Gospel Story Finder

Let’s begin with becoming charitable. I will remind you of recent experiences. Many of you participated in a day of service. There were thousands of them organized across the world.
A council of your fellow Saints prayed to know what service to plan. They asked God to know whom we should serve, what service to give, and whom to invite to participate. They may even have prayed not to forget shovels or drinking water. Above all, they prayed that all who gave service and all who received it would feel the love of God.
I know those prayers were answered in at least one ward. More than 120 members volunteered to help. In three hours they transformed the grounds of a church in our community. It was hard and happy work. The ministers of the church expressed gratitude. All who worked together that day felt unity and greater love. Some even said that they felt joy as they pulled weeds and trimmed shrubbery.

Lindsay felt nervous as she looked around the hospital room. She knew that soon someone would come to take her to the operating room for surgery. Mom and Dad stood close to her bed.
A few days before, Lindsay’s family had had a special family home evening. Mom gave a lesson about priesthood blessings. Then each member of the family told about a time when he or she was blessed by the power of the priesthood. Lindsay felt peaceful and happy as she listened to their testimonies. Mom explained that the peaceful feeling was the Holy Ghost telling Lindsay that what she was hearing was true.
At the end of the lesson, Lindsay’s older brother, who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, put a drop of consecrated oil on her head and said a prayer. Then Dad gave her a wonderful blessing. He said that Heavenly Father knew and loved her. He said that the doctors would be blessed in their work and that the surgery would go well. He also promised that Lindsay would have a special feeling of comfort and peace that would replace her fears.
Waiting in the hospital, Lindsay tried to be brave, but tears slowly leaked from the corners of her eyes. Two men in hospital clothes came into her room and said it was time for the surgery. They were kind as they tried to cheer her up, but still Lindsay’s fear did not go away.
Lindsay hugged Mom and Dad from her bed. Then one of the men pulled up the railing on her bed so she would be safe as they wheeled her down the hall. As Lindsay turned to see what he was doing, she saw a familiar silver ring on his finger. A warm, peaceful feeling filled her heart as she saw the letters CTR on the ring. Lindsay smiled as her fears slipped away. She knew that everything was going to be fine.

Several months ago, a stake president and I visited a sister in his stake and her young adult son. After years away from the Church, wandering difficult and unfriendly paths, she had returned. During our visit, we asked her why she had come back.
“I had made a mess of my life,” she said, “and I knew where I needed to be.”
I then asked her what she had learned in her journey.
With some emotion, she shared that she had learned that she needed to attend church long enough to break the habit of not coming and that she needed to stay until it was where she wanted to be. Her return was not easy, but as she exercised faith in the Father’s plan, she felt the Spirit return.
And then she added, “I have learned for myself that God is good and that His ways are better than mine.”

I was in the front yard, dragging our big, recently emptied trash cans around back, when I noticed a stranger walking down the street toward me. He wore casual clothes, with nothing to indicate his business.
“Are you Scott?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, wondering how he knew my name.
“Scott Allen?” he added.
“Yes,” I said again, my curiosity turning to apprehension.
The man then flashed a deputy marshall’s badge in my face. “Sit down!” he ordered.
I plopped down abruptly on our brick steps. Now I was really worried. My mind was racing. I could see myself being handcuffed and led away to a jail cell where red tape would keep me locked up with all sorts of scary men for who knew how long.
“I’m not the Scott Allen you’re looking for!” I told him.
“That’s what they all say,” he replied.

Looking the deputy in the eye and trying to keep my voice steady, I said, “There’s a guy going around committing crimes using my name. I have a card from the police that tells all about it.”
After what seemed like an eternity, the deputy said, “All right, let’s see it.”
He then stayed right on my heels as I went to my room, where I fished the card from my wallet. He kept one eye on me as he read, then dialed the number on the card.
“Looks like you check out,” he said as he handed the card back to me. “Sorry to scare you.”
Just then my mom walked in. She was surprised to see the stranger, and worried to see my shaken appearance.
The deputy quickly explained. He said that once a positive identification of the suspect is made, an officer is under no obligation to listen to explanations or arguments. He can just say, “You’re under arrest,” handcuff the suspect, read him his rights, then haul him off to jail.
“But,” he said to my mom, “your son didn’t look like a car thief, so I did something I rarely do—I gave him the benefit of the doubt and listened.”
I learned a powerful lesson that day about the importance of appearance. I was grateful I had a “missionary style” haircut and could look the deputy in the eye knowing I had nothing to hide. He saw who I truly was in my countenance. People do sometimes judge one another by appearance, and it’s important that the outside reflect what’s on the inside.

This Christmas seemed the worst ever. I longed for a BMX mountain bike like snowflakes want cold weather. My friend Simon had one for his 14th birthday last month. Cool blue and chrome with 15 gears. He’s always raving about riding through the Clent hills and forests, a couple of miles from our village in the central part of England.
But I didn’t get one. Instead my presents were a track suit, new skateboard, and the promise of a job starting the day after tomorrow. A paper round. A 6:00 A.M. paper round! I mean, how bad can things get?
Not only would I miss skimming over frosted hillsides at breathtaking speeds, but I would have to get up early, starting Wednesday. And it’s holiday time. Lying-in-bed time.
What were my parents thinking of? I can guess, of course. It’s all about working for things you badly want, so you’ll appreciate them. Old-fashioned nonsense if you ask me. Of course, I’d appreciate that bike. What could be more amazing than bombing into the distance along those mountain tracks? I’d be there every spare minute. Life can be mean at times.
It felt even more mean Wednesday morning. “Come on, Robert,” Mum whispered. “It’s quarter to six. Rise and shine. There’s porridge and hot black currant on the kitchen table.”
I couldn’t even focus properly. Surely this wasn’t for real. It’s liquorice black out there, freezing cold and lonely. The whole world’s asleep except for me—and my crazy Mum.
Breakfast didn’t taste too good. Lumpy porridge bounced in thick clumps as I stumbled onto our porch. Muffled in track suit, red jacket, white scarf, red woolly hat and boots, I felt like some undersized Santa.
“Now don’t forget houses 50 and 66 don’t want papers delivered,” Mum reminded, helping me stuff endless sheets into the dirty yellow bag.
I lifted the sagging load onto my shoulder. “Mum, I don’t want to sound weak or anything, but this is killing me. Have you felt the weight of these things?”
“Never mind, dear. Think of the muscles you’ll build. Here’s your skateboard. And remember, be quiet in the block of flats. Elderly people don’t like being wakened this early.”
“Huh!” I muttered, heading lopsidedly down the path. “They’re not the only ones.”
The first morning was painful. I never realized how many different letter box shapes there are. The wide ones move along with the newspaper. But others—I nearly lost my fingers a few times. Heavy gold ones that grab before the paper’s through are the worst. They look rich and splendid, but they grab.
I got quite a shock at one house. As I slid a paper through the wide chrome flap, I heard a snarling thud as a body hit the door, snatching the paper and just missing my fingers. A little shaken, I walked down the path and rode to the next house.
A muffled figure was climbing into his car. He turned as he heard me coming.
“Ah, there you are my lad.” The man actually sounded pleased to see me. No dogs. No fighting metal slits. Human hands to receive my offering.
“I hoped you’d arrive before I left for work.” His voice was soft, kindly. “We’ve been away, so we didn’t give our usual tip this year. Here, have this.” He put two pound coins into my hand in exchange for a paper. Two solid pounds. Brilliant!
“Thanks very much, sir.” I stood, open-mouthed, wondering if I should bow or shake his hand or something. But he was in the car and gone before I could move. I made mental notes never to take shortcuts over this man’s garden.
I moved on. With feet half iced and fingers black with ink, I began dreaming of earnings. Let’s see—if I get five pounds a week for sixteen weeks, in four months there will be enough for a secondhand bike. And I already have two pounds. I could almost smell spring sunshine and scorching tyres.
As six-thirty appeared, so did a lighter sky and household stirrings. I had ten houses to go before freedom. I never even saw the small lad until I reached his doorstep, because something else caught my eye. The newspaper fell open at page 4, and there, taking up a whole sheet of pictures, were bike adverts. Oh man, how my feet itched for those pedals. And look at those wheels!
The sound of sniveling brought my head up sharply. It was too cold for anyone to be sitting outside, let alone a little tot in his pyjamas.
“Hey, what’s up, mate?” I whispered, trying not to frighten him.
Lifting his brown curly head a moment, he wiped a sleeve across his face, like my youngest brother does when he’s trying to act braver than he feels. “Nothing much,” he said.
I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. I mean, pyjamas aren’t exactly outside gear, and that stone step can’t be the warmest place on earth.
I crouched at his level. “So why are you out here freezing?”
He squinted at me, as if weighing the friendship in my voice, then screwed up his face, pushing small fists at his eyes to stop the tears.
“Look kid,” I said, wondering how to get him inside without too much fuss. “It’s Christmas week. Don’t you want to go back in where it’s warm and play with your toys?”
Gulping sobs began shaking his body. Wrong line.
“Er … what’s your name?” I asked kindly.
His feet were curling sideways on the cold stone. I took off my hat, wrapping it around his purple toes. He half smiled. I put my scarf around his shoulders.
“I’m Jamie,” he said, “and … and … I wanted a bike for Christmas.”
You too, I thought.
“But my … my dad left home before Christmas came, and …”
Giving him a slightly grey tissue from the depths of my coat pocket, I nodded slowly and patted his arm. “You mean you didn’t have the bike after all?” I interrupted, feeling pleased at my cool detective instincts.
His big eyes looked up, reproaching me for being so dumb. “Yes, I did,” he exclaimed.
“Sorry,” I muttered, mystified. “Then why … ?”
“I was trying to tell you,” he interrupted. “You see, my mum got one for me. She thinks I think it was Santa, but I know it wasn’t ’cos I heard her talking on the phone. Anyway, all over Christmas I thunk and thunk. Dad used to take me to get her a present, but …” He scrubbed at fresh tears and hiccuped. “But this year no one did, and I didn’t have anything for her and …”
He stopped, and began shivering all over. I couldn’t think what to do next. Suppose he was getting pneumonia or something out here.
That’s when the brain wave arrived.
I touched his arm again. “Look, you get inside and sit by the window, watching. I’ll be back in 15 minutes.”
He rose to his feet, staring owlishly, one finger stuck in his mouth, his face filled with awe. He nudged open the front door and his voice sounded husky, wondering, as if magic were beginning. “What you going to do?”
“You’ll see,” I called, skating up the path.
By the time I’d finished the last delivery but one, I had second thoughts. Okay, so most of the shops are closed, but Dillons will be open already. It will take all of two pounds to get a present though. My dream bike slid into the distance. My subconscious dragged it back. I needed every penny. The kid won’t really expect to see me again. It was a stupid idea. He’ll be all right. He’ll soon forget.
I battled toward the final letter box … a gold one. As my cautious fingers outmanoeuvred the gleaming flap, I suddenly pictured Jamie’s pinched face gazing at me in wonder.
That did it. I slung the bag across my back and skated fast. Dillons looked warm, inviting. The box of chocolates came to £1.80.
I raced back to number 9, my skateboard taking bumps in harmony with my legs and feet. A strange bubbling was building inside me—and it definitely wasn’t the porridge.
Some massive clouds began unloading snow just then, but I could see Jamie’s window from several houses back. His nose was flattened against the glass, face squashed and goggle-eyed.
By the time I reached his door he was out on the step, bare feet wriggling, and eyes and mouth all but meeting in one huge grin.
“You forgot these,” he whispered, swapping my scarf and hat for the brightly wrapped box.
“What will you say to your mum?” I asked, catching his excitement.
“Happy Christmas!”
I nodded, “But where will you say the present came from?”
“Santa’s helper, of course.” He spoke the name firmly, the grin shouting pleasure and satisfaction.
I glanced down at my red jacket, feeling a little foolish. “Of course,” I muttered. “Who else?”
The door closed, but curiosity got the better of me. Gently lifting the letter flap, I peeped through. It was one of those scenes you know will stay in your mind forever.
Jamie was yelling, “Mum, Mum!” She came rushing from the kitchen. As she received her gift, both their faces shared a kind of glow, as if some magnetic power were zapping back and forth.
I could almost touch the joy. My inside felt odd once more—happily odd—as if something were melting deep down, melting and spreading upwards until it reached my throat.
The scene blurred. I had to swallow hard. Softly letting down the flap, I tiptoed back to the pavement.

The bell rang. The first-grade students raced for the door.
“Quietly!” Mrs. Mills said.
Eric stayed at his desk.
“Aren’t you going out?” asked Mrs. Mills. Eric didn’t look up. “Recess is fun. Don’t you want to play?”
“Not really,” Eric whispered.
Eric didn’t like recess. Usually he just wandered around by himself. The other kids already had lots of friends. One boy called him names. He didn’t want Mrs. Mills to know.
“I’m sorry, but we have to go outside,” Mrs. Mills said. “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”
Eric felt like crying. He looked out the window again. He saw someone he knew. Eric smiled and waved.
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Mills said.
“That’s my brother, Pete,” said Eric. “He’s in fourth grade.”
Eric ran outside.
“Why aren’t you playing football?” Eric asked. The older boys always played out on the field.
“Because I’m going to the swings with you,” said Pete.
“Really?”
Pete led the way. They walked past kids hanging on the monkey bars and jumping rope. Eric loved being with his brother. Then they walked by the field where the boys were playing football.
“Hey, Pete,” one of the boys said. “Who’s the kid with the glasses?”
“He’s my brother, Eric. I’m showing him around today.”
“So you’re not playing with us?”
“No,” said Pete. “Today I’m with him.”
Eric smiled as they walked to the swings. A kindergarten girl was standing nearby.
“Want to swing?” Pete asked.
She walked over. “I just lost a tooth!” she said. She showed Eric.
“Cool,” said Eric.
Eric climbed on one swing. The girl climbed on another. Pete pulled back the first swing and gently let go. Then he pushed the other one. Eric felt the wind on his face. The girl was laughing. Pete made sure the swings didn’t go too high.
“You could play together again tomorrow,” Pete said.
“That would be fun,” the girl said.
Maybe, thought Eric, recess would be better from now on.

Ever since my baptism the Liahona (Spanish) has always been a source of inspiration for me. I was therefore angry when my father began to give the magazines to his friends at work. I wanted to keep them to use in the future.
My attitude changed completely when one day someone called at the door looking for my father. He said that my father had given him a few Liahonas and that he had talked to him about the gospel, but now my father no longer worked where he worked. This brother had read and reread the Liahonas and had pondered what they contained. Days later, when the missionaries knocked on his door, Heavenly Father had prepared him to recognize the truth and make covenants with the Lord. He immediately sought out my father to thank him for sharing the magazines.
Since that experience, I understand better that the Lord uses every means to bring the truth to those who are ready to serve Him.
Giesi Romeo Aquirre DávilaMexquital, Guatemala

“I’m heading up to Brice Lake to do some fishing. How about coming along?” My father was calling to me from out in the garage.
“Sure! Let me get my stuff out.” I had already made plans for the afternoon, but my dad was a busy man and I rarely had a chance to go fishing with him. We loaded the yellow canvas canoe on our battered station wagon, packed a sack lunch, and were on our way.
It was overcast, and in the distance, rain was pouring from the clouds. Our destination was in Chestnutt Canyon, a seldom-frequented mountain valley. Brice Lake was fed by icy streams and could only be reached by an arduous dirt path.
As the car crept along the precarious switchbacks, I attempted to strike up a conversation; however, it soon tapered off. An occasional roar of thunder was all that could be heard over the constant whine of the straining engine. By then, we had passed through four Alpine showers and the monotonous swoosh of the windshield wipers began droning me to sleep.
With a jerk I awoke, dripping with water. A chuckle sounded behind me, and turning, I saw my father holding an empty cup and wiping his hands dry. We unlashed the heavy canoe, tied our equipment inside, and hefted it upon our backs.
Hiking up the slippery mud trail into the dark and dripping forest, we caught the aromatic scents of pine and aspen. The crisp air held the taste of recent storm, and its moisture tickled the back of the throat. At times, I lost my footing and would fall with a crash; but my father, being patient, would ask if I was all right, then help me up. Nothing more was said as we trekked along, taking in the environment and the joy of being together as conversation.
We laid the old canoe in the water and shoved off. There was no need to call strokes since we almost read each other’s thoughts. Slicing through the clear water to an already prearranged spot, we began our day. We sat through two thundershowers, weaving our lines with the lake as we glided along the banks, not speaking often but with perfect communication.
That day we caught no fish and spoke less than 20 words, but we had shared something, something difficult to express in words. I knew my father loved and cared about me, and I loved and cared about him. It was a time when the feelings between us were so clear yet unspoken. I had begun to know my father, a strong and quiet man, one that cared about others and the world around him.
Loading up the gear, we left for home. While coming out of the mountains, we viewed the valley below, pierced with majestic pillars of sunlight. I was glad I’d come.

Let me give you two examples of a fulfillment of this promise. One day while serving as the Executive Director of the Missionary Department, I received a phone call pertaining to a man who had received a call to serve as a mission president accompanied, of course, by his wife. His business partners, who could not understand the willingness of this man and his wife to leave their business, offered the church $100,000 if the call would be rescinded. I knew, of course, the answer but took it, nevertheless, to the member of the Quorum of the Twelve who was serving as the Chairman of the Missionary Executive Committee. His response was predictable. “Tell them we need the brother, his wife, and would appreciate the $100,000 as well.”

How much pressure do you think his partners applied on him before the money was offered to the Church? What risk was he taking after investing so much of his life in the business world? How difficult might it be when they returned to the business after their mission? Would there be anything there? I have watched that couple carefully since that day and can testify to you that the impact of their devotion and sacrifice has righteously influenced a multitude of people. Their sacrifices during and after that mission have “yielded much precious fruit.”

Toshi just moved from Japan to the Philippines. He planned a fun activity for his Primary class.
Are you excited, Toshi?
Yes, but I’m a little scared too. I don’t speak the same language as the other kids.
That’s OK! I’ll tell them what you say.
We have lots of games and treats. I hope they like it.
Of course they will. And it sounds like they’re here!
Thanks for inviting us, Toshi! We’re so happy to be here.
Toshi will speak Japanese, and I’ll tell you what he says.
Your activity was so fun! Thank you!
Thank you for coming!
This story took place in the Philippines.

A woman was converted up in Idaho. She comes down to see me often. She calls me after nearly every conference. She is a nurse. She gave me a check for $500 for the children’s hospital because, at the death of her husband, one of our Saints visited her to tell her what she might expect in the future if she just knew the truth. I got a letter from her recently. She said she had found more love in this Church than she had ever known in her life—even from her own mother.

Two weeks after graduating high school in American Samoa in 2002, I boarded an airplane for basic training in Fort Sill, Oklahoma – marking a new chapter in my life as an enlisted service member in the United States Army.

In January of 2003, I was assigned to the northern part of South Korea for my first tour of duty. Although only 18 years old, I felt like I was a grown man. I was making my own money and now had the liberty of doing whatever I wanted to do with my free time. I loved buying clothes and eating out, so the new experience of making and spending money was quite exhilarating.

After my first couple of months in my new duty station, soaking in all my freedom as an adult, I often felt a little distant from Heavenly Father. Buying clothes and hanging out with friends did not bring the enduring peace I yearned for.

Luckily, a chapel on a hill was about a twenty-minute walk from my barracks that held sacrament services at noon. I knew that my ticket to once again access the comforting power of the Holy Ghost was on that hill. I was determined that I would not miss a Sunday. One of the blessings that came from going to church was my desire to keep God's commandments and be a good person.

Unfortunately, my desire to be a good person seemed to lose momentum as the week progressed. Many of my buddies would entertain some outing ideas over the week, which were appealing but deep inside, I could sense that these activities would not lead to a place that I wanted to be spiritually.

In hindsight, I believe that attending church services throughout my military service has helped me maintain a relationship, although distant at times, with Heavenly Father. I felt Heavenly Father was pleased with my efforts to attend church. This sense of reassurance reinforced my desire to be good and do good.

However, I often felt confused and frustrated as to why I didn't feel the desire to do good all the time. It seems as if I only felt those feelings the strongest on Sundays and maybe Mondays, and as the week progressed, the appeals of worldly and unrighteous activities seemed to be winning the battle for my soul.

“Why can't I always have the desire to do good?” This question comes to mind often whenever I ponder my life and the person I hope to be.

During my military service, my conversations with God were often in the form of questions, partly due to my inexperience in figuring out how to be an adult. I felt many of those questions went unanswered. But as I look back on my life, I can see why. The answers to those questions would eventually come at a time when I was ready to receive them.

In stressing the need for mature men and women to be about the work of the Lord, President Benson related the experience of his two widowed sisters. One was the mother of ten children and the other the mother of eight. After they had sent their children on missions, they approached their bishops about going on missions themselves. President Benson relates that he remembers well the day a number of years ago when they called him and said, “Guess what? We have received our missionary calls.” President Benson said, “What missionary calls?” And they replied, “We’re both going to your old field of labor in England.” (In Conference Report, Apr. 1984, p. 66; or Ensign, May 1984, p. 45.)

They did go to England and served as companions for twenty months.

Several years ago I interviewed a young woman for a temple recommend to receive her own endowment and to be married and sealed for time and all eternity. As I completed the interview and signed the recommend, tears were streaming down her cheeks. I said, “Please share with me your feelings.” Then she told me the following story.
Since her youth she had sought to find truth and direction in her life. She had yearned to find peace and happiness, but no matter where she looked, she could not find it. It had come to a point where she was very distraught, assuming there was really nothing in life that had true meaning or was fulfilling. In this frame of mind, one evening while visiting a dear friend and recounting her concerns and despair she said: “I looked behind the sofa where I was sitting to the bookshelf. My eyes fell upon a particular volume, and a compelling feeling came over me. I knew I needed to find out what was written on its pages.”
She took the book from the shelf and read the title, the Book of Mormon. She asked her friend where she had received it. Her friend indicated that two young missionaries stopped her on the street and gave her the book but only after a commitment to read it. Due to a lack of time, she had just put it on the shelf.
“I started to read,” she said. “I could not put it down.” A feeling came over her that she had never felt before. Her friend told her that she could take the book with her. She went home and continued to read through the night. The next morning she went into the streets looking for the two young missionaries. It didn’t take long to find them. They agreed to teach her the gospel, and in a few weeks she was baptized a member of the Church.
Through her tears, she explained that since that day she had found a joy and inner peace that she never dreamed possible.
Living in a small town with few members and even fewer opportunities to marry in the Church, she didn’t dare hope that she might one day marry in the temple. But she felt it was through the guidance of the Holy Spirit that she met a young man while vacationing in another country. He was a member of the Church and honored his priesthood. They had fallen in love, and he had asked her to marry him in the temple. The realization that she could now go to the house of the Lord and be sealed for time and all eternity brought joy to her soul and feelings of thankfulness and gratitude that were overwhelming and impossible to describe.
“I continue to ask myself,” she said, “why me? Why me? I am so blessed.”
Her humble, sweet spirit and testimony touched me deeply. As she left, we both shed tears of joy and appreciation.

Ankawu was standing in front of the counter at the Cahuilla Indian Reservation trading post. Her eyes sparkled as she read a sign tacked to the wall above the scales.
SCOOTER RACE SATURDAY $ FIVE DOLLARS $ AWARDED TO THE WINNER
The only person who could possibly be a challenge is Caromanie, she thought. When it came to competing with him in a footrace, she usually won, but he was fast on a scooter. Ankawu was especially anxious to win the scooter race so she could buy a gift for her mother.
She walked to the other side of the store as she had so often done and gazed longingly at the orange potholders made in the shape of mittens. Ever since her mother burned her hand when removing a pot from the stove using only an apron, Ankawu had wanted to buy potholders for her.
“Would you like to buy those potholders, Ankawu?” asked the trader, interrupting her thoughts. “I notice you look at them every time you come into the store.”
Ankawu felt her cheeks grow warm. “Maybe, if I win the race,” she answered.
“Never say if,“ encouraged the man. “If you have doubts, you’ll lose before you start.”
Ankawu smiled at the kind man with white hair and bronze face. “Thank you for your advice,” she said and left the store.
On her way home Ankawu met Caromanie. “I’m going to win the race,” he bragged.
“Maybe,” said Ankawu with a shrug.
“I have the biggest scooter,” taunted Caromanie.
“Sometimes big things are clumsy,” reminded Ankawu.
“I’ll tell you what,” continued Caromanie. “Just to show you what a good sport I am, I’ll race you for practice.”
“OK,” Ankawu agreed. “I’ll meet you at the road. We can race to the bald spot.”
The bald spot was a smooth area of ground that was hard as rock without any vegetation growing on it. A utility road stretched over a slight incline before running downward onto the bald spot.
“I must beat Caromanie,” Ankawu kept repeating to herself on the way to the practice race. “I must. I wish that just this once he would move as slowly as his turtle namesake.”
Several children followed Ankawu to where Caromanie was waiting on the utility road. At a signal, both riders moved swiftly forward. Finally Caromanie gained enough speed to beat Ankawu over the inclines and then gracefully coasted onto the bald spot.
“See, what did I tell you,” he teased.
Ankawu turned her scooter around and hurried home. She was so disappointed that she could hardly keep back the tears. “Mama,” Ankawu asked, “what do you do when things go wrong?”
“I try to do something constructive like watering flowers, pulling weeds, or helping someone. That way I forget myself and soon the hurt passes. Doing good is like winning. Something comes back to you when you least expect it,” her mother answered in her gentle voice.
Ankawu put a pail into her wagon and filled it with water; then she pulled it past the clapboard houses and out into the open fields. In the distance a few cattle were grazing and the smell of pastures filled the air. She was warm and perspiring by the time she reached a cluster of desert boxwoods called jojoba plants. As she poured the water, it disappeared quickly into the dry earth, hardly leaving a trace of moisture. The jojoba’s green leaves were thick and broad, meeting the challenges of survival in such an arid country, and the branches were laden with seedpods almost as large as peanuts. Feeling pleased and less unhappy, Ankawu started for home. On her way, she saw Caromanie in his yard, applying oil to the wheels of his scooter and spinning them after each application.
“Can I use some of your oil on my scooter wheels?” she asked.
“Sorry, but it’s all gone,” answered Caromanie. “How about another race tomorrow?”
Ankawu’s first impulse was to say no, for she did not believe he had used all the oil, but she shrugged and said, “If you want to.”
Once more Ankawu raced Caromanie and lost. And once more she filled a pail and went off to water the jojoba plants. In her bitter disappointment, she pulled off a seedpod and broke it into bits. An oily substance clung to her hands. Ankawu rubbed her fingers together, and they felt slippery. It must be a kind of oil! she thought excitedly. She gathered more seedpods into the pail and hurried home.
Ankawu crushed the seedpods with a stone and collected enough oil in an empty can to apply to her scooter wheels. “When tomorrow comes,” she said enthusiastically, “I’ll be ready!”
On Saturday morning every youngster on the reservation who had a scooter was preparing for the race. Some were dressed in native costumes; others wore their jeans.
Caromanie was smiling. He was wearing his fancy buckskin vest. “I’m going to win,” he boasted.
Ankawu adjusted the single feather in her headband and waved to her mother as the starter alerted the contestants to take their places.
A whistle signaled them away in a flurry of excitement. An array of bright blouses and shirts seemed to move like birds taking off. But the other riders were soon left behind. Now only Ankawu and Caromonie were competing for the prize. Nearing the crest of the incline, Ankawu prayed that she could keep her lead. Her scooter seemed to be flying over the hard ground as though it had wings. Voices rose in loud cheers as she reached the bald spot ahead of Caromanie.
As soon as the five-dollar bill was in her hand, Ankawu hurried to the trading post to buy the potholders.
“Oh, dear!” she cried out when she saw they were gone. “Did you—”
The trader came to the counter. “I knew you’d be coming back, so I put them away for you.”
“But how did you know I was going to win?” asked Ankawu.
“I just had a hunch,” he said, reaching under the counter for the potholders. “Your mother told me how you crushed the jojoba seedpods and used the waxy oil on your scooter wheels. It’s a wonderful lubricant. I read about the jojoba plant and its seedpods in the paper. The oil from these seeds is similar to sperm whale oil. The government wants to plant many jojobas on Indian reservations.”
“Then the whale wouldn’t be in danger anymore?” questioned Ankawu.
“That’s right,” he said, nodding his head.
“I’m glad,” said Ankawu. “Glad for the whales and also glad because now there’ll be more jojoba plants. Thanks to them, I won the race and now I can take these beautiful orange potholders home to my mother.”

William Law had first wept at the Prophet’s announcement of the principle of plural marriage, and with his arms around Joseph’s neck had pleaded that he not teach it.

His son Richard, who said this took place about 1842 and who was present at the time, later related the incident to Joseph W. McMurrin, who summarized his remarks as follows:

William Law, with his arms around the neck of the Prophet, was pleading with him to withdraw the doctrine of plural marriage. Mr. Law predicting that if Joseph would abandon the doctrine, ‘Mormonism’ would, in fifty or one hundred years, dominate the Christian world.

Mr. Law pleaded for this . . . with tears streaming from his eyes. The Prophet was also in tears, but he informed the gentleman that he could not withdraw the doctrine, for God had commanded him to teach it, and condemnation would come upon him if he was not obedient to the commandment.

Over that William Law became bitter, and soon he was excommunicated. Then Law attempted to organize his own church and began to fight back.

While serving in the Europe Area, I was privileged to see these principles in action as a miracle unfolded in Sheffield, England. At the end of 2008, Bishop Mark Dundon of the Sheffield First Ward was pondering what he could do to help his ward grow. In leadership training, his stake president had asked the bishops, “What are you willing to sacrifice to be successful in missionary work?” From the teachings of his leaders, Bishop Dundon knew that a good ward mission leader is key, a functioning ward council is essential, and a willingness to listen to the promptings of the Spirit is crucial.
After much pondering and prayer, Bishop Dundon exercised his priesthood keys and followed the promptings of the Spirit to release his two counselors, Gregory Nettleship and Robert McEwen. Bishop Dundon then called Brother Nettleship to be the new ward mission leader and Brother McEwen to be the assistant ward mission leader. The members of the bishopric had been close, so this change was not easy for them. But Bishop Dundon knew that in this particular instance the decision was correct, and both counselors humbly accepted their new callings.
The bishop, with his new ward mission leaders and ward council, prayerfully made plans and set goals for growing the ward. As they implemented their plans, they began to see significant success. Convert baptisms increased substantially, and many people returned to activity in the Church. Little did the ward leadership know, however, that their faith and works were to be rewarded in ways they never thought possible.
In March 2011 a young missionary and his companion were contacting people in the streets of Sheffield. Elder Nicholas Pass saw a man and his wife walk by and had a strong feeling that he should talk to them. Elder Pass and his companion ran to catch up with the couple. Communication was difficult—the couple was from Slovakia and did not speak English—but an accompanying friend helped with interpretation. In the discussion on the street, the missionaries used pictures to introduce the First Vision and the message of the Restoration. The couple then accepted an appointment for the missionaries to begin teaching them.
Ludovit Kandrac, the father of the family, started to read the Book of Mormon. Soon he quit smoking. In the teaching process, the missionaries had to use multiple interpreters and even learn a little Slovak themselves. On May 14, 2011, Ludovit, one of his daughters, and two other relatives were baptized.
At his baptism, Brother Kandrac bore his testimony. Through an interpreter, he related his experience of meeting the missionaries. When he walked past Elder Pass and his companion in the Sheffield city center, he had a warm feeling in his chest. He disregarded the feeling and continued walking, but as he glanced at the missionaries again, he was moved by the love they exhibited as they spoke with people. Though he wanted to approach them, Brother Kandrac continued walking. He was startled a minute later when the missionaries approached him.
Along with another Slovak family who had joined the Church a year earlier, these baptisms marked the beginning of a modern conversion miracle among the Slovak population in Sheffield, England. These new members came to church every week, bringing other family members and friends. They opened their homes to the missionaries and invited others in their community to listen to the gospel.
Elder Pass and his new companion, Elder Joseph McKay, visited often with these families. They taught them, served them, ministered to them, and blessed them. It was a marvelous time of teaching, learning, and receiving gifts of the Spirit for investigators, converts, missionaries, stake and ward leaders, and members alike.
Throughout the summer and fall of 2011, more Slovaks joined the Church. The increasing numbers made it difficult for local members to continue to provide transportation to and from the meetinghouse. For several weeks the faithful Slovak Saints walked five miles (eight km) each way to attend Sunday services in a language they could not understand.
In September 2011 the Sheffield stake presidency was reorganized, with Bishop Dundon called as the new stake president. A month later a fireside was held for both English and Slovak Saints in which interpreters were present.
While sitting on the stand, President Dundon felt impressed that a Slovak group needed to be formed that would be attached to the Sheffield First Ward but would meet at a facility in the Slovak neighborhood. A suitable meeting place was soon found and rooms rented. On December 11, 2011, the first block of meetings was held in the new facility. Sheffield First Ward leaders optimistically hoped that 50 people would attend. Instead, 84 people—including 63 Slovaks—attended.
Following the reorganization of the Sheffield stake, Robert McEwen was called as bishop of the Sheffield First Ward. Brother Nettleship continued to serve as mission leader. Under both bishops, the ward mission leader and the ward council did a remarkable job of leading the ward to “be with and strengthen” the Slovak Saints (D&C 20:53).
The ward council addressed issues such as how to provide for the new members’ needs, how to help them fully participate in ward activities, how to nurture them in the gospel, and how to overcome language barriers. Council members fasted and prayed for divine help and then worked hard. They visited the new members and participated in teaching appointments with the full-time missionaries. They provided transportation. They ordered Church materials in Slovak. They took the newly baptized members to the temple to perform baptisms for the dead.
Ward leaders also organized a Christmas service project. Ward members donated funds and collected toys, clothes, and other gifts. Large Christmas gift bags that included food for a Christmas dinner were distributed on Christmas Eve to the Slovak Saints and other families within the ward boundaries.
Long-time members and new members understood little of each other’s spoken language, but they all felt the warmth of the language of genuine love. A remarkable feeling of joy, happiness, and excitement enveloped members and investigators.
Over the next year this little group developed into a solid Church unit, with whole families being baptized and uniting with the Church. Fathers were ordained to the Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthoods, sons were ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood, a Primary with more than 20 children was established, and Young Men and Young Women programs were organized with more than 25 youth attending weekly. The Lord provided a full-time missionary from the Czech Republic who could speak the language and add support to the group. At the same time, these families sent referrals to their homeland.
Why did this happen? Because God has not ceased to be a God of miracles. Because faithful missionaries diligently sought those who were prepared to receive the gospel. Because the stake president and bishops acted in faith and followed the guidance of the Holy Ghost. Because a ward council took responsibility and worked in unity. Because members learned the language of love and acted upon invitations from their leaders, having faith and confidence that God meant what He said: “I am a God of miracles; and I will show unto the world that I am the same yesterday, today, and forever” (2 Nephi 27:23).
The success in Sheffield does not need to be a singular event. It reminds us of the promises given through the prophets and can ignite our faith and our desire to become instruments in the hands of God by inviting people around us to come unto Christ. If we do so, we will place ourselves in a position where the Lord can bless us with opportunities to teach, activate, and nurture others. And we will see evidences that He continues to be a God of miracles.

I remember a personal experience that helped me learn to replace doubt with hope. I was serving as a stake president at the time. My children were small. My wife and I owned a tortilla-making business, and we worked long hours.

One of those nights, when my wife and I had to make tortillas from midnight until 3:00 a.m., three young men came to our shop. All three were high on drugs. Two of them wore ski masks and long raincoats. The raincoats hid their weapons. They threatened us, put us inside the shop, and closed the door. One stood guard outside, repeatedly shouting, “Kill them! Kill them!”

One of the young men put the barrel of his gun against my temple and forced me to lie down. The other put the barrel of his gun to my wife’s chest. I prayed that my children would not become orphans, and the Lord protected us. The robbers finally locked us in the bathroom and disappeared, driving away in my truck.

We escaped and called for help. The police came and so did my brother. As soon as possible, we took my wife home. Then my brother and I went looking, unsuccessfully, for my truck. Feeling very sad, I returned home at 5:00 a.m.

To my surprise, my wife and children were not there. A neighbor told me that my four-year-old daughter was suffering stomach pain, and they had rushed her to the hospital. Knowing that we would desperately need money for her care, I felt I had no choice but to return to the tortilla shop and fill the orders for the day. Since my wife and I were the only workers, I was alone, rushing like crazy, kneading, putting dough in the hopper, adjusting the size, running back and forth to finish tortillas and wait on customers.

By now it was 8:00 a.m. I began to reflect on the events of the night. The question went through my mind, “If you are the stake president, why is all this happening to you?”

I pushed the malicious thought aside and prayed for strength. Then I heard a voice behind me: “President.” It was my bishop and a brother from the ward, my home teachers.

The bishop said, “We don’t know how to make tortillas, so we can’t help you here. But don’t worry about your truck, your wife, your sick daughter, or your other children. You stay here and we will help you with the rest.” My eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

They took charge of everything but tortillas. That afternoon when I returned home, I found my house clean and tidy, my shirts ironed, and food waiting for me. No one was home, but I knew that the Relief Society had been there. The police had found my truck, and someone from the ward had paid to get it released.

I quickly went to see my wife and daughter. The bishop had been there and had given my daughter a blessing. She had appendicitis, but everything was under control.

As my wife and I talked, we were impressed that the bishop had not used fast offerings or items from the bishops’ storehouse to assist us. Rather, he used the resources and mercy of the members of our ward.

A few days later, while my daughter was recuperating and my wife was helping me in the tortilla shop, three women arrived. They were the mothers of the young thieves and had come to offer their apologies. They explained that the police had caught their sons. Later these mothers practically dragged their sons into the shop to ask forgiveness, and we forgave them.

Let me give you another example or two of what I would call unrighteous judgment. First, a bishop who needs additional officers sees a member of his ward who, though not active, seems to have ability, but he says to himself, “Oh, he wouldn’t be interested. He wouldn’t want to accept a position.” So he does not approach him, and the man remains inactive for years.
A new bishop is called to the ward, asks the man if he would be willing to accept a position, and finds that he is really ready and anxious to work.
Don’t prejudge, but give the person an opportunity. Let him decide for himself to accept or decline.

My Personal Experience I was in college, had a good part-time job and was engaged to be married within a few months. My life was exciting and the future looked bright. I was surprised when my Stake President approached me one Sunday morning. He said, “The Lord wants you to serve a mission.” I felt powerfully impressed that this was a call from God. I acted upon that impression and immediately committed myself to serve.

I was called to serve in the Southern States Mission and I began my preparation with personally difficult tasks. I postponed my wedding for two years, quit my job, left the university and said goodbye to my loved ones. It seemed that I was leaving everything that mattered to me.

I traveled with missionary companions by train to Atlanta, Georgia. Two missionaries picked us up at the train station and took us to meet the mission president. My mission president greeted me for a few moments and then told me that I must leave immediately by bus to Montgomery, Alabama where I would be given instructions about my field of labor. The two missionaries took me to the bus station and handed me a piece of paper with an address hand scrawled on it. They told me that the missionaries in Montgomery would tell me what to do.

I walked tentatively into the bus station, bought a ticket and boarded the bus. It was getting dark and I began to feel very alone. I found an empty seat next to a window and tried to ignore growing discouragement from not knowing where I was going, whom I would be with or what I would do.

When the bus driver took his seat, he stared at me in the rearview mirror. I could see he was looking at me. He walked to where I was sitting and shouted, “What are you trying to do, boy?” I was shocked that he would shout at me with all the people on the bus watching. I had no idea why he was angry with me. I was so embarrassed. I barely whispered, “I’m just riding the bus.”

He yelled, “Are you trying to start something here?” He pointed to a white line on the floor of the bus that I had not noticed before. He told me to sit in front of that line or he would put me off the bus. I was terrified and moved immediately. I did not know until much later that in those days, white lines divided the areas where white and black people could sit. There had been a lot of dissension in the southern states over segregation of whites and blacks and the bus driver thought that I was trying to start a protest.

I rode for several hours huddled in the bus trying to fight off fear, loneliness and embarrassment. By the time I reached Montgomery, my trembling hands could hardly lift my suitcases. The bus arrived very late at night, so the bus station was practically empty and there was no one there to meet me. The only information I had was the missionary address hand scrawled on the piece of paper the missionaries gave to me in Atlanta. I had no idea how to find the missionary address.

I awakened a taxi driver sleeping in his taxi and asked him to take me to the address on the paper. He was irritated. He told me it would cost a minimum of $5 and I promised to pay the fee, even though it seemed very expensive. In those days, $5 was a lot of money. My entire monthly support was only $65. He drove me less than 100 yards (91m) and announced “this is it!” The taxi driver demanded his fee and left me and my suitcases in front of a small white house. The house was dark. I carried my suitcases to the porch and knocked on the door. Nobody came. I hammered the door more loudly. After a few minutes, a sleepy-eyed missionary opened the door. “Who are you?” he asked. When I told him who I was and why I was there, he said he didn’t know I was coming and he didn’t invite me in. I apologized and told him I was only doing what I was told to do. “We don’t have any room for you,” he said, still leaving me on the porch.

What do you want me to do, Elder?” I cried. “I have been sent here and I have nowhere else to go.” He finally invited me into the house and told me I would have to sleep on the kitchen floor. He then disappeared into his bedroom. He suddenly returned to the door and said to me: “Elder, if I had as much time left of my mission as you have on yours, I would slash my wrists!” He then disappeared behind the door. Never had I felt so alone and so unwanted and discouraged. The kitchen floor looked as if it had not been cleaned for several generations of missionaries and I was definitely NOT going to sleep on THAT floor.

I put my suitcases on the filthy floor and turned out the light. I stood at the door and peered out the window. I could see the bus station that I had left only a few minutes before. “I could easily walk there and buy a ticket for home,” I thought. I had just enough money left. All of my joys hopes and dreams were at home. People there loved me. I could have my old job back, go back to school, get married, see my family. Over and over again the thought came to me: “Go home. Nobody here cares about you. Nobody here wants you.”

I asked myself, “Why did I come here in the first place?” My Stake President’s words came back to my mind: “The Lord wants you to serve a mission.” But actually, there was imbedded within that request, a coded instruction, which the Holy Spirit had revealed to me. I recalled that I felt a powerful impression at the time he told me those words. It was a call from the Lord to sacrifice whatever I thought was important for the Lord’s purposes. It did not matter if it was convenient, or pleasurable, or even tolerable. Sacrifice for the Lord meant sacrifice whatever was needed to do what He had commanded. I remembered that the feeling had been so strong I had postponed my wedding, quit my job and left the university so I could serve a mission. However, being in the mission field was not at all like I thought it would be. I had been sure once, but now when I felt the need of divine reassurance the most, the powerful feelings seemed a distant memory.

Almost every aspect of my introduction to the full time mission had been an unexpectedly difficult struggle for me. Yet I knew that I was on the Lord’s errand. The absence of a profound witness at that darkened window in the dreary missionary apartment didn’t change that knowledge. It came to my mind that I was in the process of making a very important choice. It was a choice between what I wanted to do and what the Lord wanted me to do. It was the first time in my memory that I had ever recognized so clear a choice. I spoke out loud to myself: “I will never, never quit the calling I have accepted. No matter what happens, I will stay on this mission.” As I said the words, peace came to my heart for the first time since arriving in the mission field.

Now, many years later, I recognize that the Lord was guiding me through this experience. I learned that the Mission Call was actually a symbol of God’s invitation to consecrate my life to Him. It is the Holy Spirit which provides the key to unlock the code of the symbol by Divine Revelation.