Gospel Story Finder

When he was five and Matt was eight, Marilyn and I took these two aspiring athletes to see BYU play football. Shortly after the game began, a wet snowstorm blew in from the north. I took Devin in my lap and sat on the north. Matt was next and then Marilyn. The one blanket we had brought along didn’t quite cover us. The sleetlike snow continued on and on until we became cold, wet, and uncomfortable. But at the same time BYU was winning, and I could not bear the thoughts of going home. I knew that we would have to if young preschooler Devin ever started to complain.
To keep him happy, I would say things such as, “Watch that man. He will throw the ball to that man.” Or, “Watch that man kick the ball.” Amidst all this I would take out my handkerchief and wipe the water from his head. Then I’d wring the water out of the totally soaked handkerchief and wipe his head again. My tactics succeeded. Devin didn’t get discouraged, and we were able to remain.
Finally the game was nearly over. It was now obvious that BYU would defeat their arch-rivals to the north. Fittingly, at that point the storm ended, and the sun came out.
I could feel Devin stirring in my arms, and I sensed that he wanted to stand on his own legs. I undid my hold on him, and he moved away and stood on the empty seat just below our row. After he had stretched and looked around, he turned and faced me. Our eyes met, and his expression became very thoughtful. He then spoke: “Dad, you do so much for me. Isn’t there something that I can do for you?”
Emotion swelled within me as these sincere words entered my heart. Somehow it was hard for me to respond, but I was able to softly say, “Yes, there is something that you can do for me.”
His five-year-old eyes seemed much older as he asked, “What can I do?”
I put my hands on his shoulders and, looking deep into his eyes, replied, “Just be my son. Just be my son.” Somehow he seemed to understand. I pulled him close to me, and joy filled my soul. I knew then as I’ve known so many times that Devin was a winner in the ways that really matter.

It took several months to gain courage to go to church. I knew where the church was, but there were no missionaries in our little branch. In February 1984, I walked into the Kwekwe chapel. I wanted to walk back out. I wasn’t sure I belonged and sat at the back, ready to bolt. After the opening exercises, the branch president, Mike Allen, bore his testimony about the Savior Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon. I felt connected. The next person also bore his testimony about the Savior and the Book of Mormon, and so did the third one. I was euphoric. I couldn’t get the courage to go to the pulpit, so I stood where I was and said, “I love Jesus. I’m reading the Book of Mormon.” And I sat down. That was the beginning of my testimony.
Those testimonies were the Lord’s way of reaching out to me because it helped me feel that I belonged there. I felt that these were my brothers and sisters. During the following days I prayed for them and for acceptance. I met members there who were so kind and who helped me.

Some years ago I worked in the Missionary Department of the Church. We were developing materials to help missionaries be better and do better. One of the General Authorities shared this experience about repentance:
“A little over a year ago, I had the privilege of interviewing a young man to go on a mission. Because he had committed a major transgression, it was necessary for him under then-existing policy to be interviewed by a General Authority. When the young man came in, I said, ‘Apparently there’s been a major transgression in your life, and that has necessitated this interview. Would you mind telling me what the problem was? What did you do?’
“He laughed and said, ‘Well, there isn’t anything I haven’t done.’ I said, ‘Well, let’s be more specific then. Have you … ?’ And then this General Authority began to probe with some very specific questions. The young man laughed again and said, ‘I told you, I’ve done everything.’
“I said, ‘How many times have you …’ He said very sarcastically, ‘Do you think I numbered them?’ I said, ‘I would to God you could if you can’t.’ He said, again quite sarcastically, ‘Well, I can’t.’
“I said, ‘How about …’ And then the General Authority probed in another direction. He said, ‘I told you. I’ve done everything.’ I said, ‘Drugs?’ He said, ‘Yes,’ in a very haughty attitude. I said, ‘What makes you think you’re going on a mission then?’ He said, ‘I know I’m going. My patriarchal blessing says I’ll go on a mission, and I’ve repented. I haven’t done any of those things for this past year. I have repented, and I know I’m going on a mission.’
“I said, ‘My dear friend, I’m sorry but you are not going on a mission. Do you think we could send you out with those clean, wholesome young men who have never violated the code? Do you think we could have you go out and boast and brag about your past? You haven’t repented; you have just stopped doing something.
“‘Sometime in your life you need to visit Gethsemane; and when you have been there, you’ll understand what repentance is. Only after you have suffered in some small degree as the Savior suffered in Gethsemane will you know what repentance is. The Savior has suffered in a way none of us understands for every transgression committed. How dare you laugh and jest and have a haughty attitude about your repentance? I’m sorry, you are not going on a mission.’
“He started to cry, and he cried for several minutes. I didn’t say a word. Finally, he said, ‘I guess that’s the first time I have cried since I was five years old.’ I said, ‘If you had cried like that the first time you were tempted to violate the moral code, you possibly would be going on a mission.’
“He left the office, and I think he felt I was really cruel. I explained to the bishop and the stake president that the boy could not go on a mission.”
About six months later the same General Authority returned to that city to speak in a lecture series held in the evening. When he finished, many young adults lined up to shake hands with him. As he shook hands, one by one, he looked up and saw the young man that he had previously interviewed standing in the line about four back. The General Authority relates the following:
“My mind quickly flashed back to our interview. I recalled his laughing and haughty attitude. I remembered how sarcastic he was. Pretty soon he was right in front of me. I was on the stand bending over, and as I reached down to shake his hand, I noticed a great change had taken place. He had tears in his eyes. He had almost a holy glow about his countenance. He took my hand in his and said, ‘I’ve been there; I’ve been to Gethsemane and back.’ I said, ‘I know. It shows in your face.’ We can be forgiven for our transgressions, but we must understand that just to stop doing something is not repentance. If it had not been for the Savior and the miracle of forgiveness, this young man would have carried his transgressions throughout all eternity. We ought to love the Savior and serve Him for this reason and this reason alone” (Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone, Sweden Area Conference, Youth Session, Aug. 1974).

Case 4. Three plump young ladies had barely begun their attack on a table laden with yummy junk food when suddenly the feast vanished right before their eyes. Nearby three guardian angels looked suspiciously smug.
After the opening prayer, the projectionist hit the switch, and the evening was awash in cheers, laughter, and even a few friendly groans. Poor Cindy Ella, outcast because of her curly hair, did get to the governor’s ball (thanks to her fairy godperson) and fell in love with the governor’s curly headed son. A new banana eating record was set. The three junk food junkies did lose weight. The missionaries did keep tracting. Fun triumphed again. All seven wards had come up with their own idea of what the silver screen is all about, and all were pretty proud of what they had done.

One of the bishop’s duties was to send to every serviceman a subscription to the Church News and to the Improvement Era and to write a personal letter to him each month. Since President Monson had served in the navy in World War II, he appreciated the importance of a letter from home. He had 23 ward members serving in the military, so he called a sister in the ward to handle the details of mailing these letters. One evening he handed her the monthly stack of 23 letters.
“Bishop, don’t you ever get discouraged?” she asked. “Here is another letter to Brother Bryson. This is the 17th letter you have sent to him without a reply.”
“Well, maybe this will be the month,” he said. It was. The reply from Brother Bryson read: “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writin’ letters. Thank you for the Church News and magazines, but most of all thank you for the personal letters. I have turned over a new leaf. I have been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. My heart is full. I am a happy man.”
President Monson saw in that letter the practical application of the adage “Do your duty, that is best. Leave unto the Lord the rest.” Years later, while attending a stake conference, he spoke of his experience of writing to the servicemen. After the meeting, a young man came up to him and asked, “Bishop, do you remember me?”
Without a pause President Monson replied, “Brother Bryson! How are you? What are you doing in the Church?”
The former serviceman replied with great pleasure that he was fine and serving in his elders quorum presidency. “Thank you again for your concern for me and the personal letters which you sent and which I treasure.”5

The funeral was over. Almost all the people on High Street had attended it, and I had gone with Mom and Dad. Now I was home sitting on the back porch steps. I glanced over at Mr. Sedgwick’s house and thought it seemed strange not to see him working in his garden.
As the afternoon sun began sinking behind the trees, I stared at the ground and remembered other yellow, sunny days when Mr. Sedgwick was still alive …
“Worms are marvelous creatures, Margaret,” Mr. Sedgwick had said with a quick laugh. “Just trust me and hold out your hand.”
I trusted Mr. Sedgwick, but my nose wrinkled as he placed the squirming, crawling thing in the palm of my hand. After a second or two, I was surprised that it didn’t bother me anymore. “What are they good for?” I had asked as I gently touched it.
“They aerate the soil for one thing,” he explained. “They crawl around in the ground and dig tiny tunnels. Then the rain and air can get down in there and help things grow.”
I thought of Mr. Sedgwick’s body in the ground. Dad said it was in a cement box, and I wondered if it bothered Mr. Sedgwick to be in a box with no light. But Mr. Sedgwick isn’t in that box, I reminded myself. Only his old worn-out body is there. But his body hadn’t seemed worn-out to me. He was always doing something!
I pulled a long blade of grass from beside the steps, then stretched it between my palms and thumbs like Mr. Sedgwick had taught me. When I blew on it, it made a low, funny sound, and Patches barked down by his doghouse. Patches! I hadn’t even thought of him. He loved Mr. Sedgwick too. I knew it was up to me to tell him.
“Mom,” I said, pressing my nose against the screen door, “may I take Patches for a walk?”
Mom came to the screen and smiled at me. “It’s almost time for dinner, honey,” she replied.
“I’d like to take him to the cemetery and explain about Mr. Sedgwick.”
“Would you like your father or me to go with you?”
I shook my head.
“All right, Margaret, but don’t be gone long.”
Patches jumped up and down, pulling on his chain and barking excitedly. I snapped the leash to his collar hook and undid the chain. He was off with a jerk, so I had to make him behave and walk beside me. As we passed Mr. Sedgwick’s house, Patches started to turn in at the gate.
“Come on, Patches,” I said, tugging his leash. “I have something to tell you, but not here.”
We walked through the quiet of the cemetery where shadows rested behind every tombstone. The smell of lilacs was in the air, and the breeze carried the song of the wood thrush. We walked up the slope where I could see the mound of fresh flowers. Patches started sniffing the ground.
I sat on the warm grass, put my arm around his neck, and hugged him tightly. “I don’t know how to tell you, Patches,” I whispered. “I guess the best way is to say it straight out. Mr. Sedgwick died, Patches. He’s buried under those flowers. We won’t see him here anymore. He won’t give you any more scraps … or teach me any more about gardening.”
Tears started rolling down my cheeks. Patches seemed to understand what I said and how I felt, because he turned and kind of smiled at me. Then he started licking the tears from my face and his tail stopped wagging and his ears drooped. I put my head down on my crossed arms and really sobbed. I don’t know how long I cried, but Patches finally wiggled his nose under my arm and started whimpering.
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and held Patches’s face between my hands. “It’s OK,” I said as I rubbed his ears. “Mr. Sedgwick was a good friend, and Mom and Dad said it’s OK to miss him.”
Patches lay down and put his head on his paws. His brown eyes looked as sad as I felt, and I wished I could cheer him up.
“But you know what?” I said, forcing a smile. “Mr. Sedgwick is with his wife again. Just think how happy they must be to see each other. We’ll see him again, too, when we die. Remember how he always came here and put flowers on her grave? Well, he didn’t have a family, so you and I will have to do that now for both of them.”
Patches sat up and put his paw on my arm. I wiped my eyes again and stood up. It’s a nice place to be buried, I thought as I looked toward the west. Mr. Sedgwick always liked the sunset.
“Come on, boy,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
We walked down the shady street, and when we passed Mr. Sedgwick’s house, Patches glanced in at the gate. I looked in, too, but both of us just kept on walking.
I chained Patches to his doghouse and gave him fresh water; then I sat and combed his hair. He stayed real still, like he was thinking. I was glad I had told him. Soon I heard the screen door open.
“Margaret?” Dad called.
“I’m here with Patches, Dad,” I replied. Dad waved, then sat down on the porch step, waiting.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Patches,” I whispered as I hugged him good night.
He seemed to sigh, then went and lapped up some water from his dish. I walked up to the house and sat on the step beside my dad. He put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me.
“Everything OK?” he asked.
“I told Patches about Mr. Sedgwick.”
Dad nodded. “How did he take it?”
“I think he feels better.”
“Yes, I’m sure he does,” Dad agreed.
“I think I’ll get ready for dinner now,” I said. I kissed Dad on the cheek.
“Mom and I are proud of you, Margaret,” he said quietly.
I smiled at him and said, “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, honey.”

“Read the scriptures again? I’ve already done that for two years and made it through each of the standard works four times!”
Thus wrote a returned missionary after I challenged my institute class to read and ponder the scriptures twenty minutes each day for a month.

Those reactions justified my confidence in the scriptures. The returned missionary who had resented the assignment wrote, “I have rediscovered an exciting adventure. I have once again astonished myself with the wonder of learning and understanding the gospel as it has been presented to us by the prophets. The gospel has become even more relevant in these last few weeks than ever before. I understand more clearly that faith and the strength of one’s testimony are things that vary from day to day and must be kept current.”

“It was fifty years ago tomorrow that I arrived in this wonderful, free land.” She wiped away a tear and began to chuckle. “I was only twelve years old, and just as I got off the boat, all these splendid fireworks started exploding. I thought they were welcoming me. I didn’t know it was Canada Day. I also didn’t know what a great blessing Heavenly Father had given me by letting me come here, because here I found the gospel of Jesus Christ. My testimony of Jesus Christ and His gospel is my most precious possession.”
…
“We watched the fireworks, and I thought about your seeing them when you first came to Canada.”
“Yes, it was quite a sight for a twelve year old.”

When it came time for my mission I had my father give me a priesthood blessing. Before the blessing, he asked if there was anything in particular I was worried about. I told him I was a little concerned that if I didn’t have much chance to play the piano and write, and all the other things I enjoyed doing, when I came home I would be too rusty. Considering I hoped to make my living doing some of these things, my ability to do them was of major concern to me.
My father gave me a wonderful blessing. In the blessing I was told that while it’s true we need to exercise our talents or lose them, that rule doesn’t apply to missionaries; if I served faithfully, even if I never used my talents once in those two years, when I came home my abilities wouldn’t have diminished but would have increased. What a promise.

I was baptised into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in my mid-20s in London, joining a host of new young single adult friends in my newfound faith. During the first sacrament meeting following my baptism, I was asked to come to the front of the chapel, and the congregation was invited to raise their hands as a sign of welcome to the ward and to the Church.
This was an unfamiliar practice to me. But I looked into those smiling faces, and I felt as if they were cheering me on, genuinely thrilled that I had discovered faith in Jesus Christ and a desire to follow Him. Many of my new friends had recently experienced this same welcome and transition into a life of faith.
A week later, I was invited to meet with the bishop. He had taken time to get to know me when I was being taught by the missionaries. He rocked back in his chair, thwacking a ruler into his palm, and told me that we were meeting because he had a calling for me. He had prayed—about me—and he told me the calling would be of benefit to me and my future service to the Lord in His Church. He extended the calling of assistant ward clerk. The reaction in my mind was, “Assistant ward clerk? Well, that is not me!” Fortunately, a little grace intervened, and I responded with a “thank you” and that I would endeavour to learn what was involved. I did not have a clue.
At church the next Sunday, I was asked to stand as my calling was announced. My ward family was invited to raise their hands if they agreed to sustain me. Comfortingly, I saw those same raised hands and smiling faces surrounding me in the congregation, reassuring me that these new friends would support me with their goodwill, patience, and faith.
The ward clerk I was to be “assisting” came straight to me at the end of the meeting and said, “Come on, Patrick. I’ll show you how this works.” Over the coming months, he did show me how everything worked, sitting side by side, often for hours—in the small clerk’s office. (To be clear, that’s a small office for clerks, not an office for small clerks.)
Other callings followed. My bishop kept a loving eye on me and eventually shared that he had felt prompted by the Lord to extend callings which would be stretching for me but, he trusted, not overwhelming. I came to see purpose and power in each calling I received, and with hindsight, the bishop’s inspiration came to make sense to me.

In 1993, Dinah Lim had just graduated from the University of Southeastern Philippines. She was 24 years old. An elementary education major, Sister Lim had planned her future as a teacher carefully: Go to college. Graduate. Get a job.
So that’s what she did, accepting a position at the Holy Child Day Care and Learning Center in Davao, where she taught 10- and 11-year-old students.
Dinah joined the Church at age 19, along with her three sisters. At age 21, she elected not to serve a mission, choosing instead to finish college. “I felt it wasn’t the right time for a mission because my family needed me,” she says. Dinah’s teaching job provided much-needed money for her mother and five siblings. Her father, the Lims’ main financial support, had taken a job in Saudi Arabia, where he works as an electrician.
“Because of that it was kind of difficult for me to leave my job,” she adds. “But after two years of teaching and doing the same thing again and again, I felt it was time for something new.” The idea of a mission kept impressing itself on her mind, and it occurred to her she could help her family in ways other than financial.
Dinah’s parents and older brother are not members.
Eventually, after much prayer, Dinah decided to submit her mission papers. Ironically enough, she was quitting her job as a teacher so she could teach.
“The principal at the school really didn’t want me to go. She offered me a higher position, that of a coordinator, to get me to stay,” she says.
Although it was an enticing option, Dinah’s mind was made up. When her call to serve in the Philippines Quezon City Mission came, she knew she had made the right decision.

I am a level 5 gymnast at my gymnastics club, and I was having a very good season. The state meet was coming up, and if I did well in the state meet, I would qualify for region. But the region meet was going to be on a Sunday. I had been working so hard to get to this point, and I wanted to go, but I felt like I shouldn’t.
A couple days later was fast Sunday, and I told my mom and dad what I was going to fast for. Together with my family we fasted that I would know what the Lord wanted me to do. I fasted Saturday night, all the way to Sunday dinner. Boy, that was hard.
That night when I was sitting with my mom, I decided that I shouldn’t go. I felt good and peaceful about my decision. The next day my mom got an email saying the region meet was changed to Friday. The following week I competed at state and took first place all-around, and now I get to go to regions in Colorado.
I know my prayer was answered. My faith in fasting and prayer is a lot stronger.

Teo Thiam Chye, a young missionary from Singapore, says, “I noticed the good change in my sister’s life when she followed her Christian friends to church. I didn’t have the courage then to ask my parents for permission to follow my sister and her friends, but now I know that faith without works is dead. As years passed and I began going to Christian churches, my father drove me from the house. I went to live with my second eldest sister’s family and assisted them in any way I could. God sent two of his faithful servants to us and the light, life, and truth was revealed to me. I was baptized, and a short time later I received the priesthood. Since then I have served as branch clerk. How kind and loving our Father in heaven can be to his children if they will exercise their faith in him. I am most grateful to our Lord for preparing the way for my mission.” Elder Teo Thiam Chye was called to the Southeast Asian Mission.

Wilford Kimball was our bishop when I was an older teenager. He had two daughters who were my age, Ardyth and Virginia. Every, I mean every, Sunday evening we would go to Bishop Kimball’s house. Always they would be there. Always we would have refreshments. Never once did any of us feel unwelcome. It wasn’t just for a few months but literally for a few years. I don’t know how they ever afforded it, let alone put up with ten to fifteen teenage youths for two to three hours every Sunday night.
From the little group who attended those get-togethers there have been five or six bishops, several high councilors, two stake presidents, several counselors in stake presidencies, a General Authority, and wives of all these priesthood brethren. Bishop Kimball himself was later called as a stake president and then as a mission president, and there are some who were there who followed him and also became mission presidents. What a privilege to walk with Wilford Kimball and his wife in high places, their home.

Louis ran shouting down the hall. “Mommy! Mommy! Guess what!”
“What?” Mommy bent down and hugged him.
“I’m supposed to give a talk next week in Primary. Just like the big boys and girls!”
“Your very first talk!” Mommy said. “You certainly are growing up!”
“Let’s work on it today, OK?” Louis asked.
“OK.”
When lunch was over and the dishes were washed, Mommy and Louis sat down at the table.
“What do you want to talk about?” Mommy asked.
Louis thought hard. He remembered some of the things that he learned in Primary. He remembered some of the stories that Mommy told him. “I know!” he said. “I’ll talk about the prophet Abinadi warning the people and about wicked King Noah.”
“That would be a good story to tell the other Primary children,” Mommy said. “Let’s read the story again, and maybe we can draw a picture for you to show the children while you tell the story.”
“Yes! Let’s do,” Louis said happily.
After they read the story in Mosiah in the Book of Mormon, Mommy got a large piece of paper and the crayons. She and Louis drew a picture of the brave prophet Abinadi standing before King Noah. Louis used lots of red and blue, his favorite colors.
“There!” he said when he had finished.
“That’s a good picture,” Mommy told him. She propped it up on the windowsill, where Louis could see it every day.
Louis practiced telling the story of Abinadi all week long. On Saturday he stood straight and tall in the living room and held up the picture, as if he were already giving his talk in Primary. Mommy sat in front of him on a chair, pretending to be all the Primary children.
Louis used a good, loud voice. He held the picture high. He told the whole story, and he remembered to say “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen” when he finished.
Mommy kissed him. “That was wonderful!”
On Sunday Louis sat up in front in Primary because he was giving a talk. He held his picture carefully. Mommy sat in the back row. She had come to Primary especially to hear him.
Finally it was his turn. Louis got off his chair and stood up. He held up his picture, just as he’d practiced at home. He looked at all the boys and girls. They all looked back at him. Louis looked at the picture. Then he looked at the boys and girls again. He opened his mouth but couldn’t remember how the story began.
“Louis!” someone whispered. It was Mommy. She gave him a big smile. Louis smiled back. He held the picture up again so that everyone could see it, and he talked in a loud voice so that everyone could hear him. He told the whole story exactly right.
When he finished and sat down, the Primary president stood up and said, “Thank you, Louis. That was an excellent talk.”

I am grateful for the 2025 Area Priorities introduced by the Philippines Area Presidency. The emphasis on ministering under the first priority “Come Unto Christ” reminds me of a letter I received from a bishop a while back.
“One Sunday, a poor mother of eight children came to see me at my office. She was nine months pregnant with her ninth child. She was worried that her husband did not have the money to pay for the delivery of her baby. He worked as a security guard with a meager salary. So, she came to me, her bishop, to ask help.
“I brought the matter to my stake president to ask for his counsel. To my surprise, the stake president told me not to help her because pregnancy takes nine months so the couple should have prepared for it. Perhaps you remember how this policy was effective back then. But the pregnant DATELINE PHILIPPINES The True Essence of Ministering wife obviously did not have the mentality and training to prepare so she came to me to ask for help.
“Again, I asked the stake president if we could extend food assistance. He said no because “the church has extended food to that family multiple times already and yet the father remained less active because of an offense he could not forgive.” I then responded, “what about the pregnant wife and the children who are actively participating in church? We shouldn’t let them suffer, should we?” He responded back, “Let the sufferings of the family be a curse to the father who is unfaithful.” This counsel left me deeply troubled. I could not understand then why I left that conversation feeling so hurt and bothered.
“The poor mother delivered the baby, but my hands were tied. I could not help with the hospital bill. I did not have the authority, and the stake president told me he will not support any request for financial assistance. The father took out two months’ salary in advance from his company to pay for the bill. This left the family without food to eat.
“I decided to convene the ward council to discuss the matter. I decided to provide the family with food. Using up the amount I could disburse in my capacity as a bishop, I asked the Elders Quorum President to buy 50 kilos of rice and asked the Relief Society President to buy groceries including the needs of the baby and the mother. I then asked the council what time the husband usually gets home from work. They said, 8:30 pm. So, I went to visit the family at 9:00 pm.
“The house was small, dark, and in the middle of a field. There was no electricity. But, to my surprise, the Elders Quorum and Relief Society Presidents with their counselors were there ahead of me. They introduced me to the father. He could not believe that a young bishop like me could be called and that I came that night to his house.
“I peeked through the window and saw the children lying side by side on the floor, sleeping and cramped. In one corner was the mother with the newborn baby lying on the floor.
“The father told me he is so embarrassed to receive food from the Church because he’s been less active for a long time. But his family needed it, and he was grateful. I told him we did not come to buy his church activity. I did not know him, so why should I even care. But I said to him, “someone knows you. He knows your family’s needs. He is your Father in Heaven. He sent us here to let you know He cares and loves you.
“The father cried. He sobbed like a little child in front of us. We were all touched by his emotion.
“I then told him that on Sunday, he should not come to church. Not even next week or next month. I warned him that I cannot control people’s remarks and perceptions. Perhaps he may hear someone say he showed up only because he received help from the Church, and it may hurt his feelings. But if he’s interested in coming regardless of what people might say, especially if he recognizes the spirit inviting him, he’s welcome to come to church anytime.
“I looked for him on Sunday, but he didn’t show up. Neither did he show up in the few weeks that followed. Two months later, as I was conducting the sacrament meeting, I saw someone walking up to the sacrament hall. It was the father, sneakily entering and sitting down in the last row. But he was surprised and later became very emotional to hear the stake president announce my release as a bishop. He said he dreamed several times of serving with me in any capacity in the ward. But he agreed to do it with his new bishop.
“Six months later my previous counselor informed me that the brother is the most diligent home teacher the ward has ever had. “This experience taught me a great deal about ministering. I thought I’d share this with you. But I wonder how many bishops today have received the same counsel from their leaders, followed it, and had the charity in their hearts extinguished in the process. I hope there is none. If there is one, I hope he repents and recovers.”

It’s awful to be the first one to know good news and not be able to tell it.
When I heard Papa telling Mama that we were going to move to New Mexico, I was so excited I wanted to talk to Caroline and Ed and everyone else about it. But talking was something I couldn’t do. No matter how hard I tried to make the words come out, my tongue did not work right and the sounds were garbled and mushy, not sharp and clear the way I was thinking them. Only my brother Ed could tell what I meant most of the time.
Because I couldn’t talk, I wasn’t allowed to go to school. Caroline was in the third grade already and Ed in first. I had a hard time filling in the long hours until they came home. One day when I was playing behind the sofa, dressing and undressing my doll, I overheard Papa and Mama talking. I really paid close attention when I heard Papa tell Mama that their prayers to have a place of their own had finally been answered. “Just think, hon,” Papa was saying, “160 acres of our own to raise anything we want. We’ll grow corn, cantaloupe, potatoes, beans, tomatoes, and even some watermelons for dear Dora. She loves them so. We’ll have cows for milk and pigs for pork, chickens—”
“Is there a school?” Mama asked anxiously. “I want the children to go to school.”
“Just down the road a ways—close enough to walk to, I’m sure.”
“What about church?”
“Don’t worry about church,” Papa laughed. “It was some LDS folk down there that wrote to President Smith and told him about the available land. There’s already a meetinghouse in Harmony, and even if there wasn’t, there’s enough people going from here to start a ward—over eighty.”
“That many?”
“Figure it out. Twelve families, each with at least five children. That’s the requirement. I guess they figure anyone with that many children won’t pick up and leave.”
“Is anyone we know going?”
“The Coldwells and the Lenstroms.”
“No better folks than that anywhere. It sure would be nice to have room for the little ones to run. Is there a house?”
“Has to be. Someone has been living there. I imagine it will need some fixing up if they lost it by default.”
“Could that happen to us?”
“Of course not. That only happens if you’re shiftless and lazy. All we have to do is make the land productive and live there. After seven years it’s ours, free and clear. Oh, it’ll take lots of work, but we’re young and strong. We’ve got the boys to help me, and you and the girls can have a garden and bottle food for the winter. I tell you, hon, it’s the chance of a lifetime.”
“It’ll be nearly a year before we can bring in a crop,” Mama reminded him. “How can we manage until then?”
“We’ll have some money from selling our things, and I can get some bricklaying jobs. Even homesteaders need chimneys and fireplaces.”
“The winter’s ahead and we can’t take much with us,” Mama warned.
“Yes, but that far south is bound to be warm even in the winter. It’ll be good not to be shoveling snow.”
No snow! I thought. I’ll miss lying down in it and leaving a snow angel shape by brushing my arms and legs up and down to make the wings. And I’ll miss the noisy chase of fox and geese games and the sleigh rides with bells jangling on the horses’ harnesses.
Still and all, to take the whole family and move to a different state where there would be room to grow watermelons seemed like such an exciting thing to do that I almost couldn’t breathe thinking about it. I couldn’t wait till Ed came home. What I couldn’t get him to understand, he’d find out from Mama and Papa, and I knew he’d take me with him to tell all our friends.
At church on Sunday everyone was talking about the call to go to New Mexico. Brother Golden took me on his lap as usual, and while I brushed and braided his long red beard, he talked to Mama and Papa about the best place to buy a good cover for the wagon. I remembered the first time that he’d picked me up several years before, and I’d reached up to feel his stiff, prickly beard.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Can’t you get rid of it?” I tried to say. He must have thought my mumble meant yes because he just laughed, patted my head, and said, “You’re an angel.”
I wasn’t much of an angel, but maybe I looked a little like one because I had a headful of yellow curls, blue eyes, and a smile that made a dimple hole in my cheek.
When I went to Sunday School class that day my teacher was giving out red leather Bibles to some of the children who had 100 percent attendance for a year. I wanted one of those Bibles so bad I could hardly stand it, but there was no way I could get one now. I’d be gone in less than a month.
After class I went up to the front of the room just to look at the one beautiful book that was left. As I reached up to touch it, the teacher turned around from cleaning the blackboard and looked at me.
“You’re moving away, aren’t you, Dora?” she said.
I nodded my head.
“I’ll miss you in my class. I can tell when I see you listening that you are very close to our Heavenly Father.”
I nodded. She was right. I was close to Him. I knew He understood me even when no one else did.
“Would you like to have that Bible to take with you?” she asked kindly.
I bobbed my head up and down so fast I could feel my curls bouncing. She handed me the book, and I hugged it to me.
I reached up and kissed her cheek and skipped from the room, so happy I wanted to sing.
“Thank You, oh, thank You,” I murmured, glancing heavenward.
Papa made me a little wooden box with a hinged lid for my birthday that October when I was seven. It was to hold my precious things to take with me, he said. I packed it and repacked it many times, trying to find the best way to get the most in; but I never could get it to hold everything I wanted to take.
Papa and Mama were busy getting the wagon ready to go, and my friend Eileen was watching me pack the box for the last time.
“Where do you think the best place is for the chickens?” Mama asked.
“Chickens?” Papa said. “We’re not taking any chickens.”
“Of course we are. Three or four of the best layers and Caroline’s rooster, so we can raise some chicks in the spring and maybe a couple of hens to eat along the way.”
Papa sighed. When Mama had that sound in her voice, he knew it was no use to argue.
“I guess we can put them in a crate and tie it to the side behind the washtubs. You’d better put chicken feed on your list.”
“I already did.”
“I think I’ve figured out how to load the stove so we can cook on it while we’re traveling,” Papa told her.
“That’ll come in handy. Will we have plenty of water?”
“Four barrels: two in front and two behind. That should be enough to get us through the driest places.”
I carefully placed the soft leather Bible in one end of my box. Pressed between its pages were beautiful red leaves I had gathered from the autumn trees. I’d tied a string round and round both ways so they wouldn’t fall out. I dropped the seeds in next, in the little crack that was left behind the book: two red beans and four watermelon seeds and then the long strand of tiny glass beads I had strung myself. Sister Johnson had given them to me in a slim bottle with a cork one day when Mama was visiting her. While they talked, I had picked up the beads one at a time with the thin needle and slipped them along the thread, choosing the colors to suit me as I went.
I tried to fold the doll quilt small enough to fit into the box, but it was no use. I handed it to Eileen instead and indicated it was to be hers.
“For keeps?” she asked, and I nodded my head.
She rubbed it against her cheek. I’d made it by sewing together scraps from the new baby clothes, and I knew I could stitch another after we’d moved.
“Will the doll fit?” she wanted to know, and I answered by placing Henrietta on the soft bed I’d made with her folded flannel nightie. Henrietta was a beautiful painted-eye doll with china head, hands, and feet, and a stuffed cloth body. Some girls had shut-eye dolls, but I wouldn’t have traded because I loved Henrietta.
“What about those?” Eileen asked, pointing to the rest of my treasures beside her on the step.
I shook my head and handed them to her one by one—an old hat and pair of shoes I used to play dress-up, some more doll clothes, a worn-out Mother Goose book. When I came to the bag of marbles, I dumped them out, selected five or six of my favorites, and pushed them into the folds of the doll dresses in the box. The rest I returned to the bag and gave to Eileen.
After she ran off home with her hands full, I noticed again the pain in my head. It had started two or three days before as a tender spot behind my right ear and now was a sore and throbbing lump. I went inside to talk to Heavenly Father and ask Him to make it better.
By morning I was burning up with fever and crying with pain. Mama took one look at the spot I pointed to and said, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We’ll have to get you to a doctor fast!”
The doctor decided just as quickly that he should lance the boil, and before long he had drained it.
“There, doesn’t that feel better?” the doctor asked.
I tried to say it sure did, but he couldn’t understand my mumble.
“Can’t this child talk?” he asked Mama.
“Not too good,” she said.
He took a look in my mouth and said, “Why, she’s tongue-tied! This should have been taken care of a long time ago. It’s a very simple procedure.”
He explained to me that my tongue was fastened down on the bottom where it should not be. All he had to do was cut it loose a little, and then I’d be able to talk like everyone else. I couldn’t believe it.
For a few minutes life was wonderful. The pain was gone in my head and the doctor could help me talk. When we get to our home in New Mexico, I’ll be talking like everyone else, I dreamed. I can go to school with Ed and, best of all, no one will tease me.
I did not know yet that it would take lots of pain and effort before I could talk and years of hard work before we had a place of our own.
The doctor asked Mama when would be a good time for the operation, and she said, “You’d better do it now; we’re leaving tomorrow.”

2. Some will know by reading. You may be among those who will know simply by reading the Book of Mormon with a real desire to know the truth. Such was the case with my wife. She was 12 years old when she took to heart the instruction to read the book from cover to cover. As she did this, she knew it was true. The feeling was so strong that, as she read, she decided to follow the Savior forever. She has remained true to what she felt.

After experiencing the initial excitement of coming to the United States from China to earn my PhD, I was overwhelmed by the numerous academic papers I had to read and write. I was also uncertain about how to interact with my academic adviser, which added to my stress. I felt lost and lonely, and I did not know what to do.
I concluded that my past wrongdoings had caused my suffering and that I needed to repent. It was evening, so I searched “church” online. I found that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the only church open until 9:00 p.m. Making up my mind to repent at the church, I set off on an hour-long walk.
When I arrived at the church around 6:00 p.m., I saw lights and heard laughter and music coming from inside. I searched around the building but could not find the door. Through a window, I saw a father playing with his son in one of the rooms. I knocked on the window to catch his attention. He guided me to the door, welcomed me in, and told me that someone was being baptized.
I followed his lead and went into a room where a man was giving a blessing to a boy who had just been baptized. Standing near the door, listening to the blessing, I felt that God was also whispering blessings to me. My heart was warmed, and I felt what I later came to know as the Holy Ghost. I also heard a voice saying that I was forgiven.
Following the baptism, I gathered with others and met many nice people. I was not lonely anymore. Several months later, after taking the missionary lessons, I was baptized.

Arms pumping hard, Mark and Brian Chapell race up the hillside on a concrete stairway. Their long legs devour two and three steps at a time. Neckties flap as they struggle for the lead, competing as only brothers can. Two hundred steps to go. One hundred. Fifty. With a final lunge, they crash against the missionaries’ door in a dead heat.
A few minutes later they’re walking up and down the streets of Welch, West Virginia, with the full-time missionaries, sharing the light at the center of their lives.