Gospel Story Finder

Darkness covered the city of Nauvoo, but there was a restlessness in the air. Here and there, windows were bright with lamp light. Chickens were stirring. Somewhere a dog howled.

Eleven-year-old Mary Ann raised up on her elbow in bed when she heard a horse gallop up to the door of their house.

“Sister Pratt!” called a voice. “Joseph and Hyrum are dead! Murdered by a mob at the Carthage jail!”

Mary Ann gasped. Barely breathing, she strained to listen as her mother went to the door and talked to the messenger in low, anxious tones. Suddenly she felt alone and frightened.

As her feet touched the wooden floor, she heard the door close and lock behind the messenger. All at once she was in her mother’s arms and both of them began to cry.

Mary Ann wished “Father” were there to tell them everything would be all right. Her real father had died suddenly when she was just a baby, but when Mother married Parley P. Pratt, Mary Ann had learned to love him and call him “Father.” Now he was away on a mission.

Mary Ann’s thoughts were interrupted when little Susan began to whimper. Her mother lifted the baby out of the cradle and rocked her. Even through her tears, Mama’s voice was sweet and clear, as if she were still singing with the choir.

“Do you think he knew it was coming, Mama?”

“Everyone was concerned for his safety. His life was constantly threatened.”

“I think he knew,” Mary Ann insisted. “Do you remember three weeks ago in the grove on Mulholland Street when the Prophet asked all the children to meet the next Sabbath for a Sunday School? Then he said, ‘I don’t know if I can be here. I will if I can, but Brother Stephen Goddard will be here to take charge.’ Don’t you think he knew, Mama?”

Mary Ann’s mother held her close, next to little Susan, who was sleeping peacefully on her mother’s lap. They both knew it was a question to which there was no answer. Together they watched the sun brighten the sky and smelled the perfume of roses and sweetbriar, brought in on the early morning breeze.

“I remember that, Mama.”

“Someday you can tell Susan all about it.”

“Oh, yes, I will!”

Mary Ann slid to the floor and knelt at her mother’s knees so she could look into the sleepy-eyed face of her little sister.

“I’ll tell her how I knew Joseph Smith was a Prophet of God the first time I saw him—and how I still know it! And some day, in heaven, Susan and I will be able to see the Prophet together.”

I never realized how important patriarchal blessings were until my family and I lived with my grandparents for three months while our new house was being built.
My grandfather is a patriarch. And his home, where people receive their patriarchal blessings, is dedicated to the Lord. For my brother, sister and me, this meant that while we lived there, we often had to be quiet, help clean the house, and try not to quarrel. If we ever argued, we were sent outside, because contention makes the Spirit of the Holy Ghost leave. You can tell my grandparents’ home is different. It’s always clean, and it seems to have a glow about it.
Whenever someone was scheduled to receive a patriarchal blessing, we would clean everything really nice the day before. We’d wash the windows and the floors, sweep the deck, and vacuum everywhere—even places where no one would be. Until after the blessing was given, we weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house, because they would make tracks. When we finished cleaning, it was the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. It was basically the closest thing I’ve ever felt to heaven on earth.
The day someone was coming to receive a blessing, we all planned to either stay downstairs or leave to visit relatives. Grandpa would then prepare to give the blessing. First he would put on his suit. Then he would spend time praying, reading the scriptures, and listening to appropriate music.
Before giving anyone a blessing, Grandpa always talks to them to make sure they feel at ease. He wants to make sure they understand who is giving them the blessing. He tells them that the blessing is not from him but from Heavenly Father.
Although I never knew who came to get their blessings, and though I couldn’t hear what was said, I could feel the Holy Ghost—even downstairs.
After the blessing had been given and recorded, my grandma would type the blessings, using headphones and a transcribing machine. She went over the blessing several times to make sure she had it exactly correct.
My grandma says that when she types the blessings, she feels just about everything that the person feels because she knows for a fact that the blessing is from God. Sometimes she just starts crying because it’s such a beautiful blessing. She says that after she’s done typing, she usually doesn’t remember which blessing is whose. And she’s glad that’s the way it is, because the blessings are really personal and shouldn’t be shared with everyone. It takes my grandma a lot of time to type everyone’s blessings, and I’m not sure many people realize how much she contributes to my grandpa’s calling.

I lived in South Africa for a little more than two years. One of the things I learned is the necessity of having a way to help me reach all my daily destinations. I found GPS to be vital. It’s an electronic map that allows me to move around to fulfil my duties, whether they are family related, professional obligations, or my ecclesiastical responsibilities.
Whenever I paid attention to this electronic map, I would reach my destinations on time and quickly return home to my family. But, when I missed a roundabout or a crossroads, the GPS would take me down very long roads and I would sometimes be delayed in getting to my destination—or get completely lost on the way to another unknown destination.

My wife, Martha, and I were called from our home in Canada to serve in the Denmark Copenhagen Mission. After two weeks full of excitement and learning at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, and a long flight from Salt Lake City, we arrived in Copenhagen on June 22, 1999. President and Sister Rasmussen, our mission president and his wife, met us at the airport and took care of us for the next two days. We were then given a car and asked to live in Aabenraa and help in the Sønderborg Branch with missionary and membership work.
The first Sunday at sacrament meeting we greeted members and introduced ourselves. Shaking hands with a middle-aged gentleman, I said, “I am Ejnar Iversen.” He replied, “I am Bent Bisgaard.” We looked at each other and could hardly believe our eyes. It was the same Bent Bisgaard who 32 years earlier had joined the Church while living with us in Canada. He said he lived in Fredericia and had been assigned to speak in our branch that day. What a wonderful reunion it was—much more than a coincidence. We felt that our Father in Heaven had sent him to welcome us.
Martha and I are very happy to have known Bent and Svend all these years. And had we not served as a missionary couple, we never would have had this wonderful reunion.

On November 3, 2024, the Ulawa Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was officially established, marking a significant milestone in the growth of the Church in Solomon Islands.
Corey Lindley, second counselor in the mission presidency, presided at the meeting during which this new branch in the Honiara Solomon Islands District was organised.
Upon arrival, Church leaders were warmly greeted by local youth, dressed as warriors, who ceremoniously questioned the purpose of their visit.
Peter Awao, a member of the Church who had been baptized in Honiara and relocated to Ulawa in 2022, spoke on behalf of the group in local pidgin, explaining, “Mifala no come here to fait, but we only bring the good words to Ulawa Island. Mifala no come waitem any mata knife, axe or alawolo to fait weitem you fala but come and ask compassion. Mifala just came here to witness Jesus Christ is the Saviour for the world today. So please open the way for us to come in. Poro Kana Ute.”
Following the warm welcome, the Church leaders participated in a reception at the local meeting hut, where the members had been gathering. President Kwanafia, a registered ministerial celebrant, officiated the marriage of six couples, ensuring that their traditional marriages were legally solemnized according to Solomon Islands law.
Many in the group then traveled about 10 kms to the eastern side of the island to the village of Aroaha, where nine new convert baptisms were performed in a beautiful lagoon of the Pacific Ocean.
On Sunday morning, 81 members gathered early for the official sustaining of the new branch and the calling of its first branch presidency. The sacrament meeting began 10 minutes early as members eagerly waited, singing hymns and spiritually preparing for the proceedings. The formation of the Ulawa Branch was unanimously sustained.
During the meeting, the newly baptized members were recognized, and the sacrament was administered by the four full-time missionaries serving in the branch.
The Ulawa Branch recently completed the construction of a new chapel that accommodates 100 members. The chapel was built with local materials and labor. As the Church continues to grow on Ulawa Island, the faith and determination of its members are a testament to the Lord’s work in this part of the Pacific.
Ulawa Island, part of the Makira province in the Solomon Islands, is home to over 6,000 residents. It has limited commerce and electricity, but the island is a close-knit, family-oriented community. The faith of the members and missionaries on the island to establish a congregation is a testament to the people, the community, and the truth of the Saviour’s gospel.

“Kent?” I whispered into the dark, but my brother was already asleep. Just minutes ago we had raced downstairs, said our prayers, and hopped into bed. How could he fall asleep so fast?
“Kent!”
Still nothing.
I squirmed down under my covers until my eyes barely peeped out above my cowboy blanket.
I glanced to the left. There was my favorite stuffed animal. It should have made me feel better. But my stomach flip-flopped inside of me. What if a tiger crept out of the laundry room next door?
I glanced to the right. There was the hat I got at an amusement park this summer. But my heart was thump-thumping. What if spiders attacked from under the porch?
I glanced up. Hanging from the ceiling were the model airplanes Dad and I had pieced together and painted so carefully. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined them flying above me at night, warning me of danger.
My eyes popped open. I had an idea! On the dresser by my bed was a picture of Jesus that I had gotten in Primary. Slowly I reached out and propped up the picture. The light from our nightlight seemed to make the words at the bottom of the picture glow.
I am the way. Come and follow me.
I rolled onto my side so that I could see the picture and read those words again and again. I looked at Jesus’s hands and thought about how He blessed little children. My stomach stopped flip-flopping. I looked at Jesus’s feet and thought about how He went to find people who needed help. My heart stopped thump-thumping. I looked at Jesus’s face and thought about how He knew my name.
Tigers and spiders faded from my mind as I snuggled into my blankets. Heavenly Father and Jesus loved me! I felt warm and peaceful and safe.
And very, very sleepy.

Kristen paced back and forth across the room. In the past fifteen minutes she had tried on five different tops and three pairs of shorts. Still, she couldn’t decide what to wear. Today everything had to be just right. She wanted to make sure that nothing, even her clothes, would cause her to lose one of the races.
“Kristen!” her mom shouted. “If you don’t hurry, we’re going to miss the ward party.”
“I’ll be right down,” Kristen called. Quickly she put on her most comfortable outfit, then reached into the closet and grabbed her running shoes.
“Mom,” said Kristen as she entered the kitchen, “what do athletes usually eat just before a big race?”
“Honey, to tell you the truth, I don’t really know. Why do you ask?”
“You know that Brother Reda always has the races right after everyone eats.”
“That’s true.” Kristen’s mom laughed. “But I don’t think that you need to worry about it. You always do well in races. Try to calm down, and let’s just go and have a good time.” “Calm down!” declared Kristen. “How can I? Anthony Nelson will be there bragging about how great he is. He thinks that he’s better than everyone.”
“Well, if we don’t hurry, he won’t have any competition at all.”
When Kristen arrived at the picnic, Anthony was the first to greet her. “You should see the prizes Brother Reda has in the trunk of his car,” he said. “I saw them when he was getting out some folding chairs.”
“And I suppose you think that you’ll be going home with one of those prizes,” teased Kristen.
“One!” Anthony exclaimed. “I just hope that someone will help me carry all the prizes that I win to the car.”
After Kristen had finished drinking her lemonade, she heard Brother Reda announce, “We’re going to start the races! The first one will be a straight run from this starting line to that streamer stretched between those two trees over there. This race is for all ten-to-twelve-year-olds.”
“That’s us,” called Anthony. “Come on, Kristen. I wouldn’t want you to miss this. You’re the one I want to beat.”
Kristen was too nervous to say anything. She glanced around to see who else was running and noticed Matt Powers sitting against a tree. He looked sad as he watched the other kids line up for the race. Kristen remembered how bad she had felt last summer when Matt was in a car accident and lost his left leg. It had taken him a long time to learn how to walk with his artificial leg.
“Everyone get lined up,” ordered Brother Reda. “On your mark, get set, GO!”
Kristen started slowly, and Anthony pulled out in front of her. But she quickly picked up speed as she concentrated on the finish line. The next thing she knew, she was breaking through the streamer. She had won!
“You’re faster than I thought,” Anthony said as he tried to catch his breath. “Congratulations, but watch out! I’m going to beat you in the next race.”
“You weren’t so bad yourself,” Kristen said with a smile, a little surprised at how nice he was being. I wonder if I could handle losing that well.
A few races for the younger children were run next. However, Kristen was too busy looking for a partner for the three-legged race to watch them.
Suddenly Anthony ran up to her. “I have my partner for the three-legged race,” he gloated. “I bet no one will beat Joshua Ellis and me!” Kristen searched the crowd around her, looking for a partner. Her eyes stopped on Matt Powers, who was still sitting on the sidelines.
I must be crazy to even consider him, Kristen thought as she approached Matt. “Hey, Matt, do you want to be in the three-legged race? I need a partner.”
“Me?” asked Matt. He looked puzzled. “Is that a joke?”
“Of course not. I know that we can do it if you’re willing to give it a try,” said Kristen.
“I’m willing if you’re willing.” Matt carefully got up and hurried over to her. He had been rather quiet lately, but now he seemed as lively as he had been before the accident. Kristen tied their inside legs together, and they hobbled up to the starting line.
When everyone was ready, Brother Reda yelled, “Go!”
Kristen and Matt held on tightly to each other as they lumbered down the field. She was surprised at how well Matt could run. At the halfway point, Anthony and Joshua were side-by-side with Kristen and Matt. Then Matt lost his balance, and the two toppled over. “Hurry and get up. We might still be able to make it!” urged Matt as he pulled Kristen to her feet.
A few moments later they fell again. By this time, more teams were catching up and beginning to pass them; Kristen tugged at Matt. “Come on! We may not be first, but let’s not be last!”
As they neared the finish, Kristen could hear Anthony cheering them on. He and Joshua had already finished—first, of course. Kristen and Matt fell forward just as they crossed the finish line. They glanced at each other. Dirt covered both their faces. They started laughing, and soon everyone was laughing with them.
Kristen smiled at Anthony. “It’s my turn to congratulate you,” she said. Then she turned to Matt and winked. Losing’s not that bad, she thought. In fact, it can be a lot of fun.

Dad doesn’t care much for my drawings. “Waste of time,” he calls it. I try to leave sketching until he’s not around, but it doesn’t always work out too well. Like the other day. I was sure he was down the bottom field fixing fences. I’d noticed a bunch of tiny pansies poking bravely through cracks in the concrete by our goat shed and waited my chance to copy their soft power.
It was a gentle spring morning. Scents of dew-covered grass mingled with fresh hay. Even the whiff of goat skin added a satisfying flavour to the feel of the day.
I was just relaxing, content, penciling in the lines of shape and shadow, when Dad’s furious roar sent my papers flying.
“Can’t I leave you alone for ten minutes without you letting me down?” His muddy boot slammed into the upturned page. “Now get up. If you’ve no jobs to do and your schoolwork’s finished, then at least turn your hand to something useful. This’ll get you nowhere!”
I sensed his frustration. I don’t fit his image of a son.
Picking up the ruined work, I headed slowly for my room. My thoughts were not worthy ones. It’s all very well learning how to handle these situations in church, but when it comes to real life—first it’s hard recognising the feelings I should be having, and when I do, then it’s even harder to make them happen. Wonder if anyone else has this problem? I mean, whoever wants to feel friendly and loving when someone’s shooting rotten thoughts back at you? There must be some secret to it. Trouble is, I’m not sure I really want to find it.
I’m not even sure I really want to stay around here any longer. Maybe Mum’s brother down at Portsmouth would take me in. Mind you, sharing the Church with him could be even more difficult than with Dad. Oh well, who cares?
That was Monday. By the time Wednesday came round, I’d done some deep thinking. I’d carefully avoided conflict with Dad, three and a half quarters decided to pack my bags the following Friday (Dad’s night out at the pub), and given in to the recurring idea that I ought to attend seminary this one last time, if only to thank Teacher for the card.
I edged my way into the back row, taking a long look round. I would miss this crowd, especially Sharon, third row from the front. Her smile always seemed sweeter for me than for anyone else. Pity I wouldn’t be getting to know her better.
The lesson didn’t start too exciting—you know, all that talk about reaching the highest degree of glory. My mind kind of switches off when those “Sunday” words begin, going into neutral with other thoughts creeping in, like working out a different way to milk the goat. (It’s all this growing that’s causing trouble. My head used to rest comfy on the bulge of her stomach, so I could milk with my eyes shut, dreaming a little about this and that. But now my head pokes out above her bony back, and my chin won’t rest easy on that ridgy spine.)
As I was saying, Teacher was going on a bit. Her long black hair swung, glinting in the sunlight as she moved around. I was leaning back, half following the words and enjoying the expressions crisscrossing her face. Then all of a sudden, she produced this piece of pie, oozing bubbly juice, and thick with chunky apple piled between covers of tawny, crumbling pastry. Now, if there’s anything I’m partial to, it’s apple pie—and there was a dollop of cream on top.
“Whatever is she going to do with that?” I asked myself, sniffing a sweet cinnamon smell. “There’s not enough for us all.” I glanced at the others. Everyone’s eyes had opened wide. They were definitely paying attention.
“I’m about to give this to one student,” Teacher continued. “Let me see now … Thomas? Looks like all that farm work is stretching you fast. I’m sure your stomach could manage this pie?”
Couldn’t it just? I hardly dared believe my luck. I had been sure she’d give it to James—he’s the smartest lad, the one whose hand flies up at every question and who knows every scripture the week before we’re asked to learn it. It was his Mum who sent the elders down our way a couple of years ago.
If not him, then surely Sarah? Sarah does everything right. Her work’s neatly handed in on time. Teacher has a special sort of smile for her, I’ve noticed.
But me! I didn’t need asking twice. Did I eat that pie fast? Every crumb tasted like it knew exactly where it should be. And I could feel 22 eyes watching every mouthful. I sat back, rubbing my stomach. She’s right—it has stretched lately.
Then she asked a kind of weird question. “How do the rest of you feel at this moment?”
I mean, how would anyone be expected to feel? Slightly sick, I should think—like they’d been cheated out of something worth having. At least, that’s what James said, and the others nodded. They weren’t too cheerful.
“Good,” said Teacher. “Remember that feeling every time you’re tempted to go astray, because it’s the kind of sensation you might get, only worse, if you don’t make it past the terrestrial kingdom.”
You know, that pulled me up short, making prickles creep up and down my spine. The feelings I’d enjoyed, munching that pie, were great. No way would I have wanted to be the one missing out. Maybe there’s something to all this.
I never did leave home. Weeks went by, and the apple pie memory faded, slipping into a corner somewhere in my mind. Something like my drawing collection—the best ones are treasured and stared at now and again but lie shut in my cupboard most of the time.
If it hadn’t been for the accident, the apple pie corner would probably have stayed closed for a lot longer.
It was a Saturday morning. I know, because Dad had been drinking at the pub the night before. I was down the yard at 5.30 milking Mrs. Nephi. (I call her that because Nephi found wild goats in the promised land. I’ve often wondered whether he liked them as much as I do. I mean, he seemed to care for outsiders, and no one else in the scriptures ever seemed to reckon much to goats, did they?)
I’d just found a good spot to rest my chin—there’s an extra lump of gristle to one side of Mrs. N.’s backbone that’s softer than the rest—when all of a sudden this fox appeared, right out of nowhere, rushing in front of us.
Well, old Mrs. Nephi went crazy, staggering sideways, then stumbling across the stand. I hadn’t bothered to tether her. She never moves an inch normally. Simply gazes into the distance, grinding her teeth round and round like some old lady thinking and thinking.
But this time, back legs bucked, hooves clattered down into the bucket, milk splattered all over … and me? My head snapped back, and I fell off the stool, crashing into the heavy gate beam wedged up against the goat shed.
The beam toppled, missing my neck by inches but hitting my arm, crushing the bone with wicked pain. I remember screaming in agony until things went swimmy and black.
My shrieks must have been right powerful. Only something dreadful could waken Dad on a Saturday morning. Next thing I knew he was leaning close, yelling at me.
Somehow he got me to the hospital, ten miles away. I never, ever, want to try to drive in that condition again. The pain was so terrible, bumping over those country roads, I wanted to cry and whimper like a child. Only the sight of Dad’s tight-lipped face forced back the anguished gasps.
Come to think of it, Teacher could have used an experience like mine when we did that scripture on suffering in the Doctrine and Covenants—19 something-or-other. I need to go over that one. And to think my agony was nothing compared to His. I daren’t begin to imagine His pain—and all for the likes of me and my dad. So I pulled out those apple pie thoughts to check them through again. I don’t want to miss knowing someone who loves me that much.
The day after my accident, Teacher appeared on the doorstep. I could just about see and hear from my makeshift bed on the sofa.
“Why, hello, Mr. Bell.” She didn’t give him a chance to slam the door but kept right on talking. “I’ve brought this pie to cheer up Thomas. I know he’s fond of apples. Could you help him eat it?”
If there’s one thing Dad and I have in common, it’s appreciation of apple pies.
“I … er … I, that’s right good of you, Miss … er …” He was lost for words—my dad was actually tongue-tied. My eyes bulged, and I couldn’t keep the grin away.
“The name’s Jenny, Mr. Bell. I’m Thomas’s seminary teacher, I …”
She got no further. Dad’s tongue loosened fast. “Kind of you—yes, most kind—but I’m sorry, you can’t see the lad. He’s … er …”
Guessing the lie he would offer, I quickly waved, calling out, “Sister Summers, hello! Thanks for coming. Is that for us? Can you stop a minute? How’s Sharon? How’s the class? How’s …” I’d run out of questions, but Dad had opened the door again by this time, sheepishly stepping aside.
She came again and again. Each time Dad softened more. I didn’t realize Teacher cared for animals so much. She could even milk Mrs. Nephi!
Good job she got on the right side of Dad though, because he wouldn’t have let the home teachers round for anyone else but her. And that blessing they gave me—that I don’t remember getting a feeling like that ever before in my whole life. The comforting warmth rushed clear through to my toenails.
Now I’d heard Teacher mention miracles before, but I’m not kidding, I never thought it could happen to me … me, Thomas Bell! I healed all right. So fast that the doctors weren’t sure what was going on. And they were convinced that such a messy break could never mend straight. But it did.
Dad was equally amazed. And incredible as it may seem, he actually looked at my seminary booklets one day while I worked on them. I wanted to keep going, despite the arm. I mean, I couldn’t let her down, could I, not after she had gone to so much trouble. Besides, she makes me feel kind of important. I enjoy that feeling—belonging, somehow.
I’m planning on watching her mouth drop open one day soon. Now that my arm’s in use and I’m milking Mrs. N. again, I’ve made myself a promise. With each squeeze and squirt I’ll repeat a scripture reference until they’re all glued in my brain.
Today our class finished for the year. I gave Sister Summers a box of chocolates.
She looked sort of choked, and I heard her sniff as I turned away to hide my red cheeks. On thinking it over, though, perhaps it was the words, not the chocolates, that made her cry.
“Teacher,” I said, “I’ve decided to start saving for a mission. I want to take part in all the blessings of eternity. Not only that, but I want to help others feel they’re important to someone—you know what I mean?”
She nodded, her lips wobbling a little, and she dabbed away at her eyes with a tissue.
“Oh, and by the way,” I finished in a bit of a rush, because my own eyes weren’t staying too dry either, “Dad says, if I earn half, he … he’ll pay the rest.”
I had to leave the room quickly. But not before I caught a glimpse of her face—it was glowing with such a strange look. Could that be the joy she’s always on about?
Maybe her mind has a “chocolate corner.” I like the idea of being a memory that’s pulled out every now and again.

Imagine that our bishop has appointed you and me to plan a picnic for all of the ward members. It is to be the finest social in the history of the ward, and we are to spare no expense.
We reserve a beautiful picnic ground in the country. We are to have it all to ourselves; no outsiders will interfere with us.
The arrangements go very well, and when the day comes, the weather is perfect. All is beautifully ready. The tables are in one long row. We even have tablecloths and china. You have never seen such a feast. The Relief Society and Young Women have outdone themselves. The tables are laden with every kind of delicious food: cantaloupes, watermelon, corn on the cob, fried chicken, hamburgers, cakes, pies—you get the picture?
We are seated, and the bishop calls upon the patriarch to bless the food. Every hungry youngster secretly hopes it will be a short prayer.
Then, just at that moment there is an interruption. A noisy old car jerks into the picnic grounds and sputters to a stop close to us. We are upset. Didn’t they see the “reserved” signs?
A worried-looking man lifts the hood; a spout of steam comes out. One of our brethren, a mechanic, says, “That car isn’t going anywhere until it is fixed.”
Several children spill from the car. They are ragged and dirty and noisy. And then an anxious mother takes a box to that extra table nearby. It is mealtime. Their children are hungry. She puts a few leftovers on the table. Then she nervously moves them about, trying to make it look like a meal for her hungry brood. But there is not enough.
We wait impatiently for them to quiet down so that we can have the blessing and enjoy our feast.
Then one of their little girls spies our table. She pulls her runny-nosed little brother over to us and pushes her head between you and me. We cringe aside, because they are very dirty. Then the little girl says, “Ummm, look at that. Ummm, ummm, I wonder what that tastes like.”
Everyone is waiting. Why did they arrive just at that moment? Such an inconvenient time. Why must we interrupt what we are doing to bother with outsiders? Why couldn’t they have stopped somewhere else? They are not clean! They are not like us. They just don’t fit in.
Since the bishop has put us in charge, he expects us to handle these intruders. What should we do? Of course, this is only a parable. But now for the test. If it really happened, my young friends, what would you do?
I will give you three choices.
First, you could insist the intruders keep their children quiet while we have the blessing. Thereafter we ignore them. After all, we reserved the place.
I doubt that you would do that. Could you choke down a feast before hungry children? Surely we are better than that! That is not the answer.
The next choice. There is that extra table. And we do have too much of some things. We could take a little of this and a little of that and lure the little children back to their own table. Then we could enjoy our feast without interruption. After all, we earned what we have. Did we not “obtain it by [our own] industry,” as the Book of Mormon says? (See Alma 4:6.)
I hope you would not do that. There is a better answer. You already know what it is.
We should go out to them and invite them to come and join us. You could slide that way, and I could slide this way, and the little girl could sit between us. They could all fit in somewhere to share our feast. Afterward, we will fix their car and provide something for their journey.
Could there be more pure enjoyment than seeing how much we could get those hungry children to eat? Could there be more satisfaction than to interrupt our festivities to help our mechanic fix their car?
Is that what you would do? Surely it is what you should do. But forgive me if I have a little doubt; let me explain.
We, as members of the Church, have the fullness of the gospel. Every conceivable manner of spiritual nourishment is ours. Every part of the spiritual menu is included. It provides an unending supply of spiritual strength. Like the widow’s cruse of oil, it is replenished as we use it and shall never fail. (See 1 Kgs. 17:8–16.)
And yet, there are people across the world and about us—our neighbors, our friends, some in our own families—who, spiritually speaking, are undernourished. Some of them are starving to death!
If we keep all this to ourselves, it is not unlike feasting before those who are hungry.
We are to go out to them, and to invite them to join us. We are to be missionaries.
It does not matter if it interrupts your schooling or delays your career or your marriage—or basketball. Unless you have a serious health problem, every Latter-day Saint young man should answer the call to serve a mission.
Even mistakes and transgressions must not stand in the way. You should make yourself worthy to receive a call.
The early Apostles at first did not know that the gospel was for everyone, for the Gentiles. Then Peter had a vision. He saw a vessel full of all kinds of creatures and was commanded to kill and to eat. But he refused, saying they were common and unclean. Then the voice said, “What God hath cleansed, that call not thou common.” (See Acts 10:9–16.) That vision, and the experience they had immediately following, convinced them of their duty; thus began the great missionary work of all Christianity.
Almost any returned missionary will have a question: “If they are starving spiritually, why do they not accept what we have? Why do they slam the door on us and turn us away?”
One of my sons was serving in Australia and was thrown off a porch by a man who rejected his message.
My son is big enough and strong enough that he had to be somewhat agreeable to what was happening or the man never could have done it.
Be patient if some will not eat when first invited. Remember, all who are spiritually hungry will not accept the gospel. Do you remember how reluctant you are to try any new food? Only after your mother urges you will you take a little, tiny portion on the tip of a spoon to taste it to see if you like it first.
Undernourished children must be carefully fed; so it is with the spiritually underfed. Some are so weakened by mischief and sin that to begin with they reject the rich food we offer. They must be fed carefully and gently.
Some are so near spiritual death that they must be spoonfed on the broth of fellowship, or nourished carefully on activities and programs. As the scriptures say, they must have milk before meat. (See 1 Cor. 3:2; D&C 19:22.) But we must take care lest the only nourishment they receive thereafter is that broth.
But feed them we must. We are commanded to preach the gospel to every nation, kindred, tongue, and people. That message, my young friends, appears more than eighty times in the scriptures.
I did not serve a regular mission until we were called to preside in New England. When I was of missionary age, when I was your age, young men could not be called to the mission field. It was World War II, and I spent four years in the military. But I did do missionary work; we did share the gospel. It was my privilege to baptize one of the first two Japanese to join the Church after the mission had been closed twenty-two years earlier. Brother Elliot Richards baptized Tatsui Sato. I baptized his wife, Chio. And the work in Japan was reopened. We baptized them in a swimming pool amid the rubble of a university that had been destroyed by bombs.
Shortly thereafter I boarded a train in Osaka for Yokohama and a ship that would take me home. Brother and Sister Sato came to the station to say good-bye. Many tears were shed as we bade one another farewell.
It was a very chilly night. The railroad station, what there was left of it, was very cold. Starving children were sleeping in the corners. That was a common sight in Japan in those days. The fortunate ones had a newspaper or a few old rags to fend off the cold.
On that train, I slept restlessly. The berths were too short anyway. In the bleak, chilly hours of the dawn, the train stopped at a station along the way. I heard a tapping on the window and raised the blind. There on the platform stood a little boy tapping on the window with a tin can. I knew he was an orphan and a beggar; the tin can was the symbol of their suffering. Sometimes they carried a spoon as well, as if to say, “I am hungry; feed me.”
He might have been six or seven years old. His little body was thin with starvation. He had on a thin, ragged shirt-like kimono, nothing else. His head was shingled with scabs. His one jaw was swollen—perhaps from an abscessed tooth. Around his head he had tied a filthy rag with a knot on top of his head—a pathetic gesture of treatment.
When I saw him and he saw that I was awake, he waved his can. He was begging. In pity, I thought, “How can I help him?” Then I remembered. I had money, Japanese money. I quickly groped for my clothing and found some yen notes in my pocket. I tried to open the window. But it was stuck. I slipped on my trousers and hurried to the end of the car. He stood outside expectantly. As I pushed at the resistant door, the train pulled away from the station. Through the dirty windows I could see him, holding that rusty tin can, with the dirty rag around his swollen jaw.
There I stood, an officer from a conquering army, heading home to a family and a future. There I stood, half-dressed, clutching some money which he had seen but which I could not get to him. I wanted to help him, but couldn’t. The only comfort I draw is that I did want to help him.
That was thirty-eight years ago, but I can see him as clearly as if it were yesterday.
Perhaps I was scarred by that experience. If so, it is a battle scar, a worthy one, for which I bear no shame. It reminds me of my duty!
Young brethren, I can hear the voice of the Lord saying to each of us just as He said to Peter, “Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep. … Feed my sheep.” (See John 21:15–17.)
I have unbounded confidence and faith in you, our young brethren. You are the warriors of the Restoration. And in this spiritual battle, you are to relieve the spiritual hunger and feed the sheep. It is your duty!
We have the fullness of the everlasting gospel. We have the obligation to share it with those who do not have it. God grant that we will honor that commission from the Lord and prepare ourselves and answer the call, I humbly pray, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

A year later, I was listening to a lesson at church and the teacher shared a story about his fiancée. One day, she had been praying to know if she should be baptized. That same night, she went to a restaurant with some friends. They started talking about religion and her decision to be baptized. Her friends told her to avoid the missionaries and to not be baptized.
She felt frustrated at their lack of support. Then two people approached her and said that they were members of the Church. They encouraged her to be baptized and to continue reading and praying. The teacher’s fiancée told him that having those two strangers come up and boldly share their testimonies was an answer to her prayers.

I think of such a man I once knew, not a member of the Church. He was a graduate of a great university. His potential was unlimited. As a young man with an excellent education and a tremendous opportunity, he dreamed of the stars and moved in their direction. In the company that employed him in those early years, he was promoted from one responsibility to another, each with improved opportunity over the last. Before many years passed, he was in the top echelon of his company. But those promotions brought him into the cocktail circuit. He could not handle it, as so many others cannot. He became an alcoholic, the victim of an appetite he could not control. He sought help but was too proud to discipline himself in the regimen imposed upon him by those who tried to assist him.

He went down like a falling star, tragically burning out and disappearing in the night. I made inquiry of one friend after another, and finally learned the truth of his tragic end. He, who had begun with such high aim and impressive talent, had died on skid row in one of our large cities. Like Peter of old, he had felt certain of his strength and of his capacity to live up to his potential. But he had denied that capacity; and I am confident that as the shadows of his failure closed around him, again like Peter, he must have gone out and wept bitterly.

Ryan is in second grade. He likes to draw and is taking Tae Kwon Do. He is only one year away from becoming a black belt! Sean and Ryan are good friends, and they like drawing pictures together. Ryan likes school and has many friends. His first year in Rye, he was invited to several birthday parties that were held on Sunday. He told his friends that he could not go to parties on Sunday. He said, “Sunday is our church and family day.” It was disappointing to miss the parties, but the next year, two of his friends held their birthday parties on Saturday just so Ryan could come! Ryan was glad that he had told them why he couldn’t come before and that they respected his religious beliefs.

Once there was a man who dreamed that he was in a great hall where all the religions of the world were gathered. He realized that each religion had much that seemed desirable and worthy.
He met a nice couple who represented The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and asked, “What do you require of your members?”
“We do not require anything,” they replied. “But the Lord asks that we consecrate all.”
The couple went on to explain about Church callings, home and visiting teaching, full-time missions, weekly family home evenings, temple work, welfare and humanitarian service, and assignments to teach.
“Do you pay your people for all the work they do?” the man asked.
“Oh, no,” the couple explained. “They offer their time freely.”
“Also,” the couple continued, “every six months our Church members spend a weekend attending or watching 10 hours of general conference.”
“Ten hours of people giving talks?” the man wondered.
“What about your weekly church services? How long are they?”
“Three hours, every Sunday!”
“Oh, my,” the man said. “Do members of your church actually do what you have said?”
“That and more. We haven’t even mentioned family history, youth camps, devotionals, scripture study, leadership training, youth activities, early-morning seminary, maintaining Church buildings, and of course there is the Lord’s law of health, the monthly fast to help the poor, and tithing.”
The man said, “Now I’m confused. Why would anyone want to join such a church?”
The couple smiled and said, “We thought you would never ask.”

We didn’t see them, but we know that angels were with us on May 21, 2021. My husband was on his way home from work when he felt a strong impression to get home quickly. When he arrived at home, he sat with me on the porch where I was working on an online assignment. We had been talking for a few minutes when we heard a thumping noise. We ran to the bedroom where our 4-year-old daughter, Selena, had been playing on her bed next to the window, only to find that she was not there. Where was she? The screen was broken. She had fallen out of the window a long way to the ground! We found her under the house; my husband scooped her up in his arms and said that we needed to get her some water quickly. She was not crying until she saw how worried we were.
I took her and held her close to my chest, thanking God for saving her life. I was grateful that she was not even badly injured. I felt inspired to take her to the water faucet and get her wet, tap her body all over, massage her, and give her something to drink, which I did. When we brought her into the house and my husband gave her a priesthood blessing, I opened my eyes to see Selena with her eyes closed, reverently receiving her blessing.
A nurse came by to check her heart and oxygen levels, and they were good. After that, the doctor examined her and declared, “Mummy she is okay, God was watching over her.” The only injuries she received from her fall were a few scratches on her arm. I thank God for his blessings and for this miracle in Selena’s life. All the glory and honor be to His mighty name!

One of my first experiences in being restrained by the Spirit came soon after I was called as a counselor in a stake presidency in Chicago. In one of our first stake presidency meetings our stake president made a proposal that our new stake center be built in a particular location. I immediately saw four or five good reasons why that was the wrong location. When asked for my counsel, I opposed the proposal, giving each of those reasons. The stake president wisely proposed that each of us consider the matter prayerfully for a week and discuss it further in our next meeting. Almost perfunctorily I prayed about the subject and immediately received a strong impression that I was wrong, that I was standing in the way of the Lord’s will, and that I should remove myself from opposition to it. Needless to say, I was restrained and promptly gave my approval to the proposed construction. Incidentally, the wisdom of constructing the stake center at that location was soon evident, even to me. My reasons to the contrary turned out to be short-sighted, and I was soon grateful to have been restrained from relying on them.

I grew up on a cattle ranch in Montana, USA. We also had about 300 sheep on the ranch. My mother bought them as a way for us to earn money for our missions.
My job was to take care of the lambs that didn’t have a mother taking care of them. When a sheep has more than one baby, sometimes she doesn’t take care of all of the lambs. So those were the lambs I took care of. There were 5 to 10 of these lambs each year.
Every day, I would drive to the pasture in our small blue car, called a Volkswagen Beetle, and honk the horn. Then I opened the car doors. Those lambs would come from wherever they were in the field. They knew the sound of that old Volkswagen. They would jump in the back of the car, and I would drive them to the barn and feed them.
We are like those little lambs. We live in different places and have different challenges in our lives. But Jesus is reaching out to each of us. We can learn to hear His voice. We can turn to Him for comfort and security. We can feel loved by Him and Heavenly Father.
As I’ve looked toward Jesus as the Shepherd in my life, my life has changed. When we place our lives in the hands of the Savior, we will feel His love and learn to trust Him.

After I graduated from high school, I pondered the words of the Book of Mormon in Enos 1:15, “Whatsoever thing ye shall ask in faith, believing that ye shall receive in the name of Christ, ye shall receive it.” I called the temple to put my name on the temple prayer roll and continued to pray personally, asking my Heavenly Father to help me find a job that would allow me to save up money to pay for my mission and also to touch the hearts of my family members so that they could be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints before I left to start my mission.
My desire was to go on mission in 2017.
A few weeks later, Heavenly Father began to answer my prayer. In November 2016, I found a job. It was really difficult at first, but then it became easy. I saved up money to help my mother AND to pay for my mission.
In February 2017, I invited my family to our stake conference, and in April, my mother, one of my sisters, and two nephews were baptized into the Church. What a blessing: four members of my family baptized within a month!
In September 2017, I received my call to serve a two-year mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo Kinshasa Mission.
Through this experience, my testimony has grown. I know that our Heavenly Father loves all His children, He lives and knows us all individually, and He knows our desires. The Book of Mormon is the word of God—the name of Jesus Christ is quoted 558 times in it, which strengthens my belief that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Christ because I read it.

Alfred Nobel held his breath as a workman delicately lifted the glass bottle of nitroglycerin from its packing crate of wood shavings soaked in water. It was a cool morning, and he had to work fast before heat from the sun caused the temperature to rise above eighty degrees Fahrenheit.
The workman gently carried the bottle by the tips of his fingers. He could not clutch it in his hands because even his body heat would raise the temperature above the danger level. Nitroglycerin was the most powerful explosive known in 1860, and one bottle could destroy anything or anyone within a radius of one hundred feet.
Alfred Nobel was a Swedish chemist and engineer who traveled to the United States as a young man. What he saw there convinced him of the need for a safe and dependable explosive in that vast country that needed a great deal of work done—bridges built, tunnels cut, canals dug. Why, plans were already being made for one of the greatest construction projects of all time—a transcontinental railway system to connect California with the eastern states! To make that possible, a way would have to be carved through the great Rocky Mountains by the daily toil of human muscle power so that tracks could be laid. There must be a better way, Alfred decided.
Returning to Sweden, the young scientist eventually perfected nitroglycerin. He believed that a single explosion of nitroglycerin could do work that required days if men just dug with picks and shovels.
He went out on construction sites to make sure that the workmen handled the new explosive properly. On most occasions they did, but some were not as careful as they should have been. Each year a score of men were killed because they failed to follow the directions that Alfred Nobel, who manufactured the explosive, packed with each shipment.
As time went on, increasing numbers of workmen failed to handle it as directed. One man greased the axle of his wagon with it. Others threw unused amounts of it into the fire. Some simply did not understand nitroglycerin’s great power and stood too close when it exploded.
Soon people began pointing a finger at Nobel, blaming him for the deaths of careless workers. And in 1864 Nobel’s own factory exploded, killing his brother. Immediately production was suspended until Nobel had a floating laboratory built in the middle of a lake to prevent any unintentional explosion from injuring anyone but himself. Some substance that could be safely substituted for nitroglycerin had to be found.
In 1867, after nearly four years of experimentation, Nobel solved the problem. When nitroglycerin was absorbed by sticks of compressed diatomaceous earth (a porous material made of the skeletons of tiny one-celled sea animals), the result was a safe, dependable explosive.
He tested the sticks and was delighted to see that the explosive force remained but that the sticks were practically impossible to set off unintentionally. He called the new invention dynamite, from a Greek word meaning abundant power.
Nobel could hardly wait for his discovery to be put to use. It was safe, and it would save lives. Soon dynamite was being shipped all over the world.
In the United States the West was largely tamed by railroads that required large amounts of dynamite to clear the way for solid railbeds. Bridges, foundations for buildings, tunnels, mines, canals, and dams were all constructed with the help of this new and safer explosive.
But Nobel’s jubilation turned to horror when he learned that the new explosive was also being used by nations at war. He was heartsick. People began to think of him as a mad scientist who made his fortune by manufacturing death for warring nations. Newspapers called him a murderer.
Nobel became a millionaire, then a multimillionaire. But he was not seeking money, and above all else he dreaded to be remembered as a merchant of destruction.
Will my name be forever connected with death and war? he wondered.
In 1896 a saddened Nobel prepared a handwritten will that provided for the awarding of large cash prizes to humanitarians who worked toward peace and to people who made outstanding contributions in the fields of physics, chemistry, physiology or medicine, and literature. In 1969 an additional prize was established in the field of economic science.
Today, the world listens when the winners of the Nobel prizes are announced. It is a great honor for one who, as Nobel stated in his will, “during the preceding year, shall have conferred the greatest benefit on mankind.”
Some Nobel prizewinners have been: Wilhelm Roentgen in 1901 for the discovery of X rays; Theodore Roosevelt in 1906, the peace prize; Albert Schweitzer in 1952, the peace prize; Sir Winston Churchill in 1953 for literature; John Enders, Thomas Weller, and Frederick Robbins in 1954 for developing tissue culture for polio viruses; John Bardeen for his work with transistors. Marie Curie, who was awarded Nobel prizes in both physics and chemistry, was the first person to receive honors in more than one field.
Today few people remember Nobel as the inventor of dynamite. Instead, they eagerly await the announcement of Nobel prizewinners, especially the one for peace.

Part of self-assessment involves learning from experience. You might ask yourself, What have been the five best periods of my life? the five worst periods of my life? Then analyze that information. What are the common themes in the best periods and the worst periods? In this analysis you need to be careful that you don’t draw the wrong conclusions from your experience. For example, when I returned from my mission, an insurance agent came to see me and offered me a job selling insurance. He convinced me that having filled a mission I was prepared to be a good insurance salesman. I accepted the job and worked part-time for a year. To my surprise I did not like the work at all. When I thought back on my mission experience, I realized that I didn’t enjoy contacting people for the first time. I loved teaching them the gospel, but not the first contact. Unfortunately, the insurance job was all first contacts, and it was painful for me.

As you approach old age, you will face new challenges to self-mastery. Symptoms of the deteriorating body can be painful, even disabling. Deep aches of sadness are caused by the departing of loved ones. For some, these deepening trials come early in life. But when yours are thrust upon you, remember a concept expressed by my father some time after my mother had passed away. Your grandparents had been married for sixty-four years. When someone asked how he was doing, my father simply stated, “I’m lonely, but I’m not lonesome.” Do you know what he meant? Though he was now without his sweetheart, he was so busy assisting family and friends, he had replaced sorrow with service and had displaced self-pity with selfless love. He had found joy in following the timeless example of the Master.