Gospel Story Finder

A year after my sister’s death, my friend’s mother died. I felt incredible sorrow. I thought, “The next time I see her, I’ll tell her how sorry I am.” Then, remembering my own experience, I knew that my friend needed me right then. Walking to her house, I felt apprehensive. What if she didn’t want to see me? Maybe her family didn’t want me there. Should I wait and talk to her later? But when she answered the door, I could tell she was glad I came. Her father and older siblings were busy planning the funeral. We went for a walk. I didn’t have to worry about what to say. She did most of the talking.

Janetta pulled the quilt close around her shoulders and shuddered. Even with its comfort and the warmth from the fire, she felt cold.
“Janna!” her little brother wailed from the lean-to. “I had a bad dream!”
“Come here,” she called softly, holding out her arms. He climbed onto her lap and snuggled down to sleep again. Soon the warmth from his small body flowed into hers and they were both warm.
James whimpered in his sleep, and she rocked him gently. His nightmares had begun this last year. It had been a year especially full of things that could disturb a three year old.
She looked away from their fire across the mighty Mississippi to Nauvoo, where she could see the distant flicker of fires that surrounded the temple where men were still working.
That was “her” temple. She felt a pride in it because she had helped build it. With her mother, she had cooked food and made clothes for the families of those who worked on the temple.
That was how she’d met her best friend, Sarah. One day when Janetta was delivering supper to some workers, she ran right into a girl her own age and knocked her down. When the girl got up, she put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, this is a fine way to meet a new friend.” She grinned at Janetta, then stuck out her hand. “I’m Sarah, and I’m new to the city.”
Janetta shook her hand. “I’m Janetta, and I’ve been here since the beginning.”
It was a great friendship. They giggled together as they spun wool, carded it, and knit through the long winter days. They were proud that men working on the Lord’s temple wore their socks.
Janetta looked again at the flickering lights and felt sadness creep in. Her father had left before the temple walls were up. Their family had never had the opportunity to go inside to be sealed together as a family.
The worst of the trouble had started the summer before, when the Prophet Joseph was killed. Everyone was numb from the tragedy. It was as if a cloud of darkness covered their beautiful city—only there weren’t any clouds.
With tears streaming down their cheeks, Sarah and Janetta had stood hand in hand as the bodies of the Prophet and his brother Hyrum passed by in a wagon coming from Carthage. Later, after the bodies had been prepared at the Mansion House, her parents stood in line to view them.
As the sorrow lessened, some of the Saints became confused. Rumors circulated in the city that the Church was doomed. Some predicted that the temple would never be finished. Several men claimed to be the next leader of the Church.
Janetta was troubled by the confusion. “Father,” she asked one day, “what will happen now? Who will lead the Church?”
Her father took her in his strong arms and hugged her. “This Church was true while Joseph lived, and it’s true now that he’s dead. It’s the Savior’s Church, and He’ll provide a leader for us. We’ll listen to the Brethren and follow what they say. There’s a meeting in the grove tomorrow, and Brother Brigham will tell us what’s right.”
The next day the Saints eagerly gathered at the grove. The first speaker was Sidney Rigdon. Janetta listened very carefully, for he claimed to be the proper leader of the Church. He talked on and on. The more he talked, the more she fidgeted and the worse she felt. She looked over at Sarah and caught her eye. When Sarah winked at Janetta, they both tried hard not to giggle,
Finally Sidney Rigdon sat down and Brigham Young closed the meeting. He announced another meeting under the direction of the Apostles at two o’clock.
Janetta and her parents hurried home and put James down for a nap. Leaving a neighbor to watch him, the three hurried back to the second meeting. Even though they were early, the only seats left were way in the back. Janetta was too short to see over people, but she could still hear the speakers.
Brigham Young stood up and began to speak. Hearing him, she felt a peace fill her. Then suddenly she jumped up and craned to see over the heads of the people in front of her. She thought she had heard the Prophet Joseph!
A blind man sitting beside her jumped up too. “That’s Joseph speaking to us. Surely he’s not dead!”
The extraordinary effect lasted only for seconds, but the people knew that Brigham Young had been chosen to lead the Church. They all listened very carefully to every word that he said.
When the meeting was over, Janetta hurried to find Sarah. “Did you hear him?” she asked excitedly. “He sounded just like the Prophet.”
“I not only heard him,” Sarah answered softly, “I saw him. It was like Brother Joseph was standing right there before us.”
The girls were silent for a moment as they reverently thought of what they’d just witnessed.
“I’ll never forget this,” Janetta whispered. “Brother Young is our prophet now. We can safely do everything he tells us to do.”
Soon after that memorable meeting, her father’s name was read as one of the missionaries called to go on a mission. Afterward the family wept together. They were proud that he was worthy to be called, but sad that he was leaving.
Then one crisp autumn morning Janetta kissed her father good-bye. They parted not knowing when or where they’d meet again. But they all knew that the Lord would protect them and reunite them, if not in this life then in the next.
“Janetta,” her mother said now, interrupting her thoughts, “I’m home. Let me take James and put him back to bed. You must be exhausted. Go to sleep.”
Janetta smiled at her mother. Here they were, camped on the bank of the river, with no roof over their heads, and yet her mother called it home. “Did Sister Brown have her baby?”
“Yes, a fine boy,” Mother answered happily. She warmed her hands by the fire. “I think he’ll be all right, even if he was born in the middle of the wide open spaces.” She turned to her daughter. “Go get some rest. We’ll be leaving early in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep,” Janetta answered sadly. “I keep thinking about our old home. I wonder who’s sleeping all warm and cozy in my bed.”
“I loved that house, too,” her mother answered softly. “Your father built it carefully to shelter us and make us happy. But we’ll be better off far away from the mobs, where we can be safe.”
Janetta continued to stare into the dying flames of the fire. Sleep and comfort seemed far-off.
Her mother rummaged around in their bags for their treasured copy of the Book of Mormon. She began softly to read aloud. At first Janetta only listened to her voice, not to the words. Then the words began to sink in. They told of Lehi and his family, who had left all their worldly goods in Jerusalem and fled into the wilderness.
Mother stopped reading. “It seems we’re in good company,” she said and smiled at her daughter. “We’re not the only ones of the Lord’s people who have had to leave their homes.”
Janetta smiled back, feeling the comfort she needed. Together they left the fire and went to their beds. She said her prayers and snuggled into the bed. She knew that the Saints were doing the will of God. She’d had that witness that they were being led by a prophet. It brought her peace.

Fifty-two years ago, I baptized a promising and wonderful young man in London, England. He was gifted and educated. He was sincere and prayerful. My companion and I taught him over a long period of time. We both left to return home after he had been baptized.

Our convert was a shy and sensitive young man. While still in the infancy of his membership, he was criticized for a small mistake that he had made in the responsibility he carried in the branch.

When the young man left the meeting that night, he never returned. He had been hurt and wounded by the thoughtless remark of a man his senior who should have known better.

I tried to keep track of this new convert through correspondence. But World War II came along. He entered the military service. After the war he married, and a while later his wife passed away, bringing a greater tragedy into his life. He rose in his vocation to become an executive of recognized capacity in the business world of England. He might have made a tremendous contribution to the Church, but an ugly scar remained from that wound suffered in a branch meeting many years earlier.

Eventually, I learned of his whereabouts. He had remarried and was retired and living in Europe. I visited him once. I write to him and send him books and other materials. He writes to me, and we are friends. My companion, with whom I taught this good man, has passed away. I have done everything I know how to do to try to revive our friend’s faith. Thus far, it has been fruitless.

I occasionally reflect on the remarkable way in which we found him. I reflect on the many hours we spent teaching him. I reflect on the struggle he had within himself to make the right decision to be baptized. I reflect on his joy in having found the Church. And then I reflect on his loss. It need never have happened. It should never have happened.

Photograph courtesy of the author; illustration by Jennifer M. Potter
Illustration by Jennifer M. Potter
I used to spend summers traveling through Europe with a dance team. Our audiences, performances, and energy levels varied, but we had one tradition that always stayed the same: we closed every show by singing “God Be with You Till We Meet Again”1 in the language of the country we were visiting. Because most of my dance team belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we loved this tradition. It was a wonderful way to connect with our audiences and share Heavenly Father’s love.
Near the end of one of these trips, we had just crossed the border into Germany and were practicing the song in German for upcoming performances. But upon arriving, we found out that this particular region of Germany spoke Sorbian, a dialect that bore little resemblance to the song we had so faithfully practiced.
On the bus ride to our performance, I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep for the whole drive. But our directors had other ideas. They had asked our guides to translate the hymn into Sorbian. Now they wanted the entire bus of half-asleep performers to learn the song just hours before our performance.
We did our best. At the end of the show, we stood together on the front of the stage and began to sing. I remember feeling surprised as the unfamiliar words I had jumbled a few hours earlier came to my mind easily. I felt my earlier doubts about our readiness to sing fade as I relied on the Spirit to remind me of the words.
As we finished dancing and began to sing, the Spirit brought the words of the song to my mind.
Photograph courtesy of the author
The audience members looked surprised and then thrilled. When the song ended, a hush fell over the crowd. Then they stood and began singing a song back to us, which they later explained was a song of gratitude they usually saved for special occasions.
I felt the Spirit so strongly in that moment, even though I couldn’t understand what they were singing. I was so grateful the Lord had helped me communicate His love despite my feelings of inadequacy. I was reminded that Heavenly Father’s love is a universal message. Despite whatever differences we might have, all of us can understand the language of the Spirit.

The Church was appearing to become, as the scripture says, as a stone cut out of a mountain without hands and rolling forth to fill the whole earth (see Dan. 2:44–45; D&C 65:2). Political officials worried about its moving outward and abroad from the immediate locale, illegal charges were leveled, court documents and summonses were issued, and vigilantes gathered at Carthage, the county seat. Joseph and Hyrum were to appear to answer charges against them.
As Joseph Smith left Nauvoo for Carthage that 24th day of June, he would have looked for the last time on the city and the magnificent temple that was nearly completed. He knew he would never look upon it again.
To his companions who were accompanying him to Carthage, the Prophet Joseph gave these prophetic words: “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter; but I am calm as a summer’s morning; I have a conscience void of offense towards God, and towards all men. … AND IT SHALL YET BE SAID OF ME—HE WAS MURDERED IN COLD BLOOD” (D&C 135:4).
Why did he not turn back? There was time to escape. He was not yet in the hands of his enemies. Friends were at his side who would die for him if necessary. Some suggested he flee across the Mississippi where he would be safe. But he continued to Carthage.
It was midnight when the journey from Nauvoo ended. Joseph and his brethren entered Carthage, and his fate was sealed. His enemies had awaited their coming with great anxiety. The governor, who was present, persuaded the mob to disperse that night by promising them that they should have full satisfaction.
The next day, after a hearing, Joseph was released on bail but rearrested on a trumped-up charge of treason. Bail was refused, and Joseph and Hyrum were placed in Carthage Jail.
The last night of Joseph’s life on earth he bore a powerful testimony to the guards and others who assembled at the door of the jail of the divinity of the Book of Mormon, also declaring that the gospel had been restored and the kingdom of God established on the earth. It was for this reason that he was incarcerated in prison, not for violating any law of God or man.
It was late at night when the prisoners tried to get some rest. At first Joseph and Hyrum occupied the only bed in the jail room, but a gunshot during the night and a disturbance led Joseph’s friends to insist that he take a place between the two of them on the floor. They would protect him with their own bodies. Joseph asked John S. Fullmer to use his arm for a pillow while they conversed; then he turned to Dan Jones, on the other side, and whispered, “Are you afraid to die?” And this staunch friend answered, “Has that time come, think you? Engaged in such a cause I do not think that death would have many terrors.”
Joseph replied, “You will yet see Wales, and fulfill the mission appointed you before you die” (History of the Church, 6:601).
The next day, the fateful 27th of June 1844, all but two of Joseph’s friends were made to leave the prison, so that now only four brethren remained—Joseph and Hyrum and two of the Apostles, both of whom during the day offered to die for him. The day was spent in writing letters to their wives, conversing on principles of the gospel, and singing. Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon the Prophet requested Elder John Taylor to sing the words of “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.”
This comforting song breathes in every line the very spirit and message of Christ. Only a person who loved his Savior and his fellowmen would have requested to hear these words at such a time.
When Elder Taylor had finished the song, the Prophet’s eyes were wet with tears, and he said, “Sing that song again, will you, John?” (quoted in Claire Noall, Intimate Disciple: A Portrait of Willard Richards, Apostle to Joseph Smith—Cousin of Brigham Young [1957], 440).
John “replied that he did not feel like singing. He was oppressed with a sense of coming disaster” (George Q. Cannon, Life of Joseph Smith the Prophet [1986], 524).
“You’ll feel better once you begin, and so will I,” replied Joseph (quoted in Noall, Intimate Disciple, 440).
Hyrum also pleaded with him to repeat the song. And Elder Taylor did.
This time his voice was even sadder and more tender than at first, and when he concluded, all were hushed, but four hearts beat faster, for they had carefully listened to the fateful words:
My friendship’s utmost zeal to try,
He asked if I for him would die.
The flesh was weak; my blood ran chill,
But my free spirit cried, “I will!”
(Hymns, number 29)
The other three heard Joseph murmur as an echo to the song, “I will!”
The love of Christ was in the song; the love of man was there in that room in the Carthage Jail.
While this spirit of love and service for men expressed in song and prayer filled the hearts of all within the jail, the mob was gathering. The final details you know.
When the news of the awful crime reached Nauvoo, the citizens were overcome with grief and horror. Such sorrow had not been known in Nauvoo before. The warm summer sun left them cold and chill. Their prophet and their patriarch were dead. What else mattered?
When the wagons carrying the bodies were still a long way off, the entire population of Nauvoo went out to meet them. No greater tribute could be paid than was paid that day to Joseph and Hyrum Smith. Such universal love from those who knew them best could never have been won by selfish and designing men. Only love begets love. Once when Joseph had been asked how he had acquired so many followers and retained them, he replied, “It is because I possess the principle of love. All I can offer the world is a good heart and a good hand” (History of the Church, 5:498).
Sariah Workman, an early immigrant, wrote, “I always felt a divine influence whenever I was in his presence” (in “Joseph Smith, the Prophet,” Young Woman’s Journal, December 1906, 542).
John Taylor, who was wounded at Carthage and later became prophet, said of him: “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it. In the short space of twenty years, he has brought forth the Book of Mormon, which he translated by the gift and power of God, and has been the means of publishing it on two continents; has sent the fulness of the everlasting gospel, which it contained, to the four quarters of the earth; has brought forth the revelations and commandments which compose this book of Doctrine and Covenants, and many other wise documents and instructions for the benefit of the children of men; gathered many thousands of the Latter-day Saints, founded a great city, and left a fame and name that cannot be slain. He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord’s anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood” (D&C 135:3).
I give my love and testament that God our Father lives, that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God, crucified for the sins of the world “to cleanse it from all unrighteousness; that through him all might be saved” (D&C 76:41–42). He is our Redeemer, our Lord, our King. His kingdom is again established on the earth. In the year 1820 God our Eternal Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, appeared to Joseph Smith, who was foreordained to be the instrument of the Restoration, which is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. This Church, by divine direction, is preparing the world for His Second Coming—for He will come again. This I humbly declare in His holy name.

His regal bearing is not at all overbearing. He treats people like a beloved grandfather would—with kindness, lots of love, and not the slightest hint of superiority. Yet, as a retired colonel of the Paraguayan army, he seems to be just as comfortable mingling with the country’s top government and military leaders as he is with his family and friends or while serving in his Church assignments. Held in highest esteem by members and nonmembers alike, he is often referred to respectfully as “mi coronel.”
Thirty years ago, in 1963, Luis A. Ramírez was serving as a young major in the Paraguayan army. One day he found a copy of the Book of Mormon on the table in his home in Asunción. He had never seen it before and didn’t know where it had come from. But he opened it and began looking through the pages. “It said it was ‘the word of God,’” he remembers. “That phrase—the word of God—penetrated my mind profoundly. So I began to read. And a great interest was awakened within me.”
The timing was perfect. “For about three months, I had felt the need to get closer to God,” he says. He wasn’t satisfied with his own religion, but had begun to attend his church every Sunday anyway, hoping to find some answers. “And I began to pray to God—not the kind of prayers I had been taught to pray, but very similar to what the missionaries later taught me. This continued for three months. Then I found the book.”
“Who brought this book?” he asked his family. A fifteen-year-old relative said that two missionaries had given it to him a couple of days earlier at a friend’s house. “I continued reading it, and it interested me even more. So I said to the boy, ‘When you see the missionaries again, invite them to come here.’”
When the missionaries came a few days later, Luis had just about finished reading the Book of Mormon, and he had lots of questions. For the next three weeks, the missionaries taught two discussions every week to Luis and his wife, Hortensia. The Saturday following the third visit, they were both baptized. As a result, friends and relatives also became interested in the gospel and were baptized. Soon “the major” became “the president”—of the Moroni Branch in Asunción.
At one point in his military career, Brother Ramírez was serving on foreign soil, away from his family for fifteen months. During that lonely, difficult time, “the gospel helped me a lot,” he says. “I prayed and fasted frequently and felt very close to my family. And I felt an absolute assurance that I would be all right. I felt the help of the Lord through the Spirit.”
In 1969, six years after his baptism, Brother Ramírez was advanced to the rank of colonel. He taught in the military college until his retirement in 1975, never hiding the fact that he was a Latter-day Saint. Over the years, some of his students became interested in the Church and were baptized because of his example.
After retiring from the military, Brother and Sister Ramírez took their family to Utah for five years, where he earned a degree at Brigham Young University. Soon after returning to Paraguay, he was called as the first Paraguayan ever to serve as a mission president. And his mission field was his native country.
Since his release in 1984, Colonel Ramírez has continued to serve as a counselor to mission and stake presidents, strengthening members and helping to establish the Church in outlying districts and branches. In addition, he has continued to serve as an adviser to the Church in its relations with the Paraguayan government, opening doors that possibly no one else could have opened. With characteristic humility, he downplays his role in that regard: “Perhaps I’ve been able to help a little,” he says. But those who have served with him know of his great ability to make friends for the Church and to be an ambassador of good will among national leaders.
Some of his former students and colleagues, now in positions of responsibility in the country, remember and respect Colonel Ramírez as a Latter-day Saint. “Sometimes I’ll see my students who are now majors or colonels, and they will stop and ask me, ‘How’s the Church coming?’ I tell them it’s coming along very well.”

Switch channels with me to a scene on a Saturday night in a ranch home, where a boy who has just answered the telephone nervously approaches his mother. “Mom,” he says, “Bob is on the phone. He and his dad and Tom and his dad are going snowmobiling and shooting tomorrow morning, and they want to know if I can go with them.”

The mother seems startled and uncertain. She is strongly tempted to respond sharply, reminding her boy that he has duties on Sunday morning, that in their family they go to church together, and that when Dad returns later that night he will not consider such a thing. But, instead, she says, “Richard, you are twelve years old. You hold the priesthood. I am sure Dad would want you to make up your own mind and answer Bob yourself.”

The boy goes back to the telephone, and the mother goes to her room and prays their son will give the right answer. Nothing more is said. On Sunday morning the boy and his parents go into town to church, park in the lot across the street, and are crossing, arm-in-arm, when a pickup truck passes. Two men and two boys wave to Richard as they pass. He pauses a moment and says, “Gee, I wish …” The mother catches her breath; then Richard finishes: “I wish I had been able to talk Bob and Tom into coming to priesthood meeting this morning.”

The mother, telling the story, thanks the Lord for this choice boy and his personal decision to do the right thing. Then she weeps as she explains how important that was to all of them. You see, their son was killed in a farm accident that week.

How those words touched me! It had been 15 years ago that the Book of Mormon became an integral part of David’s life. I had read it to him as he lay in bed, at life’s edge.
“What are you reading, Mommy?” David asked in the faintest whisper of a sound. His delicate face closely matched the color of the snowy pillowcase. Deep red drops of blood, descending from a bottle suspended above, provided a vivid contrast as they dropped through a tube into his motionless white arm.
“The Book of Mormon,” I replied. It helped me through the endless hours of watching my son fight a seemingly insurmountable battle. It was supposed to be minor surgery to correct a small health problem, but the whole procedure had become a nightmare. Face to face with the fragile quality of mortality, I groped for an anchor with eternity.
“Read it to me,” David said.
“But you wouldn’t understand it, David,” I told him. “You’re too young. Later, when you’re well and at home, I’ll read you some stories from the Book of Mormon.”
Again the whispered words, urgent this time. “Please read it to me, Mommy.”
Not knowing what else to do, and not wishing to further upset him, I began in First Nephi: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, …” I intended to read a few lines while he drifted off to sleep, and then continue my silent reading. Every time I thought he was asleep, my voice quieted and quit. Then, from the hospital bed, again and again, I heard, “Read it to me.”
And so I read it to him. I read all during the hospital stay, and then at home, where he lay attached to two tubes that drained fluids from his body into bags, one on each leg. Doctors had discovered a congenital defect that gave him only part of one kidney.
I did not read stories from the Book of Mormon. I read from the book itself. One morning, after David’s two sisters had gone to school and his two little brothers were sleeping, we sat together reading as usual. I stopped and looked down at him. “David, do you understand this?”
His blue eyes looked thoughtfully into mine. “Not all. But some of it.”
When I continued reading he stopped me and said, “Mother, kneel down.” Startled by the request, I simply knelt, feeling his small body at my side. Then, totally trusting, he said, “Now pray for me. Pray that I will understand the Book of Mormon.”
By the time we finished the book, David had turned five and was able to recognize and read many of the words on his own. Eventually he read alone. His health improved and, by the time he was baptized, he had read the whole thing by himself more than once. By the time he was ordained a deacon, he was eagerly preparing for a mission.

On my mission, I was in a car accident that left me with back pain and memory loss. Once I returned home, I enrolled in school, but I struggled. I couldn’t remember simple things, and I couldn’t carry more than a notebook and a pen in my backpack because of the pain.
I was angry. I had spent 18 months serving God and giving Him my all. Why wouldn’t He heal me? Where was He?
As the intense pain continued, I began to feel that I couldn’t turn to God. I began to doubt that He would—or even could—help me. And if He couldn’t help me, then I thought scripture study and temple attendance wouldn’t help either. I turned away from God because life was too hard, and I couldn’t see a way out.
On one particularly difficult day, I had failed another test after studying for hours, and the pain in my back was worse than it had ever been. I stepped outside, sat down, and cried.
A few minutes later, a girl came up to me and smiled. She handed me a note that read, “‘Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself’ [Matthew 6:34]. Heavenly Father is watching over you. I asked Him to. He loves you.”
The Spirit washed over me. I hadn’t felt God’s love for me in a long time. But the girl who handed me the note sparked feelings in my soul, brought me back to the beginning of my faith, and reminded me of my many prior experiences with the Spirit.
I began to turn to Heavenly Father more often in prayer. Even if I couldn’t see the end of my pain, I asked Him to ease my pain or to give me the strength to simply make it through the day. I concentrated more on scripture study and temple attendance.
Though my memory and my pain aren’t fully healed, I have learned to stay close to the Lord. Even when I cannot see all of what lies ahead, I know He is there. I can look forward to the future with faith in Him.

On another occasion, I was in New Zealand visiting the home of a single mother with three teenage children. The oldest son was 18 and had received the Melchizedek Priesthood just the previous Sunday. I asked if he had been able to exercise this priesthood yet. He said, “I’m not sure what that means.”
I told him he now had the authority to give a priesthood blessing of comfort or healing. I looked at his mother, who had not had a Melchizedek Priesthood holder by her side for many years. “I think it would be wonderful,” I said, “if you would give your mom a blessing.”
He replied, “I don’t know how.”
I explained that he could put his hands on his mother’s head, state her name, state that he is giving her a blessing by the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, say whatever the Spirit puts in his mind and heart, and close in the name of Jesus Christ.
The next day, I received an email from him. It read in part: “Tonight I blessed my mum. … I felt very, very nervous and inadequate, so I prayed continually to ensure I had the Spirit with me, because I could not give a blessing without it. As I started, I completely forgot myself and my weaknesses. … I [did not expect] the immense spiritual and emotional power I felt. … Afterwards the spirit of love hit me so hard I could not contain my emotions, so I hugged my mum and wept like a baby. … Even now as I write this, [I feel] the Spirit [so much that] I never want to sin again. … I love this gospel.”3
Isn’t it inspiring to see how a seemingly ordinary young man can accomplish great things through priesthood service, even when he feels inadequate? I recently learned that this young elder has received a mission call and will enter the missionary training center next month. I believe he will lead many souls to Christ because he has learned how to follow Christ in his priesthood service—beginning in his own home, where his example is having a profound influence on his 14-year-old brother.

The mother of the Prophet Joseph, Lucy Mack Smith, is a great example of unwavering faith and commitment. On one occasion, she was traveling from New York to Kirtland, Ohio. Her account of an incident in Buffalo, New York, illustrates her faith in the prophets of the Lord and the restored gospel:
“[In Buffalo] we found the brethren from Colesville, who informed us that they had been detained one week at this place, waiting for the navigation to open [the waterway that had been blocked by ice]. Also, [we learned] that Mr. Smith and Hyrum had gone through to Kirtland by land, in order to be there by the first of April.
“I asked [the Colesville brethren] if they had confessed to the people that they were ‘Mormons.’ ‘No, indeed,’ they replied, ‘neither must you mention a word about your religion, for if you do you will never be able to get a house, or a boat either.’
“I told them I should tell the people precisely who I was; ‘and,’ continued I, ‘if you are ashamed of Christ, you must not expect to be prospered; and I shall wonder if we do not get to Kirtland before you’” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, edited by Preston Nibley [1958], 199).
Lucy Mack Smith then searched for and found a Captain Blake, who was willing to take her group on his boat: “On arriving there [on the boat], Captain Blake requested the passengers to remain on board, as he wished, from that time, to be ready to start at a moment’s warning; at the same time he sent out a man to measure the depth of the ice, who, when he returned, reported that it was piled up to the height of twenty feet [six meters], and that it was his opinion that we would remain in the harbor at least two weeks longer” (History of Joseph Smith, 202).
Most of the Saints traveling on the boat with Lucy Mack Smith assumed that they would be there for a long stay, and many of them murmured and grumbled. Hearing and seeing their reaction, the Prophet’s mother responded: “‘Where is your faith? Where is your confidence in God? Can you not realize that all things were made by him, and that he rules over the works of his own hands? And suppose that all the Saints here should lift their hearts in prayer to God, that the way might be opened before us, how easy it would be for him to cause the ice to break away, so that in a moment we could be on our journey! …
“‘Now, brethren and sisters, if you will all of you raise your desires to heaven, that the ice may be broken up, and we be set at liberty, as sure as the Lord lives, it will be done.’ At that instant a noise was heard, like bursting thunder. The captain cried, ‘Every man to his post.’ The ice parted, leaving barely a passage for the boat. … The noise of the ice, and the cries and confusion of the spectators, presented a scene truly terrible. We had barely passed through the avenue when the ice closed together again, and the Colesville brethren were left in Buffalo, unable to follow us.
“As we were leaving the harbor, one of the bystanders exclaimed, ‘There goes the “Mormon” company! That boat is sunk in the water nine inches [23 centimeters] deeper than ever it was before, and, mark it, she will sink—there is nothing surer.’ In fact, they were so sure of it that they went straight to the office and had it published that we were sunk, so that when we arrived at Fairport we read in the papers the news of our own death.
“After our miraculous escape from the wharf at Buffalo, we called our company together and had a prayer meeting in which we offered up our thanks to God for his mercy” (History of Joseph Smith, 203–5).

As she grew older, Chan and I became pals. One day I was trying to teach her how to tie her shoelaces. I would show her how to do it and then untie them to let her try. After a while, we both got discouraged. It was hard for Chantel because she couldn’t understand why I didn’t just tie them so she could go play. I lost my patience and began talking to her with words that were both loud and mean. Shocked at my yelling, she looked at me with fright and tears in her eyes. Then she sniffled and pleaded with a soft, choked-up voice, “I love you.”
Now my little sister was teaching me. What I learned that day was something much more important than how to tie a shoe. Even though I was angry and mean, she still loved me. I had tried to teach Chantel something that wasn’t all that important. But in her I found a Christlike example to follow, an example of forgiveness and kindness.
I can’t think of a more important lesson.

One day I went to a birthday party. The first part was watching a PG-13 movie, so I didn’t go to that part. I went in the middle of the party, and we ate pizza and cupcakes. After that we started watching another movie. It looked bad. I told my friend’s mom that I couldn’t watch it, so she turned it off and we played appropriate video games instead. I feel that I made the right choice. I will follow the prophet’s counsel to never watch bad movies in my life.

When I was nine years old, my white-haired, four-foot-eleven-inch (1.5 m) maternal grandmother came to spend a few weeks with us at our home. One afternoon while she was there, my two older brothers and I decided to dig a hole in a field across the street from our house. I don’t know why we did it; sometimes boys dig holes. We got a little dirty but nothing that would get us into too much trouble. Other boys in the neighborhood saw just how exciting it was to dig a hole and started to help. Then we all got dirtier together. The ground was hard, so we dragged a garden hose over and put a little water in the bottom of the hole to soften up the ground. We got some mud on us as we dug, but the hole did get deeper.
Someone in our group decided we should turn our hole into a swimming pool, so we filled it up with water. Being the youngest and wanting to fit in, I was persuaded to jump in and try it out. Now I was really dirty. I didn’t start out planning to be covered in mud, but that’s where I ended up.
When it started to get cold, I crossed the street, intending to walk into my house. My grandmother met me at the front door and refused to let me in. She told me that if she let me in, I would track mud into the house that she had just cleaned. So I did what any nine-year-old would do under the circumstances and ran to the back door, but she was quicker than I thought. I got mad, stomped my feet, and demanded to come into the house, but the door remained closed.
I was wet, muddy, cold, and, in my childhood imagination, thought I might die in my own backyard. Finally, I asked her what I had to do to come into the house. Before I knew it, I found myself standing in the backyard while my grandmother sprayed me off with a hose. After what seemed like an eternity, my grandmother pronounced me clean and let me come into the house. It was warm in the house, and I was able to put on dry, clean clothes.
Standing outside of my house being sprayed off by my grandmother was unpleasant and uncomfortable. Being denied the opportunity to return and be with our Father in Heaven because we chose to remain in or dirtied by a mud hole of sin would be eternally tragic. We should not deceive ourselves about what it takes to return and remain in the presence of our Father in Heaven. We have to be clean.

Chris is from St. Mary’s, Georgia. His parents, Artie and Carolyn Jones, met the missionaries in 1978, when Chris was only two. Chris said, “The first time my dad went to church, he saw a lot of people that he recognized in the community that respected him. That was one thing he really noticed.”

The Jones family was baptized and, as Chris has been told, they received a lot of ridicule for joining the Church. When Chris looks back, he is so appreciative of the fact that his parents were able to raise him and his two brothers and one sister in a way consistent with the principles of the gospel. And Chris grew up knowing that someday he would serve a mission. “If it is part of the Church and the Church is true, then I’ll do it.”

In fact, Chris says his mother helped him keep that in mind. “My mom was the one that pulled us out of bed at 5:15 in the morning to go to seminary for four years. It was a struggle. I hated getting up at 5:15. But it was through a combination of my mother and going to seminary that I gained a testimony of the gospel. Up until then, I always knew the gospel was right. I just didn’t know why it was right.”

As Chris gained a testimony, he found that living the gospel principles helped him learn about prayer. “I can’t recall a prayer that I’ve never received an answer to. Receiving an answer is a matter of allowing the Lord to answer you and give you His answer. A lot of times if you pray with your own answer in mind, you look for that answer. If another answer comes, then you’re not ready to receive it.”

Chris loved playing football in grade school and junior high. He started at linebacker all during high school. And, as Chris points out, football in Georgia is serious business. His high school would have 10,000 fans attend its Friday night games. During his junior year, he began getting attention from college scouts. It was exciting, but his mom would remind him not to get too interested because he was going on a mission.

When the scouts showed up, that was the time Chris had to face the possibilities of playing football at the college level. His high school coach told the scouts that he was a hard-working player and was an honor student. Finally concrete offers started to come—full-ride scholarships through four years of college, worth thousands of dollars.

“I asked,” said Chris, “if they would hold a scholarship for two years. One coach was shocked. I told him I was going to go on a mission for my church. He just stared at me and said, ‘You’re going to give up 80 thousand dollars to serve a mission for two years?’ He got mad at me. But I didn’t get offended.” After that, his coach started turning away college recruiters interested in Chris.

Eventually, State University of West Georgia called. The school offered him a scholarship. It turned out that Chris would be able to play a year and a quarter, essentially two seasons, before turning 19 and receiving a mission call. “I knew that all things were possible with the Lord. There were people saying that I couldn’t serve a mission and play ball, yet the Lord provided a way to do both.”

Chris struggled at West Georgia, not on the field where he started as a true freshman but in the permissive atmosphere in the dorms. He didn’t like what was going on around him. He was more determined than ever to go on a mission. And it was on his mission that Chris put football behind him completely. He told his coaches that if they needed to talk to him, to go through his parents. He didn’t keep up on what the team was doing. He says that the only way to serve on a mission is completely and with total focus.

At the conclusion of his mission, Chris decided that he could not return to the atmosphere at his former college. He thought that was also a decision to give up football, and he was willing to do it.

Just as Chris was completing his mission, his mission president contacted BYU about Chris. At first, becoming a BYU football team member didn’t seem like a possibility, but he was invited to try out. He received a full-ride scholarship but was redshirted a year. Once Chris thought sitting out a year would be horrible, but now it was a blessing. He was able to concentrate on his major, a difficult one, in manufacturing engineering and technology. He feels that the Lord has guided his life because at BYU he has had the opportunity to continue missionary work as a ward mission leader. Football will fall by the wayside. That’s fine with Chris. It no longer has his heart.

There is, however, one thing Chris has always wanted—a championship ring. He just missed taking state in high school. And his college team won the conference the year he left on his mission. Knowing this, some friends on his mission got together and bought Chris a ring—a CTR ring that he wears continually. It’s become his championship ring.

Whenever Chris looks at it he is reminded of what he believes deep inside. “Right makes you happy. If you do what is right, everything will fall into place.”

It was in the home that I learned principles of provident living and the dignity of work. I can still visualize my mother spending numerous nights at home, using a foot treadle sewing machine to stitch shoes for a local shoe factory. This was not to enable her to purchase anything for herself but to help to provide financial support so that my brother and I could attend college. She later expressed how this act of service was a source of satisfaction for her.

Peace and forgiveness. Early in 2005 my husband gave two men a ride. When my husband returned home, he discovered that his sapelu (machete) was missing. This really hurt him: he’d done a good deed, and this was how he was repaid. The incident bothered my husband to the point that he was having trouble finding peace.Several months later, we awoke to find that our house had been broken into. Worse, we realized the intruders had come into the rooms where our children and we had been sleeping. I was angry and thought, “If my husband was so upset about a knife, he will go completely nuts now!” But he had a spirit of peace that spilled over to the rest of us. He expressed gratitude that nobody had been hurt and hope that the people who had taken our things would use them to improve their lives.I was speechless at the change. Why was I not able to feel the same peace? Then I realized: while I had been “too busy” to start reading, my husband was firmly entrenched in the Book of Mormon. Kathleen Arp, Pesega, Samoa

Years ago when I was serving as a bishop, a recently converted family moved into our rural Utah community. These good people had joined the Church in the eastern United States and had been warmly fellowshipped and put to work in a small branch there. When they came to our larger, more-established ward, they somehow slipped through the cracks. Some of the family members, particularly the father, became disenchanted with the Church and its members.
One Sunday morning when I noticed the father was missing from priesthood meeting, I left the meetinghouse and drove to his home. He invited me in, and we had a very honest conversation about the struggle he was having with his new faith and neighbors. After exploring various possibilities for responding to his concerns, none of which seemed to appeal to him very much, I asked him with a tone of frustration in my voice just what we could do to help him. I’ve never forgotten his reply:
“Well, bishop,” he said (and I will need to paraphrase here slightly), “for heaven’s sake, whatever you do, please don’t assign me a friend.”
I learned a great lesson that day. No one wants to become a “project”; we all want spontaneously to be loved. And, if we are to have friends, we want them to be genuine and sincere, not “assigned.”

When I was growing up, we lived in a tan-colored house, lost among the evergreen trees so abundant in the Pacific Northwest. Isolated about halfway up the hill, it was impossible to drive to. We could park at the bottom and climb the stairs, or drive around and park on the concrete platform above the house and climb down. We generally chose to climb down.
When we first moved in, there was only a pathway dug into the side of the hill between the house and the platform. My grandpa carved steps in the dirt to make getting up and down easier.
From the platform to the first step on the path was nearly level, perfect for my two sisters and me to run and slide. We could usually stop just before we reached the top step.
One day I didn’t get stopped in time and found myself going over the edge. Instead of falling, I kept my feet under me and my momentum made me hit about every third step. I felt like I was flying. A fall meant tumbling into the side of the house, or worse, going into the treacherous blackberry bushes that lined the path.
The human mind is truly a wonder, and mine was racing faster than my feet. I began to yell for my mother while in a split second I planned what I could do about my situation. I thought that if only Mother would come and open the door, I could make a safe landing on the couch. Hearing my yells, Mom appeared at the bottom of the path with Dad and Grandpa.
“Open the door and get out of my way,” I yelled with what breath I had left. They just stood there with puzzled expressions while I came faster and faster, arms and legs pumping to keep my balance.
Just then Dad reached out and caught me. As easy as that. I hadn’t thought of that solution. The danger over, my fear gave way to tears.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Mom asked.
“Oh, Mom, I was sliding and couldn’t stop. Why didn’t you get out of my way and open the door?” I stamped over to the door to show them what I’d planned to do. In shock, I saw that Mom had moved the couch. There would have been nothing to stop my headlong flight except a hard wall. My own hastily made plans would have failed me.
I’m grown up now and still my own plans are often faulty. Now I call out to my Heavenly Father in prayer. How often I’ve been glad to have a Father to catch me and keep me from harm.

Robert, an investigator in Canada, has attended a variety of LDS meetings and activities. He has researched various religions but continues studying the Church because of the inspiration he has found in its doctrine and the Book of Mormon. He attends institute to learn more and finds the social environment “refreshingly wholesome, friendly, with a really good vibe,” he says. “Mormons are the nicest people in the world.”

A self-described introvert, Robert wants to interact but says, “I tend to hug the walls, unsure of how to be part of the groups, some of them long-term LDS friends who don’t seem to need anyone else.” But it doesn’t take much to ease this sense of isolation. During an activity, he recalls, “someone came up to me after dinner and encouraged me to stay for the movie; otherwise, I would have left, but instead I had a great time. I just needed to know that someone wanted me there.”

Like Melissa, he appreciates LDS friends who explain doctrine but don’t get too specific about how to live it. Friends who listen more than they admonish are like “someone who walks beside you, as opposed to pushing from behind to make you go faster. Most of the time, you just trip and stumble.”

Robert has struggled to give up smoking. His discomfort illustrates how those who are new are deeply aware of their differences. “Not one member has ever said anything to me about smelling like smoke,” he says. “Yet if my clothes aren’t fresh out of the laundry, I will stay home from institute or church.”