Gospel Story Finder

As you know, the Brethren used to announce in general conference the names of those who had been called on missions. Not only was this the way friends and neighbors learned of the call, more often than not it was the way the missionary learned of it as well. One such prospect was Eli H. Peirce. A railroad man by trade, he had not been very faithful in Church meetings, “even had my inclinations led in that direction, which I frankly confess they did not,” he admitted. His mind had been given totally to what he demurely calls “temporalities.” He said he had never read more than a few pages of scripture in his life, that he had spoken to only one public gathering (an effort which he says “was no credit to himself” or those who heard him), and he used the vernacular of the railroad and bar room with a finesse born of long practice. He bought cigars wholesale—a thousand at a time—and he regularly lost his paycheck playing pool. Then this classic understatement:
“Nature never endowed me with a superabundance of religious sentiment or veneration; my region of spirituality [was] not high, but below the average.”

Well, the Lord knew what Eli Peirce was, and he knew something else. He knew what I’m pleading for today. He knew what Eli Peirce could become. When the call came that October 5, 1875, Eli wasn’t even in the Tabernacle. He was out working on one of the railroad lines. A fellow employee, once he recovered from the shock of it all, ran out to telegraph the startling news. Brother Peirce writes, “At the very moment this intelligence was being flashed over the wires, I was sitting lazily thrown back in an office rocking chair, my feet on the desk, reading a novel and simultaneously sucking an old Dutch pipe, … just to vary the monotony of cigar smoking.” (To my friends in the English department, I would just hasten to add that the novel reading was probably a more serious transgression than the pipe smoking.)
He goes on: “As soon as I had been informed of what had taken place, I threw the novel in the waste basket, the pipe in a corner and started up town to buy [scripture]. Have never read a novel nor smoked a pipe from that hour. Sent in my resignation … to take effect at once, in order that I might have time for study and preparation.”
Then these stirring words: “Remarkable as it may seem, and has since appeared to me, a thought of disregarding the call, or of refusing to comply with the requirement, never once entered my mind. The only question I asked myself a thousand times … was: ‘How can I accomplish this mission? How can I, who am so shamefully ignorant and untaught in doctrine, do honor to God and justice to the souls of men, and merit the trust reposed in me by the Priesthood?’”

With such genuine humility fostering resolution rather than defeating it, Eli Peirce fulfilled a remarkable mission. His journal could appropriately close on a completely renovated life with this one line: “Throughout our entire mission we were greatly blessed.” But I add one experience to make the point.
During the course of his missionary service, Brother Peirce was called in to administer to the infant child of a branch president whom he knew and loved. Unfortunately the wife of the branch president had become embittered and now seriously objected to any religious activity within the home, including a blessing for this dying child. With the mother refusing to leave the bedside and the child too ill to move, this humble branch president with his missionary friend retired to a small upper room in the house to pray for the baby’s life. The mother, suspecting just such an act, sent one of the older children to observe and report back.
There in that secluded chamber, the two men knelt and prayed fervently until, in Brother Peirce’s own words, “we felt that the child would live and knew that our prayers had been heard.” Arising from their knees, they turned slowly only to see the young girl standing in the partially open doorway gazing intently into the room. She seemed, however, quite oblivious to the movements of the two men. She stood entranced for some seconds, her eyes immovable.
Then she said, “Papa, who was that … man in there?”
Her father said, “Brother Peirce.”
“No,” she said matter-of-factly, “I mean that other man.”
“There was no other, darling, except Brother Peirce and myself; we were praying for baby.”
“Oh, yes, there was;” the child insisted, “I saw him standing [above] you and Brother Pierce and he was all dressed in white.”

Now if God in his heavens will do that for a repentant, old, cigar-smoking, inactive, stern, swearing pool player, don’t you think he’ll do it for you? He will if your resolve is as deep and permanent as Eli Peirce’s. In this Church we ask for faith, not infallibility. (Eliza R. Snow, Biography and Family Record of Lorenzo Snow, 1884, pp. 407–13.)

It began as an ordinary day, but by second period I felt as if my entire life were coming apart at the seams. I didn’t get a role in the school play, it seemed like all my friends were avoiding me like the plague, I felt incompetent in almost all of my classes, and I felt inferior to everyone I came in contact with.
I had no excuse to feel this way. I knew I was blessed with a happy family, a nice home, plenty of friends, and many talents. I have never been insulted or brutally teased; why should I feel so bad about myself now? I’d had other roles in school plays … why should this one matter? But for some reason, it did matter, and my head and shoulders slumped lower and lower as the day dragged on. Between classes, I wrote in my diary.
“I feel of so little worth. It’s one of those days when you turn to people for sympathy, and they don’t seem to care. They almost just shrug as if to say, ‘You deserved it’ or ‘I have better things to care about.’”
By fifth period, I was still trying to pull myself together. I tried to remember a scripture that would help me, but it didn’t work.
At the close of fifth period, I finally decided that I would be polite and friendly to everyone I saw. Just as I was about to leave the room, a girl entered with a sunny smile that I remembered from seminary that morning. Michaela had given a devotional in seminary about pulling through the rough times and the storms of life. She handed out treats: peppermint marshmallows. I mentioned the devotional to her, and how interesting I thought the homemade marshmallows were. She smiled and pulled a spare set of treats and a paper with a quote from her book bag, handing them to me. Her smile alone brightened my day, but it went far beyond that.
As I walked down the hallway, reading the handout, I had trouble catching my breath. On that small sheet of paper was the scripture I had tried so earnestly to remember.
“Peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment” (D&C 121:7).
There was also this thought: “Remember that no matter what you are going through, there will always be someone there for you!”
Tears sprang to my eyes. Those simple words brought me comfort and taught me something new. Logically, doctrinally, I suppose I’d always known that God loved and cared for me, but this time I felt it personally.
My heart felt full. I knew that He really does love me, and He wants me to be happy. Even though nothing was really and truly wrong, He still cared, and I could bring my problems to Him—great or small.

We were newlyweds. Our marriage covenants, solemnized in the Los Angeles Temple, were not a year and a half old. But we came here neither as honeymooners nor as students. I was an Army officer—a lieutenant of infantry. Having only just completed the Army’s Ranger course, I was assigned as a rifle platoon leader in an infantry battalion of the 25th Infantry Division, stationed at Schofield Barracks. We had rented a small duplex apartment on the beach, literally, on the beach, at Waialua.

How wrong we were. My anticipated “three years in Eden” turned out to be much shorter, a charming prelude to a tour of duty in the Inferno. Our battalion shipped out to Vietnam six months after our arrival and my sweetheart was left here by herself. Our dream was shattered, our future fraught with uncertainty. Ten months after that departure I was returned here to Tripler Army Hospital for surgery and convalescence for wounds received in combat. What had begun as a tour of duty in “paradise” became one of the most trying seasons of our lives.

But if it was trying, it was also defining. As I wander my hall of memories today, and when I think of the dark shadows through which we passed in that challenging season of our lives, it is not the beach and the palm trees that come first to mind. It is not the “picture postcard” Hawaii that we thought we would experience when we stepped off the ship a near half-century ago.

Rather, it is the Koolau Mountains, those rugged, volcanic green peaks that run down the spine of Oahu and that are situated a stone’s throw behind this campus, that come to mind. Those steep ridgelines were to become for me a training ground that has profoundly influenced my entire life. It is an experience in the Koolaus that captures the message I wish to leave with you. I have entitled this address, The Parable of the Foxholes.

In October of that year, 1965, just a few months after our arrival, our battalion received a new commander, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas U. Greer– “Tug” Greer, as his peers called him. Tug Greer was a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, Class of 1951. In 1951, the Korean War was raging. Most of the West Point class that year was assigned immediately to the combat zone. Many of Tug Greer’s classmates died on the rugged slopes of that land. But Tug had survived and remained in the Army. And now, 14 years later, he was assigned to command our battalion.

No sooner did he assume command, than Col. Greer took the battalion on a week-long training exercise in the Kahuku Training Area at the northern end of the Koolau Mountains. The Army still maintains a training area there. As many of you know, the Koolaus are made up of steep slopes of volcanic rock with little topsoil and covered with thick, green vegetation. For five days, we struggled up and down those slopes in one infantry maneuver after another. Finally, it was Saturday morning, the last day of the exercise. All of us looked forward to returning early to our battalion headquarters, turning in our equipment and hitting the beach. After all, we were young, and what was the point of being stationed here in Hawaii if you could not go to the beach! You know what I mean! I remember gazing down early that morning from my perch on the side of one of those steep ridgelines at the shimmering sand and sparkling ocean. Below me I could see green pasture land with cows peacefully grazing. Beyond the pasture ran the black ribbon of Kam Highway that circles the island. And beyond the highway lay the white sands of the beach and the ocean gleaming like a sapphire. I could hardly wait!

About that time, my reverie was interrupted as Col. Greer came to our rifle company’s position. To our company commander, Captain Jim Andrus, he said, “As the last exercise of this training, I would like Charlie Company, that was us– “C” Company, to establish defensive positions.” Now, among other things, establishing defensive positions meant digging foxholes. You know what a foxhole is. It is a hole in the ground where a soldier can seek shelter from enemy fire. But this was volcanic rock! And we were only equipped with those little folding shovels which the Army calls “entrenching tools.” So, as Capt. Andrus gathered us platoon leaders around to give us the orders for establishing defensive positions, he said, “Since we want to get this over with quickly, we won’t actually dig foxholes. Instead, we will simply do ‘simulated foxholes’– we will just mark out on the ground where we would put the foxholes.”

So, that is what we did. A little while later, Col. Greer came around to inspect our “defensive positions.” I remember it like it was yesterday! As he came to the first of these “simulated foxholes,” he asked Capt. Andrus, “What are those?” Clearing his throat a little nervously, Capt. Andrus responded, “Well, sir, those are simulated foxholes.” “ Simulated foxholes!!” roared Col. Greer, and then he said a few other things. “I ordered this company to prepare defensive positions, and that means digging foxholes! This company is going to stay out here and dig until it learns how to dig foxholes that look like they came out of the training manual!” And so, as the rest of the battalion packed up weapons and equipment and headed back to the base and an afternoon at the beach, Charlie Company remained out on that hillside. And we dug, and we dug, and we dug. Col. Greer’s name was on everyone’s lips that afternoon, and I can tell you that he was not winning any popularity contests that day! I seem to recall that there was even some speculation on his genealogy! But by evening, we had foxholes that really looked just like they came out of the training manual.

However, you see, there was something that we did not know that beautiful Hawaiian Saturday. When Col. Greer had been given his orders assigning him as our battalion commander, he had also received some other orders that he could not share with us– top secret orders, orders sending our battalion to Vietnam. We did not know it at the time, but this would be our last training exercise. And Col. Tug Greer, with his vivid memories of his fallen classmates on the rugged hillsides of Korea was determined to do all that he could to preserve the lives of those men entrusted to his care. That training exercise up into the rugged Koolaus was the moment, the final moment, for polishing those combat skills that could save our lives—even including something as pedestrian as digging a proper foxhole. Vietnam would be too late.

A few weeks later the battalion deployed to Vietnam. Upon arrival, it reached the spot in the division’s defensive perimeter assigned to us late in an afternoon. Col. Greer’s order again went out: “Establish defensive positions.” Our men dug in because that is what you did in Tug Greer’s battalion. Another battalion next to ours, arriving at the same time, only scooped out some shallow cavities in the ground, not unlike our Hawaiian “simulated foxholes,” planning to dig real foxholes the next day. But that night, the Viet Cong enemy launched a ferocious mortar barrage into the green troops. Our men were safe and secure in their foxholes, but the men of that neighboring battalion were not so fortunate. The next morning Tug Greer’s name was again on everyone’s lips—but this time with reverence and respect. I still regard him as one of the great men I have known. From him I learned one of life’s most powerful lessons: There is indeed a “time for every purpose under heaven”—even a time to learn to dig a foxhole. Thus, is the Parable of the Foxholes.

May I offer counsel of a general nature, first with comments about General Authorities. We recognize them as instruments in the hand of the Lord, yet realize that they are ordinary human beings. They require haircuts, laundry services, and occasional reminders just like anyone else. President Benson once shared with us a story to illustrate. He said:
“Orson F. Whitney … was a great man to concentrate. One day when he was traveling by train, he was so preoccupied that he did not notice the train pass the station where he was to get off. So he had to [be driven] back to where he should have been. Meanwhile the stake president waited and waited. … Finally when he decided that something had more than likely happened to Brother Whitney and he was not going to make it, they commenced the meeting. As Elder Whitney approached, he was greeted by the opening hymn, which was ‘Ye Simple Souls Who Stray.’”
We honor such a man because of his extraordinary calling. His official acts are valid on earth and in heaven. Well do I remember the first time I met one of the General Authorities. It was a feeling beyond description. Though I was but a boy, immediately—almost instinctively—I rose to my feet. Even now I feel that same way when one of the Brethren enters the room. A General Authority is an oracle of God.

Robert Gardner Jr. was baptized into the Church in January of 1845 in a frozen pond in the backwoods of eastern Canada. Faithful and industrious, he made his way with his family to Nauvoo and, after much hardship, arrived in the Salt Lake Valley in October of 1847. After entering the valley, they camped at a place called Old Fort, located a few blocks from this Conference Center. In his handwritten history, he recorded, “I unyoked my oxen and sat down on my broken wagon tongue, and said I could not go another day’s journey” (“Robert Gardner Jr. Self History and Journal,” Church History Library, Salt Lake City, Utah, 23).
Starting with nothing, Robert began to create a new life for himself and his family. The first years were hard, but gradually things improved as he and his brother Archibald began to develop mills on Mill Creek and the Jordan River. A few years later he suffered a reversal of fortune. The water powering his mill was taken upstream, leaving his portion of the stream dry. An attempt to build a six-mile (10-km) canal to the mill failed.
Again from his history: “The canal kept breaking until it proved a failure. The failure caused me to lose all my crops and my mill would not run. My stock was all gone and I was flat broke” (“Robert Gardner Jr. Self History and Journal,” 26).
If that was not test enough, his next entry in his history informs us he has been called on a mission to Canada. A few months later he left his family and with a contingent of missionaries traveled by handcart, steamboat, and railroad to his field of labor.
He completed this mission, returned to his family, and through hard work and diligence once again established himself and began to prosper.
Just a few years later Brother Gardner was entertaining some friends at his farm in Millcreek in the Salt Lake Valley. One remarked, “I am glad to see you so well recovered from being broke. You are nearly as well off as you were before you lost your property and went on your mission.”
Robert’s history records: “My reply was; ‘Yes I was well off once and it all went off, and I am almost afraid of another [mission] call.’ Sure enough, a few hours later some of my neighbors, who had been to a meeting in Salt Lake City called in and told me that my name was amongst a number of names who were called today to go south on a mission to make a new settlement and raise cotton. We were to start right away.”
He records, “I looked and spit, took off my hat and scratched [my head] and thought and said; ‘All right’” (“Robert Gardner Jr. Self History and Journal,” 35; emphasis added).
Robert Gardner knew what it meant to deal with change in his life. He followed the counsel of the Brethren, accepting calls to serve when it was not convenient. He had a great love for the Lord and demonstrated strong, unbending faith with amazing good humor and grace. Robert Gardner Jr. went on to become a leading pioneer in the colonization effort of southern Utah. It is he and countless pioneers like him who give us inspiration to carry on and confront fearlessly the many changes and challenges which come into our lives. As we move forward and “get on with our lives,” may we be obedient, faithful, and cheerful is my prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Elder Jairo Mazzagardi knows what it means to make sacrifices in the service of the Lord. In 1990, Elder Mazzagardi received a phone call from President Thomas S. Monson, then a counselor in the First Presidency, who called him to preside over the Salvador Brazil Mission.
“I never dreamed that I would be a mission president,” Elder Mazzagardi says. “I had been a stake president less than five years. Things were busy—and good—with our business. Accepting this call would mean leaving everything behind.”
At the end of the phone call, President Monson offered Elder Mazzagardi time to consider the calling. But Elder Mazzagardi and his wife had decided years earlier that their lives would be consecrated to the Lord, so he accepted the call on the spot. “Whatever the Lord needs of us, we’re ready to go,” he says.

As a single student bishop, I had the opportunity to help some of my ward members remember their desire to be counted in on the redeeming power of the Atonement. They would come in to see me with what seemed to be a backpack full of burdens resulting from prior sins and transgressions. The burdens they carried weighed down their spirits and correspondingly their studies, their social life, their activity in the Church, their work, and their self-confidence such that they were neither receiving the redeeming power of the Atonement nor the enablingpower of the Atonement. However, through humility, pure repentance, faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and good old-fashioned hard work, the power of the Atonement healed them, and the Spirit returned. I felt so blessed to be able to witness the miracle of forgiveness in their lives.

Running was one of my favorite activities when I was young. I was on the track and field team, and my specialty was the 800-meter dash. That meant I ran two laps around the track.
My dream was to be in the Olympics. My trainer had been an Olympic athlete. He thought I was talented enough to go to the Olympics if I practiced hard.
I practiced a lot and ran in many races. When I was 15, I was the second-place champion for my category in the whole country of Argentina. I hoped that if I continued working, perhaps I could go to the Olympics.
But there was a problem. Often our races were on Sunday. Soon I realized that I could not continue competing. So I chose to stop running.
The choice was hard. I had to give up my dream of being in the Olympics. My trainer didn’t understand why I stopped. But I knew I had made a good decision. Even though sports are a good thing, choosing to follow the Lord and His Church is better.

Rebeccah Davis, 15, has also learned keeping your word is one of the most important parts of a job. She is working after school, baby-sitting. Her commitment to her employer has meant no school sports, fewer get-togethers with friends, and less time for herself.
“The lady I work for counts on me. Since I agreed to do it I need to be dedicated,” says Rebeccah. And because of that dedication, she’s noticed improvements in herself.
“At first I was one of those baby-sitters who sat and watched TV and let the kids do whatever they wanted. But then I started to care for the kids, and I have become a more responsible person. I play with them, take care of them.”

Growing up on a ranch in southern Utah taught me a lot about working with animals and how dangerous they can be. We ran a herd of Hereford cows, including several bulls. I truly enjoyed working the cattle from the back of a horse and generally living a ranch life.
My family was active in the Church, and when we were living on the ranch, we always made the 30-mile trip on a gravel road to town for Sunday meetings. My parents taught me to pray, and throughout my life prayer has helped me through some difficult circumstances.
One day I learned to respond to the promptings of the Spirit quickly, and I believe it saved my life. At least it kept me from serious injury.
I was 14, and I was working not far away from the ranch house one summer day. I finished my work and was headed back through the corral that was enclosed by a very solid pole fence made of juniper posts and poles. Inside the corral was a herd of about 30 range cows, including our prime Hereford bull, Charlie, who weighed 2,000 pounds or more. My dad liked to have what he called “ton bulls,” and that certainly described Charlie.
I was walking along the pole fence, and Charlie was in my way, so I smacked him on his hip with my hand, and he scampered out of the way. I continued on past Charlie a few feet, with my back to him, when I heard what sounded like cows scuffling. I had heard that scuffling sound often and would have thought nothing of it, but something else went through my mind.
Quicker than I could even think about it, I knew I had to leap for my life. I lunged for the top pole of the fence, grabbed it, and yanked myself headfirst over onto the rocks and weeds on the other side. As I was about halfway across I had time to wonder if I had overreacted. I briefly even felt a bit embarrassed. Upon landing, I immediately looked back through the bottom poles to see what had happened, and there was Charlie’s massive head and horns, his nose about six inches from mine, staring at me through the fence with those empty, black eyes. It came to me forcefully that if I had questioned that instantaneous prompting for even the briefest moment, Charlie would have crushed me against the fence.
I learned two things from that experience. First was to never be on foot around a range herd. They don’t know you’re the boss unless you’re on a horse. Second, listen to the promptings of the Spirit without question—without hesitation. Satan is the one who tells you that you are overreacting. Living worthily (keeping the commandments, saying daily prayers, attending church, studying the scriptures) helped qualify me for spiritual gifts, especially a lightning-fast prompting to leap for my life.
I have not yet finished thanking my Heavenly Father for that blessing even though it’s been more than 50 years.

The youngest elephant, the one called Mija, was missing. Choon’s father told him about it while they ate their breakfast.
“Late last night Mija pulled up the stake that holds her tie-chain and wandered away. Into the forest, no doubt.”
Choon stared at his father in dismay. He knew that elephants could move on their huge feet without making noise. “But her bell!” he cried. “Did no one hear it tok-tok?”
“All the elephants wear wooden bells that tok when they move in the night,” his father gently reminded him. “This is a sound we are used to.” There was worry in his eyes. He was the foreman of the lumber camp, and an elephant, even a young one, was valuable and must not be lost.
Choon’s own heart was troubled. Mija was his playmate. Because she was not yet old enough or big enough to work at carrying logs, she had plenty of time to walk with him in the forest. There they listened to the jabbering of the monkeys and watched little birds dart among the trees. They waded together in the river. With her trunk, Mija would squirt water over her back and shoulders. Swoosh! She would squirt water on Choon, also, while Choon ducked and laughed and shouted and splashed water back.
Now as his father made ready to search for Mija, Choon said, “I know the forest. I will go with you.”
His father answered firmly, “No, Son. Runaway elephants often become frightened. Then they are dangerous. Besides, who would carry food to the workers at noontime?”
This was Choon’s job, the boy well knew. Sighing a little, he trotted after his father through the door of their small house and across the clearing to the edge of the teak forest, where the elephants stayed at night. There were more than twenty of them—great, strong, wise creatures that did tasks too heavy for other animals or men.
Choon’s father patted the leathery trunk of his own elephant and spoke softly, “Ah, Mem Chang, fine one! This morning we go on a very important mission.”
Mem Chang gave a shrill squeal of welcome. Lowering her head, she wrapped her trunk around the man and lifted him onto her flat, broad forehead. Choon’s father didn’t use a pointed goad stick. Instead, he tucked a brown foot behind each ear and pushed against one or the other to tell Mem Chang which direction to take. Choon watched as the elephant shuffled down the forest trail. Her feet, as big as cooking pots, made scarcely a sound.
Soon there was noise from another direction. The elephant riders were coming to work. They shouted to one another and to Choon. “Sawaddii (hello)!”
Mahouts (elephant masters) these men were called. They wore white turbans on their heads. Tied around their waists were bright-colored panungs (long cloths).
At one of the mahout’s command, his elephant dropped to the ground and pushed its long ivory tusks beneath a teak log. Wrapping its trunk around the log to secure it, the animal rose slowly and carried it to the river. The log would float downstream to a mill, where it would be cut into boards. Teak logs from Thailand were strong and much sought after, Choon’s father had told him. They were used all over the world for making furniture and fine carvings.
Someday, when I am older, maybe I can be a mahout, Choon thought wistfully. He would willingly scrub his elephant clean with coconut husks. He would polish its long ivory tusks and whisper in its ear and sing to it. Choon knew that an elephant must love and trust its rider, or it would do little work and cause much trouble.
“And there will be trouble if I stand here daydreaming,” Choon scolded himself. The sun was climbing higher and higher. When it reached the top of the sky, the men and their animals would stop to rest. And they would be hungry.
Choon ran back to the house. Hanging from the pole outside the door was a great stalk of bananas that his father had brought from a nearby grove. Choon began to pull ripe golden fruit from the thick stalk. “Nueng, song, sahm! Si, hah, hok …” He counted rhythmically as he placed the bananas one by one into a net bag.
All at once he stopped counting. Had his ears really heard a tok-tok? Then he heard another sound, a kind of rattle. Choon gasped. “It is an elephant’s tie-chain.”
His heart beat fast. As the sounds came closer, he made himself turn slowly—until he was looking into the small eyes of a young elephant. “Mija!”
At the sound of her name, Mija’s big ears fanned the air. She shuffled, rattling the tie-chain that was still around one foot. A shiver of fear ran up Choon’s spine and down again. Mija was a runaway. Was she frightened and dangerous now?
Mija grunted and struck the ground with her trunk. Choon laughed out loud with relief. He knew what this meant. “Of course, Mija. You are hungry.”
Quickly he reached into the net bag and picked out an especially fine banana. Mija took it with her trunk and popped it into her pointed mouth. Choon gave her another, and another. The elephant ate eagerly. Then she wrapped her trunk, like an arm, around his shoulders and gently nuzzled his cheek. Choon, in turn, fondly rubbed her trunk.
They were still standing there when his father rode up on Mem Chang. “Choon!” he exclaimed. “You have found Mija!”
“No!” Choon laughed. “Mija found me!” Then he told about hearing Mija’s bell and tie-chain. “I was afraid,” he said truthfully. “But Mija wasn’t dangerous. She was only hungry—and lonesome, I think.”
“You have been a kind friend to Mija.” Choon’s father looked pleased and thoughtful. “When Mija is old enough to carry logs, she will need a mahout—someone she loves and trusts. I think, Choon,” said his father, “that Mija will want you to be her rider.”
Choon’s heart leaped for joy. “Mija! Oh, Mija, did you hear?”
Mija heard the happiness in Choon’s voice. She lifted her trunk and whistled—a squealing, singing, little whistle of pleasure.

While a lot of good things were happening in his life at Dixie, like joining the Church and being named the National Junior College Player of the Year in 1991, some hard things were happening. Kalin’s father, whom he never knew well, died. Then three months later his mother passed away from cancer. It shook Kalin. “During her worst time, I wasn’t there to comfort her. It helped out an awful lot that I knew I would see her again, but it was still very hard. Both my parents are gone, and I don’t have any blood brothers or sisters. I’m the last of my immediate family.”
During this time, Kalin was adopted by Wendell and Joyce Donahoo. He met the family while playing with their son Kelly in high school. “They have been great to me,” says Kalin. “They are a great family.”

There it was, rising above the desert like a huge mound of bread dough, but instead of being soft, it was solid rock. The Young Women of the Alice Springs Branch in the Australia Adelaide Mission meant to climb to the top of this natural marvel.
The rock, known as Ayers Rock, is located southwest of Alice Springs. It is one of the world’s largest monoliths because it was formed from one huge, unfractured piece of rock. The steep climb, about two kilometers, was not an easy task, but most of the young women and their leaders made it to the top to see the beautiful view.
The three-day trip also included a hike through the Olgas, a cluster of round-topped mountains near Ayers Rock. The group traveled in all-terrain vehicles because of the rough desert country. The highlight was the testimony meeting held at the base of one of the Olgas as the sun went down.
“We had great fun. The view from Ayers Rock was worth the scary climb.” Joanne Thompson, 17
“We had a testimony meeting at sunset at the Olgas which was really special. It makes you appreciate how beautiful God’s creations are.” Rebecca Clement, 16

I must tell you that feeling the Spirit and hearing the voice of the Spirit are two separate things. I could feel the Spirit way before I could start to discern from time to time what I was being told. In fact, I was in my early twenties when I had a very serious life decision to make and I had prayed and fasted a number of times and was not getting anywhere and not getting any kind of clear instruction. Finally I called a dear friend of mine and asked if he would consent to give me a Priesthood blessing; he was very generous to do so.

Before the blessing he said, “Well Sheri, you have been praying. What does the Lord tell you?” I said, “I can’t tell! I can’t tell. I can’t tell if I am making stuff up in my head or if I am receiving direction.” He replied, “Well do you know what it feels like to feel the Spirit?” I said, “Yes, I know what the Spirit feels like, but I do not know what it sounds like.” He said, “Well, have you ever asked the Lord to teach you?” I said, “Teach me what?” He said, “Teach you what it sounds like and feels like for you when our Father is trying to communicate with you through the Holy Ghost.” I said, “Well no, I have never asked that.” He replied, “Why don’t you start asking that?” That was more than thirty years ago, and I began that very night to get on my knees and ask the Lord, ask my Father, if He would teach me what it sounds like and what it feels like for me.

“I remember that story of Nephi,” Brother Grossenheider said in his raspy old voice. “I was a deacon once, you know. But I was 16 or 17 years old. I didn’t know they sent young bucks like yourselves to do this kind of work.” He squinted at the sky. “I haven’t been to church in 60 years. But I remember doing fast offerings a few times when I was a deacon.”
He paused. “I’d forgotten all about that.” He turned the envelope over and over in his hands and examined it. “That used to be an important job, fast offerings. The bishop took us around in a wagon, and we loaded that wagon with eggs and tomatoes and carrots and meat, sometimes a chicken or two. And we drove right over to the people who needed it and gave it to them. They surely were glad to get it. Nineteen thirty-six, it was. Lots of people out of work. The Depression, you know.”
He looked keenly at us over his glasses. “No, I guess you don’t. But it was an important job back then. I suspect there’s still people in need, eh.” He looked at us sharply. “You boys look mighty young to be doing important business like this.”
We didn’t answer.
He shook the envelope at us again. “Can’t fit a chicken in here. How does this work?”
Reggie and I exchanged glances. “You just put some money in it,” I said and shrugged again. “Whatever you can afford.”
“Yep,” Reggie said and put his hands in his pockets. “And then the bishop takes care of it from there.”
The old man nodded and thought for a moment. “So I’m Laban, eh?” he said and squinted his eyes at us.
We looked at the ground, embarrassed, and adjusted our feet.
He took a dollar bill from his pocket. “I don’t have much,” he said and slid the dollar into the envelope. Then he stood and slowly walked to us with the envelope, his cane supporting his left side.
“You’ll be back next month?” Brother Grossenheider asked, handing me the envelope.
“Yes, sir, we will,” I said.
He worked his way up the porch steps with his cane, groaning as his legs lifted his body to each level. At the top he turned around and paused as his hard breathing settled to a quieter mode. “You boys close that gate when you leave, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and we did.
When we got to the street, Reggie said, “You know, I was thinking how the quorum needs a service project. Maybe next month we could ask Brother Grossenheider about helping with his yard. What do you think?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go tell Brother Baron.” I turned and ran. “Last one there is a rotten egg!”

Kevin and Brandon had also made a firm commitment to keep the Sabbath day holy. For them, that meant no practices or games on Sunday. “No exceptions,” Kevin says. This particular decision was tested regularly. But they never faltered.

“Like most sports, lacrosse has a lot of tournaments on Sunday,” Kevin explains. “I’ve missed countless tournaments.”

Brandon and Kevin helped each other keep that resolve. “Once we made the decision, it was simple,” Kevin explains. Over the years, coaches and teammates have grown to respect the brothers’ commitment. Sometimes their team had to play without one or two of its star players, but Brandon and Kevin know where their priorities lie. “We really do believe in the commandments,” says Kevin.

I used to have a hard time reading, and I was really self-conscious about it. I wouldn’t read in class because it was hard for me to sound out some of the words, and I was afraid to read out loud because the kids in school would tease me because I couldn’t understand what I was reading. It was hard for me to make friends, too, because my family moved around a lot. Then my family moved to Oregon, USA.
One of my new neighbors quickly became one of my best friends. He encouraged me to go to church. The guys there didn’t tease me like the kids in school did. They took it upon themselves during church to help me read the scriptures. They spent the time to help me learn to read the words I couldn’t sound out. Slowly, they gave me the courage to read out loud. From that day on I would read even if it would take half the class time for me to read what the teacher asked me to read.
I was blessed with these great guys who took me under their wings. They didn’t have to do this for me, and they could’ve stayed silent, but following the Spirit, they made a choice to help me and made a difference in my life. We too can make a difference in others’ lives; we just have to be willing to listen to the Spirit to guide us to those people who are in need of help.

I am Brother Bassa N’Da Germain Eby, from Cote d’Ivoire, Anonkoua Stake, Avocatier Ward. I served in the Liberia Monrovia Mission, and returned home in March of this year. Before going on my mission, I graduated from the university in accounting and finance. I had worked in a company for eight months. Life after my mission was like a puzzle as I did not know what to do.
I met with my bishop and explained my circumstances to him. He counseled me to meet with the WSRS manager. My encounter with him was a new dawn in my life. He introduced me to the WSRS tools. Following that, I participated in an orientation for returned missionaries. That was an eye-opener, because I was able to set goals and to identify resources that I could use to achieve them. I also attended an accelerated job search training. I regularly received one-on-one coaching from the WSRS manager. He helped me to develop a very good resume.
My job search effort yielded results when a company I contacted, Perfect Communication, gave me an offer as a trainee. I devoted myself to the training so much that after a month I was given a full-time appointment. Just about the same time, I got a better offer from another company including opportunities for career growth. I chose the latter. I have been working with Olam International, a rubber factory, since July.
It is indeed a blessing to secure a job in these difficult times when companies are downsizing because of the COVID-19 pandemic. I am grateful to the Lord for His providence. I owe the WSRS manager loads of gratitude for his support. I am still learning from life’s experiences and I know I have embarked on the journey to become self-reliant. I encourage every returned missionary to participate in the WSRS group meetings. They will open the door of opportunity to them.
I know that God lives. He loves us. We are His children. He cares for our growth, so He always prepares the way for us to obtain every needful thing to be happy.

My heart jumped as I read the poster: “Handel’s Messiah performed by the Swansea Orchestra and Welsh Choir.”
I had been on my mission in Swansea, Wales, for six months and felt the longing that often comes to new missionaries during the Christmas season. We had many family traditions during the holidays, but my favorite was going to hear Handel’s Messiah. My mother had played the organ for many such performances. I would sit, listen, and feel the music.
With permission from the mission president, I purchased tickets for the missionaries in our area. The night of the performance, our group bundled up against the cold and walked to the concert hall. I silently prayed that we would all feel the sacredness of the inspiring music.
When we arrived, I realized that we were late and that the performance had already started. We weren’t going to be allowed inside until intermission! As I listened to the music through the doors, I could not hold back the tears.
An usher must have noticed my desperation and decided to let us in. He told us to stand in the back until the intermission so that we didn’t interrupt the singing. He slowly opened the doors, and we all quietly stepped inside.
Walking into the hall was like walking into heaven. The feeling of peace and joy overwhelmed me. It wasn’t long, however, before we noticed people turning their heads, pointing and staring at us. All of us had entered quietly and didn’t know what we had done to bring attention to ourselves. As soon as the intermission began, we found our seats.
When the oratorio resumed, the music filled my soul. I wept during the “Hallelujah Chorus,” and when the soprano sang “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.” The missionaries beside me also felt the power of the music and grabbed their handkerchiefs. The experience was something we would always remember. But it wasn’t until the performance had ended that the truly memorable moment came.
As we were leaving the building, people were still whispering and pointing, but no one said anything until we were outside. A man then approached us, saying, “It was you! It was you!”
We all waited for an explanation.
“During the first part of the performance, we felt a change in the room—a strong feeling that Christ was there,” the man said. “So we turned to see what had caused the change. When we looked to the back of the auditorium, we saw seven figures glowing as if they were angels. When you came into the room, you brought the Holy Ghost. You were there to represent Christ; you were the angels.”
As he spoke, I looked down at my missionary name tag and read the bold lettering under my name: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” How humbled I was at that moment to be a representative of the Messiah and to have silently testified of Him that night before thousands of people.

On Christmas Eve 37 years ago, in the light of a full moon, I climbed a small hill in the isolated village of Quiriza, Bolivia. Four young elders and I had spent the day crossing over a mountain pass on a treacherous road. Then we struggled up a riverbed to see if the teachings of the Savior would help a destitute people. What we saw that day was discouraging—undernourished children, adults subsisting on meager crops, some with eyes glazed from seeking refuge in alcohol and drugs. I looked at the tiny, barren village below—a cluster of adobe, thatched-roof houses beaten by the harsh environment. The only evidence of life was barking dogs searching for food. There was no electricity, telephone, running water, roads, proper sanitation, nor doctors there. It seemed so hopeless. Yet a solemn prayer confirmed that we should be there. We found a humble people who embraced the restored gospel with determination to live it. They did that under harsh conditions where severe poverty, alcohol, drugs, witchcraft, and immorality were in plentiful supply.

Under the guidance of exceptional missionaries, the people learned to work hard to cultivate the fields. They produced a harvest of nutritious vegetables and raised rabbits for better protein. But the best lessons came from beloved missionaries who taught them of a God who loved them, of a Savior who gave His life that they might succeed. Their physical appearance began to change. The light of truth radiated from their happy faces. As devoted, loving emissaries of the Lord, missionaries patiently taught truth to a willing people. Wives and husbands learned how to live in harmony, teach truth to their children, pray, and sense the guidance of the Spirit.

I watched a six-year-old boy who had carefully observed our first baptismal service act out with his younger sister what he had seen. He carefully arranged her hands, raised his tiny arm to the square, mumbled words, gently lowered her into a depression in the sun-baked earth, led her to a rock where he confirmed her, then shook her hand. The youth learned most quickly. They became obedient to the light of truth taught by the missionaries and in time by their own parents. Through their faith and obedience, I have seen how in one generation, youth baptized in that village have overcome a seemingly hopeless future. Some have been missionaries, graduated from universities, and been sealed in the temple. Through their diligence and obedience, they have found purpose and success in life despite an early harsh physical and evil-saturated environment. If it can be done in Quiriza, Bolivia, it can be done anywhere.