Gospel Story Finder

Casey Heussner and Jared were approaching me at the same time, so I knew that something was up. Having been their Blazer patrol leader for several months, I could frequently read their actions.
“Mom,” Jared began. “We want J. J. Baird to start coming to our patrol meetings. We’ve been talking to him, and he really wants to come.”
“I thought you said that J. J. was mean and that in Primary class he always hit you,” I responded.
“He did at first,” Casey replied, “but that was only because he was afraid that we wouldn’t like him. Brother Lamb explained to us about J. J. He told us to be patient with him and be his friend.”
“Will you try once more? Will you call Sister Baird and see if it’s OK with her?” Jared asked.
“I’ll be glad to,” I said.
J. J. and his family had moved into our ward a few months earlier. As soon as I learned that one of the Baird boys was of Blazer age, I had called Sister Baird to make arrangements to get him involved in Scouting. She wasn’t sure that J. J. could keep up with the other Scouts, however, because he was moderately retarded. She felt that it would be better to wait until he became more comfortable in the new ward.
But I had promised the boys, so I decided to try again. Brother John Lamb, the Blazer A Primary teacher, invited me to observe his Primary class the following Sunday.
J. J. responded to John especially well. When John asked him to read a scripture, J. J. went to the front of the class and began fumbling through the words. Brother Lamb helped him over the harder ones. When J. J. had finished reading, Brother Lamb hugged him and said, “You did very well, J.J.”
J. J. earnestly responded, “So did you, John.”
I darted a glance at the other two Blazers. Neither of them snickered; both just waited for the lesson to continue, and I determined to make J. J. a part of the patrol.
I called Sister Baird again. When I assured her that Casey and Jared really wanted J. J. to be their friend, she agreed to give it a try.
Our first patrol meeting with J. J. involved a trip to a mineral show. J. J. picked up a rock that had a fish fossil in it and announced loudly, “Jared, this fish is dead.”
A few museum patrons chuckled. Ignoring them, Jared nodded his head and gently said, while displaying his own specimen, “I know, J. J. This one is too.”
Scouting has a merit program designed especially for boys who are marginally retarded. The requirements aren’t as difficult as the standard ones, enabling “special” Scouts to progress to First Class as their capabilities allow.
One afternoon the Blazers spent the whole meeting teaching J. J. the Scouting salute and the flag ceremony, two requirements for one of the badges he could earn. We were soon to have a court of honor, and they wanted to make sure that J. J. received an award.
The following Sunday we were at a special Scout fireside. When the colors were presented, J. J. stared intently at Jared and Casey. Once the two boys realized that they were being copied, they straightened up and saluted the flag perfectly. J. J. also saluted the flag perfectly.
J. J. knew that the other Scouts were earning merit badges. He was very interested in Casey’s Sports merit badge and wanted one too.
“I don’t think that you can get one, J.J.,” Casey told him, explaining, “You have to participate in two sports and be in a tournament.”
“I can do that, Casey,” J. J. pleaded. “I can run real good.” Casey looked to me for help, and I told J. J. that we would find something that he could do to earn his sports merit badge.
That same weekend I saw a notice in the paper about the Special Olympics and sent for information.
The Chandler City Special Olympics team practiced on Saturday mornings, so we changed our patrol meeting times to fit that schedule. Each week the Blazers met at the park to practice with the other athletes. J. J. participated in the actual events, while the other two boys timed the runners, measured softball throws, and cheered for everyone. Helping J. J. had become a patrol project.
The practices lasted three months. During that time, J. J. participated in the city meet and the county meet. He won first and second places in his two events—the softball throw and the 40-meter run.
Next, J. J. went to the state competition held at Arizona State University in Tempe. Its opening ceremonies included a parade of athletes, where each group passed by the cheering crowd. Then the Special Olympics flame was lit. Later, the athletes and their families were treated to a banquet.
The next morning the competition began. Jared, Casey, and I sat in the bleachers with the Baird family, searching the crowded field for J.J.’s red hair. We spied him just as he was beginning his first of three turns at the running broad jump. From where we sat, it looked like J. J. had made some very good jumps.
His next event was the 100-meter race. Competition for this meet was greater than it had been for the city and county meets. Although J. J. ran as fast as he could, he only placed fifth. Jared and Casey tried to make a big deal about J.J.’s fifth place ribbon, but he wouldn’t cheer up.
“What about the running broad jump,” I asked. “Did he win anything there?”
Brother Baird shook his head. “The judges say that they don’t have any record of his jumps, and no one can recall seeing him do any.”
We had been home about an hour when I answered a knock on our front door. J. J. and his family were standing on my doorstep, grinning. Hanging around J.J.’s neck was a Special Olympics gold medal!
“What happened!” I exclaimed with delight.
Brother Baird explained. “I remembered that I had filmed J.J.’s running broad jump with the video camera. I took it over and showed the footage to the judge. He searched again for J.J.’s score. Not only did he find it but he saw that J. J. had the longest jump of the day!”
“Tell Jared and Casey,” J. J. yelled from the car window as they drove away.
At the next court of honor, J. J. was especially honored. He was awarded several Scout badges, including his Tenderfoot badge and his Sports merit badge. And Jared and Casey had earned their Handicapped-Awareness merit badges.
I overheard the three Blazers congratulate each other after the court of honor. As Casey admired J.J.’s new merit badge, he declared, “Well, J.J., you’re a real Scout now.”
J.J., pointing to Casey’s merit badge, said, “So are you, Casey, so are you.”

When I first visited Czechoslovakia, long before the people there had freedom, I was met by Jiri Snederfler and his wife, Olga. I went to their home, which is where the Prague Branch of the Church met. On the walls were picture after picture of the Salt Lake Temple. I said to Sister Snederfler, “Your husband must truly love the temple,” and she said, “I, too; I, too.”
She brought out an album of pictures of the missionaries who were serving there in 1950, when their government made the mission there close. As she held up each photograph, she said, “Wonderful boy, wonderful boy!”
Brother Snederfler has always been willing to stand up for the gospel. When the Church wanted the Czechoslovakian government to again recognize it officially, the Communist leaders told us, “Don’t send an American or any other foreigner. Send a citizen of Czechoslovakia.” That was frightening because to admit then that you were a leader of any church meant that you might be thrown into prison!
Brother Snederfler was the one chosen to go to his government. He later told me that he had asked for the prayers of the branch members. Then he went to Olga and said, “I love you. I don’t know when—or if—I’ll be back. But I love the gospel, and I must follow my Savior.” With that spirit of faith and devotion, he went to his government leaders and told them that he was the leader of the Church there and that he wanted them to again recognize it officially.
Meanwhile, Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles had been working very hard to get the needed approval. It came: “Your church is again recognized in Czechoslovakia.”
Brother Snederfler eagerly went to tell Olga and the other stalwart members of the Church there that once again missionaries could come to their country and that they could again worship Heavenly Father in freedom. It was a happy day.
Jiri and Olga Snederfler are now the president and matron of the Freiberg Germany Temple, where faithful members of the Church in Germany, Czechoslovakia, and nearby countries attend. They are happy to find themselves each day in the Lord’s house, which they so dearly love.

For generations it has inspired those who read it. Herbert Schreiter had read his German translation of the Book of Mormon. In it he read:
“When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”
Herbert Schreiter tested the promise and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In 1946, released as a prisoner of war, Herbert returned to his wife and three little daughters in Leipzig, Germany. Soon thereafter, he went as a missionary to Bernburg, Germany. Alone, without a companion, he sat cold and hungry in a room, wondering how he should begin.
He thought of what he had to offer the war-devastated people. He printed by hand a placard which read, “Will there be a further life after death?” and posted it on a wall.
About that same time, a family from a small village in Poland came to Bernburg.
Manfred Schütze was four years old. His father had been killed in the war. His mother, with his grandparents, and his mother’s sister, also a widow, and her two little girls, were forced to evacuate their village with only 30 minutes’ notice. They grabbed what they could and headed west. Manfred and his mother pulled and pushed a small cart. At times, the ailing grandfather rode in the cart. One Polish officer looked at the pathetic little Manfred and began to weep.
At the border, soldiers ransacked their belongings and threw their bedding into the river. Manfred and his mother were then separated from the family. His mother wondered if they might have gone to Bernburg, where her grandmother was born, perhaps to relatives there. After weeks of unbelievable suffering, they arrived in Bernburg and found the family.
The seven of them lived together in one small room. But their troubles were not over. The mother of the two little girls died. The grieving grandmother cried out for a preacher, and asked, “Will I see my family again?”
The preacher answered, “My dear lady, there is no such thing as the Resurrection. They who are dead are dead!”
They wrapped the body in a paper bag for burial.
On the way from the grave, the grandfather talked of taking their own lives, as many others had done. Just then they saw the placard that Elder Schreiter had posted on the building—“Is there further life after death?”—with an invitation from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a meeting, they learned of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.
They joined the Church. Soon their lives changed. The grandfather found work as a baker and could provide bread for his family and also for Elder Schreiter, who had given them “the bread of life.”
Then help came from the Church in the United States. Manfred grew up eating grain out of little sacks with a picture of a beehive on them and peaches from California. He wore clothes from the welfare supplies of the Church.
Manfred Schütze is now a member of the Third Quorum of Seventy and supervises our seminaries in Eastern Europe. His mother, now 88, still attends the temple at Freiberg where Herbert Schreiter once served as a counselor to the president.

When I was about 12, I wanted to know for myself that the Book of Mormon was true. In a talk, I could testify that the Book of Mormon is the word of God because my Primary teacher had said it. But inside myself, I didn’t understand what that meant.
I knew the promise of Moroni that said that if I read, pondered, and prayed, I could know also (see Moroni 10:3–4). I read for weeks and felt at peace, but it didn’t produce anything spectacular—no light, no angels, no voice. In the end, I quit reading the Book of Mormon.
One day while studying Exodus, I read that when the Israelites lacked food, God sent manna to them. Each person was to take a certain amount each day. He sent them food, but they had to figure out how to gather it.
Nephi’s words came to me: “The Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7). From this I understood that God had commanded the Israelites to leave Egypt and planned to provide for their hunger. This Book of Mormon scripture enlightened my understanding of the Bible, and I concluded that the Book of Mormon was the word of God.
As Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles explained, personal revelation resembles more the gradual rising of the sun than the light that is suddenly produced when we flip a switch.1 I began to see the Book of Mormon in a different way.
During the months that followed, I knew more surely than ever that the Book of Mormon was the word of God. The impression I felt numerous times through the voice of the Spirit was “It’s true, it’s true, it’s true.”
I still read the Book of Mormon almost every day, and every time, I hear these words: “It’s true.”

Elder F. Burton Howard of the Seventy acquaints us with a strong testimony of the converting power of the Book of Mormon: Sister Celia Cruz Ayala of the Puerto Rico San Juan Mission decided to give the Book of Mormon to a friend. She wrapped it in attractive paper and set out to deliver her present.

On the way she was attacked by a bandit who stole her purse and with it the wrapped copy of the Book of Mormon. A few days later she received this letter:

Mrs. Cruz:
Forgive me, forgive me. You will never know how sorry I am for attacking you. But because of it, my life has changed and will continue to change. That book [the Book of Mormon] has helped me in my life. The dream of that man of God has shaken me. … I am returning your five pesos for I can’t spend them. I want you to know that you seemed to have a radiance about you. That light seemed to stop me [from harming you, so] I ran away instead.

I want you to know that you will see me again, but when you do, you won’t recognize me, for I will be your brother . … Here, where I live, I have to find the Lord and go to the church you belong to.

The message you wrote in that book brought tears to my eyes. Since Wednesday night I have not been able to stop reading it. I have prayed and asked God to forgive me, [and] I ask you to forgive me. … I thought your wrapped gift was something I could sell. [Instead,] it has made me want to make my life over. Forgive me, forgive me, I beg you.

Your absent friend (Church News, Jan 6, 1996, 16).

Such is the conversion power of the Book of Mormon.

Illustration by Stephanie Hock
Ever since I was baptized, I have been interested in family history and temple work. I loved the idea of being sealed to my family for eternity, but I didn’t think this would ever happen because many of my family members, including my father, struggled with alcohol addiction.
I grew up in that environment, but the good advice of my dear mother helped me decide not to follow that path. She got baptized a year after I did.
When I turned 18, I decided to serve a mission and received a call to serve in Arizona, USA. This was one of the best experiences of my life. When I returned home, I discovered that my father’s addiction was totally out of control. I remember questioning if my service had been of any worth if things were now so bad at home.
During the April 2018 general conference, I heard Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles say, “As you … discover, gather, and connect your family … you will find healing for that which needs healing.”1
My mother continued to pray, read the scriptures, and seek for inspiration to help my father. Eventually, she convinced him to get help. He entered a treatment home for nine months. We could visit him only once a month. It wasn’t easy, especially in the beginning, but month after month my mother and I continued to be faithful in the gospel and to seek for our ancestors. In doing so, we were greatly blessed in ways we couldn’t have imagined.
After my father’s treatment, he returned home and has been sober ever since. He met with the missionaries but was not yet ready to commit to the gospel. My mother suggested that we go to the temple grounds and feel the Spirit there.
A short time later, the missionaries felt inspired to stop by our home and visit my father. He shared with them his desire to be baptized. That evening, my father and mother shared the great news with me.
The Lord had fulfilled His promise. That which needed healing was healed. My father was healed from his addiction, and my doubts were healed with renewed faith. Our family is now preparing to be sealed.

Jimmy Anderson’s life had changed drastically when his family left Denmark for America. He limped along beside his family’s wagon. A few yards in front of him, his stepmother, Caroline, walked. Snatches of her Danish words now drifted back to him. He watched as she looked up at Fader (Father), who sat on the wagon seat, driving the ox team. Jimmy heard Fader’s voice answering her. It was a comforting, familiar sound in this strange new land of sagebrush and endless miles.

“Jimmy.” Caroline’s voice woke him from his thoughts. “Run fetch that stick, please.”

Hobbling off in the direction of her pointing finger, Jimmy soon found the little sage branch. Part of it lay under a pile of buffalo dung. The animal was nearby, Jimmy knew, for this pile was not one of the dried chips used for fuel, but a stinky, fresh one. If kindling wasn’t so scarce, he would have left the branch. He picked it up, scraped it off in the dirt, and carried it to the woodbox Fader had attached to the back of the wagon.

Jimmy looked down at the rags wrapping his feet. I hope there is a stream at the camp tonight, he thought. Whenever there was enough water, he soaked his rags so that they would peel away from the sores on his feet.

“Why the long face?” Jimmy looked up to see his older brother and hero, John.

“My feet hurt,” Jimmy admitted.

John laid a comforting hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “What’s this? Do I hear murmuring?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I was just answering your question. You’re lucky, John. You have boots.”

“Aye, little brother, but even feet in boots sometimes bleed when you’ve walked as far as we have.”

Stepping over a rock, Jimmy asked, “So what do you do when your feet hurt?”

“I think about the blessings.”

“Blessings?” Jimmy looked into John’s face. He saw a mixture of peace and conviction.

His older brother nodded. “God has restored His ancient authority, Jimmy Boy. Because of that, we can be united as a family forever.”

“One day we will be with Moder (Mother) again.” A warm feeling filled Jimmy.

John nodded. A tear seeped from his eye and rolled down his dusty cheek. “Sore feet is a small price to pay.”

“That’s not the only price, John. I still have bad dreams about the fire.”

John tipped his hat to shield his eyes from the sun. “Do you also remember what Caroline found in the ashes?”

“A lump of gold—enough to make two wedding bands and pay our fare to America.”

“See? Even in the fire there was a blessing.” John gave Jimmy an encouraging pat.

“Lars,” Fader called John’s Danish name, “skynd dig (hurry)!”

“Coming.” John ruffled Jimmy’s hair, then trotted away.

Jimmy wished for a walking stick. He shook his head. It wouldn’t do me any good, anyway, he thought. It would just be used for kindling.

Thinking about the gold in the ashes, Jimmy imagined finding a treasure bound up in his rags. He grinned as he grasped the handle on the lid of the woodbox. Hopping along on one foot after the rolling wagon, he found a good toehold and climbed up. Finally perched on top of the box, he picked at the knots in the ragged strings until he had untied them. He loosened the cloths covering his feet and peeked among the folds—nothing.

“Oh, well.” He retied the knots. “At least I got a ride—and we’re going to Zion, where people won’t burn your house down if you’re a Mormon. And there isn’t as much dust up here.”

He even smiled and waved as he looked back at Brother Bysbee in the next wagon.

“I see you found a seat, Jimmy.” Brother Bysbee laughed good-naturedly.

“It’s better than walking!” Jimmy answered. It felt good to be sitting, even though the wagon ride jolted and rattled him to the bone. He looked out over the hills of gray-green sagebrush, the home of jackrabbits, prairie dogs, and buffalo—and soon his home, too. Long before he was ready to move, he heard Fader call, “Jimmy, please get that scrap of wood.”

Jimmy sighed. He was tired. To get down, he’d have to jump. That would hurt. But Fader had called. Gritting his teeth, Jimmy leaped. As he tumbled in the dirt, he rolled out of the way of Brother Bysbee’s oxen.

Suddenly Jimmy heard a bellow of rage. He looked to the opposite side of the wagon. An angry buffalo thundered from behind a bush and charged the woodbox! Its massive head crashed into the box and splintered it. Screams, shouts, and bawling from the startled oxen filled the air. “Whoa!” Brother Bysbee called. “Whoa there!”

Stamping, pawing, and snorting, the buffalo ran past Jimmy so close that he saw the crazed look in the animal’s eyes. Gunshots exploded.

“Jimmy!” The boy looked up to see Caroline and John running toward him.

From the front of the wagon Fader called, “Are you hurt?”

“I’m all right.” Jimmy called back.

He reached out his hand, and John helped him to his feet. “You were right about the blessings, John. If I hadn’t obeyed Fader, that buffalo would have killed me!”

“Two blessings came out of that one.” John agreed. “The Lord spared your life, and He provided buffalo meat for everybody in camp.”

As Jimmy reached down to pick up the broken pieces of the woodbox, he hardly noticed his sore feet. “We’ll have a good fire tonight!”

Not long ago I read about an incident that occurred in the life of U.S. President Harry S. Truman after he had retired and was back in Independence, Missouri. He was at Truman Library, talking with some elementary school students and answering their questions. Finally, a question came from an owlish little boy. “Mr. President,” he said, “was you popular when you was a boy?” The President looked at the boy and answered, “Why, no. I was never popular. The popular boys were the ones who were good at games and had big, tight fists. I was never like that. Without my glasses I was blind as a bat, and to tell the truth, I was kind of a sissy.” The little boy started to applaud, and then everyone else did, too (Vital Speeches, Feb. 1983, p. 6).

Always live the standards in the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet, and avoid “unholy places.” To enter the temple, we must be worthy. It helps when we stand in holy places now. That means avoiding places and times when we would be tempted to make wrong choices. I recall a story by President J. Reuben Clark Jr. (1871–1961), a counselor in the First Presidency, about his teenage daughter. She was leaving for a dance, and he said, “Have fun, my dear. Be back by midnight.” She replied, “Daddy, this is the night of the prom. We go to the dance and are not back until early morning.” President Clark responded, “Yes, I know that is what many will be doing. But you must be back before midnight.” She, then, in desperation said, “Daddy, you just don’t trust me!” To which he replied, “My dear, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, I don’t even trust myself. Be back by midnight.”3

When I was nine years old, there was a family reunion at my house in Coimbra, Portugal. My parents were busy entertaining our relatives. Everybody was talking and laughing. While the grown-ups were busy, I decided I wanted to have some fun too.
My house was close to the Mondego River, and I thought it would be fun to go fishing. I didn’t want to go alone, so I took my four-year-old sister with me. I had a feeling that I should tell my mom and dad where we were going. But they were busy talking, so I decided to go without telling them.
We walked along the riverbank until we found a nice spot. I gave my sister some small rocks to throw into the water while I enjoyed fishing.
Soon my parents noticed that my sister and I weren’t at home. They drove all around town looking for us. Many hours later my father noticed that my fishing equipment was missing. So he and my mom searched the riverbank until they found us.
My parents were relieved to find us, but they were also unhappy with me. It was very dangerous to play by the river without my parents, especially for my little sister.
From this experience I learned that we always need to talk to our parents—and listen to them. They have our best interests at heart. I also learned that it is important to listen to the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost tried to tell me that I shouldn’t go fishing without telling my parents. But I didn’t listen. Even though we were having fun, my sister and I were in danger. If we listen carefully to our parents and to the Holy Ghost, we will be safe.

As a young man I was given a very strong written admonition to prove myself a faithful and obedient son so that as I grew older and whenever I needed counsel and advice, I should go to my parents, though they be “bowed in years,” to receive from them wisdom, comfort, and guidance. My father passed away over 20 years ago, having been a great and exemplary source of wisdom for me all the days of my life, and we just laid my 101-year-old mother to rest beside her eternal companion last Monday. In her 100th year, she affirmed her lifelong testimony in these words: “The gospel is a way of life; it is part of the plan to help us avoid bitterness. More than ever, I believe that this life is good but that the next life is better” (in “Growing Old Graciously: Lessons from a Centenarian,” Religious Educator 5, no. 1 [2004], 11).
My mother often told me that she prayed for me and for our family every day. As she came closer and closer to the veil, her prayers were especially fervent and meaningful to me. Both of my parents, as well as my dear parents-in-law, endured or are enduring to the end in righteous paths, leaving a legacy of faithful dedication for all their posterity to follow.

One of my current stewardships is for members of the Church incarcerated in correctional institutions in Utah.
Just before Christmas, my wife, Mary, and I attended a training seminar required by the state for those who volunteer at prisons. At the beginning of the session, the prison chaplain asked the 40 or so volunteers present to identify the church or other non-profit organization with which they were affiliated. About half of the volunteers were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
As we went around the room, the first few volunteers stated their affiliation and used the full name of the Church. Then, row by row, person by person, other members simply stated their affiliation as “The Church of Jesus Christ.”
As individuals whom I had not previously met repeated “The Church of Jesus Christ,” “The Church of Jesus Christ,” it felt to me like a series of small but powerful testimonies. These faithful volunteers were identifying themselves as followers of Christ, committed to His admonition to come unto those in prison. [11]
Is using the correct name of the Church “consequential”? That is surely my experience, both as I have listened to others and in my own conversations with those of different faiths, as I have felt the testifying power of using the full name of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I was a little stressed out. It was seventh period, and by the end of school I had to turn in my biography, which would be read to 500 of my classmates at a prom assembly. What did other people honestly want to hear about me? I wasn’t popular like everyone else selected for the honor of being on the prom court. Did anyone really care?
Suddenly, a girl named Sammy piped up, “Shelby, you’re a funny guy! Just be yourself.”
Then Derek chimed in, “You’re always talking about your church. Why don’t you say something about that?”
Jokingly I responded, “Why don’t I just offer everyone a free Book of Mormon? That would be a bit different.”
Everyone laughed and dared me into actually doing it.
I scribbled something down and read it to my classmates. They laughed and said they liked it. So, I turned it in.
The day of the assembly came, and I was a bit nervous. I didn’t exactly hang out with the “popular crowd” on the weekends. Most of the kids on stage had been royalty on multiple occasions, and they acted like it was routine. I sat back and casually tried to fit in.
Before I knew it my senior class began filing into the auditorium. The class president took care of some class business and then started introducing the prom court. I sat, nervous and excited, up on the stage and listened as the other biographies were read. The girls stood up one by one and were escorted by guys from the court. They walked into the aisles of the auditorium while someone continued to read their biographies as they made their way around the auditorium and back to the stage.
Then my turn came. I escorted a girl and headed for the aisle. I could hardly take the anticipation as I waited for them to get to the part about the Book of Mormon. How was everyone going to react? What would people say about me?
I finally heard the announcer read, “One of the most important things to him is his church. Speaking of which, if anyone would like a free copy of the Book of Mormon, feel free to call him or just ask him, and he’ll be more than happy to get you a copy.”
There was a slight snicker in the crowd. Some church members might have thought, “If only they knew he wasn’t joking!” or maybe, “Shelby’s gone a bit overboard this time.” Other kids may have groaned, thinking, “There he goes again. He’s always talking about his church.”
There were, however, a couple of students who took notice. Three friends came up to me during that next week and asked if they could have a copy of the Book of Mormon. I don’t know who was more surprised when I asked for three copies of the Book of Mormon—the missionaries or me. I made sure all three of my friends got a copy and offered to have the missionaries teach them. Only one of my friends, Joel, said yes.
Joel started coming over to my house a couple times a week to meet with the missionaries. It was really fun. The missionaries were such good teachers. The things they taught about—the Apostasy, the Restoration, and the Book of Mormon—just made so much sense. Joel seemed to agree.
One day the conversation moved to baptism. The missionaries turned and looked at Joel and said, “Joel, will you follow the example of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and be baptized by someone holding the proper priesthood authority?”
Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. My mind started racing. What in the world had I done? Missionaries were talking to my friend about baptism! What would he say or think? Would this affect our relationship forever? All I could do was sit and eagerly await his response.
Joel paused, looked at the missionaries, and said, “That’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot. Yes. I think it’s something I want to do.”
I really liked what I was hearing. Joel continued to take lessons at my house and was eventually baptized.
Looking back, I wish I had been a better missionary in high school. It’s so easy. All I did was randomly ask if anyone wanted a Book of Mormon. Three kids took me up on the offer, and one was baptized.
While sharing the gospel can be easy, it is also a skill. That skill will only come through prayer, scripture study, talking with more experienced members, and plain old practice. All the Lord expects of us is our best. It is His work. We need to pray for those experiences and then follow the Spirit and open our mouths when those opportunities come.
After seeing the excitement missionary work can cause, I want to to share the gospel with people for the rest of my life.

My sophomore year of high school was really hard for me. I was struggling—I needed to know that someone loved me. We were studying the Book of Mormon in seminary that year. One day, I had to give a devotional thought, and I decided to give one on love. To make a point, I replaced some words in verses 10 and 12 in 1 Nephi 8, which talk about the tree of life and its fruit, but I paid no particular attention to the words I wrote.
The day of my devotional came, and I didn’t want to go to seminary. I had had a really bad morning, and all I wanted to do was feel sorry for myself and stay home. I went anyway and prepared for my devotional. When the time came, I read what I had written:
“And it came to pass that I beheld [God’s love, and it] was desirable to make one happy.
“And as I partook of the fruit thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy; wherefore, I began to be desirous that my family should partake of it also; for I knew that it was desirable above all other fruit.”
As I read those words, the Spirit testified to me that they were true, and I was overcome with tears. The spirit of love and peace was so great! He really is aware of our problems, and He will help us through them. I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, and Their love is greater than any other! Anytime I feel like I need a boost and need to feel Their love, I just read this scripture, and it helps me to remember that I am loved.

The Savior’s love, which shines through this Christmastime experience of President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, can brighten our lives all year long.
One winter day as Christmas approached, I thought back to an experience from my boyhood. I was eleven. Our Primary president, Melissa, was an older and loving gray-haired lady.
One day at Primary, Melissa asked me to stay behind and visit with her. The two of us sat in the otherwise empty chapel. She placed her arm about my shoulder and began to cry. Surprised, I asked her why she was crying. She replied: “I don’t seem to be able to encourage the Trail Builder [now Blazer] boys to be reverent during the opening exercises of Primary. Would you be willing to help me, Tommy?”
I promised her I would. Strangely to me, but not to Melissa, that ended any problem of reverence in that Primary. She had gone to the source of the problem—me. The solution was love.
The years flew by. Marvelous Melissa, now in her nineties, lived in a nursing [home] in the northwest part of Salt Lake City. Just before Christmas, I determined to visit my beloved Primary president. Over the car radio, I heard the song “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” I reflected on the visit made by wise men those long years ago. They brought gifts of gold, of frankincense, and of myrrh. I brought only the gift of love and a desire to say “Thank you.”
I found Melissa in the lunchroom. She stared at her plate of food, teasing it with the fork she held in her aged hand. Not a bite did she eat. As I spoke to her, my words were met with a blank stare. I took the fork in hand and began to feed Melissa, talking all the time I did so about her service to boys and girls as a Primary worker. There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of recognition, far less a spoken word.
Two other residents of the nursing home gazed at me with puzzled expressions. At last they spoke, saying: “She doesn’t know anyone, even her own family. She hasn’t said a word in all the time she’s been here.”
Lunch ended. My one-sided conversation wound down. I stood to leave. I held her frail hand in mine, gazed into her wrinkled but beautiful countenance, and said: “God bless you, Melissa. Merry Christmas.”
Without warning, she spoke the words: “I know you. You’re Tommy Monson, my Primary boy. How I love you.” She pressed my hand to her lips and bestowed on it the kiss of love. Tears coursed down her cheeks and bathed our clasped hands. Those hands, that day, were hallowed [made holy] by heaven and graced by God. The herald angels did sing. Outside the sky was blue—azure blue. The air was cool—crispy cool. The snow was white—crystal white.
How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.*
The wondrous gift was given, the heavenly blessing was received, the dear Christ entered in—all through the doorway of love.
(See Ensign, October 1996, page 7.)

A few years ago I had an assignment that took me to Germany. I had been sick with the flu before I left, and I wasn’t sure if I ought to go: but I felt that I had better make the trip because of what had been planned and because of the many people who were depending on me. After the flight from New York to Frankfurt, Germany, I was tired and not feeling well. I was alone, and I didn’t speak German, so I checked into the hotel at the airport. Before going to my room, I went to the pharmacy and got a medicinal spray to disinfect my throat. It was in a push-button canister that dispenses the medication through a finger-length piece of plastic tubing that you stick down into your throat.

I went to my room and prepared to rest for a while; but when I began to spray my throat, the plastic tube came loose and drove itself down my throat and into my chest. I couldn’t feel it, but I knew there was a 7 1/2 cm piece of plastic somewhere, and I didn’t know what to do. I coughed. I did all that I could to get rid of it. Then I began to worry—not that I would die, for I knew that I wasn’t near death. But there were people waiting for me in various countries where I was to be traveling for the next three weeks, and I knew that if something didn’t happen right away I would end up in the hospital to have the plastic pipe removed surgically. So I needed immediate help. I knelt at my bed and told the Lord that I had no place to go; I didn’t speak German; I didn’t know a doctor; I didn’t know anyone; and there were people waiting for me. And I asked him to please remove this tubing. I got up from praying, and in two seconds it came out of my throat. You see, there are some answers to prayers that come immediately.

Once there was an ordinary house, with an ordinary fence, an ordinary yard, and an ordinary car parked in the driveway. What went on in this house, though, was anything but ordinary.
Anyone who knew anything about the Pout family who lived in the house would tell you, “Don’t borrow sugar there,” or “Don’t sell cookies there,” or “Don’t throw your ball over that fence.” You see, everyone in this ordinary house was extraordinarily grouchy. Mr. Pout and Mrs. Pout were grouchy. Sue and Lou Pout, their daughters, were grouchy. Even their dog, Boo, was grouchy.
It all started on a very ordinary day. “Why didn’t you mow the lawn?” Mrs. Pout yelled at Mr. Pout. Mr. Pout huffed outside, mumbling something about Mrs. Pout’s dry meat loaf.
Seeing Sue Pout out in the yard, Mr. Pout frowned and angrily asked, “Why didn’t you pick up your toys? I have to mow, and they’re in the way!”
Sue got up with a groan, threw her toys onto the porch, marched into the house, and stomped up to her bedroom. Lou was on the floor, playing with blocks.
“Get out of my room!” Sue demanded sulkily. “And play with your toys in your own room.”
Lou scrambled out of Sue’s room and into her own. Boo was curled up on her bed.
“You’re getting hair all over my bed,” Lou complained loudly.
Boo jumped off the bed and ran out of the room with his tail between his legs. He went outside and lay in Mrs. Pout’s flower bed—on purpose!
Day after day their grouchiness got worse and worse, and everyone in town tried to avoid them.
One bright morning, a stranger with a wide, red hat came to town. She was going to visit an old friend but could not find her house. She walked straight up to the Pout’s front door and knocked. Mrs. Pout answered with a frown.
“Good morning. My name is Eva Smiley, and I am looking for the home of my friend Ava Twinkly. Do you by chance know where she lives?” Eva asked with a smile.
“Next block over, three houses down,” Mrs. Pout grumbled as she started to shut the door.
“Thank you so much,” Eva said. “By the way, you have the most beautiful flower bed I have seen. You must have put your heart and a lot of hard work into such a magnificent display.”
Mrs. Pout was not used to hearing such kind words and could not help but smile at the stranger’s compliment.
“Well, have a good day, and thanks again for the directions,” Eva said as she walked toward the street, her wide, red hat bouncing with each step.
That day, for the first time in a long while, Mrs. Pout hummed as she worked in her flower bed, carefully tending each delicate flower.
Later, she saw Mr. Pout outside and called to him, “Thank you for mowing the lawn yesterday. It looks so nice!”
Well, Mr. Pout could not help but smile at the kind words. All the rest of that day, he whistled as he cleaned out the garage.
That evening Mr. Pout found Sue watching a television show. “Thank you for washing the dinner dishes,” he said warmly. “I appreciate how you help out around the house.”
Sue could not help but smile at the kind words and hugged her father for the first time in a long while.
Before going to bed, she noticed a picture Lou had colored and hung on the refrigerator. She went up to Lou’s room. “The picture you colored of the mountains is great! You made the mountains look big and real!”
Lou could not help but smile at the kind words, and that night she had pleasant dreams.
The next morning, Boo was curled up on Lou’s bed. She petted him and got up to get him a dog bone. “You’re a good dog, Boo, and you keep me warm at night,” she said gently.
Boo had not had a dog bone in a long while. It made him very happy, and that day he did not lie in Mrs. Pout’s flower beds.
That morning at breakfast, Mr. Pout grinned and said, “Would anyone like to go to the lake today for a picnic? We could get some ice cream on the way home.”
Bright smiles lit all the faces around the table. Something amazing and almost magical had happened to the Pouts. They were no longer grouchy! And although they would always be the Pout family, their attitudes from then on were most unpoutlike.
And somewhere a smiling stranger walked away from another house, her wide, red hat bouncing from side to side.

Without the ability to continue his education at that time, Enoch pursued other interests. From the time he had mastered the piano, he had wanted to teach it, so he began doing so. In addition, he resumed his service to the Lord by working for FamilySearch out of the offices of the Africa West Area in Accra, Ghana. While working there, he met a senior sister missionary who was teaching a ukulele class. He had become acquainted and enamoured with the ukulele on his mission where his general love of music had drawn him towards it, so he joined with the class. Through his association with members of the class, they became aware of his desire to continue his education, so they helped him find new sponsors for attending university. Again, his love of music and his service to, and trust in, the Lord had brought him to the next step in his personal progress. With his sponsorship now secure, Enoch applied to, and was accepted at, BYU-Idaho where he is now studying data science.

Among the Christmas experiences that are etched most sharply in my memory are the ones spent away from home and loved ones while serving in the mission field or in military service. Each Christmas when I was in the military in World War II, I wondered when the terrible suffering and agony of war would end and we could all go home. And as we sang, “Peace on earth, goodwill to men,” I wondered if the Germans and the Japanese who were Christians were also singing this familiar refrain with the same yearnings in their hearts. Then it all ended 59 years ago after the dropping of two atomic bombs on Japan. Mankind had never before seen such destructive power. There was a concern in our hearts about the beast that had been unleashed.
I would like to recount a story told by Kenneth J. Brown, who was serving as a U.S. Marine in Japan following the dropping of the bomb. His moving story about a Japanese Christian he met at Christmastime in Nagasaki is as follows.
“I watched him turn from the street and climb the path leading to our shelter. He was groping, hesitating. As he came near he folded his umbrella and stood quietly a long moment. His thin coat soon dampened from the cold rain that was falling from the same sky that had brought death to nearly half his townspeople three short months before. I concluded that it must take some special courage to confront one’s conquerors without invitation. It was little wonder that he hesitated.
“His polite bow to me was no bow of submission. Rather his squared shoulders and lifted head let me feel as if I were looking up at him even … though I towered over him a foot or more. I recall being disturbed that I hadn’t yet become used to the near sightless eyes of those who had looked heavenward that morning when the bomb dropped. …
“… I respectfully asked if I could be of service. [In his clear English] he introduced himself as Professor Iida. …
“‘I am Christian,’ he said. ‘I am told this is the head minister’s office. Are you a Christian? It is good to talk with a follower of Christ; there are so few Christian Japanese.’
“I took him to the inner office of the division chaplain and waited while the two men conversed. Professor Iida stated his request briefly. He was a teacher of music in a Christian girls’ college until it was closed by imperial command. … He had been imprisoned because of his professed Christianity. After being released he had returned to Nagasaki and continued his music instruction in his home even though it was forbidden. He had been able to continue a small chorus and would be pleased if … they [could] sing a concert for the American Marines.
“‘We know something of your American Christmases,’ he said. ‘We should like to do something to make your Christmas in Japan more enjoyable.’
“I felt sure the chaplain would give a negative reply. Our unit was one of hardened fighters, four years away from home, who had fought the enemy from Saipan to Iwo Jima. … Yet there was something about the man that bespoke sincere desire to do a good deed so that … permission was granted. The concert would be Christmas Eve.
“The rains had stopped and a calm settled over the atomic bowl reminiscent of the calm that night long ago. The concert was well attended; there was nothing else to do. The theater … had been cleared of its fallen roof and men were sitting on the jagged walls. The usual momentary hush fell over the audience as the performers filed on stage. …
“The first thing we noticed was that they were singing in English and we became aware that they didn’t understand the words but had memorized them for our benefit. Professor Iida had taught his students well; they sang beautifully. We sat enthralled as if a choir from heaven were singing for us. … It was as if Christ were being born anew that night.
“The closing number was a solo, an aria from ‘The Messiah.’ The girl sang with all the conviction of one who knew that Jesus was indeed the Savior of mankind and it brought tears. After that there was a full minute of silence followed by sustained applause as the small group took bow after bow.
“Later that night I helped Professor Iida take down the trimmings. I could not resist asking some questions that propriety forbade but curiosity demanded. I just had to know.
“‘How did your group manage to survive the bomb?’ I asked.
“‘This is only half my group,’ he said softly, but seemed unoffended at my recalling his grief so that I felt I could ask more.
“‘And what of the families of these?’
“‘They nearly all lost one or more members. Some are orphans.’
“‘What about the soloist? She must have the soul of an angel the way she sang.’
“‘Her mother, two of her brothers were taken. Yes, she did sing well; I am so proud of her. She is my daughter.’ …
“The next day was Christmas, the one I remember best. For that day I knew that Christianity had not failed in spite of people’s unwillingness to live His teachings. I had seen hatred give way to service, pain to rejoicing, sorrow to forgiveness. This was possible because a babe had been born in a manger [and] later taught love of God and fellowmen. We had caused them the greatest grief and yet we were their Christian brothers and as such they were willing to forget their grief and unite with us in singing ‘Peace on earth, goodwill to all men.’
“The words of Miss Iida’s song testimony would not be stilled, ‘Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.’ They seemed to echo and re-echo over the half-dead city that day.
“That day also I knew that there was a greater power on earth than the atomic bomb.”

Like my parents, I needed courage to live the gospel. I spent one year as a soldier in the German army. Most of the soldiers used bad language, smoked, and did other things I knew I should not do. Sometimes I felt alone, but I always tried to keep Heavenly Father’s standards. My officers respected my commitment and allowed me time off to participate in Church activities.
On the last night of a soldier’s service, the soldier and his friends would drink a lot of alcohol and have a rowdy party. I thought and prayed about what I should do when my last night came. When it did, I told the group of soldiers serving with me, “Let’s do something that has never been done before.” We dressed in our best suits and went to say a quiet good-bye to our army leaders. Our major couldn’t believe it. I felt that Heavenly Father had guided me to find an answer to my problem. Looking back, I can see that the greatest blessings in my life have come by following the counsel of prophets and keeping God’s commandments.