more than halfway there, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d be able to catch Mike. My legs were straining on “automatic,” but his long legs seemed to carry him effortlessly up the hills. Even the sandy places didn’t slow him down much.
My breath was getting ragged. I thought about walking for a while, but I didn’t want to let Mike increase the distance between us. My classmates were counting on my winning, and even Dad had hinted that it would be nice to see my name on the trophy. I forced myself to keep running.
Then Mike suddenly slowed and turned his head from side to side as if he were lost. He’s right where the trail branches, I thought. He can’t tell which way to go.
The trail was marked to turn right, but he turned left and picked up speed again.
I’ll catch him! was my first thought. Then, Why didn’t he follow the ribbon?
In a moment I was up to where he’d turned off. There was no ribbon visible, though I’d seen Dad put one there. I took a few strides in the right direction, and there it was, fallen to the ground, and half hidden by grass.
He’ll soon figure out that he’s wrong, I thought and took a couple more strides. But it was almost as if I could hear Dad’s voice: “Winning is important, but it’s not the most important.”
I stopped running. “Mike!” I called loudly. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Is this a trick?” he shouted, turning back.
“No trick,” I called. “See? Here’s the ribbon.” I held it up and tied it to a branch for the later runners to see.
I waited for Mike to pass me, and when he was a hundred yards ahead again, I started running. Even so, I figured I’d gained a small advantage, since I’d had a short rest and hadn’t gone quite as far. My breathing was easier, and slowly I managed to lessen the distance between us.
Mike went up and over the last hill. In the distance I heard a cheer as the crowd sighted him. I topped the hill and saw that he wasn’t more than fifty feet ahead.
I’m going to catch him, I thought. He was almost staggering, and I urged my legs to move faster.
The gap closed. Mike glanced back, saw me coming, and made one last effort. With two feet to spare, he crossed the finish line ahead of me.
I walked around slowly to catch my breath. Dad was standing near the finish line, recording names as later runners crossed, and he gave me a thumbs-up signal. I knew that he didn’t mind that my name wouldn’t be on the trophy—but it sure would have been nice.
When I saw Mike recovering, I went over to congratulate him. “Good race,” I said, “but just wait till next year!”
He gave me a funny look. “Why’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call me back to the trail. And then give me a head start.”
I shrugged. “It was only fair,” I said. “You were ahead, and the ribbon had fallen, but I knew where to go.”
“But you’d have beaten me.”
“It wouldn’t have been right,” I said. “Not that way. You’d have done the same thing.”
“I don’t know, really,” Mike said, his smile uncertain. “What I know for sure is that I hope I would have.”
“What I know,” Dad said, coming up to us, “is that you’re both winners in my book!”

David soon discovered that he was the only member of the Church in his new school. With only a small number of students there, David knew he would get more attention from teachers because of the class size, but he didn’t want any special attention from his peers for being a Latter-day Saint.
“I was quiet about my beliefs at the beginning,” he says. “It was a new environment, and I was afraid I would be shunned and it would be hard to make friends.”
Then around his third year in the school, David remembered his priesthood lessons about letting his light shine.
“One time there was a big assembly at the school, and as I was looking around, it struck me that I was the only priesthood holder there,” he says. “The Lord had given me a responsibility, and I wasn’t doing enough.” He knew he had to make his membership in the Church known.
He decided to tell his friends about his standards and beliefs. He says it was harder to live his standards when he didn’t tell anyone about them, but when he made them known, it was easier to live them, and he even received support from his friends.

Pray. Before the Young Women’s conference, Allison Buytendorp, 17, of the Roswell Georgia Stake, didn’t want to go. But her mother suggested she pray about it before she made up her mind. Allison prayed and felt she should go. Now she knows why. “I loved it. I felt spiritually renewed afterwards, and it made me want to go to seminary. Now I want to learn more about the scriptures. I know I was where I was supposed to be because I prayed. It just feels good to know Heavenly Father is always there for you to help you out.”

Years ago our young family moved into a home on what was then the edge of development in our community, which afforded a view of the mountains to the east. One Monday morning, just as I finished dressing and was ready to rush out the door to work, our six-year-old son, Craig, came bringing his four-year-old brother, Andrew, into the room by the hand. With determination Craig looked up at me and said, “Dad, yesterday in Primary my teacher told us that if you hold the priesthood, you can move mountains. I told Andy this, and he doesn’t believe me. You hold the priesthood, right, Dad?” Then turning his little body and pointing out the window, he looked back at me and said, “See those mountains over there? Show him, Dad!”
What followed was a sweet experience. How grateful I was for young sons who were beginning a lifetime of learning about the priesthood.

I had my eyes opened to “looking beyond what I could see” while serving as a mission president. A young elder arrived with apprehension in his eyes. As we met in an interview, he said dejectedly, “I want to go home.” I thought to myself, “Well, we can fix this.” I counseled him to work hard and to pray about it for a week and then call me. A week later, almost to the minute, he called. He still wanted to go home. I again counseled him to pray, to work hard, and to call me in a week. In our next interview, things had not changed. He insisted on going home.
I just wasn’t going to let that happen. I began teaching him about the sacred nature of his call. I encouraged him to “forget [himself] and go to work.” But no matter what formula I offered, his mind did not change. It finally occurred to me that I might not have the whole picture. It was then that I felt a prompting to ask him the question: “Elder, what is hard for you?” What he said pierced my heart: “President, I can’t read.”
The wise counsel which I thought was so important for him to hear was not at all relevant to his needs. What he needed most was for me to look beyond my hasty assessment and allow the Spirit to help me understand what was really on this elder’s mind. He needed me to see him correctly and offer a reason to hope. Instead, I acted like a giant demolition wrecking ball. This valiant elder did learn to read and became a very pure disciple of Jesus Christ. He opened my eyes to the Lord’s words: “For man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).

Percy “Chappy” Winstanley, who presided over the first Durban stake created in 1981 and came up from Johannesburg to attend the Durban dedication, recalled Church members putting their lives on the line regularly—sometimes in helping with routine meetings and activities.
“We had a high councilor down in the Eastern Cape who would have to run the gauntlet of rioters throwing rocks at his car to go open the meetinghouse in the morning,” he said. “Then he would have to go back [to lock the building], and here came the rocks again.”

When I was a teacher and priest in the Aaronic priesthood, I was blessed to be assigned to home teach with a wonderful high priest named Reed Squires. Reed was a humble and very faithful home teacher and, amazingly, made me feel like he enjoyed going with me. As we drove to do our visits, he would ask about what was happening in my life. I can't imagine that he would have been all that interested in some kid from the ward but he made me feel like a companion. He would ask my opinion about what to teach and how we might help people. And best of all was his example. We were assigned to visit a gentleman who really didn't want to see us on his doorstep. With the TV blaring and cigarette in hand, he would barely acknowledge us as we came into his home. But Reed would gently ask about this man's life and whether there was something we could do for him.

Some time ago I spoke with a priesthood leader who was prompted to memorize the names of all of the youth ages 13 to 21 in his stake. Using snapshots of the young men and women, he created flash cards that he reviewed while traveling on business and at other times. This priesthood leader quickly learned all the names of the youth.

One night the priesthood leader had a dream about one of the young men whom he knew only from a picture. In the dream he saw the young man dressed in a white shirt and wearing a missionary name tag. With a companion seated at his side, the young man was teaching a family. The young man held the Book of Mormon in his hand, and he looked as if he were testifying of the truthfulness of the book. The priesthood leader then awoke from his dream.

At an ensuing priesthood gathering, the leader approached the young man he had seen in his dream and asked to talk with him for a few minutes. After a brief introduction, the leader called the young man by name and said: “I am not a dreamer. I have never had a dream about a single member of this stake, except for you. I am going to tell you about my dream, and then I would like you to help me understand what it means.”

The priesthood leader recounted the dream and asked the young man about its meaning. Choking with emotion, the young man simply replied, “It means God knows who I am.” The remainder of the conversation between this young man and his priesthood leader was most meaningful, and they agreed to meet and counsel together from time to time during the following months.

That young man received the Lord’s tender mercies through an inspired priesthood leader. I repeat again, the Lord’s tender mercies do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Faithfulness and obedience enable us to receive these important gifts and, frequently, the Lord’s timing helps us to recognize them.

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
One autumn weekend, Wilford Woodruff traveled 20 miles to a nearby town to baptize a group of people. After the baptisms, he and his friends started the long journey home.
Wilford: We’d better head out quickly—it looks as if it’s going to rain.
They came to a river that had grown large and dangerous because of recent rain.
Friend: This looks too dangerous to cross.
Friend: Let’s search for a more shallow place.
As the group searched for a safer place to cross, a storm broke overhead. The wind started blowing hard, and rain poured down on them.
The group got more and more confused in the dark storm. Soon they couldn’t tell where they were going. They wandered through creeks and mud.
Wilford: This is dangerous, but I know Heavenly Father will help us.
Suddenly, the rain stopped and a bright light shone all around the group. It showed that they were on the edge of a cliff, and might have fallen off if they had gone any farther!
Friend: Where is that light coming from?
Wilford: I don’t know, but it’s showing us the way. I knew the Lord would preserve us.
The light continued with the group until they found the road. After that, the weather continued to be bad, but Wilford Woodruff and his friends didn’t care because they knew Heavenly Father was watching over them.
Wilford: Now we know that the Lord does not forsake his Saints in any of their troubles.
Friend: We truly have reason to rejoice!

The invitation to appear on the popular Edward R. Murrow show on CBS to present a typical Mormon home evening was a serious challenge. The eyes of the nation would be focused on this popular show. Not only the family but, to a great extent, the Church would be on trial before the people. There was some reluctance on the part of the wise mother. She did not want her daughters publicized; but with the persuasion of her sons that this would be an opportunity to do missionary work, she readily agreed. There followed prayer and fasting, but no rehearsing. It was to be an informal Mormon home evening. Questions were to be answered, as the children decided, with “a Church answer.” The Lord heard our prayers, and afterwards letters came in by the hundreds. Later, in a national magazine article, Mr. Murrow expressed his pleasure and surprise when he received more fan mail on the Mormon home evening with Secretary Benson’s family than on any other program of his years-long “Person to Person” series.