Gospel Story Finder

But, our story does not end there. It goes on to an event in his life and that of his wife, the former Aurelia Campo Barata of Llorente, Samar Province, in the setting of the Rocky Mountains, U.S.A.
Sometime in the first week of September, 1977, Bro. Odulio took a long lingering look at his car—a car that served him well and one that he had taken care of with his own hands as an experienced mechanic. It had to go to the best offeror at a price dictated by a quick-sale situation. Other personal effects also had to go at bargain prices. The reason: he had a goal to be sealed with his wife in a temple of the Lord, and the opportunity to go came when he was designated a participant in the October 1977 Conference in Salt Lake City.
On September 27, Bro. and Sis. Odulio left Philippine soil for the first time in their lives. On October 5, the very day Sis. Odulio celebrated her 40th birthday, they were sealed for eternity in the Salt Lake Temple together with their unborn child (she was then 7 months pregnant). Three days later, on October 8, Bro. Odulio also observed his 40th birthday. Husband and wife had the best birthday celebration ever in a setting that had been their cherished dream since their conversion to the Church.

While I was president of the mission in Atlanta, Georgia, I went to the study of Dr. Peter Marshall. He was the pastor of the Presbyterian Church there and we spent an hour or two together. When he died he was the chaplain of the United States Senate. You may have read his book, A Man Called Peter, or may have seen the movie depicting his life. Many of the things he stood for he learned from us down in Atlanta. He used to send over to the mission office to get the MIA books and other Church material for his young people because he felt we were stealing them all away from him.

As I sat in his study with him, I asked him what was the attitude of his church with respect to the principle of eternal marriage, and the eternal duration of the marriage covenant. He said, “Well, Mr. Richards, we are not allowed to teach that in our church, but in my mind I have some stubborn objections.” He went on, “When you take the kitten away from the cat, in a few days the cat has forgotten all about the kitten; when you take a calf away from the cow, in a few days the cow has forgotten all about the calf; but when you take the child away from its mother’s bosom, though she live to be a hundred years old, she never forgets the child of her bosom.” He added, “I find it difficult to believe that God created love like that to perish in the grave.” Thank God we know that he didn’t create love like that to perish in the grave. Love is eternal.

Tran Van Thah was so excited and so happy that only the seat belt kept him from jumping up and down right in the car. He was in America at last, the real America—Camp Pendleton didn’t count. That had been just one step in their long journey and no more the real America than was the jet flight from Saigon.
Seated between his mother and his grandmother on the back seat of their sponsor’s car, he was speeding along the highway on his way to a new home and a new life. He was well aware that their being here was not all luck. It was because of his father’s skill as a construction worker that Mr. Hudson had decided to be their sponsor. It also helped that they could all speak English.
“That’s the Columbia River, Thah,” Mr. Hudson explained.
“Yes, sir,” Thah answered.
“I’ve read about the great Columbia. It is even mightier than I pictured it.”
Thah’s father laughed. “When a Red Cross worker at Camp Pendleton asked Thah what he needed, he said, ‘A book about the Pacific Northwest.’ He got it, too, and read it from cover to cover.”
Thah wanted to ask whether the many boats on the river were for fishing or for pleasure. But the two men were talking about construction now and he couldn’t interrupt. It was a beautiful June afternoon with not a cloud in the blue sky, and there were flowers everywhere, even on the trees. The car soon turned onto a long bridge. Thah saw ships below him and a white-peaked mountain etched against the distant sky. “Mt. Hood,” he said softly.
Mr. Hudson heard him. “That’s right, son. And now you’re in the state of Washington.”
Mr. Hudson left the bridge, drove through a small city, and stopped by a little white house. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” he said, unlocking the front door and handing the key to Father. He showed Thah how to turn a dial on the wall to bring in heat. He told Mother that there was food in the kitchen. “I’ll pick you up in the morning,” he said to Father. “We’ll take Thah to school and then I’ll show you our layout. You’re registered in the seventh grade at junior high, Thah. Are you all set to go tomorrow?”
“I am most eager to go,” Thah answered, bowing politely.
Thah turned up the heat, and Mother and Grandmother prepared the evening meal—good, dry rice with luscious bits of meat and vegetables stir-fried in oil. Grandmother even unpacked the chopsticks so they no longer had to jab their mouths with sharp forks.
That night Thah fell asleep, warm and full for the first time in many weeks and looking forward to his new American school. When morning came, however, he felt less confident. Will my classmates like me? he wondered. Will I be able to do the lessons?
Mr. Hudson led the way to the office of the principal, who was expecting them. “I’m glad you came to our school, Thah,” he said. The boy and his father bowed low.
“I’m honored, sir,” replied Thah, hoping that his voice didn’t betray his feelings.
As the morning wore on, Thah came to several conclusions about American schools: the teachers were kind, the work was easy, the students were noisy, and the halls were endless. He no sooner became interested in a class when a bell would ring, and everyone would jump up and hurry to another classroom, without so much as bowing to the teacher. He was dizzy from consulting his class card and looking for room numbers. The building was huge and the students were so tall that he felt lost in a forest of giants. Long before noon he became hungry.
At last a louder and longer bell sounded, and students stampeded from every door, nearly knocking him over. “Hello, Thah,” said a friendly voice above him. “I’m Kent Jones, your big brother.” Thah looked up at a smiling red-haired boy with a sprinkling of brown freckles across his nose. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to show you around. The dentist kept me two hours longer than I counted on. Come on, let’s go to lunch.”
Thah liked Kent. It is a good idea for a school to find big brothers for new boys, he thought. Thah was so hungry that he even liked the strange American food in the cafeteria. “You didn’t get anything to drink,” said Kent when they had found a place to sit. “What would you like?”
“Something very cold, please,” Thah answered. “I am so thirsty.”
“Okay,” said Kent. “I’ll see what I can do.” A few minutes later, he was back with a cup of ice-cold water. “Got it from the teachers’ dining room. Your good manners really made a hit with them. They’d give you anything.”
After lunch, Kent said they would go outside for PE. Thah was glad they would be together, but he wondered what PE meant. Later he decided that the P was for play. The E remained a mystery. They went outside and played a game with a small hard ball and a club called a bat. The object was to hit the ball hard and run fast. Thah was a fast runner, but they wouldn’t let him run until he hit the ball, and he could never hit the ball. It was the most frustrating experience of the day. He was on the verge of tears when he heard a piercing whistle, and the boys started back inside. Kent didn’t go. “The coach wants to see us,” he explained.
Now the master is approaching, Thah worried. Will I be expelled for failing to hit the ball? Will I be sent to the primary school in disgrace, to study with the little children? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Coach,” he said, bowing, “that I’m such a bad PE player.”
“Don’t feel bad,” the coach responded. “I’ll put you in another class for now. Practice up at home, and when you’re ready to play, let me know.”
That evening while the family ate supper in their warm house, Father told about his day in the construction business. Mother and Grandmother told about their trip to the food store and how nice it was to get all the soiled clothes washed and ironed. Thah could hardly wait for the others to finish so Father would say, “Well, Thah, how was your day at school?”
When his turn finally came, he told all about failing to hit the ball. “Will you please help me, Father? Will you practice with me until I am good enough to get back in the game?”
Every evening after supper Father and Thah went to a vacant lot to practice. Father threw the ball, but not too hard, and finally Thah was able to hit it. At the end of the week he hardly ever missed. “Maybe soon I can tell Mr. Coach I’m ready for the game,” Thah declared.
“Tell him tomorrow,” said Father. “If you hit that ball any harder, it will land in Saigon.”
Some of the boys snickered when Thah came out with Kent for PE the next day. “Here comes the champ!” called one.
“You’re supposed to hit the ball,” teased another, “not just wave the bat in the air.”
“Cool it, you guys,” shouted Kent with anger in his voice, and they were quiet. Thah didn’t care. He knew he could hit the ball and hit it hard. He could hardly wait for his turn at bat. In the meantime he watched closely to find out where to run. Finally he was given the bat. On the first throw he hit the ball a mighty blow and ran to first base.
“Run! Run! Run!” yelled all the boys and the coach. Thah ran to the next base and the next. They kept on shouting and cheering for him. “Run home! Run home!”
Thah hesitated. Are they teasing me again? he wondered. You can’t run home in time of school.
“Run home! Run home!” called the coach, and Thah did. He ran all the way, stopping breathless at his own front door. It is a half holiday they gave me, he decided, for hitting the ball so hard.
He tried the front door. It was locked. So was the back door. Mother and Grandmother had gone shopping. Thah sat down on the steps to wait. How proud they’ll be of me! He sat there until he was hungry. This must be the day that Mrs. Hudson invited Mother and Grandmother to lunch, he remembered. He still had his lunch money. He would just go down to Burgerville to eat.
Thah carried his shrimp burger and paper cup of orange drink to one of the outdoor tables. It reminded him of the sidewalk cafes in Saigon. A mother with four children sat at a table, but most people ate in their cars. Presently a police officer walked over with his lunch and a drink. “Mind if I sit here, son?” he asked.
“I would be honored,” said Thah.
The officer sat down and unwrapped his sandwich. He looked at Thah and then looked at his watch. “You wouldn’t be playing hooky, would you?” he asked.
“I’ve never heard of that game, sir. Is it anything like baseball?”
“Well, the two could go together,” replied the officer, smiling. “Is school out early today?”
“School is still in session. I just won a half holiday.”
“For perfect attendance all year?”
“Oh, no, I haven’t been here that long.” Thah knew he should never boast, but the officer was so interested that he couldn’t help telling him the whole story. “I once won a half-holiday in Saigon for conjugating the most French verbs, but they didn’t make me run home. They let me ride my bicycle like I always did. Do you know why they made me run?”
The officer almost choked on his drink and had to wipe his mouth with a paper napkin. Thah could see genuine laughter in his eyes, not derisive laughter like the boys in the game.
“Yes, I know why,” he said at last. “I’ll tell you while we ride back to school to get your bike.”
“I had to leave my bicycle in Saigon,” Thah explained. “Will you please tell me anyway?”
“It’s like this,” said the officer, spreading out Thah’s napkin and drawing a baseball diamond on it with a gold pen. He explained what strikes, bases, hits, fouls, outs, and home runs meant.
“I made a mistake,” gasped Thah. “It wasn’t a half holiday. I am a truant. Please take me back so I can explain.”
“Let me explain first,” said the officer. And he did on a little telephone right in his patrol car. “And anyone who laughs at Thah gets thrown in the jug,” he warned before he hung up. Thah knew that was a joke and he could guess that jug was an American word for prison. Best of all he knew that he had made a hit with his new American friend who would go to bat for him any time.

As a young man growing up in South Africa, I was blessed with a beautiful vegetable garden. It brought forth plentifully. Among the wonders of the garden were three lovely eggplants. Each was over three feet tall and produced large purple fruit of the highest quality.
One warm summer day I entered the garden to examine the plants and tend to the garden. Imagine my surprise as I approached the formidable eggplants to discover that one was missing! Upon closer examination I found only a short stem; the rest of the plant, leaves and all, was no-where to be seen. By and by I located the culprit: a six-inch armored caterpillar sporting bright yellow spots on each of its green segments. In a few short days it had consumed the entire plant. On that day my reaction was, “What a nasty, destructive caterpillar!” However, since then my understanding of science and the Creation has grown. I now understand that this was a necessary part of the caterpillar’s life cycle so that it could reach its full potential.
This concept of a metamorphosis interested me as a young boy: the possibility that a creature could change its appearance and abilities by obtaining nourishment and spending some time in a cocoon. The large caterpillar that ate my eggplant would become a beautiful butterfly. Instead of its slow crawling, it would soon fly. Instead of burdening my garden, it would soon contribute to the garden’s beauty and fruitfulness as it visited each flower in search of nectar, thus aiding pollination.

A recently returned missionary, Meg, was walking toward the doors of the Kona Hawaii Temple when she noticed a young woman sitting alone on a bench outside. Meg felt that she should speak to the young woman, but she wasn’t sure what to say. So she asked about the meaning of a tattoo on the young woman’s ankle. That began a conversation that allowed the young woman, Lani, to share her story.
Lani told Meg about her struggle to return to full participation in the Church, the nice members who were helping her, and her hope to someday be sealed to her baby daughter.
Meg invited Lani to come sit in the temple waiting room with her. They would not be able to go further into the temple yet, but they would be able to cross the threshold. Lani agreed, and they went together through the main doors. A temple worker showed them to a bench beneath a painting of the Savior.
As they sat together, Lani whispered, “I really wanted to come into the temple today, but I was nervous.” Because Meg followed the Spirit, she helped answer Lani’s silent prayer.

Such dramatic experiences may not come to you. But I believe all can have experiences such as I had one Saturday afternoon in graduate school. I was wrestling with the homework in a course requiring a knowledge of statistics I lacked. As I grew more and more frustrated, I was tempted to just give up and take a zero on the assignment, knowing it would mean I would do poorly on the next test as well. But instead I prayed, and there came to me a feeling of calm and confidence that I could do this. As I went back to the homework with more faith, I found that I could figure it out, and I was able to do the assignment and pass the test.

During my senior year of high school I decided to try out for the school musical. I liked to sing, and ever since I was young I enjoyed acting. When I was in elementary school, I wrote and put on plays with my friends for our fellow classmates. But somewhere between elementary and high school I developed a severe case of stage fright. Being on the stage was both exhilarating and terrifying!
On the day before auditions I received some alarming news—the auditions would be “open,” meaning I’d have to sing in front of not only the teachers, but all the students who were trying out. I was devastated. The thought of singing a solo in front of a room full of students made me numb with fear. I couldn’t see how I could possibly go through with it.
That night, I began to debate if I should even try out. I went through the pros and cons with my mom. My older brother overheard our conversation. “I don’t know why you’re so worried,” he said with some frustration. “You can sing and dance just as well as anyone else.” His words surprised me because he rarely said things like that. I knew he cared about me, but at the time he usually didn’t admit to it. The pros won, and I decided to try out.
The following day I entered the drama room after school to await my audition. As I sat with the other students in the packed classroom, I could feel the color leave my face, and my whole body trembled slightly. I was nervous and unable to calm myself. Then the thought came to mind: “My brother believes in me. He believes I can do this.” Maybe I would be just fine after all.
With courage in my brother’s words, I walked on stage, phased out all the faces in the crowd, and sang. I sang my heart out. I gave it all I had and finished strong. When I was done, I looked out at my peers and teachers and saw many smiles. I was happy for performing so well and relieved it was over.
I made call-backs and got a part. I’m glad I tried out because that musical was a highlight of my senior year.
The experience of that audition has stuck with me. My brother’s words, and knowing he believed in me, helped me to conquer something that seemed so impossible to me.

This celebration was so special that I traveled more than four thousand miles to return to my Samoan village of Faletele.
The village was already bustling with activity. Crowding in with the few hundred villagers were more than a hundred of my relatives from many parts of Samoa and scores of honored guests from other villages.
I started walking through the malae, heading toward the big, dome-roofed fale. There in that fale, visiting with the most honored guests, sat my beloved cousin Sama. Suddenly I was filled with pride and pain and love as I remembered when I first came to know Sama—Sama the Thumb.
I was a little girl then, just five years old. Sama was ten. His parents had gone to New Zealand for the dedication of the Mormon temple there, and Sama had come to stay with us.
I was sitting on the edge of the malae, watching the young men and boys play Samoan-style cricket, with dozens of players on each side. The spectators were shouting and cheering and singing and dancing to a rhythm beaten out on an old, empty kerosene tin. A bus stopped on the road, and one of my aunts got out, followed by a boy who struggled to carry a heavy basket. When they went to the Tuita‘ua’s fale, I followed them.
Tuita‘ua Ioane was the main matai in our family. Hundreds of relatives honored and obeyed him. Tuita‘ua is one of the great titles in Samoa, and the Tuita‘ua is respected by all Samoans.
“Go get Tofo and Malini,” Tuita‘ua Ioane ordered me.
I ran back to the cricket match to fetch my cousins. They weren’t happy to give up their places in the match, but they obeyed the Tuita‘ua’s orders to fix fried corned beef and baked bananas and lemonade for him, our aunt, and the boy—who we learned was our cousin Sama. They bowed low and showed great respect when they served Tuita‘ua Ioane his food on a leaf-covered tray. But I saw them scowl at Sama when they placed his food in front of him.
In the days that followed, scowls were replaced by smiles and laughs. Sama won us over with his stories and jokes and his sense of humor. Even though most of the cousins were much older than Sama, they soon accepted him not only as a cousin but also as a good friend. I tagged along when they gathered coconuts, chopped the grass with bush knives, played cricket, went inland to plant taro in the family taro patch, and sang songs while strolling through the village after evening prayer services. When Sama was with us, whether we were working or playing, we laughed and had fun.
Then on Saturday the boy cousins went spear fishing in the lagoon. Sama caught an octopus and was treated like a hero.
After the cousins had cooked the evening meal of fish, taro, palusami, and, of course, octopus, two of the cousins grabbed Sama’s arms and held him while another cousin beat out a solemn rhythm on a log. Tofo marched up to Sama carrying a tray of food, including the best parts of the octopus. Tofo’s face was stern.
“We honor Sama, the great octopus hunter,” Tofo said. “As long as you are here in Faletele, you, Sama, will have the honor of serving the Tuita‘ua.” Then Tofo smiled and handed the tray to Sama, and Malini put a necklace of fragrant buds around Sama’s neck and a red hibiscus flower in his hair.
On Sunday morning I couldn’t find Sama. All day I asked the people of the village if they had seen him, but nobody knew where he was.
Finally, in the late afternoon, long after our church services and our after-church meal were over, Sama came walking through the village in his white shirt and white lavalava. Tuita‘ua Ioane called him into the fale. “Where have you been, Sama?” he asked.
“In Fuapa‘epa‘e.”
“You walked eight miles to Fuapa‘epa‘e? And back?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Why?”
“Because that is the closest village where I can attend my church.”
Tuita‘ua Ioane took off his wire-rimmed reading glasses and laid them on the Bible, which he’d been reading. “Sama, the matai has made a decree that there will be only one church in Faletele and that all the people in Faletele will attend that church. Do you understand? You are part of my family, Sama, but you are also a guest in this village and you are under my protection. You know our rule.” He leaned forward and looked Sama in the eyes. “You do what you have to do.”
The following week none of the cousins mentioned Sama’s trip to Fuapa‘epa‘e. They continued to joke and laugh together as they worked in the taro and helped harvest a truckload of bananas that would go to New Zealand. On Saturday we all hiked to our secret waterfall, where we splashed and swam and lay out on the big rocks to be warmed by the sun. On our way home we caught prawns in the stream for dinner.
Trouble started on the second Sunday. I woke up to the sounds of arguing. Malini and Tofo were chasing after Sama, who was dressed in his white shirt and lavalava.
“Sama, you know what the village rule is!” Tofo shouted.
Malini grabbed Sama’s arm. “How can you show such disrespect to your matai?”
Though Sama was shorter than the two older boys, somehow he seemed taller as he stood boldly in front of them. “Tuita‘ua told me to do what I have to do. And this is what I have to do!”
As he started walking again, Malini shouted after him, “Sama, don’t embarrass your family like this!”
At the end of the day when Sama came walking back into Faletele, a woman made fun of Sama, calling him a bad name. All the cousins were angry at Sama and wouldn’t talk to him—all of them, that is, except me. I was glad to see Sama, and it was the first time that I had him all to myself. It was wonderful as we talked and sang and he told me stories.
In the morning the cousins took their long poles and went up the hills to gather breadfruit. Sama and I hurried after them.
We talked and joked as we knocked the breadfruit from the trees. It was almost like before, and all the cousins were starting to have fun together again. Then a group of villagers came by and called Sama “Mamona” and said mean things about Sama and our family.
There was no more joking among the cousins. For the rest of the week the cousins refused to include Sama in anything that they did. Tofo told me not to talk and play with him, but I did anyway whenever I could find him. Mostly he went off by himself into the forest.
“Maybe tomorrow you will remove our family shame and come with us to the village church,” Malini told Sama on Saturday night.
But on Sunday morning Sama was gone again. Next to each of our sleeping mats was a gift that Sama had made—octopus lures for Tofo and Gutu, a flute for Malini, toy fishing canoes for ‘Ene‘ene and Pisa, and a top and a pale for me.
When Sama returned that evening, I put on my pale and ran out to greet him. He was happy and eager to see the others—until he stepped on something in the grass. He looked down and saw one of the canoes he had made, now smashed and broken. He looked around and saw that his other gifts had also been broken and discarded.
“The villagers got them mad,” I explained. “But I kept mine. I like my presents very much. Thank you.”
Sama smiled at me, then went off by himself until it was time for the evening meal. As Sama got a tray of food ready for the Tuita‘ua, Tofo grabbed the tray away and shouted, “You are a disgrace to your family! You no longer get the honor of serving the Tuita‘ua!”
“And find someplace else to sleep,” Malini yelled. “You’re no longer welcome in the boys’ fale.”
‘Ene‘ene pushed Sama down, and Gutu raised his fists to hit Sama. “Because of you, our friends are calling us dirty names!”
I was afraid that the cousins were going to hurt Sama, so I ran to get Tuita‘ua Ioane. But he had heard and had already come to the edge of the fale. “You boys, stop it now!” he commanded. “All of you, come in here!”
At the sound of his voice, the boys immediately stopped. They walked meekly into the fale and sat down across from the old matai.
“Look at my hand!” Tuita‘ua Ioane held out his hand. “See how these fingers are bunched here together? And how the thumb is out here all by itself?”
We all looked at his hand.
“We have a saying here in Samoa: ‘The thumb stands alone, but it is the strongest of all the fingers.’”
Tuita‘ua Ioane pointed at each of the cousins. “You boys are the fingers. But Sama is the thumb!”
Even though I was very young, I learned many things that night. Tuita‘ua Ioane taught us about integrity, about standing up for what you think is right no matter what other people say, about being true to yourself and valiant in your beliefs. His words and Sama’s example changed my life.
As I stood on the malae thinking back to those days, a small girl came up to me and handed me a pale.
“Thank you.” I smiled at her and put it on. Then I walked up the steps of the big fale and removed my shoes. Sama saw me immediately. I made a thumbs-up sign. That had always been my secret sign to him. None of the other matai in the fale seemed to notice, and even if they did, it wouldn’t mean the same thing to them. They were there for just one reason—to honor the new Tuita‘ua. Tuita‘ua Sama.
But to me he would always be Sama the Thumb.

This missionary ticks all the usual boxes—he wears a white shirt and tie, has his scriptures at the ready, and possesses a natural faith in God. But something else makes Elder Gavin Chambers stand out from the crowd.
Chambers is a 206 centimetre (6-foot 9-inch) all-American volleyball player! From Corona, California, he’s traded in his volleyball togs for the threads of a full time missionary.
Elder Chambers has been serving in the Papatoetoe area of the New Zealand Auckland Mission, where he recently began training a junior missionary companion, Elder Bryce Jacobson “I really look up to Elder Chambers,” says Elder Jacobson, clearly referring to him as a senior companion. But at his height, being looked up to is something Chambers is used to.
He was always tall. “By the time I was 13, I was already 182 cm (six feet). But my real growth spurt didn’t begin until my sophomore year in high school.” He reached his full height by his senior year, and, as with most tall kids, it was assumed he would play basketball. That was not to be.
“I never really liked basketball,” he noted. “The other kids and the coaches always kind of made fun of me, telling me I couldn’t jump.”
His mother urged him, instead, to try a local recreation league volleyball team. “I had never had so much fun in any sport before,” Chambers says. “I was hooked! Even though I wasn’t very good, I went home and told Mom that volleyball was the sport for me!”
Great club coaching helped him find his footing in the game, and because of his prodigious height, they made him a middle blocker. Finally, the burden of being tall began to pay-off. After a season of club volleyball, he was anxious to join his high school team and test his new skills. But disaster struck in his very first scrimmage.
“I jumped and extended myself to try and block a ball, and when I came down, I landed on the foot of the guy on the other side of the net and broke my ankle,” Chambers recounted. “I had to wear a boot everywhere after that and I didn’t get to play at all my freshman season.”
“It was frustrating to have made progress in this new sport I really liked, then lose that whole season.”
But from the ashes of that setback rose the phoenix of an all-star career. Over the next three years, Chambers became a feared opponent on the court, drawing the attention of college volleyball teams throughout the US. He turned down scholarships offered by top schools—Stanford and UCLA among them—in favour of what he truly wanted: to play for the nationally-ranked Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah (USA).
Chambers’ youth career culminated in the summer of 2022, with the victory of his Orange Coast Volleyball Club at the under-18 national club volleyball championship. Chambers was named first-team all-American by the American Volleyball Coaches Association. The kid who couldn’t jump had proven all of those early naysayers wrong.
“After that tournament . . . I took a couple of weeks and kind of basked in the excitement of it all—I wore my gold medal . . . and enjoyed the recognition,” Chambers says. “But then I knew it was time to move on with my life.”
That meant accepting his call to serve as a missionary for the Church. With his newly found fame, one might think it was difficult to walk away from volleyball, but Chambers had already made that decision as a 12-year-old. He wanted to serve the Lord by inviting others to come unto Christ. Going on a mission was the right thing to do.
“Sure, it was hard to stop playing volleyball . . . but I had prayed about this decision, and I felt confident that the plan Heavenly Father had for me was to serve a mission right after high school.”
He says deciding early in his life made it much easier to manage all of the other things that could have acted as roadblocks to missionary service. “You want to make sure that you pray about that decision, too, because you may have ideas about what you want to do with your life, but your plan and the one Heavenly Father has for you may be different.”
Because of a visa issue for New Zealand, Chambers began his missionary service in the West Virginia Charleston Mission. There, he saw people in severe economic distress, but Chambers found them to be humble, just searching for spiritual guidance in their lives.
The gospel of Jesus Christ is the answer.
The situation in New Zealand is a lot different, but people here are also searching for answers to life’s questions. “We’re making friends everywhere we go, talking to people and sharing God’s plan of happiness with them,” he continues. “The work is hard, and we get rejected . . . , but we have tremendous faith that we’ll find people who are looking for a spiritual change in their lives,” he said. “When they’re ready to listen we’re going to be there, to answer their questions and help them learn what to do.”
“As I look back now, I can see how the Lord answered my prayers, and helped me find that perfect time to serve,” Elder Chambers says. “By doing things the Lord’s way, I was able to receive an offer to play at a college that would allow me to serve a mission and live my volleyball dream afterwards.”

Being the only members of the Church in their school gives the boys many opportunities to share the gospel, which they gladly do. Ieuan has invited his classmates to his baptism and other church activities. He and Richard play with several Korean children and are helping them practice their English. Richard has had some nice discussions about the gospel with a classmate. Since most of the children do not attend church, they often ask Richard why he goes to church. He gladly tells them about the gospel and invites them to attend church with him.

Bronwyn sighed deeply as she gazed out the window of the small thatched cottage. She had been idly watching Mrs. McKay across the street talking again to the two tall men. Mrs. McKay’s husband had died ten years ago, a year before Bronwyn was born, and the woman had to work hard to support herself and her five children. She left early in the morning and didn’t return until long after dark. Then the lights burned late into the night as she washed and sewed and cooked for her family. She seldom visited, but went her way unsmiling, wrapped up in her own problems. She certainly looked happy now, however. Suddenly Bronwyn realized that that was what was unusual about her neighbor—Mrs. McKay was smiling!
Bronwyn turned from the window, her thoughts again on Mam. Mam didn’t smile much anymore either—not since Dad had died two years ago. How different it had been then, with laughter, singing, and hugging.
Dad had worked long hours in the coal mine. He would leave early in the morning, while it was still dark, and wouldn’t return until long after the sun had gone down in the evening. In the Welsh mining towns of the 1840s, a man could go for months without seeing the sun, except on the Sabbath.
Oh, the sunshine Dad brought into their home when he was there!
Mam would begin supper, and Bronwyn would hop around like an excited little bird, knowing that soon her father would be home. Mam would work quietly at the fire, heating the delicious stew she made so well, while oatcakes were delicately browning to the side of the bubbling pot. Mam would be humming, and Bronwyn would set the table, fill the mugs with frothy milk, and cut thick slices of rich brown bread.
Finally Bronwyn would hear her father’s deep, laughing voice shouting farewells to his work companions, and the door would fly open. “Mair!” he would call, and he would lift his wife from the floor in a fierce embrace.
Bronwyn always waited in the far corner, for she knew her father would gently set her mother down, open his arms wide, and shout, “Bronny! Where’s my Bronny?”
And Bronwyn would race across the room and leap into his outstretched arms.
After supper Bronwyn and her mother would wash the dishes, and the rest of the evening would be filled with Dad’s booming voice as he danced Bronwyn and her mother around the room. Later, before Bronwyn fell asleep, she would hear her parents’ quiet voices as they sat at the kitchen table.
Then one evening there was a knock at the door just as Mam was starting supper. When she answered the door, she saw Mr. Walters, the mining foreman, standing on the stoop. Mam’s face turned white as she stared at the little man, and Bronwyn felt a tightening in the pit of her stomach. She never took her eyes from Mam, and when Mr. Walters removed his hat and said, “I’m sorry, Mair, there was a cave-in … ,” Bronwyn saw her mother crumple speechlessly to the floor.
The next few days after that were a blur: neighbors coming and going, Mam lying on her bed as she never did during the day, food being brought in, and women taking Bronwyn in their arms and crying.
Bronwyn wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral, and when her mother came to pick her up at the neighbor’s house, Mam’s eyes were dull and her face had a pained look that never quite left it. In the two years since the funeral, Bronwyn rarely saw her mother smile.
“Bronwyn?” Mam’s voice brought Bronwyn’s thoughts back to the present. “Are you ready? We’re going to the chapel on Altwyn Street again.”
Bronwyn’s heart sank, but without comment she quickly tied her bonnet. How many different churches have we gone to this year? she wondered. She knew what her mother was looking for but so far had been unable to find. Bronwyn had heard a neighbor speak of it once to her mother: “Mair, it’s been nearly a year since your Iorwerth died. You’ve got to start living your life again. You should remarry, give Bronwyn a new father.”
Mam had sat serenely in the rocking chair by the fire. “I don’t need another husband, Mrs. Rees. And Bronwyn doesn’t need a new father. I have no doubt that we will be together again with Iorwerth in the next life.”
Mrs. Rees looked shocked. When she regained her voice, she spoke with terrible finality. “Mair Jones, wherever did you get such an idea? Didn’t your wedding vows say ‘till death do you part’?”
“Mam,” Bronwyn had asked hesitantly after Mrs. Rees had left, “is what she said true? Will we never see Dad again?”
Mam held Bronwyn so tightly that it hurt, yet Bronwyn felt a flood of relief when her mother whispered fiercely, “Don’t you ever believe that, Bronwyn. Ever! God would not allow so much happiness in a family, then snatch it away from us forever.”
And that was when they had started going to different churches. After meeting with a new congregation for a few weeks, Mair would find an opportunity to speak to the minister alone while Bronwyn waited outside. Sometimes her mother would be in there for a long time. Sometimes she would stride out of the church after only a few moments. But the outcome was always the same. Mair would come out, take Bronwyn firmly by the hand, and resolutely march home, repeating over and over, “They’re wrong. I know they’re wrong. We belong together.”
The Altwyn Street church was on the other side of Pontygwyn. As they trudged down the dusty road, their long, heavy skirts rustling against their shoes, Bronwyn asked, “Are you going to speak to Reverend Hugh today?”
Mair’s grasp tightened on Bronwyn’s hand. “I hope to catch him after the service.”
Mair wasn’t with the minister long. The determined look on her mother’s face as she emerged from the minister’s office answered Bronwyn’s unspoken question. And she wondered, Can all the ministers be wrong? Is Mrs. Rees right? Will we never be with Dad again?
Later that week, while her mother washed the clothes she had started taking in after Dad died, Bronwyn entertained herself by swinging back and forth on the front gate. She was so involved in counting how many times she could slam the gate without falling off that she didn’t see the two men turn the corner until she had swung against one of them and had fallen into his arms.
“Mae’n ddrwg gen i (I’m very sorry),” she gasped. Only when she got over her embarrassment did she recognize them as the strangers she had seen talking to Mrs. McKay.
“You needn’t be sorry,” the one with blond hair said, laughing. “It would be fun to swing on a gate again.” Ruffling Bronwyn’s long dark hair, he and his friend hurried on their way.
He talks differently than we do, Bronwyn thought as she watched them cross the street. He used the right words, but they sounded funny. She watched them knock on Mrs. McKay’s door and noticed her neighbor’s bright smile as they entered the house.
“Are we going to a different church today?” Bronwyn asked Mam the following Sunday.
“No,” her mother answered. “I thought we would take a lunch and go picnic by the river.”
Unable to believe her good fortune, Bronwyn hurried to help Mam pack some cheese and bread and boiled eggs into a small hamper. Soon they were striding down the road. It was a beautiful spring day, and Bronwyn was alive with enthusiasm. She would run ahead, dash back to hurry her mother along, then race off to the side to pick some wildflowers. And each time Bronwyn looked up at her mother and saw the relaxed flush on Mam’s cheeks, she wanted even more to dance with joy.
“It’s a good day, isn’t it, Mam?”
Mother smiled suddenly and answered, “Yes, Bronny, it is. I don’t know why, but I feel like it’s a very good day.”
It was then that they heard the singing. It seemed to come out of nowhere, but as they walked closer to the river, they saw a small cottage just ahead of them, and the music was coming from it. Curious, they approached and read the neatly printed sign to the right of the door: THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS.
“What does that mean, Mam?” Bronwyn whispered.
Her mother shook her head slowly, and they both peered in through the open door. Perhaps a dozen people were now standing about, chatting quietly.
“Is this a church, Mam?”
“That’s what the sign says,” Mair answered, looking puzzled.
“It’s different from any other church I’ve ever seen,” Bronwyn said as she looked at the small cottage.
“Let’s go on,” Mair urged, taking Bronwyn’s hand. “Some of the people are beginning to leave.”
But Bronwyn had seen the two tall strangers inside, and she pulled back excitedly. The young men were coming toward them now, and suddenly—unable to explain why—Bronwyn very much wanted them to talk to her mother, to make her mother smile the way they did Mrs. McKay. “Wait, Mam,” she said urgently, “they want to talk to us.”
“Mair! Bronwyn!” To their astonishment, Mrs. McKay rushed over to them just ahead of the two young men.
Bronwyn suddenly felt shy, and her face reddened as the tall blond man knelt beside her and smiled. “Isn’t this the little gate-swinger?”
Bronwyn glanced up at her mother, who stood looking bewildered. “You know Bronwyn?” Mam asked.
“Mair,” Mrs. McKay was saying, “how strange that you would appear at the door like this! I have been telling the elders that I had a neighbor who very much needed to hear their message.”
“Elders?” Mam repeated.
The blond man turned to her. “I’m Elder Butler. My companion and I are missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We have come all the way from America to deliver the message of Christ’s restored church.”
“They’ve been teaching me, Mair,” continued Mrs. McKay. “Let them talk to you too.”
“Mam, they’re nice,” Bronwyn added. “They make Mrs. McKay smile. Maybe they can make you smile too.”
Bronwyn took her mother’s hand, and they entered the small building with Mrs. McKay and the two young men. But Bronwyn’s heart sank as her mother said, “I have been to many churches, and none of them have been able to answer an important question to my satisfaction. Before we go any further, I want to ask you just one thing: Can Bronwyn and I ever be with my deceased husband again?”
Tears of joy streamed down Mrs. McKay’s face as Elder Butler answered kindly, “My dear Mrs. Jones, yes, you can. You and your daughter can be reunited with your husband as a family forever. Won’t you sit down and let us tell you about it?”
The look of peace that spread over Mam’s face sent shivers of happiness and excitement down Bronwyn’s back. And as she and her mother sat down to listen, she understood why this day was indeed a very good day.

The need was critical.
In early 2013, five cases of measles broke out in the Za’atari refugee camp in the Middle Eastern country of Jordan. More than 100,000 Syrian refugees, living in overcrowded conditions, were at risk of contracting this highly contagious, dangerous virus. The Jordanian government planned a massive immunization campaign to keep the disease from spreading. The plan was to immunize at least 90,000 Syrian refugees between the ages of 6 months and 30 years within a two-week period.
But there was a problem. The United Nations Children’s Emergency Fund (UNICEF) had the serum. The Jordanian Ministry of Health had the clinics. What they didn’t have were cold-chain supply items—syringes, containers for sharp instruments, serum coolers—and time was running out.1
Enter Ron and Sandi Hammond, senior welfare missionaries serving as country directors in Jordan for LDS Charities. As Ron and Sandi already had working relationships with UNICEF and the Ministry of Health, they quickly joined the collaboration between these organizations to determine how LDS Charities could help.
Ron says, “We inquired about the cost of purchasing the cold-chain supply items. When they told us, we said, ‘We think LDS Charities can help.’ They said, ‘How fast? We’ve got to get moving on this!’”
Within 20 hours LDS Charities had approved the purchase of the necessary cold-chain supplies. “When we informed the Ministry of Health and UNICEF,” Ron says, “they were awe-struck. How could an NGO [non-governmental organization] move so quickly? Not only did the immunization campaign go forward on schedule, but it also inspired a nationwide campaign that inoculated hundreds of thousands of Jordanians and Syrian refugees.”
Photograph courtesy of Samir Badran, UNICEF-Jordan
Crisis averted.
Furthermore, this productive partnership among UNICEF, Jordan’s Ministry of Health, and LDS Charities created the potential for future collaboration.
How Ron and Sandi Hammond arrived at that important moment in the Middle East is a testament of the Hammonds’ faith and the inspiration behind the Church’s senior missionary program.
In 2012 the Hammonds were serving as ordinance workers in the Rexburg Idaho Temple. Ron had a successful dental practice and was teaching in the Religion Department at Brigham Young University–Idaho. But the serene routine of their lives changed abruptly with a distinct spiritual impression to immediately submit papers to serve a mission. The timing surprised them. Their married children were in various stages of career moves and relocations, and Ron was not yet looking to retire. But the Spirit assured them that they were needed and that all would be well.
As it turned out, priesthood leaders at Church headquarters had been fasting and praying to find the right couple to serve as country directors for LDS Charities in Amman, Jordan.
“It was so evident,” says Sandi, “that the Lord was out ahead of us, preparing the details of the specific assignment He had for us. We know that He does this for every missionary who serves. It is comforting knowing that the Savior is arranging things for you to serve before you ever arrive.”
“In retrospect,” Ron says, “we are grateful we were neither specific nor insistent on where we wished to serve. Leaving such matters in the Lord’s hands allowed Him to give us an experience we would not have had otherwise.”
That experience included working with Jordan’s royal family on humanitarian projects of interest to the royals. The Hammonds collaborated with local hospitals and clinics to provide training to Jordanian medical staff on life-saving neonatal resuscitation skills, resulting in a significant reduction in mortality among newborns. Through their efforts and the efforts of other missionary couples, LDS Charities provided training and equipment to vision clinics and organizations serving those with physical disabilities. Among those that the Hammonds and other welfare missionaries supported was a center that teaches women with physical disabilities how to design and make specialty clothing and craft items. These skills gave students the opportunity to better provide for themselves and their families.
Photograph courtesy of LDS Charities
Other projects included working with other NGOs and the Jordanian government on emergency response and screening Jordanian students to receive one of two scholarships each year to attend Brigham Young University. One of the most satisfying experiences the Hammonds had was working with the Latin Catholic Church to build school rooms for Iraqi Christians who had nowhere else to meet.
While in Jordan the Hammonds learned how true the Lord’s promise is to those who serve Him: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (D&C 84:88).
“God is involved in the work,” Ron says. “He is down in the vineyard with His servants. Any couple who goes on a mission is joined in the vineyard by the Lord of the vineyard. We don’t believe in miracles in Jordan; we lived them.”
Indisputably, the angels they felt “round about” them included the heavenly variety, but they also included the mortal variety, especially their children, who supported their decision to serve so far from home.
And their family in turn was blessed by the Lord’s protective, sustaining power. Significant career and relocation decisions were made, and concerns with potential birth complications were resolved as their children turned to the Lord, counseled together, and prayed and fasted for one another.
The blessings their children received were so remarkable that when Brother and Sister Hammond were invited to extend their two-year mission to three, each of their children expressed enthusiastic support. They sensed the Lord was doing something very special for them as a direct result of their parents’ service.
Still, the separation the Hammond family felt was a sacrifice. Being halfway around the world from those they loved was difficult. But it wasn’t as difficult as it would have been in the past. Technology made it possible for the family to be involved in one another’s lives as often as needed. Sandi says, “Couples don’t lose contact with their families. We kept in frequent contact with our children’s families back home. Because of FaceTime and emails, our four new grandchildren, born while we served, knew us and were warm and welcoming when we returned.”
Photograph courtesy of the Hammonds
Among the many blessings the Hammonds feel they received from their service is having their eyes opened to the generosity and friendliness of the Jordanian people. When the Hammonds first received their call, they were uncertain about the people they would be serving.
“But we found our Muslim friends to be gentle and generous,” Ron says, “and we are certain that had they sensed we were ever in harm’s way, they would have gone out of their way to protect us.
“Their charity is amazing. Jordanians can’t bear knowing others are going without if they can help. They have been welcoming refugees since pre-Davidic times. The Bible contains many references to ‘beyond Jordan,’ and we began signing our letters ‘Beyond Jordan’ as recognition of the compassionate service we were privileged to provide in this historically compassionate country. For centuries Jordan has been a place of charity, and the Lord has blessed the people for it.”
Working so closely with the Jordanian people enabled the Hammonds to develop some strong friendships. “We were invited to several Iftar meals, the meal that ends the daily Ramadan fast,” Sandi says. “Our Muslim friends also invited us to attend engagement parties, weddings, and other family-focused occasions.”
The Church doesn’t proselyte or permit baptisms of Muslims in Jordan or anywhere else where the law forbids it, so the Hammonds didn’t share information about the Church. Instead, they focused on building and maintaining relationships—with the royal family, local humanitarian partners, other couple missionaries serving with them, and religious and government leaders. When asked for details about the Church, the Hammonds encouraged inquirers to visit LDS.org.
Considering the remarkable experiences Ron and Sandi had, do they feel they are somehow special among couples called to serve—or that could be called to serve?
Yes—and no. “We served where and when the Lord needed a couple with our specific skills and life experiences,” the Hammonds say. “But that’s true for all senior missionaries. Every couple with the ability to serve a mission has been prepared to serve in ways special to them. They just need to exercise faith enough to go where the Lord has need of them, and He will use them to make a difference in the lives of others.”
“Couples can make a difference,” said Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “Couples can accomplish remarkable things no one else can do. …
“… The ways in which couples can serve are virtually limitless. From mission office support and leadership training to family history, temple work, and humanitarian service—there is an opportunity to use almost any skill or talent with which the Lord has blessed you. …
“… You have received much in your life; go forth and freely give in the service of our Lord and Savior. Have faith; the Lord knows where you are needed. The need is so great, brothers and sisters, and the laborers are so few.”2

My blood was boiling. These people clearly know nothing on this topic, I thought, peering down at the virtual shouting match playing out on my smartphone’s Twitter feed. I quickly crafted a perfect response to join the throng—certain that everyone would see how uninformed their opinions were when my tweet pointed out their ignorance. I was about to press send, thought clouds of contempt churning, when a still, small voice managed to pop into my head:
Would Christ say that?
My thumb paused, hovering over the “Tweet” button. My stomach sank.
No. No, He wouldn’t.
Then why would you?
I sighed, took a few deep breaths, and deleted the tweet. I felt awful. What had just come over me?

Not only do we lose the Spirit when choosing anger, but we lose the ability to see situations clearly. We can even lose the ability to act with reason. “[Intemperate anger] destroys wisdom and sound judgment. When we become upset, reason is suppressed, and anger rushes in. To make decisions while infuriated is as unwise and foolish as it is for a captain to put out to sea in a raging storm. Only injury and wreckage result from wrathful moments.”2 Just as I was on the verge of sending a tweet I wasn’t proud of, we can lose sight of who we truly are and who we’re trying to be when angry. It can become a vicious cycle if it isn’t curbed.

I’m so thankful for the whisperings of the Holy Ghost not to send my angry tweet that day. It may seem like an inconsequential example of restraint, but it taught me a lesson that I’ll never forget.

“I was with President Harold B. Lee in the hospital at the time of his sudden death. President Marion G. Romney, a counselor in the First Presidency, and President Spencer W. Kimball, of the Quorum of the Twelve, arrived and waited while the doctors did what they could. When it was announced that President Lee had died, President Romney turned to President Kimball and said, ‘President Kimball, what would you like me to do?’ In that moment—simply and without any doubts or questions—the leadership of the Church quietly changed hands in that hospital waiting room. It was a moment I shall never forget.”

Illustrations by Scott Peck
So where are your video games?
Don’t have any.
What?! How can we play Monster Quest like we do at my house?
We can’t. Let’s go outside and look for real monsters instead.
Is this an arrowhead?
Maybe it’s a monster tooth!
Yikes! A bigfoot monster was here!
We can’t let the monster get us! Follow me to the creek!
We’re mud monsters!
RAWR!
Sea monsters!
Aaah!
That was even more fun than Monster Quest. Next time, let’s look for real monsters at my house too!

After I graduated from high school, the bishop called me into his office. “I want you to prepare for a mission,” he said. He looked me in the eyes, and the word prepare was there.
At supper I told my parents and saw the light in their eyes. “If you decide to go, we will support you in every way.”
There was no pressure. As usual the decision must be mine.
At the mission home in Salt Lake City, the General Authority who set me apart placed his hands upon my head and called me by name. Then, as if he were looking into the windows of my life, he said, “As of this moment, all of your sins are forgiven you.”
I served my mission and am now married to a wonderful woman. We have a little boy and have already started a missionary fund for him. I am sure that as he grows older there will be times when he will say, “Okay, dad, okay.” I will understand, and I will pray for the faith and understanding of my own dad and mother.

As a physician, I have been with many patients who were close to death. But few of these experiences have touched my heart the way my experience with Cal and Lola Hamilton did.
At age sixty-two, Lola had been ill for years. Nearly blind from diabetes, she had severe arthritis and chronic heart and lung disease. She seemed weary, worn, and older than her years.
But her husband, Cal, did not think of Lola’s ill health as a burden. Cal was healthy and strong. He looked ten years younger than he was, and he still managed an active farming business. Yet in the two hears I had known them, his foremost concern was always his wife’s comfort and well-being.
Caring for Lola was practically a full-time nursing job. Yet Cal did most of it himself, always cheerfully and enthusiastically. Their children, all married now, also helped. The care Lola received at home was often better than she could get in a hospital.
In two years, Lola was hospitalized four times—each for a long period of time. Cal stayed with her constantly, sleeping in a chair at her side or on a little cot. He left long enough to eat a meal only if one of the children was there. Never through all those days did I hear a critical word about a nurse, a hospital worker, or anyone else. Instead, Cal praised and thanked us.
When Lola finally had a massive stroke, Cal was devastated. He never left her side. As she lay unconscious, Lola received a priesthood blessing, surprisingly promising that her full functional capacity would be restored. Because of that blessing we did everything we could to prolong her life.
The days passed and Lola remained unconscious. Cal never left the hospital, but day after day the strain and agony on his face increased and discouragement showed. He looked so thin and tired that I wondered if he had stopped eating. He caught only a few minutes of uninterrupted sleep her and there. Each time Lola’s noisy breathing caught or changed a little, he jumped up to check on her.
Such stress often brings out the worst in a person’s character. But Cal continued to be courteous. This gentle man showed dignity in his grief.
One Saturday after leaving Cal and Lola, I went back to the doctors’ lounge and slumped down on chair. Tears came to my eyes as I thought about Cal’s pain and grief.
Once again, I bowed my head to ask my Heavenly Father if there was something, as Lola’s doctor, that I could do to help. Was there something that I had left undone? I asked about Lola’s priesthood blessing. Why would anyone make such a statement? Was the priesthood holder truly inspired to say what he did?
At that moment, a thought came forcefully into my mind. The only way Lola could be restored to her full capacity was to move on to the next life. I had had this thought before, and I had even mentioned it to Cal. But this time it was accompanied by a feeling of great joy. In my mind, I could see Lola, sweet and attractive, with all her functions restored.
My grief was gone. I felt the unmistakable joy and peace that only the Holy Ghost can bring.
I left the doctors’ lounge with peace in my heart. A few hours later Lola died quietly and peacefully, and Cal finally went home.
I am grateful to Cal, who, by his example, taught me the meaning of love and sacrifice. I am also deeply grateful to the Lord for the miracle of personal revelation that turned a distressing, faith-shaking experience into a sweet, faith-building one.

Recently I met an intelligent young man with outstanding parents. There are exceptional material and spiritual resources available to him. He is undecided about a mission. He attends a community college because it is easier than going to a university. In his free time he does only those things that he likes to do. He doesn’t work because he doesn’t need to, and it would take time away from his pleasures. He took seminary classes to pass them, without much thought of how he should personally apply the knowledge gained. Finally I asked:
“Can I speak to you from my heart? I don’t want to offend but rather to point out something. You are making choices today that seem very reasonable to you. They seem to give you what you want: an easy life with abundant enjoyment and not much sacrifice on your part. You can do that for a while, but what you don’t realize is that every decision you make is narrowing your future. You are eliminating possibilities and options. There will come a time, and it won’t be too distant, where you are going to spend the rest of your life doing things you don’t want to do, in places you don’t want to be, because you have not prepared yourself. You are not taking advantage of your opportunities.”
I mentioned how everything I treasure today began to mature in the mission field. Missionary service is not something we do for ourselves. We have our agency. We can choose what we want to do. Yet, for me, the greatest growth and preparation for the future that most youth have today is gained in a mission. There they focus outside of themselves on other people. They draw close to the Lord and really learn His teachings. They find individuals interested in the message but not sure of its worth. They try with every capacity—prayer, fasting, and testifying—to help that person change his life. That’s what a mission does when it is done selflessly, as many can testify. I felt impressed to give this young man a blessing. As he walked out of the room, I prayed earnestly that somehow the Lord would touch him to choose the right priorities. Otherwise his progress will be limited and his happiness short-circuited.

The houselights fall; the last few coughs and whispers fade; and a girl comes on stage. Under a soft spotlight her face is beautiful, its innocence incongruous in the gaudy, western saloon. As she feels her way from table to table, her eyes wandering blankly across the painted bar and rows of painted bottles on the canvas backdrop, the audience realizes that she is blind.
“Is there no one here?” she asks timidly, to be answered only by silence. “Will no one help me?” she says a little louder, her voice quavering on the edge of a sob. There is no reply from the empty saloon. She sits down unsteadily in a chair, her face inexpressibly weary, her shoulders drooping. “Will no one help me?” she whispers hopelessly. Her vacant eyes pass once over the audience as if yearning to penetrate the darkness, and then with a small sigh she bows her head and seems to give up.
Suddenly, a few rows back, a man springs to his feet. He struggles free from the row of knees and backrests and is quickly on the stage. Drawing up a chair to face the actress, he takes her two small, trembling hands in his two large, strong ones. “I’ll help you, dear,” he says softly.
His words produce instant pandemonium. The audience surges to its feet, sending wave after wave of cheers and applause crashing against the tiny stage, and for several long minutes the melodrama waits; the stage crew waits; the actors backstage awaiting their cues wait; the whole little theater world waits while men and women and children are happy out loud.
It wasn’t exactly a theatrical triumph; there was no such line in the script; the man wasn’t a cast member; no one was more surprised than the “blind girl” at the unexpected offer of assistance. The incident, which really happened, wasn’t so much theater as it was a peculiar form of magic, and it took place, as that sort of magic often does, at a little theater in West Yellowstone, Montana, known as the Playmill.

Mom looked at her phone. “Oh no! Aunt Alyssa is in the hospital.”
Millie felt like her stomach dropped. She knew the hospital was a place where people went when they were very sick. But this was the first time one of her family members had to stay there.
“What can we do to help her?” Millie asked.
“Let’s find out.” Mom called Aunt Alyssa. Millie got to say hello, which made her happy. Aunt Alyssa told them that she had been sick for a week. She hoped she would be able to come home from the hospital in a few days.
“I think I know how we can help her,” Mom said after the phone call. “We need some supplies.”
A few hours later, Millie and Mom walked up the stairs to Aunt Alyssa’s apartment. They carried a bucket full of rags, soap, and scrub brushes. They were on a cleaning mission!
First Millie helped Mom wash the dishes. Then she helped fold some laundry. She wiped off the kitchen table and swept the floor too.
While she worked, Millie thought about how much she loved Aunt Alyssa. Whenever Mom and Dad had to work at the same time, Aunt Alyssa came to stay with her. Sometimes they went to the park together. They liked to watch people walk their dogs by the river.
After lots of hard work, Mom said they were almost done. Millie helped her put clean sheets on Aunt Alyssa’s bed.
“I have an idea,” Mom said. “Let’s not tell Aunt Alyssa what we did yet. That way, it will be a surprise when she gets home from the hospital!”
Millie giggled as she thought of what her aunt’s face would look like when she opened the door.
“Let’s leave her a note too!” Millie said.
Mom folded a piece of paper and wrote a note inside. Millie wrote, “Get better soon!” on the front and drew lots of hearts on it. They left it on Aunt Alyssa’s pillow.
“Thanks for going on a cleaning mission with me today,” Mom said on the way home. “Aunt Alyssa will be so happy and surprised.”
Millie grinned. She was still sad that Aunt Alyssa was sick. But helping had made Millie feel a little bit better. She hoped her aunt would feel better soon too!
This story took place in the USA.