Gospel Story Finder

Here is an example. On a recent flight from Salt Lake City to New York City, my seat assignment was changed at the last moment—in this case, perhaps not without purpose.

I asked my new seat companion if she was traveling to New York or Milan, the plane’s final destination. The question opened a conversation. After explaining she had spent her life as a bilingual, bicultural Italian-English translator, she began quizzing me about Italian art and culture.

As she queried me about Michelangelo, I remembered a BYU humanities class with Professor Todd A. Britsch. I was able to say that in Michelangelo’s statue Pietà, the same piece of Carrara marble feels alive and lifeless at the same time. Mary is alive with compassion while the body of her son, our Savior, hangs lifeless.

My airplane companion nodded approvingly. We then talked about the Sistine Chapel, where God’s vibrant hand touches Adam’s limp hand, and about Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece The Last Supper in Milan.

Then we talked about Dante. After studying Shakespeare for five years in London, she thought Shakespeare might approximate Dante’s genius and accomplishment. What did I think?

I remembered BYU classes on Shakespeare with Professor Arthur Henry King and others, but I diplomatically suggested both Shakespeare and Dante were great literary figures.

Then something unexpected happened. Seemingly out of the blue, this good woman quietly asked, “You want to know how my son died, don’t you?”

We had been discussing Italian art and ­literature—her language of love. I am an amateur in that language, but perhaps because I was willing to try to listen with my heart, she felt she could say, “My son committed suicide. I am going to Italy to make arrangements.” She then added, “I feel you are a man of God. God put you here today because I have no one I can talk to about these things.”

For the rest of the flight we spoke tenderly about God’s plan of happiness, the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and how families can be together forever. I testified of ordinances and covenants found in the holy house of the Lord and invited her to visit the Manhattan New York Temple or, someday, the Rome Italy Temple.

Thank you, BYU, for teaching general and discipline education and the language of the heart. Such enriches our lives and, in unexpected times and places, allows us to connect with others in ways they understand and value.

When I think of righteous individuals, the names of Gustav and Margarete Wacker come readily to mind. Let me describe them. I first met the Wackers when I was called to preside over the Canadian Mission in 1959. They had immigrated to Kingston, Ontario, Canada, from their native Germany.
Brother Wacker earned his living as a barber. His means were limited, but he and Sister Wacker always paid more than a tenth as tithing. As branch president, Brother Wacker started a missionary fund, and for months at a time he was the only contributor. When there were missionaries in the city, the Wackers fed and cared for them, and the missionaries never left the Wacker home without some tangible donation to their work and welfare.
Gustav and Margarete Wacker’s home was a heaven. They were not blessed with children, but they mothered and fathered their many Church visitors. Men and women of learning and sophistication sought out these humble, unlettered servants of God and counted themselves fortunate if they could spend an hour in their presence. The Wackers’ appearance was ordinary, their English halting and somewhat difficult to understand, their home unpretentious. They didn’t own a car or a television, nor did they do any of the things to which the world usually pays attention. Yet the faithful beat a path to their door in order to partake of the spirit that was there.
In March of 1982, Brother and Sister Wacker were called to serve as full-time ordinance workers in the Washington D.C. Temple. On June 29, 1983, while Brother and Sister Wacker were still serving in this temple assignment, Brother Wacker, with his beloved wife at his side, peacefully passed from mortality to his eternal reward. Fitting are the words, “Who honors God, God honors.”

Alexandr Masenkov, 17, of the Nevsky Branch, St. Petersburg Russia District, was nervous the first time he blessed the sacrament. “I prepared for it all week,” he remembers. “As I blessed the sacrament that first time, the Spirit touched my heart. Once my father and I were assigned to take the sacrament to a man who was blind and paralyzed. It was the first time I had blessed the sacrament outside of the meetinghouse. I felt I had a responsibility to be a servant and a witness of Jesus Christ and to do what He would do if He were there.”

When Amy was three, her mother and father brought home her baby brother, Paul. They said Amy was a big sister now. But she didn’t feel any different. She still felt little.
Amy wasn’t sure she liked the baby. He didn’t do anything, even when she smiled at him. Then one day he smiled. “I taught my brother how to smile,” said Amy.
Sometimes Amy liked to shake a rattle in front of Paul. When Paul was three months old, he reached out and took the rattle from Amy and shook it. “I taught my brother how to shake a rattle,” said Amy.
One day Amy’s friend came over to play. They crawled on the floor and pretended they were dogs. Paul watched them. A few months later Amy saw Paul crawl. “I taught my brother how to crawl,” said Amy.
Amy liked to pretend that she was an acrobat on a high wire, walking very slowly, one foot in front of the other. When baby Paul was ten months old, he took his first steps walking very slowly, one step at a time. “I taught my brother how to walk,” said Amy.
Paul was growing big and tall. He didn’t always do what Amy told him to. Sometimes Amy forgot to be nice. She pulled his hair and made him cry. Then she felt bad and gave him a hug.
One day Amy would not share her book with Paul. He grabbed her hair. Amy rubbed her head and said tearfully, “I taught my brother how to pull hair.”
Paul held out his arms in front of Amy. Amy held out her arms, too, and they hugged. “I taught Paul how to hug,” said Amy. “I would rather hug than pull hair. From now on I will be very careful about what I teach my brother.”

Brown Fox’s scalp prickled with dread as the Indian boy cautiously picked his way over the rocky floor of Whispering Canyon. The narrow winding canyon twisted in tight turns like a coiling snake. The steep bluffs closed in on either side like walls, and in some places they met and formed short tunnels.
Brown Fox was not in Whispering Canyon by choice. He had been traveling along a forest trail that ran along the top of the forbidden canyon when a stone rolled under his moccasin. Before he could recover his footing, he had plunged into the abyss. Instinctively Brown Fox grabbed at a mass of gnarled roots and found himself suspended halfway down the cliff.
“My mother is right about my clumsiness. They should have named me Duck Foot!” Brown Fox murmured shakily, grateful for the strong roots so firmly anchored in the rocks.
Because the top of the bluff jutted outward, there was no way for Brown Fox to get back up, even if he had a rope. He trembled with dread as he stared downward. His darting black eyes saw that his only escape was to descend into Whispering Canyon. The handholds and footholds were precarious, but feeling like a fly and knowing there was no other escape, Brown Fox began his descent.
Brown Fox heard eerie moaning whispers as he stepped down onto solid ground. His heart began thudding like a war drum. According to the legends of his tribe, the gloomy place was haunted. Not even the bravest hunter would follow a deer or a buffalo into the haunted corridor where there were constant moaning whispers. Even the oldest men of his tribe could not remember a brave who had entered and survived the forbidden canyon.
The Indian youth cautiously followed a faint path, making certain no loose stone rolled under his moccasins again.
Because he could not see the sun, Brown Fox lost all track of time. He was sure he had walked for several hours, and now the chilling sounds grew louder. Several times Brown Fox started to turn back and then changed his mind. He knew that the south end of the canyon started only a few miles from his village. The north end might wind in aimless circles like a labyrinth, and he would be trapped inside forever! No. He would continue traveling southward.
Brown Fox became so weary that he grew careless. Suddenly he heard a warning rattle. Leaping straight up, Brown Fox clung to a projecting ledge. He was terrified as he watched a huge rattlesnake slither away. The fanged one would have killed Brown Fox if the ledge had not been there!
Shaken by his encounter with the snake, Brown Fox decided to camp for the night where he found a pool of clear icy water. A basin had been carved out of solid rock by the fragile threads of water falling from high up the bluffs.
How many hundreds of years has it taken to form this basin, Brown Fox wondered. He removed thin strips of dried meat from his skin pouch for his supper. Then he sought a safe place to sleep. Remembering the snake, Brown Fox finally found a large boulder with very steep sides. As the drifted off to sleep, the young Indian boy felt less frightened, for the whispering and moaning sounds had stopped.
The sounds had started again, however, when Brown Fox awakened at dawn. They were shrill now and even more frightening. The moans began to rise and fall like the mourners’ chanting when a chief dies. But Brown Fox forced himself onward, although dread slowed his steps. He expected any moment to be confronted by some horrible apparition.
Suddenly Brown Fox stood still in wonder and awe as the canyon turned again. Before him a lush green valley stretched for miles. Brown Fox could see a wide lake, blue as the sky, that sparkled like a jewel in the bright sunshine. Nearby a grassy slope was covered with a herd of fat buffalo. A sleek deer bounded into a dense growth of trees as he watched. How glad Brown Fox was that he hadn’t turned back. He felt overcome with envy as he compared the beautiful valley to the parched and barren land where his people lived.
Now Brown Fox realized that the eerie moaning wails had changed to a soft humming sound. Then the sound completely stopped. The wind ruffled his hair and the noises began again. The Indian boy laughed aloud when he saw a thin spire of rock almost as tall as the canyon walls. Like a needle, the spire had a hole at the top where a cave had once been. The rushing of the wind through this opening made the moaning sighs. They were picked up by the towering bluffs and then magnified and carried for many miles through the canyon!
There were no evil spirits after all and nothing to keep his people from moving to this rich green valley! Brown Fox had solved the riddle of the “haunted” canyon.
Excitement lent wings to his feet. The chief would believe the boy, and he would send a group of braves back with Brown Fox to explore the valley. Brown Fox’s eyes reflected his pride as he thought about the chief calling for volunteers to accompany a boy to Whispering Canyon. They would all be frightened, but each would step forward. None would dare to show terror at actually entering Whispering Canyon, and no Indian braves would be outdone by a mere youth!
As Brown Fox hurried toward home, he thought of how he would proudly return in a few weeks to the canyon with the braves of his tribe, leading the women and children into the beautiful fertile valley he had found.
Here there would be food for all, and there would be peace for his people. The haunted canyon would protect them against enemy tribes, who would fear the canyon even more when they discovered that an entire tribe had vanished into its whispering depths.

Just prior to going overseas during World War II, while we were on maneuvers in the Louisiana-Texas area, my platoon sergeant, Sergeant Tiffin, came to me during a ten-minute break and said, “Lieutenant Bennett, you know and I know that we will be going overseas in the near future, and that when we go overseas it will not be long until we find ourselves in combat. When we get into combat, sooner or later some of us will be required to take the life of one or more of the enemy. I have been taught that if this should happen, I will be held responsible for the blood which I shed, even though I am a victim of circumstance. This is bothering me. Lieutenant, I know that you are a Mormon. What does your church teach regarding this matter?”
What an excellent opportunity for me to share with Sergeant Tiffin the statement of the First Presidency to all LDS servicemen throughout the world, which statement was part of the servicemen’s kit given to each LDS soldier who entered military service. Similar instructions are found in the servicemen’s kits that are made available to our servicemen today.
For the balance of that day, whenever we had a ten-minute break, Sergeant Tiffin and I continued the discussion. Each time we met, he brought others with him; and when we went into the bivouac area at night, the discussions continued into the wee hours. What a tremendous opportunity to share the teachings of the gospel of Jesus Christ!

Aaron watched the snowy scenery whiz by the car window. His family was returning home after spending Thanksgiving with their grandparents and cousins. Soon he fell asleep in the backseat, along with his two sisters.
Suddenly the car swerved, and Aaron jerked awake. The car rolled over once and then came to a stop with a jolt.
“What happened?” Aaron asked.
“I fell asleep at the wheel,” Dad said in a shaky voice. He reached out to touch Mom’s cheek. “Are you all right?”
Mom nodded and turned to look at Aaron and his sisters.
“We’re all right, Mom,” Aaron said. He was grateful his parents always insisted that everyone wear seat belts and that Kaitlyn was in her car seat.
Nicole reached for his hand. Aaron squeezed her hand in return.
The family sat huddled in the car, waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
When the paramedics arrived, they examined everyone. “It’s a miracle that your family came through alive,” one of the paramedics said.
“It is a miracle,” Mom said.
The ambulance took Aaron’s family to the nearest hospital. Mom got six stitches on her cheek, but no one else needed treatment.
Then they took their car to a service station to have it checked out. The car was safe to drive, so Aaron’s family resumed their trip. When they finally got home, it was just before midnight. Everyone felt tired and shaken.
“There is something we need to do,” Mom said.
They all knelt on the living room floor. Dad paused a few moments. Then he began, “Father, we come to thee in thanksgiving.”
After the prayer, everyone remained on their knees. Then Mom got up and headed to the kitchen. “I think we all need something to eat,” she said. She pulled meat and bread from the refrigerator and started making sandwiches.
Aaron thought it was funny that they were having dinner at midnight. Then he realized they hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. “Is this like a second Thanksgiving?” he asked.
Dad smiled for the first time since the accident. “That’s right, Aaron. We have more than usual to thank Heavenly Father for.”

I admonish all families: search out your heritage. It is important to know, as far as possible, those who came before us. We discover something about ourselves when we learn about our ancestors.
I recall as a boy hearing of the experiences of my Miller ancestors. In the spring of 1848, my great-great-grandparents Charles Stewart Miller and Mary McGowan Miller, joined the Church in their native Scotland; left their home in Rutherglen, Scotland; and journeyed across the Atlantic Ocean. They reached the port of New Orleans and traveled up the Mississippi River to St. Louis, Missouri, with a group of Saints, arriving there in 1849. One of their 11 children, Margaret, would become my great-grandmother.
When the family arrived in St. Louis, planning to earn enough money to make their way to the Salt Lake Valley, a plague of cholera struck the area. The Miller family was hard-hit: in the space of two weeks, mother, father, and two of their sons died. My great-grandmother Margaret Miller was 13 years old at the time.
Because of all the deaths in the area, there were no caskets available—at any price. The older surviving boys dismantled the family’s oxen pens in order to make crude caskets for the family members who had passed away.
The nine remaining orphaned Miller children and the husband of one of the older daughters left St. Louis in the spring of 1850 with four oxen and one wagon, arriving finally in the Salt Lake Valley that same year.
I owe such a debt of gratitude to these and other noble forebears who loved the gospel and who loved the Lord so deeply that they were willing to sacrifice all they had, including their own lives, for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. How grateful I am for the temple ordinances which bind us together for all eternity.

“When I was younger, I was struggling with letting go of an issue with one of my siblings, which could have ruined our family unity for years, but my dear mother lovingly and swiftly corrected me and asked me to do what the Lord had counselled the Nephites to do when He appeared to them in the Americas.
“In 3rd Nephi it says (and she made me read this even when I was angry):
“But behold I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them who despitefully use you and persecute you (3 Nephi 12:44).
“It was hard for me to do, at first . . . Who knew that kind of grudge can affect you, not just spiritually, but also physically and mentally? Yet, as Mum shared, the other person with whom I held a grudge against, is living their best life, unaware of my personal turmoil because life progresses for those who learn to let it go quickly.
“She said, ‘Don’t you let Satan win!’
“I am grateful for the Atonement of my Saviour Jesus Christ that allows me, an imperfect daughter of God, a striving covenant-keeper and disciple of Christ to repent daily as I practice being meek. The power of His Atonement strengthens me to keep trying and I know He will be there for all of us in our daily efforts to be meek and lowly in heart.”

In Zimbabwe a fellow crawled on his elbows for 17 kilometers to get to us. We put him in the wheelchair, and he was going around and around with a big smile on his face. After a while he pulled himself out of it and sat on the ground. We asked him why. He said, “I’ve had my turn.”
He didn’t realize he could keep it.
This year he came back with his children to show us that he had cared for the chair so well that it was just like new.

A testimony takes a lot of different things to help it grow—things like prayer, scripture study, and church attendance. Another vital ingredient is time out to think about the things you really believe. The Rochester First Ward, Rochester New York Stake Young Women had a special Sunday outing to the Sacred Grove.
The grove, which is not far from their homes, was a good place to reflect on their feelings about Joseph Smith. All the girls said it was a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon, reverently thinking about their feelings toward the gospel.
“We went and spent time together, just thinking about Joseph Smith and sharing our testimonies,” says Laurel Sarah McKeever.
At the grove, the girls read about the Prophet’s first vision. Then they spent time in the grove and on the Joseph Smith farm, quietly contemplating what had taken place there.
“It’s a good feeling to think that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were there,” says Mia Maid Kathy Domm. “It was really spiritual, and I think it also brought us closer together as young women.”

Jon trudged through the back door. He dropped his backpack and slumped onto a chair.
“I’m not going to school anymore,” he said to Mom. “I don’t know all my ABCs. I don’t know all the numbers in the math book. I don’t know everything. It’s too hard.”
Mom sat down next to Jon and put her arm around him. “It sounds like you had a tough first day of school,” she said.
“I’m not going back,” Jon said, sniffling a little. “I am just going to stay home and help you take care of baby Ella.”
“You are a good helper,” Mom said as she reached down to pick up Ella, who had crawled over to them. “You are patient and gentle with your sister. You are good at helping wash the car. You can rinse the dishes and pick up your toys and tie your shoes. You can do hard things.”
“Those things aren’t hard to do,” Jon said.
“Do you remember when you were learning to tie your shoes?” Mom asked.
“Yes, that was hard,” Jon said. “The laces kept getting tangled in my fingers.”
“It was hard, but you just kept working at it and soon you could do it by yourself,” Mom said.
Jon shrugged. “Well, I wish I could be like Ella. She doesn’t have to do anything hard.”
“Ella is learning too,” Mom said. “Look how she likes to practice walking to you.”
Jon smiled as Ella toddled toward him and grabbed his fingers. “She’s a little wobbly,” he said.
Ella took two steps holding tightly to Jon’s hand. Then Jon wiggled his fingers out of her grip, and she sat down on the floor.
“When I let go she falls down,” Jon said.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “But she keeps getting back up. She wants to do hard things like you.”
“Did I have a hard time learning to walk?” Jon asked.
“Yes, but you didn’t give up,” Mom said. “You just kept trying, and now look at you—you can walk and run and skip and hop and climb trees.”
Jon hopped all the way around the kitchen table. Then he stopped, sat down, and put his face in his hands.
“But school is really hard,” he said. “Do you think I can learn all my letters and all my numbers and everything?”
“Yes!” Mom said. “School is a good place to learn. You’re not supposed to know everything already. By the end of the year I think you will be surprised at all the hard things you can do.”
“Really? You think I can do it?”
“What do you think?” Mom asked.
Jon grabbed his little sister’s hand and pulled her up to stand. “I think I can do hard things.”

Piano Man!
When I was seven years old, our stake leaders asked each ward to choose someone who would be willing to learn to play the piano. I was chosen and began taking lessons from the stake Primary president. When I began learning to play the hymns, I would first read the lyrics. That helped me learn the gospel and feel the Spirit while I practiced. It was hard at first, especially when I started playing hymns for my ward in 2015. Sometimes I cried when I played the wrong notes, but I was determined to get better.
Today, I can play almost all the hymns, including some by memory. Singing the hymns is like saying a prayer to Heavenly Father (see D&C 25:12). The hymns invite the Holy Ghost into our meetings. I think it’s important that investigators feel the Spirit when they come to church. Playing the piano gives me a chance to share my testimony through music.
My name is Carlos V. I live in Chile. I’m 12 years old and serve as ward pianist.

Many years ago, I had a terrible headache, and I could not go to work. I laid on a couch at home. When I was almost asleep, I heard my father call my name and he placed both his hands upon my head and said to me, “be healed, and don’t worry, I will always be with you son.” I woke up quickly and tried to grab his hands, but he was gone. I woke up and, in that moment, I really felt that his spirit came to me and really healed me, my headache was gone, no more pain in my head.

Ivan speaks with great conviction of an experience he had as an 11-year-old. “I had just joined the Church. We were celebrating someone’s birthday at the chapel when all the lights went out. Someone whispered to me, ‘Why don’t you say a prayer, Ivan?’ I knelt down and said, ‘Heavenly Father, please let the lights come back on so we can continue.’ And the lights came back on.
“Children have incredible faith. Now I’m trying to have that same childlike faith. My life went dark. But I have prayed and believed with everything I have, and the lights are back on.”

Throughout his school years, Michael had friends from different groups and with different interests. But there were certain things that Michael had decided and those decisions never changed. He was determined to never miss seminary. Even when he came back from a track meet late, he was there.
And he never let his friends influence him into breaking the commandments. How did his friends react? Michael said, “They sort of understand. They say, ‘This is Michael, and this is the Church he belongs to. And this is what he does.’”
Another point for our list. Stick to your standards.

The story is told of the young child who misbehaved in sacrament meeting. Father and Mother were embarrassed by his actions. Finally, Father was a little disturbed and took the child out. As he went down the aisle, he gave the child a little squeeze. The child knew he was in trouble. As the father turned to go out of the chapel, the child, now up over his father’s shoulder, said, “Bishop, help me!”

The second message that I feel I should follow up on was delivered just last general conference, when I encouraged members to pray to be led to at least one person to whom they could extend an invitation to learn about the restored gospel before Christmas. Many Church members have shared with me some special experiences as a consequence of their asking the Lord for missionary opportunities.
One returned missionary, for example, specifically prayed to be led to “the one” he could reach. The name of a former college classmate came into his mind. He reached out to her over Facebook, and he learned that she had been praying for purpose and meaning in her life. He followed up just at the time she was searching for the truth, and in December she was baptized.
Many similar invitations were reported to me, but only a few people have followed up like this brother did.

For a few years at the Missionary Training Center, I supervised those learning American Sign Language. One day the supervisor brought her group to my office door to announce they’d been asked to sing for the MTC Christmas program. I could tell something funny was about to happen by the look on her face.
“Do you want to know what they’ve chosen to sing?”
“Of course I do!”
“Our two numbers are “Do You Hear What I Hear?” and “I Heard Him Come.’” The missionaries, several of whom were deaf, laughed and clapped. So did I!

We couldn’t help being a little nervous. Mrs. Hall was one of our strongest investigators. She already knew the Church was true, even though she was not a member. Other missionaries had initially contacted her, and as she had received the standard lessons and read the Book of Mormon, her inclination to believe had grown into a strong testimony. My companion and I had encouraged her continued study of the gospel.
But now her sister, Joan McArthur, was coming to visit. Mrs. Hall’s husband and all the relatives on both sides of the family were devoted to other churches, and she did not want to be baptized until her husband (who was, at least, friendly with the missionaries) would embrace the gospel with her. She was also concerned about antagonizing other family members, particularly her parents, by joining the Church before they fully understood what she was doing and why.
It was easy to imagine that Mrs. Hall’s sister was being sent to check up on her and to warn her to quit associating with Mormons. Still Joan was only 20, and it would be her first time away from home. She must have been as full of apprehension during her journey to Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, as we were waiting for her to arrive.
Mrs. Hall, however, seemed unruffled. She simply invited us to dinner a few days later when Joan had had time to get settled. I think Joan was surprised when her sister greeted us at the door and ushered us into the living room. Maybe she had suspected that “missionaries” had to be middle-aged men or raving fanatics. We were happy and yet earnest; she, in turn, seemed at ease chatting with two young ladies approximately her own age. Following the meal, we showed a filmstrip. She had plenty of questions, and we promised to return.
At the next appointment, Joan nearly came dressed in armor. Every argument and falsehood she had ever heard about Mormons bristled. But she didn’t fling them at us. Rather, she laid them on the table and asked for an explanation. As she described her apprehensions, we responded as best we could. Our answers seemed to satisfy her. She knew her Bible well and referred to scripture after scripture. She seemed genuinely interested in the passages we quoted, and all of us looked them up and discussed them. From that day on, I was impressed with her deep spiritual insight. At the end of the conversation we all felt a little more at ease. We explained why we were called “sisters,” talked about our homes and families, and shared the convictions that had led us to our 18-month calls of service to the Lord. She told us about the excitement of her first cross-country train trip.
The next lesson was about the Apostasy. Joan desperately fought it, finally asking us to leave and not come back. She said she didn’t want to hear any more. She was upset; we were disappointed and frustrated. She later wrote in a letter, “I remember that after you left that evening, I cried bitterly because of the words in the Joseph Smith tract that said all of the other churches were ‘an abomination in my sight.’ That really hurt because my church meant something very special to me. I had believed all my life what my parents had taught me, and a statement like that dashed my whole world. How could Joseph Smith say something like that? But he had said the Lord had said it. That was the big difficulty.
“Jessie (Mrs. Hall) didn’t force me to continue studying, but she did encourage me. I don’t think I would have continued without her. But there was too much love between us as family members for me not to.
“I was angry and felt indignant, feelings I marvel at now. I wonder how I remained teachable, but the Lord was kind to me and patient. My problem was, I thought I could believe everything the sisters were teaching me and still remain a member of my church. I clung to that idea.”
But Joan was a truthseeker. After a week of prayer and soul-struggle, she called us back. She had changed her mind. When could we come teach her more? I noticed as we presented the next discussion, about the restoration of the gospel, that a change came over her. She stopped resisting. She seemed to be thirsting—eagerly asking questions as though the answers wouldn’t come quickly enough. She was understanding that Christ’s visit to Joseph Smith was an act of love; that the truth is on earth in its fulness, not for those who want to find fault, but for those yearning to fill in missing pieces.
The same spirit prevailed at the next lesson. Topic: the plan of salvation. I knew my companion and I weren’t alone doing the teaching. Words flowed freely. Scriptures were located without trouble. Spirit communed with spirit. Overcome with excitement, Joan exclaimed, “Now I see why Jessie wants to be baptized!”
Despite all her declarations that she would never join the Church, Joan was a different person than she had been when she first arrived to visit her sister. As we left the house, I felt inspired to turn to my companion and say, “I know that someday she will join the Church.”
We spent a few more visits with her, teaching a strong gospel lesson each time. Then I was transferred. I heard no more about this sincere young lady, or about the Hall family, until after I returned from my mission.
Then one day a letter with Canadian stamps was waiting in my mailbox. It had taken them a long time to track down my address and to write to me, the letter said, but Joan and Sister Hall wanted me to know that they had both been baptized two years before in a cold lake just outside the city!
It was the start of a string of surprise letters. Two years later one told me that Joan was on a mission in South Africa and that Sister Hall’s husband, Barry, though still not interested in studying about the Church, loved the missionaries and members as he always had and was taking the family to Sunday School. Later I received a wedding announcement from Joan. She was being married in the Salt Lake Temple to a returned missionary. Later that same year Sister Hall wrote that her husband had been baptized and loved working in the Church. The next year they brought their children with them to be sealed as a family in the Salt Lake Temple.
Since then Brother Hall has been a branch president, a member of a stake presidency, and is now a member of a stake high council. Joan’s husband, Dale J. Laub, became a bishop. Both sisters are active in their callings and have done genealogy that has allowed them to accomplish temple ordinances for several hundred ancestors.
As a young lady just out of her teens, Joan McArthur had come to Victoria determined that she would change her sister’s mind if necessary. Instead, she had the courage to change her own. Her sincerity in calling upon the Lord would not allow her to do otherwise. Her sister Jessie was wise enough to be patient while explaining the gospel, allowing the Lord’s Spirit to do the persuading.
Both of them learned to listen to their hearts, and many others will be eternally grateful that they did. Joan McArthur not only changed her opinion about the Church—she changed her life.