Gospel Story Finder

Let me tell you about a young friend I met while serving as president of a stake that included West Point Academy in the state of New York. He was a bright 4.0 student at the academy. He had been given a leave of absence from West Point to serve a mission and was readmitted on completion of his mission—not a common occurrence. On one of my visits to the West Point Branch he requested some time to talk.

As we talked he told me of how he had deepened his conversion to the gospel as he served his mission. He remembered the feelings and strength of his testimony when he returned to West Point following his mission. Then he said: “In the two years since my mission I have gradually felt the Spirit slipping away from me. Every day I am associating with other cadets with different values. Their whole focus in life is successfully graduating from the academy. Periodically the honor code is compromised. Nearly every weekend is party time—alcohol and young women. I am hazed and ridiculed when I refuse to join with them.

“President Staheli, I need help. I feel like I am being tossed to and fro on the seas of life, and I have lost my mooring. My gospel anchor of the past seems to be giving way to the life of fun and pleasures enjoyed by my colleagues at the academy.”

As we talked it became clear that the magnet of the adversary was gradually but surely drawing him into Satan’s grasp. My young friend had lost his mooring—not because Satan had become stronger but because my friend had not been nurturing and tending to his testimony. He was in the process of losing what he had previously so deeply cherished.

I realize you are in a very different environment here at BYU, yet I relate this experience because even here at BYU you are not immune to the adversary’s many wiles that look attractive on the surface and may appear harmless only because you feel you can resist.

Just claiming to know the gospel is true is not always enough. My young friend at West Point knew. He had developed a testimony, but it had slipped away from him because he failed to nourish it. As he had begun to respond to and engage in the activities of his peers, he gradually lost the promptings of the Spirit.

I cannot think of a greater loss to anyone than the loss of the promptings of the Spirit.

Spiritual strength frequently comes through selfless service. Some years ago, I visited the California Mission, where I interviewed a young missionary from Georgia. I recall saying to him, “Do you send a letter home to your parents every week?”

He replied, “Yes, Brother Monson.”

Then I asked, “Do you enjoy receiving letters from home?”

He didn’t answer. At length, I inquired, “When was the last time you had a letter from home?”

With a quavering voice, he responded, “I’ve never had a letter from home. Father’s just a deacon, and Mother’s not a member of the Church. They pleaded with me not to come. They said that if I left on a mission they would not be writing to me. What shall I do?”

I offered a silent prayer to my Heavenly Father: “What shall I tell this young servant of Thine, who has sacrificed everything to serve Thee?” And the inspiration came. I said, “Elder, you send a letter home to your mother and father every week of your mission. Tell them what you are doing. Tell them how much you love them, and then bear your testimony to them.”

He asked, “Will they then write to me?”

I responded, “Then they will write to you.”

We parted, and I went on my way. Months later I was attending a stake conference in Southern California when a young man came up to me and said, “Brother Monson, do you remember me? I’m the young missionary who had not received a letter from my mother or my father during my first nine months in the mission field. I’m the one to whom you said, ‘Send a letter home every week, Elder, and your parents will write to you.’” Then he asked, “Do you remember that promise, Elder Monson?”

I remembered. I inquired, “Have you heard from your parents?”

He reached into his pocket and took out a sheaf of letters with an elastic band around them, took a letter from the top of the stack and said, “Have I heard from my parents! Listen to this letter from my mother: ‘Son, we so much enjoy your letters. We’re proud of you, our missionary. Guess what? Dad has been ordained a priest. He’s preparing to baptize me. I’m meeting with the missionaries; and one year from now we want to come to California as you complete your mission, for we, with you, would like to become a forever family by entering the temple of the Lord.’” Then the young man put his hand in mine and asked, “Brother Monson, does Heavenly Father always answer prayers and fulfill Apostles’ promises?”

I replied, “When one has faith as you have demonstrated, our Heavenly Father hears such prayers and answers in His own way.”

Clean hands, a pure heart, and a willing mind had touched heaven. A blessing, heaven-sent, had answered the fervent prayer of a missionary’s humble heart.

My soccer team went to a tournament on a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. My mom asked me what I was going to do about Sunday’s game. I said I didn’t know what to do. My dad encouraged me to pray, so I prayed about it. That night, the song “Nephi’s Courage” got stuck in my head. I knew Heavenly Father answered my prayers through that song so I would remember to have courage to obey His commandments. On Sunday after church, I knew my team was playing. I was a little sad that I couldn’t help my team, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I am glad that Heavenly Father helped me make the right choice, even though it was hard to make.

It started innocently enough. Like most other children, I would sit by the window, look out at the stars, and repeat the chant:
“Star light, star bright
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might
Have the wish I wish tonight.”
Then I would close my eyes and make my wish. I wished for everything my childish mind could dream of: a pony, a puppy, the eradication of spinach, a fairy godmother. I never got my wishes, but that was okay because it was all done in fun.
I grew older and stopped wishing on stars, but, unfortunately, I didn’t stop wishing. Now it took on a definite greenish tint. I wasn’t wishing for a puppy or a pony, but I wished I could be more like Kathy, because all the boys liked her, or I wished I had clothes like Linda’s.
Whenever I saw someone with something I didn’t have, I thought of how much happier I would be with it, so I’d start wishing for it. Almost everyone I met seemed to have something I didn’t have. I began to believe that everyone else had everything, and I had nothing.
Of course I began to feel sorry for myself. I’d whine, “If only things were different.” Or, “It’s just not fair!” Or, “Why me?”
So how did I ever find my way out of this quagmire of envy and self-pity? Believe it or not, I found my answer in the Church hymnbook. One Sunday I was sitting behind a girl who had the most beautiful hair. I was wishing that mine were that long and shiny, when we began singing “Count Your Blessings.”
Now, I had probably sung that song dozens of times, but it never meant anything to me until then. For the first time, I paid attention to the words. Why was I always wishing for things I didn’t have? Why did I feel angry and cheated because life wasn’t treating me fairly? The answer was right there in the hymn. I wasn’t counting my blessings. All I ever thought about were the things I didn’t have, which completely obscured my awareness of all the things I did have.
I went home from church and did exactly what the hymn said to do. I made a list of all my blessings. First came the obvious ones like home and family, and food and clothing. But then I wrote down other things like my personal strengths and assets, the many opportunities and positive experiences I’d had, my understanding of the gospel and the unique perspective that added to my life. When I added them up, I counted more than 100 blessings. Like the hymn says, I really was surprised.
I carried this list for a long time, and whenever I found myself slipping back into my old wishing habit, I would read the list. It always helped me to have a feeling of gratitude rather than one of envy and self-pity.
Finally the day came when I didn’t have to carry the list anymore because I no longer needed to wish for things. I was happy for others and their blessings, because I was more aware of my own blessings. I became so much happier once I finally quit wishing.

When he was just 10 years old, Joshua Dennis spent five days trapped in the pitch-black darkness of an abandoned mine. When rescuers finally heard his faint cry for help and pulled him out of the horrible darkness, he was disoriented, cold, and exhausted. Much to their surprise, he wasn’t afraid. Josh spent his time sleeping, yelling for help, and praying. “Someone was protecting me,” he explained. “I knew people were going to find me.”
Joshua’s simple but profound faith had been nurtured by his parents, who taught him that he had a Heavenly Father who knew where he was at all times. They taught him he had been born with the Light of Christ within him. Truly, Josh had been brought up in light and truth (see D&C 93:40) so that when he found himself huddled on a ledge 2,000 feet deep in a mine, he had drawn upon that light to sustain and comfort him, to give him courage and hope. Josh experienced what Abinadi taught when, speaking of Christ, he said, “He is the light and the life of the world; yea, a light that is endless, that can never be darkened” (Mosiah 16:9).
Remember little Josh Dennis? He is now Elder Dennis, serving a mission far away from the dark mine which held him captive. Now Elder Dennis finds his way along the narrow, unfamiliar paths of Honduras, sharing a message of hope, salvation, and light. What he teaches every day is the paradox he experienced as a young boy lost in a mine: that amidst encircling gloom, amidst the darkest possible circumstances, it is possible to feel hope, peace, and comfort—all because of the light which is stronger than all darkness, the light of Jesus Christ.

High overhead a flock of ducks locked their wings and dropped down toward the reservoir. It was early morning, and it was duck hunting season. I was in the bulrushes on one side of the reservoir, and two of my friends, Rick and Kinnley, were on the opposite side. The ducks circled the pond several times and then whistled down directly in front of the place Rick and Kinnley were hiding.
I heard three shots. The ducks came up fast. I heard a fourth shot. I remember wondering about it because the ducks were out of range when I heard it. The ducks flew out across the valley and began circling over some small ponds.
Kinnley ran out of the place they’d been hiding and yelled, “Skip, come here.” I knew there would be more ducks coming, and I didn’t want to move. Before I could answer, Kinnley ran back into the bulrushes. He came out again in just a few seconds.
“Skip, hurry!” he yelled.
I ran over as fast as I could so that I would be in position if more ducks flew over. When I reached Kinnley I knew something was wrong. His face was white.
“My gun jammed,” he stammered. “Rick’s been hurt.”
We ran into the bulrushes, and there I saw one of the most gruesome sights in my life. Here was one of my best friends writhing in pain from a shotgun blast in the side. Rick Was moaning. “Help me, you guys, you’ve got to help me.”
I knew we had to stop the bleeding immediately and that then we’d have to get help. The nearest town was several miles away. We bound the wound up with Kinnley’s shirt. It didn’t help much. Rick was dying. Kinnley and I both knew there wasn’t much time left. Our truck was on a road about two miles away. We knew we couldn’t carry Rick to it, and getting help would take time, maybe too much time. While we were trying to decide what to do, Kinnley said, “Skip, let’s give him a blessing.”
We knelt by his side and placed our hands on his head.
“You go first,” Kinnley said.
With the power of the Aaronic Priesthood I blessed Rick. I asked that the bleeding would stop, that Rick would be relieved of pain, and that he would survive the accident. I also prayed that Kinnley and I would be able to think clearly in getting Rick to a hospital.
When we finished our prayers and took our hands off his head, a feeling of peace replaced the panic we’d felt before. I told Kinnley to run and get the truck. I took off my coat and overalls to keep Rick warm. I put a coat under his head and carefully laid him on the side opposite the wound. He was getting weaker. I tried to assure him that it wasn’t all that bad and that he was going to be all right.
Never in all of my life had I felt so totally helpless, my friend in so much pain, dying, pleading for me not to let him die, blood soaking through the shirt we’d bound the wound in. I pleaded with the Lord to please, please let him live.
Kinnley came back with the truck. His face was even whiter than it had been before. We decided we couldn’t risk moving Rick. I left in the truck to call an ambulance. The road was rough, and it seemed like it took me hours to reach the town. I knew that every second counted.
I went into a cafe and said there’d been an accident. I went to a pay phone, the closest telephone, and called the hospital. I told them to send the ambulance to the junction in the road that turned off the main highway to the reservoir.
Several men in the cafe offered to help. We drove to the junction and waited. I can’t remember waiting for anything in my life as long as I waited for that ambulance. It actually took only three minutes from the time I called until the ambulance reached the junction.
The ambulance started following me to the reservoir, but the road was too rough. The ambulance crew loaded equipment into the back of my truck and we started again. It seemed like hours since I’d left Rick and Kinnley, and I didn’t know what I would find.
When we reached them, Kinnley stood up.
“Skip, look at Rick.”
Rick was breathing easier, and it appeared that the pain had subsided. The ambulance crew went to work. They put a pair of pressurized pants on Rick and pumped them up. In just minutes his blood pressure was close to normal, and in about a half hour he had stabilized enough to be moved. The ambulance crew and several of the men from the cafe lifted Rick onto the back of the truck and started for the ambulance.
I stayed behind to get our coats and guns. I sat there by myself for a while and said a prayer thanking my Father in Heaven. A week later Kinnley and I visited Rick in the hospital. He was sitting up in bed playing an electric basketball game, smiling. The experience strengthened my testimony of the priesthood. I knew the blessing we gave to Rick had helped save his life and had helped Kinnley and me make the right decisions.

McLear was different from most deer. Most deer are timid, but McLear wasn’t afraid of anything!
He would go into the haunted house or jump off the high bridge over Blueberry Creek. He would even walk past the mean bull in the back pasture.
He could run faster down the slope and climb higher up the bluff than anyone else. So naturally when little Betty Bobcat climbed too high and was afraid to come down, everyone thought of McLear.
“McLear will rescue her,” cried Reggie Rabbit. He ran to get McLear.
“Come quick!” he shouted. “Betty is stuck on the bluff, and no one can get her down.”
When they reached the bluff, McLear saw that it was very steep and that the little bobcat was on a very narrow ledge. But he bravely climbed up and brought her down.
After that everyone said that he was the bravest deer in the whole world. And pretty soon he began to believe them!
But Willy Weasel did not like all the attention McLear got. One day Willy said, “I’ll bet you’re not brave enough to pick up Sulky Snake.”
“Pooh,” bragged McLear. “I’m not afraid.” He grabbed Sulky by his tail and held him high.
“Oh! McLear is the bravest deer in the whole universe!” cried Milly Meadow Mouse.
“Humph!” sniffed Grandfather Bear. “That’s not brave. That’s foolhardy. Some day he’ll pick up the wrong snake. Then he’ll learn that it’s sometimes smart to be afraid.”
McLear just laughed and took every dare his friends could think of. Once they dared him to sneak up on Sammy Skunk and scare him. Then they wouldn’t play with McLear for a week because he smelled so bad.
Another time Willy dared him to eat a red pepper in one bite.
“Don’t do it McLear!” cried Reggie.
McLear had never tasted a red pepper. But he didn’t want Willy to think that he was afraid, so he popped the whole pepper into his mouth and chomped. Suddenly he felt like he was on fire! He nearly drank Blueberry Creek dry, hoping his mouth and stomach would stop burning.
Willy and his friends rolled on the ground. They laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. McLear knew that they weren’t laughing because he’d been brave.
The next day the forest animals saw Percy Porcupine sleeping under a tree.
“McLear,” said Willy, “I dare you to sneak up and pat Percy’s tail.”
McLear looked at Percy’s prickly tail. Then he looked at Willy. Willy had a sly grin on his face. McLear gulped hard. “No!” he shouted. “You just want to see me get hurt so that you can laugh at me!”
The forest animals gasped.
“I never thought that McLear would be afraid of anything,” Reggie said sadly.
“I guess he’s losing his nerve.”
“You’re wrong, Reggie,” said Grandfather Bear. “That’s the bravest thing McLear has ever done. It takes more courage to say no than to take a foolish dare.”

The rickety bus slowed just enough to let us swing out the open back door. Lurching forward once again, it careened around the corner and was gone in an instant. We stood alone on the highway, Ciudad de Dios on one side and Urbanización San Juan on the other. It seemed a forsaken place to me that December day in Lima, Peru, three days before Christmas. A humid wind blew the sand into grainy little whirlwinds, and the ever-present Lima overcast was still with us although it was nearly summer. It was my first Christmas away from home, and I felt empty and alone. I had been singing carols to myself for days trying to catch the mood but to no avail. I missed the snow and the crisp Utah winter air. Lima’s mugginess didn’t help at all.
We trudged along past row after row of cement tract houses, all in various stages of construction but occupied nonetheless. Dogs barked at us from their rooftop guard stations, and children tagged along at our sides. Arriving at the Manco home, we knocked on the door and Sister Manco answered.
A three-foot bramble bush stood ridiculously in the middle of the bare cement floor in the living room. We oohed and aahed appropriately. I smiled slightly, remembering the beautiful firs and pinion pines at home, but had to appreciate Sister Manco’s good intentions. Her home would be happy this Christmas Eve. But just down the street where the Nostadez family lived, it would be a different matter.
Brother Nostadez was a trolley conductor who had been out of work since July when his union struck. The government had settled the issue by tearing up the tracks, and Brother Nostadez had been without a job ever since. We had baptized the entire family, except two underage daughters, only the night before. Although I knew they were glad to be in the Church, I also realized that it would be a meager Christmas for them this year.
All at once I knew what had to be done. If I couldn’t celebrate the kind of Christmas I so longed for, at least the Nostadez family would have a good one. My companion Elder Slack agreed, and we enlisted the aid of a member friend, Estrella Costa, to buy things she thought the family might enjoy. We involved the Manco family by asking them to deliver the gifts at just the right moment on Christmas Eve, hoping to teach them something about caring for others at the same time. Estrella had brought the gifts she chose to our apartment.
Still, as I surveyed the fare, I wasn’t completely satisfied. The silly little useless toys, the oranges, apples, and fun surprises that are so much a part of holiday giving were missing.
Hurriedly I set out with Elder Slack in tow to explore the open market across the highway in Ciudad de Dios. Although appallingly filthy, Ciudad de Dios was vibrantly alive. The rhythm of humanity literally pulsated through its streets. A thousand vendors sought to sell their wares. Here was fruit fresh from the jungle: papayas the size of cantaloupes, watermelons, pineapples, figs, several kinds of bananas, mangos, and oranges of every size and variety. We bartered for a dozen of the latter. Huge sides of beef, lamb, and pork were scattered among hogs’ heads and cows’ stomachs, all hanging from enormous hooks for better view. Fresh fish from the famous Peruvian fisheries gaped at us with mouths opened wide. Live animals were sold to be taken home and raised for later butchering. Turkeys, chicks, ducklings, and baby guinea pigs scampered nervously in their pens. Next came sundries. Black market shampoo, soaps, and razor blades were spread on blankets on the ground or in the now-familiar make-shift stalls. There was a section with shoes and clothes of every description. At last came the toys.
I don’t remember what we bought, and it’s really not very important. I do know that we had a marvelous time trying everything before deciding. The vendor waited patiently, enjoying our enthusiasm. I vaguely recall marbles and combs. Yes, we bought combs for all, and a large basket to put everything in.
The shoppers in the marketplace that day carried off their business in a more lighthearted manner than usual. The bartering that is so much a part of Latin life was good-natured and friendly. One usually sees a number of heated arguments among those driving hard bargains, but not today. Shoppers and vendors alike seemed genuinely pleased to do business together. Negotiations were concluded with large smiles and holiday greetings. Everyone in “City of God” was happy that day. They had little and yet they were happy, anticipating the celebration of the birth of Him who was their Savior also. That strange, bustling marketplace made me feel the spirit of Christmas for the first time that holiday season. At last I understood why this tenement was called “City of God,” and no other name could have been more appropriate.
The Latin people celebrate this holiday like none other. Nearly everyone attends midnight mass. After that the fun begins. Fireworks burst everywhere, not just overhead. Rockets zip up and down streets, sidewalks, between one’s legs, and out of windows. Firecrackers of every caliber roar a mass salute that would rival a squadron of 747’s taking off in formation. The next morning a pungent haze overcasts the city, a smokey memorial to the Yuletide celebration, a mushroom cloud Latin style.
Time was short. We quickly bought wrapping paper and dashed back to the Mancos where mother and children helped ready the presents for delivery. I carefully instructed young Paco in the finer points of subbing for “Papa Noël.” “Leave the basket on the front porch, knock loudly, and run. Hide nearby to make sure the basket is taken in before returning home.” They mustn’t discover any connection between the gifts and their new-found faith. We wished the Mancos a “Feliz Navidad” and rushed home to prepare for our own festivities.
We made four or five calls on wonderful families that night, all of whom implored us to share their midnight feast. A carefully planned schedule brought us to the home of a convert employed by a U.S. airline where we observed a sort of Anglo-Latin Christmas culminating in an enormous banquet. After exchanging gifts, we finally dragged back to our apartment.
During the course of the evening I often mused on the events transpiring out in San Juan. I imagined Paco stealing up to the door, leaving the basket with great commotion, and escaping to the safety of nearby shadows. Brother Nostadez answers the door and, finding nothing, shakes his head in disgust at such an annoying prank on Christmas Eve. It is little Teresa who spies the basket on the porch and dashes through her father’s legs, hoping for a glimpse of Papa Noël. Hearing the disturbance, the rest of the family rushes to the door. Sister Nostadez whisks the basket into the house with her excited children in hot pursuit.
Across the street, Paco flattens himself in the sand, stifling uncontrollable laughter at Brother Nostadez who is suspiciously scanning the neighborhood for the perpetrator of the deed. He makes one more careful sweep and then backs through the door, slamming it behind him. As if loosed by a starter’s pistol, Paco is up and sprinting for home to report the success of his adventure.
Inside the house, little girls squeal with delight when dolls emerge from the basket. Ten-year-old Hilario is quietly enraptured with his first pocket knife. And Brother and Sister Nostadez contemplate the happy scenario, amazed at this unexpected answer to Christmas prayers uttered for the first time.
Each Christmas Eve for 12 Christmases my thoughts have returned to that singular event in my life. I know that it’s possible that the outcome was not at all as I envisioned it. And it is that uncertainty that keeps the experience so alive and vibrant in my memory. For the imaginings of that night’s events by far transcend any actuality I might have experienced in person. And so on each Christmas Eve I think, and ponder, and dream of miracles that I never witnessed but that I know to have transpired.
It was my first Christmas away from home and family—a young missionary in a strange land among strange people with strange customs. It was a time of learning and teaching and giving in secret. It was the time I first learned of, felt, and understood the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.

Tears filled my eyes and overflowed as I read Homer Ellsworth’s “Travail” in April’s New Era. Brother Ellsworth’s beautifully articulated message should indeed reassure us of our Heavenly Father’s love. It is imperative for our growth in his spiritual kingdom to know that whatever we may be asked to endure in this life is for our good. What may appear to be a tragedy can be a blessing.
The blind baby in the article could have been ours. Our baby boy also was born without eyes where blue eyes should have been. I don’t know if that other baby’s earthly parents had been conditioned for the shock and the grief they were to endure. I was, but I didn’t know it until my baby was born. Seven months before our precious little one arrived, I attended the dedication ceremonies of the stake center in Jacksonville, Florida, where our late President David O. McKay dedicated the beautiful Church building. After the closing prayer he moved rapidly past the waiting line of Saints, shaking each hand as he went past. To look upon his angelic face framed by the beautiful shock of white hair was a blessing in itself. As he came to me his smile faded momentarily and his countenance imparted a message I did not understand. With a warm, almost comforting voice he said, “Bless you, sister.” I did not connect that blessing with my unborn child. I did know that he saw my future, and that alone was another testimony that he was truly a prophet of God, a seer, and a revelator. During the next few months I felt an uneasiness, some undefined worry or some unrecognized fear. Again I did not think it had anything to do with my pregnancy, nor did I think of it in connection with what the prophet had said.
When my precious baby arrived, my initial, and I think normal, reaction was of shock and unbelievable grief. As that grief began to subside, I realized that this was what the prophet had seen. The love I felt for my Heavenly Father was magnified, for I knew we had been chosen by him to be the parents of this special spirit who had, such a short time ago, been in his presence. I don’t know why we were chosen, but I thank him each day for this privilege and the blessings we have that are directly related to our having this special one to care for and love. His five brothers know this too. Their love and empathy for anyone with a handicap or affliction is a joy to behold.
Although we have been told that for Rusty sight is impossible, that no operation will ever give him his vision, I believe he will see before his life is over. I have always believed it, and I believe my Heavenly Father has given me this assurance.
Almost 19 now, Rusty is a young man of great faith. His childlike innocence combined with a childlike faith continue to testify to me of God’s continuing love. We are all children of God, and Rusty is one of his special ones.
Joyce Carter MickiewiezOxnard, California

But for the Prophet Joseph’s experience in the Sacred Grove, I would not have an understanding of the loving nature of God and my literal claim to divine heritage, described in Doctrine and Covenants 25:1: “All those who receive my gospel are sons and daughters in my kingdom.” The God I had learned about before I accepted the gospel was removed, ever-judging, and powerful. However, I had an experience as a young child that was not consistent with this unapproachable image of deity. At that time I was living in rural Arkansas. Because I had no brothers or sisters, I had adopted an agreeable farm dog as my constant companion. One afternoon as we were walking home along a single-lane road, she was struck and killed by a truck as I looked on. That night, as I tried to fall asleep, my grief overwhelmed me. Before long that grief turned into fear that I, too, might die suddenly. No one was near enough in the house to console me, so I offered up a prayer, and my pleading was heard. I felt encircled by warm, loving arms and instinctively knew I was being comforted by my Father. As the missionaries explained the nature of a loving Heavenly Father who answered young Joseph Smith’s prayer, my experience 13 years earlier came immediately to my mind and validated their words.

When my wife and I were young parents with little children at home, we challenged our children to memorize the Articles of Faith. The prize, or reward, for completing them was a night out with Dad. We were pleased that our three oldest completed the challenge. When our seven-year-old son first memorized all 13 Articles of Faith, we sat down to pick out a night and activity that we could do together. I was so busy with work, social activities, and Church responsibilities that I couldn’t give my son a night out for about two weeks. He was sorely disappointed. However, I found that in the city where we lived there was an all-night bowling alley. We immediately picked a date and chose to start our activity at 5:00 in the morning. Our plan was to get up at 4:00, have breakfast, and then go downtown.
When that day arrived, I felt someone shaking my shoulder very early in the morning. As I tried to open my eyes I heard my son say, “Is it time, Dad?” I looked at my alarm clock; it was only 2:00 a.m.!
“Go to sleep, Son,” I said. “It’s not time yet.”
An hour later the same thing happened. “Dad, Dad, is it time to go?” After sending him to bed for a second time, I couldn’t help but feel his excitement.
Then at 4:00 a.m. we got up, had something to eat, and left for the bowling alley. We had a wonderful time.

A young lady I met at a Saturday evening dance in Belfast, Northern Ireland, was my first contact with the LDS church. We made a date for the following evening—Sunday—and I attended my first meeting in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Because of my religious upbringing, however, and my activities in two Protestant faiths, I was not very responsive to the Latter-day Saints.
Indeed, in a friendly way, I heckled the elders as they held street meetings in the city, and I argued with them about the validity of Joseph Smith as a prophet. Perhaps as a result of my interest in the young lady, I continued to attend LDS church meetings and social activities, but I continued to stubbornly oppose the claim that Joseph Smith had been given divine authority.
And then it happened! One evening at sacrament meeting a young elder who had arrived in the mission field just that morning was asked to bear his testimony. He looked a little unkempt and tired from traveling. He spoke English with a German accent, and as he stood to bear his testimony, I thought he was the most unlikely ambassador the Church could possibly have appointed.
Simply and humbly he told “The Joseph Smith Story,” and as the tears rolled down his cheeks I unashamedly believed him as my tears joined with him. Shortly thereafter I was baptized in Helens Bay in Belfast Lough.

When I was finally blessed with the foundations of a testimony in this great latter-day work, it was not yet the end of my journey to baptism. Why? Because I was aware I would have to sacrifice many friendships and relationships I’d had with people my entire life. I knew there were people who meant a great deal to me who would never want anything to do with me again — and they didn’t. I had spiritual leaders in my life tell me I was turning my back on Jesus Christ and what He’d done for me. More than anything else, that hurt me deeply. I investigated and learned more of the Church because I love my Saviour so much. If I didn’t love and believe the Bible as much as I did, or have the foundations I had, I would never have believed the Book of Mormon.
A few weeks later, I realised something: Jesus Christ walked the walk to Calvary for me, the least I could do is walk the walk to the baptism font, and beyond, even if I had to do so alone, without the friends I’d had for decades. I did so. Every sacrifice I made to join the Church of my Lord Jesus Christ was far outweighed by the bounteous and sacred blessings He gave me.
It was a long journey which took very close to 10 months. But the walk through the valley took me to the truth, to the temple, to my beautiful wife, and closer to my Saviour, Jesus Christ.

But as the excitement grew, the group’s harmony was invaded by discord. Newspapers and television spoke against the Church. Missionaries were physically abused. Rocks were thrown through the windows of the mission home and the mission office. One night the whole front of the mission office was painted with obscenities.
As the anti-Church sentiment grew, the manager of the Moscow Hotel began to worry about the possible consequences of allowing the Church to hold a Christmas program in her hotel. Less than 36 hours before the program was to begin, she notified the mission office that the members would not be able to use their reserved room after all.
Some of the members were devastated by the news, believing that the Christmas program would have to be canceled. President Warner was more trusting.
“Heavenly Father knows where we are and how much we need to have this program,” he said. “Let’s leave it in the Lord’s hands.”
The Lord heard their prayers. When the assistants to the mission president, Elder Trent Murray and Elder Hannon Ford, returned to the Moscow Hotel to get the mission’s money back, the manager explained why she was reluctant to allow them to use the reserved room on the main floor and led them to a room on the second floor.
“If you can promise that your people will come in the back door instead of the front door, go up the back stairs, and not use the lobby, you can use this other room,” she said, opening the door to a much larger ballroom. It was two and a half times larger than their reserved room, and it had a wonderful grand piano. It even had a Christmas tree and other holiday decorations.
On a cold Saturday afternoon in Sofia, missionaries met the members and investigators arriving for the program and directed them to the back door, where they entered the hotel inconspicuously. More than 400 guests crowded into the ballroom. Even the dour faces of the spotlight technicians, who were unhappy to be working on a holiday, could not spoil their festive spirit.
The 150 choir members sang beautifully, and the audience joined in for a sing-along. By the time a young couple placed their baby in the manger for the final scene, the room was filled with joy and music. Even the spotlight technicians were singing and clapping along with the others.
The Spirit was so strong that no one wanted to leave. But like every performance, the Christmas program had to conclude. The same child’s a capella solo that had opened the program—her “Silent Night”—ended it. As the audience and the participants returned home, echoes of their experience—their “Joy to the World”—reverberated in their hearts and warmed the chill in the Bulgarian air.

The mission president and two elders met us at the airport, and after a short meeting, we were whisked off to our various assignments. I guess I was lucky because I was one of the first of the new elders to go.
The apartment where my companion and I were to live was several miles from the mission office, just outside the center of town. Elder Parks was from Houston, Texas, and talked with a slight drawl. He was tall, about six feet six inches, with dark black hair.
We went tracting and were having very little success our first night together. Elder Parks was surprised at how well I spoke Portuguese. I told him my family had lived in Brazil for a year while dad was assigned there on business.
As I opened a gate and Elder Parks and I started up the path to a small, green, wooden home, he whispered, “This one is yours.” I felt a heavy lump in my throat as I knocked on my first door.
An old man let us in. We had to keep repeating ourselves because he didn’t hear very well. We were both yelling by the end of the visit.
“How did I do?” I asked on our way to the bus after the visit.
“Not bad for the first time,” Elder Parks answered. “Too bad the guy’s so old. He must be in his 80s.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, he’s what we call a ‘banana peel case,’” he explained. “When a person gets that old and feeble, he could ‘slip off’ at any time. We like to teach younger men who can later become leaders. Besides, he’ll probably get the gospel in the spirit world anyway.”
“Why not give it to him now?”
“Look, the man is old. I should have stopped you at the door and taken over. He’s obviously not what we’re looking for in new members.”
In other words, case closed. I didn’t argue.
As we went out tracting the next day, we were in an area fairly close to where the old man lived, so I suggested we go back.
Elder Parks was dumbfounded. “I thought we talked about it last night.”
“I know, but I just have a feeling about this guy.”
“I think we’re wasting our time, but okay, have it your way. But consider this his last visit from us.”
We trudged up to the door, and I rang the bell. We waited for what seemed like half an hour. Finally the old man answered.
“You boys have to understand that I’m not as young as I used to be, so I take a little longer,” he said after greeting us and asking us in.
We sat down. I had Elder Parks say the prayer, and we started right into the discussion on the plan of salvation. It seemed to go well. This time the old man asked a lot of questions. He beamed with pride as he told us he had read part of the Book of Mormon and all of the Joseph Smith pamphlet we had left before. He’d even been praying, and he promised to come to church Sunday if we’d help him get there. I was really excited as I scheduled another visit.
“Now didn’t that go well?”
Elder Parks wrinkled his brow. “I guess it wasn’t bad.”
“Now, wasn’t it worth it?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
The following Tuesday I dragged Elder Parks back for a third visit. The old man seemed unusually excited. He pulled the Book of Mormon off a shelf. His eyes sparkled.
“I’ve read the book through once. It’s strange; usually I’m not a very religious person, but I couldn’t put the book down.”
It wasn’t hard to read the “oh no” look in Elder Parks’s face, but I didn’t let it bother me too much. After all, the Spirit was really strong there. There was just something special about this sweet old man. Even Elder Parks had to sort of admit it.
“How many investigators have read the Book of Mormon all the way through by the third visit?” I asked as we walked to the bus stop.
“Not very many,” he had to admit.
“So can’t you see? This man is one of the most golden contacts you’ll run into on your whole mission.”
“Maybe so, but wait until you get to the discussion on the commandments. Then you’ll find out how golden he really is. You saw that cigar dangling from his mouth last time, didn’t you? Do you really think an old man like that is going to be able to give up his stogie for the Church? And he’s too old and feeble to get around. Somebody will have to pick him up for church every Sunday and take his arm and chauffeur him around the chapel. Nobody’s going to do that week after week.”
A week passed by, and Elder Parks refused to go back. He just didn’t want to teach old folks.
Finally, on the following Tuesday, we came back to our apartment from a long, discouraging day in which nobody had shown the least interest in hearing about the Church. We were sitting at our desks planning the next day’s schedule when somebody knocked at the door. People didn’t usually come by that late at night, so I was close behind Elder Parks as he answered the door.
It was a boy about ten years old, with long black hair and blue eyes. He was wearing black shorts, a white t-shirt, and thongs.
“Grandpa said I should come see you. He wonders why you haven’t come back.”
I smiled at Elder Parks as we let the boy in.
Roberto was curious about what missionaries do and asked us all sorts of questions. Finally he told us, “Grandpa wants to see you tomorrow night at 7:00. He wants to know more about your church.”
I pulled out my little black book and began thumbing through it. Elder Parks was doing the same.
“Nothing tomorrow night.”
“I don’t have anything either,” he said. “Tell your grandfather, tomorrow at 7:00 will be fine.”
It was a foggy, cold night Wednesday as our bus jolted out toward the little shack on the edge of town.
The porch light was on, and we could hear a lot of noise inside as we knocked on the door. The old man answered and ushered us into a room packed with people—22 of them. Elder Parks’s face was blank with astonishment as Grandpa Carlos introduced us to his two sons, two daughters, and their families. In the middle of it all was Roberto, excitedly telling his parents about his visit to our apartment.
Well, we baptized the old man, two of his sons, a daughter, and their families—a total of 17 in all. One daughter and her family haven’t joined yet, but we’re working on them. And Elder Parks hasn’t said a thing about teaching old folks since. As a matter of fact, we’re teaching three old friends of Grandpa Carlos right now.

When I was called as an Area Seventy in 2020 and assigned to the Birmingham coordinating council, I had a very strong impression that this would be a special time of growth for the Church in that area. Alongside the boundary changes to strengthen the Birmingham Stake, and the re-establishing of the England Birmingham Mission office there, my heart leapt when President Russell M. Nelson announced the proposed temple at the April 2021 general conference.
The recent announcement that the England Birmingham Temple is to be built on the site at Penns Lane in Sutton Coldfield has special meaning for myself, and for many others who have visited this site over the almost sixty years that it has been in use by the Church.
As a young boy, I frequently visited the mission home whilst my father served there—first as district president under the leadership of mission president George Cannon, and then as a counsellor to his successor, Clifford Johnson. I enjoyed the feeling of the Spirit there, as well as my first experience of the old missionary favourite, ‘Sloppy Joes’.
Fifteen years or so later, the mission home was converted into the meetinghouse for the Sutton Coldfield Ward, into which my wife, Debbie, was baptised in 1979. Thus, in 1984 we were married civilly in the chapel (the former mission home) before going to the London England Temple later that day.
By the early nineties, a new chapel had been built next door, and as a serving bishop by that time, I was able to conduct the marriage ceremony of my mother-in-law and then my nephew there.
This site already holds so many special personal memories. I am so grateful that what is already very sacred ground for me is now going to be a house of the Lord. As President Nelson said, “With the dedication of each new temple, additional godly power comes into the world to strengthen us and counteracts the intensifying efforts of the adversary.”
I am looking forward to the additional spiritual influence that this new temple of the Lord will have on those who visit it, and on the community around it who will be blessed by its presence.

Some years ago, just before leaving Salt Lake to attend the annual meetings of Boy Scouts of America in Atlanta, Georgia, I decided to take with me enough copies of the New Era so that I might share with Scouting officials this excellent publication. When I arrived at the hotel in Atlanta, I opened the package of magazines. I found that my secretary, for no accountable reason, had put in the package two extra copies of the June issue, an issue that featured temple marriage. I left the two copies in the hotel room and, as planned, distributed the other copies.

On the final day of meetings, I had no desire to attend the scheduled luncheon but felt compelled to return to my room. The telephone was ringing as I entered. The caller was a member of the Church who had heard I was in Atlanta. She introduced herself and asked if I could provide a blessing for her 10-year-old daughter. I agreed readily, and she indicated that she and her husband, their daughter, and their son would come immediately to my hotel room. As I waited, I prayed for help. The applause of the convention was replaced by the feelings of peace which accompanied prayer.

Then came the knock at the door and the privilege which was mine to meet a choice family. The 10-year-old daughter walked with the aid of crutches. Cancer had required the amputation of her left leg; however, her countenance was radiant, her trust in God unwavering. A blessing was provided. Mother and son knelt by the side of the bed while the father and I placed our hands on the tiny daughter. We were directed by the Spirit of God. We were humbled by its power.

I felt the tears course down my cheeks and tumble upon my hands as they rested on the head of that beautiful child of God. I spoke of eternal ordinances and family exaltation. The Lord prompted me to urge this family to enter the holy temple of God. At the conclusion of the blessing, I learned that such a temple visit was planned. Questions pertaining to the temple were asked. I heard no heavenly voice, nor did I see a vision. Yet there came clearly into my mind the words, “Refer to the New Era.” I looked toward the dresser, and there were the two extra copies of the temple issue of the New Era. One copy was given to the daughter and the other to her parents. We reviewed them together.

The family said farewell, and once again the room was still. A prayer of gratitude came easily and, once more, the resolve to ever provide a place for prayer.

The last year of World War II was the very worst for Holland. The Nazis took absolutely everything. Grace couldn’t go to school. There was no coal to heat their house. Grace and her family had to eat tulip bulbs to keep from starving. They tasted horrible! Worst of all, Dad was still a prisoner of war.
But hope was in the air. People said the Nazis were losing the war. And in May of 1945, the Nazis surrendered. Holland was finally free again! People celebrated in the streets. Now Grace could go back to school. There were no soldiers to be afraid of.
Best of all, one day when Grace and her brothers were walking back from school, they saw that the flag of Holland was flying in front of their home. They knew that could mean only one thing.
“Dad’s home!” shouted Heber.
Grace and her brothers ran inside. Grace threw her arms around Dad and gave him a big hug. He hugged her back tightly. It was so wonderful to have Dad home.
Soon after that, packages of food, clothes, and medicine began arriving in Holland. The Church leaders in Salt Lake City sent a lot of supplies to help people after the war. Grace even got a new dress! She had worn the same dress for five years, so she was very happy to have a new one.
For the first time in years, Grace had enough to eat. The mission presidency and the government in Holland decided to start a potato project to grow more food. Church members planted lots of potatoes in nearby fields. By fall they would have thousands of potatoes to eat.
“Look!” Grace told Dad, pointing to a sprouting potato plant. “We’ll never go hungry again!”
Dad nodded but didn’t smile. He said, “I was talking to President Zappey. He told me that the Latter-day Saints in Germany are still starving, just like we were. They are not getting help from the government like us.” Dad put his arm around Grace’s shoulders. “President Zappey has asked if we would give our potatoes to the German Saints.”
“Give up our potatoes!” Grace cried. But the Nazis were from Germany! “They might be Latter-day Saints, Dad, but they’re still Germans.”
“I know it’s not easy,” Dad said. “But they are also children of God. He loves them too. I forgave them for making me a prisoner. The Lord can help us all forgive.”
Grace looked up at Dad. He was the bravest person she knew, but she didn’t know if she had the courage to forgive like him. Then she remembered one of her teachers in school during the war. Her teacher had said that not all Germans were Nazis, and not all Nazi soldiers were bad. And now the girls and boys in Germany were starving, just like Grace had been.
Grace took a deep breath. “I understand,” she said. “Let’s give them our potatoes.”
Dad hugged her and smiled. “You are such a brave girl. This is a hard thing to do. But we are disciples of Jesus Christ, and so are our German brothers and sisters.”
Grace smiled. The angry feelings in her heart melted, and she felt calm and warm. She could forgive the Germans. And Jesus could help her love them too.
Latter-day Saints in Holland gave 140,000 pounds (70 tons) of potatoes and 180,000 pounds (90 tons) of herring to the German Latter-day Saints. Later, in 1953, the German Saints sent supplies to Church members in Holland after a huge flood.

The Holy Ghost guided me when I had to decide whether or not to go on a mission. When I became old enough to serve a mission, no one suggested that I go. In fact, I didn’t really know much about what a mission was or what it required. But my patriarchal blessing had mentioned something about a mission, and that had stuck in my mind. And the Holy Ghost whispered to me, urging me to tell my bishop that I wanted to serve a mission. I knew what I should do. As a missionary in Uruguay, I really enjoyed going from door to door to tell people about the gospel.

In 1999, a woman newly baptized in the Church wrote the following letter to President Hinckley: “‘My journey into the Church was unique and quite challenging. This past year has been the hardest year that I have ever lived in my life. It has also been the most rewarding. As a new member, I continue to be challenged every day.’ …
“‘Church members don’t know what it is like to be a new member of the Church. Therefore, it’s almost impossible for them to know how to support us.’…
“This woman goes on:
“‘When we as investigators become members of the Church, we are surprised to discover that we have entered into a completely foreign world, a world that has its own traditions, culture, and language. We discover that there is no one person or no one place of reference that we can turn to for guidance in our trip into this new world. At first the trip is exciting, our mistakes even amusing, then it becomes frustrating and eventually, the frustration turns into anger. And it’s at these stages of frustration and anger that we leave. We go back to the world from which we came, where we knew who we were, where we contributed, and where we could speak the language.’”7