Gospel Story Finder

Some of the sweetest memories of my childhood center in the occasional summer and fall days spent with my brothers at Uncle Zene’s farm in rural Virginia. There we hiked through woods with fragrant wildflowers. We marveled at flying squirrels, colorful birds, and even occasionally discovered a pheasant or a fox. Meandering streams invited us to catch sunfish, and a cool, pure spring satisfied our thirst. There were roasted hot dogs, potato salad, sweet pickles, and, of course, hot apple pie with homemade ice cream.
But the most treasured experience was the rope swing Uncle Zene had hung in a tall tree near a beautiful brook. Its long, gliding passes provided hours of pure joy. We would arch our backs and fling our legs and feet to see who could go the fastest and highest. It was sheer delight.
Once, to treat me to even more excitement, my brother Gerald put me on the wooden seat, then rotated the swing until the ropes were twisted in a double row of knots. With a mighty thrust he launched me into a spin of ever-increasing velocity. At first there was a feeling of exhilaration as I began to pick up speed. That short-lived pleasure was quickly replaced by increasing feelings of dizziness, nausea, and just plain terror. When the horrible experience was over, I couldn’t walk without falling. My head reeled, and I was certain that my stomach would never again be the same.

Rafting Gone Awry
I had the good fortune of growing up in the state of Alaska. It was a fantastic place to be raised. As an example of this, each year our Boy Scout troop would plan and carry out amazing high-adventure camps. We would go backpacking, canoeing, and even white-water rafting. For one such summer camp we decided to raft a well-known section of the Gulkana River. We had a great time. Despite a lot of rain—which is a reality of summers in Alaska—we rafted through beautiful country, caught seemingly endless numbers of fish, and saw abundant wildlife, including bald eagles and grizzly bears.

On one of the final days of the trip, we came up against the signature white-water challenge of the river: a section of rapids ending with a seven- to ten-foot waterfall. At this point many rafters would take their rafts and gear out of the river in a portage around the falls to ensure against harm or losing gear. We decided to carry our gear around the waterfall but to enjoy the thrill of running the rafts through the rapids and over the falls.

I went in a raft with my father, who happened to be one of our youth leaders. He situated himself at the center of the raft, where he could use the two large oars to steer. I sat near the front of the raft and was given a paddle, but my primary role was to stay out of the way. I still remember smoothly navigating the rapids, feeling confident and exhilarated as we approached the waterfall. Everything was lined up perfectly, and—much like you would experience on a roller coaster—we shot off the falls down to the water below.

Just after passing over the falls, the raft paused a bit and started moving backwards. I didn’t understand why this was happening, so I turned back toward my father only to see him being engulfed by the falls, which immediately knocked him out of the raft and into the river.

Let me take a quick detour from this story to explain a bit more about the flow and current of this waterfall. As water flowed over the falls, the force carried the water down to the river bottom, where the current rebounded, causing it to flow back toward the surface following a circular path. When the water came back up to the surface, it formed a wave that forced the water back upstream toward the falls. This wave, sometimes called a standing wave, was what our raft had hit and what had driven us back into the falls.

Now back to the story. There I was, alone in the raft—which had turned sideways from the force of hitting the falls—and in a brief moment I went from excitement to panic. But the ordeal was not over. Over the course of the next few minutes, which seemed to go on forever, the raft would slowly float downstream away from the falls until it hit the standing wave, which would reverse the raft’s course back toward the falls. As the raft would approach the falls, the cascading water would hit the nearest side tube of the raft and force it to tip toward the falls as though it were about to flip over with me in it. However, each time the raft would approach the point of flipping, it would stop, fall back flat, and then float out toward the standing wave—repeating the process all over again. This back and forth between the falls and the standing wave was repeated about ten times.

During all of this back and forth my youth leaders and fellow youth were standing on the bank of the river shouting support and instructions to me in the raft. Though they stood only about fifteen feet from me and were shouting as loud as they could, it seemed impossible at the time for me to hear exactly what they were saying. The noise of the waterfall, the number of different people who were shouting at me at the same time, and, probably most of all, the overwhelming intensity of the situation drowned out their words. I could not hear what they were saying. At one point I came to the brilliant conclusion that they were trying to tell me to hold tight to the raft. So, trusting and having faith in their instructions, I did my best to tighten what was already a death grip on the raft.

Finally, after yet another near flip into the falls, the raft—now almost full of water—fell down and floated over the standing wave instead of getting pushed back again. It then moved into a section of calmer waters, where I was immediately rescued by my leaders, who pulled the raft to the side of the river. As a side note, my father was also successfully rescued from the river about a third of a mile downstream.

Later that day we all gathered together and talked about what had happened. One of the Young Men leaders, who happened to have stood closest to me on the bank and who had shouted more than the others, told our Scout group how proud he was that I had shown courage and had followed the instructions they were shouting to me to “lean against the tipping raft.” He said that this was what had saved the boat from flipping and what had saved me from being seriously injured—or worse.

As he talked to the group about my obedience and bravery, I began to convince myself that his story was exactly what had happened. I had been brave; I had leaned against the tipping raft to keep it from flipping over. However, as time wore on and as I thought more about what had happened on the river, I realized that his description was not entirely accurate. What had saved me from the waterfall was the raft filling up with water and becoming heavy enough to keep it from tipping and to carry it through the standing wave. It had little to do with my following the instructions of the leaders. In fact, I hadn’t followed their instructions because I hadn’t heard what they were saying. The circumstances of that event made it difficult to figure out what had really caused my safe escape from the waterfall.

Allison began playing the piano at age three, and although she was very talented, she had no affinity for the keyboard. “My mother was a concert pianist, my aunt was a pianist, my grandmother was a pianist, my cousins were pianists, all my mother’s students were pianists,” she says. “Everything was piano, piano, piano. I just got tired of it.”
Then came the cello. When Allison was nine, she decided she wanted to play in her school orchestra, which already had a pianist, so she decided to switch. “I didn’t know the cello very well, but my mother loved it, I loved the sound, and I thought it would be a good size for me,” she says.
Within six months of her first cello lesson, Allison won her first competition, against children who had been playing for years. She seemed to be racing ahead, winning competitions right and left. She was invited to play with some of the world’s finest symphonies.
But her success is not without its price. With all that practicing and performing she’s involved in, there’s not a lot of time to spare for other activities. “Of course I feel like I’m missing out on other things all the time,” she says. “But with Church, schoolwork, and my cello, there just isn’t a lot of time for other things.”
It hasn’t been an easy choice for Allison to give up those other things, but she puts her shoulder to the wheel and follows through. “I know that if I want to accomplish the goals I have in mind, I have to make sacrifices,” she says. “Yes, I wish I could go out and socialize with my friends more, and go to all the activities, but if I don’t allow a certain amount of time for my music, it just isn’t going to go anywhere.”
So what makes it all worthwhile? What is the reward for all this work and effort? Just watch Allison play, and you’ll understand. As she draws her bow across the strings, Allison closes her eyes, and you note a visible transformation. It’s as if she becomes one with her instrument, a part of the music. You begin to believe she was born to play the cello, and she becomes enveloped in an unmistakable rhapsody.
To Allison, the music is worth it. At 16 years of age, music has taught this “average” teenager that if you want to go somewhere in life, decisions and sacrifices have to be made. Whether you’re studying for a test, preparing for a mission, or doing anything else, to excel you’ve just got to put in the time.
Maybe Allison Eldredge isn’t such an average teenager after all. She’s learned an eternal principle at a young age. In music, as in everything else, the satisfaction you take out is proportionate to the effort you put in. Allison knows that effort and determination are just what it takes.

Wouldn’t you get a little nervous if your high school counselor suddenly and unexpectedly called you into the office?
You would especially be nervous if you were Richard Aballay, a senior at a Catholic seminary in New York City. Richard had seen the commercials about the Mormon church on TV, had contacted the missionaries, and was baptized. But he hadn’t yet mentioned his baptism to anyone at the school, where boys prepare to become Catholic priests.
“How are you doing in your subjects?” the counselor began politely on that fateful day in late October.
“Fine,” said Richard, cautiously.
Then the counselor jumped to his real concern. “Are you affiliated with another church?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Why?”
“I have come to know the Savior better in this church. I know this church is doing more for me. It is the church of God.”
As the counselor began to lecture, warning Richard that being a member of a different church was grounds for dismissal, Richard thought how easy it would be to say he had made it all up. Then he could finish his senior year in peace.
“But I couldn’t do that,” Richard said later. “You can’t deny the truth when you have it.”
By the next day it was official: Richard had to leave.
The following week was torment, Richard said. But with much prayer, his family was able to find space for him in another good school.
“From that experience,” Richard says, “I have learned that the Lord will never abandon me.”
In fact, the experience gave Richard the chance to tell more people about the gospel, since his classmates wanted to know why he would leave school for his new beliefs.

Recently I found something I had written about my childhood that brought faith and fear into perspective for me. As a child, I failed to see the symbolism in the experience, but as an adult, standing at the edge of an unknown path, it now holds great meaning.

When I was very young, my family lived in a beautiful little community in New Jersey that surrounded a lake. It was a child’s paradise. In summer we splashed in cool water, climbed lush trees, and picked wild flowers and berries. In winter, snow and ice gave variety to our play as we skated, sledded, and built carrot-nosed snowmen. In any season we rarely tired of the great outdoors and reluctantly ventured inside only when it was dark.

One summer evening was an exception. I had been invited to a friend’s house to watch a favorite television program. When it was time to go, I said good-bye and began walking home along the winding, wooded path between our two houses.

In the darkness, the path I thought I knew became a fearsome jungle. I couldn’t see the occasional gnarled roots and sharp rocks protruding from the packed-down earth, and I tripped and fell. With my face in the dirt, sobs of frustration and fear wracked my seven-year-old body. As my tears subsided, I remained face down and immobile for a few seconds, fearing that I might be eaten by monsters, which were surely lurking behind every tree.

Then I remembered that before leaving home, my brother had tucked his penlight into my pocket, explaining that it would be dark when I returned. Relieved to find it just where he had placed it, I stood up, brushed off the dirt, and turned on the light. Although it produced only a dime-sized circle on the ground where I pointed it, and I couldn’t get the full vision of what was on either side or ahead of me, I could see where to step safely. And so, hesitantly, I headed for home, hoping that I was going in the right direction.

My confidence increased with my new visibility, and, glancing up for a brief moment, I became aware of another light at the end of the path. I was relieved to recognize it as my porch light. Someone who cared about my safe return had turned it on for me. I was still groping step by step along the path, but with my destination in sight my fear diminished.

Then, suddenly, my little circle of light grew broader. At first I questioned the power of my tiny penlight, so I stopped and turned it around to examine its intensity. Despite the small circle of light now shining in my face, the path ahead was flooded with light illuminated by another source. Puzzled, I looked up and could see my older brother standing a few feet away, directing his Boy Scout flashlight on my path. With this added light came a new perspective. I could now see my path more clearly, and with increased vision I was aware of the dangers on either side.

I couldn’t see the details along the entire stretch of my journey, but with my light now strengthened by my brother’s and the porch light marking my goal, I no longer felt afraid. I held my little light tightly, letting it shine where the brilliance of his led the way. That joint effort glowed gloriously. I could see now that each step in the right direction took me closer to my destination. With my tiny circle joining my brother’s larger light, we walked together toward home.

When we were almost there I asked, “How did you know I needed help, that I couldn’t find my way alone?”

“I just knew,” was his only reply. And he took my hand and led me safely inside.

John Halliday’s name appears on several documents relating to the Church in Wiltshire in the middle of the nineteenth century. Born in Trowbridge in 1819, he was the oldest child of Stephen and Jane Halliday. In 1836 he emigrated to America. Sometime between 1836 and 1842 he was baptised a member of the Church.
Sometime in 1844 John was sent back to Britain as a missionary, bringing his wife, Emily, and their youngest child with him. They would remain in Britain until the spring of 1850.
Two main sources provide information on John’s activities during those years: the Millennial Star and records from Salisbury Diocese, which detail applications to register ‘dissenter’ places of worship. ‘Dissenters’ were any denomination other than the Church of England.
The following applications were made by John Halliday to register places of worship in Wiltshire: [Table 1 Inserted as image)
Steeple Ashton was something of a stronghold of the Church in the mid-nineteenth century, as shown by the number of different locations registered for worship, and several histories have been written about the village residents who converted.1 As the list also shows, meeting places were most commonly family homes, particularly in villages. Many of the early converts emigrated, so by the end of the century most of the branches had been disbanded and no purpose-built Church meetinghouses are known to have existed in Wiltshire until the twentieth century.
John Halliday made the applications to register places of worship for the Church because of the leadership role he held in the area during his missionary service. Halliday was responsible for a total membership of 350 spread across eleven congregations, in three counties.
In May 1848 Halliday reported continuing success in a letter to Orson Spencer, then president of the British LDS mission. The letter was printed in the Star:
“Indeed I have never travelled so much and preached so often with so much satisfaction since my arrival in England; and what is better, I have never felt in better spirits for the battle, either in-doors or out in the public Market-place.“2
In October of the same year, he also reported:
“Large additions have been made to the kingdom of our God. I think we have baptized since conference over 100, and the elders and officers feel ripe and ready for the harvesting.”3
The work of John Halliday and his fellow missionaries, with the associated growth in Church membership, did not go unnoticed or unopposed. Writing to Franklin D. Richards (1821–1899) in December 1847, Halliday stated, “Since I wrote last to you, the officers of the law have interfered in our behalf, and last week we had quietness again,”4 showing that opposition was serious enough for Church members to seek police protection to be able to worship as they pleased.
John Halliday was central to the mission and growth of the Church in Wiltshire in the mid-nineteenth century. He was evidently a man of faith and conviction, and was willing to put that conviction to work, to help spread the good news of the restored gospel which he and his wife and brother had embraced. He was still a young man when he died, but we can say with some certainty that a wish he expressed in May 1848 was fulfilled: “My prayer to God is, that I may continue faithful.”5

It certainly did in Dallas, Texas. A young woman in the Dallas Texas East Stake invited her non-LDS friend to be a part of their service celebration. Her non-LDS parents were passing by the stake center and wanted to see what their daughter was doing there. They came in, listened to the program, felt the light. “We want to become a part of your church,” they said afterwards. The missionaries are now giving them the discussions.

Now, may I give one example of both basic and master planning.

Some of you may recall a brief report I gave last October on the Church branch in Bermejillo, Mexico. With the help of welfare services missionaries, the branch president and his welfare services committee undertook some basic planning to apply the very basic welfare services program of the Church in their branch. Their work resulted in significant changes in the lives of Church members. They painted their homes, penned their livestock, and taught the essentials of personal and family preparedness, emphasizing good health practices.

The results today are that a chapel is under construction with most of the work being done by the members, including making their own bricks. President Rodolfo William Mortensen, the mission president, indicates that the branch is now a ward. Nearly every family has a garden; some even produce honey from bees. Most families have started a year’s supply of food. Convert baptisms have increased sharply in the past year. All this has happened because Bishop Castaneda, a convert of eight years, had the vision of how to lead his people in living the gospel in Bermejillo. Basic planning, starting with the welfare of his members and reaching out to touch every facet of their lives, has lifted this ward to heights previously not thought possible.

As a mission president I emphasized to the missionaries the necessity of developing faith, determination, and courage. How successful I was is illustrated in the case of Elder Smith. Sister Richards and I met Elder Smith six years after he was released from his mission, and he told us the following story. He was seeking employment in a stock brokerage firm in Salt Lake and, after being interviewed in Salt Lake, was sent to the company’s headquarters in San Francisco. In San Francisco there were two persons interviewing him, a young man and an older man with a big cigar in his mouth. The older man, who seemed to be the one with the authority, told Elder Smith he understood that he had been on a mission for his church. Elder Smith said he had. The man then asked, “What kind of a missionary were you?”
Elder Smith answered, “The best missionary in the mission.”
The man was so startled by this forthright answer he almost dropped his cigar. He said, “If you were the best missionary in the mission, you’re hired right now.” Elder Smith had learned to apply the principles of faith, courage, and determination in his life.

Our influence is surely felt in our respective families. Sometimes we fathers forget that once we too were boys, and boys at times can be vexing to parents.
I recall how much, as a youngster, I liked dogs. One day I took my wagon and placed a wooden orange crate in it and went looking for dogs. At that time, dogs were everywhere to be found: at school, walking along the sidewalks, or exploring vacant lots, of which there were many. As I would find a dog and capture it, I placed it in the crate, took it home, locked it in the coal shed, and turned the latch on the door. That day I think I brought home six dogs of varying sizes and made them my prisoners after this fashion. I had no idea what I would do with all those dogs, so I didn’t reveal my deed to anyone.
Dad came home from work and, as was his custom, took the coal bucket and went to the coal shed to fill it. Can you imagine his shock and utter consternation as he opened the door and immediately faced six dogs, all attempting to escape at once? As I recall, Dad flushed a little bit, and then he calmed down and quietly told me, “Tommy, coal sheds are for coal. Other people’s dogs rightfully belong to them.” By observing him, I learned a lesson in patience and calmness.

The importance of what a good reputation means was emphasized to me when I entered into business many years ago with a great business leader. Our plans were to start a new wholesale business. He was to furnish the capital, and I was to furnish the management. After we reached an understanding he wrote me a check for a very large amount of money, and then he said, “If the business is a success, you will get all the credit; and if the business fails, you will likewise get all the credit.” He then went on to say, “Should the business fail, you will lose more than I will. I’ll only lose money, and I have more of that; but you will lose your reputation, which is much more valuable than money.”

I will never forget the value this highly successful businessman placed on reputation. Fortunately for both of us, the business was successful.

After Peter was released from the hospital, he arranged to go to Salt Lake City to undergo plastic surgery. He would live with his brother and sister-in-law and begin to work on his one great desire—to be as normal as possible.
But Peter had been living in a safe haven in the hospital. There people understood what had happened to him and accepted him for the person he was inside. But when he got out of the hospital he entered a world where people placed emphasis on appearances. An introduction to the outside world occurred when he went to the grocery store for the first time since his accident. He was feeling good about being out of the hospital, and his strength was returning. He walked to the store to pick up a few things. It was 5:00, and all the checkout counters were busy.
I was standing behind this lady. She had two young boys with her, but they were running around. Finally it was nearly her turn to be checked out, and her two boys came running over. As soon as they came up to their mom, one of the boys, about four years old, looked up and saw me. I scared him so badly, he started yelling, “Monster, monster.” He pulled away from his mother and started running down the aisle. She looked up to see what he was screaming about, and there I stood. She, too, dropped her groceries and took off down the aisle after the little boy. With this screaming, all the people at the other check stands were curious about what was going on. Everything stopped. Everyone turned and looked, and there I was in the middle of the store holding my loaf of bread. Then came all the ohs and ahs and people making comments that I could hear. It felt like a knife turning in my stomach.

When I was a young missionary serving in Hong Kong, there was a part of the city that had many apartment buildings with security guards. It was very difficult to get permission from the guards to go inside those buildings to tract. We often tried but usually failed.
But one afternoon, my companion and I felt we should go to that part of the city. During the bus trip there, we saw an older woman pushing a wooden cart up a steep hill. She seemed heavy laden, so we determined to help her. We got off at the next stop and ran back to help the woman. Her load was so heavy that it took two young missionaries 15 minutes to push it to the top of the hill.
We didn’t realize that anyone had seen us helping the woman. But some of the security guards must have been watching, because later that day, when we walked into their buildings, they simply let us pass. That afternoon we had much success—we found three new investigators, and one of them was later baptized.
Through following the Lord’s example of obedience and charity, we were greatly blessed. I’m so grateful for a perfect example to follow.

I love President Gordon B. Hinckley very much. He called me to be a Seventy in 1990. I was the first Chilean called as a General Authority. It was a beautiful moment in my life. However, when I was called, I didn’t speak any English. President Hinckley, who was then First Counselor in the First Presidency, blessed me when he set me apart that I would learn English quickly.
I have two gifts that helped me to learn English quickly. My first gift is a good memory. That has been my salvation in many jobs. The other gift is my persistence. If I have a job to do, I work and work at it until it’s done. When I began to learn English at age fifty-two, I studied it five hours a day, when I had time. I listened to audio tapes every morning, then studied grammar for an hour, which was difficult for me. After that, I read the conference talks in English and listened to them on tape at the same time. I memorized about ten new vocabulary words per day. Then I read aloud in English to practice pronunciation, and I listened to English on an international news station so that I could test my understanding of what was said.
Six months after being called as a General Authority, I prepared intensely for giving my first general conference talk in English. My talk was on the Word of Wisdom.
I have had experiences with seven prophets of the Church, from President David O. McKay until now. They have all been great leaders. Now it is a blessing for the Church to have the presence of President Hinckley. It is easy to love him and to express our love to him. He is very warm with us, and he loves us.
I am grateful for all you marvelous children in the Church, and I ask you to follow Jesus Christ, our beloved Leader.

As it got late, everybody separated except Patrick and me. We left together in a jeepney. Still wondering why Patrick didn’t join in, I thought back to a day four years before, when we were 16. I remembered we were walking in the street near our school when I told him I wanted to be a priest someday.

“In our church you could already be a priest,” Patrick replied. “You just need to be ordained. Then when you turn 19, you can preach the gospel as a missionary.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, thinking he didn’t know much about the gospel. “How can a 19-year-old preach to people? Priests take a lot of time to study so they can preach.”

Patrick insisted that 19-year-olds in his church could preach. He told me that his church also has another book of scripture, and he gave me a copy. I browsed through it at home, and I felt something mysterious in that book. But I didn’t really care about it; I just stuck it in a box, where it lay for the next four years.

Now, as we rode in the jeepney after the party, I asked Patrick where he was going. “I’m meeting some friends. They’re elders—missionaries.” I remembered having seen them around. I asked Patrick if he would take me to the elders so I could ask them some questions about their church.

We met up with the missionaries at a store near their subdivision, and they greeted us by shaking our hands. It was very formal. But after they introduced themselves to me, I realized they seemed like any other guys. They wanted to set up an appointment to answer my questions.

“OK, I’ll just get your number so if I’m available, I will text you,” I replied. I wasn’t really planning to text them.

When I got home, I got the book Patrick had given me four years before—something about it made me curious. The next morning I texted the missionaries to teach me. They started with the Restoration of the gospel. It sounded so different, and I told myself, “Why do people want to restore things when they know that older generations are different than our generation now?”

After two discussions I decided not to pursue them anymore. When asked why, I replied, “I’m just not interested anymore.” One week passed. I sat staring at the Book of Mormon, pondering the message I had been taught. I started to read what the missionaries told me to in 3 Nephi 11. I read that Jesus went to another nation to show that He was the Savior and Messiah. In 3 Nephi 15, I recognized one passage that I had read before in the Bible, in John 10:16. It was something the missionaries hadn’t even taught me yet.

Tears fell down my face, and I found myself weeping in my room. I realized the love Jesus Christ has for us. He loves us so much that He gave His own life to save us from our sins. I didn’t hesitate to pray, asking to know if the Book of Mormon I was holding is true. Praying in my room, all alone, I suddenly felt that somebody was there listening to me.

My heart was softened by the impressions I had received. I stood up and said, “This is the true Church. I know that this is the Church that Jesus Christ restored.”

The day before my baptism, I repeated the process of praying. Again what I had heard and felt sunk into my heart, and I knew the Holy Ghost had revealed the truth to me. I knew the truth that Jesus is the Christ. I felt in my heart and mind that I desired to be baptized, believing that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ I could be cleansed.

Jesus Christ atoned for our sins, and this is the very reason I was converted. I know that He was the only one who has the power and the authority to rebuild His Church in our dispensation. Now as a missionary serving in the Philippines Cagayan de Oro Mission, I am doing the best I can to help people feel the great happiness I have now.

It had been an exciting visit, the first one ever made to Samoa by an apostle. Long rowboats decorated with colorful garlands of vines and flowers had met the boat when David O. McKay and Hugh J. Cannon arrived. A Mormon band greeted the rowboats at the wharf and proudly escorted the visitors to a circle where all the chiefs of the island waited to welcome them with speeches and the kava drink ceremony. Then a great feast was enjoyed under a coconut leaf canopy, and many people brought their children and their sick ones to be blessed.

During the next week meetings had been held on the various islands, and now the last morning was to be spent with the children in their school at Sauniatu.

This was May 31, 1921—thirty years before David O. McKay became president of the Church—but he often referred to the day as one of the most memorable of his life. That night he wrote about it in his diary:

“As we came out of the school, we found the people standing in double column from our door out across the lawn to the street.

“Finally, the last little boy crowding around had pressed our hands, so with tear-bedimmed eyes, we walked slowly toward the stream beyond which our horses were waiting. The band on the porch played ‘Tofa, My Feleni’ and the people stood waving their farewell. Before we were ready to start, they gathered around us again, eager to have one more handshake.

“As we rode slowly away, the band leading, the people followed as if they just would not yield to parting. We had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of them, when I felt impressed to say, ‘I think we should return and leave our blessing with them here in this beautiful grove.’

“As we approached the sobbing crowd, I could not help thrilling with the scene!

“Hanging my folded umbrella on an overhanging limb of a kopoc tree, I dismounted. The sobs of the people were louder than my voice when I began the prayer, but they became more subdued as I continued and their Amene was distinct and impressive at the close.

“Oh, I never will forget you, Samoa e le galo atu.”

Some who were present testified that as the inspired words of the blessing to the people were spoken, a halo of brightness rested upon Elder McKay, and although many in the group could not understand English, they knew what had been said before the Samoan translation was given.

The next year a monument to mark the spot of this event was dedicated on which was written:

“Apostle David O. McKay Stood Just Across the River

And Pronounced a Memorable Apostolic Blessing

Upon the Assembled Sauniatu Saints

A Fitting Climax to a Perfect Visit …”

As a new full-time missionary I was anxious to see what Christmas would be like in Guayaquil, Ecuador, where I was serving.
I knew we would not be having a snowy white Christmas like those I was accustomed to. As other thoughts of turkey dinners, gifts, lights, and caroling flashed through my mind, I began to long for the Christmas traditions I was familiar with.
My companion and I felt a renewed urgency and greater responsibility to spread the restored gospel of Jesus Christ to make the Christmas season more meaningful.
One December day we stopped at the humble home of Señor Torres and were given a warm welcome. He told us he had been waiting and praying for the truth for eight years. For two months my companion and I had passed by his house daily without stopping. Señor Torres said, “I always wanted to stop you to ask about your church, but you were always walking so fast that I thought you were too busy for me.” Prayers had been answered. We began teaching Señor Torres and his family with great joy.
Christmas day drew nearer, and we could hardly wait to see the Torres family as we quietly approached their home for our fourth visit. Before we knocked on the door, we saw through the window a scene that touched our hearts.
Beauty emanated from the whole family, their loving eyes, rosy cheeks, and gentle faces glowing in the dimly lit room. Beneath a tree on a table in the corner stood miniature Nativity figures, telling the story of a small family in a stable. Two young girls leaned eagerly over their mother’s shoulder as she read from a book we had given her, Gospel Principles. The oldest child, eight-year-old Victor, was watching attentively as his father played “Silent Night” on a xylophone.
Victor saw us and ran to greet us. We joined in singing “Silent Night” in Spanish. Next they asked us to sing it in English, and then we all sang it together again in Spanish.
Sister Torres told us that before we had shared the gospel with her family she had not felt like celebrating Christmas. But now pictures of Christ, Christmas music, and the Nativity scene had been brought from their place in the cupboards, where they had been collecting dust for the past three years. The true Christmas spirit had been restored as we had presented the gospel message. As servants of the Lord, testifying in His name, we had helped to bring Jesus Christ back into the family’s Christmas.
On the third week of December, Christmas became complete for me as I watched Brother and Sister Torres and Victor, all dressed in white, enter the waters of baptism and become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My companion turned to me and whispered, “Looks like it’s a white Christmas after all.” I couldn’t have asked for a more meaningful Christmas.

One day the Christian students at my school had a special assembly. We were invited to share our testimonies. A hush fell over the room. No one went up to the stage. Everyone was too afraid! I am very shy, so I felt that way too.
Then a warm wave flowed over me, and I felt the Holy Ghost tell me, “Go, go.” I said a quick prayer in my heart. I walked up to the stage with butterflies fluttering in my stomach.
I told my classmates that Heavenly Father loves us and wants us to talk to Him often. I shared my experiences with prayer. I said I know Heavenly Father always listens to me and wants to help me. I was glad I had the courage to share my testimony. I felt like I had been a shining light in a quiet room.

Illustration by Katelyn Budge
I was extremely nervous to audition for my first play, so I prayed and asked to be blessed with the specific role that I wanted. As I prayed, I felt prompted to correct myself, so I added, “If not the role I want, please bless me with the role I need.”
The audition went great, but I didn’t get the part I wanted. I got a smaller role—with a singing solo. The role I’d wanted didn’t have that. I trusted God and accepted the smaller part, and I loved it! I don’t know if I would’ve discovered my passion for theater if I’d gotten the role I’d wanted.
I’m so glad I listened to that prompting. It strengthened my relationship with Heavenly Father to put myself into His hands and say that I would accept whatever part I received.
JJ J., age 17, Tennessee, USA
Likes theater and rollerblading

I don’t remember the exact words I used when I told my bishop that I had decided not to serve a mission. But I remember well his disappointment and the next question he asked me: “Do your parents know what you’ve decided?”
Of course they didn’t know; I hadn’t discussed my decision with anyone. As I left the bishop’s office that day, I thought, “Whew, I’m glad that’s over.”
It wasn’t that I hadn’t been taught the gospel. Our family was very active, I attended all my meetings, and I had graduated from seminary. I’m sure everyone assumed that I would go on a mission.
I was living at home, attending a nearby junior college, and trying to find a job. My hair was long, in the “hippie” fashion of the day, so it was difficult for me to find work. As my hair grew longer, tension grew between my father and me. When he told me to get a haircut, I left the house and spent three days with a friend. My return home without a haircut was my way of showing him that I was going to do as I pleased.
Several ward members mentioned to me that my decision not to go on a mission had broken my parents’ hearts. My church attendance slipped as I began to feel that the adults in our ward disapproved of my attitude and my hair length. (It wasn’t until much later that I learned that they had prayed numerous times for something to happen in my life that would help me find myself.)
When I did attend church, I attended elders quorum meetings, though I had not been ordained an elder. One Sunday morning the elders quorum president said, “We would like to call you to be a home teacher. Will you accept the call?”
Shocked, I said yes.
“Your companion will be Bill Brothers,” he continued.
As soon as I left the building, I began to plan how I could get out of this commitment. Just then Bill Brothers walked over to me. We were about the same age, and I had known him since our days together in Primary.
“Guess we’re going to be home-teaching companions, aren’t we?” Bill asked.
“I guess so,” I acknowledge glumly.
“Why don’t we show the guys in our ward how home teaching should really be done?” he said.
That thought struck me like a thunderbolt. Yes! We would show the men in our ward how home teaching should be done! We would do it better than any of them, and maybe that would silence the criticism about my attitude and my hair. Bill and I decided that the first thing to do was to ask the fathers in the two families assigned to us what they would like us to teach to their families.
Bill made the appointments. I assumed that each father would ask us to teach his children about getting along with each other or some other basic topic—but I was wrong.
“Well, boys,” said Brother Smith, “our family has been trying to read the Book of Mormon. Since our children are fairly young, it is sometimes hard for them to understand what we read. I think it would be great if you could tell us the basic stories from the Book of Mormon in chronological order.”
When we left the Smith home, Bill suggested that we visit the Smiths more than once a month. Bill was leaving on a mission in about three months and wanted to tell all the Book of Mormon stories before he left.
Bill also suggested that we start with the book of Ether, since it was first chronologically. He would give the story of the first half of Ether, and I would do the second half. I had thought this assignment was going to be easy, but now I knew I would have to spend some time preparing. I unenthusiastically agreed to do it.
Just before our first visit, I quickly read over the last part of Ether and hoped I would remember enough to get by. However, as we met with the Smiths, a sweet spirit of gentle anticipation filled the room. I felt embarrassed that I was not as well prepared as Bill, and I left determined to be prepared on our next visit.
Over the next two months, I read the entire Book of Mormon. At first, I read it just so I could tell the story to the Smith family. Soon, however, I began to ask myself, “What if this is really true?”
My view of the world began to change as I learned eternal principles from Nephi, Lehi, and Jacob. When I read of Alma’s prayers concerning his wayward son, Alma the Younger, I understood my parents’ anguish over me. I felt the spirit of Helaman as he wrote of his faithful stripling soldiers, and I wondered if I would have been as courageous as they had been. I read of the Savior’s visit and his teachings. I learned that the Nephites had been destroyed because of their wickedness. Finally, I read in Moroni that we would meet at the Judgment Day and that the Lord would hold us responsible for the words contained in the Book of Mormon. I felt as if Moroni had written that message specifically for me.
Suddenly, I knew the Book of Mormon was true! The seed of faith had been planted within me, and now it had grown until I could scarcely contain it. I wanted to tell everyone I met of the joy I felt in finding out that the Book of Mormon was true, that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God, and that the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints were true. I wept in gratitude for having received this witness.
I drove over to Bishop Toolson’s house and knocked on the door. He invited me in and asked what he could do for me. Outwardly I didn’t look any different—my hair was longer than ever; yet inwardly, I had experienced a mighty change of heart. The words burst from me: “I want to go on a mission.”
Bishop Toolson smiled and invited me into his living room. He opened his briefcase and pulled out my missionary recommendation form. He had already filled it out completely, except for one box—and that was the first question that he asked me now: “When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible,” I answered. I could hardly wait to go! Bishop Toolson instructed me that I would need to submit a picture of myself—with a proper missionary haircut. I assured him that I would take care of that immediately.
I received my mission call on 4 August 1972. During my mission, I often bore my solemn witness that I knew from my own experience that the Book of Mormon was true. I learned that if we would encourage others to study the Book of Mormon, pray about it, and try to live by its teachings, they, too, would discover the truth of the Book of Mormon.