Gospel Story Finder

I have a dear friend named Thabiso Sehloho, whom I have known for over 15 years now, and from whom I have learned a great deal watching him go through life. He joined the Church at 18 years, having been brought up by a single mother. As a young man he showed great promise as a soccer player and even represented his country at the under-20 level and had a great future ahead of him. Initially, he battled with the idea of going away to serve a mission for two years, but as his testimony strengthened, he knew what he needed to do.

When the time came, he left a promising football career to serve a mission; returned home and found himself a faithful wife and started his work life. Many of his friends had views on the order in which he should have done things. He, however, walked in faith ignoring the many worldly voices but instead he put his trust in his Father in Heaven. Years later he would go on to complete his university education after having served in different leadership assignments where he was able to touch so many lives.

He has touched my life just because of his simple faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. He has learnt to block out the many voices that sometimes so easily get us distracted. This could be in the form of social media, news outlets, and just being preoccupied with so many things that we find ourselves having to deal with. In faith he seems to have mastered the Lord’s admonition, “Be still and know that I am God” (D&C 101:16).

Illustrations by Garth Bruner
The cast was blue. Amy had seen a cast on Lee’s arm at school, but she had never seen a cast on an elderly man’s arm. Just before stake conference started, Amy leaned forward and asked the man in the next row what happened to his arm.
The man smiled and turned around. “I have a sore muscle,” he said.
“Ouch,” said Amy. “My name’s Amy. What’s yours?”
“I’m Charlie Young,” he said and used his other hand to shake her hand. “And this is my wife, Nancy.”
Amy sat back in her seat. She knew Mom had brought paper and crayons in her bag, so Amy got them out and colored three pictures for Brother Young to make him feel better.
“Your pictures are beautiful,” Nancy said when Amy gave them to Brother Young.
“I think I feel a little better already!” Brother Young said.
In her prayers that night, Amy prayed that Brother Young’s arm would get better.
Six months later it was time for stake conference again. In the chapel Amy looked all around for Brother and Sister Young.
“There they are!” Mom said, pointing across the room. “Let’s go sit by them.”
“How’s your arm?” Amy asked Brother Young once they sat down.
“All better.” Brother Young held up his arm for her to see. No cast. “I put your pictures on my refrigerator. They helped me feel better. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Amy said.
Mom nodded and leaned forward. “Brother and Sister Young, we’d like it if you could come to Amy’s birthday party in a few weeks.”
“How old are you?” Brother Young asked.
“I’m turning eight. How old are you?” Amy asked.
“I’m 83. Say, if you’re turning eight, does that mean you’re getting baptized soon?”
“Yes!” Amy said. “Can you come to my baptism too? I’d like you to say the closing prayer.”
“I would be honored,” Brother Young said. “And Nancy and I would be happy to come to your party. We’ll have to think of a very special present for such a special friend.”
A few weeks later, Amy’s birthday finally arrived. Charlie and Nancy Young came, and so did lots of Amy’s school friends. When it was time to open presents, Mom had Amy cover her eyes while Dad brought something into the room.
“OK, you can look now,” Dad said.
Amy opened her eyes and saw that her first present was a brown guinea pig. “Wow, my first pet!” Amy said.
Amy’s second present was from Brother and Sister Young. It was a beautiful blanket that was almost as soft as the guinea pig.
“Yellow, purple, and orange. Those are my favorite colors! How did you know?” Amy asked.
“Your mom told me. I crocheted it myself as a surprise for you,” Brother Young said.
“Thank you!” Amy said, hugging Charlie and Nancy. “I have a surprise for you too, Brother Young. I’m going to name my guinea pig Charlie, after you.”
Brother and Sister Young laughed. “I’m sure you’ve found the very best name,” Sister Young said.
“And the very best friends,” Amy agreed.

My greatest challenge when I was a child was when my father died. I was seven years old.
I had a wonderful mother and kind grandparents. But I cried many tears. At school my classmates made fun of me because I couldn’t spell or do math very well. Some of the older kids bullied me on the school bus. I wished I had talents like others who were good athletes or good singers.
After a while, I began to feel better. My family loved and helped me. I kept working, and slowly I did better in school. I also found things I was good at. I worked to become better at those things. Heavenly Father helped me.

One of the great lessons I learned on my first mission was the principle of total obedience.

In 1923 I was serving a mission in Great Britain. At that time there was great opposition to the Church. It began with the ministers and then spread through the press. Many anti-Mormon articles appeared in the daily press. A number of anti-Mormon movies were shown, and derogatory plays were produced on the stage. The general theme was the same—that Mormon missionaries were in England to lure away British girls and make slaves of them on Utah farms. Today that seems fantastic, but in those days it was very real. In some places we even had to stop tracting because of such misunderstandings.

One time we received a letter from mission headquarters instructing us that we should discontinue all street meetings. At that time I was serving as the conference president, and my companion was the conference clerk. When this instruction arrived, we already had a meeting scheduled for the following Sunday night. So we reasoned that we would hold that meeting and then discontinue street meetings thereafter. That’s where we made our mistake!

The next Sunday evening we held our street meeting down near the railway station as scheduled. The crowd was large and unruly. In our efforts to preach to them, my companion and I stood back to back. He spoke in one direction, and I faced the other half of the crowd.

When the saloons closed, the rougher, coarser element came out on the streets, many under the influence of liquor. The crowd became noisy, and those on the outside were not able to hear too well.

Some yelled, “What’s the excitement?”

Others yelled back, “It’s those dreadful Mormons.”

To this, others responded, “Let’s get them and throw them in the river.”

Soon an attempt was made to trample us under their feet. But since we were taller than the average man there, we put our hands on their shoulders and prevented them from getting us under their feet.

During the excitement, my companion and I became separated. They took him down the far side of the railway station and me down the near side. Things began to look pretty bad.

Then a big husky fellow came up to me as some of the others formed a circle around me about ten feet in diameter. The man looked me straight in the eye and said, “Young man, I believe every word you said tonight!”

By this time a British policeman had worked his way through the crowd. He took me by the arm and said, “Young man, you come with me. You’re lucky to be alive in this crowd.” He led me several blocks and then ordered, “Now you get to your lodge and don’t come out anymore tonight.”

When I arrived at the lodge, I found that my companion was not yet there. I worried and then prayed and waited. I became so concerned about him that I decided to disguise my appearance by putting on an old American cap and taking off my topcoat. Then I went out to try to find him.

As I neared the place of the meeting, a man recognized me and asked, “Have you seen your companion?”

I said, “No. Where is he?”

He responded, “He’s down on the other side of the railway station with one side of his head mashed in.”

This frightened me greatly, and I sprinted to the site as fast as I could. Before I reached the railway station, however, I met the same policeman again. He said, “I thought I told you to stay in and not come out on the street again tonight.”

I replied, “You did, officer. But I’m concerned about my companion. Do you know where he is?”

He replied, “Yes, he got a nasty blow on the side of his head, but he’s gone to the lodge now. I walked partway with him as I did earlier with you. Now you get back there and don’t come out anymore tonight.”

So I went back to the lodge and found my companion disguising himself in order to go out and look for me. We threw our arms around each other and knelt together in prayer. From that experience I learned always to follow counsel, and that lesson has followed me all the days of my life.

Sitting on the set of a local TV talk show, Elise Jenkins thought she was going to lose it. Being on television wasn’t getting any easier for the shy 18-year-old, even though she’d already been on other TV and radio talk shows and appeared twice on the evening news.
“I really didn’t want to be on TV,” Elise says, “but in order to make my cause well known, it had to happen.”
What started out as a Laurel project for this small-town girl from Valley Springs, Arkansas, has turned into a worldwide effort that has thrust her into the public eye. The project? Show Hollywood producers that there is a market for G-rated versions of today’s popular movies. “Since they’re already making edited versions of movies for airlines, why not make them available to the public?” Elise says.
Elise’s novel idea is slowly spreading, and people from around the world are taking notice and lining up behind this otherwise bashful teenager. On her petition to Hollywood, Elise has so far gathered some 75,000 names—more than 370 times the number of people living in her hometown. She’s received at least one signature from every state in the union, as well as signatures and letters of support from as far away as China, Australia, Austria, Belgium, and England. “I even got a letter from Pago Pago,” says Elise. “Where on earth is that?”
Elise’s story started four years ago as she was thinking of an idea for her Laurel project. “All the language, violence, and immorality in movies has always bothered me, so I thought trying to change things would be a good idea,” she says.
Elise mailed postcards to family and friends to see if they’d be interested in petitioning Hollywood. Few responded. Undaunted, Elise tried a high-tech road more traveled: cyber-space. “That’s how it started to spread,” she says.
In an e-mail message, Elise asked recipients to make copies of her petition, gather signatures to mail in, and then pass on her e-mail to others. Encouraged by the responses that started trickling in, Elise set an optimistic goal for the number of signatures she wanted: one million. “I know that’s a really big number, but I wanted something that could actually convince movie producers to change,” she says.
Despite her efforts, after five months Elise had only managed to get about 2,000 signatures. Just as her goal of one million names was beginning to seem utterly unattainable, Elise received a phone call that would drastically change the course of her campaign.
David Longhurst, a Church member from Port Angeles, Washington, had been impressed with Elise’s story after reading a Church News article about her. A professional Web site manager, David offered to create a Web page for Elise’s petition and to add it to his own nonprofit “Good Works” Internet site, at www.goodworks.net. The response was overwhelming.
“It took five months to get 2,000 names by mail; then it took five days to get 2,000 more through the Internet,” says Elise. “I remember one day David called, and he said he was getting signatures on the Web site something like one every five seconds.”
The publicity from the Internet also brought in more written responses: a stack of 821 signatures gathered by a young woman in Layton, Utah; 642 names from another girl in Ontario, Canada; 611 names from the Oklahoma Oklahoma City Mission. Nearly every day, Elise found herself carrying home a huge stack of mail from the post office.
Today, Elise loves to look through the scrapbook she’s compiled of all the letters she’s received from around the world. The messages inspire her:
“You have touched many people’s lives and may have made the difference in our society. Many people feel the way you do.”
“Hooray for you! It’s wonderful to see someone do something I’ve been thinking needs to be done for a long time.”
“A few people may not make much of a difference except to themselves, but if everyone who feels this way will act upon their convictions, it will make a difference.”
Elise says she’s been amazed at the enthusiasm and numbers of the responses she’s received. As she continues her crusade, she doesn’t know whether she’ll make her goal of a million names, but she does know she’s provided an avenue for many people to take a stand for what they believe in. “I’ve been trying to stand as a witness of Christ and encourage others to do the same.”
And no matter what happens when her petition reaches Hollywood, Elise says she’s learned a powerful lesson: “One person really can make a difference.”

Almost two years ago, wallowing with the muddy pigs in the onslaught of the big typhoon, a trip to China had seemed a remote possibility.
Since that night, Yung Fai had not smoked one cigarette. Staying away from the racetrack would have been tough if it hadn’t been for the rebuilding of their house, which took every spare minute and dollar. Members of his sister’s church had showed up every day to help them. At first, Yung Fai had balked at staying with a church member while their house was being reconstructed. But the bed was so dry and the rice so moist that he soon forgot his apprehensions.

The Memory Box by Mary Bahr Gramps and Gram and Zach made the memory box of photos and written accounts of things that were special to them, such as the time Zach climbed the water tower, the time Gramps taught Zach’s mom to ride a bike and she rode over his foot, and the time they watched a raccoon watch them while it ate a trayful of cookies Gram had set on the picnic table to cool. And they made the box just in time. …

“But I don’t know anybody who wants to know about the Church,” I protested in family home evening. “My friends know that I’m a Latter-day Saint, and they don’t ever ask me to tell them anything.”
“But, Aaron, you need to ask them,” Dad pointed out with a smile. “Nobody expects you to go around knocking on people’s doors, but you meet people every day who might be interested in listening to the gospel message. You have to have courage to ask them, though.” Dad thought for a moment, then added, “Aaron, you’re named after two great missionaries.”
My full name is Aaron Ammon Anderson. Dad and Mom had named me after two of the missionary brothers in the Book of Mormon, and they didn’t want me to ever forget it.
“Aaron and Ammon were willing to do anything to share the gospel. Nobody else thought the Lamanites were interested in the gospel, but because Aaron and Ammon had the courage to try, they had wonderful success. Surely you can think of someone who might want to know about the Church?”
There were only a few Mormons in my school. Although I didn’t go around telling everybody that I was a Mormon, a lot of them knew. “I guess I could ask Bryan,” I muttered, figuring that he was the easiest guy in my whole class to ask.
“Oh, he’s the one you took to Cub Scouts last month,” Mom said, pleased.
I nodded, feeling that I was finally off the hook.
“What about your teacher, Mr. Santos?” my sister, Karen, asked.
“I’m not asking Mr. Santos anything,” I snapped. “He likes me. I don’t want to ruin anything. Besides, I already have my person.”
Mr. Santos was the best teacher at school. Everybody liked him, and he liked everybody. Everything he did in class was exciting and fun. The last thing I wanted to do was ask him if he wanted the missionaries to show up at his house. I didn’t want him to think I was weird.
“I think Mr. Santos would be a wonderful choice,” Mom spoke up. “Every time I’ve talked to him, I’ve been impressed by how kind and considerate he is. He has a wonderful wife and a darling little family. They need the gospel.”
“Mom,” I grumbled, “I’m asking Bryan. If you want to talk to Mr. Santos, then go ahead.” I hesitated. “But wait till I’m out of fourth grade.”
“Asking him about the Church won’t change how he feels about you, Aaron,” Dad said. “In fact, what you can do is give him a gift.” Dad handed me a Book of Mormon. “Take that to school with you. If everything is right and you feel prompted, give it to Mr. Santos and ask him to read it.”
I took the book because I wanted everybody in the family to stop bugging me. But the next morning when Mom slipped it inside my backpack, I complained, “I don’t want to haul a Book of Mormon to school. People will think I’m weird!”
“Take it. Just in case.”
I was in luck—Bryan was the first guy I ran into at school. “Did you see the game between San Francisco and Denver last night?” he asked excitedly.
I shook my head. “We were having family home evening.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s something the members of my church do every Monday night.” Then I figured that since I’d gone this far, I might as well take care of my home evening assignment and get it over with. “Are you interested in learning more about my church, Bryan?”
“Huh? Why would I want to know anything about your church? I’m a Baptist. You should’ve seen the game, though. Denver almost squeaked out a win. If they had made the field goal at the end, they would have won by two.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. That wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, and I was probably the first one in the family to complete my missionary assignment.
As I sat down in class, I opened my backpack and saw the Book of Mormon. I pushed it to the bottom of my backpack and took out my other books. As I did, I looked up at Mr. Santos. He was at the front of the class, smiling and calling the roll. I shook my head. There was no way that I was going to talk to Mr. Santos about the Church. Besides, I had already asked Bryan.
The rest of the day, I kept thinking of Mr. Santos and the Book of Mormon Mom had stuffed into my backpack. At the end of school that afternoon, I cleaned up after an art project. Before I knew it, I was alone with Mr. Santos. Gathering my things together, I started for the door. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Santos.”
He looked up from his desk and smiled. “You take care of yourself, Aaron. You got another hundred percent on your English quiz.” He winked at me. “Keep up the good work.”
As I pushed open the classroom door, I paused. “Do you need any help this afternoon, Mr. Santos?”
He leaned back in his chair. “You don’t want to hang around here any longer, do you?”
“I wouldn’t mind. I could run to the office and call Mom and let her know.”
Mr. Santos grinned. “Well, I don’t ever turn down good help.”
As I hurried down the hall, I thought about Aaron and Ammon in the Book of Mormon and about how their offering to help had led to the conversion of many Lamanites. I shook my head. All I was doing was giving Mr. Santos a hand, not preaching the gospel. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Ammon and Aaron.
Mr. Santos had me clean out and straighten some cupboards, then put the books on the racks in the reading center in order. He had received an order of new social studies workbooks, and he asked me to stamp the school’s name on the inside cover of each. Then boards needed to be wiped down and the art materials organized.
Mr. Santos was in the room only part of the time. When he returned, I was getting ready to leave. “Are you giving up on it?” he asked with a smile.
“I’m finished.”
“Finished?” He seemed surprised. “You’ve done everything?”
I nodded.
“You’re some worker, Aaron Anderson. I can go home before dark, thanks to you. I have a couple of boxes to carry out to the car; then I’m out of here.”
“I’ll give you a hand. I’m heading out that way.”
Mr. Santos grinned. “You’re going to spoil me, Aaron.”
We both grabbed a box, Mr. Santos locked the door, and we started down the hall. “Are you a fisherman, Aaron?” he asked me.
“Sure, I like to fish,” I answered, smiling. “Dad loves to fish, too, but we don’t get to go very often.”
“I have the same problem.” Mr. Santos thought a moment. “You know, Aaron, we ought to make the time. I know a great place to fish not far from here. You, your dad, and I ought to pick a day and just go. What do you think?”
“Sounds great! You name the time, and I’ll tell Dad that we just have to.”
“That sounds like a solid yes.” Mr. Santos opened the trunk, and we set the boxes inside. He thought a moment, then asked, “How about this Sunday? We can get up early and make a day of it.”
I looked away, suddenly feeling sick. Here I had a chance to go fishing with Dad and Mr. Santos, but I knew I could never do it on a Sunday. Would Mr. Santos ever ask me again? Strangely, I thought about when King Lamoni offered to give one of his daughters to Ammon for a wife.
Mr. Santos saw me duck my head and look away. “Sunday isn’t a good day?”
“I’d love to go with you, Mr. Santos. Honest. But Dad and I don’t fish on Sundays.”
A knowing smile touched his lips. “I bet you’re a Latter-day Saint, aren’t you?” His question sounded like a compliment! “You’re just like Andy Frazier!” He glanced across the parking lot with a far-off look in his eyes. “Andy and I were in the Marines together. The first time I met him was a Sunday morning. We talked and hit it right off. I asked him if he wanted to drive into town and catch a movie. He turned me down. He said that he was headed for church. That’s when I found out that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Mr. Santos turned back to me. “We became good friends. He didn’t drink anything stronger than orange soda. He didn’t cuss. He didn’t smoke.” Mr. Santos smiled at me. “But there were a lot of things he did do. Nobody worked harder than Andy Frazier. And he could shoot!” Mr. Santos wagged his head. “Nobody in the whole battalion could shoot like him. I don’t think there was a better member of the entire Marine Corp. At first some of the guys kidded him about his religion, but he didn’t let it get to him.
“One day we were on parade, marching around the parade field. When we marched, we sang out different cadences. Some of them are pretty funny. Some of them are …” He paused and shook his head. “Well, some of them have some pretty bad words in them. They aren’t the approved cadences, but at times we used them. Well, Andy had complained to the sergeant a number of times, but he just said that Andy needed to toughen up a bit.
“One day we were using a cadence that was downright dirty. Andy broke ranks and headed right to the major, who was off to the side of the field. When I saw him go, I thought, Andy, you’re one dead duck. You’re going to get booted right out of the Marines.”
Mr. Santos smiled at the memory. “He didn’t get thrown out. He saluted the Major and told him that he was a Marine and proud of it but that he had been taught not to use filthy language and didn’t expect to have to use it or listen to it to be a good Marine.” Mr. Santos smiled again. “The major told the sergeant that from then on Andy was to choose the marching cadence. Now that took courage! I’ll never forget Andy Frazier. I think you’re like him.”
I thought of the Book of Mormon in my backpack that I hadn’t wanted anybody to see. “Maybe you’d like to know … well, … what made Andy the way he was,” I ventured. I pulled out the Book of Mormon. “Would you like to have this?”
Mr. Santos took the book. He brushed his hand across the cover. “I think I have one,” he said softly. “Andy gave it to me.”
“Did you ever read it?”
“I promised Andy that I’d read it, but I haven’t yet.” He handed back my Book of Mormon. “Thanks, Aaron, but I think I’ll look for Andy’s.”
As I headed home, I felt great. Even though Mr. Santos hadn’t accepted my Book of Mormon, I was glad that Mom had stuck it into my backpack.
The next day when the last bell rang, Mr. Santos called out to me. “Aaron, would you mind staying after school for a few minutes?”
“Do you need more help?” I asked as the last of the other students left the room.
“Not exactly. At least not the kind of help you gave me yesterday.” Mr. Santos opened one of the drawers, reached in, and pulled out a Book of Mormon. “I found Andy’s book. My wife and I read the first four chapters last night.”
“You did?” I gasped. “Did you understand it?”
He nodded slowly. “I think so. But if I get to something I don’t understand, do you think you can help me?”
“Sure. And if I can’t, I can find someone who can.” I grinned, thinking of Aaron and Ammon, suddenly glad that I had been named after them.

Last year, I had two amazing friends, James and Bartholomew.1 When I met a few of their friends, I started hanging out with them every day, and Bartholomew added me to a group chat they were all part of.
At first it was great! I could talk to my newfound friends all the time. But over time, my mum began to notice changes in my personality and emotions. I would be on my phone until late, I procrastinated doing my homework, and I stopped studying my scriptures and praying because I was preoccupied with texting. My friends and I would argue a lot too, so I was also upset a lot. I spoke to my mum, and she told me what she had been noticing and that I needed to spend less time with those friends. I began to spend less time texting them and got back on top of all my schoolwork and gospel study.
Now going into my next school year, I am still friends with James and Bartholomew and a few of our other friends. But I am much happier now, and I spend less time on my phone. I know that making the right friends is very important, as it says in For the Strength of Youth: “Everyone needs good and true friends. They will be a great strength and blessing to you” ([2011], 16). The next time a situation like this comes up, I’m going to be careful. I don’t ever again want to feel the way I did then.
Joshua C., United Kingdom

After sacrament meeting the bishop called me into his office for a talk. Here is what I have been expecting, I thought. I’m going to be the new teachers quorum president, I’ll bet. I was filled with pride and excitement. Oh, the ward is really going to congratulate me. Mom will be so proud!
I sat in the big chair across from the bishop. He was a pleasant man, smiling as always, but I felt that even though he was smiling this conversation was going to be an important one.
“Steve, we have an assignment for you,” he said. My heart beat rapidly.
“This is a special ‘good neighbor’ assignment. We’re concerned about Hasty McFarlan. He’s a pretty sad old man, you know. He needs someone to befriend him. He’s not a member of the Church, but God’s love reaches to all people, and we as members of his church have the responsibility to show it. Maybe I should say we have the privilege of showing that love.”
I guess I must have looked stunned.
“You know Hasty, don’t you, Steve?” asked the bishop.
My thought went back a couple of weeks to when some friends and I had laughed at the old man by singing jingles and shouting the jokes we had made up about him.
“Yes, I know him,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment and guilt. “He’s the old hermit who lives outside of town.”
“That is right,” said the bishop. “I would like for you to go out and visit him two or three times a week.”
“Alright,” was the only answer I could manage …
The bishop must have detected my disappointment because he leaned forward in his chair and looked at me carefully.
“Now, if this assignment will be too much, don’t be afraid to say so.” I sighed. “Oh, I’ll do it, sir,” I said. “Good,” said the bishop with a smile, and immediately he went on. “You can chop wood for a fire, and get him food, blankets—whatever he needs to help him feel wanted. Be a friend. Your father is aware of the assignment, and he told me he would help you. Your Heavenly Father will be prompting you, too.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I was 15 years old then, and there were other things I would rather do—play football, hunt, fish, or just do the things my friends were doing. But I had told the bishop I would fulfill the assignment, and I knew it wasn’t good not to do what I said I would.
Hasty lived in a little log cabin at the foot of a mountain, just outside the Idaho farming community I grew up in. On the long hike to his cabin after school that first afternoon, it seemed to me that every pine along the trail whispered Hasty’s loneliness.
Once a year at Christmas the old got a free bath at the hotel, compliments of the sheriff. Probably, we all thought, it was the only bath he got all year. We used to say he looked like a pirate with that growth on the side on his head and his black eyepatch. Most of the kids and even some of the townspeople had the habit of making unkind remarks or trying to trick him whenever Hasty was around. Would he remember me as one of the tricksters? By the time I reached the cabin, I was genuinely frightened.
I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. I knew he had to be in there. Where else could he go?
“Hasty?” My voice faltered halfway through his name. I don’t know how long I must have stood there before I decided to go inside. The thick oaken door creaked as I pushed it open.
“Hasty?” I called again. “Hasty, are you there?”
Hearing a rustling sound, I poked my head in as far as I dared and peeked around the door. It was cold in Hasty’s cabin and very dark. I could barely see the figure of a man on the bed. Hasty was all slouched down, but not as if he’d been thinking. He looked like he was slouching because there was no reason to do anything else. I noticed that the soiled, mildewed blanket he was sitting on was full of holes.
My heart was beating very rapidly. I swallowed hard.
“Hasty, is there anything I can do for you?” I managed to say.
I told him my name and that the bishop from the LDS Church had sent me to see how he was doing and to help out. He said nothing. The silent, staring troll of a man was scaring me.
“Hasty, your fire is out.” No reply.
I went outside, found an axe and some stacked stumps, and began chopping kindling. With every strike of the axe I questioned myself. What am I doing out here? Why me? Why?
“Quit complaining,” a voice inside me said. “The old man is cold and lonely, and you can help him.”
I made a fire and tried to talk to him, but after a few minutes I decided he wasn’t really listening. He needed a new blanket, so I told him I would get a thick, clean, comfortable one, and the next day I did. After that I came every other day. Slowly, over the next several weeks, he began talking.
One day after we had talked a little he said, “Boy, why do you come? I’m sure a boy your age can find better things to do than visit a sick old man like me. But I’m glad you come.” And then he smiled.
At Thanksgiving I invited Hasty to our house for dinner. He didn’t come, but our family took part of the dinner to him. There were tears in his eyes as he tried to thank us.
I discovered as our visits continued that Hasty had been a sheepherder. Once he had had a wife and children, but they had gotten a terrible fever and died of it.
Feeling in his grief that his life had been shattered, Hasty wandered the whole country as a vagabond. A diseased growth on the side of his face made one eye blind. And the teasing and practical jokes had begun.
But to me the old man didn’t seem as ugly and frightening anymore. In fact, after school I hurried to his cabin to help him and to listen to his stories.
When Christmas arrived, we invited him to dinner once again. This time he came, and he came in a suit, all cleaned and handsome. He looked great. A smile curved his lips. Hasty was happy because we showed him he was needed.
As we finished dinner, the old man bowed his head for a second, and then raised it and said, “You people sure are wonderful. My life has been in shambles for a long time, but the love you’ve shown is making me a different person. I’m very grateful.”
As he said that, I could feel a little fire in my chest getting big. It felt good.

During an interview while I served in an elders quorum presidency, I asked a fellow quorum member if he had ever felt and acted on a spiritual prompting. He thought for a moment and shared an experience.
One afternoon he was washing dishes when he received a strong impression to go knock on a neighbor’s door. He did not understand why, but the prompting was powerful and urgent. He stopped what he was doing and left right away.
He arrived at his neighbor’s door, not knowing what to do or say, and knocked. No one answered. He knocked again. There was still no answer. Concluding that no one was home, he turned to leave but then felt another prompting.
He walked back to the door and simply said, “Sister, I love you.” Then he departed.
He thought this experience was unusual, and he felt a little embarrassed by it. I told him that the Lord does not always tell us the reasons for promptings, but we should never feel embarrassed for acting on them. This brother moved away shortly after our interview.
During a fast and testimony meeting a year later, a sister I did not know walked to the stand to bear her testimony. Through tears, she explained that she had been away from the Church for several years, and during that time she became so depressed that she felt she could not go on any longer.
“Heavenly Father, if You really exist and if You really love me,” she prayed, “tell me now so I understand!”
Almost immediately, she heard a knock on her door and then another. When she didn’t answer, she heard a voice say, “Sister, I love you.”
She said feelings of love overwhelmed her, and she found new strength to face her troubled life. She said things were still not great, but her life was improving.
I had no part in this experience, but I have still been blessed. I gained insight into how two seemingly unrelated acts of faith demonstrated that our Father in Heaven knows all of us, and He calls upon us to act on promptings to help His children. I am grateful for, and cherish, this knowledge.

In February 2016, the full-time missionaries began visiting us. At first Pat thought they were coming over to help on the farm. When we accepted an invitation for them to teach us, he thought the lessons were just for the children.
As the missionaries were preparing to teach us their first lesson, Pat went out to work on the tractor. After about 20 minutes, I could see that they—two sisters and two elders—were deflated. At that moment, I felt that I should get Pat and ask him to come listen for a couple of minutes.
Later the missionaries told me that they had been praying that that’s what I would do. They knew that Pat needed to hear what they were teaching.
After the missionaries had taught us for several weeks, Jesse, Bo, and Frank wanted to be baptized. Pat thought that was great, but he felt that he was “beyond salvation.” That was before he met Von and Glenda Memory and heard Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles speak during general conference.
When we saw Brother Memory at church, I recognized him from when I was a child. He was now serving as the ward mission leader. Pat introduced himself, telling Brother Memory that he really wanted the Church for our children.
“That sounds good,” Brother Memory said with a twinkle in his eye. “We’ll do it for the children.”
A few weeks later, after a lesson from the missionaries on the plan of salvation, Brother Memory said, “Boys, we’re going to talk about your baptism.” Then he added, “And then we’re going to talk about your dad’s baptism.”
Pat said OK, but his doubts about his readiness and worthiness persisted until general conference that April.
“You may be afraid, angry, grieving, or tortured by doubt,” Elder Uchtdorf said in his talk. “But just as the Good Shepherd finds His lost sheep, if you will only lift up your heart to the Savior of the world, He will find you.”1
Pat said: “Before then, it hadn’t occurred to me that I really could be a part of this, that I was worthy of salvation. But after listening to Elder Uchtdorf, it hit me that it wasn’t too late for me. I actually have a shot to get to heaven. I had never felt anything like that. From then on I knew. This is the Savior’s Church. We found it. I got baptized and received the priesthood. A week later I baptized my boys. When our girls were old enough, I baptized them.”
A year later, we were sealed in the Birmingham Alabama Temple.

Just days ago, I learned about a grandmother who rehearsed the Easter story with her four-year-old grandson by using simple replicas of the tomb, the stone that covered the sepulchre, Jesus, Mary, the disciples, and the angel. The little boy watched and listened intently as his grandma shared the burial, closing and opening of the tomb, and the garden scene of the Resurrection. He later carefully repeated the story in surprising detail to his parents as he moved the figures about himself. Following this sweet moment, he was asked if he knew why we have Easter. The boy looked up and with childlike reasoning answered, “Cuz Him’s alive.”

The first time Lori Solomon attended a Latter-day Saint ward, she noticed something significant. Not only were the people she met there extremely friendly and kind, but they also had their own copies of the scriptures. During the meetings, they were reading from, talking about, and trying to apply the scriptures to their lives. This impressed Lori because she had never been able to understand the Torah when it was read in Hebrew in her Reform Jewish congregation.
When Lori went to church the second time, a powerful feeling propelled her to the microphone in fast and testimony meeting. Standing before a roomful of strangers, she tried to put into words the feeling that was already growing into a conviction. “I’m home,” she said. Lori was baptized in Chicago, Illinois, in 2001.
The Apostle Paul compared the experience of conversion to finding our spiritual home: “But now in Christ Jesus ye who sometimes were far off are made nigh. … Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Ephesians 2:13, 19).
But, as Lori soon discovered, knowing the Church is true is not the same as understanding how the Church works. Like most new members, Lori found herself unfamiliar with the procedures, protocol, and specialized vocabulary that long-term members take for granted. For example, she didn’t know that Church members don’t make comments in sacrament meeting. And the first time she heard someone refer to “home, family, and personal enrichment meeting,” she thought she needed to bring her family with her. It takes time to learn these and other unwritten “rules.”

I began my college studies at a university about 100 miles (160 km) from home. It was an exciting time for all the freshman students. Many were living away from home for the first time and were eager to express their newfound freedom from parental oversight.
I was on the university basketball team, and it quickly became known that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. During the first weeks of the semester, one of my teammates invited me to a Saturday night party for new students to be held in the desert outside the city. I asked if the party would include alcohol and was assured that it would not. I felt uncomfortable with this response but decided to attend nonetheless. A blind date was arranged for me with the assurance that she had the same standards I had. My teammate explained that we would use his car.
That Saturday night we drove some distance into the desert and found the party. To my great disappointment, drinking alcohol was the principal activity, notwithstanding the fact that the legal drinking age in the state was three years above the age of most of the freshman students. My date couldn’t wait to begin drinking, along with my teammate and his date. When I voiced disappointment, they said I needed to “grow up and live a little” and that they would help me. I told them that I had never drunk alcohol and that I was not going to start then. They soon left me so they could join the others.
I sat alone, apart from the drinking and boisterous laughter, without transportation to leave, wondering why I had gotten myself into this mess. Later in the night, I saw a line of car headlights coming through the desert toward the party. The cars encircled the group, and then, as if on signal, lights began flashing on the top of what I then recognized as police cars. Many students attempted to run into the desert but were quickly apprehended. I remained where I was, perplexed by the developments.
The police began checking identification to determine the ages of the students, giving breath tests to those below the legal drinking age to determine if they had been drinking. When they came to me, I told an officer that I had not drunk alcohol that night or ever. He laughed at me, but when I firmly stated that he could believe me, his countenance changed. He told me that I did not have to take the test and directed me to drive my teammate’s car back to the university. Those who were underage and drinking were cited and required to pay fines. Some were taken to jail.
I, however, left with no police record and arrived home at about 3:00 a.m. on Sunday morning. Priesthood meeting in my ward began at 7:00 a.m. My alarm sounded at 6:45 a.m. I turned it off and rolled over, thinking for a few moments of all the reasons not to attend that morning. But spiritually, I couldn’t rest. I arose, dressed in my Sunday clothes, and walked to the chapel, arriving about 10 minutes after the meeting had begun.
As I walked into the chapel, my heart leaped as I recognized the back of my father’s head. He had come to visit me, unannounced. I slipped in beside him and sat down. He looked at me and smiled. Then, putting his hand firmly on my knee, he leaned over and whispered a message with meaning far beyond words: “I knew I would find you here, Son.” Simultaneously, Heavenly Father whispered the same message to my soul. I can’t adequately describe the love and joy I felt at that moment.
A few months later I was on my mission. A few months after that, I received word that my father had died unexpectedly. The message I received from him and through him that Sunday, however, has never left me.
When my teammate misrepresented the party’s activities, I felt a spiritual unrest that I did not heed. When confronted with that reality, I was more disappointed with myself than with my teammate. But keeping myself apart from the crowd brought spiritual comfort and later temporal benefit when the police allowed me to return home.
However, the greatest blessing of liberty came when, in the privacy of my dormitory room early Sunday morning, I chose to be where I should be, not knowing beforehand the treasure that awaited me there. Such experiences, accompanied by the ministration of the Spirit, foreshadow the liberty associated with the blessing of eternal life.

I sat, legs crossed, in my dorm room. My roommate’s bed was empty because she had gone away for the weekend, so I started to fold my clean clothes on it. I glanced up at our big wall clock. Finally it was a quarter to three. I picked up my keys and headed to the campus mail boxes. When I got back to my room, I sank to the floor, let a pile of mail fall to my side, and ripped open a far more important letter.
Keller had written me back, finally. Before when I had written to him, he made it a point to answer quickly. The news in this last letter must have really shocked him. I could understand that. It had taken me almost two weeks to get my thoughts together and finally write the letter. I had written him almost two months ago about our father’s health problems. Neither of us had been particularly close to Dad, but when I found out he had cancer, I knew Keller would want to know immediately. This letter also provided me an opportunity to ask a question that I had needed an answer to for a long time.
Ever since Keller and I were little we knew only two things about Dad, that he loved Mom and that he loved our house. He loved Mom because of her patience, her wisdom, her strength, and her beauty—both inside and out. He loved our house because he had grown up there; his father had died there. Keller and I sometimes wondered if Dad loved us or the house more. We knew he loved Mom the most, but his love for the house was always a mystery.
Our family had lived in that house since I was a baby. It was an old house and had lots of problems. The basement flooded when we had heavy rains, and the well dried up at least once every summer. The house was out in the middle of nowhere, so in the winter our road didn’t even get plowed. Dad bought a tractor and every morning, before he went to work, he plowed out our whole road, from one end to the other.
Keller and I didn’t mind being out in the middle of nowhere though. We used that as an excuse to go wherever we wanted and do whatever we wanted. We built dams in the creek, forts in the woods, and clay slides in the front yard. The house was perfect for two adventurous children like us, and it was perfect for Dad too. Only Mom seemed to be bothered by the frequent problems, but she never complained. She kept herself almost too busy, planting and maintaining our gardens, pruning our apple trees, and raising two fearless explorers. She handled it all so well that no one even realized that she was sick. She kept it from everyone until she was too bad off to continue hiding it. She still wanted to do her jobs, and finally Dad had to take off work just to keep her in bed.
Every day Dad would go into her room and find out what she wanted him to do that day. He even let her tell him how to do the jobs. He knew perfectly well how to weed a garden, but he let her tell him how to do it anyway. The last instructions that she gave him were to help me with my bath and to make Keller take his. She died when Keller was seven and I was five.
Dad lost his job when he asked for the rest of the summer off to take care of us. They said he had already taken too much time. Dad spent close to five months hunting for a new job. He wanted one close enough to our house so that we wouldn’t have to move. He got a position at an architectural firm 71 miles away. He spent more time there than at home.
As we grew up, living in the country lost its appeal. All the problems with the house were a lot worse when there was no one around to fix them. When Dad came home each night, he would fix dinner, take a shower, and then go straight to bed. It seemed that almost overnight a once huge house grew too small, and Keller and I no longer wanted to explore. Neither of us had bothered to replant the gardens once we were old enough to do the work, and Mom’s apple trees had gone years without pruning. All the magic and life that Mom had brought to the house had died with her. Since Dad worked in the city it just made sense that we should live closer to it. If we moved we could get a newer house and not have to worry about the problems. He continued to commute, however, no matter how much we argued in favor of moving.
As we got older, we saw less and less of Dad. We had our own lives, and he was becoming a smaller part of them. Keller, in Dad’s absence, started investigating a church that Mom had been interested in during college. Soon he began to take his investigation more seriously and started having two missionaries over all the time. They were nice and funny, and I felt comfortable around them. They always made me feel welcome, and sometimes I sat with them and listened as Keller answered questions, read scriptures, and prayed. On occasion, they invited me to participate, and I never hesitated to do what they asked.
One day the missionaries asked Keller a question that he couldn’t answer right away. They told him to pray about it. They came back the next week and Keller’s answer was yes. He became a Mormon. Shortly after that, he baptized me. That was the weekend before I started college, and 13 months before Keller got his mission call to Brazil. Since then, for almost three years, we had only communicated by mail.
I held Keller’s letter with trembling hands. Over the years I had asked myself over and over again why Dad had chosen to drive 71 miles one way to work instead of spending time with us. Why had he held on to a stupid house while letting go of his kids? I had asked myself, and now had asked the only other person who might possibly know. I unfolded the letter and read:
“Dear Jane,
“You can’t imagine how sad I was to hear about Dad’s health. Come to think of it, you probably can. I’m glad that it’s almost your summer break though; then you can join him at home. I have only four more months, and I hope that Dad will hang on until then. The thought of having to leave a second before my time is up makes me shudder. There is so much left to do.
“That reminds me of your question, which I didn’t think was as strange as you thought I would. I even think I have an answer for you that might actually make sense. Part of it I learned here on my mission.
“I realized long ago that Dad doesn’t firmly believe in God because no one has ever reached him with the message; neither you nor I could do it. I think his house is the only place on earth that he feels connected to his father. After Mom died, I think he felt the same thing there with her. He doesn’t know about the afterlife, or doesn’t believe in it, so earthly connections are very important to him.
“I know that this might be hard for you to understand, so I’ll give you a second example from my mission. I’ve noticed that the work here goes extremely well. The people seem anxious to be baptized. The members who are able make a yearly visit to the temple, which is a six-day walk one way. You see, for them, the temple is one place on earth that they feel connected to Heavenly Father. Each family that makes the journey sacrifices a whole month’s income. From my experiences here, and everywhere else too I guess, I’ve noticed that people will travel far and sacrifice much if the destination is a place they value getting to. I hope that this has helped to answer your question.
“I love you and miss you very much. I hope that your transfer to BYU went okay and that you’re fitting in, which I’m sure you are. Stay with Dad, Jane, and tell him we love him. He did the best with us that he knew how.
“See you soon. Keller”
At that moment I understood just how much our house meant to Dad. It meant as much to him as the Church meant to Keller and me. It’s the same for anyone who has ever valued anything. From the moment I joined the Church I began a journey toward eternity. Before I reach my destination, I’ll travel through life and have great trials and sacrifices. But when I arrive home to be with my Heavenly Father, the value of being there will be a thousand times greater than the value of all I might ever have possibly had to give up.

As a high school student I stood proudly before the small Methodist congregation and delivered an address entitled “Meeting Life’s Requirements.” Following the service, the church members greeted me, offering encouragement for my future religious endeavors. At home that day, I peacefully strolled in the fresh, autumn weather, thinking to myself, “Maybe I should become a minister.”
It wasn’t the first time I had spoken before a congregation, nor would it be the last. My religious interests developed early in life and became an obsession because of the panic I felt about the prospect of a judgment day. In the introduction to a school paper on the clergy I wrote, “At the end of my freshman year in high school I began to consider the clergy as a profession.” I was at that time anticipating several years in college and theological seminary.
In high school I was successful in classwork and in sports, playing for the school football team. I played in the school band, and was elected as student president. But some dramatic changes were to occur in my life. The following statements from my journal tell the story.
Senior Year, High School—While investigating several churches to learn more about Christianity, I have discovered that some churches do not require extremely long periods of schooling to qualify as a minister. I have just visited a Bible college and learned that I can be ordained a minister after four years. After two years I could be assigned as a minister to a church of my own. I decided that I will go to the Bible college next year when I graduate from high school even though it will mean giving up a scholarship to another college. The classes appear interesting, but I sense something is missing from the college. Something seems to be missing in my personal life, too. How long will it take to find peace of mind?
Approaching Graduation—Religion is becoming less important in my life. I’m no longer sure of what I want to do. Deep inside me I feel guilty about something. I get upset at myself when I do wrong. But I still take a drink or smoke a cigarette now and again. After my first drink, my friends in high school were more worried about how it would affect my football playing than how it would affect my religious goals.
Change of Plans—I just received a scholarship to play football at Dodge City College only a few kilometers from my home. I don’t want to go to a college so close to home, but the scholarship will help pay for my studies. I gave up a scholarship offer before when I was planning to become a minister. Those plans will wait.
Summer—I’m working at the Dodge City Recreation Center and playing on a local baseball team. It’s not unusual for me to work all day, travel with the baseball team for a game, return home at 2 A.M. and get up at 7 A.M. to go to work.
What’s Wrong—This summer has been unusual. I haven’t gone to church very much. I read a lot and write a great deal. But religion seems to lack something. But maybe I lack something, too.
The Bible—I still consider the idea of Bible college education because I can have a ministry of my own very quickly. I commented once in Sunday School that we need to return to preaching the Bible. But one man argued that ministers should turn to more modern concerns and use up-to-date interpretations of the Bible. His remarks add to my confusion—religious leaders I know have different opinions about the meaning of the Bible and its place in modern times.
College Begins—I still pray sometimes. A few times I have said, “Show me the way, Lord, if there is one for me.”
Semester Ends—My first semester of college has ended and I’m on the honor roll as a top student. Last night I lay in my bed thinking how little time I really devoted to my studies. I laughed to myself and thought, “I did this and all without God.”
A Mormon Girl—I met a Mormon girl, Janet, the other night. I thought to myself, “What’s a Mormon?” I’ve investigated many religions but have never heard of this one.
Book of Mormon—I spent the weekend with my family. I asked Mom if she knew anything about Mormons. She said she thought there was a pamphlet in the bookcase. She found it and an old hardback book. I’m reading it now—the Book of Mormon. Mother said it was a Mormon Bible.
After the Date—Janet is the first girl I’ve dated with any regularity in at least six months. Tonight, after our date, we were talking and the subject of religion came up. I told her about my indefinite plans for the ministry and added, “There’s something wrong with every church.”
With confidence she replied, “Not mine.”
“Oh, sure, you tell me about it,” I answered. She isn’t the first girl that has wanted me to be interested in a particular church. But she definitely has a sparkle of purity, a twinkle in her eye.
I told her that I had been studying the Book of Mormon, and she suggested that I talk to the elders. I told her I’d like to sometime.
Following Monday—The strangest thing happened this evening. I work every night at the recreation center, but today when I called in, Mr. Braddock told me they didn’t need me tonight. I didn’t feel like studying, so I telephoned Janet about a date and she told me to come over to her house. The elders were coming. The meeting was arranged before I telephoned her, but on any other Monday night I would definitely have had to work.
The Meeting—While waiting for the elders at Janet’s home, I expected two old men in gray beards and maybe black hats to knock at the door. I was surprised when the elders turned out to be two young men close to my own age. Learning from them was a spiritual experience for me.
My Interview—I was interviewed tonight for baptism. I brought a signed statement from my dad to the elders giving his approval for my baptism. He used to know some Latter-day Saints. He said you have to be a missionary if you join their church. I told the district leader that the discussions were like the lifting of a veil, like I had heard the story before. The gospel contains many teachings that I have come to believe over the years, such as a literal, tangible, Heavenly Father concerned about us. I took the missionary discussions so fast that I have to wait till my assigned baptismal date.
April 27—I was baptized tonight. My family attended the service, as did many of the branch members. This is the cleanest feeling I have known in my entire life. The warm, friendly attitude of the members here is still one of the amazing things about this church.
Few Will Listen—I thought of dozens of my friends who would surely join the Church now. They just needed to learn about it as I had. It’s not like that. I know that most of my friends respect me very much for my high standards, but with others I wonder, as did the Apostle Paul, “Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth?” (Gal. 4:16).
Sacrament Meeting—My family attended the branch’s sacrament meeting today. After the meeting, I went with the elders to my parents’ home for a missionary lesson. After the first discussion Elder Johnson tried to make an appointment to come again and teach my family.
“How about right now?” Mom asked.
So the second lesson was given. Dad had to leave then to do the farm chores. Mom quickly prepared a meal, and about an hour later Dad came back in and ate, and the third lesson was given. Three in one night!
July 27—Tonight I baptized my family. It is three months to the day since I joined the Church. Our family is finally united. As I brought Mom up out of the water, she embraced me and shed tears of joy. We have received life’s greatest blessings.
A Mission Call—I’m so excited! I came home from classes today to find a letter from the First Presidency. Quickly opening it I discovered that I would be going to California. I wept joyously. Feeling so insignificant in the Lord’s sight, I asked, “Why me?” The blessings of God seem so unbelievable. Now, in a week, I will leave on a mission to serve the Lord. I will be a minister.
Temple Sealing—Today I was sealed for time and all eternity to my Mom and Dad.
Temple Marriage—Janet and I were married this morning in the Salt Lake Temple. I thank God that a young woman lived the gospel so completely that I found a noticeable, attracting difference between her and other young people, thus leading me to the gospel. I encouraged my other young brothers and sisters to do the same. The gospel works.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

In 1975, the Bollbachs were surprised by another mission call, this time to the Germany Frankfurt Mission. About the same time, Elli discovered she had cancer. “No one can imagine the fear we felt,” Fritz explains. “Within one week, she underwent three operations. The curious thing was the blessing the bishop gave her. He said to her, ‘Elli, you will recover, and you will again go into the mission field with Fritz to serve God.’ We wondered how he could say such a thing.”
Sister Bollbach recuperated from the operations, and they served an eighteen-month mission in Pirmasens, Germany, near the French border.

Recently I learned of two valiant young women who, as they lived the commandments and radiated the joy of the gospel, stood as witnesses of God. This is the story as told by a senior missionary at the MTC.
She said that years earlier she was at home one day ironing, watching a soap opera, and smoking a cigarette when there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, there were two men in white shirts and ties, and one of them introduced himself as her bishop. He said that as he was praying, he had felt inspired to ask her to teach Young Women. She told him that she had been baptized at age 10 but had never been active. He seemed undeterred as he showed her the manual and explained where they met on Wednesday night. Then she emphatically said, “I can’t teach 16-year-olds; I’m inactive, and besides I smoke.” Then he said, “You won’t be inactive anymore, and you have until Wednesday to quit smoking.” Then he left.
She said, “I remember shouting in the air in anger, but then I couldn’t resist the urge to read the manual. In fact, I was so curious, I read it from cover to cover and then memorized every word of that lesson.
“By Wednesday I was still not going to go, but I found myself driving to church, scared to death. I had never been scared of anything before. I had grown up in the slums, been in detention once myself, and rescued my father from the ‘drunk tank.’ And all of a sudden there I was at Mutual being introduced as the new Laurel adviser. I sat before two Laurels and gave the lesson word for word, even the parts that said ‘Now ask them …’ I left immediately after the lesson and cried all the way home.
“A few days later there was another knock at the door, and I thought, ‘Good. It’s the bishop here to retrieve his manual.’ I opened the door, and standing there were those two lovely Laurels, one with flowers, the other with cookies. They invited me to go to church with them on Sunday, which I did. I liked those girls. They began by teaching me about the Church, the ward, the class. They taught me how to sew, read scriptures, and smile.
“Together we started teaching the other girls in the class who weren’t coming. We taught them wherever we could find them—in cars, in bowling alleys, and on porches. Within six months, 14 of them were coming, and in a year all 16 girls on the roll were active. We laughed and cried together. We learned to pray, study the gospel, and serve others.”
These two valiant young women stood as witnesses for truth and righteousness, for goodness and the joy of the gospel.