Gospel Story Finder

Another wonderful experience occurred when an outstanding brother, a high official in the United States Army in charge of all public relations for all of Europe and a member of our mission, was called upon to preside over one of the branches of the Church. In all humility he replied that he felt incapable of assuming such a great responsibility because he did not have the understanding he needed of the scriptures, and he was afraid that people would approach him for help and he would not be able to respond. He felt this to be a real obstacle in fulfilling his calling.
Upon reviewing this situation, his feeling of inadequacy, and the feeling we had that he had been called of our Heavenly Father, we recommended that he make a comprehensive study of the scriptures—commencing with the Doctrine and Covenants, because that is the framework for organization in the Church—for fifteen to twenty minutes a day. This good brother, a former all-conference football champion from Utah State, committed himself wholeheartedly. He began to gain more light and understanding, and very soon he found himself being led to the understanding he needed to direct the branch and the work effectively. Study became a very real thing to him, for now he was studying with an intent to know, and was not just reading the passages. Each night prior to retiring, no matter what the hour—ofttimes with his wife—he would follow his program and then contemplate seriously the thoughts he had studied before going to bed.
An interesting thing occurred one night when he came home very late from an important meeting. Because of the lateness of the hour he went directly to bed; then, as he recalled the story, he tossed and turned for nearly an hour before he realized he had not studied the scriptures. So he got out of bed, read for a few minutes, and then fell fast asleep. It was interesting to note that within a matter of a few short weeks a new confidence and reassurance came into his life, giving him more light and knowledge, more power and authority, and a greater possibility to lead his members—all for just taking a few minutes a day in study of the words of God.

I had gained a testimony of the goodness of one seed of faith, but I had yet to see it grow to fruition (see Alma 32:35–36), and I had not yet received a confirming witness of other gospel principles. My trial of faith was not yet over.
Not long after I was baptized and confirmed, doubts crept into my mind. I felt conflicted between the very personal experience I had had when deciding to get baptized and my old logic, which did not accept faith-based knowledge.
Soon I again felt the haunting feelings of confusion and sorrow, and I did not know what to believe. Nevertheless, I had made a commitment, and I determined to remain active in the Church and apply the principles I had been taught until the trial of my faith resolved my conflict one way or another.
The Lord did not leave me to wander alone. I was given a calling to serve with the missionaries, and as we went proselytizing each week, the missionaries continued to shepherd me. My home teachers were faithful. My home teaching companion was prompt and consistent. Many ward members developed friendships with me by involving me in their lives, inviting me into their homes for dinners and for family home evenings. They prayed with and for me. The bishop and his family cared for and encouraged me. I could sense the honest intentions of their hearts, and that strengthened my resolve.
One day, some months later, it dawned on me that every time I read the Book of Mormon, I felt a subtle, familiar feeling of peace, much as I had felt during the discussions and baptismal invitations. I had a sudden moment of clarity: this was the Spirit. As I thought the words—“If this is the Spirit, then this book must be true”—that subtle feeling swelled in my heart, and my faith turned to spiritual knowledge of that principle.

The construction worker lay where he had fallen, precariously balanced on a plank nine inches (23 cm) wide and 100 feet (30 m) in the air. He had been struck by a falling steel beam that had partially severed his left arm and leg.
In this case, the victim could not be moved safely until his injuries were assessed. I was hoisted up by crane on a metal cargo platform. Once I reached the victim, a construction worker held onto the back of my reflective jacket, serving as a human “crane” to allow me freedom of movement to examine the victim.
In situations like this, years of training take over, so I began to assess the man’s injuries. On his knee was an emergency field dressing placed there by the construction crew’s own first aid responder. Normally I would examine the injury to assess the damage since that is the protocol we are trained to follow.
But as I reached out, the Spirit prompted me: “Do not move the dressing.” So I did not touch it. Three more times during the incident, I was encouraged by others involved—the first responder, my colleague on the ground, and a doctor—to examine the knee wound, and three more times, the Spirit prompted me not to touch the dressing. Once we had stabilized the patient, we lifted the man onto the cargo platform, we were both lowered to the ground, and we transported him to the hospital.
In the emergency resuscitation area, the trauma team waited for us. One doctor quickly removed the field dressing from the knee. Immediately an artery ruptured, and the patient began bleeding profusely. In the controlled environment of the hospital, this life-threatening situation was quickly resolved. If it had happened on the plank 100 feet up, the victim may well not have survived.

A few months ago I joined a group of friends for a long awaited reunion. We had not seen each other for many years. Many of the group had changed dramatically: some had lost their hair, others were heavier, a few were even thinner. It was interesting to note, too, the apparent emotional and spiritual changes.
I was particularly intrigued by one woman. In high school she had been a very shy person, not particularly popular with the men. Now she appeared as a strikingly attractive, enthusiastic woman. Her spiritual and emotional were equally obvious. Throughout the evening I observed the interaction between this woman and her husband, and it soon became apparent why she reflected such a peaceful and beautiful countenance. She had been blessed with a partner who was positive and supportive, and both of them had developed through the years into extremely mature and happy people.

As I was growing up, I perceived that I needed to be perfect to make it to heaven. So my whole life I worked at it. I felt that in order to be worthy, I needed to keep all the rules and commandments. My self-worth was tied to my accomplishments and achievements. If I got good grades, won the spelling bee, placed in the science fair, scored a goal, earned a bunch of merit badges, dove off the high-dive, made it into my high school choir, etc.—then I was able to feel good about myself. I was very judgmental of myself.

I also was overly concerned of what others thought about me and how I appeared to them, so I became really good at putting on a false front. I had to look like I had it all together, even though at times I was barely surviving because of the stress of maintaining that facade and keeping up with all of the expectations.

Of course, it’s impossible to be perfect in this life; countless prophets have told us that. But that didn’t stop me from trying. I had to-do lists, routines, and schedules. I figured that if I could just be extremely organized, then I could manage to get closer to perfection.

I thought that if I were ever going to make it to heaven, I’d have to earn my way there. The scriptures teach that we are all sinners and that no unclean thing can enter into the kingdom of heaven. So whenever I did something “bad,” it took a heavy toll on my self-worth, and I began to doubt that I could actually make it to heaven.

I learned about repentance and that it was possible because of the Savior’s Atonement, but it seemed to have a negative connotation. If I had to keep sinning and repenting, sinning and repenting my whole life, I’d never be able to check it off my list as something I had completed or accomplished, as if it were possible to someday be “done repenting” in this life.

...

I had a hard time feeling that I was worthy, unless I was working really hard at it. I didn't feel that God or others could really love me if I made mistakes. I felt that I was flawed, defective, and broken as a human being most of the time.

There were times when I felt better, like on my mission, or when I was a bishop. But much of my life, I have struggled to feel the Lord’s love.

Since those younger days, I’ve been getting a better handle on my perfectionism. If I could go back and talk with my younger self, here’s what I’d tell him: You have inherent worth as God’s son. He does want you to progress and become more like Him, but His love isn’t based on your obedience or your accomplishments. His love is infinite in every way. There’s nothing you could do to make Him stop loving you.

I had previously felt that my self-worth gauge went up and down like a little meter. If I made a mistake, the marker on the meter went down. Then I had to do something good to make the marker go up, like volunteer for a service project or read an extra chapter in the scriptures or do some family history or be a better friend or clean the house or something to make up for it. Now I know that my worth to God doesn’t fluctuate.

I also realize that the Savior’s Atonement covers not only my sins but also my inadequacies, my disappointments, my weaknesses, my infirmities, my carelessness, my lack of certain talents, and that it compensates for all of the trials, the unfairness, and bitterness of mortal life.

When I think about what it means to be in this "third class" of men, I think of Saints who have given their all in building up the kingdom of God on the earth. I am so moved by the story of handcart pioneer James Kirkwood. An 11-year-old boy from Glasgow, Scotland, he traveled to Zion in the Willie company with his mother and three brothers. His older brother Robert was crippled, so his mother Margaret and 19-year-old brother Thomas pushed Robert in the handcart. That left James with the charge to care for his 4-year-old brother, Joseph, on the climb over the 7,300-foot Rocky Ridge. This was the same terrible night that Emily and Julia Hill endured, and it was a 15-mile journey that took 27 hours for most. On that night, James fell behind the rest of the party, carrying his little brother. I can see him trying to warm his freezing hands, shifting the weight of his brother on his back. When the pair finally arrived at the campfire that night, James set his brother down and then died from exhaustion and exposure, literally giving his life for his brother.[10] I am so inspired by James. How can I be casual or uncommitted if I expect to go where I believe he now is? Why should we think to earn a great reward if we now shun the fight? His story teaches me that to truly be a saint I must surrender my will to God in whatever way He asks of me.

My 86-year-old mother’s health had been declining for several months, and I feared that she would not be with us much longer. My husband and I had planned to travel to Lille, which was 80 miles (130 km) away, for stake conference, but I worried about leaving my sister alone to care for our mother.
I pleaded to Heavenly Father that all would be well while we were gone. Immediately the lyrics “Peace, be still” (“Master, the Tempest Is Raging,” Hymns, no. 105) came to mind, and my fears diminished. We left for the conference feeling calm and reassured that the Lord had heard my prayer and was watching over my mother.
Everything did go well while we were gone.
Some time later, my sister called to ask if my husband, Yves, could come help lift my mother into bed. Shortly after he arrived at my sister’s home, my mother passed away.
Not wanting to relay this news over the phone, Yves called me and said only that my sister was panicked. He suggested I gather some personal belongings because he would be home soon to pick me up.
I began packing my suitcase expecting that I might stay with my sister for a while to help care for our mother. As I began, I felt guided by the Spirit that packing was no longer necessary. I knew that my mother had died. But I also felt peace, just like I had before leaving for stake conference.
Yves arrived home, and he struggled to explain what had happened. To ease his burden, I told him I already knew that Mother was gone.
Knowledge of the gospel continued to support me, and I was able to comfort my sister as we grieved for our mother. Many times I prayed for peace, and each time I felt reassured that Heavenly Father and my Savior Jesus Christ were helping me through my sorrow and pain. Through our faith and prayers we found what the sacred hymn invokes: “Peace, be still.”
Nicole Germe, Pas-de-Calais, France

Let me share a couple of experiences with you.

As the project began to develop, it became clear that a scrap metal recycling project, in and of itself, was a challenge, but to include the removal of junk vehicles from the community as well, was an enormous task---one clearly beyond our experience as a committee, or as a community association. We recognized that Heavenly Father's help was needed.

And because the project included not one site but two sites, the problem became daunting. We now needed two sets of heavy equipment....in particular a front loader with a 4-in-1 bucket. We needed one at the BYUH parking lot, and one at the Cackle Fresh site. The company was adamant. Without the right heavy equipment, they would not come. The only heavy equipment of this description near enough was located at the Laie Corporation Yard, close to the Cackle Fresh site. Working through layers of City bureaucracy, the process was painfully slow. After numerous calls to the City, using every influence at hand including our City Council member, Donavan Dela Cruz, the answer was, "No, the City could not participate because of liability and other legal issues. We received the call on Thursday. The activity was on Saturday. Time was short. The back up option was to contact the Heavy Equipment Training Facility in Kahuku, which would be very costly. We than called Babes Keanu, owner of a trucking company in Hauula, who felt he could help with equipment he had. That seemed plausible, but still it was not enough. Finally, a call was made to Jeff Tyau, HRI's engineer, to intervene by working with the company's operations manager to assure him that with some adjustments, the equipment in Laie, plus the equipment they would bring, would be adequate to do the job. Finally, the next day, we received a call that everything had been worked out, and they were ready to come the next day. Our prayers were answered.

My missionary companion and I weren’t getting along so well. Sister Reynolds* and I were as different as—well, just think of any two opposites and you’ll have a fair idea of how different we were. We were like day and night, hot and cold, lobster and lunchmeat.
For example, my idea of Christmas decorating was to set out a miniature Nativity scene. Her idea involved covering every available surface with either tinsel, Christmas lights, fake snow, or all of the above.
Sister Reynolds thought an essential P-day activity was to grab the garden hose and have a water fight or apply a fresh coat of polish to her nails. My essential P-day activity was to grab the garden hose and wash the car or polish my shoes.
Or do yard work.
That usually consisted of nothing more than firing up the mower and taking it for a few turns around the front lawn, which was only slightly bigger than your average hankie. But one day I decided I was going to prune the hibiscus tree.
Now I’m no gardener. If killing houseplants were a crime, I’d be on death row by now. But this tree—like my companion—had been a source of irritation to me for some time. It was just so big. Its towering branches extended a good foot or two above the roof, and its dark foliage was so thick and dense that it obscured the view from our front window. And worst of all, it blocked out the sunlight, making our front room appear dim and gloomy.
Something had to be done, and although I had never pruned a tree myself, I had read about it often enough in the scriptures. How hard could it be?
I found a pair of pruning shears in the garage and went to work. As I worked, I thought of how the Savior often used examples from nature in his teachings. I wondered if I could illustrate a gospel principle by pruning a tree. I thought of how sometimes being cut back helps us be what God intended us to be. I also thought how bad habits, selfishness, and pride are like overgrown branches that stop trees from having the strength to bring forth the “good fruit” of joy and service.
Feeling quite pleased with this little analogy, my thoughts turned to my fun-loving companion. Now there’s someone whose tree needs a little trimming, I thought in exasperation. With each snip of my pruning shears, I imagined some habit or shortcoming I would love to cut off my companion.
Wakes up late. Snip! Plays practical jokes. Snip!
Snip! Snip! Snip!
I guess I got a bit carried away. When I stood back to survey my work, leafy branches and hibiscus flowers littered the ground. And the tree looked a bit like a Marine haircut.
It will probably fill out in a few weeks, I convinced myself.
A couple of months passed, and all the while my companion and I worked hard to overcome our differences. When Sister Reynolds’s transfer came, we parted on good terms.
I probably would have forgotten all about the hibiscus episode except that I stayed in the area for another month. And another and still another.
As it turned out, I spent the last eight months of my mission there. I had plenty of time to watch that poor hibiscus tree slowly shrivel up and die.
Those eight months also gave me plenty of time to make a few other observations. I noticed how sad it is to have a dried-up stump in your yard where there used to be a vibrant display of beautiful, tropical flowers. I also began to realize just how hot a room can get without any foliage to block the sun’s scorching rays.
Lastly I realized just how foolish and proud I had been to ever prune that tree in the first place.
Gospel principles began occurring to me. I thought of how sometimes we get so busy criticizing others and thinking about how they should change that we can’t see what we really need to change is the way we’re looking at things. I needed to open my eyes to the good in others and begin appreciating their true worth and beauty. Of course I thought about my former companion and how wrong I had been to want to prune away her beautiful branches.
What I had thought was her impulsiveness was actually a lovely quality called spontaneity. And her “irreverence” was something most people recognize as light heartedness. She could enjoy herself in all situations.
Sister Reynolds’s personality, I figured out, suited her abilities perfectly. That’s why she could do the work. She was just like that hibiscus tree.
As I look back on this experience, one lesson stands out. Pruning is best left to gardeners.

When I was eighteen years old, I was serving in the Navy in China. One day, a group of us had taken a train from our base to the nearest city, Tientsin. On our way back, we took the wrong train. When we realized that we were heading in the wrong direction, we pulled the emergency cord and got off the train. We found a pump-handle car and began pumping our way back along the tracks. Whenever we reached an incline, or whenever the car slowed down, some of us would jump off. Then we’d hop back on as the car began to gain speed again. My seat was right in front, over the rails.
After jumping off and walking for awhile, I tried to jump back on from the front of the moving car. As I did this, I heard in my mind the words my mother always told me as I left the house as a boy: “Be careful.” I knew that I wasn’t being careful. As I fell under the car, my foot caught in the gears and stopped the car—with the wheel just a foot from my hand. I know God was with me.
At the very time this was happening—2:00 A.M. where my parents were—my mother woke up and shook my dad. “Bud’s in trouble,” she told him. Before I had written to tell my parents about the accident, I received a letter from them asking what had happened to me.

Less than a year into my career, I was assigned to a project team led by John. John liked to get a jump start on the week with a four-hour team meeting every Sunday afternoon. This made me extremely uncomfortable, but as a new associate, I was afraid to push back.

A month or so into the project, the managing partner asked me to come to his office. He inquired as to how I was settling in.

I gathered my courage and told him: “I love the work; I will labor sixteen hours a day Monday to Friday when required, but Christy and I prioritize our family. We really need Saturday for our children’s sports and Sunday to be with God and our family.”

I then said, “If this is not acceptable, I am happy to pursue other employment.”

He simply responded, “I will talk to John.”

The Sunday meetings ended, and I stayed with this firm for my entire career.

A time may come in your future when you will need to decide about your peculiar Sabbath-day sign to God. I testify that keeping the Sabbath day holy really can be a delight and a joyful respite from the cares of the world.

Five years ago, I accepted the true gospel of Jesus Christ and was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. Since then, I was nourished by the good word of God through leaders, teachers, callings, and sweet members. One Sabbath day, I was touched and inspired by a testimony borne by a 6-year-old primary kid on his temple experience. I was so much moved and inspired that I decided then to prepare myself along with my family to go to the temple.

Nine years later Annie married Soren Hansen. They had eight children. When Soren died, Annie sold sawdust to the butcher shops to support her family. Every day she hitched her yellow pony to a little cart and carried a load of sawdust to nearby Oslo.
One day as Annie neared the open-air market, she heard a strange commotion. Two young men were speaking to a crowd gathered near the vegetable market. Annie was curious and stopped to listen. They spoke about a prophet and the Book of Mormon.
Their message stirred Annie’s heart. On 2 March 1857 she was baptized as one of the first converts in Norway.

“I look ugly,” I said, staring into the mirror in disbelief.
Gazing back at me was the same right eye as always. However, covering my left eye was the worst black eye I had ever seen.
“It’s not that bad. Really,” my friend Emily said unconvincingly.
I rolled my good eye at her and put the ice pack back on.
Only five minutes earlier my left eye had received an accidental but well-placed whack from my friend Janna’s elbow. Immediately my hands flew to my face, and I tried to stop myself from falling. Janna apologized. I could hear my friends surrounding me to find out if I was OK.
Though I was in pain, I didn’t realize what had actually happened until I moved my hands and heard every person in the room gasp.
“What?” I asked. No one answered.
I ran to the mirror. Within seconds of the contact, the skin around my eye had swelled to four times its normal size. Bright red blood filled the bruise.
“How am I going to face everyone?” I said, grabbing an ice pack from Janna’s hand. She bit her lip and apologized for about the hundredth time. I held the ice firmly to my eye, hoping the bruise would go away by the next morning.
Unfortunately, while some of the swelling did go down and the redness disappeared by the next morning, the puffy bruise had turned to a deep rose color. I looked ugly, and I felt even uglier.
I tried to cover my eye with makeup, but it just made the bruise look purplish. And nothing could help the swelling. I finally threw a hat on and wore it so I could just barely see from under it.
That day at school, I felt as though everyone were staring. I refused to look anyone in the eye. For days I couldn’t think about anything else, despite my friends’ attempts to cheer me up.
On Sunday I was grouchy because I couldn’t wear my hat to church. But everything changed during a lesson in Sunday School.
“Pray to see yourself as He sees you,” the teacher said, speaking about the Atonement and individual worth.
I touched my bruise, thinking to myself, “He sees me as a girl with an ugly black eye.” Then, as I stopped pitying myself, my perspective changed, and I wondered, “How does Heavenly Father see me?”
Tears filled my eyes as I reflected on the love He has not only for others but for me. “He sees me as His daughter, who is worth the life of His Son,” I realized.
I felt the Spirit testify of the great worth of my soul as a daughter of God. I remembered a scripture I had learned in seminary. I opened my scriptures and found it in 1 Samuel 16:7: “Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; … for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.” What I looked like on the outside was not as important as who I was on the inside.
My mind-set changed again as I looked around the room and felt an immense amount of love for the people I saw around me. The warmth of Heavenly Father’s love filled me, and for a moment I think I saw my classmates, in a small way, as Heavenly Father sees them—as His children.
I felt peace and comfort the rest of the Sabbath day, now not caring what others were thinking. I loved them, and I looked them all in the eye—with both of my eyes.

It’s been five years now since I drank any coffee but sometimes the smell of it reminds me of those years when I drank so much of it that now even I find the amount unbelievable. My day would begin with a cup of coffee as I told myself I needed that energy boost to meet the demands of being a mother and homemaker. After that first cup I needed little or no excuse for more whether it was the visit of my mother or a friend, or a belief that I needed a cup of coffee to keep up my energy or to help me relax. It was cup after cup after cup. And as I had convinced myself that the day had to begin with coffee so I convinced myself that it had to end with coffee. I just “knew” that I wouldn’t be able to sleep without my bedtime cup of coffee, even though logic told me that coffee was a stimulant—after all wasn’t that why I used it throughout the day? It never occurred to me that so much coffee was harmful to my health.
I didn’t face that fact until the day two missionaries knocked at my door and introduced me to the gospel. I willingly accepted their message and their challenge to be baptized. But, they explained, for me to accept baptism I also had to accept the Word of Wisdom, and that meant no more coffee.
Somehow I wasn’t completely surprised by their injunction so I was prepared to meet their challenge. The people who were surprised were my husband and my daughters. They knew that coffee was an integral part of my life and they were convinced that I would never give it up.
But something inside me had changed. In accepting the gospel message I accepted all its precepts. As I did so I felt a tranquility enter into my life and I knew that the Lord would help me live his commandments.
Of course, it was not easy to stop drinking coffee; my body had become so used to relying on it that for a week after I quit drinking it I walked around in a daze, my legs trembled and my arms felt weak. But with the help of the Lord my desire for coffee had gone. There was no way I was going to go near that coffee pot. It was a marvelous sensation and more than once I found myself on my knees thanking the Lord for his help and strength. The missionaries regularly visited me to see how I was doing and to give me encouragement and my watchful family was constantly surprised to hear me say how good I felt.
Today I can look back on five years of happiness. Not only do I have the energy to fulfill my role as wife and mother, but I’ve also been able to serve in a number of Church callings. On the rare occasions when I may feel physically tired, my spirit is always ready for more and that helps rejuvenate me. Is it any wonder that I have a testimony of the Word of Wisdom, and of the gospel that brought it into my life.

My next example is Carol McAdoo Rehme of the Loveland First Ward, Greeley Colorado, who spreads happiness among the elderly with a weekly sing–along at the neighborhood nursing home. She found they needed a pianist and immediately volunteered. Twice weekly, she played music in the dining room during the lunch meal. It was a low–pressure opportunity to practice hymns and sight–read new music. But one day an elderly resident recognized “Bicycle Built for Two” and sang along as she played. Others spontaneously joined in, so when the song ended she checked in her music book for other old favorites.

That was all it took. She had a new program: a weekly sing–along that moved to the comfortable confines of the lounge room. Her bag of music expanded to stacks of sheet music and pounds of books. The repertoire grew, ranging from Gay Nineties melodies to wartime songs, from familiar hymns to show tunes, from patriotic marches to nursery songs. As word spread, both the program’s popularity and resident attendance increased.

What a revelation it was to hear their chorus of memory–to see eyes light up, toes tap, and hands clap. Ninety-eight-year-old Gladys couldn’t recall what she ate for lunch an hour earlier but knew the words to nearly every song Carol played! Eleanor, limited to her wheelchair because of a degenerative disease, kept rhythm by nodding her head, the only part of her body she could control. Betty, a double amputee unable to do but able to tell, was instrumental in explaining phrases like “tootsie wootsie” and “wiffle tree.” And Carol? She witnessed the pleasure the songs brought. She listened to venerable voices ringing out. Her voice lifted with theirs as they all joined together to “make a joyful noise” (Ps. 66:1).

When Australians Robert and Darice Dudfield arrived in Ethiopia in August 2020, they arrived in a country of about 120 million people—and not one missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on the ground. Ethiopia’s four fledgling congregations had not met since the pandemic hit, and although the Book of Mormon was available in their language, Amharic, few other Church materials were. The Dudfields knew that opening the new Ethiopia Addis Ababa Mission would be a great learning opportunity. They immediately got to work.
Soon after their arrival, eight Ethiopian elders and sisters were called to serve missions in their home country and received training via Zoom from Ghana. Only two months later, however, President Dudfield contracted a severe case of COVID-19.
Covered with vein-searching-bruises, he required oxygen and a month of hospitalization, and at times, Robert thought he wouldn’t make it. Darice put all such thoughts aside, “The Lord didn’t bring you to Ethiopia to die this early on!” she assured her husband. “You’ll get through this.”
It took another month of quarantining at home before he fully recovered. The Dudfields first setback taught them “there are tremendous lessons to be learned through trials. It’s all about our approach in dealing with our circumstances.”
In December 2020, Church services resumed, and the missionary force started growing, but so did political unrest, and President Russell M. Nelson ultimately decided the missionaries needed to move out of the country.
Miraculously, some of the missionaries serving in remote areas were able to fly to the nation’s capital before access to Addis Ababa was cut off. “On our mission, we learned that you’re never alone. The Lord is at the helm” recalled Darice. Missionaries who had been tested for COVID-19 were put on a plane to Kenya, where the Ethiopia mission was relocated.
They operated from Kenya, although most of their missionaries were reassigned temporarily to the Kenya Nairobi Mission. Those who remained in the Ethiopia mission used telephones and limited technology to connect with members and friends of the Church in Ethiopia, where local leaders took over the responsibility of missionary work.
Of the Kenya experience, senior missionaries, Elder and Sister Moyers said, “We experienced that unexpected and drastic change presses on our emotions, intellect, and especially our faith in our purpose . . . Being relocated is either a blessing or a challenge, and each missionary has the agency to choose which it will be for him or her.”
The Moyers served as member-leader support missionaries and helped to build the Church from within. President Dudfield said, “We learned the significant value of missionary service and the great value of senior couples. This is a call for those willing and able to serve. It changes your life.”
As things began to settle in Ethiopia, missionaries returned in stages. “Greeting the last of our missionaries back into Ethiopia at the end of June 2021 was an emotional and sacred experience,” the Dudfields recalled. The Church began to grow again, and the number of those consistently attending worship services increased from around 80 to over 400.
Reflecting on their three-year tenure in Ethiopia, the Dudfields’ saw the hand of the Lord bring great miracles to pass, including:
Relationships built with the ministry of peace, resulting in a $250,000 donation of funds for COVID-19 equipment plus ongoing support for important initiatives
Conferences and more frequent activities for youth, children, women, and young adults
Training to increase the quality of leadership and teaching
Seminary, institute, and the launch of the BYU-Pathway Worldwide program
Preparing 40 members to attend the temple for the first time
The translation of hymns and Church materials into local languages
A Light the World musical presentation, and a music video created for a Church global music festival
“What we learned from the people of Ethiopia . . . is that the things that are most important bring the greatest joy. Ethiopians are people of faith, with a great love of family and community.
“We see the countenance of Christ in images of Ethiopians and joy in their faces.”
On their decision to leave the Australia they love to help pioneer a path for future generations to the blessings of the gospel, the Dudfields testify, “We learned that we are all called where the Lord needs us. We absolutely felt His direction and guidance. We learned that faith precedes miracles. If we endure well, we will see many miracles.”

I think today of a young man I know who, as a Christian, trying one church after another, could find none that taught of a prophet. Only among the Jewish people did he find reverent mention of the prophets, and so he accepted and embraced the Jewish religion.
In the summer of 1964, he went to New York City and visited the World’s Fair. He entered the Mormon Pavilion and saw pictures of the prophets of the Old Testament. His heart warmed within him as he heard the missionaries speak with appreciation of these great men of ages past through whom Jehovah revealed his will. Then, as he progressed through the pavilion, he heard of modern prophets—of Joseph Smith who was called a prophet, a seer, and a revelator. Something stirred within him. His spirit responded to the testimony of the missionaries. He was baptized. He served a mission in South America where he had many converts. He returned home and has since become the means of bringing his family and others into the Church. It is heartwarming to hear him testify that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God and that all who have succeeded him have been legal successors in this high and sacred calling.

Our Young Adult congregation in London meets weekly for religious study, where our current focus is exploring various world religions. For one of our classes, we were fortunate to organise a tour of the sacred space of the Ismaili Centre in London.
Conveniently close to our chapel in the heart of London, the Ismaili Centre, established in 1979, serves as a multifaceted space catering to the spiritual, social, and cultural needs of the Ismaili Muslim community in England. Upon arrival, we were warmly greeted by volunteers who generously shared their time to offer insights into their faith, answer our questions, and guide us through their centre.
As we walked through the halls, I was struck by the intricate artistry and architectural symmetry of the building. From geometric designs on the ceilings to meaningful artwork, there was a theme of harmony and reverence in the space. Each room had a different purpose of worship and community gathering.
As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, stepping into this sacred space was a profound experience, evoking a sense of peace similar to that found within our places of worship. Despite the differences between our faiths, the shared commitment to creating dedicated spaces for spiritual reflection left an impression. The space offered a refuge for spiritual solace, a quality that personally resonated with me.
This interfaith visit served as a reminder of the importance of fostering understanding and respect among diverse religious communities. I enjoyed learning about the Ismaili Centre, the similarities and differences between our religions, and the mutual respect we have for each other. I’m grateful to experience a community where we can not only deepen our faith but also cultivate bonds of mutual respect and admiration with our religious neighbours.

“Hey—I recognize those guys! I think they’re famous,” I mused as I passed by the strange-looking passengers seated in the first-class cabin of the plane that was carrying me home at the end of my vacation. On my way back to the coach section, I tried to figure out who they were.
They didn’t look like the other passengers on the plane. They had long, ratted hair, torn jeans and vests with no shirts, lots of jewelry, and glassy looks in their eyes. I knew they were in a rock group—I’d seen them in a magazine or a video or something. But the group’s name wouldn’t come to me.
I would soon find out. The man who had shepherded them onto the plane took the seat next to mine. “Do you manage them?” I asked, hoping he’d mention the group’s name so I wouldn’t have to admit I didn’t know it.
He did, and it was such a big group I was glad I hadn’t shown my ignorance by not recognizing them. “Yeah, I take care of these guys, and let me tell you—it’s wild. They don’t do much for themselves. While we’re on planes, I let the flight attendants do the work in first class, while I get some rest back here in coach.”
I was glad he did. I’d heard enough General Authority talks to know that plane flights are great opportunities to tell people about the gospel, so I slipped it into our conversation. He was actually quite interested in what I had to say about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
As the plane landed he said, “Look, it’s been really fun talking with you, and I’d like to do something for you. Why don’t you come to our concert tonight? You can bring some of your Mormon friends. It will be nice to have some straight people there. I’ll leave tickets and backstage passes for you at the gate.”
“That would be great!” I told him. To be honest, I didn’t like his group’s hard rock music. But I was fascinated by their glittery world, so different from mine. I felt like I did in high school when I was invited to one of the incredibly popular Kilborns’ famous weekend-long parties, held only when their parents were away. Never mind that I’d declined that invitation. This was the chance of a lifetime! Maybe I could even do a little missionary work, right?
I started making phone calls as soon as I got home. Strange thing. All my friends had plans already, weren’t home, or weren’t interested in hearing that group play. Half an hour before the concert was to begin, I still hadn’t found anyone to go with me.
“Well, I guess I can just go alone,” I decided as I grabbed my keys and started for the car, which had been sitting in the hot sun all day. The door handle singed my fingers when I touched it. I had to cover the handle with the tail of my shirt to open it.
But as I was about to put the key in the ignition, I heard a voice very distinctly say, “Don’t go.” I whipped around to see who was in the backseat. No one. I started once again to put the key in the ignition, and the same voice said, “You know better. Don’t go.”
Aha—the still, small voice! Of course I knew better. But these were free tickets and backstage passes. It would be a life experience! Hey—maybe it would help me understand and help the people who listen to that music.
Even as I was rationalizing the whole thing, I knew the voice was right. How much spiritually inspired missionary work would I be able to do while obscene music was blasting, and most of the people playing and watching were high? Just what valuable things was I expecting to learn in that kind of atmosphere? I wouldn’t be setting a good example by attending that concert, and I’d be opening myself up to a lot of bad input that I didn’t need rolling around in my mind. How could I ever have thought of going?
I slowly got out of my car and went into the house. I spent a quiet evening at home alone, not unlike the one I’d spent several years before, when I passed on the Kilborns’ party.
I had no regrets. The next day as I drove to work, I turned on the radio and heard the tragic news reports of the concert the night before. There had been fights, stabbings, overdoses, hundreds of arrests, car accidents, and traffic backed up till 4:00 A.M. It was said to be the worst concert in the state’s history.
I couldn’t help but think of Mormon’s teachings about discerning good and evil: “Wherefore, take heed, my beloved brethren, that ye do not judge that which is evil to be of God, or that which is good and of God to be of the devil. … For behold, the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil” (Moro. 7:14, 16).
There was no doubt in my mind that the Spirit had saved me from misjudging, and from who knows what else. If I hadn’t listened, I could have easily burned more than my fingers.