Gospel Story Finder

Some months ago I spent a week at a management seminar in Atlanta, Georgia. One of the guest lecturers was Dr. James Gill—a remarkable individual. He heads the Department of Health Services at Harvard University. He spent twelve years in preparation as a Catholic priest, went on to medical school to become a physician, and then pursued a specialty in psychiatry. He made the comment that, to many people, we are living in a time that is considered the age of entitlement. He said that all his life somebody was trying to make something out of him. His parents were trying to make a good boy out of him, his teachers were trying to make a good student out of him, his coaches were trying to make a good ball player out of him, and, in the military service as a navy pilot, they were trying to make a good pilot out of him. He went to Marquette University, and addressing that freshman class on the opening day the head physician said, “You want to be a doctor? You want to be a good doctor? All right, if you’re successful, this is what will happen. First of all you will have to spend at least four hundred hours in the library. You will have to cut up a cadaver at least once a week until you know every joint, every muscle, every bone contained in that human body. We have one of the finest faculties of anatomy anywhere in the United States. You will have to pick their brains and seek them out to try to gain from their experience. Now you should understand something,” he said. “We don’t check on you to see if you’re attending class. If you want to stay home and sleep that’s your business. We won’t call your folks. There are so many people waiting to take your place here that we couldn’t care less whether you attend class or not. And so, just remember that sometime you will have to certify as a doctor. You will have to pass some very stiff boards, and you must use every resource you have in order to make it.”
Dr. Gill said, “For the first time in my life I realized that somebody had put the monkey squarely on my back and I was almost entirely responsible for the results. I don’t mind telling you I was pretty frightened, but I was also thrilled and provoked by the opportunity.”

Years ago, my wife, Ruth; our daughter, Ashley; and I joined other tourists on a kayaking excursion in the state of Hawaii in the United States. A kayak is a low-to-the-water, canoe-like boat in which the rower sits facing forward and uses a double-bladed paddle to pull front to back on one side and then on the other. The plan was to row to two small islands off the coast of Oahu and back again. I was confident because, as a young man, I had paddled kayaks across mountain lakes. Hubris never bodes well, does it?

Our guide gave us instructions and showed us the ocean kayaks we would use. They differed from the ones I had previously paddled. I was supposed to sit on top of the kayak, instead of down inside it. When I got onto the kayak, my center of gravity was higher than I was accustomed to, and I was less stable in the water.

As we started out, I rowed faster than Ruth and Ashley. After a while, I was far ahead of them. Though proud of my heroic pace, I stopped paddling and waited for them to catch up. A large wave—about 13 centimeters—hit the side of my kayak and flipped me over into the water. By the time I had turned the kayak upright and struggled to get back on top, Ruth and Ashley had passed me by, but I was too winded to resume paddling. Before I could catch my breath, another wave, this one truly enormous—at least 20 centimeters—hit my kayak and flipped me over again. By the time I managed to right the kayak, I was so out of breath I feared I would not be able to climb on top.

Seeing my situation, the guide rowed over and steadied my kayak, making it easier for me to climb on top. When he saw that I was still too breathless to row on my own, he hitched a towrope to my kayak and began paddling, pulling me along with him. Soon I caught my breath and began paddling adequately on my own. He let go of the rope, and I reached the first island without further assistance. Upon arrival, I flopped down on the sand, exhausted.

After the group had rested, the guide quietly said to me, “Mr. Renlund, if you just keep paddling, maintaining your momentum, I think you’re going to be fine.” I followed his advice as we paddled to the second island and then back to our starting point. Twice the guide rowed by and told me I was doing great. Even larger waves hit my kayak from the side, but I was not flipped over.

By consistently paddling the kayak, I maintained momentum and forward progress, mitigating the effect of waves hitting me from the side. The same principle applies in our spiritual lives. We become vulnerable when we slow down and especially when we stop. If we maintain spiritual momentum by continually “rowing” toward the Savior, we are safer and more secure because our eternal life depends on our faith in Him.

Consider how the expedition guide helped me after I flipped over in the kayak. He did not shout from afar an unhelpful question such as, “Mr. Renlund, what are you doing in the water?” He did not paddle up and chide me, saying, “Mr. Renlund, you would not be in this situation if you were more physically fit.” He did not start towing my kayak while I was just trying to get on top of it. And he did not correct me in front of the group. Instead, he gave me the help I needed at the time I needed it. He gave me advice when I was receptive. And he went out of his way to encourage me.

I will never forget the experience I had when I was called to serve as the Stake President of the Mesa Arizona Maricopa Stake. Elder Lawrence, the visiting Authority, invited my wife and me into the stake president's office and extended the calling, and I dutifully accepted. He then invited us to enter the High Council Room and to prayerfully consider people to recommend as my counselors. As I entered the High Council Room, I looked up at the north wall and there I saw the pictures of all the stake presidents who had previously served in the Maricopa Stake since it was organized, and my heart sunk.

The first six pictures were of men I had never known. They lived before my time. But I knew their names. They were great leaders both in the Church and in the community. The next five pictures were of men that I did know - Lorenzo Wright, to whom I had delivered newspapers as a boy, his son Harold Wright who later served as a mission president and a temple president, President J. Lamar Shelley, President W. Dea Montague, and President David K. Udall - great men whom I had sustained and revered all my like. I looked at my wife and said, "Kathleen, I don't think I can do this. I'm not in their league. My picture doesn't deserve to hang next to theirs." She said, "Well, don't tell me about it. You better talk to Elder Lawrence." Which I did.

I rehearsed my experience to Elder Lawrence thinking that he would try to reassure me that I could do it, that I had served as a Bishop and a counselor in the Stake Presidency, that I would have the support of the stake members and that I would be a fine stake president. But, to my surprise, when I told him that I didn't think I could do it, he responded, "Well, I suppose you're right." And I wondered who might be next on his list. But then he said, "You can't do it, Brother Andersen, but the Lord can. He has the power to do His work, and if you will be worthy and work hard, He will do it. You will see." And He did.

“Come on, Dad,” I pleaded. “It’s only rated that bad for violence. A little fake fighting isn’t going to hurt us.”
My 16-year-old cousin and I weren’t in the habit of asking to see movies rated for older audiences. We were good kids, active in seminary and our priest quorums. But we had both heard how great this movie was and how many awards it would win. Besides, we’d been told there was no sex, no innuendo, no nudity, and very little swearing. That’s all of the bad stuff, right?
My dad wasn’t seeing it that way. Finally he changed tactics. “Fine,” he said. “You know what’s right and wrong. You do what you feel is right.”
Church leaders have told us not to watch inappropriate movies, and in our family the rule was we could not watch R-rated movies. (In the United States an R rating requires an adult to accompany anyone under 17.) I guess I had been trying to get my dad to say it was all right for my cousin and me to see the movie so I could do what I wanted and not feel guilty. Instead, he had placed the decision squarely on my shoulders.
Well, he didn’t say no. And besides, it was only a little violence.
After my cousin and I saw the movie, I felt awful. I thought I felt bad because of the movie’s rating, so I promised myself I would never watch another R-rated movie again. But later after watching a somewhat violent movie (though its milder rating allowed teen audiences), I realized I had that same awful feeling.
What happened? Hadn’t I done the right thing by choosing a movie with a milder rating? Maybe it wasn’t just a movie’s rating that mattered. Maybe it was the violence itself. But could violence really affect me that much?
When I pulled out my wallet-sized For the Strength of Youth pamphlet, I was surprised I had missed such an important point before. Under “Entertainment and the Media,” it says, “Avoid anything that is vulgar, immoral, violent, or pornographic in any way.”
Still, I resisted. “OK,” I told myself, “maybe there are people who are affected by violence, but I know it’s not real. And yes, some movies are pretty graphic, but a little bit never hurt anybody, right?” All of a sudden I wasn’t so sure.
Then came the stinger. Right after telling us to avoid violence, the pamphlet says, “Commit to keeping God’s standards.”
Ouch. I was guilty. Sure, I could rationalize that I was choosing the right by avoiding vulgarity, immorality, and pornography. But was keeping most of God’s standards good enough? Was I truly committed if I wasn’t willing to keep all of them?
It didn’t matter what the movie was rated, and it didn’t matter that there was only a little violence. It had been enough to offend the Spirit. And if that’s the case with movies, could the same principle hold true with other things? Maybe there are some words that offend the Spirit even if they aren’t swear words, and maybe some music offends the Spirit even if the lyrics aren’t bad.
When I committed to being more selective about the things I watched, played, read, said, and listened to, within days I could feel a difference. I didn’t realize how desensitized I had become to the influence of the Spirit.
When I cut back on my diet of violence, I found it was easier to control my temper, and I didn’t fight as much with my brothers. I noticed that, while my language wasn’t foul, cleaning it up made a big difference. Best of all, I could feel the Spirit more strongly.
It taught me that “just a little violence” is more than the Spirit wants to see.

The storm came up quickly. It was blinding white. I was driving from one state to another, and I could hardly see. My white-knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel as I searched for any sort of landmark. I felt relieved when I made out two taillights from what must have been a semi-truck. Their red beam gave me something to follow.
I inched along behind the truck for almost an hour. I thought the cars passing me must be crazy for going so fast in this weather. I was certain that I would see the wreckage of one of them farther up the road.
Turns out the people in those cars had a far better perspective than I did. As I started to climb a mountain pass, my little car couldn’t keep up with the taillights. When the truck pulled ahead of me, I realized the “blizzard” was actually powder coming off its very snowy top. It was only snowing lightly, and I could actually see the road quite clearly.
Had I seen the whole picture from the beginning, I would have realized that the truck in front of me that I’d thought was a beacon was, in fact, the reason for the storm. Sometimes we get so caught up in our own personal blizzards that we miss the big picture. The Lord knows our big picture, even when we do not. If we trust in Him, we can avoid the personal blizzards that can be so harmful to us, and we can make it through the storm safely.
Kari B., Virginia, USA

Our family has a dear friend, Mary, who passed away several years ago. She spent the last fifteen years of her life bedridden in a nursing home due to the effects of a stroke. When she was a young mother with three little children, her life was very busy! One day she went to visit a friend, and as they talked, her friend asked, “Mary, are you going to have any more children?” Mary answered with an emphatic, “No! I am done having children!” She told me that later that night when she was back in her home, she stewed over what she said to her friend. She regretted her words. In her prayers that night, she apologized to the Lord for what she said to her friend and told the Lord that if He wanted her to have more children, she would do it. A short time later, she found out that she was pregnant with her fourth and what would be her last child—a little boy. Then Mary told me, “That boy has been so good to me!” I love this story! It is the beautiful story of a humble woman who let God prevail in her life. I am confident that the Lord was grateful for Mary’s devotion, and He blessed her with this son. Of all her loving children, this son lived closest to the nursing home, and he spent many hours taking good care of his mother when she needed it the most.

One of the best inspiration stories I know is a football story about a young man playing fullback for the University of Oklahoma. The University of Oklahoma had gone ten years without losing a conference football game, had gone 47 straight games without losing to anyone: Army, Navy, Notre Dame, Texas, Alabama—you name the team—they played them and beat them. But on this particular day, while playing the University of Nebraska at Norman, Oklahoma, it looked as if they were going to be beaten. It was late in the game, they had the ball deep in their own territory, and they were behind. The winning streak was going to go down the drain, but in a second down and long-yardage situation, the ball was handed off to the tailback, a young man named Billy Vessels, who ran 67 yards for a touchdown that snatched victory from defeat. His run prolonged that great winning streak. The news media said, “That touchdown run was, without a doubt, the best run in the history of Oklahoma football and maybe in the history of football per se.”

On Monday, when the coaches looked at the film, they found that something strange had happened on this particular play. Billy Vessels did make a great run, but the play went differently than they had thought. The quarterback, Claude Arnold, took the snap from center and handed off to Vessels, the tailback, who was going to run around the right end. The fullback was a young man named Leon Heath; he wore number 40 on his jersey. His job on this play was to hook the end, to block him in, so Vessels could run around him. As the ball was snapped, the end came across too far. The average player would have thought, “Get back over there. The coach said you’d be right there. Get over there.” Players move around from time to time, and they are not always located where we coaches draw them on the board. Instead of trying to hook the end, Heath just drove him out of the play, and Vessels cut inside, got around the corner, and eventually was confronted by the cornerback. Vessels made a quick left, cut behind the line of scrimmage, and ran into the offside linebacker. What a hit! Two great athletes going full speed. Vessels was struggling to stay on his feet and eventually to break the tackle. Just when it looked as if he were going down, into the film came number 40, the man who had just blocked the end. Heath got a shoulder pad into the linebacker and knocked him off the tackle. Vessels spun free, balanced on his hand, headed for the sidelines and then for the tall grass of the end zone, which was about 60 yards away. Billy Vessels—six-foot-two, 210 pounds of Heisman-trophy-winning, All-American tailback—could run like the wind. As he was on his way to the end zone, here came the weak side safety, the man who plays on the weak side of the formation. You could see that he was going to get Vessels on about the 15-yard line. When Vessels got to the 25, he had to make up his mind what he was going to do—run over him, stop, call time, say “King’s X,” or something else. Just as he had to make up his mind, into the film came number 40, Leon Heath, moving like a freight train. He hit the safety, put him about eight rows up in the grandstand, and Vessels walked into the end zone for the greatest run in the history of Oklahoma football.

That’s an inspiring performance. If you and I are going to get where we would like to get eventually, we had better follow Heath’s example and not only complete that first assignment but also go get a linebacker. And if we really want an exalted hereafter, we had better hitch up our belts and go get the safety.

In another occasion, a fried of mine, got a master's degree in information sytems. When she and her husband moved to a new town in the midwest where there were very few Mormons, she was asked by a neighbor to help the local library choose a new computer system. My friend told me she spent ten mintues consulting on the system, and hours explaining the beliefs of the church. Not only did she help serve her community, she was given missionary opportunities because of her degree. Your education, too, can give you a "greater influence . . . for good."

As we pushed across the Arctic, the directing and protecting powers of the Spirit were always present. We had prayed regularly throughout the trip; I had set a pattern and hoped Bob would follow, and he did. For the first week, his prayers were choppy and short. But as we moved further into the wilderness, an emotion began to build. He began to talk to the Lord. He would say please, and when I heard him say it, I knew he was on the way back. As we got into some more difficult situations, he really opened up. Sometimes we would pray a dozen or more times a day. The feeling kept growing that we were not really two alone, but three together—myself, my son, and the Lord.

Late one afternoon we were approaching the mouth of a river at the end of Starvation Lake. As we pulled ashore, the canoe bumped a boulder. We noticed a huge mound of fur nearby. I thought it was a dead animal until it moved and Bob said, “It’s a grizzly. And it isn’t dead, it’s asleep.” We were less than 100 feet from it at that point. Suddenly, it stood up. I thought it would run away, as most bears do. But it was irritated. The hair on its neck raised up, it started swaying its head back and forth, its jaws started moving—you could hear the teeth clacking—and its ears were laid back. I grabbed the camera and Bob grabbed the gun, but we soon decided it wasn’t smart to stay close, and we backed into deeper water. Somehow we had to get by that grizzly.
We pulled into a small draw about 200 feet away and checked on the bear. It had lain back down. So we took the food packs up and came back for the canoe. When we checked on the bear again, it was gone. It couldn’t go the opposite direction from us because of cliffs. It couldn’t go to the right, because of the lake. So we knew it was either going parallel uphill or coming straight for us. It knew where we were, but we didn’t know where it was. Bears will sometimes move up your trail and intercept you, and we were both scared. We knew it might come boiling over the hill any minute. Bob said, “Dad, can we pray, please?” After a prayer and with great caution, we started up the draw, me with the canoe over my head and Bob with the gun.
We broke the ridge about 100 feet from our packs, and it was waiting there for us. If it tasted the food in the packs, we would have to kill it to keep it from destroying the entire supply, and we didn’t want to do that. As a last desperate effort, and with prayer in my heart, I raised the canoe and shouted at the top of my lungs.
The bear swung its huge head around and saw a pair of legs, a body, and a 17-foot aluminum head growling at it. It was startled so badly it took off at a dead run. It took us about four hours to shake the hollow feeling we had after that close encounter, but we both knew the prayer had helped us through.
When we arrived at Point Lake, it was covered with ice floes. Shifting ice floes in a bad wind would crush a small canoe like an egg shell. We made camp, and I asked Bob to pray that night. He exhibited a faith rarely seen. He said, simply, “Father, stop the wind.”
The next day when we got up, it was perfectly still. The lake was smooth as a mirror. But we had 20 miles to cross. Even the slightest breeze once we were on the lake and we would be destroyed. For 20 miles we pushed through the floes. Twice the canoe froze in the ice as we got hemmed in, and we had to jump and pry and push to work our way free. Finally, after 7 1/2 hours, we broke into open waters. No sooner had we cleared the ice floes than the wind began to blow again. It had been a daily companion except for those 7 1/2 hours. We prayed again, this time a prayer of thanks.
It was about that time Bob began talking again about going on his mission. We hadn’t mentioned it much, but then one day he said, “Well, I guess when we get home I’ll start getting ready for my mission.” From then on, he talked about a mission more and more. One night, about 1:00 A.M., after a long, hard day, he rolled over in his sleeping bag and said, “Dad, tell me about eternal life.” We talked for about two hours. Then, with his last effort, he said, “That’s for me,” and fell asleep. For me that made the whole trip worthwhile.
We also had several other experiences that taught us to appreciate the harmony and beauty of nature and the power of its forces and creatures.
One day, after we had reached the Coppermine, we were paddling on the river during a blizzard. It was the end of July and the snow was flying! The current was powerful, but the headwind was so strong we were struggling for progress. Bob said, “Dad, look at the shore.” I did. We were standing still. And when we stopped paddling, the wind blew us upstream! So we stopped and pulled over and gathered what wood we could for a fire to warm our hands.
We were resting there when we saw a herd of caribou coming directly toward us. They looked spooked, but I was sure they’d follow their established trail. They did and swam across the river. Right behind them was a pack of wolves. As the herd came out of the water, there were two old cows lagging behind. A second set of wolves, waiting on the far shore, renewed the pursuit, and soon dragged down a victim. Had we not stopped to warm our hands, we would have missed this spectacle of life and death.
That wasn’t our only experience with wind or with wolves. Headwinds plagued us through much of the early trip. Sometimes they were so strong you could lean into them without falling over; sometimes they literally lifted you off your feet. It’s quite a challenge carrying a canoe over your head in winds like that! Another time winds were so strong we couldn’t even pitch our tent. We just waited them out for two days and slept on the ground.
Another day, Bob had stopped to fish. When he looked up, a large wolf, about 30 feet away across the creek, was staring at him. It followed us for several days. I’m pretty sure he was a dominant wolf that had been driven out of his pack. He still carried his tail curled way up above the top of his back, a sign in the society of the pack that he’s a leader. We finally lost him when we crossed a large lake.
We also drifted up to a large bull moose in the river one time. He was upwind from us and didn’t notice us. I’m sure his antlers were 60 inches wide. We got several good pictures of him before we scared him and he ran away, but those photos were among the two rolls of film that were later destroyed in processing, along with photos of the grizzly bear and the caribou and wolves.
Another time we were hung up on a boulder in a bad set of rapids, and it seemed as though we might stay there forever. But after a prayer and a quick maneuvering of the boat, we broke free.
Once we reached the river, we were determined to make up our lost time. We didn’t mind moving, because when we’d stop we’d start to chill. Even at night we slept cold. The ground was ice, and the wind was cold. We had canned heat, but just enough to warm our food. And so we paddled and rushed on. Our worst day on the river we made three miles. Our best day we made 50, and we went over the falls and swamped at the last set of rapids out of eight we covered that day. The map showed eight sets of rapids, and we decided, because of our haste, to run them without studying them first, a foolish thing to do.
We slowly made up time, and by the end of the trip, arrived in the small eskimo village at the mouth of the river right on schedule. We had one half of a meal left. Our canoe was so badly damaged we had to abandon it (after notifying Canadian officials). We had run every set of rapids on the river but one (whether we were tired or afraid of the one we portaged around I’m not sure), so we didn’t claim any records. But Bob had been lost and now was found. The day after we returned home, he went to see the bishop and expressed his desire to serve the Lord. He is now serving in the Illinois Chicago Mission.
To any father who is trying to help his son decide to go on a mission, I would say that the most important thing is to know your son. Not everyone needs to go on a trip down the Coppermine. The same kind of building experiences can take place at home, working in the garage together, playing a game of tennis, maybe just going for a walk where the two of you can be alone. I wouldn’t have gone on the Coppermine if I hadn’t felt inspired to do so.
And to you young men who know you should be going on a mission, I would remind you that for every person there will be wilderness areas, Gethsemanes, Sacred Groves, if you will—places where we learn to rely on the Lord completely and call on him in fervent prayer. Don’t try to tempt the Lord by placing yourself in a dangerous situation, but be prepared to follow the promptings of his Spirit, wherever they may lead you.

It feels appropriate to share a very personal experience that I rarely talk about. It speaks to turning outward in times of personal turmoil and how the Lord provides opportunities to use our challenging times to help others in their time of need.

The story begins when I was a ward mission leader in Los Angeles trying to find a part-time member family, I will call the Safavi family. I tried for years to find the Safavis but could not. Years later, I was called as bishop of that ward, my beloved Westwood First Ward. This was the photo taken the day that I was set apart as bishop. My mom is standing right behind me. January 28, 2001 was a good day. I was baptized as a teenager into that ward and now I would be serving as bishop. It was exciting but also overwhelming.

The next day, Monday, I received a call at work informing me that my mom lost her life in a carjacking that went terribly wrong. You can imagine the incredible swing in emotions in just 24 hours. Suddenly, I was not just responsible for preparing for my first Sunday as bishop, but for my first funeral as bishop.

Then, on Wednesday night, I received a call from a sister in a neighboring stake looking to speak with the new bishop. She said that her friends in the ward, who were not active members, had just experienced a tragedy in their family. The father of the family, living in a foreign country, was killed during a civil protest. She gave me their address and asked if I would visit them. As you might have guessed, it was the elusive Safavi family—the family I had been looking for as ward mission leader for so many years. I was able to go to their home to minister them in their time of need.

The Lord, in His great wisdom, knew that the very week that I would have a life-changing ordeal, I would be an instrument in His hands to help and bless others during their life-changing ordeal.

Now, when I think back on that week, I remember very clearly the joy that came from finding meaning in my experience in that I could truly understand and empathize with the Safavi family and their experience.

These experiences are what Paul taught the Philippians when he spoke about knowing the “fellowship of [the Lord’s] sufferings.” [18]

In contrast, as I close, consider unselfish Melissa Howes, whose comparatively young father died of cancer several months ago. Just before, Melissa, who was then nine, was voice in family prayer, pleading, “Heavenly Father, bless my daddy, and if you need him more than us, you can have him. We want him, but Thy will be done. And please help us not to be mad at you” (letter from Christie Howes, 25 Feb. 1998).
What spiritual submissiveness for one so young! What an unselfish understanding of the plan of salvation! May unselfish submissiveness be our path too, in the holy name of Jesus Christ, amen!

I love this gospel and I love street art, so I decided to combine the two. I packed my scriptures, a sketchbook, charcoal pencils, permanent markers, and cans of spray paint in my backpack. My companions laughed and asked, “What are you doing with spray paint?” I explained, “I may not speak the language yet, but I can show others my testimony.”
For the remainder of my mission, I used street art—on paper, not on buildings—and the Spirit to teach others about Christ. And as crazy as it sounds, it worked. Many people didn’t want to hear my message, so I sketched it. Doors and eyes opened when I told them that I did graffiti. They didn’t believe me. They timed me for three minutes, and I sketched the word faith while teaching them about it. Among them were many who felt judged and unloved. I could testify that with faith in Christ we can feel of His love and forgiveness, and He can help us change for the better. He did for me.

Another of the Prophet’s trials in the home related to the burdens imposed on their marriage by his persecutors, burdens that Emma too had to carry. Often they would think they had a moment of peace, and then there would come the rude shock at the door: another lawman, another lawlessman, another subpoena, another cry, another warning.25 At one point two little girls were charged with keeping their eyes open for anyone who came within a block of the house. They would rush to the house and say, “Someone suspicious-looking is coming.” Sometimes the Prophet would leave, and sometimes he would hide, and sometimes the person would turn out to be a friend who looked disreputable, such as bearded, long-haired Porter Rockwell. Joseph would scoop up the children and run out and say, “Now, now, he’s not all that bad, is he?”

I remember what a challenge it was during those first five years after marriage when we were trying to have children.
Sister Soares: Those years were very difficult. I couldn’t get pregnant.
Elder Soares: We had many health challenges after so much effort. That’s when we received a priesthood blessing. Later you had a surgery, and a few months later . . .
Sister Soares: Our dream came true.
Elder Soares: You got pregnant.
Sister Soares: We trusted so much in the Lord, and we recognized tangible blessings. It was not easy for the two of us, who were so inexperienced, but it has also been marvelous.
Elder Soares: While we were dealing with life, the Lord provided for our spiritual needs, giving us the peace that we needed, the comfort and ability to work, to continue on, to finish our education. It was a significant time in our lives that completely changed the direction of everything we thought we’d be doing.

Another sister, a recent convert, was startled one Sunday when a sister in her ward spoke about dressing with the intention to someday go to the temple and receive one’s endowment. “That sister’s counsel made a strong impression on me,” she says. “As I thought about it, I felt a desire to find out just how I should dress if I had been to the temple.” She later discarded her revealing or inappropriate clothing, and she made future purchases with Church standards in mind. Two years later, when she received her endowment, her wardrobe did not need to be changed; it was both modest and attractive.

Following the renovation of the Mesa Arizona Temple some years ago, clergy of other religions were invited to tour it on the first day of the open house period. Hundreds responded. In speaking to them, I said we would be pleased to answer any queries they might have. Among these was one from a Protestant minister.
Said he: “I’ve been all through this building, this temple which carries on its face the name of Jesus Christ, but nowhere have I seen any representation of the cross, the symbol of Christianity. I have noted your buildings elsewhere and likewise find an absence of the cross. Why is this when you say you believe in Jesus Christ?”
I responded: “I do not wish to give offense to any of my Christian colleagues who use the cross on the steeples of their cathedrals and at the altars of their chapels, who wear it on their vestments, and imprint it on their books and other literature. But for us, the cross is the symbol of the dying Christ, while our message is a declaration of the Living Christ.”
He then asked: “If you do not use the cross, what is the symbol of your religion?”
I replied that the lives of our people must become the most meaningful expression of our faith and, in fact, therefore, the symbol of our worship.
I hope he did not feel that I was smug or self-righteous in my response. Our position at first glance may seem a contradiction of our profession that Jesus Christ is the key figure of our faith. The official name of the Church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We worship Him as Lord and Savior. The Bible is our scripture. We believe that the prophets of the Old Testament who foretold the coming of the Messiah spoke under divine inspiration. We glory in the accounts of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John setting forth the events of the birth, ministry, death, and Resurrection of the Son of God, the Only Begotten of the Father in the flesh. Like Paul of old, we are “not ashamed of the gospel of [Jesus] Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation” (Rom. 1:16). And like Peter, we affirm that Jesus Christ is the only name “given among men, whereby we must be saved” (Acts 4:12).

In the summer of 1921, at age twenty-one, Ezra received a letter from President Heber J. Grant calling him on a mission to Great Britain. July 14, 1921, he went through the Logan Temple with his parents, and two days later, he said good-bye to his parents and girlfriend and started on his way to England (see Ezra Taft Benson, p. 50). Elder Benson studied and worked hard but didn’t feel like he was doing too well and wrote in his journal that he was disgusted with his “‘frail attempt at speaking.’” But as he matured spiritually, he was invited to speak at the South Shields Branch. He was assigned to speak on the Apostasy, but instead he “‘gave a strong and impressive discourse of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon.’” He later said, “‘I spoke with a freedom I had never experienced. Afterwards, I couldn’t recall what I had said, but several nonmembers surrounded me and said, “Tonight, we received a witness that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and we are ready for baptism.” It was the experience of a lifetime. … It was the first experience of that kind I’d had, where I knew that the Lord was with me’” (Ezra Taft Benson, p. 55).

I had been working at the movie theater for less than a month by the time my co-workers discovered I was a member of the Church. Several co-workers asked me questions about the Church and I answered them, but I never invited anyone to learn more. One co-worker, Garrett, had been assigned to work many of the same shifts that I had been, and we quickly became friends.
One night we were both assigned to clean theaters between showings. Garrett started asking me questions about the gospel. I answered his questions and then felt a distinct prompting to invite him to church. My heart raced. I had never invited anyone to learn more about the gospel. Missionary work terrified me. I was afraid that if I shared the gospel and Garrett wasn’t interested, things would be awkward between us. But the prompting was so strong I knew I had to follow it.
“You should come to church with me sometime,” I said, trying to control the tremor in my voice.
“No way!” Garrett exclaimed.
I was stunned. I was grateful we were in a dark theater so he couldn’t see how embarrassed I was. As we finished cleaning the theater in silence, I wondered why I had been prompted to invite Garrett to church. Did Heavenly Father just want to humble me? I didn’t know, but I was sure that things would never be the same between Garrett and me. We went out into the hall, and Garrett broke the silence. Soon, we were laughing and joking. There was no awkwardness.
Then the realization hit me. I had finally attempted to share the gospel, and though my invitation had been rejected, I was still standing. I had nothing to fear. Since then I have been able to share the gospel several times and have had some positive experiences. I’m grateful for this experience, which helped me overcome my fear of missionary work.
[illustration] Illustration by Sam Lawlor

As a young graduate, I went to work for an accounting firm. I was eager to demonstrate my worth, and I attempted to fulfill each task I was assigned with precision and efficiency. Beyond that, I often volunteered for extra assignments, and over time I built a reputation as an employee who would step up to whatever was asked of her.

Then came the request that gave me pause. An important reporting deadline was approaching, and our Fortune 500 client needed a physical inventory audit. I won’t bore you with details of what the assignment entailed, but the key points were these: the audit had to be done in person, it had to be done on a Sunday, and I was the person they wanted to do it. You see the dilemma.

I was fully committed to supporting my team. But I had also made a commitment to myself and to my God that I would avoid working on the Sabbath, except as strictly necessary. So I approached my manager and explained to her that I was a “Mormon.”

Now let me pause here and explain that this conversation happened prior to President Russell M. Nelson’s divinely inspired corrections regarding the name of the Church.1 While I should have said I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I didn’t. So, in retelling, I’m going to stick to the words I actually used.

I explained to my manager that I was a Mormon and that an important facet of my religious observance was keeping the Sabbath day holy. I emphasized that while I did not want to work on Sunday, I wasn’t trying to shirk. I would be glad to take two Saturday assignments if I could be relieved of this one. The counteroffer seemed reasonable to me.

My manager smiled kindly and then firmly denied my request. She said, “I understand. I’ve worked with Mormons before, and I know that’s your preference. But at the end of the day, everyone just steps up and takes one for the team.”

Disappointed, I offered a silent prayer: “Father, give me the words to help her understand.”

As I concluded that prayer, my mind was immediately drawn to a colleague I had worked with during a summer internship. This colleague would arrive every Friday morning at 5 a.m. in order to leave by 3 p.m. because as an Orthodox Jew he was prohibited from driving on Shabbat, which began Friday at sundown. Although the sun didn’t set until closer to 7 p.m., this colleague valued his commitment so deeply that no amount of Los Angeles traffic could frustrate his important religious observance.

The Spirit whispered to me, “That colleague’s faith is the key to helping your manager understand.”

I took a deep breath and tried again: “Oh, I’m so sorry. I think I misexplained. I’m actually an Orthodox Mormon.”

It was as if a light came on for my manager, and her entire demeanor and response were wholly changed. Now that she understood the depth of my conviction, she was happy to accommodate my request.

What an incredible thing; the small word orthodox conveyed such powerful meaning because of individuals who have lived their faith with exactness and integrity. Through the example of a believing Jewish colleague, the way had been paved for me to exercise my own devotion.

Today is Valentine's Day. You might know about the BYU-Idaho English student who received a B-minus on an important paper. In hopes of bettering his grade, and in the spirit of the Valentine's season, he left for his professor an extravagant heart-shaped box of chocolates with a preprinted inscription: "Be Mine." The following day he received in return a Valentine from the teacher. It read, "Thank you, but your grade is still be mine-us."