Gospel Story Finder

“For I remember the word of God which saith by their works ye shall know them; for if their works be good, then they are good also” (Moroni 7:5).
My bishop, a great friend and example to me, continually invited me to minister with him even when I was no longer attending Church. He was such an important person to me that I couldn’t refuse his invitations. We had countless wonderful experiences serving those whom we visited, and he always offered to share gospel insights with them so that I would not be uncomfortable.
He served me while also inviting me to serve others, and that made a huge difference in coming back to Christ.

When my oldest daughter Debanie was in fourth grade, she had a big field trip scheduled for her Idaho History studies. She invited me to go with her. She was excited for me to ride the bus with her for the hour-long ride to Massacre Rocks. When we boarded, we walked to the middle of the bus and sat down. I noticed a young man in the seat in front of us. He was by himself and even asked a few passing students if they wanted to sit with him. No one was mean, but they all politely declined and found other seats. It was like a sad scene from a movie--the lonely boy that no one would sit by. I could tell that he was sad and felt a little awkward all alone. I said to Debanie, "Hey would it be ok if I sat with Brian for a bit of the trip?" Her answer surprised me. She didn't say yes, she said, "I will sit with him." She moved up a seat and sat with Brian. What I saw was amazing. Not only did she sit with him, but she started to visit with him, they started giggling and laughing and having fun. I saw this lonely, sad boy change. His eyes shined, he had a smile on his face. I was taught by my ten year old daughter. She, just like the Savior, loved someone in need. She did not hesitate or make excuses of why she couldn't. She just automatically did the right thing and was truly an example of our faith.

I had learned how to “line fish” just a few weeks before from my old fishing buddy, Howdy. His real name was Wesley Howdyshelt, but I called him Howdy for short. I was 12 years old, and he was a retired auto mechanic who lived just a short distance from my house. Howdy used to tell me over and over again, “Bobby, only throw out enough line to hold 15 hooks and make sure it is tight before you leave. Make sure you check it every day.”
I smiled as I thought, So, here I am, following Howdy’s advice.
I carefully reached down to take hold of the line. But just then, the town’s emergency siren went off. The shrill sound could be heard for miles around, and it was used only for emergencies.
If there were several short blasts, followed by several long ones, it would be for a fire. If it were sounded for a tornado, it would be one long, continuous blast.
It was one blast. I froze in my tracks.
Now what am I gonna do? I thought. If only I had listened to my mother …
My mind raced back to less than an hour before, when I had been sitting at the kitchen table in our home, eating lunch, with the television on in the background.
Just then, a deep, rough-sounding voice came over our television set.
“We interrupt this program to issue a tornado warning from the National Weather Bureau for all of Van Buren County. You are advised to be alert for possible tornadoes and if necessary seek immediate shelter for your own protection. Please stay tuned to this station for further information.”
Yeah, yeah, I thought. We hear that all the time. In fact, I had lived in Keosauqua, Iowa, for more than seven years and had heard the tornado warnings over the TV more times than I could count, and not once had I ever seen a tornado. Not once.
I got up abruptly from the kitchen table and started to go outside.
“Where are you going?” asked my mother.
“Oh, nowhere. Just outside for a while.”
“Please stay close to the house and remember the tornado warning,” Mom reminded me as she put the last dish into the sink.
Outside, I ducked around the corner of our house, whistled for my dog, Tricksy, grabbed my bike, and started coasting down the steep hill in front of our house.
I wasn’t really disobeying my mother, I rationalized. After all, I would stay close to home. The river wasn’t that far away.
When I got to the river, I hopped off my bike and looked at my watch. Nine minutes flat. Not bad.
I inspected my line and was pleased to find that no one had bothered it.
And then I heard the siren.
My heart was pounding fast and loud. I dropped my fishing line and turned and ran as fast as I could back towards my bicycle. As I ran, I kept thinking about how worried my mom would be when she heard the siren and couldn’t find me.
I leaped onto my bike. The sky was pitch black, and a brilliant lightning bolt flashed across the sky as it started raining and the wind began to blow. I could hear and feel the crash of thunder all around me.
As I reached the bottom of the last steep hill that curved its way up to our house, I thought, Good, only a few hundred yards left to go. But I was already soaking wet and out of breath.
The wind was so fierce, that for every forward step I pedaled, the wind seemed to blow me two steps back. My eyes stung with pain from the rain and hailstones being driven into my face. Hail covered the ground, and I began to slide. I fought hard to maintain my balance and to keep going. It was then that I knew I could not make it back home by myself.
“Oh, Heavenly Father,” I prayed as I pedaled. “Please help me! I disobeyed my mom, and now I’m in real trouble. Please help me. I promise to obey in the future.”
The warning siren blocked out the sound of a tree crashing just in front of me, forcing me to ride around it.
I kept telling myself over and over again, “You’ve gotta keep going. You can’t stop now. Heavenly Father will help you.”
I finally reached the front yard of our house. Suddenly, the wind stopped, the hail stopped, and the rain became a drizzle.
Waterlogged from head to foot, my hands and face stinging from the severe pelting by the hailstones, I almost laughed out loud. It had just been a bad summer storm. I had been worried over nothing.
I dropped my bike and started for the back door when I heard a distant noise, like an approaching freight train. A strong gust of wind came up and the back door almost flew out of my hands as I frantically tried to open it. The sound of hailstones beating against our house sent chills up my spine. I yelled out for my mother, but there was no response.
“Mom, where are you,” I called out. Still no response.
I began to shake with the terror of being alone when, out of the corner of my eye, I could see her standing at the bottom of the steps leading into our cellar, motioning to me. I scrambled toward her, taking two steps at a time.
Quickly we walked to the northwest corner of the cellar, sat on the cold, damp cement, and threw a blanket over our heads to protect us from the flying glass and debris.
I could hear Mom praying, “Father in Heaven, please protect my family and our home. Please watch over us.” I didn’t hear the rest of her earnest prayer, because of the roaring thunder overhead.
Our home began shaking from the immense power of nature’s mighty destructive forces. I clung desperately to my mother’s side, and together we held each other close. Never in my life had I felt the closeness and love of my mother more than while we huddled there, during that tornado.
Suddenly the noise and the shaking stopped, just as quickly as they had started. I was almost afraid to look out from underneath the blanket. Mom and I just sat there in the dark for several minutes. Then, with the help of a flashlight, we made our way through the debris that covered the floor in the cellar. Holding hands, we walked up the rickety cellar stairs.
The back door was gone, the kitchen in shambles, all of the windows broken out, and glass and wood fragments everywhere, but miraculously the roof was still intact. The old cherry tree that had stood only 20 feet from our back door was gone, and the three oak trees that had lined our front yard were twisted and broken like matchsticks.
Our prayers had been answered. Our home still stood and we were alive.
I learned valuable lessons that day—lessons that I will never forget. I learned that Heavenly Father loves me and answers prayers. I learned that I needed to use wisdom in all my decisions and obey the commandments. And most importantly, I learned to listen to my mother.

I remember seeing pictures of the temple from the time I was very small. Though too young to understand the blessings of the temple, I knew I wanted to go there someday. In Young Women, I started to understand the blessings that would come from the temple. At that time my family was less active, and I prayed each day that we could be sealed as an eternal family.
In the fall of 1993, two weeks before I turned 18, my family did go to the temple. I remember the feeling I had in the Provo Utah Temple, becoming an eternal family with my parents and siblings. As I left the temple that day, I thought I understood the blessings it brought me.
Two years later, in the summer of 1995, I was engaged to be married, so I went to the temple to receive my own endowment. How wonderful to receive another blessing of the temple! Three days after receiving my endowment, I was sealed to my husband for time and all eternity in the Manti Utah Temple. I realized another blessing that I had not previously experienced—my husband and I could be an eternal family. Again I thought I had experienced all the blessings of the temple.
Six years into marriage, we found that we were expanding our family. We were so excited to raise our son and teach him the gospel. But 24 weeks into the pregnancy, our little boy was born fighting for life. After just eight weeks he returned to Heavenly Father. As I held him for the last time, I recognized yet another wonderful blessing of the temple: our son had been born in the covenant and could be ours forever.
Eighteen months after the passing of our son, we received a phone call from LDS Family Services saying that a young woman had chosen to place her baby with us. Knowing that we could not have more biological children, we could not have been more excited.
When our little girl was six months old, we finalized her adoption and took her to the temple to be sealed to us. Four years after our little girl became part of our family, another young woman chose us to be the parents of a sweet little boy. Again we had the blessing of taking a six-month-old to the temple. I will never forget how I felt when I saw my children, all in white, in the temple with my husband and me to be sealed to us for eternity.
I now realize that I did not understand all the blessings the temple could bring when I was in Young Women or when I was sealed to my husband or even when our son passed away. And even though I recognize many more blessings than I have in years past, I now understand that the temple is a place of eternal blessings, blessings that will come to us in this life and in eternity. Some we may realize easily today, and others will teach us, strengthen our testimonies, and help us someday to reach our eternal home.
The temple is a place of peace and comfort, joy and newness. I am more grateful than ever for the temple and pray that as I return there, I can continue to learn and appreciate the blessings of the temple.

Tori fought back tears as she ran into the house and took her book bag to her room.
“Tori, honey, is that you? Hustle out here and help me get these carrots peeled for dinner, please.”
“I’m not very hungry, Mom, and I have lots of homework.”
“Well, the rest of the family will be hungry, and you’ll have plenty of time after we eat.”
Mom knew that something was wrong when Tori kept her back turned as she worked. She was sure that a few tears were dropping into the sink along with the thin strips of carrot peeling. She wanted to hug her daughter and make it better, but she knew by now that even a mother’s hug couldn’t always make a hurt go away. “A tough test today, dear?”
“Kind of. But I was prepared, and I know I did well. That’s not the problem, Mom. It’s just that I’m, well, I’m so tired of being lonely. I don’t have any real friends.”
“Of course, you do! What about Pam? And Ellen? And—”
“Wrong answer, Mom. They’re just Sunday friends. In church they’re OK. Sometimes I think they like me then. But at school it’s different. They call me a goody-goody and ‘Mommy’s little angel.’”
“Maybe it’s a compliment,” Mom said with a smile.
Tori shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She grimaced. “All the girls at school are invited to Malorie’s house Friday night for a pizza party.”
“And you didn’t get invited?”
“Yes, I got invited, but I probably won’t go. They plan to stay up late eating pizza and chips and watching television—all the shows that are off limits at our house. I feel like a dweeb.”
“Do you really want to go, Tori?”
“Yes—and no. I’d like to be with the girls, but I’ve heard them talk about some of the late night shows. I don’t want to watch them—I’d just feel dumb and embarrassed and probably guilty. Why does it have to be like this? Why, when I try so hard to do what I’m supposed to, do I always have to do it alone?”
Mother hugged Tori and said, “Why don’t you pray about this? I’m sure that there’s a solution to your problem.”
That evening Tori prayed, “Heavenly Father, I need Thy help. I need the courage to do what I know is right. I’d like an idea of how to help Pam and Ellen too.”
Before school started the next day, Ellen asked Tori if she was going to the party.
“I’ve decided not to go,” Tori said.
“I’m sorry you’re not coming to the party. I know it’s because your folks won’t let you.”
“It’s true that Dad and Mom don’t want me watching that stuff on TV, Ellen, but it’s more than that. Parties should be fun, and it’s not much fun being embarrassed and feeling ashamed.”
“You know what? I think your folks are trying to brainwash you—you know, trying to make you think what they want you to think.”
“I don’t think so, Ellen. But sometimes I wish they could wash my brain. Do you remember the dirty joke that Malorie told us a few weeks ago? It was disgusting, and I’ve had a hard time getting it out of my mind. I’ve decided that I don’t want to get any more thoughts in my head that shouldn’t be there, because they’re really hard to get out—OK?”
“OK.” Ellen turned away, but she hesitated briefly, then turned back. “Can we still be friends?”
“Yes, of course! I really want your friendship. You can come to my party next month—Dad says I can give one for my birthday. In fact, would you help me plan some fun games for it?”
Ellen thought for a moment. “Do you like to play board games?”
“I sure do!”
“You know, Tori, I bet my mom would let us make cereal treats this Friday and play games at my house. We don’t need to watch TV at Malorie’s house to have fun. I don’t really want any more of that stuff in my brain, either. Shall we ask Pam too? Then we can call Malorie and tell her we aren’t coming.”
“I thank Thee, Heavenly Father,” Tori whispered as she headed for her math class. “I thank Thee, very much.”

The coming days would try the Saints, including the Whitneys. In a nationwide economic downturn and banking panic, many turned against the Church and the Prophet. Commanded to move to Missouri, Newel hesitated. He had poured his life into his store in Kirtland. Much of the wealth it made sustained the Church. How could he just walk away?

The Lord chastised him for paying too much attention to worldly things and for “littleness of soul” (Doctrine and Covenants 117:11). Newel repented and obeyed. He settled in Nauvoo, Illinois, where he continued serving as bishop and later as Presiding Bishop.

Some years ago I had the opportunity to serve as a scoutmaster. Early on I decided I needed a project that would engage the boys and their dads in building something that they could enjoy and use. We decided to build Kayaks. After ordering the appropriate materials, we started work on 18 kayaks. I quickly discovered that several of the boys needed considerable training if they were to build something that would float, let alone last for a series of river trips. When the kayaks were completed, we scheduled a trip down a nearby river. We had a few adults in canoes, but each boy had his own Kayak. Once the kayaks were in the water, each boy discovered how well he had followed directions, whether he had used sufficient canvas and glue on the joints, and whether he had sealed it completely in the waterproofing step.

We had done sufficient quality control that all of the kayaks were found to be waterproof and they could handle the modest rapids of the rivers we chose to navigate. The kayak plans we used also recommended attaching sheets of Styrofoam inside the front and rear of each kayak, to help keep it afloat in case it filled with water. But on our first trip down the river, we discovered that one of the boys had decided that step wasn't necessary and had not bothered to put the Styrofoam in place. When his kayak overturned and filled with water it sank. Fortunately, he swam safely to shore as his kayak disappeared beneath the river's surface. Here's a photo of one of those boys, our son Matt, with his kayak. We had great fun, and learned much about how this important principle applied whether building a kayak, a career, an eternal marriage and family, or helping to build the kingdom in some far corner of the world.

I was shy and a bit of a bookworm. I’d pick reading and arithmetic over recess and soccer any day. I always did well in school, and I earned good grades. But my mother knew that I needed more than straight A’s in school. She always encouraged me to do active things and to get involved in other activities. Most of the time I would have stayed home, but her influence helped me gain other leadership abilities, and I developed a willingness to meet challenges and try new things. By the time I left high school, I was “into” varsity basketball and many outside clubs and other activities.

As a youth of 18, I went off almost directly from high school graduation to World War II, carrying with me a carbon copy of my patriarchal blessing, which got very smudged. I read it for consolation and reassurance as a young, frightened infantryman during the fighting on the Pacific Island of Okinawa. Just prior to that, high school, for me, had brought some crises in self-esteem. Raising pigs for a farm club project did not, with some, help my social life; severe acne was no help either; and not being very tall meant, among other things, not making the basketball team. All of these things had combined to produce personal disappointment just prior to my going off to war.

But as I left the home of loving and “goodly parents,” I knew who I was and there were some glimmerings of the future. I knew, too, that the Lord loved me. Otherwise, I was insecure and anxious.

One woman wanted more than anything else to marry a righteous priesthood holder in the temple and be a mother and a wife. She had dreamed about this all her life, and oh, what a wonderful mother and loving wife she would be. Her home would be filled with loving-kindness. Never a bitter word would be spoken. The food would never burn. And her children, instead of hanging out with their friends, would prefer to spend their evenings and weekends with Mom and Dad.
This was her golden ticket. It was the one thing upon which she felt her whole existence depended. It was the one thing in all the world for which she most desperately yearned.
But it never happened. And, as the years went on, she became more and more withdrawn, bitter, and even angry. She could not understand why God would not grant her this righteous desire.
She worked as an elementary school teacher, and being around children all day long simply reminded her that her golden ticket had never appeared. As the years passed she became more disappointed and withdrawn. People didn’t like being around her and avoided her whenever they could. She even took her frustration out on the children at school. She found herself losing her temper, and she swung between fits of anger and desperate loneliness.
The tragedy of this story is that this dear woman, in all her disappointment about her golden ticket, failed to notice the blessings she did have. She did not have children in her home, but she was surrounded by them in her classroom. She was not blessed with a family, but the Lord had given her an opportunity few people have—the chance to influence for good the lives of hundreds of children and families as a teacher.

I remember many years ago when a man, both prominent and well-to-do, came to see Stephen L Richards, who was then a member of the First Presidency. The man had a son who was denied a missionary call because of his moral misbehavior. The man was very forceful, almost demanding, in his request that the son be permitted to go. At the time I had responsibility for the missionary program of the Church and was in the room when the conversation took place. After the man had finished his lengthy and demanding argument, President Richards said, “Brother, I have some responsibility for the affairs of this Church. You do also. If you were seated where I sit, knowing the circumstances that I know, you would feel exactly as I do. Now, in your position as a member of this Church, as one who holds the priesthood, you too have responsibility for its growth and program, and for its discipline. My heart goes out to you, for I know that what you say comes of love for your son. However, I am asking you, as a man with a responsibility for the progress of the Church, to look at the larger affairs of the kingdom. Then you make the decision in that light.” After a thoughtful silence, it was the father who made the decision that his son should not go.

How can I turn my heart to my ancestors? I can do it by learning about them. I recently received a letter from an uncle, Lynwood Ellis, recalling acts of kindness performed long ago by my father and mother. He said that he loved to go to their house because my father always gave him citrus fruit. This was back in 1918 or 1920, when citrus fruit just wasn’t often available in Utah. How did my father manage to get it? My uncle didn’t know, but he was sure that my father didn’t get this fruit for his own use. He just enjoyed giving it away! As I read these stories, my heart was turned to my father and mother because I knew more about their hearts. I found that I wanted to learn more about them and about their parents and grandparents.

Every member a missionary. “Sure, I want to be a missionary but I’m embarrassed.”
“It’s hard to do.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t want to force the gospel on others.”
So, what would you think of a simple approach that allowed you to introduce scores of friends and acquaintances to the Church or gospel principles—while you are doing your school work?
Karen and Susan Jacobs of Walnut Creek, California, found it fun and rewarding. It started when Karen was in the fifth grade at the American School in Copenhagen, Denmark. She was looking for a subject for a rather ambitious American history report. The teacher called for footnotes, bibliography, note cards, and oral reports—everything. Her biggest challenge was to choose a subject. Her parents suggested that she do her report on the Mormon trek westward.
“Why not?” she said.
Once started it was an easier topic to write on than most, with all that help at home, her interest, and her background on the subject from Primary and Sunday School.
Few in the class knew much about the Mormons, and the oral report, filled with interest-raising points, created a lively discussion for months afterwards. She got an A grade too!
Once they discovered the approach, the Jacobs sisters used it, with variations, on numerous occasions. For example, eighth-grader Susan created interest in a science lecture on the effects of smoking by cutting a calf’s heart in class (she had been taught where to cut and how the heart worked by George Washington University medical student Milo Andrus, who also supplied surgical gloves and scalpel). Such a graphic presentation by a petite girl made quite an impression on the class—and they got a strong Word-of-Wisdom explanation at the same time. The grade was A!
The heart lesson was so well accepted that Karen used a calf’s brain in her science fair presentation on the effects of narcotic drugs and won a prize. Again, she included an easy-to-give, easy-to-understand-and-accept explanation on one phase of the Lord’s law of health.
As an eleventh-grader (in a school system that has 12 grades) at Washington-Lee High School in Arlington, Virginia, Karen was very angry to find a derogatory portrayal of the Prophet Joseph and the Church in her history book. It described Joseph Smith as a farmer who moved from place to place digging for buried treasure. She pointed out the inaccuracies to her teacher who responded by asking if she would like to give a class presentation on early Church history. Karen was afraid but accepted. She got out her fifth-grade report. With the addition of the Joseph Smith story and a few other items, it was just the right thing. As it turned out it took the whole class period. The teacher right away asked Karen to repeat the report in his afternoon class. There were dozens of thoughtful questions which led to the missionaries being invited to explain more.
Although there were only three LDS seniors in her graduating class of 800, Karen’s senior government class was given the privilege of hearing four oral presentations on Church subjects. Karen spoke on the United Order, Mike Miller on the nutritional aspects of the Word of Wisdom, and Mark Forsyth on Church government. The bonus came when a nonmember friend, impressed by her visit made prior to the dedication of the Washington Temple, and with help from her LDS friends, reported on the Mormons as temple builders.
The willingness of Karen, Susan, and their friends to try this approach had wide-reaching effects. Virtually everyone in the school knew them as the Mormons. Located in a major suburb of Washington, D.C., the school was largely composed of children of foreign diplomats, congressmen, and other military and government officials; yet, the school was full of drug users, crude language, immorality, nonexistent dress standards, and hundreds of students without fixed standards or ideals. But the tiny LDS group was recognized and respected by teachers and students alike for what they believed in. None was treated with derision or given any trouble. In fact, it was most helpful in avoiding unwholesome activities to be able to say, “Remember, that’s not something Mormons do.”
Perhaps it was due in part to this early willingness to dig into gospel subjects and share LDS teachings that today Karen is taking time out from her studies in the Brigham Young University honor program to serve a mission to Spain and Susan has only a few months to wait for her mission call.
A great prophet of the Lord called on every member to be a missionary. Can you imagine the impact on teachers and students if every LDS student were to write or give just one report each year on the Church? Even in areas of heavy Church membership, many nonmembers have never been given real exposure to our teachings. What easier way to lengthen your stride and please President Kimball? Try it. Or to quote that motto in our beloved prophet’s office, “Do it!”

In recent years another man built his cabin by a falcon cliff not far downriver from George’s crumbling home. He was a loud man, exploiting nature, cutting down trees with a noisy power saw, and keeping a pack of howling sled dogs chained up at the base of the cliff. He also operated a large, creaking fish-wheel right in front of the rocks where the river runs deep and the salmon swim up. No falcons nested on the cliffs after this man built his cabin, nor have they returned now that he is gone. It will take nature some years yet to repair the scar he left.

In the United States, on the morning of the Fourth of July 1952, as all the three major networks at the time were present with cameras rolling at the eastern edge of Catalina Island off the coast of California, 34-year-old Florence Chadwick waded into the water. She was a celebrated endurance swimmer, who now planned to swim 21 open-water miles to the southern California coast. Twenty-one miles! She had already conquered the English Channel. Now she was determined to be the first woman to swim the California Catalina Channel. She began the solo swim.

Minute after minute, hour after hour ticked by as Chadwick resolutely swam on, despite bone-chilling cold, unpredictable currents and terribly dense fog. Several times, sharks had to be driven away by rifle shots from the support boats. Ultimately, fatigued and chilled to the bone, an exhausted Florence Chadwick stopped. She lifted her goggles and looked in all directions but could not to see the shore through the fog bank. Disoriented, she lost her perspective and, temporarily, she lost her will.

From one of the support boats, her mother and her trainer pleaded with her not to give up. But from Chadwick’s compromised viewpoint in the water, all she could see was fog. So, after 15 hours and 55 minutes of constant swimming and over 58,000 strokes, she was pulled out of the water into the boat. She was utterly exhausted and was attended to medically. But Florence was even more devastated when she discovered she had tragically miscalculated her effort and distance. Where she had swum to was less than half a mile from the coast!

"I'm not excusing myself," she later told a reporter, "but if I could have seen land, I know I could have made it. I was licked by the fog." The resilient Florence Chadwick had been through tough times before. She immediately and resolutely began training, planning, and preparing again.

Two months later, renewed and indomitable, she once again entered the water off Catalina Island, determined to succeed in what no woman had done before. The networks were missing now but not Chadwick’s resolve.

Again, the same factors were equally present, along with their timing. The thick fog bank again descended and obscured her view at the same critical moment in this daunting endeavor.

But this time, Florence resolutely swam on, knowing that somewhere beyond this fog and ocean was land. I can imagine her repeating over and over, “Just keep swimming; don’t give up.”

This time, she swam directly through the fog bank and emerged on the sunlit, California seacoast. Not only was Florence Chadwick the first woman to swim the Catalina Channel but she beat the standing men's record by two hours!

Brother Call, my senior class seminary teacher, never knew it, but he was literally responsible for saving the lives of five young G.I.s in the steaming jungles of Vietnam. I’m sure that when he taught that heartfelt lesson on Joseph Smith in the Liberty Jail, he had no idea just how far it would reach.
By the first anniversary of my graduation from high school, I had already been in the military five months. It was 1967, and the war in southeast Asia was raging.
One terrifying day, I found myself and the four others in my patrol creeping across an opening about 300-yards wide. The only cover we had was a darkened sky and some low grass and weeds. The grass was so short, in fact, that we couldn’t even raise ourselves up on our elbows. For more than five hours we had to inch our way across that wet, muddy rice paddy. The only thing I could see for those five wet hours were the soles of Buddy’s worn jungle combat boots.
It was maddening. The enemy knew we were there. Every few minutes, without warning, they would spray the area with machine gun and automatic weapon fire. The bullets were so close I could almost see them whizzing by and hear them in stereo. To us, the real definition of relief was when the next round of ammunition actually sounded farther away than the previous round.
I couldn’t help but remember a World War II movie I’d seen in high school, where the enemy set a similar field on fire, burning the American G.I.s in the process. Though I was absolutely terrified, I was also grateful for the mud, the water, the green grass, and the ever present drizzle that kept us fireproof.
Our greatest objective during that little mission was no more than to just keep moving—no matter how slow it might be—and to stay totally quiet, so as not to give away our position.
But suddenly, two hours into the mission, Buddy was attacked by severe claustrophobia. This “abnormal dread of being in close quarters” gave him a seemingly uncontrollable urge to jump up and run, screaming, toward the other side of the clearing. He never would have made it and surely would have given away our position, making us easy targets for the enemy. It was up to me to keep him calm and quiet. I instantly offered up a prayer for help. I had nowhere else to turn, and I had to keep him calm. All our lives depended on it.
That’s when Brother Call’s lesson began to have its effect. It was the only thing that came to mind. I saw him standing in front of the class, with fervor and conviction, teaching us about the Prophet Joseph Smith and his friends spending those horrible six months in the Liberty Jail. It was a 14-foot square room with no sanitary facilities, no showers, and very little fresh air or light. And the Lord told Joseph that he should not despair, for “all these things shall … be for thy good” (D&C 122:7).
Then, quietly, in a whisper calmed by the Holy Ghost, I talked Buddy through the most awful day of his life. I told him about another day, long ago in my hometown, when I sat almost uninterested on the back row as Brother Call relived the Liberty Jail story with me and 32 other seminary students. In his beautiful high tenor voice, Brother Call sang, “… if Christ should come tomorrow, what would I do? What would I say?” And on and on.
As I retold it, I realized that that Church history class was saving my life, and the lives of four others as well. We found ourselves at that moment no worse off than brother Joseph and his friends in their cell. I had never before, or ever after, whisper-sung a song like the one Brother Call sang. But in that watersnake-infested paddy I had to do it that day.
And Buddy whisper-cried. And so did Sam behind me—only able to see the soles of my boots, but feeling the soul of my being.
Lives were changed after that terror-filled day. Complaining ceased. A true camaraderie developed. Christianity became a major factor in everything we did. Buddy and Sam never joined the Church, but I feel they owe their lives to it. They learned a great deal about Joseph Smith that day, and they learned how much the Lord loves us. And the Holy Ghost bore witness to their spirits that what they heard was true.
All of those hours of seminary, which I estimate to be at least 600, paid off that day in the jungles of Vietnam. As a high school student, I never would have believed how important they would one day be.

Several years ago I was living in Flower Mound Texas. It was some time before I knew that there was actually a location called Flower Mound for which the town was named. The mound was just off one of the main roads in town. I had driven by it on many occasions. It was barely 50 feet high. Early one Saturday morning I climbed the mound. In doing so I found an interesting thing, when I stood on top of that mound I could see all the way to office buildings of downtown Dallas twenty miles away. I was so impressed how such a little elevation could improve the distance I could see. I found out later that the mound was used by the American Indians perhaps the Wichita or Comanche and later by cowboys and I could see why.
As I thought on the height of the Flower Mound I considered how similar that mound is to our spiritual perception. As we begin to follow the Spirit we begin to notice our vision of eternal things increasing.
A few years later we had moved to Utah. I was now a scoutmaster. I took my troop on a night hike to the top of Mount Timpanogos. The night was clear and beautiful. It was still dark when we made it to the saddle at the top. We could see lights from the Heber valley on one side and turn the other way and see the Provo valley and into the Salt Lake valley. We made our way to the summit at almost 12,000 feet. There we waited for the sunrise. It was spectacular. Now with light it seemed we could see forever.
As I prepared for this devotional, these two experiences dealing with mountains came to mind where height gave such an increase to my distance vision. And of course the comparison to following the Spirit and having a corresponding increase in vision of eternal things. Obtaining that view is critical to us arriving at our desired destination.

In his journal, Elder Woodruff wrote that he felt the Lord guided him to this spot. He traveled many kilometers by coach, then walked many more kilometers. He met John Benbow, a wealthy farmer, who with his wife, Jane, belonged to a large group that had broken away from the traditional religious denominations of that time. Wilford Woodruff recorded:
“[John Benbow] sent word through the neighborhood that an American missionary would preach at his house that evening. As the time drew nigh, many of the neighbors came in, and I preached my first gospel sermon in the house. I also preached at the same place on the following evening, and baptized six persons, including Mr. John Benbow, his wife, and four preachers of the United Brethren. …
“… The parish church that stood in the neighborhood of Brother Benbow’s, presided over by the rector of the parish, was attended during the day by only fifteen persons, while I had a large congregation, estimated to number a thousand, attend my meetings through the day and evening” (quoted in Matthias F. Cowley, Wilford Woodruff: History of His Life and Labors [1964], 117–18).
Many of those thousand listeners were baptized, and the converts formed some of the earliest branches of the Church in England. John and Jane Benbow and Thomas Kington also financed the first British edition of the Book of Mormon and a Latter-day Saint hymnbook.
During those few months in 1840, Wilford Woodruff preached to and baptized all the members of that breakaway group except for one man—a total of about 600 people. Elder Woodruff also baptized more than 1,200 from other denominations. Many of those baptized sold their land and possessions and left England to gather in Nauvoo, where they became stalwarts of the Church. They later were driven out of Nauvoo, crossed the plains, and established new communities in the western United States. Today their influence is felt throughout the earth, and many of their descendants continue doing the Lord’s work.
This small pool of water on the John Benbow farm was the scene of hundreds of baptisms in 1840. On 5 March, Wilford Woodruff baptized John and Jane Benbow and four preachers from the local congregation of a group called the United Brethren. Elder Woodruff spent most of the following day, as he wrote, “clearing out a pool of water and preparing it for baptizing, as I saw that many would receive that ordinance. I afterwards baptized six hundred persons in that pool of water” (quoted in Wilford Woodruff, 117).

“Meet Anastasia, one of my newest Primary friends. During a recent Primary devotional in Dallas, Texas, Primary children learned gospel principles, sang songs, testified of the Savior and His gospel, and shared their talents.
“During the meeting, I led an activity to help them learn about how the Holy Ghost can speak to us. I hummed a children’s song and the children guessed what song I was humming. I then asked the children what they did that helped them recognize the song.
“One child, Anastasia, enthusiastically waved her hand to share her simple but profound observation.
“In a confident voice, she described how she focused her eyes and ears on me as I hummed the Primary song, and then she could recognize the song and hear the words in her mind.
“When we are struggling to hear the voice of the Lord, who we listen to matters. Focus your eyes and ears on the words and love of our Savior.
“My friends, I testify that what Anastasia taught was true. When we look to our Savior—when we listen closely for His voice—we will be able to receive divine guidance pressed upon our minds and our hearts. We will be able to recognize truth and grow our trust in Jesus Christ. The direction we are pointed matters. So let us ‘look to God and live’ (Alma 37:47). Live lives filled with faith and revelation. Lives filled with peace, joy, and hope. Lives filled with the Spirit of God.
“How do you hear the voice of the Lord?”
Sister Tracy Y. Browning, Facebook, June 8, 2023, facebook.com/Primary2ndCounselor.

Nellie Middleton, a fifty-five-year-old Latter-day Saint, lived in Cheltenham with her six-year-old daughter, Jennifer. To prepare her home against air strikes, she had used her modest wage as a dressmaker to furnish an area in her basement as a shelter, complete with food, water, oil lamps, and a small iron bed for Jennifer. Following instructions from the government, Nellie had also covered her windows with netting to catch flying shards of glass in the event of an attack.1

Now, all over Cheltenham, bombs were whistling through the air and crashing to the ground with a thunderous roar. The terrifying noise grew ever closer to Nellie’s home until a tremendous explosion on a nearby street rattled her walls, shattering the windows and filling the netting with razor-sharp glass.

In the morning, the city streets were filled with rubble. The bombs had killed twenty-three people and left more than six hundred homeless.2

Nellie and other Cheltenham Saints did their best to endure after the attack. When British Mission president Hugh B. Brown and other North American missionaries left the country nearly a year earlier, the small branch and others like it struggled to fill callings and run Church programs. Then the local men went away to war, leaving no priesthood holders to bless the sacrament or formally administer branch business. Before long, the branch was forced to disband.

An older man named Arthur Fletcher, who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, lived about twenty miles away, and he rode his rusty bicycle to visit the Cheltenham Saints whenever he could. But most of the time it was Nellie, the former Relief Society president in the Cheltenham Branch, who took responsibility for the spiritual and temporal welfare of the Saints in her area. With the branch closed, the Church members could no longer meet in the rented hall they used on Sundays, so Nellie’s living room became the place where the Relief Society prayed, sang, and studied.3

On a quiet November night in 1943, Nellie Middleton heard her doorbell ring. It was dark outside, but she knew enough not to have the lights on when she opened the door. Nearly three years had passed since German bombs had first fallen near her home, and Nellie continued to darken her windows at night to keep herself and her daughter safe from air raids.

With her lights out, Nellie opened the door. A young man was standing on her front step, his face in shadow. He extended his hand and quietly introduced himself as Brother Ray Hermansen. His accent was undeniably American.4

A lump came to Nellie’s throat. After their branch disbanded, she and other women in Cheltenham had longed to take the sacrament more regularly. The United States had recently sent troops to England to prepare for an Allied offensive against Nazi Germany. Once it had occurred to Nellie that some of the American soldiers stationed in her town might be Latter-day Saints who could bless the sacrament, she had asked her stepsister, Margaret, to paint a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and place it in town. Below the picture was a message: “If any soldier is interested in the above, he will find a warm welcome at 13 Saint Paul’s Road.”5

Had this American seen her poster? Did he have authority to bless the sacrament? Nellie shook his hand and welcomed him inside.

Ray was a twenty-year-old Latter-day Saint soldier from Utah and a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. Although he was stationed ten miles away, he had heard about the Salt Lake Temple painting from another Church member and obtained leave to visit the address. He had walked to Nellie’s home on foot, which was why he had arrived after dark. When Nellie told him about her desire to take the sacrament, he asked her when he could come to administer the ordinance to her.

On November 21, Nellie, her daughter, and three other women welcomed Ray to their Sunday meeting. Nellie opened the meeting with prayer before the group sang “How Great the Wisdom and the Love.” Ray then blessed and passed the sacrament, and all four women bore testimony of the gospel.

Soon other Latter-day Saint soldiers heard about the meetings at Saint Paul’s Road. Some Sundays, Nellie’s living room was so full that people had to sit on the staircase.6