Gospel Story Finder

May I share with you an experience I had with a dear friend of mine, Louis McDonald. Louis never married. Because of a crippling disease, he had never known a day without pain nor many days without loneliness. One winter’s day, as I visited him, he was slow in answering the doorbell’s ring. I entered his well-kept home; the temperature in save but one room—the kitchen—was a chilly 40 degrees. The reason? Insufficient money to heat any other room. The walls needed papering, the ceilings needed to be lowered, the cupboards needed to be filled.

I was troubled by Louis’s needs. A bishop was consulted, and a miracle of love, prompted by testimony, took place. The members of the ward—particularly the young adults—were organized and the labor of love begun.

A month later, my friend Louis called and asked if I would come and see what had happened to him. I did and indeed beheld a miracle. The sidewalks which had been uprooted by large poplar trees had been replaced, the porch of the home rebuilt, a new door with glistening hardware installed, the ceilings lowered, the walls papered, the woodwork painted, the roof replaced, and the cupboards filled. No longer was the home chilly and uninviting. It now seemed to whisper a warm welcome.

Louis saved until last showing me his pride and joy: there on his bed was a beautiful plaid quilt bearing the crest of his McDonald family clan. It had been made with loving care by the women of the Relief Society. Before leaving, I discovered that each week the Young Adults would bring in a hot dinner and share a home evening. Warmth had replaced the cold, repairs had transformed the wear of years, but, more significantly, hope had dispelled despair, and now love reigned triumphant.

All who participated in this moving drama of real life had discovered a new and personal appreciation of the Master’s teaching “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”8

Following a recent stake conference, Sister Lindsay and I were blessed to visit another household of faith located in rural Idaho. The young father in this home was suffering from a critical illness. A picture forever etched in my memory is of a mother and five beautiful children, together with this dear brother’s priesthood quorum leaders, kneeling around his bedside pleading with Heavenly Father for the life of this good man. He was then administered to within this circle of faith. It was our blessing recently again to meet this young couple and to hear their beautiful witnessing, their humble outpouring of spirit, of the Lord’s blessing in the restoration of the husband’s health.

Since recently returning from a three-year Church assignment in Africa and becoming reacquainted with our twenty-three grandchildren, Sister Lindsay and I have often been requested on such visits to tell these grandchildren a bedtime story that is, first, true; second, exciting; and third, one they have never heard before. All you grandpas here tonight can understand the challenge which such a request represents. One such true story did come to my mind, however, as we visited recently in the home of a son and his wife who live in a midwestern city with their five children, including three bearers of the Aaronic Priesthood—a priest, a teacher, and a deacon. This story concerned their own father when he was a six-year-old boy.
I grew up in rural Salt Lake County when it was an economic necessity to care for a variety of barnyard animals. My favorite animals were sheep—prompted perhaps by the fact that sheep do not require being milked twice a day, seven days a week.
I wanted our own sons to have the blessing of being shepherds to such farm animals. Our older sons were each provided with a ewe to teach them the responsibility of caring for these sheep and the lambs that would hopefully follow.
Our second son, newly turned six years of age, called me excitedly at my office one cold March morning on the phone and said, “Daddy, guess what? Esther [Esther was his mother ewe]—Esther has just had two baby lambs. Please come home and help me take care of them.” I instructed Gordon to watch the lambs carefully and make sure they received the mother’s milk and they would be fine.
I was interrupted by a second phone call later in the morning with the same little voice on the other end saying, “Daddy, these lambs aren’t doing very well. They haven’t been able to get milk from the mother, and they are very cold. Please come home.” My response likely reflected some of the distress I felt by being distracted from my busy work schedule. I responded, “Gordon, the lambs will be all right. You just watch them, and when Daddy comes home we will make sure they get mother’s milk and everything will be fine.”
Again, later in the afternoon I received a third, more urgent call. Now the voice on the other end was pleading. “Daddy, you’ve got to come home now. Those lambs are lying down, and one of them looks very cold.” Despite work pressures, I now felt some real concern and tried to reassure the six-year-old owner of the mother sheep by saying, “Gordon, bring the lambs into the house. Rub them with a gunnysack to make them warm. When Daddy comes home in a little while, we will milk the mother, feed the lambs, and they will be fine.”
Two hours later I drove into the driveway of our home and was met by a boy with tear-stained eyes, carrying a dead lamb in his arms. His grief was overwhelming. Now I tried to make amends by quickly milking the mother sheep and trying to force the milk from a bottle down the throat of the now weak, surviving lamb. At this point, Gordon walked out of the room and came back with a hopeful look in his eyes. He said, “Daddy, I’ve prayed that we will be able to save this lamb, and I feel it will be all right.”
The sad note to this story, brethren, is that within a few minutes the second lamb was dead. Then with a look that I will remember forever, this little six-year-old boy who had lost both of his lambs looked up into his father’s face and with tears running down his cheeks said, “Daddy, if you had come home when I first called you, we could have saved them both.”

When I was called to serve as a General Authority, I had an interview with President Faust. He noticed that I was concerned because I felt inadequate for such a call. In his tender way, President Faust told me, “Athos, be yourself. Be yourself.” That night I lay awake in bed, thinking of my new responsibilities and of President Faust’s words. And I prayed. I asked myself, Who am I? And the answer came as clear and bright as the dawn of that brand-new day. I am, like each one of you, a child of God who wants to obey the Lord and serve wherever He sends me and thus be a better child of our Heavenly Father and a faithful member of the true Church of Jesus Christ.

As our plans progressed, however, I began to become excited about the prospect of aiding the elderly. I recalled the verse in James 1:27, which reads: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.” The previous year at Christmastime my Laurel class had baked cookies for all the widows in the ward. Sister Kirkham, a 90-year-old woman who walked with two canes, had wept when we came to her door and, when we were leaving, thanked us again and again for our visit. We all felt good afterwards. That’s what the gospel is all about, I thought as I anticipated the upcoming service project. The only thorn in my plans was Earl. He irritated me.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t lose weight, or find a shampoo that would help control his problem with dandruff. If he’d exercise and eat nutritious foods he’d be in a lot better shape, I’d thought critically, proudly reviewing the personal health program I followed.
Too, his intellect was lacking and his wit was dull, a fact manifested by his love of simple puns and riddles. At one of our meetings when we were relaxing for a moment, he’d asked me jovially, “What’s black and white and read all over?” “A newspaper,” I answered quickly. He chuckled, “Ah, you already heard the joke.” I wondered who hadn’t heard the joke.
I also had serious doubts about the genuineness of his charity. His voice didn’t seem to contain a proper amount of pity when he spoke of the bedridden and ways to include them in the festivities. Nor did he seem to feel much sorrow for the plight of the elderly in general. “Old folks are a real kick,” he’d say. “My grandma can spin a yarn that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat. Course she’s in a rest home now, but that don’t get her down none.”
“He just drives me nuts!” I complained to my roommate, Carol. “Everything about him just drives me nuts.” But despite my irritation with Earl, preparation for the party progressed. Halloween came.
We arrived at Sunshine Terrace nursing home early to begin decorating and set up the refreshments.
“Hello, Earl,” the receptionist smiled as we walked through the door. I briefly wondered how she knew him. We proceeded to the big gathering room. Ancient-looking people sat along the walls in the hallway. One man with a walker had warts that covered half of his face. Another woman sat in a wheelchair which had been tied to the handrailing on the wall. Her head flopped and she drooled continually, wetting a large portion of her dress bodice. As I stepped by she clawed my skirt. I pulled away and muttered a hasty hello. Earl, his smile as usual planted on his face, walked beside me. Old eyes crinkled at him and toothless mouths grimaced his way. Some extended greetings to him and he chuckled out, “Howdy, Doris” and “Lo there, Howard” in return.
I felt tense and faintly nauseated, my charitable zeal overshadowed by fear and revulsion. Earl remained his same chortling self. I soon realized that he knew these people. He was friends with them. I hung close to his shadow, letting his greetings and handclasps compensate for my own silence and lack of response.
But despite my mere surface participation, the party was a success. The elderly people seemed delighted with the drooping orange and black crepe paper (one of Earl’s ideas), and one woman said that the cider and sugar cookies reminded her of the autumn baking days of her youth. They chilled at the ghost stories and retold the eerie tales recalled from their own childhoods.
I began to realize that these were real people with real thoughts and feelings. Nevertheless, my own self-consciousness and discomfort kept me from becoming an active participant and enjoying their company. I had never seen a man without arms or a woman with spastic palsy. I didn’t want to see them, so I focused my eyes on the floor or ceiling or I watched some of the other students in the branch or Earl.
Earl remained, well—Earl. He was still overweight. His hands were still moist, his dandruff unchecked. His remarks and jokes still displayed an amazing lack of originality, and his chuckling remained incessant. I looked at him with those people. His damp hand comfortably clasped a withered, dry one. That was when I first began to feel ashamed. Earl was naturally what I was only pretending to be. I’d come to Sunshine Terrace full of self-righteous charity, artificial smiles, and condescending words of tenderness. Earl had simply come.

After his wife suffered a heartbreaking miscarriage during their first pregnancy, Solofo Ravelojaona felt that their prayers were answered a year later with their second pregnancy. He and his wife, Hary Martine, consider the birth of their daughter to be one of their greatest blessings. Solofo explains, “Because we asked God and He gave her to us, we gave her a name that, in Malagasy, means ‘God’s answer.’”
Solofo, a young adult from Madagascar, holds to the knowledge that God answers prayers and in time blesses the faithful. “Life is hard,” says Solofo, “and when people don’t get what they want, some start asking, ‘Why did this happen to me?’ They might leave the Church or question their belief in God. But when we live the gospel and read the scriptures, it’s easier. When you really live the gospel, you can really see the blessings.”
Living in a country with serious challenges, such as extreme poverty, instability within the government, a weak infrastructure, and natural disasters, it’s clear why Solofo says life is hard. But for him, the blessings that living the gospel brings outweigh any hardships. “I cannot even count the blessings I receive, as long as I live the gospel,” he says.
Because the Church is relatively new in Madagascar (the first branch was organized in 1990), Solofo says the hardest part about being a member is the rumors and misconceptions about the Church. Solofo comments that, just as in Lehi’s vision of the tree of life, “people may not fully embrace the gospel because they feel ashamed in front of their friends and scared that they’ll be rejected by their family.” What makes Solofo different, he suggests, is that, “I have never been ashamed. I live the gospel, and I always want to share it with my colleagues, even though some of them aren’t really interested.” He often shares his simple testimony, so much so that his co-workers nicknamed him “pastor.”
In the midst of economic and political turmoil, Solofo and Hary Martine rely on the blessings of their temple covenants (they were married in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple one year after their missions—his in Uganda, hers in Madagascar), as well as their trust in the Lord. “I have the gospel, and I just put my life in God’s hands,” Solofo explains. He can rely on his solid testimony because he already has faith in “God’s answers.”

The workshop couldn’t have been busier if it belonged to Santa’s elves. From one end to the other, workers were unloading trucks, repairing sleds and furniture, sorting buttons for clothing, sewing, and even stacking skis.
But these weren’t elves at work. They were young men and women from the Ogden Utah Weber Stake. And the workshop wasn’t at the North Pole. It was at the Deseret Industries welfare complex in Ogden, where the youth of the stake converged one Saturday to help the regular employees beat the Christmas rush.
It was part of a month-long program to get the youth acquainted with the elderly and handicapped who form the main part of the labor force at the facility, which repairs and sells used furniture and clothing. It was also part of an effort to help those employees have a merry Christmas. In addition to the day spent working in the warehouse and production areas, the young people also presented a week’s worth of morning devotionals, put in another Saturday collecting reusable items, and just a few days before Christmas, sponsored a party for employees.
“The whole idea was to get in the Christmas spirit,” Paula Watkins of the Uintah Second Ward said. “When you do something for other people, it makes you feel that you’re giving of yourself.”
Frost was still in the air the morning the young men and women went door-to-door in their ward areas reminding people to donate items in good or reparable condition. Couches, lamps, dolls, toasters, an adding machine, desks, chairs, and other household wares soon bulged the sides of two large trucks, with more contributions still coming. One neighborhood florist donated a whole van full of Christmas decorations. One young man, enthused by the spirit of giving, pedaled up on his used bicycle and donated it to the drive. Half a dozen truckloads of usable items were amassed during the day.
The following week the group began presenting morning devotionals. Each ward was assigned a particular day. Ward members presenting the program would meet with D.I. employees in the Ogden complex chapel for prayer, song, and a spiritual thought.
The devotionals strengthened the staff, according to Niolee Petersen, a supervisor. “One of our goals is to bring the Spirit into the lives of those who work here, and the devotionals help a lot. These were special spirits, a lot of good kids. They have communicated very well with the handicapped workers.”
The following Saturday, however, is when real friendships and close relationships began to grow.
“We have about 30 handicapped workers under the direction of each supervisor, but they don’t all work on the same shift,” Sister Petersen explained. “Handicaps include age, physical impairments, and social and emotional maladjustments. This group of young people moved right in and helped everyone who was there on Saturday. It didn’t take much instruction before they were doing high-quality work.”
It was indeed a sight to see a deacon working side-by-side on a commercial steam press with a woman who could have been his grandmother, but who joked and chatted with him like a schoolmate, or to watch a squadron of young men descend on a carpentry shop and learn under careful tutelage some fine points of cabinet making. Other work assignments included sorting clothing, polishing shoes, shredding rags to make rugs, pricing items for sale and affixing tags, ironing, and a variety of other tasks.
“But,” as Shelley Johnson of the Uintah Second Ward stressed, “the most important thing isn’t what type of work we did. It’s that we were able to help other people.”
About 325 young people participated in the project. They worked in two shifts, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. Each person was given the name of an employee to become acquainted with. Some were then given tasks to perform on their own, others were assigned to work under the direction of an employee, and others worked with supervisors.
“It was something different, something I’ll remember for a long time,” said Nan Brian of the Uintah First Ward. One of the supervisors said Mark Stockset of the Uintah Second Ward was a “real whiz on the steam machine.” Mark laughed. “I’ve never worked with one before,” he said, “but I’m kind of used to it now.”
“I think this whole Deseret Industries idea is a good thing,” said Janean Dickson of the Uintah Second Ward. “It helps people take care of themselves. It teaches the value of work and makes you count your blessings.
“I was especially interested to see the quality of merchandise they sell. The clothing isn’t worn out and run down; it’s nice. They have things for sale I’d be glad to wear.”
“Next time I give things to D.I., I’ll be more aware of what they can use,” said Lisa Fowles of the South Weber Second Ward, “so I’ll make a more meaningful donation.”
Over in the furniture repair shop, three young women from the stake removed nails from furniture being prepared for reupholstery.
“Did you think you’d be doing this kind of work today?” they were asked. “No,” came the reply, “but it’s fun to be able to work firsthand with tools. I don’t usually get a chance to do that, and the exposure will help me.”
“The people who work here have been really friendly to us,” David Jensen of the South Weber Second Ward said. “They seem like they’re glad to have us here.” Laurie Glissman, of the same ward, added, “It helps you when you work along with people; you come to understand them and the way they are. And it sure put me in the Christmas spirit to realize how fortunate I am. I think this welfare program is a good way to help those in need, because they can work and maintain their dignity.”
“Those who have never had a chance to get close to the handicapped don’t understand them.” Gladys Huber, another supervisor, said. “It’s good to see these young folks come out and get to know their brothers and sisters.”
“The workers were a bit wary about it at first,” Sister Petersen added. “But when the young people got here and started working with them, they were delighted. It’s been a perfect show of brotherly love.”
The employees did in fact seem impressed by the youthful volunteers. “They learn pretty fast, and work hard,” Rell Smith said. “It’s good to have them here. We’d like more groups to come. Just let us know when.”
Janean spent the day working with Lottie Dayton, putting size labels on clothing and hanging apparel on racks.
“If I weren’t here today, I’d just be sitting home, or maybe riding my horse,” Janean said. “This is more important—it’s more important to serve the Lord than to serve yourself. That’s what Christmas is all about, helping others. We had to put priorities in order. Sure, it was hard to squeeze everything in, especially when we were trying to do Christmas shopping of our own. But we were excited to come down here, and she’s so sweet …”
Her voice trailed off as she looked over at Sister Dayton, who was still hanging things on the rack as she softly hummed “Where Love Is.”
As young and old labored amid clothing baling machines, steam tunnels (used to remove wrinkles from clothing), label racks, and sorting tables, the workshop did turn out some Christmas magic after all. By the end of each shift, there were no young and old, no handicapped and nonhandicapped, just friends, co-workers, and fellow Saints.
The same spirit prevailed at a Christmas party ten days later.
“We brought all the workers to the stake center,” Nan Brian of the Uintah First Ward explained. “When they got there, we gave each one an ornament with his name and the name of one of the kids in the stake who had worked with him printed on it. Then we did all we could to make them realize we are their friends.”
That included a program of carols, stories, a visit from Santa Claus, and of course, the true story of the birth of Christ as recorded in the scriptures.
As the workers were escorted home and the youth of the Weber Stake returned to their final holiday preparations, there was a warmth and a glow about both groups. Some had learned that others still cared, and some had learned that caring is the solid foundation of December’s glorious celebration.

María stood in the slow-moving line at the carnícería (meat shop). She already had the fresh-baked loaves of bread from the panadería (bakery) in her shopping bag. She smiled as she heard a woman nearby talking about her.
“There aren’t very many young girls who can select meat for their family,” the woman was telling her companion. “But have you noticed how carefully María watches the butcher to make sure he cuts the meat just so!”
I enjoy shopping for Mamá, María thought to herself as she left the marketplace and hurried home with the meat and bread.
When María arrived home, Mamá was in the kitchen preparing and cooking soup for dinner that evening.
“Whew! It’s just ten o’clock and already it’s a hot day!” Papá exclaimed as he came in for a cool drink of water. Soon Papá, Mamá, and María were talking about María’s school, the hot weather, and other things. María loved Saturdays. It was good to be together as a family!
A loud clapping at their front gate announced company. María went to the window and called, “What do you want?”
Two blond young men neatly dressed in suits, white shirts, and ties stood at the gate. They said they wished to speak with her father.
“Papá,” María called. Papá and Mamá joined her at the window. Mamá explained that these young men had called yesterday and she had asked them to come back when Papá would be home.
“Come in, come in!” Papá called, opening the door to welcome the young men.
They asked Papá for permission to offer a prayer. He agreed, and tears came to María’s eyes as she listened, for their words were the same ones she used when she talked to Heavenly Father in her heart! She didn’t know people dared to pray like that out loud.
The visitors called themselves elders, and they told about a young man who had talked with God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ and afterward had organized a church. María’s heart pounded furiously as the elders said that they knew these things were true and that there was a living prophet on the earth today who was president of the church that the young man, Joseph Smith, had organized.
The family looked forward to each visit of the elders. María enjoyed going to Primary, and she was especially happy when her entire family attended Sunday School and other church meetings together. Now they had family prayer each morning and night, and María said her own prayers out loud. The elders taught them about temples, where they could be sealed together as a family forever!
On the day of their baptism María watched her father and then her mother go under the water in their beautiful white clothes. Then it was María’s turn. An elder took her by the hand, raised his other hand, and said a short prayer.
As María walked out of the water, she felt a warm glow of happiness. Now she was truly a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She could hardly wait to share the gospel with all of her friends.

Heeding the prophet’s call at age 19, I prepared myself to serve a full-time mission. Soon, I received a call to the Mexico Hermosillo Mission.
While I was waiting to enter the missionary training center in Mexico City, I became concerned about how I would share the gospel. I wondered, “What should I do to prepare?”
One morning before leaving for work, I put a new copy of the Book of Mormon in my bag. Then I prayed, “Heavenly Father, help me know how to give this Book of Mormon to whomever Thou dost send to me.” Then I left for work.
After work, I went to the institute of religion. By then, I had forgotten about the book in my bag. When I got on the bus to return home, however, I sat next to a young woman who was reading the Bible.
I felt a strong impression that said, “This is the person.” I doubted the impression at first, but then I felt it again.
“Pardon me,” I said as I pulled out my Book of Mormon, “this book is very special to me, and I would like to give it to you.”
With a look of contempt, she responded, “No, thanks.” Pointing to her Bible, she added, “This book is enough for me.” Then she stood up and left, leaving me alone on my row of seats.
As I sat there for a minute feeling rejected and foolish, wondering about my impression, the woman in front of me turned around and said, “Excuse me, do you still want to give away that book?”
Apparently, she and her husband had overheard my conversation with the young woman.
“Of course!” I replied.
As we talked, l learned that the couple had wanted to read the Book of Mormon. They also wanted to learn about the Church. I was excited to answer their questions.
That day I learned for myself that “the field is white already to harvest” and that “if [we] have desires to serve God [we] are called to the work” (Doctrine and Covenants 6:3; 4:3).
God had made me an instrument in His hands after all. Today, doing missionary work is the most cherished thing in my life.

“I’m not going,” I whined. “I don’t have a thing to wear!” The weekly Sunday ritual had begun.
At that moment, my brother rolled his eyes and said, “You have more clothes than anyone I know. You just never wear them.”
“Stay out of this!” I snapped, looking to my mom for support. “Mom, are you listening to me?”
She just looked at me, and I knew what was coming next. I placed my hands on one of the chairs, preparing myself for the long, boring lecture. But I was wrong. Mom just sat there looking at me.
The silence was about to drive me crazy when she finally spoke. “Julie, there comes a time when you have to decide just why it is you’re going to church. Is it a fashion show, or is it a time to worship the Lord?” When she finished, she stood up and left the room.
What was she trying to do to me, I wondered. No arguing? No lecture? All I wanted was a new dress. Ugh, I felt so guilty.
I walked to my bedroom to try to find something to wear. I opened the closet doors, fixing my eyes on my dresses. I picked up each one, finding an excuse not to wear it.
“I never expected her to run right out and buy me a dress,” I mumbled. “But I only have two dresses that I really like; the rest are ugly.” I was trying to make myself feel better, but it wasn’t working. I felt so selfish and guilty. I began to think of all the people who weren’t as fortunate as I was. I was about ready to cry. How could I be so selfish?
After putting on a dress, I knelt beside my bed to tell the Lord how sorry I was. Then I went to tell my mom the same thing. But when I went upstairs, no one was there. They had already gone to church. Although I could walk over by myself, I couldn’t believe they had actually left me.
I hadn’t been serious about missing church. But when I realized my family had gone without me, I felt even worse as my mom’s words rang in my ears, “There comes a time when you have to decide …”
Mom was right. Every week at church I only cared about what others thought of me, not what the Lord thought. That’s when a familiar scripture came to my mind.
“For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7).
It was at that moment I decided my Sunday best had nothing to do with my wardrobe. My Sunday best was about the attitude in my heart.

From my infancy I had heard the Word of Wisdom stories about tea and coffee and tobacco, etc. Nearly every Sunday School day and Primary day we sang lustily, I with the other boys:
That the children may live long,
And be beautiful and strong,
Tea and coffee and tobacco they despise,
Drink no liquor, and they eat
But a very little meat;
They are seeking to be great and good and wise.
(Sing with Me, B-24)

We sang it time and time again until it became an established part of my vocabulary and my song themes, but more especially my life’s plan. Occasionally some respected speaker said he had never tasted the forbidden things we sang against and then I made up my mind. Never would I use these forbidden things the prophets preached against. That decision was firm and unalterable. I would not and did not deviate.

In 1937 my wife and I were touring in Europe. In France I sat at a banquet table of the Rotary International Convention in a fashionable hotel. The large, spacious banquet room held hundreds of people. The many waiters moved about the tables, and at every place besides plenteous silver, linen, and fancy serving dishes were seven wine glasses. No one was watching me. The temptation nudged me: Shall I drink it or at least sip it? No one who cares will know. Here was quite a temptation. Shall I or shall I not?

Then the thought came: But I made a firm resolution when a boy that I would never touch the forbidden things. I had already lived a third of a century firm and resolute. I would not break my record now.

Remember, O youth of a noble birthright, that “wickedness never was happiness.” The unrighteous may pretend to be happy and may seek to entice others into such a way of life because misery loves company, as you know, but you will never see a happy sinner. Even the discontent of good people is traceable to such shortcomings as they have.

A casual observer may feel that an unrighteous person “has it made,” and for a fleeting moment it may even seem so. But gross sin produces a deep emptiness. Thus the wicked seem to do more of the same in order to reassure themselves and to try to fill the void. When you see a life filled with desperation, there is transgression in it. We may pity such people, but it is wrong and naive to envy them!

As a college student, Daeyoon returned home to Chinhae for a visit and met a former high school friend who used to ridicule him for not drinking. “Do you still go to church now that you are a university student?” the friend asked.
“Yes,” Daeyoon replied. “I intend to do so all my life.”
“I just can’t understand it,” the friend exclaimed. “How can you have fun when you are bound by so many restrictions? I could never live like that. I want to be free!”
At home, Brother Kim pondered the fact that as soon as they had met, his friend had asked him something about the Church. When they met for lunch the next day, Daeyoon said, “I don’t want to push you in any way, but I think you might find it fun to meet with the missionaries from my church. It will be a new experience for you.”
To Daeyoon’s delight, his schoolmate replied, “Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do right now.” So he began receiving the missionary lessons. His life-style changed with each lesson. He stopped smoking and drinking, he prayed with real intent, and he avidly read the Book of Mormon. By the fourth discussion, he was so excited that he invited his sister to join in the discussions. Before long, he, his three sisters, and his father were baptized. A year later, this schoolmate was serving in the Korea Taejon Mission, where he became an assistant to the mission president—all before Brother Kim had received his own mission call.
During this same time period, Daeyoon was also instrumental in the conversion of seven of his college friends.

A few years ago, I was called to serve in a YSA ward here on campus. It was an unexpected calling, and I was sure the Lord needed someone better than me to serve His young single adults of the Church.

As I sat with the stake presidency for my visit that day, I was asked if I would be willing to shave my mustache to qualify to serve. I was not excited to hear that question. I didn’t want to shave my mustache. I had had a mustache for my whole life since returning from my mission. It was like my trademark. My wife and children had never known me without it.

That night I wrestled with the choice before me. I could just keep my mustache and tell them I was good with being in my home ward calling. I could just keep it and see what happened. Or I could do as asked and shave it off. It was a real dilemma in my mind.

At some time in the night I heard the words of the Primary song in my mind, “Sh, be still.” So, I did. I decided to stop wrestling with the decision and worry about it the next day. Later that night as I was not worrying about the dilemma I had been wrestling with, the Spirit touched my heart and whispered in my mind, “Would you miss all the blessings that can be yours—for a mustache?”

Over the next few months, I served as a ward clerk, then a high councilor, and just a year ago was called as a bishop. As I have served in the YSA wards, I have seen blessings so abundant I cannot even list them. Without having taken the time to be still, I may not have been prepared to receive the answer I got that night. That answer prepared me for the time that I would be needed to serve the Lord in the capacity of bishop. Even though I still miss my mustache, I have seen miracles take place in some of your lives because of the opportunity I took to hear Him.

As a token of gratitude to the missionaries who brought the Gospel of Jesus Christ to our family, I did my best to reconnect with them. It was a challenge because the photos and letters they left with us did not have their contact information.
In 2019, while serving as stake president, I was prompted to search the Church Directory of Leaders (CDOL) for their names. I found 10 Richard Irvings in Utah serving as bishops. I decided to contact their clerks. The very first clerk that I emailed responded when I asked if his bishop served as a young missionary in the Philippines in the 1980s.
As I recall, the day that he received the information from his clerk, Bishop Irving was in a mutual activity with the youth of his ward, telling them stories about his mission and about the families he and his companion taught in 1981.
In short, Bishop Irving went back to the Philippines in November 2022 after almost 41 years since his mission. When he came, he brought a letter my father sent to him when he transferred from Tuguegarao to another area. In the letter, my father expressed his joy and his spiritual experiences as a new member, including the joy of receiving the priesthood in a district conference he attended. He expressed his great joy in joining the Church with his family with which no amount of earthly possession can compare.
As an Area Seventy, I have countless opportunities to minister and bless the lives of the people I meet. I am also blessed with experiences I never thought I would have, like attending General Conference and working with prophets, apostles, and other chosen servants of God. While in Utah, I was also blessed to reconnect with my companions in the mission and the family of Bishop Irving. We went to the Jordan River and Provo City Temples with our wives, and the first time we did he whispered “I never thought that this could happen, I was with you in your baptism in 1981, and 42 years after, now we are here together worshiping in the Temple.”

The four years of graduate school when I was working to obtain my doctorate degree were a particularly difficult time in our lives. We moved away from home and family for the first time as a couple. The curriculum was rigorous and the expectations were very high, which meant long hours of study and preparation for classes. We had three young kids at the time and were doing our best to figure out how to be parents. Money was very tight, and we often worried about our ability to provide for our needs both then and in the future. It was during this same time that Kristie developed a long-term illness and we had very few answers for how to care for her. All of these things combined to make it both a physically and emotionally difficult time for our family.

Just so you don’t think the whole graduate school experience was a bad experience, there were many positive, happy, and even funny experiences that we had during this time as well. For example, I began playing racquetball with a friend five or six mornings per week for several months. After playing so frequently for so long, it started to take an interesting toll on me. Have you ever had the experience when you are just starting to fall asleep, and you dream you are falling and suddenly wake up in a panic? Rather than dreaming I was falling when I started to doze off to sleep, I began dreaming I was playing racquetball. I would wake up suddenly as I swung the racquetball racquet as hard as I could, but luckily there was no racquet. I’m sure it startled Kristie much more than it startled me since she was oftentimes lying in the path of my swing. Luckily, dreams are much more exaggerated than reality, and I never came close to actually hitting her with my make-believe racket.

In the midst of all of the difficulties of graduate school, we had many experiences that reinforced in our own minds and hearts that God loved us and was aware of and supporting us through our struggles. We decided to make it a high priority to attend the temple in Mesa, about an hour and a half drive away from our home, at least once per month. Because we couldn’t afford a babysitter very often, many of these monthly temple trips involved us packing a lunch and going to the temple as a family on a Saturday, with Kristie and I taking turns participating in temple ordinances while the other one of us played with the kids at a nearby park. Like Jerry and Cynthia, our testimony of God’s love for us grew as we participated in and grew to love the work of the temple.

We were also blessed through the kindness and generosity of friends and neighbors. We made some lifelong friends during those years who were a significant source of strength to us, as we hope we were to them. Like Mailee, Jarrett, Cynthia and Jerry, our family felt the love of God through the kindness and thoughtfulness of those around us.

We also felt the love of God through the scriptures, the words of modern-day apostles and prophets and through good music. I began reading the scriptures every day during my lunchtime as a way to stay closer to God, and to receive His power more fully in my life. Rather than listening to popular music on the car ride to and from school each day, I listened to conference talks or uplifting music. By doing our very best to stay close to our Father in Heaven, despite it being difficult at times, we more fully recognized His hand in our lives and felt His love for us as we pushed forward through those trials. Those years resulted in significant spiritual growth for us and laid a strong foundation for a lifetime of relying on God as we have navigated life’s challenges.

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

A few years ago, President Uchtdorf told a story of a large passenger jet with 257 people on board that left my homeland of New Zealand for a sightseeing flight over the Antarctica. Unknown to the pilots, someone had modified the flight coordinates by a mere two degrees. This error placed the aircraft 28 miles to the east of where the pilots assumed they were.

As they approached Antarctica, the pilots descended to a lower altitude to give the passengers a better look at the landscape. Although both were experienced pilots, neither had made this particular flight before, and they had no way of knowing that the incorrect coordinates had placed them directly in the path of Mount Erebus, an active volcano that rises from the frozen landscape to a height of more than 12,000 feet. As the pilots flew onward, the white snow and ice covering the volcano blended with the white clouds above, making it appear as though they were flying over flat ground. By the time the instruments sounded the warning that the ground was rising fast toward them, it was too late. The airplane crashed into the side of the volcano, killing everyone on board. It was a terrible tragedy brought on by a minor error-a matter of only a few degrees.

President Uchtdorf went onto explain how he taught this principle to young pilots by posing this question, “if you were to take off from an airport on the equator, intending to circumnavigate the globe, but your course was off by just one degree. By the time you returned to the same longitude, how far off course would you be? A few miles? A hundred miles? The answer is an error of only one degree would put you almost 500 miles off course.

President Uchtdorf concludes this analogy by stating, “Small errors and minor drifts away from the doctrine of the gospel of Jesus Christ can bring sorrowful consequences into our lives. It is therefore of critical importance that we become self-disciplined enough to make early and decisive corrections to get back on the right track and not wait or hope that errors will somehow correct themselves.”

Now here’s the key point President Uchtdorf makes that I would like you to try and remember, “The longer we delay corrective action, the larger the needed changes become, and the longer it takes to get back on the correct course-even to the point where disaster might be looming,”(Dieter F. Uchtdorf, A Matter Of A Few Degrees, April 2008 General Conference).

When Ana finished her mission, she returned to her home in Ecuador’s capital city, Quito.
But she still wanted to serve. “Heavenly Father,” she prayed, “I want to keep serving, and I need to find a job. Please help me know how I can work and still help people.”
One day Ana’s prayer was answered. A man named Brother Mesa came to her house. He worked for the Church Educational System.
“Ana,” he said, “the Church needs volunteers to teach people how to read. Are you willing to help?”
“Yes!” Ana said. “Where do you need me to serve?”
He smiled. “Back in Otavalo!”
Ana smiled as she imagined being back in the villages she loved. She was grateful for the gifts Heavenly Father had given her to share—the gift of reading and the gift of the gospel. Both were miracles.

After joining the Church, what Edwin wanted most was for his family back in India to learn about the gospel. The problem was that there were no missionaries in India to teach them! Edwin and Elsie wrote a letter to Church headquarters asking them to send missionaries to India.
What came next was a big surprise. President Spencer W. Kimball called them to serve as missionaries in India!
And now, here they were.
Their first stop in India was Edwin’s brother’s house. Edwin’s parents and siblings were there too. Right away, Edwin and Elsie started teaching them. Their family was happy to learn about the gospel.
A few weeks later, Edwin and his family gathered around the swimming pool in his brother’s yard. The pool had been cleaned, painted, and filled with fresh water. Everyone was wearing white. The women wore flowing saris that draped over their shoulders. The men wore loose Indian-style jackets and trousers.
Edwin stood in the pool with his father. “Samuel David,” Edwin said, “having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
Edwin felt happy as he baptized his father. He felt even happier when he baptized his mom next. By the end of the day, Edwin had baptized 18 people!
The next day, Edwin and Elsie rode a train for six hours. They visited more family members and taught them about the gospel. Edwin baptized four more of his relatives in a nearby river.
Finally, Edwin and Elsie took a 16-hour train ride to visit Elsie’s parents. Elsie’s father was a leader in another church. He didn’t get baptized, but he thought the Book of Mormon was a good book. He helped translate the Book of Mormon into Telugu, one of the languages spoken in India.
When Edwin and Elsie finished their mission, there were enough new members to start one of the first branches of the Church in India! Edwin and Elsie were happy when they returned to Samoa. They were grateful Heavenly Father had sent them on a mission!

Dave reached the boat and squatted in the dirt beside it. I wonder who put the boat back, he thought. I wonder how they found him and how they knew where to put the boat. He thought of how that had been his idea, to build the boat, and how he had shown Rod how to do it. Now that was something Rod wasn’t good at—he had wasted a lot of good lumber trying to build his share of the boat. Dave remembered what Rod had said when Dave had mentioned it once: “I’m not too good at this, and I need to learn. What if you die or something? There wouldn’t be anyone here to show me how to build things. I need to learn.” And then he had laughed and shoved Dave, and they had started wrestling. That was another thing Rod was good at. Dave could beat him almost all the time when it came to pure grapple; but if beat meant pin, Dave was the sure loser.

I wonder what Rod’s doing right now, Dave thought, and then he began to whistle softly to himself. He was a little afraid. The quiet night, black and starless, the black and quiet lake where his best friend had drowned the night before, the thoughts of spirits and ghosts—he began to whistle the tune to “Magdalena Katalena” very softly to himself. But as he did, he thought to himself, I’ll bet Rod wasn’t afraid last night. And then he thought, as he shoved the boat out into the lake and jumped in after it, wetting only one leg and that only to the ankle, that it all wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t fair.
He turned his back to the front of the boat and began to row in deep and heavy strokes. It isn’t fair, he thought to the rhythm of his work, that Rod should have to die when he was so capable and so happy and so spiritual—how could a guy like that drown anyway?
He rowed on out to the spot where he heard that Rod had drowned and sat back in the boat and looked up into the sky. It was as black as the water beneath him, but the water scared him. If it could get Rod, he thought, what would it do to me? And he saw in his mind Rod’s face, white in wet blackness, a pale oval beneath the boat, clawing up to air but never finding it. Dave tried to shut the vision from his mind. He thought of the roadshow earlier that year, in the spring, when Rod had played the turnip and Dave had been the dwarf. Rod had been in Dave’s garden, a turnip almost as large as the gardener. They had laid him on Dave’s kitchen table up there on the stage, and Dave had brought out a knife to cut through his red and whiteness.
No, Dave thought to himself and sat up in the boat. You’re really morbid, aren’t you, Peters? So he tried to see Rod somewhere else, and where he saw him was at a special stake meeting as one of the youth speakers. “I’ve been assigned to speak on why I’m going on a mission,” he had begun, and Dave had groaned. What an awful way to start a talk, he had thought. But he did have to admit one thing: even if Rod wasn’t the best speaker in the world, when he spoke people listened because they knew he meant every word of what he said.
Dave gripped one oar by its end and squeezed it hard. What happened here last night? he thought. How could you let yourself drown? It’s unfair! And then Dave finally leaned over the edge to look into the clear black water. He thought of the legends that always circulated around the town in the summer that the lake was bottomless—and that giant prehistoric fish had been seen by skin divers again that spring.
The lake had been where Dave and Rod spent their free time. That blackness was a deep blue during daylight hours, the kind of blueness whose color by itself invited one to enter. Dave could see Rod, standing on the bow of the boat, clad in cut-off jeans and no shirt, saying, “See ya later, pilgrim!” and then jumping in. He could stay underwater longer than anyone else Dave knew.
He dipped his hand into the water. It was terribly cold, the kind of cold, he thought, that could cramp a person’s muscles in a moment. Why had Rod jumped in? Dave wondered. He knew better. He should have been more careful. They had lots of plans together—plans that would make him be careful. Like Ricks College next fall, where they would room together in the dorms; like the missions they had planned. Rod would be glad to see him make it. Dave remembered the long talks they had had about missions and girls and the gospel and their parents. They had shared fears and doubts. But later Rod became set and firm, his doubts gone. He knew where he was going. And he always knew the right things to say to help Dave make up his mind to do what he knew he should do—even though it sometimes took a lot of discussing before those right things came out.
Dave looked back up at the sky—there were stars out now; the clouds had parted some—and he felt the lump growing in his throat again, and thought, Don’t be stupid. Crying won’t bring him back. And he thought, I’ll bet Rod wouldn’t cry over you. He’d just smile and touch your hand at the funeral and whisper, “Take care, buddy. See ya before too long.”
But those thoughts didn’t help, and Dave’s throat swelled until he felt he couldn’t really breathe, and the white puffs that had been coming from his mouth and nostrils nearly stopped for a moment. And then the hurt pushed itself up and out his eyes so they glistened in the darkness and his breath caught, then rushed out, then caught again, and his eyes glistened.
And he lay back in his rowboat and sobbed in the dark over the lake.
“Why did it have to be you, Rod?” he said out loud. “You were the good one, the strong one. I won’t do much good here. But you were good; you could even milk with gloves on—” and then he smiled through his tears and laughed a little even while he was crying.
“Rod would think you’re a pretty dumb guy,” he said to himself. Then he whispered. “We were pretty good friends, weren’t we, Rod?”
He leaned over the edge of the boat. The white puffs of air floated over the water. They were coming more freely now. Heavenly Father, he said in his mind, Rod was a pretty good guy, and I’m sure you were proud of him. You know we were close friends—best friends—and I’m really missing him. I think we did everything together. I’m feeling kind of alone.
Then he closed his eyes tight, and felt the cold tears on his cheeks, and thought. All I ask of thee is to help me become the kind of person Rod was. I want to see him again.
Dave sat up straight on the boat’s crossbar. He and Rod had had a boat race once. A neighbor had loaned them his boat. They were going to go two out of three, but they didn’t need to. Dave won the first two races. They had laughed and teased each other, and then Rod had jumped out of his boat and swam in four or five quick strokes over to Dave’s boat and started rocking it till he had swamped it.
We haven’t had a good tussle like that for a long time, Dave thought.
And then he said, half aloud, “Beat you to shore, Rod.” He started rowing as hard as he could, puffing out the white air until his lungs felt raw. Getting a little out of shape, aren’t you, Peters, he thought to himself. Maybe you ought to go out for basketball this winter.
The boat hit the bank and he clambered out, getting both feet wet and not caring. He pulled the boat up completely onto the bank and left it there without looking back. His house was over a mile from the bank, and his folks might be getting worried, he thought. He took off in an easy run, singing under his breath, “Her lips stuck out like two big weiners; she used them round the house like vacuum cleaners. Oh, Magdalena Katalena Hoopensteiner—” his white breath clearing the way through the black night before him.