Gospel Story Finder

Something was different about nine-year-old Heidi after school that cold afternoon. Instead of flinging her jacket like a Frisbee, she carefully hung it on the hook. Rather than pouncing at the refrigerator like a hungry tiger, she stared quietly out the window as if she was looking at something far beyond the border of the yard.
“Well, hi there!” Mom said, hoping to get her attention.
Like a person awakened from a dream, Heidi looked at her mom and smiled. “Oh, uh, how was your day, Mom?”
Mom wiped her hands on her apron and studied Heidi’s face. “My day was fine. How was yours?”
“Well … ,” Heidi began slowly, “it was … different.”
“I believe you. You seem to be a million miles away.”
“Well, maybe not a million. But at least as far as Arkansas.”
“Arkansas is a long way from California. What started you thinking about Arkansas?”
Mom cut an apple into four pieces and offered one to Heidi, who just cradled it in her hand.
“There’s a new boy named Billy coming to join our class tomorrow. The teacher told us his parents were both in a car accident in Arkansas. His mother died, and his father is in a hospital, not expected to live. Billy was sent here to California to live with an uncle.” Heidi looked down at the apple she was holding. “Can you imagine being that boy, Mom?”
“No, but you’re really trying to, aren’t you?”
Heidi nodded. “I just wish that there was something I could do for him. He’s going to feel so alone tomorrow.”
“I’m sure that there are some things you can do to help. Let’s think of some.”
“I can smile at him.”
“Good idea.”
“I can show him around the school and tell him about our classroom routine.” Heidi put her chin on her hand and looked up at her mother. “But it isn’t enough. Isn’t there something special I can do?”
“Well, there is something special we can do for Billy. Something that just might be ‘enough’.”
“What?”
“You and I can fast and pray for him. We can ask Heavenly Father to bless him to feel at peace in his new home and at his new school. We can also pray for his father to get well. What do you think about that?”
Heidi thought a moment about fast Sundays. She had been taught that fasting would help her feel the Spirit, but she usually just felt hungry and grumpy. She hesitated, but then something inside made her feel that it was going to be OK. She smiled at her mother. “I like that idea. Let’s do it.”
Just then, Heidi’s thirteen-year-old brother, Chris, entered the kitchen. Hearing Heidi’s last sentence, he asked, “Do what?”
Mom briefly told Chris about Billy and explained their plan. Chris said, “I’ll fast with you.”
“Wow! Really?” Heidi asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he answered, reaching for some cookies. Stopping his hand just above the cookie jar, he asked, “When do we start?”
“After dinner,” Mom answered.
The next day, Heidi came home, looking a little pale but happy.
“Wow! I thought fasting on Sundays was hard! Try playing kick ball and watching everyone else eat lunch! But you know, I believe our fasting and prayers helped Billy.”
“Oh good! Tell me about it.”
“Well, when I smiled at him, he smiled back at me. The other kids were pretty nice to him, and he seemed to have made friends with a couple of boys by the end of the day.”
“That’s great,” Mom said.
“And then—it was weird,” Heidi added. “You know how the language on the playground has been really bothering me lately?” Mom nodded, and Heidi continued, “Well, it was amazing, because I heard those same swear words but for some reason, they couldn’t get inside my mind. It was as if my brain was protected all day from getting dirty! Neat, huh?”
“That’s wonderful, Heidi,” Mom said, smiling.
“I’m really tired, but I feel happy. I hope Billy feels as peaceful as I do right now.”
Mom gave her a little hug. “I have a feeling he does.”
Chris came home, flopped into the nearest chair, and let his heavy pack thud to the floor. He leaned his head against the big cushion and closed his eyes. “When do we eat?”
“Let’s finish our fast together with a prayer. We’ll have dinner soon,” Mom suggested. “But first, tell me how your day went.”
“Well, you know how I’ve been dreading P. E. for weeks because a certain guy has been trying to shorten my life span?”
“Yes,” Mom answered, wondering what new form of violence this “gym enemy” had tried on Chris.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but today I didn’t feel any anger toward him, and he left me alone.”
As the three of them knelt to say one more prayer for Billy, Mom put her arms around her children’s shoulders. Was it her imagination, or had they both grown a little taller that day?

Another teacher, a fourteen-year-old Tongan boy, had the same faith the Prophet Joseph Smith did at fourteen. He thought, “If, at my age, Joseph Smith could pray to God and get an answer to his prayers, why can’t I?” He prayed that he might somehow obtain an education to prepare him to help his people. The answer came when he received a full scholarship to the Church College of Hawaii without having applied for it. Since then he has used his education to bless his people.

I am also reminded of President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994), who was assigned to succor members of the Church in Germany following World War II. “Through the God-inspired welfare program, he literally fed the hungry, comforted the weeping, and lifted closer to heaven all with whom he met.”2
Years later, President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) referred to that event at a dedication service in Zwickau. At the meeting, an elderly Church member approached him and said: “Please tell President Benson that we love him. He saved our lives: mine, my wife’s, my children’s, and many, many others.’ He was as an angel sent by God to literally restore to us hope and confidence in the future.”3

Mom and Callie were making cookies.
Callie squirted green icing onto the cookies.
SQUIRT!
Callie picked up three pink candies. She dropped them on top of the frosting.
PLOP! PLOP! PLOP!
Callie and Mom decorated all the cookies.
“It looks like a flower garden,” Callie said.
Callie helped Mom wrap the cookies. They wanted to give the cookies to Sister Jones. Sister Jones was sick.
Mom and Callie drove to Sister Jones’s house.
Callie rang the doorbell.
DING-DONG!
Sister Jones opened the door.
“We brought you a yummy flower garden,” Callie said.
Sister Jones was happy. Callie was happy too.

Max got ready to play superhero. He put on his red t-shirt. He put on his superhero cape. Then he went to his little sister’s room.
“Come on, Mia,” said Max. “Let’s go save the day!”
Max and Mia went into the living room. They saw a basket full of clothes.
“Will you help me?” asked Mom.
“OK,” Max said. “Then we can go save the day.”
Max and Mia helped Mom fold all the clothes and put them away.
Then Max saw some trash on the floor. “Let’s pick up all the trash,” said Max. “Then we can go save the day.”
Max and Mia raced around the house. They threw away all the trash they could find.
They saw Mom sweeping the kitchen floor. “We can help you,” Max said.
Mia held the dustpan while Max swept the floor.
“Now let’s go save the day,” Max said.
Mom looked around at the clean house. Then she hugged Max and Mia. “I think you already did!”

Lindi loved the map game—the whole class did. Right now, her classmate Jason was standing next to Ms. Werner, their teacher. He was staring at a big world map hanging on the wall. He had won three rounds already.
“Ashley,” called Ms. Werner. Ashley skipped up to the map, giggling. She’s going to lose, thought Lindi. She’s not paying attention to the map. Sure enough, almost before Ms. Werner could finish saying, “The Black Sea,” Jason’s finger poked the map, right on the Black Sea. Ashley shrugged her shoulders and skipped back to her seat.
“Jason rocks!” Matt yelled. Other kids started chanting, “Ja-son! Ja-son! Ja-son!”
Soon Jason had beaten two more challengers. Jason was on his way to becoming the Map Champ! Lindi thought she knew Jason’s secret to success: he never took his eyes off the map.
Then Ms. Werner called, “Lindi!”
Lindi stood up and walked toward the front of the class. Megan gave her a high five as she passed her desk. Lindi tried to forget about everything else as she stood next to Jason and scanned the map. Focus! she told herself. You can do this.
Jason and Lindi both stared at the map. Out of the corner of her eye, Lindi could see Ms. Werner open her mouth to say something. But just then, a bunch of kids started shouting.
“Ja-son! Ja-son!”
Jason’s finger shot out and hit the map. “I win!” he said.
Lindi’s mouth fell open. What had just happened? “I didn’t hear!” she said. She turned to Ms. Werner. “I really didn’t hear what you said.”
Ms. Werner looked at Lindi. Lindi looked at Ms. Werner. She wondered what Ms. Werner was thinking.
The chanting faded. “What’s going on?” someone asked
Megan spoke up. “Lindi didn’t hear. Everyone was making too much noise. It wasn’t fair.” This time Jason’s mouth dropped open.
“She just said that ’cause she doesn’t want to lose!” Matt said.
Lindi’s stomach felt tight and sort of queasy. It shouldn’t matter so much, she thought. But it did matter. The truth mattered.
Soon the whole class was quiet and waiting to hear what Ms. Werner would decide.
“I have never known Lindi to lie,” Ms. Werner said firmly. “If she says she didn’t hear, then she didn’t hear. We’ll have a rematch.” She smiled at Lindi.
The tight, queasy feeling drained away. It really does pay to be honest, she thought. People notice. Lindi smiled back at Ms. Werner.
The class was quiet now, and she turned to the map. Jason faced the map too. Anything can happen, Lindi thought. We’re both ready this time.
“Lisbon,” Ms. Werner said.
“There!” Lindi quickly stabbed her finger onto the map. Jason’s finger nearly poked the back of Lindi’s hand. He was that close to winning again. But Lindi’s finger was already there.
“You did it!” Megan squealed.
“No way!” Matt shouted.
Jason turned to Lindi. “You won, fair and square.”
Lindi couldn’t help but grin.
Then she faced the map again because Ms. Werner had called up the next challenger. It was time to focus!

Marva Olson Prior is the great-grandmother of Erica. Her life did not take every turn as she expected. She reared her four children righteously in the Church without her husband being a member. She once said: “If we keep His commandments, we will be blessed and find peace of mind and true joy, but not without trials, for we learn so much from our challenges.” Her husband joined the Church after they had been married 46 years. Part of who Erica Wible is comes because of the noble life of this great-grandmother. I have a picture of Erica with her great-grandmother when Erica was younger. Sister Prior passed away four years ago.

What about us? I remember when I was writing about Joseph Smith for national television. When I thought about what I was doing, I was paralyzed. I could just see meeting Joseph Smith in the next life and accounting for my efforts. All I wanted to do was to get it right—for him, the Prophet of this dispensation.

I had written a working script for the documentary being produced by Lee Groberg, and it was sent off for review by the sponsoring station in Vermont. The early response was heartening. “The first part is pretty good,” the reviewer said. The script began with the Martyrdom and then backed up to place Joseph in the context of American religious history. Then the story focused on the unfolding of the Restoration through Joseph’s life.

The reviewer’s next statement was something like “When you get to New York . . . ” And then she paused. I knew what she was going to say: “. . . all these angels start dropping down from the sky.” She paused again and then said, “No one is going to believe you.”

I listened.

“Take this Moroni.”

I corrected her pronunciation, saying, “It’s M?-r?-n?.”

“Oh,” she said, “M?-r?-n?. How are you going to show him? You aren’t going to hook him up to wires and then fly him through the sky?”

I explained that the show would use images of where things happened, paintings depicting the setting, and stained-glass windows.

“I hate this part,” she said, and then she hung up.

A few days later she called back: “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you show the gold plates? You could put one of your experts there next to the shiny little volumes, and he could point to them and talk about them. Then people would believe you, because they could see something.”

“There’s a problem with that,” I said.

“I’ve thought about that,” she responded. “You’ve probably got them encased in some special box because of their antiquity.”

“No,” I said, “that’s not the problem. Joseph gave the plates back to Moroni, and he buried them or took them someplace else. Anyway, we don’t have them.”

Long pause. “I hate this part,” she said, and slam went the phone.

She had yet to read the Kirtland section where we had angels on the roof of the temple in the middle of the day.

Tell the story of the Restoration without angels? No. Tell the story of Joseph without the tutoring of Moroni? Without Peter, James, and John? Not possible. We have been called to do our part, whether it is taking lined paper for writing or standing firm about the story of the Restoration.

Tonight, I’d like to tell you a story from my family history—you may have a story like it in your family history, too. Or your experience may be the source of stories that your posterity will tell.
My story is from the life of my second great-grandmother, Anthonette (Nettie) Marie Olsen. Nettie was born in 1845 in Oslo, Norway, the first child of Christian and Christine Olsen. Nettie and her parents joined the Church when Nettie was about 10 years old. As a result, Nettie and her family were shunned and ridiculed for their new faith. She worked as weaver in a factory to save enough money to immigrate to Salt Lake City, Utah, to be with other Latter-day Saints.
When she was 20 years old, she was ready to undertake the journey. Her father made her a travel bag, which contained a few pieces of underwear and a second dress. She wore the only pair of shoes she owned. Neither she nor her parents understood the nature of the journey ahead.
Nettie sailed across the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean and landed in Boston. From Boston, she took a train to a point near Florence, Nebraska. From Florence, she walked to Salt Lake City, a distance of 1000 miles. Before she walked 300 miles, her shoes wore off her feet. Nettie offered a fellow traveler her spare dress for a pair of shoes. The woman to whom she made this appeal had several pairs of shoes in her possession, but she refused, saying that she would need the shoes later on.
So, Nettie walked in her stocking feet. She mended her stockings each night by the campfire to be ready for the next day’s walk. Nettie later said, “This wasn’t so bad through the deep sand for miles and miles, but oh, the cactus patches.”
On November 8, 1865, Nettie arrived “afoot and alone” in Salt Lake City. She knew only a few words of English. She had met Christian Fredrick Bernhard Lybbert on the trail, and he helped her find work as a weaver and to learn English. She later married CFB (as the family calls him) and bore 11 children. She and her family eventually settled in Ashley Valley, Uintah County, Utah, where she died in 1932.
I have frequently thought of the sacrifices that Nettie made for her faith. She sacrificed personal comfort, her homeland, and the company of her friends and family in Norway. She sacrificed everything she had ever known for the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ. You may wonder if she thought her commitment to the restored church of Jesus Christ was worth her sacrifice—she knew it was. She had a deep testimony of the prophet Joseph Smith though she never met him. She lived her life consistent with principles of truth and served the Lord, her family, and neighbors. She had faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and in the promises He makes to the faithful. Her sacrifices built her faith, and she was faithful to the end.

Emma sat at the big oak table surrounded by her family. It was the first of December.
“OK,” Dad said, “it’s time to discuss our individual Christmas projects. Who can tell me the rules?”
“We each do a project that doesn’t cost any money,” Ben said.
“It can’t be a material item,” Mom added.
“And most important of all, it has to bring the spirit of Christmas to someone,” Jane finished. “I’m going to baby-sit for Sister Wells so that she can get her Christmas baking done.”
Mom beamed. “An excellent project. How about you, Ben?”
“I think I’ll wrap presents for Project Merry Christmas. It’s a city program that collects gifts for the poor.”
Dad nodded. “Good plan, Son. As for me, I’ll be practicing my Ho Ho Hos, because I’m going to take the part of Santa in some local preschool plays.”
Mom eyed Dad’s tummy and winked. “It looks like you’ll need only one pillow this year. I’m going to play Christmas music at the Golden Days Nursing Home, and Kayla will help me rehearse by not crying—I hope. That leaves you, Emma.”
Emma squirmed. “I don’t know yet.”
Dad gave her a hug. “That’s all right,” he said. “But try to decide soon. Christmas comes quickly, and you shouldn’t do anything out of desperation. That wouldn’t mean as much.”
Emma tried and tried to think of something that she could do, but no good ideas came. If I were a teenager like Ben and Jane, I could do lots of cool projects, she thought. But what can a little kid do?
A week passed, and Emma still didn’t have a plan. She wanted to make someone happy by helping in some way, but her mind always drew a blank.
In church on Sunday, Emma noticed Sister Dugan interpreting for Brother Drake, who was deaf. Emma watched in wonder as Sister Dugan’s fingers flashed and danced, weaving invisible words out of thin air. She liked the hand motions and wished she knew what they meant. In an instant she had a plan.
For the next couple of weeks, Emma worked hard. Her mom took her to the library to check out books, then she practiced for hours with Sister Dugan.
On a clear, crisp December evening a few days before Christmas, Emma and her family drove to Brother Drake’s house. Before leaving the car, Emma asked her family to say a prayer with her. Then they all got out, bundled in winter coats and hats. Only Emma did not wear mittens. She flexed her fingers and watched her breath in the cold air. Dad rang the doorbell, and they were soon greeted by Brother Drake and his hearing dog.
“‘Silent night! Holy night!’” they sang. “‘All is calm, all is bright …’”* Emma’s fingers formed the words in American Sign Language—awkwardly at first but with growing confidence. When she signed the words heavenly peace, all fear left her, and her fingers felt warm and loose. She was no longer just moving them in memorized patterns, but really singing the story of the Savior’s birth. She felt this same peace as they sang “Away in a Manger.”
When they had finished, Brother Drake wiped a tear from his eye and beckoned the family inside. While they drank eggnog, he grabbed a pen and pad of paper. “Thank you for those beautiful songs,” he wrote. “I have never had Christmas carolers before. You have brought the spirit of Christmas into my home and given me an unforgettable gift.”
Emma’s heart felt as if it had grown a thousand times bigger. She said a silent prayer thanking Heavenly Father for the wonderful Christmas spirit. “Merry Christmas,” she signed carefully. “Merry Christmas and heavenly peace.”

The Young Women in the Roy First Ward, Roy Utah West Stake, wanted to do a special service project for their ward. They had an opportunity to clean an apartment complex for a local builder and spent four full Saturdays working on the project. They also made and sold homemade lollipops to earn money.

On completion of their projects, they presented a check to the bishop to be used for the ward budget. It was a surprise to both the bishop and the ward members because the girls had kept their plans a secret.

Sara had an embarrassing sports experience as well. She was a pretty good basketball player, and right in the middle of an exciting game she got her directions confused and scored in the wrong team’s basket.
Sara wanted to crawl under the bleachers, until she saw how nice the other girls on the team were being about it. When she realized that this one little mistake would not be the end of her high school career, she was able to laugh the whole thing off and be a lot more empathetic when others made embarrassing mistakes.

Another time I was in a distant city. After a conference we were ordaining and setting apart leaders. As we concluded, the stake president asked, “Can we ordain a young man to be an elder who is leaving for the mission field?” The answer, of course, was yes.

As the young man came forward, he motioned for three brethren to follow and stand in for his ordination.

I noticed on the back row a carbon copy of this boy, and I asked, “Is that your father?”

The young man said, “Yes.”

I said, “Your father will ordain you.”

And he protested, “But I’ve already asked another brother to ordain me.”

And I said, “Young man, your father will ordain you, and you’ll live to thank the Lord for this day.”

Then the father came forward.

Thank goodness he was an elder. Had he not been, he soon could have been! In the military they would call that a battlefield commission. Sometimes such things are done in the Church.

The father did not know how to ordain his son. I put my arm around him and coached him through the ordinance. When he was finished, the young man was an elder. Then something wonderful happened. Completely changed, the father and son embraced. It was obvious that had never happened before.

The father, through his tears, said, “I didn’t get to ordain my other boys.”

Think how much more was accomplished than if another had ordained him, even an Apostle.

Remember names. One youth leader said: “I attended a youth fireside with a guest speaker from outside our stake. I was impressed to see the speaker mingle and visit with the youth before and after the talk. He asked the young people their names and called them by name. He made each individual feel included and important. I decided that if a visiting speaker could make an effort to learn names, I could certainly try harder.”
This youth leader set a goal to learn the name of every young person in his ward and at least a few others he saw regularly at stake functions. “I tried some memory techniques but didn’t find them as helpful as simply writing down names inside the folder I always take to church,” he said. “Then if I forgot a name during the week, a quick glance at my folder would refresh my memory.”

On Being Specific
Now may I take slices from autobiographical accounts? Are we to pray in practical and specific terms? Brother Brigham Young was hung up on a sandbar crossing a river on the plains. His companion, troubled, said, “Let’s pray.”
Brigham replied, “Pray? I prayed this morning. Let’s get out and push.” There is a time for total concentration in prayer and a time for answering prayer with your own muscles—helping.
But this is the same man who was specific enough to bring to the Lord concrete and urgent feelings, even hostile ones. His prize saddle was misplaced or did not hang properly, and the horse trampled it into shreds. He sharply rebuked the neglectful man and then made a beeline for the bedroom where he said (someone overheard him), “Down Brigham.” Then he knelt and prayed, “Lord, I’m sorry. I was angry. Take my anger away and help me to do better next time.”

“When I am angry,” he said to a friend, “the first thing I do is pray.”

As the wagon drew near to Bountiful, … we came to the site of a log house with a dirt roof on one part of it and another part adjoining on the south that had been built up to the square with logs unchinked without a roof, and this, my mother turned to explain to me, was her home. But soon mother and children climbed out of the wagon and went into the house. …

No one was at home when the little group entered, much to the disappointment of the mother as to the children, for, of course, we were anxious to meet our other sister, “Annie,” who was remembered lovingly by us. Our mother seemed annoyed, for she had expected her other daughter at home, perhaps with supper ready. It was only a short time, however, until “Sister Annie” came in and what a charming thing she was—bright, blue-eyed, fine long hair combed back from her face. Everything about her seemed so perfectly clean and wholesome, and to my eyes she was beautiful too, and spritely. She seemed to be everywhere about the house at once, and the meal that our mother had expected was soon under way. …

… What was left of the day was the wonderful meal prepared by Annie. Not much variety of food, for our mother was desperately poor, but what there was, was fit for princes—just white light buttermilk biscuits with butter, clear water from the creek, and dark, sweet, sticky fluid called “Molasses.” It was heartily enjoyed, Mary and me furnishing the principle appetites. How long the talk of the reunion lasted is not remembered, but it must have been far into the night. With the awakening of the next day, my life in Utah had begun.

Fu Bi Hsia (Foo Bee Shaw) sprinted the last block to her home in a small Taiwanese village. The August sun poured out of the blue-glass sky, and the humid air covered her body like a hot, heavy blanket. To escape the oppressive heat, she ran through the warm grass and along the edge of the benjo (open sewer) where an old woman was beating her clothes clean against a large rock.

Reaching her home, Bi Hsia paused in the front yard to look for her goose, Goldie. A few of her mother’s pigs snorted and rolled in the dirt, her father’s water buffalo lay partway in the benjo, and a stray dog nipped at her heels. But Goldie was not in sight.

Goldie and all the goose’s brothers and sisters had been purchased at the market on Bi Hsia’s ninth birthday. Over a period of many months, they had all been used for food—all except Goldie. Bi Hsia kept Goldie for a friend. They went on long walks together, clucking their way past rice fields and through ditches, walking barefoot in cold puddles, and chasing yippy little dogs down narrow alleys. She even gave her goose an American name, because America was so big and far away and because she believed that everyone who came from there was rich and important. Goldie was important too.

Bi Hsia bounded through the gate and up the stairs to her home. “Mother!” she called.

The two-room house was made of concrete, like most of the structures in the neighborhood. The main room (the living-sleeping area) was bare except for a few chairs, a television, and some rice-straw mats. These were rolled out at night and used for mattresses.

Bi Hsia found her mother in the kitchen, stirring a pot of chicken-egg soup. She stuck her nose over the rim of the pot and sniffed. “Smells good.”

Her mother’s elbow nudged her aside. “Get out of there. Your father has invited guests for supper.”

“Guests? Who are they?” She stuck her finger quickly into the broth as her mother’s eyes searched the cupboard for more eggs.

“They’re Mormon elders. One is from Taipei, and the other has come all the way from America. He will be staying in Taiwan for two years to teach people about his church.”

Bi Hsia’s finger was in her mouth. She sucked the soup juice off with a loud slurp. “How did Daddy meet them?”

“At the market, quite by accident. And don’t you dare stick your finger in there again, unless you want me to use a bamboo switch on your backside!”

Bi Hsia jerked her hand back. “When will they come?”

“Soon,” replied her mother. “Go get changed into your best dress. And get Sun Ming washed. He’s been trying to eat rocks again and is all covered with dirt.”

The missionaries arrived in a taxi. It had a dented fender and a motor that chugged louder and louder as the car drew near. The elder from Taipei stepped out first. “I’m Elder Lin, Lin De Fu,” he said, in the custom of saying his surname before his given name. (Fu is Fu Bi Hsia’s surname.) “This is my companion, Elder Wheeler.”

“Ni hau ma (How do you do)?” Elder Wheeler stepped forward and offered his hand to Bi Hsia’s father. The American’s words sounded strange and stilted, and his thin face appeared hard and expressionless. His hair was like yellow rice straw, and his pale eyes were cold and as far away as the country he came from. Bi Hsia felt her throat tighten with apprehension.

Her father spoke up boldly. “Ni tsung nali lai (Where are you from)?”

“Utah.”

It was a strange name. Bi Hsia said it quietly to herself, over and over, “Yu ta. Yu ta.”

Her mother smiled, saying in Chinese, “It’s a long way for anyone to come.”

The elder’s brow wrinkled as he studied her face. “Pardon me. I do not understand.”

Elder Lin put his hand on Elder Wheeler’s shoulder and said something to him in English too rapidly for Bi Hsia to understand. Elder Wheeler listened intently, then laughed at himself. “Yes. A long way.”

The adults moved into the kitchen. Bi Hsia sat on the back step to wait for them to eat their meal. It was not considered polite for children to be served with the guests. She held Sun Ming in her arms, listened to the murmur of their voices, and thought about the faraway places she had never been. She wondered if this elder would ever understand her country’s customs and accept her people as they were. She didn’t think so. After all, he’d come from America, where no one ever had to go without; people there always had lots of things of their very own. Bi Hsia sat and reflected, and in the distance a light evening breeze tossed a weightless white feather in the air. A feather! She got up, paused for a moment, then placed Sun Ming on the grass at her feet. “Now don’t go anywhere,” she said firmly. “I won’t be long.”

All of Goldie’s feathers were there in a little pile by the garden. She knew that they were eating her goose for supper. It was not her place to object. Her family was very poor, and her mother needed meat to serve to the guests. Chinese custom was very strict about children honoring and obeying their parents. And Chinese pride was firm on the point of offering the best that one could.

Bi Hsia did not cry. She walked heavily, as if her limbs were lead weights. She sat on the porch for what seemed like forever and watched the sun die in the sky above Taiwan.

When the elders were ready to leave, Bi Hsia followed them out to the front of the house. The elder from America offered her his hand, and she wanted to hold hers back. He took it and squeezed, and she pulled quickly away. He reached down and lifted her chin. “I hope we can become friends,” he said haltingly.

Bi Hsia kept her eyes averted from his face, and she looked past him to where the lights from the houses on their street shone smaller and smaller as they receded into the distance. Her mouth remained silent, but her heart thumped loudly inside her ribs. Never! Oh, never, never, she thought, knowing that if it weren’t for him and his companion, she would still have Goldie. She watched the elders get into a taxi, and she was glad when it drove away.

Bi Hsia awoke early the next morning. The sun was just peeping through the sugar cane, and her parents and brother were still asleep on their mats. She rose quietly and tiptoed to the door. Outside there was a small scrape, the sound of quick footsteps on the porch, a whisper, and a wild, hissing sound. She opened the door.

At her feet lay a huge white goose, the biggest that she had ever seen. It was bound so that it could hardly move, but its head was free, and it was hissing and trying to flap its wings. As she bent to free it, out of the corner of her eye she saw something move down by the benjo.

It was Elder Wheeler! He was sprinting across the grass toward Elder Lin, who waited on the road with two bikes. As Bi Hsia watched, Elder Wheeler reached his bike, paused for a breath of air, and glanced back. Their eyes met across the distance and held. Then a smile spread slowly across his somber face. It was a sad, happy smile, a smile filled with understanding. That’s when Fu Bi Hsia knew for certain that she and the American, Elder Wheeler, would be friends.

After I finished school and before I went on a mission, I completed mandatory military service. While I was in the military, I picked up a habit that I’ve kept to this day: to pray always.
Obviously, the environment in the military wasn’t always very spiritual—the lockers, the pictures, the talk, the movies people watched at night. But I knew I was going to go on a mission. I wanted to stay strong. I didn’t want to fall. I didn’t want to give in to peer pressure. So I developed a habit of praying in my heart all the time.
Walking from building to building, going up and down hills in the forests, lying in the foxholes, playing war games—wherever I was, I would engage with Heavenly Father in prayer whenever I could, filling minutes and sometimes hours by communing or talking with Heavenly Father in order to draw close to Him and stay strong. Mostly, I would just give thanks.
This habit is still with me. When I’m driving somewhere or sitting in a bus or walking someplace, it has become natural for me to always have a prayer in my heart or to “pray always” as the scriptures say (see, for instance, 2 Nephi 32:9). That’s a good habit to develop at an early age.

Dear Reed,
It was awesome to get my very own letter from you. I’ll keep writing to you, if you’ll keep writing to me. But I still miss you very, very much! Nobody else calls me Buddy, but you can because I will always be your buddy.
Last night was our second grade Spring Sing. Everyone was there but you. Even Grandpa Richards was there, and your girlfriend Kelly. She says that she misses you very much, but I know that she doesn’t miss you as much as I do.
After the Sing we went to get ice-cream cones, and we talked about you. Mom and Dad said that you seem grown-up now. Natalie and Rachel said that they’re proud to be the sisters of a missionary. Scooter didn’t say anything because he’s too young.
I ate two scoops on my cone, one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of your favorite, pralines-and-cream. I did it for you.
I still have something I need to tell you, but I’m still afraid to tell you.
Love,Buddy

It’s a thrill, brethren, to stand here this evening and see this great audience of priesthood filling this sacred Tabernacle. Having had the privilege of serving as the Presiding Bishop of the Church for fourteen years, and thus, the president of the Aaronic Priesthood, I am thrilled to see all of the boys of the Aaronic Priesthood here tonight, and I imagine that will be true in the other buildings where the priesthood are listening in. We are all thrilled as we go through the Church to find the wonderful attitude that the Saints have toward President Kimball and, particularly, toward the emphasis that he is giving to missionary work. You know that he has indicated that every boy should be a missionary.
I think of when I was a young man, before I was even ordained a deacon, I went to one of our ward meetings in the little country town where I was raised, and two missionaries reported their missions down in the Southern States. In those days they traveled without purse or scrip, and they had to sleep out many nights when they couldn’t get entertainment. I don’t know whether they said anything unusual that night or not; but if they didn’t, the Lord did something unusual for me, because when I left that meeting, I felt like I could have walked to any mission field in the world, if I just had a call. And I went home, went into my little bedroom, and got down on my knees, and asked the Lord to help me to live worthy so that when I was old enough I could go on a mission. And when the train finally left the station here in Salt Lake and I was headed for the little land of Holland, the last thing I said to my loved ones was, “This is the happiest day of my life.”
Before I left on that mission, President Anthon H. Lund, who was then a counselor in the First Presidency of the Church, talked to us missionaries, and he said, among other things, “The people will love you. Now,” he said, “don’t get lifted up in the pride of your hearts and think that they love you because you are better than other people. They will love you because of what you bring to them.” I did not understand that then, but before I left the little land of Holland, where I spent nearly three years, I knew what President Lund meant. I went around saying good-bye to the Saints and the converts who I had brought into the Church, and I shed a thousand tears, as compared to what I shed when I told my loved ones good-bye.
For instance, in Amsterdam I went into a home where I had been the first missionary there, and the little mother, looking up into my face with tears rolling down her cheeks, said, “Brother Richards, it was hard to see my daughter leave for Zion a few months ago, but it’s much harder to see you go.” I had been the first missionary in that home. Then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant when he said, “They will love you.”
I went to tell a man with a little Dutch beard good-bye. He stood erect in the uniform of his country. He got down on his knees and took my hand in his and hugged it and kissed it and bathed it with his tears. And then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant when he said, “They will love you.”
Now I like a little story that President Grant used to tell about the love that converts have for their missionaries. He told about a couple who came here from one of the Scandinavian countries. They hadn’t been taught much about the gospel. All they knew was that it was true. And so the bishop went to this couple and taught them the law of tithing. They paid their tithing. Then later the bishop went to them and taught them about the fast offering. They paid their fast offering. And then the bishop went to them again to get a donation to help build a ward meetinghouse. They thought that ought to come out of the tithing, but before the bishop got through with them, they paid their donation on the meetinghouse.
Then the bishop went to the father to get his son to go on a mission. Now I can hear President Grant standing here, saying, “That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.” The man said, “He’s our only child. His mother will miss him. We can’t let him go.” Then the bishop countered, “Brother So-and-So, who do you love in this world more than anyone else outside of your own relatives?” And he thought for a few minutes. He said, “I guess I love that young man who came up to the land of the midnight sun and taught me the gospel of Jesus Christ.” Then the bishop countered, “Brother So-and-So, how would you like someone to love your boy just like that?” The man said, “Bishop, you win again; take him. I’ll pay for his mission.”
Now you fathers, how would you like someone to love your boys just like that man loved that boy who came up to the land of the midnight sun and taught him the gospel? I heard a missionary up in Oregon giving the report of his mission. He himself was a convert to the Church, and he came down with his fist on the pulpit, and he said, “I wouldn’t take a check tonight for a million dollars for the experience of my mission.” I sat back of him, and I said to myself, “Would you take a million dollars for your first mission in the little land of Holland?” And I began counting the families that I’d been instrumental in bringing into the Church. What kind of a man would I be if I were to sell them out of the Church for a million dollars? I wouldn’t do that for all the money in the world!