Gospel Story Finder

A story I read long ago helped me see that my words can change someone’s life. It was written by a woman about herself when she was a child just entering first grade. I don’t know the author’s name or where her story was published, but I remember the title: “Seven Words That Changed My Life.” I’ll tell it as I remember it.
Excruciatingly shy, her face disfigured by a cleft palate, and her hearing severely impaired in one ear, Alice lived in self-destructive misery, an invalid in a cocoon of her own making. She had closed herself off from the outside world, feeling unloved and not wanting anyone to see her ugly face or detect her disability. Fearing the inevitable stares and cruel taunts of other children, she panicked at the thought of attending school. How could she hide her ugliness and her deafness? Yet somehow she was made to go to school that first day.
Left early with the teacher, before the other children came, Alice took a seat at the back of the class and hid her face from the others as they came in. After the class began, the teacher announced that they would first have a simple hearing test. One by one the children were to come to the door and stand, waiting until the classroom was absolutely quiet. Holding a hand tightly over one ear and then the other, they were to listen as the teacher whispered something to them. The simple test was to repeat back the teacher’s words.
Alice sat almost in tears. Not only would everyone see her ugly face, but they would find out she was deaf in one ear. She sat with lips quivering as each of the other children passed the test. Now it was her turn to be seen and tested.
Hiding her face in her hands, she walked to the front. Trembling, she turned her face to the wall and covered her good ear, but left enough opening so she could hear the whispered words. Then her teacher spoke seven soft words, words that broke open the floodgates of tears and changed Alice’s life forever: “I wish you were my little girl.”

“It can’t be done. It won’t work.” That’s what everyone said. But when 17-year-old Tanya Fisher took a courageous stand against an embarrassing “eyesore” in her community of Laramie, Wyoming, she made it work.
A huge retaining wall (100 feet long and 22 feet high) covered with graffiti stood at the intersection of two of the busiest streets in the city. Many efforts had been made by the city council to eradicate the graffiti. They had tried painting over it with white wash. But that encouraged youthful street artists to write on it again. Then the city council spent lots of money to have large streetlights installed hoping to deter the activity. All that did was give the artists more light to work by. It seemed to be a losing battle.
One day Tanya and her mother were chatting at the kitchen table when Tanya came up with the idea to paint a giant mural on that embarrassing retaining wall. She thought it would be a great project for the student council of Laramie High School. An ambitious idea was born that day, but to bring it to full maturity took a lot of time and energy.
Tanya fought opposition everywhere, especially with her peers. They said it wouldn’t work, that graffiti would cover the drawings immediately. But Tanya didn’t give up. During the summer of 1988 Tanya visited Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, with her family. She contacted the Anti-Graffiti Network there and gathered more information. She took pictures of a wall that had been partially painted with a mural. Interestingly enough, there was graffiti all over the unpainted part of the wall. But the mural was left untouched. This gave her hope.
After much research Tanya’s first step was to present her idea to the student council at Laramie High School. It took a written proposal and some tall talking, but she finally won their support. The second step was to get the city council’s approval. Surprisingly, she was met with enthusiasm by both the council and the mayor, and the project took hold in the summer of 1989. It had taken more than a year to get to this point.
Ryan Fulton, a counselor at Laramie High School who became the sponsor of the project, said of Tanya, “That girl ramrodded the project and spent her time researching possibilities from other walls in other cities. She wasn’t afraid to present her ideas to the city council. That’s something for a high school student.”
The theme of the mural represents the three educational institutions of the community: Laramie High School, Wyoming Technical Institute, and the University of Wyoming. It was decided that there would be no advertising involved and neither the names of the schools nor the artists would appear anywhere in the drawings. Logos of the institutions are depicted in a kind of “new wave” art according to Tanya.
With about a dozen students from the high school and another dozen from the tech school, Tanya launched her project. John Kearnes, a Wyoming Tech student, was very helpful in the design and drawing of the mural.
Tanya had already met many challenges, but as the project began she found there were many more ahead. While the paint was still wet, rain washed away the first base coat. Hail ruined the surface in places another time. Tanya described the problems with the size of the wall. “There are 29 sections, only four where you can really stand. To get to the rest of it, we had to tie ropes around our waists and hang down the wall while we put in the measurements, did the sketching and the painting.” Over 600 man-hours were spent on this project. And Tanya personally contributed 87 hours. She also used this as her Young Women values project in the Laramie First Ward, Laramie Wyoming Stake.
Tanya’s mother Darlene Fisher, says, “Months have gone by and the wall is still fine. The whole city is proud of it. My husband (Monte Fisher) and I overhear people talking about the wall, and they don’t know we’re the parents of the girl who spearheaded the project. It makes us feel so good.”
What about upkeep on this huge project? The senior class of Laramie High School has formed a committee from the student council to provide maintenance on the wall. And the city council donates the paint.
Tanya said, “Everyone said it can’t work. But I said ‘Yes it can. If it can work in Boston and Chicago, it can work in a small town like Laramie.’” And it did! One young, determined girl, with a sense of community commitment, proved it.

I underwent an operation on September 24, 2018, and had many people by my side taking care of me. A few days after the operation and being discharged, while at home, I felt a lot of fever inside me. I visited the clinic again, and after several tests, they found that during the surgery to remove the colon tumor, they had left a small hole causing the fever. I developed sepsis because no hole was supposed to remain after the operation. I had to stay in the clinic for one more week.
On the third day of being hospitalized, I felt extremely sad. I prayed to Heavenly Father and asked many questions. After finishing my prayer and shedding many tears, there was a knock on the door of my room, and to my surprise, it was the two missionaries who were attending my ward at that time. Seeing me crying, they prayed with and encouraged me. I told them about the prayer I had made and how the Lord had sent these two messengers to me.
Thanks to my Heavenly Father, I overcame the sepsis and moved on to the next stage, which, although difficult, was a true miracle. I had to undergo chemotherapy, and when I received the first treatment, I suffered another health setback. A port was inserted to administer the chemotherapy, and the doctor who placed it put it in too high, causing me to have four embolisms and two pulmonary infarctions. My oncologist couldn’t explain how I had survived the embolisms and infarctions. I told her that I believed God was keeping me alive because I still had important work to do for Him.

As we got to know each other, our conversations sometimes evolved into debates, with Karen defending religion while I argued for science. Our discussions served mostly to frustrate her.
But Karen had a friend named Nese. Nese never said more than “Hi” to me in the halls at school, but she had listened closely to my conversations with Karen.
Nese never told me directly that she was a Latter-day Saint. She strolled up to my table in the library one day during study hall. “May I sit down?” she asked. At some point during the conversation, she said she was a member of the house of Israel. I assumed she meant she was Jewish.
We had classes all at the same hour, and during the remaining months of our senior year, Nese and I sorted through the many religious questions flooding my mind. She told me later she “just wanted to share her opinion with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” I would tell my ideas on a subject like life after death, and then she would explain her beliefs. Her confidence amazed me. It wasn’t until later that I found out she was a Latter-day Saint.
By then our talks were so enjoyable I began spending lunch hours with Nese and her Mormon friends. They were refreshing to be around. No smoking, no swearing, no improper jokes. Best of all, they never seemed to ridicule anybody—they respected each other’s feelings. It was different being with them, and I enjoyed it.
Towards the end of the school year, Karen invited me to a Gold and Green Ball, I had no idea what that was. I had never been to a dance in a church, and I had to dress in a suit! I was amazed to see a gymnasium in a church building.
But what went on in the gym surprised me even more. Adults and teenagers were talking, laughing, and even dancing together. My friends had always thought it was childish to like your parents. All over the nation there was an uproar about communication breakdown between parents and their children. But these people all seemed to be friends, regardless of age.
I asked Karen about it. She said it was because of the Church. As she took me on a tour of the building, I pondered what she had said. By the time I went home that night, I felt these people were unique, they were choice in some way I didn’t fully understand. They had a lot to be proud of.
After graduation my summer job took me away from my new-found group of friends. I was employed at a gas station, where I was unhappy because of my co-workers’ lack of concern. I was depressed, unhappy, and alone.
One afternoon in July, Nese and a friend drove up to the station. Just seeing them boosted my morale. They were planning to sing in the Oakland Temple Pageant and invited me to attend.
I’ll always remember that special evening. It was the first time I heard the story of Joseph Smith and learned the history of the Latter-day Saints I had grown to admire. At the end of the pageant, the audience rose and sang “The Spirit of God Like a Fire Is Burning.” (Hymns No. 213) How I wanted to know the words of the song so I could join the chorus! I felt completely full of respect and love.
The crowd left slowly. Standing in the parking lot, I looked up at the temple. A voice in the back of my mind told me that some day I would enter that building.
When fall came, Nese left to attend Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. I returned to Berkeley, California. Loneliness encompassed me again. Nese’s letters arrived regularly, two or three times weekly. I asked her why she was Mormon. The next letter bulged the envelope. It was a detailed explanation of her struggle to remain active and maintain a firm testimony while living with her inactive family.
I decided I had to go to church. That was a difficult decision because no one pushed me to attend. I had been allowed to come to the conclusion by myself.
I nearly changed my mind when I opened the door. I entered the chapel by myself, spotted an empty seat on the back row, and quickly sat down. Was I going to be all alone here, too? I wondered inside.
Then suddenly Karen, who had appeared from nowhere, was shaking my hand. “Good morning, David,” she said, grinning. I wasn’t alone anymore. She introduced me to people, showed me which class to go to, and sat beside me the entire time.
I was impressed to find a class I could bring my questions to and get answers. Furthermore, the teacher, Sister Booras, took time afterwards to thank me for coming. “You added a great deal to our class,” she said. I had never felt so at home before.
But I still didn’t have that spiritual testimony of the Church; I could believe in many of its teachings, but I didn’t know it was true. I kept attending the meetings anyway.
One month later, Nese urged me to come to Brigham Young University. I jumped at the chance and rushed to Provo for a whirlwind visit. She described her school as if it were part of her. As we walked around campus, all we talked about was religion. My mind was overflowing with questions again, as it had been in the high school library. I still didn’t see how everything fit together.
The thing that held me back was the principle of eternal progression. “It just can’t be right.” I said, “How can man, who was created by God, ever hope to be a god?”
We were standing in front of the Joseph Smith Building. Nese paused for a moment.
“Dave,” she said, “before we were ever created physically, we were created spiritually as God’s sons and daughters. A part of us, our spirit, comes directly from him as our Father.”
I finally understood! It all fell into place. My grin spread to a smile and erupted as a laugh. I couldn’t stop grinning. My mind jumped from doctrine to doctrine. “Yes, yes, it all fits!” I wanted to dance or sing or run.
There, on the steps of the Joseph Smith Building, the Spirit bore witness to me of the gospel plan. I knew in my heart I would join the Church.
I still had to read the Book of Mormon, learn to pray, and take the missionary discussions. But my life was changed from that moment on. I had found truth, purpose, and a life to fulfill. Five weeks later I was baptized.
Eighteen months later, my impression that I would one day enter the Oakland Temple came true, as I received my endowments one week before leaving on a mission. When I returned, Nese and I decided to continue the eternal journey we had begun with conversations at a table in a library. We were married in the Provo Temple.
Every time I look at my wife, I thank the Lord that there was a girl in my high school with enough faith to “just want to share her beliefs with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” She touched my heart and changed my life.

To understand how this story turned out the way it did, you probably need to know Joe. And that’s not an easy thing.
In the small town of Oakley, Utah, if you ask the other teenagers about quiet, soft-spoken Joe Frazier, they say the same types of things: He’s … hmmm? … great to be around. He’s … hmmm? … funny. He’s … hmmm? … I don’t know … He’s just Joe.
Hmmm?
“Let’s put it this way,” says D. J. Glade. “You know how in high school it’s not cool to talk to the younger kids? Well, Joe talks to the younger kids. Joe talks to the older kids. Joe is friends with everyone.”
Come on.
“Serious.”
But then there was Joe, at age 16, lying unconscious in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his mouth, a bag dripping into a tube in one arm. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong. It was strange, sobering. And without exception, all of his friends thought, That could be me.
Joe Frazier had been sick for about a month and was getting progressively worse. The doctors were baffled. At first they thought he had a virus, maybe hepatitis. And then, on a July 1994 morning, he was in the kitchen, reached out for the counter, and was suddenly on the floor. His brother, Josh, picked him up and carried him to the car.
The following Monday, Joe was still in the hospital. His parents, Blake and Barbara, were told their son was in very serious condition, that he needed a new liver. The Fraziers’ insurance company did not cover the cost of the experimental surgery, and before Joe could be put on a national transplant waiting list the family would need to raise $125,000.
“We didn’t have time to sell our house or our cars,” says Barbara. “Joe hadn’t been sick in years, and now out of the blue they were saying the word transplant. It was overwhelming.”
The hospital suggested the Fraziers ask a handful of their close friends and relatives to help raise part of the money. The neighbors they asked to help got on the phone to other neighbors who got on the phone to others … well, you get the idea. All they had to say was “Joe is in trouble” and money started appearing. The first donations were from Joe’s brother and sister, Josh and Jamie, who emptied their bank accounts and dug under couch cushions and in the back of dresser drawers for any cash they could find.
Right away, the kids from Joe’s high school got together to brainstorm ways to raise the money. They gave $500 they were saving for their prom. And then they organized car washes, bake sales, a rodeo, and an enormous garage sale.
It was late one evening that week, as the teenagers collected items for the garage sale, that Sam Aplanalp, 15, realized something miraculous was happening.
“The football players were pulling things off a truck when a little boy rode up on his bike,” says Sam. “I know his family doesn’t have much money—and his bike was about all he had in the world—but he wanted us to have it. To help Joe.”
The next day at the sale, a loaf of bread fetched $400 and someone paid $25 for a root beer. At the car wash, 16-year-old Michelle Cooper and her friends washed a stranger’s car who, in payment, handed them two $100 bills. “I don’t know who he was,” Michelle says, tearing up at the memory. “But it taught me that deep down, people really do care.”
On Wednesday afternoon, only a day and a half after the call for donations had gone out, the phone rang in Joe’s hospital room. Barbara answered. It was Joe’s 14-year-old sister, Jamie.
“Mom, you’re missing a miracle,” she said. “I wish you were here to see what the people in town are doing. They’ve already raised $55,000!”
Teenagers from across the county, from all faiths and backgrounds, came together to help raise money and to pray for Joe.
“I don’t think any of us had ever prayed that hard or worked that hard,” says Michelle.
Jake adds, “But we learned where real joy comes from. Passing a test, winning a ball game, having a girlfriend makes you happy—but real joy comes from giving, from sacrifice.”
On the same Wednesday, Barbara and Blake met with their surgeon and told him that Oakley and the neighboring communities in their county had already raised $55,000—in 36 hours. Tears ran down the physician’s cheeks and Barbara recalls him saying, “You have renewed my faith. There really are human beings in the world.” The doctor, realizing the severity of Joe’s condition, had already put him on the transplant list. He said he would not let Joe die without a chance.
When Joe went into surgery the following Monday, the Fraziers had already received $135,000.
But Joe’s fight was not over. He was given only a 50 percent chance of making it through the eight-hour operation. And, says Barbara, “If he hadn’t received the liver that day, he would not have seen another sunrise.”
“The first day I remember is the 24th of July—five days after the surgery,” says Joe. “I remember going to the window to watch the fireworks.”
When Barbara told him what the community had done, Joe seemed strangely sad. “I kinda wish I’d been there to help,” he explained.
On a hot August day with thin clouds in the Utah mountains, the Fraziers’ Thunderbird slowed as it reached the turn into the Kamas valley. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, Joe could see the group of vehicles waiting for him at the intersection, where twisting Brown’s Canyon meets Highway 189.
The fire engine and the cars fell in behind Joe’s car, fender-to-fender. The parade stopped in Oakley, and Joe got out and hugged his mom. A dozen young kids who had donated their toys to the garage sale and who felt in some way they owned a little piece of Joe gathered close to him. And one little guy yelled, “Hey, Joe, how ya feeling?”
There wasn’t a dry eye when Joe smiled and said in a soft voice “fine” and “thank you” and that it was “good to be home.”
“Every street corner, every business, everything was covered with pictures of Joe,” said Barbara. “But when we got home, Joe asked me to get the collection jars out of the store and take his pictures down.
“And then he wanted me to make sure no one had given more money than they could afford.”
Maybe that selfless attitude is why everyone cared, why they did what they did. Who knows? But it’s definitely the reason, when you ask who is Joe Frazier, that all his friends say with love, He’s … hmmm? … he’s just Joe.

I have a believing heart that started with a simple testimony that came when I was a child. I was with my father out on a farm away from our home, trying to find things to do until my father was ready to go home. Over the fence from our place were some old sheds that would attract a curious boy, and I was adventurous. I started to climb through the fence, and I heard a voice calling me by name and saying, “Don’t go over there!” I turned to look at my father to see if he were talking to me, but he was far away at the other end of the field. There was no person in sight. I realized then, as a child, that there were persons beyond my sight, for I had definitely heard a voice.
Another way by which we receive revelation was spoken of by the Prophet Enos. He writes this very significant statement in his record in the Book of Mormon: “And while I was thus struggling in the spirit, the voice of the Lord came into my mind” (Enos 1:10).
In other words, sometimes we hear the voice of the Lord coming into our minds, and when it comes, the impressions are just as strong as though He were sounding a trumpet in our ears.
May I bear humble testimony to that fact? I was once in a situation where I needed help. The Lord knew I needed help, as I was on an important mission. I was awakened in the early hours of the morning and was corrected on something that I had planned to do in a contrary way, and the way was clearly defined before me as I lay there that morning, just as surely as though someone had sat on the edge of my bed and told me what to do.
We as individual members of the Church may receive personal revelation by the power of the Holy Ghost. The Lord said to the Prophet Joseph Smith in the early days of the Church, “Yea, behold, I will tell you in your mind and in your heart, by the Holy Ghost, which shall dwell in your heart. Now, behold, this is the spirit of revelation” (D&C 8:2–3). The Prophet Joseph Smith said, “No man can receive the Holy Ghost without receiving revelations. The Holy Ghost is a revelator.” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, Section 6, sub-heading 64, paragraph 2, p. 328.)
May I change that about and give it emphasis to the Latter-day Saints and say, any Latter-day Saint who has been baptized and who has had hands laid upon him from those officiating, commanding him to receive the Holy Ghost, and who has not received a revelation of the spirit of the Holy Ghost, has not received the gift of the Holy Ghost to which he is entitled. Therein lies a very important matter. Let me refer to what the Prophet Joseph Smith said about revelation:
“A person may profit by noticing the first intimation of the spirit of revelation, for instance, when you feel pure intelligence flowing into you, it may give you sudden strokes of ideas so that by noticing it, you may find it fulfilled the same day or soon; that is, those things that were presented into your minds by the Spirit of God will come to pass, and thus learning by the spirit of God and understanding it, you may grow into the principle of revelation until you become perfect in Christ Jesus.” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, Section 3, subheading 2 from the end, p. 151.)
On what matters may you receive a revelation? Is it startling to you to hear that you—all members of the Church who have received the Holy Ghost—may receive revelation? Not for the president of the Church, not about how to look after the affairs pertaining to the ward, the stake, or the mission in which you live; but every individual within his own area of responsibility has the right to receive revelation by the Holy Ghost.
Every man has the privilege to exercise these gifts and these privileges in the conduct of his own affairs, in bringing up his children in the way they should go, in the management of his business, or whatever he does. It is his right to enjoy the spirit of revelation and of inspiration to do the right things, to be wise and prudent, just and good, in everything that he does. I know that this is a true principle and that is the thing that I would like the Latter-day Saints to know. Now then, all of us should try to strive and listen to and obey the sudden ideas that come to us, and if we’ll obey them and develop the ability to hear these promptings we too—each of us—can grow in the spirit of revelation.
Now there’s one more way by which revelations may come, and that is by dreams. Oh, I’m not going to tell you that every dream you have is a direct revelation from the Lord, but I fear that there are those of us who are prone to disregard all and say they have no purpose. And yet all through the scriptures there were recorded incidents where the Lord, by dreams, has directed His people.
Let us see what Parley P. Pratt said about this matter:
“In all ages and dispensations God has revealed many important instructions and warnings to men by means of dreams. When the conscious mind and physical senses are released from their activity, the nerves relaxed, and mankind lies asleep, it is then that the spiritual senses are at liberty in a certain degree to assume their functions, to recall some faint outline, some confused and half-defined recollections of that heavenly world, and those endearing scenes of their former estate. Their kindred spirits then hover about them with the fondest affection, the most anxious solicitude. Spirit communes with spirit, thought meets thought, soul blends with soul, in all the raptures of mutual, pure, and eternal love. In this situation the spiritual organs (and if we could see our spirits, we would know that they have eyes to see, ears to hear, tongues to speak, and so on) may converse with deity, or have communion with angels, and the spirits of just men made perfect.” If we will learn not to be so sophisticated that we disregard that possibility of impressions from those who are beyond sight, then we too may have a dream that may direct us as a revelation.
The revelations of God are the standards by which we measure all learning, and if anything does not agree with the revelations, then we may be certain that it is not truth.
I come to you as one who sits in the company of men who live close to their Heavenly Father. I have seen matters come before the First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve in our weekly meetings on which decisions have been reached that were not based upon reasoning, but were based upon an impression which, after that decision had been made, has been found to have been a heaven-sent direction to protect and to guide.
After an important decision has been made, it has been a thrilling thing to hear the president of the Church say, “Brethren, the Lord has spoken.”
The thing that all of us should strive for is to so live, keeping the commandments of the Lord, that He can answer our prayers. If we will live worthy, then the Lord will guide us—by a personal appearance, or by His actual voice, or by His voice coming into our mind, or by impressions upon our heart and our soul. And oh, how grateful we ought to be if the Lord sends us a dream in which is revealed to us the beauties of the eternity or a warning and direction for our special comfort. Yes, if we so live, the Lord will guide us for our salvation and for our benefit.
I want to bear you my humble testimony that I have received by the voice and the power of revelation the knowledge and an understanding that God is.
It was a week following a conference, when I was preparing a radio talk on the life of the Savior and read again the story of His life, crucifixion, and resurrection, that there came to me a testimony, a reality of Him. It was more than just what was on the written page, for in truth, I found myself viewing the scenes with as much certainty as though I had been there in person. I know that these things come by the revelations of the living God.
I bear you my solemn testimony that the Church today is guided by revelation. Every soul in it who has been blessed to receive the Holy Ghost has the power to receive revelation. God help you and me that we will always so live that the Lord can answer the prayers of the faithful through us.

I was recently told of a woman in Idaho Falls, a widow. Over a period of 15 years she acted as proxy in giving the temple endowment to 20,000 individuals in the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple. She completed her 20,000th endowment on a Friday and returned on Saturday to do five more. She passed away the following week.

Just think of what this one little woman did. She performed these vicarious endowments for as many people as are assembled in this Conference Center this morning. Think of the reception she must have received on the other side.

Last Wednesday I was in Idaho and telephoned to Phoenix and learned that President Hinckley was trying to reach me. I called him that morning and made an appointment to see him Thursday afternoon. Wednesday afternoon I joined with other members of my family at the funeral of my mother, who had passed away here in Salt Lake City the previous Sunday at the age of ninety-five. She joined my father, who had preceded her twenty-two years ago, and my wife, who had joined him four years ago.
I am grateful for them. I have prayed since Thursday afternoon that a kind and loving Heavenly Father would let them who had been such an influence in bringing me to this position be aware of it. I am confident they were.
I promised President Hinckley on Thursday afternoon, and now tonight I would like to do so again to the First Presidency, the Quorum of the Twelve, and these other Brethren that I desire to dedicate my all and serve to whatever extent I am asked.

When I was 12, my local boys’ group went on a road trip with many stops from Elkhorn, Wisconsin, to Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. We arrived, and there it was: the big, beautiful Salt Lake Temple. I had never heard of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and knew nothing about temples, except that only members of the Church could enter them.
But something unusual happened. I heard a voice in my head clearly say, “You will enter that temple one day.” I thought it was strange, but I didn’t dwell on it.
Over a decade later, my mother’s best friend, Millee, had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My wife and I planned a trip to Colorado to find a location for my dental practice, and Millee encouraged us to visit Temple Square on our trip. My wife loved the idea, so we extended our trip to Salt Lake City.
When we arrived, we visited every building on Temple Square and spoke with the missionaries. We loved everything we learned and felt a peace we later would recognize as the Holy Spirit.
After the trip, we called Millee and told her we would be interested in joining the Church. She squealed with delight and invited us to chat with her and her husband, Bob. They helped us meet other members, which led us to attend an institute class and eventually meet with the missionaries.
We loved the teachings of the restored gospel and felt the Spirit. Bob baptized my wife and me, and he and Millee helped us prepare to enter the temple. One year later, they again showed their support by driving us almost 800 miles (1,290 km) to the Washington D.C. Temple to receive endowment and sealing ordinances.
As newlyweds, my wife and I both were stubborn. We would disagree and argue about things that didn’t really matter, and it had worn down our relationship. Our marriage wouldn’t have lasted if we had kept going down the road we were on.
But making eternal covenants in the house of the Lord has made all the difference. Our temple covenants changed the focus from “me” to “we.” We learned to value our eternal relationship instead of focusing on our own needs as individuals. Eventually, we became “of one heart and one mind” (Moses 7:18), which vastly improved our course, connection, and communication.
The temple and our relationship with Jesus Christ helped us see what really matters. We have been blessed with 4 daughters, 15 grandchildren, and 1 great-granddaughter—all of whom are here because of temple covenants.
President Russell M. Nelson taught: “Once we make a covenant with God, we leave neutral ground forever. God will not abandon His relationship with those who have forged such a bond with Him. In fact, all those who have made a covenant with God have access to a special kind of love and mercy.”
I have felt God’s love for me through my covenants. He has opened my eyes to all that is wonderful around me. I find joy and eternal perspective in my life through covenanting with Him.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

As part of a special activity, the youth in my ward planned to do baptisms for the dead. As the day approached, we discovered that our planned time at the temple fell on the day of our high school homecoming football game. A group of us wanted to attend both, and we figured we could hurry through the baptisms and then go straight to the game.
But after arriving at the temple, we found there was a delay. Those of us who were planning to go to the game began to feel anxious and just wanted to do the baptisms so we could leave.
As I sat there thinking how I wished things would go a little faster, I suddenly became very aware of my surroundings. I began listening to the soft hymns being played and noticed how peaceful everything around me seemed. As I watched the girl ahead of me enter the font, I suddenly thought of those people for whom she was being baptized. They had waited perhaps hundreds of years to receive this blessing. What an amazing, profound, and important thing for them! How fortunate I was to be able to offer them this great gift. How could I want to rush through this for a mere football game?
I began to see how foolish and silly I was to want to hurry. I felt ashamed that I had ever felt that way. I wasn’t in a hurry any longer. In fact, I didn’t care anymore if I even made it to the game. After all, what really matters in the eternal perspective anyway—a person’s salvation or a football game? I knew I would never take this kind of opportunity for granted again.
As it turned out, we made it back for the last half of the game. I think our team lost. I can’t really remember. But what I do remember is the happiness and gratitude I felt for the opportunity to be in the Lord’s house, doing that great service.

I have a great friend, Brother Les Goates, a great and gifted writer, and I asked him if I could lift a part of a story. He told how welfare first came into his home:
“But ‘as for me and my house,’ the welfare program began in the Old Field west of Lehi on the Saratoga Road in the autumn of 1918, that terribly climactic year of World War I during which more than 14 million people died of that awful scourge ‘the black plague,’ or Spanish influenza.
“Winter came early that year and froze much of the sugar beet crop in the ground. My dad and brother Francis were desperately trying to get out of the frosty ground one load of beets each day which they would plow out of the ground, cut off the tops, and toss the beets, one at a time, into the huge red beet wagon and then haul the load off to the sugar factory. It was slow and tedious work due to the frost and the lack of farm help, since my brother Floyd and I were in the army and Francis, or Franz, as everybody called him, was too young for the military service.
“While they were thusly engaged in harvesting the family’s only cash crop and were having their evening meal one day, a phone call came through from our eldest brother, George Albert, superintendent of the State Industrial School in Ogden, bearing the tragic news that Kenneth, nine-year-old son of our brother Charles, the school farm manager, had been stricken with the dread ‘flu,’ and after only a few hours of violent sickness, had died on his father’s lap; and would dad please come to Ogden and bring the boy home and lay him away in the family plot in the Lehi Cemetery.
“My father cranked up his old flap-curtained Chevrolet and headed for Five Points in Ogden to bring his little grandson home for burial. When he arrived at the home he found ‘Charl’ sprawled across the cold form of his dear one, the ugly brown discharge of the black plague oozing from his ears and nose and virtually burning up with fever.
“‘Take my boy home,’ muttered the stricken young father, ‘and lay him away in the family lot and come back for me tomorrow.’
“Father brought Kenneth home, made a coffin in his carpenter shop, and mother and our sisters, Jennie, Emma, and Hazel, placed a cushion and a lining in it, and then dad went with Franz and two kind neighbors to dig the grave. So many were dying the families had to do the grave digging. A brief graveside service was all that was permitted.
“The folks had scarcely returned from the cemetery when the telephone rang again and George Albert (Bert) was on the line with another terrifying message: Charl had died and two of his beautiful little girls—Vesta, 7, and Elaine, 5—were critically ill, and two babies—Raeldon, 4, and Pauline, 3—had been stricken.
“Our good cousins, the Larkin undertaking people, were able to get a casket for Charl and they sent him home in a railroad baggage car. Father and young Franz brought the body from the railroad station and placed it on the front porch of our old country home for an impromptu neighborhood viewing but folks were afraid to come near the body of a black plague victim. Father and Francis meanwhile had gone with neighbors to get the grave ready and arrange a short service in which the great, noble spirit of Charles Hyrum Goates was commended into the keeping of his Maker.
“Next day my sturdy, unconquerable old dad was called on still another of his grim missions—this time to bring home Vesta, the smiling one with the raven hair and big blue eyes.
“When he arrived at the home he found Juliett, the grief-crazed mother, kneeling at the crib of darling little Elaine, the blue-eyed baby angel with the golden curls. Juliett was sobbing wearily and praying: ‘Oh, Father in heaven, not this one, please! Let me keep my baby! Do not take any more of my darlings from me!’
“Before father arrived home with Vesta the dread word had come again. Elaine had gone to join her daddy, brother Kenneth, and Sister Vesta. And so it was that father made another heartbreaking journey to bring home and lay away a fourth member of his family, all within the week.
“The telephone did not ring the evening of the day they laid away Elaine nor were there any more sad tidings of death the next morning. It was assumed that George A. and his courageous companion Della, although afflicted, had been able to save the little ones Raeldon and Pauline; and it was such a relief that Cousin Reba Munns, a nurse, had been able to come in and help.
“After breakfast dad said to Franz, ‘Well, son, we had better get down to the field and see if we can get another load of beets out of the ground before they get frozen in any tighter. Hitch up and let’s be on our way.’
“Francis drove the four-horse outfit down the driveway and dad climbed aboard. As they drove along the Saratoga Road, they passed wagon after wagon-load of beets being hauled to the factory and driven by neighborhood farmers. As they passed by, each driver would wave a greeting: ‘Hi ya, Uncle George,’ ‘Sure sorry, George,’ ‘Tough break, George,’ ‘You’ve got a lot of friends, George.’
“On the last wagon was the town comedian, freckled-faced Jasper Rolfe. He waved a cheery greeting and called out: ‘That’s all of ‘em, Uncle George.’
“My dad turned to Francis and said: ‘I wish it was all of ours.’
“When they arrived at the farm gate, Francis jumped down off the big red beet wagon and opened the gate as we drove onto the field. He pulled up, stopped the team, paused a moment and scanned the field, from left to right and back and forth—and lo and behold, there wasn’t a sugar beet on the whole field. Then it dawned upon him what Jasper Rolfe meant when he called out: ‘That’s all of ‘em, Uncle George!’
“Then dad got down off the wagon, picked up a handful of the rich, brown soil he loved so much, and then in his thumbless left hand a beet top, and he looked for a moment at these symbols of his labor, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Then father sat down on a pile of beet tops—this man who brought four of his loved ones home for burial in the course of only six days; made caskets, dug graves, and even helped with the burial clothing—this amazing man who never faltered, nor flinched, nor wavered throughout this agonizing ordeal—sat down on a pile of beet tops and sobbed like a little child.
“Then he arose, wiped his eyes with his big, red bandanna handkerchief, looked up at the sky, and said: ‘Thanks, Father, for the elders of our ward.’”

The deacons quorum of the Apple Valley Ward of the Salt Lake Butler Stake is enthralled with reading the Book of Mormon. They accepted the challenge presented to them by their stake leaders to read and then test Moroni’s promise that they can pray and know for themselves if the book is true. To help them reach their goal, their quorum leader, Mark Duffin, has helped the boys stay interested and motivated. “I want them to feel what they are reading instead of just getting through the pages.”

“At first I actually passed out tests, with questions chapter by chapter,” said Brother Duffin. “They loved it at first. When that wore thin, I had them come prepared to talk about a chapter. But I think the best thing we’ve done is having them over to my house on Sunday evening about once a month. We read together. We talk and discuss what we read. Then we have cake and ice cream. After an hour or so, I have to kick them out. They don’t want to go because they’re enjoying themselves.”

When I joined the Church, I was eager to get involved in family history work. I began visiting local archives to search for my ancestors’ information in public records.
I found the work fulfilling, but it was not always easy. The old handwriting was often difficult to read, and some of the books were moldy, which agitated my asthma. Still, I continued researching as best I could.
One day I was researching about my grandfather, looking for his date of birth. I found a 1,500-page book that might be helpful. But what if it didn’t have the answer I needed? I dreaded having to look through more big, dusty books.
I began skimming the book’s contents, hoping a familiar name would catch my eye. Suddenly, I thought I heard someone say, “The last page.” I looked around, but it did not appear that anyone had spoken to me. I continued and read several more pages. Then I heard the same words again: “The last page.” Somewhat hesitantly, I decided to check the last page. I found the text that is usually written there: a summary of children born and the total number of pages. Just in case, I checked the page that preceded the last one but found nothing helpful there, so I turned back to the page I had been reading before.
My thoughts were soon interrupted once more by the soft but persistent voice: “The last page!” I decided to try the last page again and read the now-familiar text several times.
Then I noticed something I had missed before: an extra page pasted inside the back cover. As I read the handwriting scribbled across the page, I saw the names of children born near the end of December. There I recognized my grandfather’s name and saw that it stated where and when he was born and baptized. I was astonished but filled with gratitude that I had been led to the information I needed.

Orderville, Utah—One December evening some of the sisters of Orderville met to plan a Christmas treat for the children. The Order had no luxuries and the necessities were strictly rationed. About the only sweets the people had was molasses, so, the sisters decided to make molasses candy and cookies for the youngsters.
But on Christmas Eve, they came to “Grandmother Spencer,” wife of Howard Orson Spencer, bishop and leader in Orderville, with the news that the brother in charge of the molasses “won’t let us have any. He says our allowance for the month is already used.” Grandmother’s lips tightened. “The children are going to have something for Christmas. I’ll speak to my husband after dinner—he’ll give us permission.”
When her husband came in tired and hungry, Sister Spencer hovered over her husband and after dinner urged him to rest by the fire. As he sat looking drowsily into the flames, she said in a low voice, “You do think the children should have some candy and cookies for Christmas, don’t you Howard?” “Ummmhmmm,” was the sleepy response, and grandmother went away smiling. She reported to the ladies that everything was all right, “My husband has given us permission.” “Did he say we could have the molasses?” asked one doubting Thomas. “He didn’t say ‘No,’” replied Sister Spencer truthfully. “Now we won’t wake up the brother in charge of the molasses. We’ll just slip out and take what we need.”
The man in charge of the molasses barrel was very conscious of his responsibility. On the lid of the barrel he had placed a section of heavy logging chain and a large boulder. Only a thin wooden partition at the head of the bed separated him from the barrel outside, and he was a light sleeper. Shivering from the cold the women crunched through the snow toward the barrel. It was beginning to snow again and the night was very dark.
With infinite caution they removed the heavy chain without so much as one betraying clank. It took the combined efforts of all the women to lower the boulder noiselessly to the ground. There was a breathless pause as Sister Spencer raised the lid and dipped into the barrel with a saucepan. She emptied its contents into a bucket and dipped again, and again. “We have enough now,” whispered one of the women. “Let’s go back.” With the same caution the chain and boulder were replaced and the women filed back to the warm kitchen to make the Christmas goodies. But, there was a dismayed gasp when they looked into the pail. “Oh dear, we haven’t enough molasses. We’ll have to get some more.” “Oh no, Sister Spencer. It’s cold and dark. It’s too risky.” “Well, just the same, we must unless we want the children to be disappointed.”
There could only be one answer to such a statement and the little band of mothers went again to the molasses barrel. They returned safely and set to work. When morning came, every child in Orderville had two molasses cookies and one big slightly sticky lump of candy in his stocking. Santa Claus had not forgotten them. Grandfather insisted all his life that he could not remember ever having given the women permission to get the molasses.
Our Pioneer Heritage, 18 (1975): 160–61

One young man at age 13 commenced having his eyes rotated, through the seemingly simple act of opening-what looked to him to be-just another magazine.
But things are not always the way they appear to be.
Little did this little boy know, that he was opening a Pandora's box that would turn his life-and his views of life and love-upside down!
Initially, he was repulsed by what he saw, but then, through repeated viewing, his heart and mind began to crave what his eyes saw. As he immersed himself in more and more pornography, he barely noticed the rotating of his eyes-along with the twisting of his mind, and the hardening of his heart!
He started to believe that everyone looked at love and at life the way he did. He started to believe that lust was really love, and that all love was, was lust. His goal in life became to have one intense lust-filled experience after another. But, there was never enough lust to fill.
Because, remember: You can never sin enough to make you happy!
He participated in illicit sexual experiences prior to, and following, his mission-seeing them as no big deal.. And besides- there was always repentance. A quick confession to the Bishop every now and then....and then, out the door for more and more lust-filled experiences. But once again....there was never enough.
Little did he realize just what sexual sin was doing to his views of himself, his life, his wife-to-be, and their relationship.
Never did he imagine that sexual sin was actually decreasing his ability to identify, and really know, true love and true marital intimacy.
Never did he imagine that so many of the things the world was telling him to do, in order to increase his enjoyment of sexual experiences-were actually making it almost impossible for him to ever experience true sexual intimacy!
Never did he imagine that he was being duped by the adversary-so that real sexual fulfillment would always be-just beyond his reach.
With his eyes so drastically and devilishly "rotated", he approached his wife on their honeymoon in a manner that made her feel " like a thing". He experienced his wife's refusal to participate in certain sexual activities, as proof that she didn't really love him. He was put off!
What was wrong with her? How cold and non-responsive could she be!
Rejection and loneliness became his constant companions.
And because of his severe "eye rotation":
Wrong looked right.Right looked naiveLust looked like love.Love looked like control.
And pornography looked like his only fun, only friend, only refuge.
An anaesthetic to numb his intense pain and ever increasing loneliness.
With his continuing immersion in pornography-which riveted his eyes into their destructively rotated position:
But things are not always the way they appear to be.
Over time, pain and confusion started to re-emerge. He couldn't see, think, or feel straight. He couldn't tell what was real-and what was illusion.
The day his wife put all his belongings out on the front lawn, and left a note indicating that she was filing for divorce, was like a whack on the side of his head.
A beneficial whack, that momentarily corrected his vision-reversing the adversary's "rotation" process.
He saw his life for what it really was....a crying shame! And he cried. And he felt ashamed.
Suddenly, sexual sin looked stupid...and he realized how stupid it had made him. His past choices-that had looked like freedom-now looked like chains. His affair looked like one gigantic death trap! His wife looked loving and patient, rather than pushy and cold. Prayer now looked like the sure refuge from the storms of his raging emotions. And so he prayed. He prayed as he had never prayed before. He prayed for freedom from the lustful feelings that held him captive. And he fasted-for courage and for endurance.
His initial humiliation grew into true humility. Regret, turned into remorse, and into a sincere desire to thoroughly repent of his adultery.
In this state, the Spirit returned to his life, and started the process of permanently reversing the adversary's rotation of his eyes, so that he could see things are they really are.
But the process was not easy! One main reason for the intense difficulty in correcting this man's vision was that, although he had been immersed in the waters of baptism when he was eight, his experience with the Gospel since that time, consisted only of a little sprinkling: a little sprinkling of a quick prayer from time to time, a little sprinkling of a few scriptures here and there. Church attendance-but never a time of worshiping and seeking after God. Fasting, only because his parents demanded it.
This intermittent sprinkling of Gospel truths in his life, gave this man only enough experience with the Gospel to feel guilty, but not enough experience to feel joy-the kind of joy that comes through immersion in the Gospel-regular immersion, for example, in prayer, scripture study, temple worship, and fasting.
Are you sprinkling your life with the Gospel-or are you immersing yourself in it?
Tragically, the only thing this man had immersed himself in, since his immersion in the waters of baptism, was pornography-which President Hinckley has termed, "the literature of Lucifer."[7]
Therefore, this man didn't have a reservoir of experiences with the Spirit, from which to draw-a reservoir that could have given him rejuvenating strength, for the rigorous days of change ahead.
At one point, when the process of change became so intensely discouraging, this man turned all of his feelings completely off!! "I have to numb myself" he told me. What a sad irony! This man, who had seen himself as being so passionate, was now unable to feel anything, for anyone. In every way, he was "past feeling."[8]
It was only as he avoided everything and anything that was sexually explicit, or even suggestive, and only as he regularly and relentlessly immersed himself in experiences with the Spirit, that the evil "rotation" of his eyes was corrected.
Slowly, he began to see that if he wanted real excitement in his life, obedience to the Lord's commandments was the only way to go. He had learned by sad experience that while sin looks exciting, sin and its consequences are pathetically predictable!
He started to see that while obedience used to look so boring, he soon discovered that it is obedience that unlocks the door to a thrill a minute. He came to experience that when the Lord knows He can trust you, it's almost impossible to imagine what magnificent experiences await![9]
He began to see that purity and passion go together. That "pure passion"-meaning, that passion which has been purified by the Holy Ghost-and therefore, is magnified, expanded and enhanced--is always greater, in every way, than impure passion![10]

At our local grade school the vast majority of our childrens' teachers have been at the A and B-level. However, in two different years, two of our children were placed in classes with D-level teachers. The D-nature of each teacher manifested itself quite quickly. It was clear that these teachers did not like teaching and did not like children, often doing cruel things to them. My wife is intolerant of "C" and "D" level teachers assigned to our children. When the principal would not or could not move our children to another classroom and teacher, my wife pulled the children out of the school and placed them in a distant school less convenient to our family. The inconvenience of driving them to the other school was a small price to pay for the life-impacting benefits gained from the better teachers that our children received, in those instances.

Such were the missions in the early career of Lorenzo Snow—and the beginnings of many more. The following year he went to Great Britain. He was upon the sea forty-two stormy days. Writing to his aunt he described the storms:
“Just look at me in your lively imagination, in one of these terrific storms, seated to a large hogshead of water—holding on, with both hands, to ropes near by … the ship reeling and dashing from side to side—now and then a monster wave leaping over the bulwarks, treating all present with a shower bath—see, sitting near me, a man weeping bitterly with terror on his countenance—the next moment a wave shoots over the bulwarks, dashing him from his seat and landing him … on the opposite side, from which he arises with a broken arm and dripping wet.” Below, boxes broke loose and tumbled about among the groaning and crying women and children. Yet, through it all, Elder Snow was filled with peace, for he was on the Lord’s errand.

Elder Renlund has sought that direction many times—as a General Authority Seventy, as a cardiologist, and as a husband and father. While he worked as a medical resident in training in Maryland, USA, for example, his wife developed ovarian cancer. Their daughter, Ashley, was just 16 months old. During those difficult days, Elder Renlund’s feeling of closeness to the Lord was restored when Ruth thanked the Lord in prayer for their temple sealing.
Elder Renlund spent his career as a cardiologist, treating patients with heart failure. He saw many patients die. But after a patient named Chad died, the emotional distance he maintained in times of crisis as a physician shattered when Chad’s parents joined him in the emergency room. In that moment he saw Chad through their eyes.
Of this experience, Elder Renlund said, “I now realize that in the Church, to effectively serve others we must see them through a parent’s eyes, through Heavenly Father’s eyes. Only then can we begin to comprehend the true worth of a soul” (page 94).
Elder Renlund’s childhood and Church service have also helped prepare him to see others through the Lord’s eyes and understand the Church’s diverse membership.
Dale Renlund was born on November 13, 1952, to Swedish immigrants who came to Utah to be sealed in the temple. When Dale was a boy, the family moved to Finland and then back to Sweden. He returned to Utah with his family three years later. At age 19 he was called to serve a full-time mission in Sweden.
In 2009 Elder Renlund was called to serve as a General Authority Seventy. His first assignment was in the Africa Southeast Area Presidency. Elder Renlund ended his career as a physician and professor, but his wife, he says, “made the greater sacrifice.” Ruth was the president of her law firm when Elder Renlund was called and left her work as well. But ever since they married in 1977, he says, she has always been “all in” and a source of great strength to him.
While in Africa, Elder and Sister Renlund were “tutored by the Saints about what really matters.” Once, in the Democratic Republic of Congo, Elder Renlund asked the members what their challenges were. He recalls that after some prodding, “an older gentleman stood up and said, ‘Elder Renlund, how can we have challenges? We have the gospel of Jesus Christ.’” Elder Renlund reflects: “My wife and I want to be like those Kananga Saints. … They look like they have nothing, but they have everything.”
In closing his first talk as an Apostle, Elder Renlund testified: “With all my heart I want to be a true follower of Jesus Christ. I love Him. I adore Him. I witness of His living reality. I witness that He is the Anointed One, the Messiah” (page 94).

I found myself sitting in the backseat of our car, the one we call the Green Machine, wondering how I got myself into this mess. We were helping my older sister move away from home for the first time, and I didn’t want to be there. I dreaded saying good-bye. I didn’t know what to say or do.
Why had I come, I asked myself. Because you’re a fool, I answered. A fool who thought your sister would want someone there besides Mom and Dad. She probably couldn’t care less, or so it seemed to me by the smiles and chatter that came nonstop from the front seat.
I shifted restlessly, hoping we were almost there, and thinking back to the argument we’d had just a couple of weeks ago.
“Will you hurry up with the hair dryer!”
“I’m drying my hair as fast as I can!”
“Well, could you let me use it for a minute? I have to leave.”
“So do I, but I can’t curl my hair unless it’s dry. Besides, I thought I’d have enough time because you said you were going to take a shower.”
“I was, but you used all the hot water.”
Bicker, bicker. Finally, we both got so fed up that we stopped talking to each other. We always seemed to fight like that. Funny though, a couple of hours later we’d be joking, laughing, and borrowing each other’s clothes as though nothing had happened. We were never angry with each other for long.
My thoughts were interrupted as we pulled up to a small, brick house, stepped out of the car, and went inside.
I lugged one of my sister’s suitcases around, while following my parents and dreading the moment when we would say good-bye. I’d have to hug her and then say something like, “I’m going to miss you” or “Have fun in California,” and then she’d hug me back and say, “I will.” Blech!
I walked outside and paced up and down the cracked sidewalk, awaiting the inevitable, as my dilapidated tennis shoes crumbled the dry leaves that had fallen from the tree in the yard.
Footsteps sounded behind me and I turned to see my sister coming toward me, a big smile on her face. I stood where I was, my hands in my pockets, as she set the box she was holding on the ground and came towards me.
We hugged each other, and I said, “I’m going to miss you. Have fun in California.” I let go, and she grinned and said, “I will.”
I turned away and crossed the street to the curb, unwilling to let her see my watery eyes. As I leaned against the car and lifted my tear-stained face to the wind, I softly whispered, “I love you.”

A dozen years ago, in one of the countries of Africa, we had faithful members of the Church who had been meeting in their homes for several years. I went to that country to see if we could receive permission from the government to bring in missionaries and establish the Church. I met with a high-ranking government minister. He gave me 20 minutes to explain our position.
When I finished he said, “I do not see where anything you have told me is any different from what is currently available in our country. I see no reason to approve your request to bring missionaries into our country.”
He stood up to usher me out of his office. I was panic-stricken. I had failed. In a moment our meeting would be over. What could I do? I offered a silent prayer.
Then I had an inspired thought. I said to the minister, “Sir, if you will give me five more minutes, I would like to share one other thought with you. Then I will leave.” He kindly consented.
I reached for my wallet and removed this small For the Strength of Youth booklet, which I have always carried.
I said, “This is a little booklet of standards we give to all of the youth in our Church.”
I then read some of the standards I have mentioned tonight. When I finished he said, “You mean to tell me you expect the youth of your church to live these standards?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and they do.”
“That is amazing,” he said. “Could you send me some of these booklets so that I could distribute them to the youth of my church?”
I replied, “Yes,” and I did.
Several months later we received official approval from the government of that country to come and establish the Church.