Gospel Story Finder

I would like now to relate one last personal experience in faith that demonstrates these six suggestions.

On July 29, 1977, Sister Cook and I had just finished visiting the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission and were stalled in the Cochabamba, Bolivia, airport for some five hours. I recall that we were very tired, having had few hours of sleep the night before. We were both delighted to have a few hours rest in the airport. As I was drifting off to sleep, I had a very strong feeling that I should awaken and write down some ideas. The desire to sleep was strong, but the promptings of the Spirit were more powerful. I did write; in fact, I wrote for nearly three hours, solving some organizational problems I had struggled with for a number of years previously. I felt a great outpouring of the Spirit on that day and excitedly wrote down each inspired thought. The experience took most of the time of the delay.

We were then off to La Paz, Bolivia. We were graciously met by President and Sister Chase Allred at the airport and driven in their van to the mission office. We locked the car and left our luggage and briefcase in the van.

Upon entering the office, the president was confronted with the difficult case of a woman whose husband was dying. While President Allred and I assisted with her needs, Sisters Cook and Allred left for the mission home.

When the president and I returned to the van, I realized immediately that all of our goods were gone but assumed that Sister Cook had taken them with her to the mission home. While we were driving toward the home, I discovered that the right front window-wing had been damaged and began to fear that our goods had been stolen.

Arriving at the mission home, we found that our luggage had indeed been stolen. The loss of a substantial amount of money and all our clothing created an immediate but only temporary problem. More disheartening was the fact that my scriptures were in my briefcase along with the inspired ideas I had just received in Cochabamba. The overwhelming sensation of discouragement, anger, and inability to do anything about the situation was overpowering.

My wife and I prayed alone. We prayed with those present. We tried to enjoy our dinner but could not. Who could know of the great loss I personally felt? The scriptures had been given to me as a young man by my parents, a sacred inscription placed in one of them by my mother and in the other by my since-deceased father. I had spent literally thousands of hours marking and cross-referencing (and loving every moment of it) in the only tangible earthly possessions I had ever considered of much value. I had on many occasions instructed my wife that if there were ever a fire in the home, she should first remove the children and then, if there were time, save my scriptures and not worry about anything else.

The president and I had much to discuss as we were to be together only that evening. However, I felt a strong impression that we must do all in our power to recover the scriptures. After supper, all present knelt in prayer once again. We determined to search the immediate area near the mission office and in a nearby field, hoping that the thief or thieves had taken the salable items and discarded the English books.

In the prayer we pleaded that the scriptures would be returned, that the persons who had taken them would be led to know of their unrighteous act and repent, and that the return of the books would be the means of bringing someone into the true church.

Eight to ten of us then loaded into the van with flashlights and warm clothing and drove up to the mission office in the central city. We scoured vacant lots across the street and adjacent streets and alleys; we talked with guards and anyone else we could find and exhausted all possibilities. No one had seen or heard anything. Finally we returned home, dejected, able only to pray individually and wait. President Allred and I worked late into the night to finish our business, and the next day Sister Cook and I flew back to Quito, Ecuador, where we lived.

During the next few weeks, the missionaries searched the lots again. They looked in hedges and garbage cans, searched a nearby park, placed a sign on a wall where the books were stolen, requesting their return, and kept a watchful eye to see if the books might show up in an unexpected place nearby. In sheer desperation, trying to do all in their power, the missionaries decided to place an ad in two daily newspapers, offering a reward and giving explicit information concerning the books.

In Quito, Ecuador, I began a personal spiritual struggle that was a very difficult one for me. After nearly three weeks, I had not studied in the scriptures at all. I had tried on numerous occasions, but every time I read a verse I recalled only a few of the many cross-references I had made over 20 years. I was disheartened, depressed, and had no desire whatsoever to read. I prayed many times expressing to the Father that I had never tried to use my scriptures for any purpose other than glorifying his name and trying to teach others the truths that he had taught me. I pleaded with him to do whatever had to be done in order to have them returned. My wife and little children prayed incessantly for the same blessing. Even after two or three weeks they continued praying every day, “Heavenly Father, please bring back daddy’s scriptures.”

After about three weeks, I felt a strong spiritual impression, “Elder Cook, how long will you go on without reading and studying?” It seemed to me to be a test or a trial and to have something to do with the “cost” of the blessing I desired. The words burned, and I determined that I must be humble and submissive enough to start all over again.

With my wife’s permission to use her scriptures, I began reading in Genesis in the Old Testament, marking and cross-referencing once again.

On August 18, a friend, Brother Ebbie Davis, arrived in Ecuador from Bolivia and laid my scriptures on my desk along with a manila folder that contained the papers that I had written in Cochabamba and some recently prepared mission budgets that were also stolen. He indicated that they were the only things recovered, that he had been given those items by the mission president in La Paz as he boarded the plane, and that he did not know how the books were found, but that I would be told when I arrived there in the next few days to tour the mission.

The joy I experienced in that moment and later that day is indescribable. To realize that my Heavenly Father could, in some miraculous way, lift those books out of the hands of thieves in a city like La Paz and return them intact, not one page removed, torn, or soiled, is still beyond me. How the faith of our family and many Bolivian missionaries was rewarded! That day I promised my Father that I would make better use of my scriptures and my time as instruments in his hands for teaching the gospel.

On Sunday, August 21, I flew to Guayaquil, Ecuador, and on to La Paz, Bolivia, arriving on August 22. Upon arrival I was given the following account:

A lady had been in one of La Paz’s hundreds of marketplaces. She saw a drunk man waving a black book around. She had the strongest spiritual impression that something holy was being desecrated. She approached the man and asked him what it was. He did not know but showed her the book. She asked if he had anything else. He pulled out another black book. She asked if there were more. He removed a folder full of papers that he said he was going to burn. She then expressed the desire to purchase those things from him, to which he agreed, for the price of 50 pesos or about $2.5, U.S. currency.

After the purchase had been made, she felt totally taken back by what she had done. She realized the books and papers were in English—she didn’t speak, read, or understand English—and she had no desire to have any English books. It would have been like one of us paying nearly 10 percent of our monthly income to buy some books in a language we could not read. She immediately began a search for the church that was named in the front of the books. After approaching a number of other churches, she finally arrived at the mission office in La Paz, directed by the hand of the Lord. She had never heard of the reward nor of the ad in the newspaper, which was to appear that very day. She did not ask for any money, not even to reclaim the 50 pesos that she had paid for the books and papers. The elders received the books with rejoicing and paid her the reward anyway.

She told the missionaries that she was associated with a Pentecostal sect, but she listened very intently as they unfolded the gospel to her. She recalled reading something about Joseph Smith from a pamphlet she had picked up in the street two or three years earlier. After their first discussion with her, they reported, “She is a golden contact.” After the second discussion, she committed to baptism. Two weeks later, September 11, 1977, on a Sunday afternoon in La Paz, Bolivia, Sister Maria Cloefe Cardenas Terrazas and her son, Marco Fernando Miranda Cardenas, age 12, were baptized into the true church of Jesus Christ by Elder Douglas Reeder.

Who could describe my deep, discouraging, depressing, disheartening, overpowering feelings of helplessness when the scriptures were lost? Who could describe my great feeling of joy and rejoicing when we saw the power of heaven revealed in this miraculous way? Our Heavenly Father does hear and answer the prayers of his sons and daughters if they exercise faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. The Lord said:

“For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.

“Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.” (Mark 11:23–24.)

Upon my arrival in Misawa, Japan, I went to a Baptist missionary, but he was unable to answer my questions. He encouraged me to rely on faith, but I could no longer live on the innocent faith I had as a young man. The reality I found in the world as an adult was simply too great. I had to find the answers and I had to find them now.
I was becoming desperate, so a friend asked me to accompany him to the Far East Conference of the Southern Baptist Convention in Shimoda, believing that these learned men would be able to answer my questions satisfactorily. Enroute to the convention, my friend made what he later determined was a great mistake. We stopped in Tokyo to see his friend, Bill Head, whom he had met in Thailand. Upon meeting Bill for the first time, I realized that he was different. Without him even saying a word I knew that he had something that I wanted. He radiated confidence, peace of mind, a love for life, and a love for people. He seemed to know who he was and where he was going. He had the answers I needed so desperately.
I asked him why he was unique. Bill replied, “I am a Mormon.” He gave me some pamphlets to read, and I took them with me to that convention in Shimoda. I read the material. At first the Joseph Smith account seemed ridiculous, preposterous, almost absurd. I wanted to believe that God spoke to men today. I wanted to believe that the heavens were not closed and that God was real. I wanted to believe that he lived and cared about his children and had not left us alone to drift aimlessly through life for some mysterious end. I also knew that if ever the world needed another witness of Jesus Christ it was now. But because it was so new and because it had been such a long time since God had manifested himself to the ancients, I was skeptical.
The next morning I attended a seminar at the convention. The seminar’s purpose was to discuss the anti-Christ ideologies. The first religion they attacked was not communism or some other godless ideology, but Mormonism. They had decided among themselves that Mormons worshiped Joseph Smith and ignored the fact that the formal name of the Mormon church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If that name implied anything, it implied that Mormons were Christians of the highest degree, for they were the only people I had found who claimed the name of Jesus Christ. It wasn’t the Church of Joseph Smith, John the Baptist, Paul, Mary, John Wesley, or Martin Luther. It was the Church of Jesus Christ.
I felt the Mormons were being misunderstood so I attempted to defend them. Now I probably made somewhat of a fool of myself in the minds of those learned people, but in the process of this defense, a still, small voice said, “You’d better find out more so you can do better next time.”
I left the convention that day and returned to Tokyo. I found Bill and told him I wanted to learn more. He introduced me to a young couple, the Fredericks, who taught me the missionary discussions in two days. During that glorious two-day period the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle in my mind fell together and I found myself and my true identity.
““I am a child of God!” I exclaimed to myself. “I began with him. There is purpose and dignity to life, and a great destiny beyond!” I began to realize for the first time that I didn’t have to doubt, worry, be confused, or tossed to and fro by every wind of doctrine because there is a prophet of God and twelve apostles on the earth today, just as there was anciently in the Church of Jesus Christ. I had found his Church!
Less than two weeks later, on August 12, 1970, I was baptized in Kunsan City, Korea. I know that the gospel is true. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that we are sons and daughters of God.

I have always been interested in animals and birds and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.
When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from a wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.
President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.
“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.
We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.
“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.

When I was in junior high school, I would get out of bed on cold winter mornings and head for the heat vent to get warm. The family cat would always beat me there, so I would gently shoo her away and sit down. Soon my mother would tell me it was time to leave for school. I would look out at the icicles on the house and dread going out into the cold, let alone beginning another day of school.

As I kissed my mother good-bye and went out the door, I would look at my comfortable spot in front of the heat vent and find that the cat had repossessed it. How I envied that cat! If that weren’t enough, she would look up at me with heavy eyelids and an expression as if to laugh at me and say, “Have fun in school, Glenn. I’m sure glad I’m not a human!” I hated it when she did that!

However, an interesting thing would happen as the day went on. I would come home after experiencing the joys and sorrows of the school day and see that lazy cat still curled up in front of the vent, and I would smile and say to her, “I’m sure glad I’m not a cat.”

One night Ernestine had to go across the lake with her family in the middle of the night because a forest fire threatened their home. At 1:30 A.M. her mother woke her up, and they all loaded into the boat and went across the lake. She felt frightened, and she worried about their house. “We saw flames from clear across the lake!”
She spent that night on the boat with her mother and her sisters, Loralee (18) and Danielle. Her father, a state trooper, patrolled the lake, rescuing people. As the fire zigzagged a black path through the area, Ernestine and her family lived out of their car the next night, then went to a friend’s house for two days. They went to the meetinghouse to get clothes and supplies. When they were finally able to return to their house, she felt very thankful to Heavenly Father that it had not been burned and that almost all of the ward members’ houses were untouched by the fire.

I recall an experience which I had two years ago, bearing witness to my soul of the reality of his death, of his crucifixion, and his resurrection, that I shall never forget. I bear it to you tonight, to you, young boys and girls; not with a spirit to glory over it, but with a grateful heart and with thanksgiving in my soul. I know that he lives, and I know that through him men must find their salvation, and that we cannot ignore this blessed offering that he has given us as the means of our spiritual growth to prepare us to come to him and be justified.

Away on the Fort Peck Reservation where I was doing missionary work with some of our brethren, laboring among the Indians, seeking the Lord for light to decide certain matters pertaining to our work there, and receiving a witness from him that we were doing things according to his will, I found myself one evening in the dreams of the night in that sacred building, the temple. After a season of prayer and rejoicing I was informed that I should have the privilege of entering into one of those rooms, to meet a glorious Personage, and, as I entered the door, I saw, seated on a raised platform, the most glorious Being my eyes have ever beheld or that I ever conceived existed in all the eternal worlds. As I approached to be introduced, he arose and stepped towards me with extended arms, and he smiled as he softly spoke my name. If I shall live to be a million years old, I shall never forget that smile. He took me into his arms and kissed me, pressed me to his bosom, and blessed me, until the marrow of my bones seemed to melt! When he had finished, I fell at his feet, and, as I bathed them with my tears and kisses, I saw the prints of the nails in the feet of the Redeemer of the world. The feeling that I had in the presence of him who hath all things in his hands, to have his love, his affection, and his blessing was such that if I can receive that of which I had but a foretaste, I would give all that I am, all that I ever hope to be, to feel what I then felt!

I returned from youth conference and informed my mother (who by this time had remarried) and my stepfather of my desire to be baptized. They did not like the idea and grounded me indefinitely. The tables were turned, and I spent the next two years of my life being the one persecuted. For two years I was not allowed to date any LDS girls, go to Church activities, or even have a Book of Mormon in my possession. I tried to share the beauty of the Book of Mormon with my mother and stepfather, but my stepfather threw it across the room and demanded I return it immediately.
With tears in my eyes I rang the doorbell of the Bulleigh home. Joel, one of their sons, answered, and I returned the borrowed Book of Mormon he had given me. Would my testimony of the Book of Mormon be strong enough to support me until I turned 18 and could join the Church? Sure it was.
At 8:00 A.M. on my 18th birthday, my mother and stepfather asked me to leave their home, and I joined the Church one week later. I moved in with the Bulleigh family and used the $9,000 I had saved by working between the ages of 16 and 18 to support myself until I graduated from high school seven months later. I read the entire Book of Mormon after being baptized and learned of a prophet named Alma who had also persecuted the Church of God. He spent the rest of his life preaching the gospel to amend for his past transgressions. I decided also to serve a mission.
After graduating from high school, I continued to work and save money so I could pay for my mission. I recently finished serving in the Bolivia Cochabamba Mission. Choosing to be a missionary cost me my family, my home, and a lot of money.
I am thankful that at the age of 10, God sent a Latter-day Saint to play baseball on my team. That event has changed my life forever and enabled me to help change the lives of many others with whom I labored on my mission.

I love how President N. Eldon Tanner’s father taught him during family prayer. President Tanner said this:

“I remember one evening when we were kneeling in family prayer, my father said to the Lord, ‘Eldon did something today he shouldn’t have done; he’s sorry, and if you will forgive him, he won’t do it anymore.’

“That made me determined not to do it anymore—much more than a trouncing would have done.”7

One Thursday morning, while preparing breakfast, María had a strong feeling that she should fast and pray that Carlos would listen to the missionaries again. “At that very moment, I began my fast,” she says.

Amazingly, two missionaries dropped in for a visit that afternoon. “It had been a long time since missionaries had come to our home,” she says. “I told them I was fasting that very day for Carlos. They said, ‘Sister, we will fast with you. And we are going to baptize your husband! When can we come back?’”

María asked them to return the following Monday evening, because that was the only day Carlos didn’t go to one of his clubs after work. On Monday, she and the two missionaries began another fast. She hadn’t told Carlos anything about the appointment she had made.

When Carlos came home from work that day, he announced that he was going to the club to play tennis. “I felt so disillusioned?” says María. “He never played tennis on Mondays. And I was sure he wouldn’t return until very late. I didn’t know how to ask him to stay. So he went.”

At 6:30 P.M., the missionaries came. Crying with embarrassment and disappointment, María explained that Carlos wasn’t home. “We are fasting for him!” she said. “How could it have turned out this way?”

Meanwhile, the person Carlos had arranged to play tennis with didn’t show up. And neither did anybody else! “There was nobody to play with,” he remembers. “It was very strange. So I went home.”

The missionaries were still there—and, for some reason, Carlos felt like talking to them. That started six months of serious studying.

Dr. Heyerdahl—No, because from a scientific point of view, Ra I proved more than Ra II—much more. Ra I started as a complete drift voyage—we broke both steering oars the first day off port—and yet we ended up at our destination. There we were—landlubbers, with only one sailor aboard; one man didn’t even know the ocean was salty until he took a drink from it. And we still ended up where we were supposed to.
Also, we had shown that a papyrus boat wouldn’t sink in two weeks—we had been out fifty-five days. And we had made every mistake in the book. I knew that if we had had the knowledge of the ancients, it would have been much easier to make the trip. And the distance covered by Ra I was almost twice the distance across the Atlantic at its shortest point. So, at Ra I’s end, I had not intended to undertake a second expedition.
Dr. Heyerdahl—Even with all these mistakes and blunders, we still kept floating toward America—in fact, there was nothing we could do about it. We had got on the conveyor, and we were going to end up where I knew we would. But when we were about 600 miles off Barbados, the waves had moved our little cabin back and forth so many times that the ropes on one side had been cut off, and we started losing our papyrus. We had to swim underneath with rope and keep tying the papyrus together. This worked fine until we came near the Caribbean and collected about thirty sharks swimming around us. When my Egyptian friend nearly lost a leg, I stopped all swimming underneath and we had to satisfy ourselves by watching our papyrus boat gradually tear away and float beautifully behind us—still floating after two months at sea! It was a hard task for me. All my men wanted to continue. As leader, I knew that we would make it, that there was enough of the vessel left; but I also knew that the chances of losing one or two men were very great. I didn’t feel it was worth risking human life for a scientific experiment. It was a terrible feeling to have all my men want to go on and have to decide to quit. But we stopped then.
Dr. Heyerdahl—Well, let me say that when we built Ra I, we did what any sailor would have done. We used the best advice and the guidance of our Lake Chad builders, but we made every mistake you could possibly make. First, the stern on Ra I was built wrongly. Our Lake Chad tribesmen added a stern, as I requested, but since they weren’t accustomed to doing it, they did it so loosely that at sea the stern collapsed. Second, since we were sailing into the trade-wind belt, we knew we would get wind from the starboard side, the right-hand side, which means that with a big sail and a light boat, you will capsize with the wind unless you put all your heavy weight on the side with the wind. So, knowing this, I told the men to tie the cabin not in the center but to the side where the wind came in. We put all our heavy cargo on that side also. Well, when we sailed away, it was perfect. But soon the whole boat started to capsize the wrong way. We started to carry all the load to the opposite side. Then we discovered that a reed boat should be loaded on the opposite side, contrary to all other boats in the world, because where the wind comes the waves will splash, and the papyrus above the water level will absorb water and become heavier. After we were out two weeks, we couldn’t start changing the cabin in mid-ocean. Third, we broke the rudder oars the very first day off the coast, and the second day we broke the yardarm holding the sail. But even so, we drifted—forwards, sideways, and backwards—toward America.
Dr. Heyerdahl—Well, I studied closely the mural paintings and early Egyptian tomb wall drawings of reed boats. And I decided, just as with my experience with the Peruvian Indians, that it was best to ask the advice of people who still made them. Since I was going to leave from African Morocco, I decided to ask the Africans for help. I turned to tribesmen of Lake Chad, who still use reed boats today. These people and myself built Ra I. However, as we were to learn, these tribesmen build their boats differently from the ancient Egyptians. The Egyptians had them turned up at both ends—and pointed perfectly for ocean navigation. But on Lake Chad you don’t have big waves, and the reed boat is shaped more like an elephant tusk.

But Elder Backman’s most memorable experience was not to come in the heat of combat but in the glow of the Spirit. “We were isolated, and I thought I was the only Mormon in the 43rd Division. But while I was in New Guinea, Roy Darley came through. He was a Mormon chaplain, the only Mormon chaplain I saw all the time I was overseas. For some reason he set me apart as a group leader, which gave me the responsibility to seek out Mormon boys wherever I went and hold services. We left New Guinea not long after that and went up into the Philippine Islands for the invasion of Luzon. Just before Easter of 1945, I happened to meet the chaplain of the 43rd Division and discovered to my amazement that his aide was a Mormon, a boy from Salt Lake. This aide said, “There are other Mormons in this division.” So we went to the chaplain and asked for permission to hold a service. He was very cooperative. He even publicized in all the units of the division that we were going to have this service. We were fighting east of Manila in the Sierra Madre Mountains at that time, so we were in combat conditions, but we were permitted to set up a service at the rear command post of the division. The service was to be held on Easter morning.
“Keith Wallace, the chaplain’s aide, and I went down there and found a little place that had been bombed out. All that was left were some walls that would give us a little bit of privacy. We got some ammunition boxes and formed a pulpit and a sacrament table. We found some empty casings from some of the larger shells. Then we picked some little wildflowers that had survived combat and put them in the shell casings for decoration. We secured a field organ we could pump, and we were ready. We didn’t know how many soldiers would be coming to the service.
“Then the trucks started coming in. We ended up with about 50 men! There came those GIs, all dirty and unkempt, still in their combat fatigues, unshaven. They stacked their rifles outside the little building and sat on their helmets as chairs. We held the most spiritual service I’ve ever attended. We administered the sacrament out of our mess gear. You should have seen the tears shed and the feelings that were shared! That testimony meeting was a priceless experience. Some of the men had not had the sacrament in all the time they’d been overseas, and you can imagine some of the hair-raising experiences they had had and the stories of lives being preserved. Several of them stood up and said, ‘This meeting has changed my life.’ Of all my experiences in the war, this Easter Sunday meeting was the greatest. It surely made me feel good to share the brotherhood of the gospel with those men.”

My husband, Alvaro, entered his first marathon while he was in high school in Colombia. Much to his surprise, he won!
After that, he decided to start running more seriously. But he needed a pair of running shoes, and they were expensive. His parents were struggling to support their family of eight, and he hesitated to ask them if they would buy the shoes. However, when they realized how determined he was to run, they bought the shoes.
Alvaro joined the high school track team and trained daily. But as his first competition approached, the shoes began to wear out. Two weeks before the race, the soles tore away from the tops of the shoes. Alvaro didn’t want to ask his parents for another pair of shoes, so he found some thread and sewed them back together.
On the day of the race, Alvaro started off strongly and stayed comfortably with the group of runners as they circled the track. With only a few laps to go, he pulled away from the other runners to take the lead. At that same moment, the wire worked loose from the sole of his shoe and began to dig into his foot. Despite the pain he felt as the wire pierced his skin, he thought to himself, “I can’t give up.”
He didn’t. Running with determination, he crossed the finish line in first place—but with his foot cut and bleeding in several places.

Christianity celebrates the life and ministry of Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God the Eternal Father. Christian churches with great variations of doctrine dot the land the world over. When 14-year-old Cortnee, a daughter of a mission president, entered a new high school as a freshman, she was asked by classmates if she was a Christian. They scoffed at her response that she was a Mormon, a common reference to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Upon arriving home, she asked her mother, “Mom, are we Christians?”
Cortnee asked, “Mom, are we Christians?” As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, you are a Christian, and I am too. I am a devout Christian who is exceedingly fortunate to have greater knowledge of the true “doctrine of Christ” since my conversion to the restored Church. These truths define this Church as having the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Like other members of the Church, I now understand the true nature of the Godhead, I have access to additional scripture and revelation, and I can partake of the blessings of priesthood authority. Yes, Cortnee, we are Christians, and I testify of these truths in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The Lord often used parables relating to the land in teaching accountability and stewardship. When I was a small boy, I would visit my grandparents at their ranch during the summer. There was no electrical power, running water, or indoor plumbing. There was, however, a spring of water next to their small ranch house. The spring created a little pond of clear, pure water, where several times a day I would help my grandmother carry water to the house for drinking, cooking, bathing, and washing clothes. My grandparents loved this life-giving spring and took special precautions to protect it.
Many years later my grandfather was in his early 90s and did not live on the property; he was unable to maintain or oversee it. I drove him to see the ranch which he loved. His high expectations at seeing the ranch turned to disappointment when he realized the fences that protected the spring had fallen into disrepair and cows had damaged the spring and the precious, pure springwater had been significantly polluted. He was upset with the damage and the pollution. To him, it was a violation of a trust he had observed all his working life. He felt somehow he had not protected that life-sustaining spring which had meant so much to him.
Because of my grandfather’s reaction to the polluted spring, improvements and protections were undertaken which returned the spring to its original beauty and purity.

One of the darkest chapters in the history of our people occurred in 1838 when they were being driven from Missouri. The incident to which I refer is known as the Haun’s Mill Massacre. In that tragic happening Amanda Smith lost her husband and her son Sardius. Her younger boy Alma was savagely wounded. In the darkness she carried him from the mill to a shelter in the brush. His hip joint had been shot away. Through the night she cried out in prayer, “Oh my Heavenly Father … what shall I do? Thou seest my poor wounded boy and knowest my inexperience. Oh Heavenly Father direct me what to do!” She later wrote in her journal concerning what happened: “I was directed as by a voice speaking to me.

“The ashes of our fire [were] still smouldering. We had been burning the bark of the shag-bark hickory. I was directed to take those ashes and make a lye and put a cloth saturated with it right into the wound. It hurt, but little Alma was too near dead to heed it much. Again and again I saturated the cloth and put it into the hole from which the hip-joint had been ploughed. …

“Having done as directed I again prayed to the Lord and was again instructed as distinctly as though a physician had been standing by speaking to me.

“Near by was a slippery-elm tree. From this I was told to make a slippery-elm poultice and fill the wound with it.” (In Edward W. Tullidge, The Women of Mormondom, New York, 1877; reprint, Salt Lake City, 1957, 1965, p. 124.)

She was able to get the injured boy to a house. With a mother’s love and a mother’s faith, she said to him, “The Lord can make something there in the place of your hip.” She had him lie on his face, and there he remained while a miracle occurred. Of that miracle she wrote, “So Alma laid on his face for five weeks, until he was entirely recovered—a flexible gristle having grown in place of the missing joint and socket, which remains to this day a marvel to physicians.

“On the day that he walked again I was out of the house fetching a bucket of water, when I heard screams from the children. Running back, in affright, I entered, and there was Alma on the floor, dancing around, and the children screaming in astonishment and joy.

“It is now nearly forty years ago,” she concluded, “but Alma has never been the least crippled during his life, and he has traveled quite a long period of the time as a missionary of the gospel and a living miracle of the power of God.” (Ibid., p. 128.)

Elder Andersen also told a story of a boy named Joshua who reached out to another child at church.
When Joseph, a boy from Uganda, went to church for the first time, he didn’t have any family there to help him know where to go. Then the missionaries introduced him to Joshua.
Joshua told Joseph he would be his friend. He gave Joseph a songbook for Primary, and he sat next to him. Then the Primary class sang “I Am a Child of God” to Joseph. Everyone made Joseph feel very special, especially his new friend, Joshua. When they were older, Joshua and Joseph served as missionary companions!

“One night when I was sixteen years old, Father gave a Christmas party for his own children and their families and the nearest neighbors. We danced. My brothers were the musicians. We knew it was Father’s aim to end the party at ten o’clock, which he did right in the middle of a square-dance by ordering the musicians to stop. But Father didn’t know that my brothers had lifted me up to the clock many times that night. Each time I turned it back thirty minutes. It must have been past midnight when the party broke up.”

From Christian Olsen family records, in Carter, Our Pioneer Heritage, 15:199.

“I’m sorry, but no one is allowed in the garden area.” The tall Franciscan monk spoke with a firm voice in answer to my request to photograph inside the Garden of Gethsemane. Determined to return another day and try again, I walked down the gradual slope of the Mount of Olives and crossed the top end of Kidron Valley on the way to the old city of Jerusalem.
A paved highway runs down this upper end of the valley; it rises and winds around the base of the Mount of Olives on its way to Jericho. Gethsemane sits to one side of the road, next to the hustle of buses and taxis and donkeys braying with heavy loads of goods on the way to markets of the Old City.
Mount of Olives hillside
Gethsemane is just a simple grove of trees in a garden on the side of a rocky hill. It is a quiet place, except for the occasional tourist groups and hawking peddlers, and the nearby traffic.
Yet, in this grove of ancient trees one of the most important events in the history of mankind took place. In this little garden the Savior agonized as he suffered for the sins of all the world. He made it possible for us to return to the presence of God. That means that if we repent and live in sweet obedience to the Father’s will, we will not be required to pay the awful debt for the sins we have committed; Jesus did that in Gethsemane.
An olive tree in the Garden of Gethsemane
Leaving Gethsemane, you can easily see old Jerusalem above terraced hillsides. Next to the wall of the city, Arab shepherd boys often bring their sheep and goats to graze in the grass around the Moslem gravestones. Seeing the sheep silhouetted against the sky, it is easy to imagine what it was like here during the Savior’s lifetime.
Jerusalem seen from the Mount of Olives
Further up the hill, the road branches to one side, going up to Saint Stephen’s Gate and the base of the ancient temple mount. Here you can look back at Gethsemane from above. On this particular afternoon, the garden lay half in shadow with the sun glistening in several light-filled corners. A few Arab buses careened noisily around the serpentine curves of the highway below, but the air seemed somehow quiet. There in the stillness of my thoughts, I wondered about the little procession of disciples meandering across the valley toward Gethsemane, the Savior leading them in calm dignity as he approached the terrors of that incredible night.
Darkness falls swiftly in Jerusalem, and soon the blackness of the night was all around me. There was a slight chill in the evening air as I hurried home.
St. Stephen’s Gate in the wall of Jerusalem
Several days later I arrived after closing time, and the great iron doors to the garden were shut and locked. After much persistent bell ringing, a monk came to the gate and kindly allowed me to enter the empty courtyard. We talked for a minute, and then he surprised me with, “Would you like to go into the garden area?” Taking a handforged key from his belt, he opened the small iron gate that led into the garden.
I wandered along the flower-lined gravel paths, next to the great patriarch olive trees. The color of the red flowers reminded me of the blood that came from every pore of the Savior’s body as he suffered here. The old gnarled and pitted trunks of the olive trees spoke of the struggle and pain of spirit that Jesus felt in this garden. Pondering these things, I didn’t notice the darkness gathering around the garden.
A path in the Garden of Gethsemane
Reverently and privately knelt for a moment, there in Gethsemane, to thank God for the blessing of his Son. The trees were dark and gray as I left them. But looking up toward the city I could see one of its radiant sunsets. Jerusalem, the “City of Gold,” the hope of ages past, present, and future because of the atonement that took place here.

Within days of arriving in Europe, Sister Taylor and I, still living out of suitcases in a small hotel room in Germany, were scheduled to attend a mission presidents’ seminar in Amsterdam, Holland. As we drove to and from the seminar, as arranged by the Regional Representative, we set out to meet our leaders in western Europe. We drove an hour each way into a small village to bless a leader and his family. We went to their homes. In each home we met a lovely wife and handsome children. We ate at their tables, slept as invited, and in each case knelt in prayer and blessed their homes, their families, their callings, and the area for successful missionary service. I now know our leaders there. I felt a genuine love for them, and I felt the same response from them.
You have those feelings of approaching in some small degree the indescribable joy of the celestial glory. He that loses his life shall save it. (See Luke 17:33.) My well of spirituality has indeed been deepened.

I met Regis Carlus for the first time in 1995 in France. He was not a member of the Church. His daughter, Charlotte, was being sealed in the Bern Switzerland Temple the next day, and he had written, asking if he could stop by my office to meet me. He had heard that I often inquired about him, and he was perplexed as to why.

After being called as a General Authority and assigned to serve in the Europe/Mediterranean Area Presidency, I received Mr. Carlus’s request to meet and hoped that he would follow his children into the restored gospel.

When Charlotte’s father was a university student in the 1960s, the missionaries had taught him the gospel. He was drawn to the restored Church and felt the power of the Book of Mormon. He decided, however, that joining a small, American-based church would not help his professional career.

Now, as I greeted Mr. Carlus and exchanged pleasantries that day in 1995, he asked why I had demonstrated such an interest in him.

After praying with him, I told him that these few minutes with him might be the only time in this life that I would see him. I complimented him on his remarkable daughter and son and told him I respected him immensely for raising two righteous children.

Then I spoke to him of the purposes of the Savior in restoring His gospel upon the earth, the role of the priesthood, the importance of family and the sealing power, and the gathering of a covenant people across the world.

I told him I felt that when the missionaries taught him as a university student, his righteous destiny was to join the covenant people of the Church. I asked that he not be offended as we read two verses that I felt applied to him.

Together we read in Alma about those “called and prepared from the foundation of the world … on account of their exceeding faith and good works; in the first place being left to choose good or evil; therefore they having chosen good, and exercising exceedingly great faith, are called with a holy calling … while others would reject the Spirit of God on account of the hardness of their hearts and blindness of their minds, while, if it had not been for this [for they were on the same standing] they might have had as great privilege as their brethren” (Alma 13:3–4).

I politely shared with Mr. Carlus that I believed he had been prepared to be with us, and when he refused because of the appeals of the world, the Lord continued to bless him with two choice spirits to be his children. They embraced the covenant path meant for his family. Then I invited him to accept the invitation he had been given 30 years before.

Regis Carlus did not join the Church in this life, but his children had chosen the covenant path, and they have remained on the path.