Gospel Story Finder

Pam had never really thought of herself as being different. She had always known, of course, that she was Korean and that she had been adopted by Mom and Dad when she was just a baby. She loved to hear the story about how her parents went to the airport to get her and how excited they were to have the baby placed in their arms. She enjoyed looking at the special album her mother had, which contained her medical report, a brief history, and several pictures. She giggled at the two small pictures of the chubby baby in the strange Korean woman’s arms. Her mom always told her that she and Dad had taken one look at those pictures and said, “Yes, we want that child!”
But today she didn’t feel wanted as she huddled in a corner of the school yard and tried to keep the tears from falling. Just a few minutes ago their teacher, Mrs. Macy, had lined them up by the door and asked,
“All right, who’s turn is it to be the line leader for kickball today?”
“Me! Me!” Randy had demanded loudly.
Mrs. Macy had been gentle but firm. “Randy, you were leader last week.” After checking her list, she had given the ball to Pam.
When they were outside, Randy had come up to Pam and demanded to be the leader.
“It’s my turn. I want to do it,” Pam had said, clutching the ball more tightly.
“Come on, Pam. Let me do it.”
“No.”
“You dumb Chinese!”
The words had come out harshly and spitefully. Pam had frozen. Randy, pleased to be getting a reaction from her, had continued, “You don’t even belong in this country. You’re not like us at all! Why don’t you just go back to where you came from?”
Pam had felt the eyes of her other classmates boring into her. No one had said a word. Pam had dropped the ball and had run across the field.
It was hard to go back to the classroom when the bell rang. Pam slumped down in her seat all afternoon and didn’t speak to anyone. The minute school was over, she rushed out of the building and raced home. She gave her mother a brief hello, then locked herself in the bathroom. She stared at her slanted eyes, olive complexion, and straight black hair. She was different!
Pam barely said anything during dinner, but it all came pouring out when her mother brought out a pink brocade Oriental jacket she had bought for Pam.
Pam’s thank-you for the gift was barely audible.
“Don’t you like it?” her mother asked. “I think it’s beautiful.”
“No, I don’t!” Pam burst out. “It looks Oriental. I want to look like everyone else!”
Her parents exchanged glances. “What happened today, Pam?” her mother asked quietly.
Pam told them about what Randy had said and how the rest of the class had stared at her.
“Randy is mistaken,” Dad said. “First of all, you are not Chinese; you are Korean. You’re certainly not dumb. And what is most important to us, you are our daughter, and we love you very much.”
Talking to her parents helped. Pam felt secure in their love for her. But she still dreaded going to school the next day. She waited until the very last bell had rung before hurrying to her seat. She stared straight ahead throughout the class period, and when recess time came, she went to a corner of the field and stayed by herself. She didn’t talk to anyone the whole day, not even to Patti, her best friend. When school was over, and Patti started toward her, to walk home together the way they usually did, Pam hurried away.
Pam kept to herself the next week too. She didn’t play with anyone at school, and she spent her time at home reading in her room. Her mother urged her to go out and play with her friends, but Pam just shook her head.
The following Monday she walked home slowly. There was no need to hurry anymore, because Patti no longer tried to catch up with her. Pam was just heading into the field across from the service station when she heard a low whine. Something or somebody was in trouble! She stopped and listened. There it was again, a whine of pain just to her left. She hesitantly walked toward it. Bending down, she saw a dog tangled in some brush so that it couldn’t get free. While she spoke soothingly to the dog, Pam gently freed his trapped leg.
It was after she had untangled the dog and he was licking her hand gratefully that Pam got her first real look at him. He was the funniest-looking dog that she had ever seen. He had one huge black patch around one eye, and his nose was bent to one side. His ears were way too long for his short body, and Pam saw that his legs were short and bowlegged.
As Pam started for home again, the dog waddled along right behind her. “Go away now!” Pam told him firmly. “Go home!”
But the dog kept following her. When she reached her house, she wondered, What am I going to do with him? She knelt down and scratched him behind the ears. Again the dog’s tongue licked her. Pam sighed and went into the house, her new friend right at her heels.
“Pam, what is that!” Mother exclaimed.
Pam explained how she had found the dog and how he had followed her home. “He’s awfully skinny, Mom—can I feed him something?” she pleaded.
Worried about the dog’s ownership but happy to see Pam interested in something again, her mother went to the refrigerator for some leftover meat.
Pam spent the rest of the afternoon with the dog. She decided to call him Hector. After she gave him a bath with the garden hose, she brushed his coat until it was dry and shining. Then she found a stick and tried to teach him to chase it. When Hector got the idea and bounded eagerly after the stick with his curious lopsided gait, Pam laughed with delight. By the time her father came home, she thought Hector was the cutest dog she’d ever seen.
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
Pam giggled. “A dog!” She explained again how she had found him. “I call him Hector. Can we keep him? Oh, please! Can we?” she pleaded as her mother joined them in the backyard.
Her father knelt down beside her and Hector. “OK—but only if you check the newspaper. He probably belongs to someone, honey.”
“I will, Dad, but I’m sure he doesn’t! There’s no collar or anything. Please. I love him!”
“That funny looking thing?”
“He’s not funny looking!”
“What do you mean? Look at that patch, that nose, those legs.”
Pam drew Hector protectively into her arms. “But I like him! Just because he looks a little different from other dogs doesn’t mean that he isn’t the most super dog in the world. I love the way he looks.”
Her father stroked her hair. “Why, Pam. Do you mean that a dog—or a person—can look different and still be very wonderful and very loved?”
“Yes! That’s what I like about Hector. He’s different! He’s—” she stopped as she realized the point her father was making. Maybe she was a little different from the other kids, but Dad and Mom and Mrs. Macy and her friend Patti liked her just as she was!
Dad went into the house, and Pam sat outside for a long time, thinking and stroking Hector’s back. At last she got up and went into the house, with Hector following her. Her parents were sitting in the living room.
“I’m going to call Patti,” she said. “I want to see if she can come over after dinner and meet Hector.”

When I was about 12, I was asked to sing a solo in my home ward. My parents encouraged me to memorize the hymn so that I could look out into the audience. I worked on the song for many weeks until I could sing it without looking at the words. When the Sunday arrived, I sat on the stand and felt my heart pounding. I had sung in other wards before, but I felt nervous singing in front of people I knew. My greatest fear was that I would make a mistake.
When it was time, I stood up and walked up to the microphone. I felt my stomach flip. I was too afraid to make eye contact with anyone, so I looked at the clock at the back instead. My accompanist began to play the introduction, and I started to sing. I made it halfway through the hymn without any difficulties when I looked down from the clock to the congregation. Suddenly, I forgot the words to the hymn. My accompanist continued playing for a few more measures until she figured out I had stopped singing. She went back to where I had left off and encouragingly played the melody, hoping to remind me of the words.
The words did not come. Fear began to rise within me. My face flushed with heat, and I could feel my ears turning red. My mind raced through the words of the hymn trying to remember what came next, but the words did not come. I looked out into the audience feeling humiliated and embarrassed. My heart crumpled with disappointment and embarrassment. I began to cry. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I hung my head, burying my face in my hands. I felt everyone staring at me. I wasn’t sure whether I should sit down or stand there until I could remember the words.
Suddenly, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I looked up through teary eyes to see my bishop, Bishop Smith, smiling at me. He leaned down and told me that he would sing with me. He then nodded to the sister to begin playing. Bishop Smith’s beautiful baritone voice filled the chapel as he began to sing. He knew the words! As soon as he sang them, I remembered them as well. With his arm around my shoulder, I felt the courage to begin again, and together we finished the song.

About two years ago I stood in the church in Copenhagen, Denmark, in which stands the original Christus statue—renowned and beloved by our faith—by the Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen. Around the chapel also stand statues of Christ’s Twelve Apostles.

President Spencer W. Kimball visited that church in 1976, accompanied by several members of the Quorum of the Twelve. President Kimball said to a kind maintenance worker, pointing to the statues, “These are the dead Apostles.” Then, pointing to his Brethren, he said, “Here we have the living Apostles.” He said, “Elder Packer is an Apostle.” And, pointing to the others, he said, “Elder Monson and Elder Perry are Apostles, and I am an Apostle. We are the living Apostles.” The custodian, who up to that time had shown little emotion, was suddenly in tears.

Let me close by relating an experience that occurred a few years ago, again in the islands. It will demonstrate the universality of the basic premise that we began with—that all people do have a mission and they can perform it no matter where they are or under what circumstances they may live. As I conclude with that story and testimony, let us reevaluate our lives and make sure that we are doing with them what the Lord would have us do.

Years ago as a young missionary, I was impressed by an older island couple who always seemed to be helping the missionaries and others. Every time I went to their home I would find them reading the scriptures or fixing a meal for a missionary or tending a neighbor’s child or preparing a Relief Society lesson or rendering some sort of service. They were not blessed with children of their own, but they were always helping so-called “outcast” children.

I was soon moved to another area and left for home without ever returning to that area. I often wondered about that couple who had so impressed me. I was sure the Lord would bless them.

Years later I was again in the area as the mission president when a messenger asked if I would visit a certain elderly widow named Luisa. Upon inquiring, I realized that it was the family I had wondered about all of these years. Her husband had obviously passed away; and as the messenger gave me the address, I realized she was still in the same old house she had been in those many years before. Of course we made arrangements to visit her.

It was late afternoon when we drove up to the home. I was surprised to realize that hardly anything had changed. It was a neat, clean home, but a very humble one. As I walked up to the house I noticed her waiting by the open door. She held her hand out in a slightly waving fashion. Then I realized that she had gone blind. As I took her in my arms, I realized also that she had not long to stay in this life as there was nothing but the frailest body of skin and bones.

We sat and visited, and she talked about her desire to help the “poor” people. I suggested that she may need some help herself. She kindly informed me that she was rich and had nothing to worry about.

I was a little confused and began to inquire. I found that she and her husband had often saved money to pay their air fare to the temple only to end up lending it to someone else who needed it more. When all the facts came out, I said to her, “Luisa, how can you say you don’t have anything to worry about? You have no husband, you have no children, you’re blind, you are in poor health, you live in a poor home, you haven’t been to the temple. How can you say you’re rich?”

Then she stopped all of my questions by quietly informing me that she was rich because she knew the Lord was pleased with her life. She said, “I know I will be with my husband soon. I know the Lord will bless us with a family. I may not have done all that I could, but I know that the Lord is pleased with what I have done.”

I cannot express fully what happened at that time. However, I would like you to ponder Doctrine and Covenants 6:7, wherein the Lord says, “Seek not for riches but for wisdom, and behold, the mysteries of God shall be unfolded unto you, and then shall you be made rich. Behold, he that hath eternal life is rich.” [D&C 6:7]

Luisa had taken the time to discover her mission and calling in life and had done whatever was necessary to fulfill it. She had obtained the “wisdom” spoken of.

My father had to fight for his testimony, and my mother rolled up her sleeves and fought alongside him. When he was 19, he found that some of his choices in life were bringing on difficult consequences. One day he was sitting on a bridge over a river, contemplating his young life and wondering if there was more meaning to this earthly experience than what he knew. His older brother saw him and came and sat by his side. As they were talking, his brother said, "Hey, I just found this new church and was baptized. You should get baptized too, and if you don't like it then you can quit in a year." My dad thought "Why not?" and decided to get baptized. He soon met my mother, and a year later they were sealed in the Cardston Alberta Temple. A few years later, after my sister and I were born, he was called to be a Seventy and stake missionary. His new priesthood office and calling required him to visit people and teach them about the gospel. He became very concerned about this. He didn't want to share a message with others about something that he wasn't sure was true. He decided he'd better find out if it was true or not. He had never read the Book of Mormon and really only joined the Church because in his mind it was going to keep him alive. He had never worked to gain a testimony; he was just going through the motions of being a member. But now he knew he needed to find out if what he was taught at church was real. He and my mom discussed what they should do. My mom had never read the book of Mormon either, so they decided they would read it together. They did not just casually read; they read with real intent and prayed every night. My dad was aware of Moroni's promise and had taken it to heart. He had a strong desire to find out if the things he had been taught at church were true. His desire to know of the truth and his action of reading and praying every day led to an answer. Somewhere in the middle of Alma, he had received a witness that the Book of Mormon was true, and his prayers changed. Instead of asking if it was true, they changed to ask for help to increase his understanding. The Holy Spirit bore witness to both my parents, and my dad now had a testimony of the Book of Mormon and that he was a member of the true Church on earth. His concerns for sharing the gospel were gone, and he became an enthusiastic stake missionary.

Elder Mark E. Petersen taught me another penetrating lesson about delegating when he was the supervisor of the missions on the East Coast in the late 1960s. He toured the North Carolina Virginia Mission over which we were presiding in order to give instruction and help.
Knowing of his very distinguished service as president of the European missions, I knew he would be able to give me the answers to all my mission supervision problems. So when we had a few spare minutes together, I would ask about a problem and invite his recommendation. In response he would most often say something like this: “I know one mission president who solved that problem in this way. Another in a more distant area solved it this way.” Always he outlined possible solutions but left the selection of the solution to me. After six days he left on the plane, having responded to my every request for help but leaving to me the responsibility to choose the solutions and accept the consequences of my decisions. That was one of many helpful lessons taught by an outstanding leader in the Lord’s work.

Illustration by Brad Teare
Lucia wiped away a tear. She didn’t want the other kids to see. She left the school grounds and hurried toward home.
Lucia lived on a small, beautiful island. She was the only member of the Church at school. Everybody else went to the same church. They teased Lucia and wouldn’t play with her because she was different.
That wasn’t the only problem. Sometimes the teachers ignored Lucia when she raised her hand.
But today was the worst! Lucia thought. She kicked a pebble down the road. During class, the teacher read some Bible verses that Lucia didn’t understand. They made it sound like Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were the same person. Then the teacher said there were some churches that didn’t believe what the Bible taught. She looked straight at Lucia. Everybody in class laughed.
Lucia was confused. Weren’t Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost separate? What was going on?
Suddenly she had a happy thought. She could ask the missionaries! They came to Lucia’s village every day. They’ll know how to help! she thought.
When Lucia got home, she saw Sister Brown and Sister Ruiz. They were helping pump water up to a tank on the roof.
Lucia asked her question right away. “Why does the Bible say Heavenly Father and Jesus are the same person?”
Sister Brown smiled. “That’s a good question. After lunch let’s look for some scriptures to help.”
Lucia hardly tasted any of the yummy ropa vieja stew Mama had made. All she wanted was the answer!
Finally lunch was over. Lucia and the missionaries opened their scriptures. They read about Joseph Smith’s vision. Then they read about Jesus’s baptism. Both scriptures showed that Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were separate.
“So why do those other scriptures say they’re the same?” asked Lucia.
Sister Brown started turning the pages. “Let’s read in John 17:21–22. That’s where Jesus prays to Heavenly Father about His Apostles.”
They all took turns reading. In the scriptures, Jesus prayed that His Apostles “may be one” like He and Heavenly Father are one. Lucia counted three different times He said it.
“The Apostles couldn’t all become the same person,” Sister Ruiz said. “But they could become one in how they believed and acted. That’s how Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost are one.”
Lucia began to feel warm inside. She knew it was the Holy Ghost. He was telling her that what Sister Ruiz said was true.
Heavenly Father and Jesus weren’t the same person. But They were the same in what They said and did. And Lucia knew that They both loved her.

In 1940, the only chapel in Laie burned down but because of restrictions caused by World War II, they were unable to start rebuilding it until 1948. The local church members decided to start a Hukilau as a fundraising activity for the new chapel.
Hundreds of visitors and island residents attended the first Laie Hukilau, which was held at Laie Bay, better known today as Hukilau Beach. The Polynesians demonstrated and sold arts and crafts, invited the visitors to help huki the nets at the appropriate time, served a traditional Hawaiian luau in the canoe house, and afterward entertained them with traditional Hawaiian and Samoan music and dance. That first Laie Hukilau was a huge success and it continued periodically over the next 20-plus years. It also clearly demonstrated to leaders at the Church that visitors were willing to drive from Waikiki to Laie to enjoy the warm hospitality of the Laie residents.
As a result of those earlier saints who "endured well" the desire to rebuild what is today known as the Back Chapel, situated next to the temple, they actively and creatively found a way to raise the needed funds but they also paved the way for the creation of The Polynesian Cultural Center which first opened its gates on October 12, 1963. Now, more than 33 million visitors have experienced that same aloha spirit, from the days of the Laie Hukilau. Many of the old Laie Hukilau performers were among the early PCC workers and villagers. The Lord truly does bless those who learn to "endure it well" (see www.polynesia.com).

When I was a little boy, I lived on a ranch in Firth, Idaho. I had fun doing all the things a little boy could do on a ranch—feeding the chickens and petting the sheep, ducks, rabbits, and pigs.
My parents had often warned my older brother and me to never play with the farm machinery. But one day we started playing near the combine, which is a big machine that cuts grain. My brother discovered the crank that made the blades move to cut the grain. While he turned the crank, I started putting grass and leaves in the machine and watching the blades cut them.
Then I saw something shocking. Lying among the grass and leaves was my own finger! The very sharp blades of the machine had cut my finger off. My finger hurt a lot, and so did my conscience. I knew that I had lost my finger because I had disobeyed my mother and father.
Just as our parents give us guidance to keep us safe, so does Heavenly Father. As a young man, I was in the National Guard. I went to Fort Knox, Kentucky, to learn all about tanks and helicopters so that I could be an officer in an armored cavalry unit. While I was there, I made friends with a soldier who was not a member of our church. My friend often teased me because I did not drink or smoke, as he did. I told him about the Word of Wisdom and about other Church teachings.
One day our troop had to run a special kind of race. Every so often along the ten-mile course, we had to stop and pass a test. For example, we might have to figure out why a tank wasn’t running, adjust a machine gun, or do something else we had been learning in our training. My friend and I agreed that this race would be a good test of whose lifestyle was healthier—his or mine.
The men started the race one at a time in alphabetical order, with about a minute between each man. My friend’s last name started with A and mine with C, so he started the race a few minutes before I did. About a third of the way through the course, I saw a truck with a red cross on its side. Inside the ambulance was my friend. Because he did not take good care of his body, he was not physically fit and could not finish the race. I finished in good shape because I had always lived the Word of Wisdom.
I am so grateful that the Lord cares for us so much that He tells us how to take good care of our bodies and our spirits. Living the Word of Wisdom will truly give you strength. It will help you run and not be weary and walk and not faint—all because the Lord loves you.

My mother taught us when we were very young that we must never ridicule the unfortunate. Her mother died when she was six. My mother worked in the fields from a very early age. One day some teenagers were picking fruit. One of the girls laughingly mimicked one who suffered from cerebral palsy, saying, “Look who I am,” and she named the handicapped person. They all laughed as she threw herself into a stumbling walk. Suddenly she fell as if struck down. They gathered around her in great fright. Presently she recovered, but there was no more fun at the expense of the handicapped. Mother never forgot what she saw, nor to teach a lesson from it.

While serving as a mission president I asked a missionary who was having difficulty developing the spirit of his calling to go for a drive. We drove far up into the hills. No one was near. After several hours he finally revealed the problem he had been hiding and his feeling of guilt. He was ashamed of what he had done. I listened. We talked it out. Then we watched a missionary virtually come to life with the spirit of his calling.

During my final semester at BYU as an undergraduate, I was employed as a teaching assistant in a biology course. I read the student papers in the first assignment without much enthusiasm. They were technically sound and syntactically proficient but lacked animation. Then I got to a paper that started with a beautiful poem. With that verse and the writing that followed, this student captured essential truths that were missing from all the other essays and taught eternal principles of stewardship and the divinity of creation. The student’s science paper was alive with metaphor and ethereal language. The writing transcended the expectations of a student’s scientific paper, reflecting gifts primarily developed in the humanities.

As I went into class and handed back the essays, I slowly whittled down the pile until there was only that paper and a lovely young woman with deep brown eyes sitting on the front row wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots. I handed her the paper, smiled, and said, “Wow, you have beautiful . . . writing. We should talk.”

We did talk, and after I had graded my final essay that semester, I asked her out on our first date. We married a year after that, and in May of this year we celebrated our thirtieth anniversary. She has the beautiful disposition of a disciple-scholar and easily navigates between her own poetry, research, support of student scientific writing, and divine truths.

As a Kenyan teenager, Jastus Suchi Obadiah once vowed to his friends that he would physically harm any white South African he happened to meet. “My friends and I often read in the newspapers about the injustices of apartheid, and we hated white South Africans,” he explains. Fortunately, Jastus forgot his hateful vow before he ever met a South African.
As a young man, Jastus was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by his cousin, a Church member. “I’ll never forget the first missionaries who taught me; one was a black African, and one was a white elder from the United States,” says Jastus. As Jastus observed these two young men working together in harmony, “I learned there were many good people no matter what their color.
“As they taught me, the principle of love came into my heart. I realized that to be like God, you really must be loving. My sense of love grew—even for my enemies.” Two years after his baptism, Jastus was himself a missionary, serving in the Kenya Nairobi Mission.
Jastus and his senior companion seemed to work particularly well together; they shared a strong mutual respect and quickly became the best of friends. One day, as Jastus was looking into the white face of his South African companion, the long-forgotten vow made in his teens came rushing back to him. “It really affected my heart when I remembered what I had said. Then I realized how wonderful the gospel is, because it brings people together, no matter who we are or where we come from.
“And I felt how wonderful it is to teach this gospel together with my white companion,” he says. “The gospel changed the course of my life.”

What I said about failing any classes was technically correct, but on one occasion I came close, at least in my perception at the time. One of the key premedical courses was comparative vertebrate anatomy, and it was well known that an A was absolutely essential to medical school admission. I was a serious student and worked hard but consistently received C’s on my tests, and that was my final grade. Incidentally, I was naïve enough not to know that the third of the class that did exceptionally well had old tests from the course and the professor always used the same tests!

I was crestfallen and felt that my aspirations had been trashed. Happily, a wonderful premed counselor helped me understand that this was not necessarily the end of the world and probably would not be unless this level of achievement became a pattern. Fortunately, it did not.

About 10 years after this comparative anatomy course trauma, I became the admissions dean of a medical school. I then learned that the common wisdom of my undergraduate years was a myth. In fact, the admissions committee was well aware of the testing practices of this anatomy professor and thus tended to discount the importance of his grades, rather than giving them the prominence that others, including possibly the professor, had attached to them.

Those in attendance at the Why I Believe service were also delighted to be joined by the mayor and mayoress of Stockton-on-Tees, Jim and Pauline Beall. Councillor Beall, having been born and raised in Stockton-on-Tees, is a man who is passionate about helping the community and local people. He has a great wealth of experience in the social care sector, having worked in this field for 33 years previously. The care and compassion of him and his wife, Pauline, shone through as they visited the Billingham meetinghouse.
Sam Cox, Billingham Stake Relief Society president, reflected on the night when she said, “It was a pleasure to be able to welcome the mayor and mayoress of Stockton-on-Tees into the Billingham meetinghouse, as we celebrated together being a part of this faith community. Why I Believe has such a depth to it, yet through beautiful music and the words spoken, we felt a witness of the love that Heavenly Father has for us. What a blessing it was to have an evening where the focus was on our Saviour, Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace, the Solid Foundation in whom we believe.”
The mayor and mayoress shared great enthusiasm and awe about the music and testimonies they heard and were extremely grateful for the invitation. When they were presented with a Book of Mormon, the mayor mentioned that he already had a Book of Mormon sitting on his bookshelf at home but would be more than happy to take another. He commented on the beautiful artwork that can be found in the Book of Mormon. It was a fantastic evening to share in belief and faith with each other.

To British Saints and thousands of Americans whose ancestry springs from this part of England, Liverpool and Preston are as much a part of the rich Latter-day Saint heritage as Nauvoo and Kirtland. And it was the word heritage in a letter from the First Presidency to all units of the Church that triggered a chain of events leading to one of the most unusual and spectacular joint activities ever organized by the Liverpool and Preston districts.
That letter urged Church members to organize significant activities to commemorate their history as part of an international heritage year. Rod Fullwood, seminary supervisor in the Liverpool District, and his counterpart in the Preston District, Arthur Hardy, had already talked over the possibility of a joint seminary graduation. From that it was a short step for them to come up with the concept of a major commemorative program telling the story of the first missionaries to arrive in England and the events leading to the first baptisms in the River Ribble in July 1837.
Once the plan had been approved by the Preston and Liverpool district presidencies, the next few weeks were marked by frantic activity as seminary groups in each branch worked on their own projects. Branches in the Liverpool District were assigned to re-create the atmosphere and scenes of 1837 by staging an “English Fayre,” complete with stalls from the period. They also wrote a dramatic production telling the story of early Mormon emigrants. Period dress for the nearly 200 young people and adults who attended was mandatory, but forseeing the likelihood of a few arriving in 20th century dress, the organizers assigned the Southport Branch to construct a set of stocks to “discipline” offenders.
The afternoon following the “Fayre” and the dramatic production the Liverpool Saints joined those at Preston for the second half of the program—a sermon on the banks of the Ribble and a commemoration of the baptisms that took place there in July 1837.
The weekend’s events provided a natural attraction for newspapers, radio, and television, and they were widely publicized. The events were relayed in a four-minute spot on BBC television, which also included an interview with Brother Fullwood. In addition to newspaper reports of the weekend, at least one Lancashire paper began plans for a full-scale feature on early Church history.
Appropriately winding up the commemoration, a 24-member Brigham Young University ballroom dance team, which had been performing in international competition in nearby Blackpool, gave a brief display for members immediately before the seminary graduation. As if to underline the point, it was then announced that Preston seminary students had beaten all other districts in Britain in enrollment and work completion for the year.
Said Brother Fullwood: “I think the weekend’s events and all the work that went in beforehand have given the members here a greater appreciation for those early missionaries as well as for our own heritage. The fact that an ambitious program like this was so successful will encourage us to shoot for high goals in the future.”

When we graduated from high school, I had to make another decision: should I leave for my mission now, or should I go to a year of college first? It was a huge question for me. I had already been accepted to BYU, and I didn’t know which timing would be better for me. After a lot of prayer, I felt like I should go to school first.
It was hard not going on my mission at the same time all my friends were. No one judged me too harshly, even though people definitely commented on the fact that I was “still here.” But I know that waiting was the right decision for me and that I was inspired to do it.
I saw a lot of blessings in my life because I felt so much more prepared to go on a mission after a year of college. For instance, I wasn’t afraid of the long study schedule in the missionary training center because in college, I was studying all day anyway. It was a great experience having faith in God and in the promptings I got that it was the right thing to do, and then seeing the fruits of it.

I have a friend whose son came home early from his mission with unexpected mental health challenges. He was suffering physically, emotionally and spiritually, and pushing everyone away. My friend found a picture she loved of the Savior with His hands outstretched. She attached a small photo of her son into those hands. She kept that image by her bedside; a daily reminder that Christ could reach her son—hold him and carry him—in ways that she could not.

President Russell M. Nelson is a wonderful example of spiritual poise. One time, while then-Dr. Nelson was performing a quadruple coronary artery bypass, the patient’s blood pressure dropped suddenly. Dr. Nelson calmly assessed the situation and identified that a clamp was accidentally removed by one of the team members. It was replaced immediately, and Dr. Nelson comforted the team member, saying, "I still love you," and then added jokingly, "Sometimes I love you more than other times!" He showed how an emergency should be handled—with poise, focused only on what matters most—addressing the emergency. President Nelson said: "It’s a matter of extreme self-discipline. Your natural reaction is, ‘Take me out, coach! I want to go home.’ But of course you can’t. A life is totally dependent on the whole surgical team. So you’ve got to stay just as calm and relaxed and sharp as you ever were."

The Warwoods always planned to go on a senior mission, and Sister Warwood was certain she knew where the Lord needed her to serve. As a neonatal nurse practitioner, she felt drawn to humanitarian work in developing countries.
“I always thought I would serve a humanitarian mission in a third-world country, something with mothers and babies,” she explains. But when they visited Africa a year before their mission call, something unexpected happened. “When I thought to myself, ‘We’ll be here in a year,’ I just had this dreaded feeling,” Sister Warwood recalls.
Back home, during a senior mission meeting, coordinators asked about their preferences. She answered, “Third world, something medical, saving lives.” The dread returned. “I thought, ‘I guess I don’t really want to serve a mission. This is a horrible feeling.’”
Everything shifted when coordinators learnt the couple’s backgrounds—he an accountant, she in healthcare. They explained that “the Mission Health Adviser (MHA) is the most coveted job in the mission because you get to know, love, and serve all of the missionaries.” Sister Warwood realised the MHA “did many of the things I did in the NICU—just with much bigger babies!”
“By the time we left the meeting, instead of feeling dread, I was very excited.” She realised: “The Lord’s been trying to tell you third-world humanitarian is not where you’re supposed to be. He couldn’t have made it more obvious.”
The Warwoods accepted a call to the Auckland New Zealand Mission, where that guidance proved itself many times.