Gospel Story Finder

My parents were baptized when they were grownups. They loved learning about the prophets and Heavenly Father and then teaching our family.
On Sundays, my father would sit in a comfy chair and put me on his lap. Then we would read Bible stories together.
One day, my father read this story to me. Then he did something I’ll never forget. He traced four letters on my forehead with his finger: T-E-S-T.
“Sharon,” he said, “you will have tests in your life, just like Daniel did. But remember these letters on your forehead. They will remind you to always follow Heavenly Father and not give in to fear.” And they always have.

I know that the challenge of placing the Book of Mormon in the heart of a person is not easy. Some years ago Sister Sorensen and I were preparing to go to Eastern Canada on a mission. We were in a restaurant in Salt Lake City just prior to going to the airport. A young man walked up to us and introduced himself. He was originally from Halifax, but had joined the Church and moved to Salt Lake City. He was married, with a small family.
He said, “My father, Raymond Gaetz, lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia. He is not a member of the Church. He does not understand the Church. He does not seem happy with me for having joined the Church. I would like to help him. I have sent him all kinds of information over the years. Some he has accepted, others he has sent back either unopened or marked ‘not interested.’
“I have here a copy of the standard works in a recently published quad. I think he might accept it if you would take it to him.”
We accepted the challenge. When we arrived in Halifax, I called Mr. Raymond Gaetz and told him who I was and that I had a gift from his son. I asked if I could present it to him. He asked me a little about his son and then said, “I have no interest whatsoever in the Book of Mormon. Please pass it on to someone else.”
I told him I couldn’t; it had his name engraved on it. I asked if he would please accept it from his only son.
He said, “No,” and hung up.
Soon thereafter I decided to pay Mr. Gaetz a visit. I was met at the gate of his apartment by a guard. The guard was kind enough to connect me with Mr. Gaetz on the intercom. I told him I would like to give the gift to him and bring him greetings from his fine son. He said I could leave the book with the guard but not to bother him further.
A few days later he called me and said, “I noticed this is an expensive book. I’m a frugal Scotsman, and I can’t stand to see it go to waste. Please come and get it. We can have my name removed and you can give it to someone else.”
I made an appointment to see him. When I arrived, the guard told me I was to take the book with me. I took the book, returned to the office, and put it on my desk to remind me that I had a work yet to complete.
Sometime later my wife, Verla, came into the office, saw the book on my desk, smiled, and said, “My goodness, what kind of a missionary are you? Haven’t you delivered those scriptures to Mr. Gaetz yet?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve been trying, but without much success.”
She responded with, “Oh, come on now. You’re just too busy.”
I was a little irritated, so I said, “Well, Verla, why don’t you try?”
She said, “All right, I will.”
She took a different approach entirely. She called their home, and fortunately Mrs. Gaetz answered the phone. After a friendly conversation, Verla invited Mrs. Patricia Gaetz and her husband to the mission home for dinner. She accepted Sister Sorensen’s invitation. About halfway through the dinner I was getting anxious to present the book. Sister Sorensen gently nudged me under the table, so I knew better. After the dinner we had a lovely discussion, but we never mentioned the Book of Mormon.
A few days later Mrs. Gaetz called and invited us to their apartment. We had a delicious lunch and talked. This went back and forth for some weeks. Then one day I again mentioned to Raymond, “Remember that wonderful book your son has given you? I surely would like to present it to you.” This time Raymond accepted the book.
We continued to meet together socially, and then one day I said, “Raymond, it’s time for you to receive the missionary discussions.”
“No, I’m not interested. But I’ll tell you what I will do. I walk every day at noon in the park for my health, and I would be happy to hear about the Book of Mormon through your lips. We’ll talk religion.”
So I arranged my schedule during the lunch hour to walk in the park two or three times a week with this good brother.
Our friendship deepened during these discussions. I soon asked him to be baptized. He said, “No, I’m not interested in being baptized.”
“Well, you’ve heard the gospel, you know it’s true, you need to accept it. You’ve been reading the Book of Mormon; now take it into your heart.”
“I haven’t the faith yet to accept the Mormon Church.”
One day a video came to the mission office entitled How Rare a Possession. You may have seen it. It’s about a man who found a copy of the Book of Mormon without a cover or introductory pages in a trash can in Italy. The man read the book, accepted it, lived its principles, and spent almost a lifetime trying to find out more about the Church. He eventually found the missionaries, was baptized, and came into full fellowship. The video projects him later in his life going to the temple in Switzerland. It is a true story.
I gave the video to Raymond. A few days later, during our usual walk, it was obvious that he had changed. He said, “You know that man that found the Book of Mormon was not unlike me. I do have hope in eternal life. I’ve changed my mind. I’m ready to be baptized.”
“Do you have a testimony of Jesus Christ?”
“You know I have.”
“Are you willing to give up smoking?”
“I can do it.”
“Are you willing to give up drinking?”
“I will.”
“Ray, you’re a wealthy man. You’re a captain of industry. You’re a man of influence, a man of substance and means. Are you willing to pay a full tithe on all that money you make?”
“I certainly am.”
“Good. Have you told your wife, Patricia?”
“No. That’s your job.”
We went right to his home. I told her of his decision and invited her to join him in baptism.
She said, “I can’t be baptized. You know I’m a good Catholic. Neither can he. He still smokes and drinks, and he won’t pay all that tithing.”
You know something; he did. He gave up his coffee, tea, alcohol, and tobacco, and he paid his tithing and rejoiced. When he came up out of the waters of baptism, he said, “Now I want to go to that temple.”
“Brother Gaetz, the temple is a year away. You’ll have to work hard and prepare yourself spiritually.”
“That’s what I want to do.”
A year later Sister Sorenson and I had completed our mission. We flew to Washington, D.C., to meet Raymond at the temple. As we walked out of the temple after several sessions, he looked up at those beautiful spires and made an unusual remark.
“I feel like I’m the last one in and the first one out.”
“Brother Ray, what do you mean?”
“Well, recently I have contracted terminal cancer. I don’t know how long I have to live. I am just so grateful that I have been able to come here to the house of the Lord. I feel very much like the man that was portrayed in the film who lived out his life and finally found the temple.”
Sometime later I was at Raymond’s side when he died, one of the happiest men I have ever known.
Recently a note written by Ray Gaetz to his young grandson fell into my hands. It is dated October 5, 1989, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada:
“My Dear Grandson,
“I am sending you this Book of Mormon that I hope will be your lifelong companion. The teachings of this book will have a profound influence on your life. If you follow these teachings, you will be the recipient of many blessings. May our Father in Heaven bless and care for you.
“With love, Grandad.”
So it is that Brother Raymond Gaetz came to understand that “come unto Christ” is not a nondescript, lovely phrase. The Book of Mormon teaches us of the power and glory and gift of God and the desire to come unto Christ.

When I was a young boy, I loved Saturday because everything I did on that day seemed like an adventure. But no matter what I did, it was always preceded by the most important thing of all—watching cartoons on television. One such Saturday morning, as I was standing by the television and flipping through channels, I discovered that the cartoon I expected to find had been replaced by a broadcast of the general conference of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. While looking at the television and lamenting that there was no cartoon, I saw a white-haired man in a suit and tie sitting in a nice chair.
There was something different about him, so I asked my oldest brother, “Who is that?”
He said, “That’s President David O. McKay; he’s a prophet.”
I remember feeling something and somehow knowing that he was a prophet. Then, because I was a cartoon-crazed young boy, I changed the channel. But I’ve never forgotten what I felt during that brief, unexpected revelatory moment. With a prophet, sometimes it only takes a moment to know.

Two missionaries asked a new family to kneel in prayer, and the senior companion, not knowing why, asked the husband to move over by his wife and take her hand. He hesitated, and the missionary simply said, “That’s what my mom and dad do at home. Please take your wife by the hand.”

After they were baptized, the husband and wife tearfully confessed that they were on the verge of divorce when they met the missionaries. The husband had already moved out of the home. He was just there to visit the children when the missionaries appeared. The husband said that as his hand touched his wife’s, a healing spirit came over them. Love replaced the wounds and the misunderstandings; they forgave each other, and the husband came home.

These were times when I would see the best and worst sides of my grandpa. Grandpa always had a smile on his face but he never let a teaching moment pass. I'll never forget my very first day of bussing tables when I was 12. I was to be at work at 5 p.m. but I didn't get done with soccer practice until 5:00. So, I figured it wouldn't matter if I was a few minutes late. I smartly calculated the time it would take to ride my bike from the school to the restaurant. Five minutes wouldn't hurt anyone. So, I arrived a few minutes late and punched my time card and put on an apron and began clearing tables. I hadn't finished my first table when I looked back and saw my grandpa walking toward me. At first, I couldn't tell if he was happy for my first day of work or if he was going to give me a tongue-lashing. He simply put his hand on my shoulder and said: "Son, you were late for work on your first day." For which I quickly apologized and reassured him that it wouldn't happen again. Then he said: "And you don't come to work in soccer shorts and cleats. Go home, take a shower and come back when you're ready to work."

When I got back to the café in my white shirt, black pants and black church shoes, I found my grandpa cleaning the tables that I had neglected for the last 30 minutes. I quickly put on a clean white apron and rushed over to relieve my grandpa from cleaning tables. I half expected another tongue-lashing but the lesson he taught was so much better. When I approached the table, he just smiled and said: "Now, that's more like it." And then, instead of going home after a long day of work, having opened the restaurant at 3 a.m., he spent the next half hour showing me how to be the best bus boy at Prices Café.

She came down the hallway of Glenwood High with all the grace of a fire engine rushing toward a burning building. She commanded attention in the brightest green dress Melanie Brannon had ever seen, topped by a pointy yellow collar that drooped like a wilting flower over her shoulders. She nodded and gabbed at every student in the hallway. Most of them just stared back.
Please, not the locker next to mine, Melanie silently pleaded as the stranger glided closer. She was a little taller than Melanie, very thin, her hair coal black, straight, and hanging to her waist. As she drew closer, Melanie noticed that her fingernails were painted in the same bright yellow as her collar.
It’s Halloween in September, Melanie thought, sticking her head inside her locker. It was the first day of Melanie’s senior year. She knew the next ten months were brimming with challenges: maintaining high grades, starting a job, applying for scholarships, and her new Church calling. Only two weeks before, Bishop Jackson asked her to serve as the Laurel class president. Her life was filled. There was no time for extras, including making friends with some day-glowing stranger.
“You must be a ‘B.R.’ too,” Melanie heard a fluttery voice behind her say.
“Excuse me?”
“A ‘B.R.’—your name must start with those letters. Aren’t the lockers assigned in alphabetical order? My last name is Brady. My first name is Arlene. I was named for my grandmother. She’s dead.”
“Oh—I’m sorry,” Melanie stammered.
“For the best. Grandmother was old and not well,” Arlene said vacantly. Then, she suddenly shifted gears. “Like my outfit? You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to put it together.”
“How nice,” Melanie mumbled, taking a few slow steps away from her locker. A school bell clattered. “I’ve got to go. It’s bad luck to be late on the first day.”
“How true,” squeaked Arlene. “One should never invite bad luck.”
Melanie darted down the hall but was stopped in her tracks by a familiar voice.
“Hey, Brannon! New friend of yours?” It was Craig Miller, probably the last person she wanted to hear from at that instant. “She’s great. Maybe she could help you with your wardrobe.”
“Funny, Craig. She has the locker next to mine, that’s all. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get to Mrs. Foreman’s class.”
“Mrs. Foreman? A drill sergeant masquerading as an English teacher,” teased Craig.
“I asked for Mrs. Foreman. She does more to help her students get ready for college than any other teacher.”
“Can I call you tonight?”
“Sure. But I’m starting at Taco Tommy’s. I won’t get home until late.” Melanie disappeared into Mrs. Foreman’s English class just before the door was pulled shut.
Fourteen hours later, Melanie quietly unlocked the front door to her home. She slipped inside, glancing at a hallway mirror. She saw the reflection of a tired young woman who had arisen near sunrise, put in a hectic first day at school, and started a new job.
You smell like a taco, she thought.
“Melanie?”
She turned and saw her mother coming down the stairs. “I waited up for you, honey. Everyone else has gone to bed. How was the first day on the job?”
“It was good motivation for college. I’ve decided my future isn’t in fast foods.”
“You look tired. Remember, seminary starts tomorrow. When are you getting up?”
Melanie groaned. “About 5:30.”
“You’d better get some sleep.”
“Can’t. Mrs. Foreman gave us a short story to read.”
“Good night then. Oh, Craig called. You know, under that cool exterior, I think he has a crush on you.”
Melanie yawned. “Sorry I missed him.” She dragged herself up to her room and was soon reading at a small desk. But it was difficult to concentrate on the story by Chekhov.
Tacos. Beef tacos, chicken tacos. What was it Mrs. Foreman said about Russian authors? Unrecognized for what reason? Bet that’ll be on a test. And then there was that weird new girl, Arlene Brady. Yellow nail polish.
Melanie’s eyes dropped and she laid her head on her desk.
Beatrice Foreman gazed across her classroom like a hawk scouting for a mouse. She was in her 50s, an imposing woman with dark, penetrating eyes and a facial expression that stopped just short of a scowl. Her wrath was readily kindled by students who came to class unprepared.
“Mr. Crandall!”
The young man next to Melanie stood nervously.
“You read the assignment, I presume. Chekhov’s short story ‘The Kiss.’ Tell us about it.”
“Let’s see, there is a young soldier.”
“He receives a kiss from a young woman, but it was by mistake.”
“Not the first of Cupid’s arrows to miss its mark,” intoned Mrs. Foreman. “The symbolism. Explain the meaning, Mr. Crandall.”
“Uh … I think it stands for how we as human beings can take small, insignificant things, maybe even things that happen by accident, and take them to mean something bigger in life than they really are.”
“Better,” boomed Mrs. Foreman. “Continue, Mr. Crandall.”
“The kiss in the story, the soldier took it to mean a whole better life, a brighter future,” Dan said, with somewhat more confidence. “Someone cared for him, he thought. But he was wrong.”
“Your speech lacks precision, Daniel, but I believe you have picked up the essential grain of the story. Thank you.”
After class, Melanie and a friend, Gretchen Hunter, walked down a hallway.
They turned a corner. There was Arlene Brady. Melanie was caught off guard. “Hi, Arlene. How are you?”
Arlene stared at Melanie for a couple of seconds. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in days,” Arlene said. She hovered an instant, then swept down the hallway.
“Who was that?” asked Gretchen.
“Nobody,” grumbled Melanie. “Her locker’s next to mine.”
“Hey, Brannon!” Melanie cringed as she heard Craig Miller’s familiar greeting. “How about some ice cream tonight? Me and ice cream—an irresistible combination.”
“I really do like ice cream, Craig, but it’s a bad night. I have an interview with Bishop Jackson, plus a bunch of studying.”
“You’re just playing hard to get,” replied Craig. “But I know my charms will win you over in the end.”
The phone rang in the bishop’s office. Bishop Jackson reached for it and answered. While he was talking, Melanie glimpsed a name on a move-in list that was on his desk. She squinted and looked again. No mistake: Arlene Brady.
Arlene, the princess of weird, a Mormon! This is too much, Melanie thought as Bishop Jackson hung up.
“Bishop, you have a girl named Arlene Brady on the list there.”
He nodded. “I went to her apartment last week and talked with her father. The two of them are there by themselves. He’s not a member, and they move around quite often. He said Arlene doesn’t have many friends. I told him maybe we could help.”
“But she wears costumes to school,” Melanie said. “Yesterday she came in wearing an outfit that made her look like a diesel truck. I’m serious, Bishop. The exhaust pipes were silk-screened on her sleeves! She even had a little black spot underneath the engine. She told me it was an oil slick. The guys at school are calling her Oil Slick Brady.”
Bishop Jackson sat back in his chair. “Sounds like someone who needs attention. Melanie, I know this is a busy time for you. But I also feel it’s important for Arlene to have a friend. Will you give it a try?”
Melanie smiled weakly. “What’s her address?”
Melanie braced herself, standing in front of the apartment. She’d promised the bishop a visit, and that’s what Arlene Brady would get—one visit. Besides, Melanie had the perfect excuse. She needed to be to work in 15 minutes.
Arlene opened the door.
“Arlene? It’s me, Melanie Brannon, from school.”
“Come in.”
“I can only stay for a few minutes. I’m on my way to work.” Melanie entered. The apartment was sparsely furnished. It looked like the residence of a family used to moving quickly.
Melanie didn’t know quite what to say. Arlene was anything but mainstream Glenwood High, yet she seemed a little more normal than Melanie had anticipated. “Well, Arlene, why I came here tonight,” she started matter-of-factly. “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I think you are too. We have a Laurel class, a group of girls our age, and I thought you might like to do some things with us.”
Arlene tilted her head and ran her fingers through her long hair. “Mormons. Yes, I remember being baptized with my mother a long time ago,” she said. “People from church come around to visit us, but we never stay in one place long enough to really get involved. My father changes jobs a lot. The longest we’ve stayed anywhere is two years. Sometimes it’s only a matter of weeks.”
“It must be hard to move that much,” Melanie said.
Arlene sighed. “This may sound crazy, but do you know what I fear the most? It’s not the new teachers or setting up housekeeping. It’s that every time I’m in a new place, I don’t know if I’ll make any friends. I like being an individual, but when you move around as much as I do, it’s hard for people to get to know you.”
Melanie looked closely at Arlene. Maybe that one statement accounted for much of her bizarre clothing and behavior. A plea for attention and a plea for friends. Arlene looked at a wall. “I’m telling you a lot and we hardly know each other. You must think I’m strange.”
“Maybe a little different, that’s all,” sputtered Melanie. Then, trying to change the subject, “Your place is nice.”
“Thanks,” Arlene said, a little more happily. “My father is on the road a lot. I try to have a clean apartment and something warm for him to eat when he gets home. He’s a good person. He doesn’t really understand me, but I know he loves me. That’s something I’ve learned from him—you can love someone without completely understanding them. Know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Melanie admitted.
“What about church? Want to join us?”
“Maybe. It depends on my dad’s schedule.”
Melanie glanced at her watch. It was almost six o’clock. “Wow! I have to run. I start work in exactly two minutes.”
Arlene smiled nervously. “Thanks for stopping by. Not many people do.”
“We’ll change that. Good night, Arlene.”
It was a busy night on the taco-building line. Nevertheless, Melanie couldn’t tear her thoughts away from the clean little apartment and the girl who lived there.
The next few weeks were a blur. Family, seminary, school, church, work, and studying crowded Melanie’s days. No matter how busy she was though, she took the time to talk with Arlene every day.
Arlene did attend a Church Halloween party, but it almost backfired. “A half-dozen people complimented her on the costume she was wearing,” Melanie confided to her mother after the party. “But it wasn’t a costume!”
Things finally clicked in November when Arlene agreed to attend the Laurel class.
She arrived at church wearing a long black dress, black gloves, her head crowned by a small black hat. “I thought I should wear something formal,” Arlene told Melanie. The Laurels were polite, but distant. Melanie realized that if Arlene were to become an active Church member, it would take more than the efforts of one person. It was well into the evening before she came up with a plan to help expand Arlene’s circle of acquaintances. Oddly, the key to the plan was none other than Craig Miller.
The opportunity to approach Craig came the very next morning on the front steps of school.
“Melanie,” he began earnestly. “I have to know. Is there any chance for us socially,” he cleared his throat, “like on a date?”
“Sure, Craig.”
He looked stunned. “There is?” he mumbled, slowly shaking his head. “Boy, that direct approach is powerful stuff.”
“I have Thursday night off. How about the symphony? But there’s one condition. I’d like to double.”
“Double? Sure.”
“With Arlene. Can you line her up?”
“Oil Slick? You want me to line up a friend with … with … that? Which of my friends am I willing to sacrifice?”
“How about Terry Packham?” persisted Melanie. “He’s a super guy, and he’s in a different school. He’s never heard of Oil Slick. She’ll be just plain Arlene to him. Terry’s more mature. He’ll do it.”
Craig cued on the word mature. He lowered his voice. “Oh yes, maturity. Still, there is the matter of Arlene’s somewhat unusual taste in apparel.”
“You won’t even recognize her,” promised Melanie.
“Then I’ll pick up the tickets and call Terry. Symphony. A very mature choice.”
“Craig—thanks. You’re the first guy I thought of. That’s a compliment.”
No sooner had Melanie disappeared than Craig pumped his fist into the air and bellowed “All right!”
Coaxing Arlene into the double date was trickier than Melanie expected.
“I’m not the dating type,” Arlene protested.
“That’s not true,” Melanie replied.
“I don’t have the right clothes to wear,” Arlene argued.
“I have some you can borrow,” answered Melanie.
“I’m too much of an individual to dress up like everyone else,” Arlene contended.
“Clothes don’t make you an individual. That comes from what you do with your life,” countered Melanie.
Arlene finally relented. “Okay, you win. You should sell life insurance. You’re the most tenacious person I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you,” beamed Melanie.
Tuesday night, Melanie tiptoed into her house after stopping by Arlene’s apartment. She had spent two hours helping Arlene find just the right clothes to wear. They finally settled on a cream-colored skirt and powder-blue sweater with a lace collar. With her hair in a French braid, Arlene’s subtle beauty was unmistakable. She’d smiled often that night, and not once had her conversation drifted into the strange lingo that she spoke at school. “I’m making a difference,” Melanie thought as she settled into bed.
The morning of the symphony dawned gray and rainy. Melanie sat up in bed after her alarm sounded. Her throat was scratchy and she ached from her toes to her temples. “Of all the days—the flu,” she mumbled. “I’ll feel better later on.”
But that wasn’t the case. Once she arrived at school her condition took a turn for the worse and not because of the flu. As the morning classes wore on, there was no trace of Arlene.
Where was she?
During breaks Melanie searched the hallways. At lunch, she didn’t eat, but looked for her friend. The end of the school day came. No Arlene and no hope. Melanie’s throat crackled and her forehead burned. Where was Arlene? She drove home and plopped on her bed. Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and fell into a fitful sleep.
“Melanie,” a voice said softly. “You need to get up. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Melanie said, though she wasn’t really sure. “I need to get going.” She was soon in the apartment’s parking lot. Melanie trudged upstairs to Arlene’s apartment. The drapes were open a little. She peered in. There was nothing. No chairs, no table, no couch. Nothing.
Car doors shut and Melanie heard Terry talking to Craig. In the dim light she could see the surprised look on Craig’s face as he neared the apartment.
“Melanie?”
“Craig … I don’t know how to explain … Arlene is gone, moved, I think. I don’t know why,” Melanie said softly. “Maybe I was too pushy. I’m sorry, Terry.”
Craig squeezed her hand. “You don’t want to hear this, but you look awful. I’m worried about you. It’s okay. Go home and get some rest.”
“Your tickets will be wasted,” Melanie moaned.
“Hey, you don’t think a couple of guys like Terry and me can get another date on short notice?” Craig said. Then, turning to Terry, he said, “My mom’s not busy. How about yours?”
Craig and Terry escorted Melanie to her car. “Will you call me tomorrow?” she asked.
“Count on it,” Craig said.
Melanie’s night was a long one. She’d drift off to sleep, then bolt awake, a sense of betrayal in her mind. Why hadn’t there been a call? A note? Melanie didn’t understand Arlene. She had looked so pretty two nights before. And Melanie had glimpsed a good, sensitive person beneath a carefully constructed facade.
When the alarm clock aroused Melanie, she felt tired, but the fever had subsided. She hurt, but it was no longer because of the flu. Bleary-eyed and with a heart that still stung, she prepared for school.
Mrs. Foreman adjusted her glasses and looked solemnly across the room. “I trust that you have all finished Macbeth. Let’s start with act 5.” She cleared her throat and read:
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Mrs. Foreman scanned the class for a victim. “Your thoughts, Miss Brannon.”
Melanie wearily rose.
“Macbeth has just learned of the queen’s death,” she began haltingly. “He may also be pondering his own uncertain fate. He concludes that life is without lasting meaning and filled with hollow relationships.”
Mrs. Foreman walked slowly towards Melanie. “Continue, Miss Brannon, with your own thoughts on the subject.”
Melanie exhaled slowly. “My own view—I think Macbeth is wrong.” She closed her eyes and remembered Arlene’s words about not understanding someone yet loving that person nonetheless. “The purpose of life is to find joy and that comes by caring for others and serving them, even if you don’t always know why. You have to do it unconditionally. Life is much more than an hour on stage, much, much more.”
“You’ve given thought to the subject? Are you sure of your statement? It’s so simple,” Mrs. Foreman challenged.
“Yes, I am sure, Mrs. Foreman.”
Mrs. Foreman whirled around and marched back to her desk. She stood imposingly, weighing Melanie’s words. Then her features seemed to soften. “I agree with you. Life must be filled with unconditional service to have great meaning. It’s a lesson that I can’t teach you from a textbook. You seem to have picked it up on your own, Melanie. Thank you.”
Saturday afternoon, Melanie was shredding lettuce on the taco line. Tommy came out of his office. “Call for you, Mel. Sounds long distance.”
Melanie rushed into Tommy’s office. “Hello!”
“It’s me!” came the familiar squeaky voice.
“Arlene! Where are you? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m in New Mexico. Dad found a place he liked on his last trip, and you know how he is. Backed his truck up to our apartment and we loaded everything in. He found a job dispatching down here. He’s going to sell the truck. No more hauling. He says we can stay here a long time. I think this is home.”
“I’m so happy for you, Arlene.”
“I tried calling you before we left. The line was busy. Four times. Please don’t be unhappy with me. I feel bad about the symphony.”
“Don’t worry. The guys were great.”
“I’ll get the skirt and sweater back to you.”
“Forget it—they’re yours. You’ll need something to wear to church.”
“Melanie—I’ve thought about what you said. That you are a true individual by what you do with your life, not how you dress. I think I have the confidence now to change for the better.”
“Everyone has to choose their own path,” Melanie encouraged. “It sounds like you’re starting on a good one.”
“Please write. I’ll send you my address. Thanks, Melanie. You are a true friend.”
“And you, Arlene, are a true individual. Maybe we’ve both learned something from each other.”
Melanie hung up. She fairly floated back to the lettuce chopping board.
“Good news?” Tommy asked.
“The best,” Melanie said.

“My father had a dairy products business and five or six horse carts. Sometimes I used to help him with the deliveries.
“I remember one of the first songs I learned in the Church was ‘Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.’ I used to sing that song every day; in fact, my father got tired of hearing that particular song.
“One day I went to deliver two bottles of milk to a customer. The lady of the house heard me singing that song and came out and asked, ‘What are you singing?’
“‘I’m singing, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam,”’ I answered.
“‘What is that?’ she inquired.
“‘One of the songs we sing in my church,’ I replied.
“‘What church is that?’
“‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’
“‘Well, I don’t know them. Do they have another name?’
“‘Yes, the Mormon Church.’
“‘Why don’t you tell me something about your church?’”
Elder Abrea concluded his experience by saying that after two weeks, the lady and her family began attending the Latter-day Saint Church. This was his first missionary experience.

Michael Oja, 18, of the Astoria (Oregon) Ward, Longview Washington Stake, met Mission President John A. Larsen following a fireside.

“Son,” President Larsen said, “I think you’d make a great minimissionary.”

By mid-July, Mike was in Oregon City, working with the missionaries assigned to the Cambodian branch. “With the help of a translator, the missionaries taught them lessons on the plan of salvation. I met a lot of wonderful converts and helped share the gospel with their families and friends.

“It’s not like an eight-hour job, where you go home when your time’s up. Sometimes it’s a real long day. But after a while, you start to see that you’re helping people. Their lives start to change, and you get to see it happen.”

Mike learned something about his wardrobe, too. “I hadn’t thought much about it before, but if I’m going on a mission, I ought to be buying clothing now that I can use then. I’m saving up for suits and white shirts.”

The day before he was to return home, Mike was interviewed again by President Larsen.

“One of the neat things about going on a minimission is that you get to know the mission president. You can tell he’s with you all the way,” Mike said.

When I turned 12 years old, I went on my first overnight campout with the Scouts. With eager hands I packed my hand-me-down camping gear and headed to the mountains with the troop. I ended up sleeping in a large tent with several other boys, including my older brother. Being the newest and youngest Scout, I felt somewhat intimidated by it all. It was nice to have my older brother with me. He was big and strong and older than most of the other Scouts.

As we all prepared for bed, I quietly climbed out of my sleeping bag and knelt down to say my nightly prayer. As I was praying, I could hear some of the other boys laughing at what I was doing. I was embarrassed and stopped.

My older brother came to my rescue. Responding to the teasing boys, he said in a loud voice, “If my little brother wants to pray, he’s going to pray. Anybody object?”

Not a word was said, and I went back to my prayer. I have often thought of this experience, and I’m thankful for my brother who taught me not to be ashamed to pray regardless of where we are.

Eighth, be the person you know you are. One student—we’ll call her Amy—found this to be hard. She wrote:

I really loved this guy, and I saw no problem with our relationship. There were problems though. . . . I rationalized [pretended] by saying, “I’m not going to marry him. It’s okay. And besides, I’ll be a good influence.”

I finally could not stand living a lie. I was not being true to myself. [And notice:] I was not acting like the person that I knew I was inside. I needed to make a change in my life.

Amy was letting the illusion of love overpower who she really was. When she saw that illusion shattered, she realized as she said, “Remaining true to yourself and your beliefs is the best joy you can find.”

It was four days before Christmas, and the excitement in our family was almost tangible. Heidi was busy wrapping her gifts for Mom, while Erin was fascinated by the brightly colored lights twinkling in the window. I was excited because tonight the company John worked for was treating the employees and their wives to dinner and a show.
After dropping the girls off at the baby-sitter’s, John and I were on our way. We used the time as we drove to the company party to reflect on our many blessings.
The party was a huge success. It was well after midnight when we pulled into the driveway. John went ahead to open the door and turn the lights on, while I wrapped our two sleeping girls in blankets to protect them against the wintry night air.
Suddenly, John came running back to me, shouting, “We’ve been robbed!” With Erin in my arms, I felt a chill run through me. After checking the house, we discovered that all our Christmas presents were gone. The thieves had taken everything—even our tithing receipts and patriarchal blessings. We were devastated! What could we do? We felt so helpless.
Instead of enjoying the fun of customary family events connected with the celebration of the birth of our Savior, we struggled with a cold and empty feeling. The gifts could surely be replaced, but the love and care that went into each gift and its wrapping could not.
We held a family council and decided to stay indoors and celebrate Christmas quietly, keeping our focus on a celebration of the Savior’s birth.
That Sunday, news of the robbery spread. Sunday evening, as John and I sat in the living room with the lights out, we heard the sound of car doors slamming. We both jumped, thinking the burglars had come back. Quickly we dashed to the front door. We couldn’t believe what we saw.
Tiny reflections of lighted candles flickered in the frosty air as 25 ward members sang carols to brighten our spirits. It was hard for us to hold back our tears.
As they drove off, we felt joy replace the bitterness in our hearts. When we walked back into the house, the phone was ringing—the first of many phone calls that night from neighbors wondering how they could help us. We turned on Erin’s favorite twinkling lights and decided to have a Christmas celebration, no matter how small.
The following day was Christmas Eve. About 11:00 A.M. it began—visit after visit from Church members with presents and food. One sister was prompted to give us money, and it turned out to be the same amount that had been stolen. Boy Scouts came and made their contribution. Members from a neighboring stake heard of the robbery and sent Santa himself. Heidi could not believe her eyes. This parade of love and aid continued until about midnight.
By the time we went to bed that Christmas Eve, our hearts were filled with gratitude to others. Exemplifying the spirit of Christmas, those who responded to our need had turned a nightmare into a festival of Christlike love.

The navy had experienced difficulties with the safety of newly installed equipment on its systems. These difficulties had at times threatened their lives. You may recall that the air force has had similar problems of late with some of their aircraft. The navy pondered what additional safety precautions were necessary and concluded that there was a simple solution. The civilian designers and manufacturers of the new systems would be required to test them. This is similar to the old approach used by ancient kings who employed tasters to shield them against the possibility of poison in their food. I was elected for this honor by my group to test a new computer system designed to enhance the capability of sonar to respond to underwater sounds.

I took the equipment and flew to the East Coast to board a ship known as a destroyer escort. It was named the USS Connole. On each ship was a plaque that gave the traditions and heroism of those who had contributed to its name—in other words, the heritage for the current crew. Names are important, even on U.S. Navy ships. As I boarded, I was asked to give my name, social security number, and next of kin. I was somewhat sobered by the last question. This was not an experience I looked forward to, but my colleagues and I proceeded to install the computers, hoping to improve the sonar system’s sensitivity.

Our ship left port and joined a task force of several ships and submarines, and we got underway. After the first day I arose and went out on deck. Everything was calm. I had never observed such a smooth ocean surface before. I felt fine, with no trace of seasickness. As the day wore on, though, the sea became more troubled, the waves increasing in height to nearly five feet. When the ship hit the waves head-on, there was little undulation of the ship and I could keep my seasickness under control. But as more waves began to hit from the side, the ship tossed to and fro. (In life we tend to believe it is easier to confront problems head-on, but it often occurs that problems come from directions we least expect.) I went to my room and lay in bed, bracing myself between the wall and the side rails on the bed.

Then I noticed that the ship seemed to calm down even though the sea remained rough. I was informed that the ship had just actuated some small stabilizers that protruded from the hull to lessen the roll of the ship. Similarly, as we navigate through life, the gospel of Jesus Christ provides just such stability in our lives. Without it we find ourselves spiritually seasick.

I then observed another phenomena. The propeller and shaft of the ship were made of different metals than the hull. This creates a voltaic effect, giving rise to electrical currents that corrode the hull and shaft. To counteract this corrosion an opposing voltage is applied to the hull to cancel this current. So, too, do we need constant protection available through prayer to prevent spiritual erosion. Prayer keeps us intact spiritually.

As the cruise continued, I went to the sonar shack to talk with the operators. I was anxious that the test of our new system go well. I found the sonar crew relaxed and talking about the upcoming meal and about returning home after the cruise. There was no stress. Spirits were high.

Nevertheless, it was not unusual for Russian trawlers and occasionally Russian submarines to silently appear during tests of new systems. Whenever there was a task force of several ships present, this likelihood increased. But we were at peace, and there was no threat. Further, the task force was moving at moderate speed. Between the noise of the waves and the sound of the ship thrashing through the water, it would be difficult for a surface ship to hear an enemy submarine anyway. The sonar men took advantage of the calm situation, knowing that not much was expected of them.

Suddenly there was a loud alert on the ship’s public address system. It was the captain. He announced, “Attention, all hands! The sonar shack has just detected a Russian submarine. I have contacted the commander and requested permission to break from the task force and head in pursuit of the submarine. Permission has been granted. Man your stations!”

The mood in the sonar shack changed immediately. Had the captain misunderstood that we did not have any contact, or did he have a hunch that there must be an enemy submarine nearby? The sonar crew snapped into operation. Suddenly they began to look intently at the sonar displays they had previously only glanced at. This was the real test for the newly sensitized sonar system. Then, after a few moments, one of the sonar men called out, “I have a contact.” The ship set out in pursuit, joined by other members of the task force, several transmitting loud bursts of sound at the enemy submarine. Sound blast after sound blast was transmitted to cloak our own submarines’ sound signatures and chase off the enemy submarine. Again, comparing this situation to life, we are often called upon without warning to answer unexpected challenges. Being prepared in advance is the surest guarantee that we will be successful.

Having completed the testing of the sonar equipment in a fashion more adventurous than I had planned, I asked if there was some way to leave the ship and get home early. Not only were the waves of the sea continuing to worsen, but also a hurricane was forecast. The lieutenant commander assigned to watch out for me informed me that a helicopter was coming, and I could go home on it. We were about 200 miles out at sea, however, and this was near its maximum operating range.

As the helicopter arrived and hovered over the rear deck, the ship turned into the wind, cutting off the breeze to it. The helicopter dipped, then caught the deck, and crashed. That day I found that, just as in life, we often look for the easy way out, but we may have to stay the course. The trip home was rough, and when the ship finally arrived home in Norfolk, Virginia, I was relieved to be back on solid ground.

Time after time since this voyage, as I have struggled through life’s trials, I have been greatly comforted by the knowledge that Jesus Christ is our Savior—the enabler of our postmortal existence and the great stabilizing force in our lives when we are hit by life’s vagaries. Prayer provides the daily protection to help us remain spiritually intact and maintain our course, our direction made certain.

Sister Rose Polvado of our ward tells the story of going crabbing as a little girl. Her job was to hold the bucket with the crabs. When crabs were caught and put in the bucket, she stated her concern that there was no lid, and the crabs would crawl out of the bucket and escape. However, her dad assured her that they would not because whenever one would start to climb out, another would climb on him and cause him to fall back. Sometimes people are like this. They do not want others to be “better than they are,” so they pull them back. A true friend would realize that the greatest blessing is eternal life and would never do anything but help you to get it. The minute you see someone trying to get you to break your covenants, you know they do not have your real interest at heart. Leave them and find someone else that does. This earth life is a test. It does not last too long, and then we live the rest of eternity with the results of our decisions here.

As time passed and we both matured, we started to talk to each other about school, teachers, friends, and all the other things that concerned us. Tommy and I actually became friends. In high school, Tommy was a senior when I was a sophomore, and it was nice to receive advice from an experienced student. We were both in the marching band, and even though we had our own friends, Tommy was always willing to talk to me or help me in any way. He had developed a real sense of humor, and I enjoyed spending time with him.
I remember nights when we would be the only ones up, doing our homework, and Tommy would serve us both some ice cream. We would talk late into the night. Tommy was a wonderful example to me, and I was always learning something from him. He chose good friends, and I never saw him hesitate to choose the right. I especially respected him for how well he treated my parents. Whenever we came home from school, Tommy would go into the kitchen to get something to eat, and we would sit down and chat with Mama about the day. Somehow, the conversation always drifted to things deeper than school. I will always cherish those times.

If you want your influence to extend beyond the circle of your friends, you may want to prepare a Book of Mormon and then give it to the missionaries to be used wherever it can do the most good. If you wish, you can include a photo of your entire family and make it a family project. The John R. Poulton family of Salt Lake City, Utah, treasures several letters from people who have received the Book of Mormon from them in this way through the missionaries.
Lawrence C. Alamargo of the Philippines wrote to the family: “We received the Book of Mormon you sent, and we have read it already. It inspired the whole family. The Book of Mormon was handed to us by the elders who taught us the gospel of God. We were baptized December 25th, and the gift of the Holy Ghost was the most precious gift we ever received in our lives.”

In 1867 young Brigham Thomas Higgs lived a block away from the temple on North Temple Street. B.T., as he was known by his family and friends, was nine years old when his father, Thomas, began working on the Tabernacle, which was being built next to the temple. B.T. and neighborhood friends could often be found at the Temple Block, delivering lunches or messages to brothers and fathers who worked on the Tabernacle or the Great Temple.
A few of the young boys even worked part-time with their dads at the Temple Block on the various construction projects there. B. T. used a wheelbarrow to deliver to the other workers the wooden pegs his father made for the Tabernacle rafters. There was always some cleaning up or moving of piles of lumber or tools for the young men to help with.
Henry Moyle, a curious young boy, could be found having lunch with his dad on almost any day at the Knox Carpenter Shop on the Temple Block. Known as the “Lunch-Bucket Brigade,” many of the young boys joined workmen gathered at the shop to discuss the topics of the day as they ate lunch together. Young Henry gladly took his father’s lunch to him and lingered as long as possible to listen to the conversation. Later, the young man helped his father, James Moyle, a stone mason, build the temple itself.
Henry and B. T. spent most of their after-school and after-chore time, however, playing ball or another game with friends on the nearby dusty streets. B.T.’s favorite game was “mumble-peg.”
A favorite game for all the young boys and girls in the neighborhood was hide-and-seek. The Temple Block was a perfect place to play this game because there were many large granite stones there to hide among. You could find B.T., Henry, and their brothers and sisters and friends playing among the huge stones on the warm days throughout the year.
Before the railroad came to Salt Lake City, the temple stones were brought to the Temple Block by ox teams from the quarry twenty-five miles south of the city. Annie Wells recalled seeing the “sight of the great stones one at a time being hauled along the streets by two yoke of oxen.” When the oxen slowly marched through town to the Temple Block with their “sacred load,” Annie, like other children, stood and watched them pass “with a feeling of awe and reverence,” praying for the day the temple would be completed. The children wanted to go into Heavenly Father’s house. They knew that they could be a “forever family” after they went to the temple.
When the railroad came to Utah, the oxen were no longer needed to make the long trip from the quarry to the Temple Block. A train line between Salt Lake City and the quarry brought the heavy stones right to the temple site in just a few hours instead of days, as before. The oxen were still used, however, to haul the granite stones down to the train station at the mouth of the canyon.
During hot summer months many mothers and fathers in the city took their children to the shaded groves and cool streams in the nearby canyons. One of the young boys, Joseph Fielding Smith—later a Church President—recalled watching the men loading stones there to be brought to the city for the temple. He remembered the “ox teams and how they tugged with their heavy loads” and that sometimes, when the loads were too heavy, the “rough-cut blocks skidded from the wagons.”
The Temple Block seemed to change every week or so as new stones were brought to the area. Everyone was always anxious to see what new hiding places could be found. As the stones were put in place, the temple walls reached higher and higher in the sky, and the children knew that the temple would soon be completed.
In order to finish the temple, the prophet Wilford Woodruff asked everyone to make special contributions to the temple fund. Even young children were encouraged to give whatever they could. Many children worked on holidays and gave all their earnings to the temple fund. Other children asked to do extra chores around the house in order to earn some money to give.
During this time, one young Primary boy was trying to earn enough money to buy something for himself. He found work at a neighbor’s farm. After working very hard, he was paid twenty-five cents—a lot of money in those days—for his efforts. He “clutched the coin and ran home” excitedly to show his father how much he had earned. “Pa, look what I have!” he proudly announced. “The next time you go to Provo,” he continued, “I can get a new pair of jeans with this money.”
His father reminded him of the prophet’s request for funds for the temple. “President Wilford Woodruff needs ten cents of this quarter for the Salt Lake Temple. Here, I’ll give you fifteen cents for the coin, and we’ll go together to give the dime to our bishop, who will send it to Salt Lake City.” The boy gladly took the money to the bishop so that he, too, could help build the temple.
It took the workers forty years to complete it. President Woodruff dedicated the temple on April 6, 1893, during the first dedication service. All children eight years and older were invited to attend special dedication sessions held in April. Many of the children felt a special spirit during these meetings in the temple, and several saw angels in the room, just as the children had seen angels at the Kirtland Temple’s dedication in 1836.
On Saturday, April 22, 1893, a special session for children under eight years of age was held so that many more Primary children could attend. Seven-year-old LeGrand Richards, later an Apostle, attended this session with his mother. He was impressed when he saw the prophet in the temple that day. He said later, “I always remembered exactly what President Woodruff looked like and what he wore on that day for the rest of my life.” Unlike his older sister, who saw an angel during an earlier dedication session, LeGrand said, “I looked around for angels, but I didn’t see any!”
Primary children were almost always present during the forty years of construction of the Salt Lake Temple. They all helped in some way to build the Great Temple. And during the dedication services, as many as fifteen thousand of them attended the special meetings—one hundred years ago.

A friend told of an experience that ended his relationship with a business he had regularly patronized. He had received a letter in the mail with a coupon entitling him to a free oil change at a particular car dealership. After the work was done, he was presented with a bill for the oil. When he objected, he was told that the coupon did not cover the price of the oil, only the cost of the labor to change it. Technically and legally that may have been correct, but my friend, feeling that he had been deceived, never went back to that business.

My mom called all the children in my family together one morning. She told us that President Howard W. Hunter had been sick and had died. We were sad. President Hunter was the prophet, and we loved him.
“Who will run the Church now?” Erik, my youngest brother, asked.
“Well, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles will be in charge until another prophet is chosen,” Mom answered. “But remember, Jesus Christ is the head of this Church. We will not be left without a prophet.”
“Really?” I asked. “We’ll have a new one?”
“Absolutely,” Mom said. She explained to me that when a prophet dies, the members of the First Presidency return to their former positions in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and with the guidance of the Lord, the Apostles reorganize the First Presidency. Mom also explained that the Church follows a pattern established by the Lord. When the Lord calls a new Apostle, that Apostle gradually moves forward in seniority in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles as other Apostles die. At the death of the President of the Church, the senior Apostle becomes the new President of the Church. Mom said that we can pray to know for ourselves that the new Church President has been chosen by the Lord.
A little while after President Hunter died, I got a phone call from my friend Molly, who is not a member of the Church. “Hey, Angie, that’s too bad about your prophet. My dad and I were really worried about you. Is your church going to shut down now?”
I almost dropped the phone from surprise.
“Of course not,” I said, remembering my mother’s words. “The Lord promised us that we would always have a prophet.”
“You mean, they’ll choose a new one?” Molly asked. “Don’t you need an angel to come down and declare that he’s the prophet?”
“I believe God will choose another prophet. Jesus Christ is the head of the Church,” I said with a smile because I knew it was true.
“But how do you know the new prophet is chosen by God?”
She didn’t understand that we could pray to Heavenly Father and find out. But I knew that that was exactly what I was going to do. Right after I finished my prayers that night, I knew that the Lord would take care of His Church.
A few days later an announcement was made that the new President of the Church was Gordon B. Hinckley.
I raised my hand high a few weeks later during general conference to sustain President Hinckley as the prophet. And in the years that have followed, I have continued to raise my hand to sustain him. I support him in all he says and does. I am thankful that President Hinckley has been called of God to be the prophet. Truly, the Lord does not leave us alone.

I am very much aware that you and some of your peers are living that way now. For instance, a fifteen-year-old Korean boy took his weekly allowance and bought newspapers with it. Then he and some friends sold these on the streets of Seoul, Korea, to raise money to help a fellow student who did not have sufficient funds to stay in school. This young man also gave part of his lunch to this boy each day so that he would not go hungry. Why did he do these things? Because he had been studying the story of the Good Samaritan and didn’t just want to learn about the Good Samaritan but wanted to know what it felt like to be one by doing what a Good Samaritan would do. (See Luke 10:25–37.) He related these things to his father only after careful questioning by his father about his activities. He had done them without any thought of recognition.

I doubt very much that the bishop of this young man would have to worry about how he looked when he came to participate at the sacrament table or whether his heart and hands were clean and pure. I don’t think his father would have to worry about whether or not he was honest in his relationships with others, or whether or not he cheated at school.

Radmila was fourteen years old when her family moved from Yugoslovia to Switzerland. She didn’t think that it would make any difference whether she went to school in Switzerland or in Yugoslovia. But, four years later, in Switzerland, missionaries from the Church knocked on her door.
“I was an only child and my parents didn’t want to send me away to Yugoslovia,” says Radmila. “When I look back on those years, I think Heavenly Father must have wanted me to stay in Switzerland. I was being prepared to receive the gospel.”
Radmila was born and went to school in Sarajevo, in central Yugoslovia. There she was taught that religion was not necessary. Her father didn’t believe in God, and her mother was not an active member of her church. “I didn’t even know what the Bible was,” Radmila laughs. “I had heard of David and Goliath, but I thought that they were characters out of Greek or Roman mythology.”
But at school in Switzerland, Radmila met people who were active in their religious faith. Now she began asking herself questions about God, Jesus Christ, and the purpose of life. During this time, she began writing to a pen pal she found through a Finnish organization. Her pen pal was a girl in New Zealand who was a member of the Church. Although she never mentioned religion in her letters, she told Radmila that she had some friends in Switzerland who would come and visit her. Radmila was excited.
A few months later, in September of 1974, four neatly dressed young men appeared at her door. Radmila said, “Oh, yes, I have been waiting for you. Come in.” Radmila smiles as she remembers their excited faces at her welcome.
When she finally realized that they had never been to New Zealand and that they represented the “Mormon” Church, she told them she had no interest in their message. They surprised her by politely beginning to leave. But as they were going out the door, one of the missionaries asked, “By the way, do you know Kresimir Cosic?”
Well, that changed everything. “Everyone in Yugoslovia knows Kresimir,” she says. “He’s a real sports hero in Yugoslovia.”
In the early 1970s, Kresimir Cosic played basketball for Brigham Young University, was baptized into the Church, and then returned to Yugoslavia. There he played for the Yugoslav national basketball team, helping them win a world championship and a gold medal in the 1980 Olympics.
“I wondered how the missionaries had heard of him,” says Radmila. As they discussed Brother Cosic, the missionaries mentioned his relationship to Brigham Young University and the Church. They invited Radmila to a presentation at the local branch, and she agreed to come.
When Radmila walked into the small chapel in the basement of an apartment building, the first thing she noticed was a sign that said The Glory of God Is Intelligence.
“I was immediately impressed and moved,” she says. “I had always been taught that religious people were not intelligent and that they didn’t ever seek to learn. I wanted to learn.” The presentation was on the Book of Mormon. “Everything in the presentation seemed to focus on the fact that I could learn for myself whether or not what I was hearing was true,” remembers Radmila. “I didn’t need someone to tell me it was true—I could study and ask God for myself.”
She accepted a German-language Book of Mormon, took it home—and put it on a shelf.
A few months later, during Christmas time, Radmila began to hear more about Jesus Christ. There were shows on television about his life, and people talked about him more. She wanted to learn about him, and she remembered the Book of Mormon. She began to read it. “I couldn’t understand a thing,” she recalls. “It wasn’t that the German was too difficult for me, it was just that I didn’t understand words like repentance because I had never heard of them before.”
She decided she would call the missionaries for help. At the same time, two new missionaries were praying for inspiration about which investigators on their list to visit. They both felt that Radmila needed them. When they knocked, she opened the door and said, once again, “Oh, come in—I’ve been waiting for you.”
She still didn’t want to hear the missionary discussions, but she set up a study schedule with them. Each week she would read ten chapters in the Book of Mormon, write down her thoughts, and then discuss them with the missionaries.
“They were so patient with my sometimes provoking and unimportant questions,” she says. “One time I told them not to come in because I hadn’t read that week. They suggested that we read together. We started reading about Ammon, and then they said they had to leave. I couldn’t believe it. For the first time, I was beginning to feel the Spirit and get excited about the book. As soon as they left, I went to my room and finished the story.”
Then Radmila began to pray about the Book of Mormon. One day while she was reading in 3 Nephi about the Savior’s visit to the American continent, she suddenly felt very strongly that it had all happened. She felt that the Savior was real, and she couldn’t deny it any more. “Everything made sense,” she says. When the missionaries returned, they helped her understand how the Holy Ghost answers prayers, and she accepted their baptismal challenge. “Now,” the missionaries said, “we have to teach you the discussions.”
“Since I knew it was all true, I was able to accept all the commandments—tithing, the Word of Wisdom, everything—from the beginning,” says Radmila. “For example, from that moment, I never had a desire to smoke again.”
Radmila was baptized on 22 February 1975 in Zurich, Switzerland. She later moved back to Belgrade, Yugoslovia, where the Church was just being organized. In 1981 she served a mission to Montreal, Canada, the first missionary to be called from Yugoslovia. Now she is finishing a graduate degree in physical therapy at Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah. She also helps translate Church materials into Serbo-Croatian, the Yugoslav national language.
As she look back, Radmila says she feels Heavenly Father performed many miracles in her life. Once she questioned the existence of God. Now she knows that God has a strong love for her, and she wants to serve him any way she can.