Gospel Story Finder

One of the most poignant stories involves a missionary who considered his mission a failure because he had merely baptized a “ragged little boy” in Dublin, Ireland. Years later, the missionary was approached at a stake conference session by a man who had heard the missionary speak while serving in the field. The man, Elder Charles A. Callis, was a member of the Council of the Twelve, the same “ragged little boy” the elder had baptized in Ireland.

Another story involves Ruth, a seminary student, who felt she had no occasion to exercise her free agency. At home she was a servant to her inactive and very demanding mother and stepfather. At school she had been placed in a specific seminary class without any choice on her own part. She decided to drop the seminary class as part of her decision to use her free agency. After two weeks away from the class, she returned—she had made a decision with her agency, and it was a decision she felt good about.

Most Creative Response
The most interesting reply to an invitation for a date that we’ve heard about came from Nikki Mather of Preston, Idaho. She responded to a dance invite from Wade Meek by delivering a jar full of Reese’s Pieces and M&Ms. She told him if there were more M&Ms than Reese’s Pieces, the answer was yes, and vice versa. It’s difficult, however, to tell one kind of candy from the other, so Wade had to have the whole family and half the neighborhood over to cut the candies in half, see if there was chocolate or peanut butter inside, and count them. When they were all tallied the answer was yes, of course.

Suzanne E. Tarasevich of Millville, New Jersey, USA, learned some lessons from Ammon while serving a full-time mission with her husband, Adolf.
“When the large, white envelope containing our mission call arrived in our mailbox,” she says, “my husband and I were ecstatic. We had fasted and prayed about our call. Not that we were concerned about the where of the assignment, but we deeply desired a confirmation that we would have the abilities to meaningfully fulfill our calling.
“Later that evening, with children and grandchildren gathered, we opened the envelope and read our call to the Poland Warsaw Mission. As we did so, we felt peace in our hearts that this was, indeed, an assignment meant for us. We were both overjoyed.”
However, having arrived in the mission, Sister Tarasevich found herself struggling to understand exactly what she could contribute. “My husband had immediately been given duties that provided him with challenging, growth-promoting leadership opportunities,” she says. “Though neither of us could speak Polish, his service seemed to transcend the language barriers.” On the other hand, she says, “I frequently struggled with feelings of uselessness and isolation. I doubted the meaningfulness of my missionary efforts.”
Sister Tarasevich found herself thinking about great missionaries in the Book of Mormon. “During many years as a Primary teacher, I had often drawn on the inspiring and motivating power of the stories of Alma and the sons of Mosiah to teach the children about missionary work. Whenever I thought of missionaries, the image of a strong and powerful Ammon popped into my mind, and I could easily envision the dynamic young missionaries of our mission as modern-day sons of Mosiah. But I wondered if it showed a lack of humility for a gray-haired grandmother to aspire to such a role.”
While she was thinking, she says, an inner voice began to question her gently.
“What was Ammon’s first assignment?”
“To be a servant, to tend the flocks, and to gather the scattered sheep,” she responded.
“Well then, be an Ammon.”
These thoughts provided Sister Tarasevich with insight. “Suddenly I understood exactly what the nature of my assignment should be,” she says. “I realized that while I hadn’t mastered the language skills needed to proselyte, years of Relief Society experience had prepared me to serve others—to seek out, find, and love those who felt forgotten and uninvolved.”
She began to view her missionary labors through new eyes. “I became aware of the many ways in which Christ-centered principles could overcome language deficiencies,” she says. “I began to see what I could do to tend the flock and gather the scattered sheep.”
After that, she says, “life as a senior missionary became a wonderful period of learning and service as we were privileged to see the gospel change and enrich the lives of those who embraced it.” She often felt like singing what she calls Ammon’s hymn: “Behold, my joy is full, yea, my heart is brim with joy, and I will rejoice in my God” (Alma 26:11).

Sister Massey and I have been married for 12 years; I commend her for keeping up with me. We had the desire of making those sacred covenants in the Temple, we consistently worked towards that goal and were sealed to each other and our 1.5yr old daughter in the Hong Kong, China temple on March 25th, 2015. The moment was desired above all. We felt relieved. We knew that as we keep those covenants, we would not lose each other. There were several blessings we received as we made those covenants. Through ‘rain and sunshine’ we gained a lot, even lost some, but one thing was constant, we always had each other, as each other’s strengths, which I feel is the most needed blessing that comes from living and honoring temple covenants. It is a promise that the Lord will guide us, as we walk in faith together as eternal companions, holding on to each other, nurturing the children the Lord has blessed us with.

I also have been greatly influenced in my study and use of the scriptures by President Harold B. Lee (1899–1973). During my initial missionary training in Salt Lake City in 1971, approximately 300 elders and sisters were blessed to receive instruction from President Lee in the assembly room of the Salt Lake Temple. To be taught by one of the Lord’s special witnesses and a member of the First Presidency in such a sacred setting was a most memorable experience for me.
The format for the instruction was quite simple: President Lee invited us to ask questions about any and all gospel topics. I will never forget what I felt as I watched President Lee answer every single question from the scriptures! I knew I would never have the command of the scriptures that he did, but then and there in the Salt Lake Temple I resolved to study and use the scriptures in my teaching and follow the example of President Lee. And that commitment as a new and inexperienced 19-year-old missionary has blessed my life in ways that cannot be counted or adequately described.

The day I discovered I could, with my mission president’s permission, extend my mission for a month was one of the most exciting in my life. As a recent convert, I was determined to stay in the mission field and share the gospel with as many people as I could.
As the end of my 24th month drew to a close, I was grateful for the chance to stay a little longer and teach the gospel. On Sunday night, three days before transfers, the phone rang. I was serving as the zone leader in Lubbock, Texas, so I wasn’t surprised to hear my mission president’s voice.
I figured he was going to update me on the upcoming transfers. Instead, he told me that he felt inspired to send me home on time and revoke my extension. The president instructed me to pack my belongings and be on the mission van headed for Fort Worth at 7:00 a.m. the next morning.
As I hung up the phone, I began to cry. I couldn’t believe my mission was about to end. I wanted badly to have an extra month to share the gospel as a full-time servant of the Lord.
The next morning I boarded the van for the 15-hour ride to Fort Worth. By the time I reached my destination I was drained, spiritually and emotionally. I could not understand why I needed to go home now. In my final interview, the mission president assured me that it was the Lord’s will.
After returning home, I reported on my mission to the stake high council. When I left the high council meeting, I was approached by a high councilor, who invited me to accompany him on an upcoming speaking assignment. The topic was on being a modern-day pioneer. I agreed to speak.
During the next few weeks I readjusted to life but still had no answer as to why I had been sent home on time. The day of the speaking assignment arrived, and I prayed that Heavenly Father would help me speak with His Spirit. During my talk, I told of being a pioneer as my family’s only Church member and of the hardships I had faced since my baptism. I also shared the experiences of other converts I had met on my mission and how they overcame their obstacles. I felt that the Spirit was guiding my every word.
After the meeting, a 17-year-old girl approached me. She said she was not a member of the Church but was friends with a young man who was. Her friend and his family had shared the gospel with her. The girl said she had a testimony but was afraid of how her parents would react to her desire for baptism. She thanked me for sharing my experiences and told me she now knew what she needed to do.
Several months later, the high councilor I had spoken with approached me. He mentioned the girl who had talked with me after my pioneer talk and said she had been baptized a few days earlier. He said the girl felt the Spirit so strongly during my talk that she had no doubt that Heavenly Father wanted her to join the Church.
My heart swelled with joy as I realized why I had been denied my mission extension. I was merely an instrument in Heavenly Father’s hands, and He knew where I could serve best—at home.

Miranda hurried through the front door, thankful that her house was cooler than the hot summer weather outside. She was sweaty from playing her last soccer game of the season and frustrated because the Teal Turbos had lost. Again.
Mom came into the room carrying a water bottle and a bag of leftover orange slices from the game. “You played a great game. Being goalie is a rough job.”
Miranda had played well—she had blocked a lot of shots and kicked harder than usual. But most of the other girls on her team had never played soccer before, and today made it official: they had lost every game this season.
“I just wish I could be on a team that won once in a while, you know?” A few tears leaked out of the corners of Miranda’s eyes and fell onto her blue-green jersey. As she squeezed her eyes shut, the phone rang.
Mom picked up the phone and after a moment said, “It’s for you.”
“Hi, Miranda? This is Tom, coach of the Chili Kickers. I was watching your game today. You looked great out there.”
Miranda’s heart started beating faster. The Chili Kickers was the best soccer team in the league!
“Our team is going to the regional championship games next month. You played so well today that I want you to come with us as a back-up goalie.”
Miranda’s heart nearly leaped out of her chest. This was her chance to play with a winning team!
“I’d love to come!” Miranda said. They talked for a few minutes about the details before she hung up and ran into the other room to tell Mom. Together they started writing the dates of the practices and games on the family calendar.
Suddenly Mom stopped writing, her pen hovering above one of the calendar squares.
“Uh-oh. Miranda, these games are on Sundays. Here, look.” She pointed to the game schedule and turned to Miranda with a worried frown. “What do you think we should do?”
Miranda’s heart sank, and she bit her lip as she thought about her options. Mom might let her play if she asked, but when she thought about playing on Sunday—and especially about missing church—she got a sick feeling in her stomach. She knew Sunday was for going to church and worshipping Heavenly Father, and she couldn’t really do those things while playing soccer.
“I think I should probably call him back and tell him I can’t play,” Miranda said. She tried hard not to cry. Even though she knew it was the right choice, it was hard to give up something she wanted so badly.
“And you know what I think?” Mom said, giving her a big hug. “I think you are one great kid.”
That Sunday, as Miranda sat in Primary, she thought about the good decision she had made. The coach was surprised when Miranda had called and said she couldn’t play soccer on Sundays. He had tried to get her to change her mind, but she had stuck with her decision. Now, as she listened to the Primary songs and lessons, Miranda smiled. The peaceful feeling in her heart told her that she was in the right place. She’d made a winning decision after all.

Another way to be happy is to learn self-control. When I was younger, I loved to play basketball. But I did not have good sportsmanship. Winning was everything to me. Whenever someone fouled me, I would get angry.
Then I learned that basketball is only a game. I decided to change. One day, someone elbowed me in the chest on purpose. He pushed me hard. In the past, I would have gotten angry, but this time I walked away without saying anything. I had the best feeling. I knew that I had learned to control myself. It felt better than winning!

I graduated and left home for my freshman year of college. Sometime over that summer I stopped being invisible. Boys I liked actually liked me back. It was like having a movie that started out in black and white turn to color. Life became fun. I didn’t think about Cort any more.
I was home from college for Christmas, and the stake president had asked if I would stop by his office. I had been on a youth committee the previous year to plan the New Year’s dance, and I suspected that he wanted someone with a little experience to help out.
The door to the stake house was open, but the hallway was dark. The light coming from the office at the end was enough to see by. I turned the corner and stopped short. There, sitting on a chair outside the president’s office, was Cort, hunched forward, his hands dangling between his knees, his shoulders sagging, and his head bowed. He heard my step and looked up.
Time has a funny way of slowing down when your mind has a lot to absorb. In that moment, when he looked up, I knew that he was in pain—consuming, gut-wrenching pain. His face was so unshielded and open that instinctively I sat on the chair next to him and touched his arm.
“Are you all right?” That look of pain made me want to do something, anything to help make it go away.
“Yeah,” he said so softly I barely heard him.
“What happened?” I thought that something must have happened to one of his family. Then I remembered to wonder why he was in the stake house, outside the stake president’s office.
“My life happened,” he said, biting each word off into a sentence. “A wrong turn.”
Then he smiled, distracted from his pain for a moment. “You’re the one that wouldn’t make a left turn. You would only turn right.”
“I’m over that.”
“I hope not,” he said. He sighed a deep breath.
Suddenly I felt a thin shiver of cold go through me. Here was someone my age, someone I knew who was hurting in a way I could only guess at, hurting because of the wrong choices he had made. I knew then that I could feel for him, but I really did not know how he felt.
“Remember that poem we had to learn in high school, the one about two roads splitting in the woods?”
“Diverging,” I said before I could stop myself.
“Whatever,” he shrugged. “The guy writing the poem said that one road was less traveled. He chose that one and it made all the difference. What does that mean? Did he pick the less traveled road because everyone else was on the right path, and he just couldn’t handle that and had to do everything his own way?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“Everybody uses that poem to show that the right choice is the less traveled road. I don’t know if it is or isn’t. I just know it makes a difference what you choose.”
The look of pain had crept back onto Cort’s face. “I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can change the things I need to change. What do you do when you don’t like where you’re headed?”
The answer I thought of made me smile.
Cort saw it and asked, “What?”
“Put it in reverse,” I said.
He smiled when he realized I was remembering my driving lesson. “As I recall,” he said, “you weren’t real good at that, or left turns.”
“But I learned. I had a good teacher. He made me try over and over until I got it right. He wouldn’t let me give up in the middle of the intersection. Now I can go anywhere I want,” I paused. “You just have to turn around.”
“I think I’m doing that,” he said.
All of a sudden, I wanted Cort to know I had once had a crush on him. I knew that what I had felt for him had been entirely one-sided, but now that all those feelings were gone, I could tell him.
“You know, in high school, I really liked you.”
“You did?” He looked a little surprised, then he looked pleased. “That’s nice. Thanks for telling me.”
Just then the stake president’s office door opened. There was the usual handshaking and exchanging places as a couple left and Cort stood up to go in. The stake president told me when the dance committee meeting was, asked if I could help, and apologized that he didn’t have time to talk more about it just then. I said that was fine and turned to leave. Cort followed the president through the door. I knew he was on the right road.

As a young missionary in Germany, just a month or two in the field, I had two similar experiences that affected my testimony of the Book of Mormon in a profound way.
One morning as we were tracting, my companion and I knocked on the door of a minister of a prominent church. He invited us in, asked us to be seated at his table, and then immediately began to attack the Book of Mormon in a highly agitated and animated way. I understood most of what he was saying, and the contentious spirit in which he was saying it was unmistakable, but my lack of proficiency with the German language made it difficult for me to respond. My senior companion, a strong and outstanding missionary, simply bore a powerful testimony of the book, and we excused ourselves and left. My heart was pounding. I believe I was shaking a bit. I felt troubled.
A week or two later we met a man while street contacting who agreed to an appointment. We set a time, and he gave us his address in Bückeburg, a picturesque little town several miles from our assigned city of Minden but still in our area.
It was winter, and on the Sunday morning of our appointment, we mounted our bicycles and pedaled the entire distance, bucking a strong, cold headwind. Cold and panting, we pressed the doorbell on the man’s apartment building, and he buzzed the door open. We climbed the stairs to his apartment, and he let us in. Immediately we recognized a contentious spirit in the room—the same spirit we had felt a few weeks earlier in the home of the minister.
Our host did not invite us to sit down. Instead, he left the room for a moment. He returned carrying several editions of the Bible, dropped them on the table, and said in a very loud and defiant voice, “So you want to talk [religion], do you?” Then, pointing to the window, he bellowed, “Good, but first throw your Book of Mormon in the Weser [River]!”
A couple of weeks had passed since our experience with the minister, and I was now able to say a sentence or two in German. I attempted to do so. Once again, my senior companion simply bore a strong, quiet testimony of the Book of Mormon and politely thanked the man for his time. Then we excused ourselves and rode back to Minden, this time with the wind at our backs.
I had a testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, or so I thought at the time. But it became painfully clear after those two experiences, so close together in time, that my testimony was neither deep nor strong. I was unsure of myself and of my ability to truthfully bear witness of the Book of Mormon in a powerful and convincing way.
I made up my mind that if I were to have a successful mission, I had better make sure my testimony of the Book of Mormon was true and strong. I went to work on it. I read and prayed and thought and contemplated. Ultimately, the Lord blessed my efforts. A testimony came to me and has never left; rather, it has grown stronger through the years.
I have thought often of those two experiences. I am grateful to a wise and steady companion, and in a way I am thankful for an unwitting minister and a rather fanatical man, who figuratively took hold of my shoulders and shook me. To this day, well beyond 40 years later, I remember their names and the details of our meetings. When I think of them, the great passage from 3 Nephi comes to mind:
“And according as I have commanded you thus shall ye baptize. And there shall be no disputations among you, as there have hitherto been; neither shall there be disputations among you concerning the points of my doctrine, as there have hitherto been.
“For verily, verily I say unto you, he that hath the spirit of contention is not of me, but is of the devil, who is the father of contention, and he stirreth up the hearts of men to contend with anger, one with another.
“Behold, this is not my doctrine, to stir up the hearts of men with anger, one against another; but this is my doctrine, that such things should be done away” (3 Nephi 11:28–30).
I think too of the great words of Paul to the Galatians: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance” (Galatians 5:22–23).
These are the fruits I experience when I read the Book of Mormon. Reading its pages, contemplating the transcendent doctrines of Christ it contains, attempting to apply these in my life—all this settles in my mind and in my soul as a “mighty change” (Mosiah 5:2; Alma 5:14) in my heart, one that gives me resolve to do better; to be a little kinder, less critical, more generous; and to share with others the great blessings the Lord has given me.
These are the fruits of the Spirit of God. These are the fruits of the Book of Mormon.

President Uchtdorf talked about two missionaries in Germany who were knocking on doors, looking for someone to teach. They got all the way up to the top floor and the last door of an apartment building before they met someone who would listen to their message. That family got baptized. One of the daughters was named Harriet, and when she grew up, she married President Uchtdorf! President Uchtdorf said he is very grateful that those missionaries didn’t give up. When we seek the Lord, we shouldn’t give up either.

A story is told of the son of King Louis the Sixteenth of France. As a young man, he was kidnapped by evil men when they dethroned the king. For six months, he was exposed to every evil thing that life had to offer, yet he never buckled under the pressure. This puzzled his captors, and they asked him why he had such great moral strength. His reply was simple: “I cannot do what you ask, for I was born to be a king.”*

Illustration by Jake Parker
The phone rang. I picked it up.
“Benjamin? This is Sister Adams. I’m organizing an activity night for the widows in the ward and was wondering if you’d be willing to help out. The activity is dancing, but don’t worry, you don’t really need any experience. It’s just for fun.”
Fun? Silently wishing I’d never picked up the phone, I replied, “Well, Sister Adams, I don’t even know the basics—I mean, I can waltz, but that’s about it.”
“That will be perfect, Benjamin. I’m also calling some other priests, so you won’t be the only one. The activity starts at seven next Wednesday, OK?”
“OK, Sister Adams. I’ll be there.”
“Great,” I sarcastically muttered to myself as I hung up the phone.
During the week I almost forgot about my dancing engagement. Almost. When Wednesday night rolled around, I didn’t feel any particular desire to hurry as I prepared for the activity. I arrived late and went to the gym, where the dance was being held. As I opened the door, I saw rows upon rows of old women sitting in metal folding chairs. Then my attention turned to the dance floor, where one solitary priest was awkwardly moving to the triple-meter beat of the waltz, widow in hand.
“Kevin, where are the rest of the priests?” I asked, walking up to him as he finished his dance.
“They aren’t here. We’re the only ones.”
“Great,” I muttered as I moved toward the rows of widows. “Hello, ma’am. Would you like to dance?” I inquired of one of the widows.
“Oh, no thank you. My legs can’t take the exertion. But I’m sure Harriett would like to. Harriet,” she called to one of her companions, “come dance with this young man!”
All the widows urged Harriett forward.
“All right, all right,” she said.
She took my hand, and I led her to the floor. “Now be careful,” she said. “I have some lung problems, and my hips don’t work very well.”
“I’ll be very careful,” I assured her, smiling.
“You know, I met my husband on the dance floor,” she said as we started to waltz slowly.
“Really? What dance?”
“The fox-trot,” she said. “He was dashing. And what a dancer.”
We finished our dance, and I took her back to her seat. “Thank you for the dance. You are a lovely dancer,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said, grateful for the somewhat ill-founded compliment.
I found that I enjoyed myself more than I thought possible. All the dances went the same way—most ladies making a witty remark about knee replacements or scoliosis, telling stories of their husbands and better days of youth, and giving me very sweet compliments as we finished.
I left the Church building, replaying the widows’ stories in my head. I laughed out loud at their wit, and I was awed by their wisdom. I shook my head and chuckled. “What a charming group of women,” I thought. “I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

In the fall of 1830, the first Mormon missionaries arrived in Kirtland. Rebecca listened to them with interest and attended all of the missionaries’ meetings; she even brought her children. Frederick attended as often as his medical practice would allow. The two would study, discuss, and learn together, but Frederick was less certain in his commitment. Meanwhile Rebecca became convinced of the truthfulness of the gospel.
A family biographer later described Rebecca as a kind of Eve in the Garden of Eden: she was “the first to see the necessity” to step into full fellowship in the gospel covenant.4 She was baptized in October 1830.
Frederick still vacillated. Sometimes he wanted to leave the Church alone but in the end could not because he felt drawn back to that sacred, new book of scripture: the Book of Mormon. As the Spirit worked in him, he recognized the truthfulness of the gospel and followed Rebecca’s example by being baptized.

Max rocked back and forth in his chair. His favorite part of Primary was about to start.
“Welcome to singing time,” Sister Rose said. The piano started to play. Max sang along.
Max loved singing time. But his family wasn’t really like the happy families he sang about in Primary. Things were hard at home.
That’s why Max liked Primary so much. He always felt loved and safe when he was there. He felt peace in Primary.
“For our next song, I have a special challenge for you,” said Sister Rose. “As we sing, I want you to think about what it will be like when you are grown up and have a family of your own.”
The piano music started again. The notes were soft and peaceful. Max looked around the room. He could see pictures of Jesus and the temple hanging on the wall.
The other children began to sing. Max started singing too. Mine is a home where every hour is blessed by the strength of priesthood power.
Max closed his eyes and imagined being a dad. He thought of praying with his future family. He imagined singing songs with them, playing games together, and having home evening.
As he sang the last words, Max had a big smile on his face. I can often feel the Savior near when love is spoken here.
Someday Max could have a family like that. Someday he could have a home where he felt peaceful like he did in Primary. Thinking about it made Max feel warm all over.
He raised his hand. “Sister Rose,” Max said, “I think that song is kind of like a recipe. A recipe for a happy family.”
“You’re right,” Sister Rose said. “No family is perfect. But when we try to be like Jesus, we can help our families. We can help make our homes peaceful places.”
Max looked at the picture of the temple on the wall. He knew he could help his family now by being like Jesus. And even though it was far away, he was excited to have his own family. And it made him happy to know that he could be with them forever.
After his mission, Max got married in the temple. Now he always does his best to make his home a place where people can feel loved.

I drummed my fingers on the wooden chair’s skinny armrest, then twisted to the right and looked at the photograph of the First Presidency hung on the light-blue wall. Calm down, I said to myself. After all, I had requested this visit. I could hear a familiar voice grow louder as the bishop left the clerk’s office, crossed the hall, and came inside. He smiled and said, “Well, Jeff, how are you doing?”
“Fine, just fine,” I said out loud while thinking to myself frantically, What am I doing here?
Bishop Smith pulled his heavy chair from behind his solid dark desk, put it alongside me, sat down, and smiled again. Bishop Smith was a big man, very round, and when he smiled, his whole body seemed to beam right along with his face. I basked for a moment in all that warmth and then said, “Actually, bishop, I guess things aren’t all that great. I’ve thought a lot about our talk last month, a lot about a mission. And, well, frankly I just can’t go.”
“Don’t think you can go?”
“Yeah, I mean I’m 22. I’d be 24 when I got back. I’d be too old.”
“Too old for what?”
“Come on, bishop. You know. I just graduated from state university. I’m a pretty good botanist. How can I work with someone who was a junior in some high school when I was worrying about passing Professor Gotlieb’s Advanced Plant Pathology? I can tell you anything you want to know about wheat germs.”
Bishop Smith looked at me for a moment, leaned forward, and asked in a manner as gentle as when I had planted fir tree seedlings on Rye Grass Ridge, “Is that your real reason?”
I wasn’t ready for that question. I had hoped for a cheery smile and ready agreement. “Well, yes. Mainly,” I stammered. “I mean, basically.”
“Jeff, we’ve had some serious talks, you and I. Tell me, what are some other reasons to go with this basic reason?” The chair creaked as Bishop Smith leaned back.
“Oh, you know.” I spread my hands out in front of me and then picked some lint off my slacks. “Bishop, I haven’t exactly made the best decisions in my life. Being inactive for seven years didn’t help any. How can I say to some investigator, ‘I just loved Sunday School when I grew up,’ or ‘I’ve always believed living the Word of Wisdom was important’? How can I talk about goals or loyalty or testimony?”
“Converts can talk about testimony and goals and loyalty, and they weren’t always active members.”
“But they chose to join, not to leave.”
“You chose to come back.”
I didn’t have anything to say at that moment, and all I could hear was a rustling out in the hall. After a moment the bishop said kindly, “I don’t quite understand. Are you worried about worthiness?”
“Bishop,” I replied firmly, “I’ve got my life going again. I have nothing to hide. I know the Lord loves me, and I love him. But at every sacrament meeting or general conference or whatever, I hear that the Lord wants only the best, the strongest, the most reliable to be his missionaries.”
“I think in a small way I see, Jeff.” Bishop Smith paused and tapped his thick fingers against each other. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”
“Only a little. I guess I haven’t said much at all. At least I told him I was coming here tonight.”
“Jeff, maybe it’s time to see your dad. I know him; he’s a good man. Talk to him and then come see me again. Okay?”
The interview hadn’t gone quite as I had planned it. Suddenly I really didn’t know what to do. “Okay,” I said, and we stood up. Bishop Smith walked me to the door, and just after he shook my hand, he gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“Remember,” he said, “come see me again.”
As I drove away from the institute building on Powell Avenue, I considered going home to my apartment or seeing some friends. I even thought about going up on campus and walking through the greenhouses. Although I had already graduated, I was still helping Professor Gotlieb work with some sunflower research. And then I decided to talk to my dad.
My parents live on the east side of town on the other side from my apartment and campus. When I decided that I wanted to attend state university but didn’t want to live at home, I moved out and into the back room of an old, dark-green Victorian house with white trim. My parents were pretty understanding. We’ve always talked together fairly well. When I quit going to priesthood, and then Sunday School, and then Church completely, they never threatened or yelled at me. I’m sure they felt unhappy inside, but I always knew they loved me. I never really ignored my parents, but I had friends and things at school and got pretty busy. Still, my folks would call me up just to say hi, and my mom would bring over some of her delicious carrot cake every now and then. In fact, when I first started going back to church, because of two great home teachers, I didn’t say much about it to my parents. I remember the little pause the first time after I asked them to attend church with me at the institute, and then my dad said, “Are you sure?”
I was surprised when I got to my folks’ and found the lights off and the car gone. But I noticed the backyard light was on, so I got out of my car and went around the side. Out back I saw my dad working on his pride and joy, his small, old sailboat. When I was little we would go sailing on Lake Lourraine, up north. The boat really wasn’t very much. Only one at a time could get in it, but we all liked to try it, even if we spent most of the time in the lake and not the boat. As everybody grew older, everybody got busier, and we didn’t take the boat out much. Finally, it sat pushed against the garage until my youngest brother grazed it with the car; then, we hid it under some tarp behind the house. Now that all the kids are gone, my dad’s interest in sailing has flared up again. Late last year he started to tinker with the boat. A few weeks ago, I helped him paint it white.
“Ship ahoy,” I called as I walked around the house.
“Hey, what a surprise! Just what I needed, another hand.”
“Sounds fine. I was in the area and thought I’d drop by. Where’s mom?”
“Oh, she’s over at the neighbors. Did you just see Bishop Smith?”
“Boy, whatever happened to subtlety?”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking about you tonight. Here, help me sand a little.” My dad gave me some yellow, fine-grade sandpaper. We both started to work.
“Well,” I said, “do you want to know what we talked about?”
“Whatever happened to subtlety?”
I smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
“You tell him you’re too old?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he fall for it?”
I looked quickly at my dad. He was grinning at me. “No,” I said, “bishops don’t fall for much of anything. I guess dads don’t either.”
“I guess not. So, what are your plans?”
I walked over to the back steps and sat down. “I don’t know. What do you suggest?”
“What’s more important is what you think. It’s up to you, Jeff. You and the Lord. Have you ever talked to him about your future, about a mission?”
The words weighed on me, and I fiddled with a stem of foxtail grass I had pulled up. “No,” I said quietly, surprised that the night was so still.
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“I’m afraid he wouldn’t answer or want me. I’ve let him down before.”
My dad started sanding again, and I looked up at the sky and saw Venus burning brightly. “Isn’t she a beautiful boat?” my dad said.
I was glad to change the subject. “She sure is. A beaut.”
“I hope you’ll go sailing with me sometime.”
“You can count on that.”
“She might sink on us, you know.”
“Come on,” I laughed. “She’ll float just fine.”
“Well, she used to be a wreck.”
“But look at her now,” I said. “We’re proud of her. I’d be a fool not to sail in a boat as good as this one.” I paused for a moment and looked straight at my dad. “You know, I get the feeling you want to tell me something.”
“Son, we’d all be in pretty bad shape if we couldn’t start over when we make mistakes. We wouldn’t have a chance.”
“I know, dad.”
“Why don’t you ask the Lord, Jeff. You might be surprised.”
“Do you think he’ll answer me?”
“I promise you he will.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking at my dad’s hands still holding the sandpaper. “I mean it.”
“You know, Jeff, maybe you’d like to fast before you ask. Your mom and I would be glad to fast with you.”
We sanded some more, and I told my dad about work with Professor Gotlieb. When mom came home, we talked about fasting together. My parents were right behind me, and we agreed to do it. As I drove to my apartment, I could smell the scent of rain on the pines in the mountains mixed with apple tree blossoms. I thought of some things I’d like to do before I fasted. And for the first time, way back in my mind, I knew I’d be calling Bishop Smith soon, sooner perhaps than even he expected. And this time, I wouldn’t be going to his office with any excuses.

Mom slumped onto a kitchen chair and sighed.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Megan asked.
“Oh, I’m just frustrated,” Mom said. “I keep trying to visit teach Sister Raymond, but I can’t even get past the front door.”
“Why not?” Megan asked.
“Sister Raymond’s husband isn’t a member of the Church, and he doesn’t like it when we visit his wife. Sometimes she talks to us through the screen door for a few minutes, but today she wouldn’t even do that.”
Megan gave Mom a hug. She didn’t like seeing her so sad. Then she ran to the kitchen and brought back a warm sugar cookie for Mom.
“Thanks, sweetie. You always know how to make people feel better.”
On Saturday morning, Megan walked into the kitchen just as Mom was hanging up the phone.
“That was the Relief Society president,” Mom said. “She just heard that Sister Raymond had an operation yesterday and has to stay in the hospital for a few days. She wanted to let me know since I’m Sister Raymond’s visiting teacher.”
“Are you going to go visit her?” Megan asked.
“Yes, this afternoon. I’m going to pick some flowers from the garden to brighten up her hospital room.”
As Mom went outside with the clippers, Megan thought about poor Sister Raymond. Then she thought about Sister Raymond’s husband, having to sit alone in an empty house every night. Suddenly she had an idea.
That afternoon, Megan followed Mom into the hospital room. A tired-looking woman was sitting up in bed, and a man with a sad, serious face sat next to her.
“Hello, Sister Raymond,” Mom said. “This is my daughter, Megan. We hope you’re feeling better.” She handed her a pink and red bouquet.
“Oh, how nice!” Sister Raymond said. “I love flowers. This is my husband, Charlie,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“Then these are for you,” Megan said, giving him a covered plate.
“For me?” he asked. He peeked under the foil. “Sugar cookies!”
“I thought you might not feel so lonely if you knew someone was thinking of you.”
“Thank you, Megan. That’s very kind,” he said. And he smiled.
On Tuesday they went back to the hospital. When they got to Sister Raymond’s room, Charlie grinned and said, “There’s our little cookie maker! I was hoping you would come see us again.”
Megan kept the Raymonds laughing with stories about fifth grade; her pet rabbit, Mr. Twinkles; and her little brother, Ian. When it was time to go, Charlie put his hand on her shoulder.
“Megan, I hope the two of you will stop by again soon,” he said.
“But you’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Megan said.
“So come to our house!”
“Really?”
“Of course. Thoughtful young ladies and their moms are always welcome. And thank you again for the cookies. They were the best I’ve had in ages. What’s the secret ingredient?”
“There isn’t one,” Megan said, but she smiled to herself. Maybe a little love made cookies sweeter.
“Well, they were delicious. But, you know, my favorite are chocolate chip,” Charlie said with a wink.
Megan smiled. “Then I guess I’ll be baking again soon!”

A neighbor once told me that as a missionary in earlier days he and his companion were walking along a ridge in the mountains of the South. They saw people gathering in a clearing near a cabin some distance down the hillside. They had come for a funeral. A little boy had drowned, and his parents had sent for the preacher to “say words.” The minister, who rode a circuit on horseback, would rarely visit these isolated families. But when there was trouble, they would send for him.
The little fellow was to be buried in a grave opened near the cabin. The elders stayed in the background as the minister stood before the grieving family and began his sermon.
If the parents had hoped for consolation from this man of the cloth, they were disappointed. He scolded them severely because the little boy had not been baptized. He told them bluntly that their little son was lost in endless torment, and it was their fault.
After the grave was covered and the neighbors had gone, the elders approached the grieving parents. “We are servants of the Lord,” they told the sobbing mother, “and we’ve come with a message for you.”
As the grief-stricken parents listened, the elders unfolded the plan of redemption. They quoted from the Book of Mormon, “Little children need no repentance, neither baptism” (Moro. 8:11) and then bore testimony of the restoration of the gospel.

Don’t think of all the things you need to get done in your lifetime; think of what needs to be done now. You do your best, and Heavenly Father will make it work. For example, while I was preparing to teach a seminary lesson about President Thomas S. Monson, I was wondering how I could keep seven kids (all of whom are older than me) listening, learning, and interested. I decided to try and get as much participation as I could. It turned out fine! So just do your best at the work right in front of you.
Bethany F., age 15, Kentucky, USA

Yet with undaunted faith, President Woodruff requested sufficient funds from the Saints to finish the temple. Among those who sacrificed to meet that request was a young boy who had found employment on a nearby farm where, after several long hours of work, he was paid twenty-five cents. “I clutched the coin and ran home,” he recalled. He immediately sought out his father. “Pa, look what I have!” he announced. “The next time you go to Provo,” he continued, “I can get a new pair of Levis with this money.”

The father reminded his son of President Woodruff’s request. “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 father gently suggested.

With funds donated by many faithful Saints, the stonework was finished to the point that the last stone—the capstone—could be placed on the temple. Truly, constructing this temple had become a labor of faith and fierce endurance in the teeth of adversity.

It was with a sense of celebration, then, that the Saints gathered on 6 April 1892, thirty-nine years from the time the cornerstones were laid, to rejoice together in the laying of the capstone. President Woodruff, who had pounded in the marking stake forty-five years earlier, wrote impressively in his diary that it was “the greatest day the Latter-day Saints ever saw in these mountains.”

The city, already crowded for the semiannual conference, received thousands more who came for this historic event. Fifty thousand jammed the Temple Block, while thousands more watched from adjoining rooftops, windows, and even power poles. Many more thronged the streets.

Lorenzo Snow, then President of the Quorum of the Twelve, reminded the congregation that the first Hosanna Shout had been given in the heavens “when all the sons of God shouted for joy.” He exultantly urged the people, “We want every man and every woman to shout these words to the very extent of their voice, so that every house in this city may tremble, the people in every portion of this city may hear it and it may reach to the eternal worlds.”

At the climactic moment, Church Architect Joseph Don Carlos Young shouted from the top of the temple to President Woodruff, “The capstone is now ready to be laid!” The 85-year-old prophet “stepped to the front of the platform, in full sight of the assembled multitude in whose midst a solemn stillness reigned.” With uplifted hands, he exclaimed, “Attention, all ye house of Israel and all ye nations of the earth. We will now lay the top stone of the Temple of our God, the foundation of which was laid and dedicated by the Prophet, Seer and Revelator Brigham Young.” He pressed the switch, “a catch was released, and the top-most stone of the Temple fell into position.”

Then, under Elder Snow’s guidance, the Saints cried, “Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! to God and the Lamb! Amen! Amen! Amen!” This heartfelt thanksgiving praise was repeated three times with increasing force as the participants waved white handkerchiefs in the air on the shouts of “Hosanna” and “Amen.”

John Lingren, a member of the Church, thrilled to the emotion of the moment. “The eyes of thousands were moistened with tears. … The ground seemed to tremble with the volume of the sound which sent forth its echoes to the surrounding hills.” Mary H. Nutting, a non-Mormon schoolteacher living in Utah, reported to friends back east that it “gave a peculiar sensation to hear the mighty shout! It made one realize very strongly that Mormonism is yet a great force, that it is by no means ‘dying out.’”

The congregation of thousands followed the clarion sound of the Tabernacle Choir in unitedly singing one of the Church’s most soul-stirring hymns, “The Spirit of God,” first sung at the dedication of the Kirtland Temple fifty-six years earlier and sung at the dedication of every temple since that time. “When the great song, ‘The Spirit of God Like A Fire is Burning’ was sung by the united audience,” wrote Charles Savage, Utah photographer and choir member, “a feeling different thrilled through me from any one I ever experienced. The hosannah shout was something long to be remembered and one I never expect to hear again during my life.”

Francis M. Lyman, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, proposed that those present “pledge themselves, collectively and individually, to furnish, as fast as it may be needed, all the money that may be required to complete the temple at the earliest time possible, so that the dedication may take place on April 6th, 1893.” John Dean, a temple construction laborer, reported that the result was “a deafening shout of ‘ayes’ from the assembled host” as they raised their right hands.

After the capstone-laying ceremony, many remained to see the unveiling of the statue of the angel Moroni. The statue, designed by Utah-born sculptor Cyrus Dallin, was made of hammered copper covered with 22-karat gold leaf. Before nightfall, the massive figure was lowered into position on the stone ball of the 64-meter-high central east spire.

In the year that followed, carpenters, painters, plasterers, and other skilled craftsmen worked unstintingly to complete the interior of the temple. The inside of the temple was adorned with fine wood and plaster ornamental carvings, beautiful murals and paintings, mirrors, elegant curtains and draperies, the best carpets and furniture available, fine light fixtures, chandeliers, and specially ordered stained-glass art windows. All things were made ready for the dedication ceremonies, which were to begin on 6 April 1893. In an effort to complete the temple on time, workers labored even on holidays. On Thanksgiving Day 1892, “nearly all the men were at work as usual,” one worker noted.

As the physical preparations began to wind down, there began a renewed spiritual preparation. In March 1893, the First Presidency issued an epistle calling for tender soul-searching and self-purification:

“The near approach of the date for the dedication of the Temple of our God moves us to express with some degree of fullness our feelings … to the end that in entering into that holy building we may all be found acceptable ourselves … and that the building … may also be acceptable unto the Lord. …

“We feel now that a time for reconciliation has come; that before entering into the Temple to present ourselves before the Lord in solemn assembly, we shall divest ourselves of every harsh and unkind feeling against each other; that not only our bickerings shall cease, but that the cause of them shall be removed, and every sentiment that prompted and has maintained them shall be dispelled; that we shall confess our sins one to another, and ask forgiveness one of another; that we shall plead with the Lord for the spirit of repentance … so that in humbling ourselves before Him and seeking forgiveness from each other, we shall yield that charity and generosity to those who crave our forgiveness that we ask for and expect from Heaven. …

“Asking God’s blessing upon you all in your endeavor to carry out this counsel, and desirous of seeing it take the form of a united effort on the part of the whole people, we suggest that Saturday, March 25th, 1893, be set apart as a day of fasting and prayer.”

Some Saints began arriving in the city weeks before April 1893 general conference. Lucy Flake and her husband started their trip from Arizona to Utah on 8 March 1893. “We went by team,” she noted in her journal, “as we hadn’t the money to go on train.” The group “consisted of William, myself, Sister Lanning, Joel and John, Henry and Emma Tanner and two of their children,” she wrote. The journey by wagon was “a cold hard trip, through snow and mud.” At Beaver, Utah, the Flake family finally boarded a train. “William and I took our first train ride together,” Lucy recalled. “We went with a large company of our friends and relatives from Beaver City to Salt Lake. We were joined at every station by others who were going to the Dedication.”

The evening before the first dedication service, President Woodruff conducted nonmember guests through the building on a first-of-its-kind tour. This act was a step in reconciliation by Church leaders anxious to rebuild harmony with non-Mormon neighbors after decades of hostility. Even federally appointed Utah Territorial Supreme Court justice Charles S. Zane, a longtime critic of the Church, was impressed by the quality of design, decorations, and craftsmanship. “The building is furnished opulently,” he noted in his journal after attending the open house.

Finally, the culmination of forty years of effort and sacrifice climaxed when President Woodruff entered the temple the morning of 6 April 1893. “The Temple Block gates opened at 8:30, and the street was packed long before that hour,” one priesthood leader noted. Two hours were required “to admit, one by one, the 2200 people” into the large upper assembly hall of the temple.

Thomas Griggs, a member of the Tabernacle Choir, arrived at the south gate at 8:20, but the line was so long that “it was 9:55 a.m. when I was 10 feet [3 meters] from the [gate],” he wrote. “Wind, dust and a little rain had come and it was very uncomfortable, to be ended by the door keeper announcing … ‘No more can be admitted.’ … Being well known as a member of the choir [I was] … soon at the south west entrance and hurriedly passed through.”

The focus of the service was the prayer of dedication offered by the aged prophet, “kneeling on a plush covered stool provided for the purpose” and reading the prayer he had prepared that would be read in each of the successive forty-one sessions.

Brigham Young Academy student Amy Brown recalled: “It was one of the most thrilling spiritual experiences of my life. … [As President Woodruff] stood there before the people with hair and beard as white as snow, the essence of purity, gentleness, and faithfulness, he reminded me of the prophets of old.”

For President Woodruff, the occasion was the fulfillment of a dream. He confided in his journal, “Near[ly] fifty years ago while in the city of Boston I had a vision of going with the Saints to the Rocky Mountains building a temple and I dedicated it.”

During the dedication sessions the Saints experienced an outpouring of the Spirit in the temple. The “spirit of God filled the house,” noted a participant. Susa Young Gates, who served as official stenographer for the dedication services, recalled: “The early days of April in the year 1893 were heavy with storm and gloom. A leaden sky stretched over the earth; every day the rain beat down upon it, and the storm-winds swept over it with terrific force. Yet the brightness and the glory of those days far outshone the gloom.” (See pages 44–48 of this issue.)

Annie Cannon Wells, an editorial contributor to the Woman’s Exponent in Salt Lake City, wrote, “I am only one of thousands who have watched the rearing of those walls and seemed to be a part of them, so much have our thoughts dwelt upon and longed for the day of completion. … This dedication is to the Saints the greatest event for many years. How long we have watched the building of the Temple and as stone has been laid upon stone our faith and prayers have been offered for the safe and perfect completion of the building and now that it is so handsomely completed well may we feel proud and happy.”

For many of the Saints, the temple dedication provided a spiritual seal for their efforts to gather with the people of God in the Rocky Mountains. It also confirmed the Lord’s acceptance of the covenants they had made with him and the sacrifices entailed in fulfilling the vision of modern and ancient prophets that a temple would be “established in the tops of the mountains” in the last days.

Another Church leader, Elder J. Golden Kimball, expressed the theme of united effort and sacrifice when he spoke in general conference in 1915. He said of the Salt Lake Temple, “Every stone in it is a sermon to me. It tells of suffering, it tells of sacrifice, it preaches—every rock in it, preaches a discourse. When it was dedicated, it seemed to me that it was the greatest sermon that has ever been preached since the Sermon on the Mount. … Every window, every steeple, everything about the Temple speaks of the things of God, and gives evidence of the faith of the people who built it.”