Gospel Story Finder

Across the ocean in Clay County, Missouri, Michael Arthur, another great-great-great grandfather who was not a member of the Church, also had a choice: persecute the Mormons or help the Mormons. He chose to give jobs to Lyman Wright, Wilford Woodruff, and others and offered the use of a cabin on his farm where Joseph Smith disbanded Zion’s Camp and organized a stake. Michael Arthur also wrote to the newspapers and spoke passionately against the persecution of the Saints in Missouri.

I always knew I wanted to be a mother, but when I was growing up, it wasn’t always on my mind. When my fiancé and I were engaged, one day I was talking with one of my college professors—a woman I greatly admired—about my engagement. She said something that brought my life choices into sharp focus. “You are wasting your talent,” she told me as she shook her head. She went on to say that someone as smart as I was should not get married young. She assumed I would have children in my future and would be “throwing away” my education and chances of a stellar career on my future motherhood. I could tell by the way she looked at me that she thought I was making a terrible and naïve mistake.
It’s been several years since that conversation, and my husband and I have two little girls. Kate is three years old and is my little sweetheart. She moves through life at a leisurely pace, savoring all of the little details she notices. Annabel is one year old, with bright, blue eyes and a head of curls. She’s exuberant and determined. Though I didn’t change my mind because of what my professor said, our discussion has stayed with me. In one way my professor’s predictions were correct: I do not have a prestigious working career. But my professor got the most important point wrong, because I have wasted nothing.

In contrast, some years ago there was born to a young mother a special child. This child was born without eyes. It was normal in all other respects except there was nothing to resemble eyes or sockets above the nose. This wise mother might in bitterness have said, “Why did this have to happen to my child?” or “Why did this have to happen to me?” Instead she said, “The Lord must really love us and have confidence in us. We really must be favored to have been given this child. To think the Lord picked out our home, knowing how much special love and care this child would need, is very humbling and comforting. We are grateful for this special child and for the blessings it will bring to our home.”

I have learned from personal experience that this is true. A few years ago, when my youngest child was in junior high, I began to get a prompting that I needed to go back to school and finish my education. I had only had one year of college before I was married; all I ever wanted to do was be a mom, and I loved being a mom; it was my favorite job ever, but life doesn't always work out the way you planned. It's full of surprises, so be prepared to adjust! Anyway, at that time I had a very strong impression that I needed to get an education and that I needed it NOW. I thought about all the majors that would get me a job making lots of money, but that just didn't seem to be what I was supposed to do. My great love was literature, so after some consideration, I decided that what I really wanted to do was major in English and teach at Ricks College. I prayed about it and had a confirmation of the spirit that that was what I should do. I finished my associate's degree at Ricks College and then I had to move on to a 4-year university. Just to see what my chances of teaching at Ricks College were, I went to visit with the person who was the English Department chair at that time (I won't mention any names, and I'm sure that person won't remember this). He told me that the department had all the teachers they needed and that he didn't foresee any need for more teachers for a long time. He said, "If I were you, I would change my major." Well, that was a little discouraging, but I knew what I had been told to do, so I went ahead with it in spite of the odds. I knew that if that's what the Lord had told me to do, there must be a reason, although I couldn't necessarily see it at the time. I finished my bachelor's and master's degrees at Idaho State University, and interestingly enough, the year that I finished, there was an opening in the English Department. There has been almost every year since, so here I am. Obviously, the Lord knew something that that English Department chair did not—well, actually none of us did! If I had not followed the promptings of the Lord, I would not have been prepared when the opportunity came. And, more importantly, I would not have been prepared to provide for my family when, the year after I graduated, my husband died suddenly of a heart attack. I could not have foreseen that, but my Heavenly Father knew, and He helped me to be ready. I love the Lord; I trust Him, and I absolutely know that I could not do any of the things I do without His help. I don’t know the whole plan for my life, but I know that He does, and I know that if I try to live worthy and follow the promptings of the spirit, I will be prepared for whatever happens in my life.

Several years ago, donations were made to create a fund for an endowed chair at the University of Utah. The chair was named the “Dr. Russell M. Nelson and Dantzel W. Nelson Presidential Chair in Cardiothoracic Surgery at the University of Utah.” It honors the pioneering contributions of President Nelson and the support he received from his late wife. The appointed faculty member holds the title of “the Nelson chair.”

The investiture ceremony happened in 2018. The ceremony included President Nelson, his current wife, Sister Wendy W. Nelson, the president of the University of Utah, and other dignitaries. The first person selected and appointed to this endowed chair and who thus carried the title “the Nelson chair,” was Dr. Craig H. Selzman. Dr. Selzman is a wonderfully accomplished cardiothoracic surgeon who is not of our faith.

The ceremony honored both President Nelson and Dr. Selzman. Both spoke about what this meant to them. President Nelson spoke modestly of a surgical career that had spanned decades and included pioneering work developing what is commonly known as a heart-lung bypass machine. When Dr. Selzman spoke, he surprised me. I had expected him to say nice things about President Nelson. He did so briefly, stating that what President Nelson had done in performing the first open-heart surgery in the state of Utah in 1955 using a heart-lung machine that he himself had built from scratch was “so bold, so ambitious, [and] so crazy.” Dr. Selzman added, “I think it said a lot about his character.” [2]

But then Dr. Selzman spoke about what it meant to him personally to be appointed to the endowed chair named after President Nelson. He said it gave him pause and planted in him a desire to change his attitudes and behaviors and become more like President Nelson. The two never practiced medicine together, separated by a generation or so, but President Nelson’s reputation and character clearly impacted Dr. Selzman.

Dr. Selzman related that earlier that week, on Monday evening, he went through the surgical intensive care unit after a long day in the operating room. He noticed that one of the patients he had operated on earlier was doing poorly and needed to go back to surgery. Dr. Selzman was disappointed. He was irritated because he would have to spend another long night in the hospital. In the past, he would have showered his frustrations on his surgical team. Everyone around him would have been aware that Dr. Selzman was unhappy because he let it show in his tone of voice, the sharpness in his manner, and in his general grumpiness.

This Monday evening, however, he had a quick but life-changing conversation with himself. In the moment, he thought, “On Friday, I will be appointed to the endowed chair named after Dr. Russell M. Nelson. During his surgical career, Dr. Nelson was known as a gentleman, someone who always kept his emotions in check, treated everyone with dignity and respect, and never lost his temper. He was kind and thoughtful of his team. Now that my name will be linked with Dr. Nelson’s, I need to be more like him.”

Dr. Selzman said he composed himself and intentionally changed his attitude. He went into that late-night surgery more complimentary of his staff and more understanding of their frustrations. His efforts to be more like Dr. Nelson created a different atmosphere in the operating room. His surgical team undoubtedly wondered what had happened to their old boss. Notably, Dr. Selzman liked who he was in the operating room that night.

My appreciation for Dr. Selzman’s remarkable experience was made even more profound five years later. In 2023, I attended another ceremony in which President Nelson’s professional papers were donated to the University of Utah. The donation included more than 7,000 operative reports, along with research papers and other professional writings that were compiled during President Nelson’s extraordinary medical career.

In attendance at this second ceremony were President Nelson, Sister Nelson, the President of the University of Utah, the Vice-President of Health Sciences, the Vice-Chair of the Board of Trustees, the Dean of the School of Medicine, the head of the Health Sciences Library, the Chairman of Surgery, and Dr. Selzman, the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery.

Several people spoke about the importance of the donation of President Nelson’s papers. The president of the University of Utah referred to President Nelson as its most distinguished alumnus. The last speaker was Dr. Selzman. Again, he surprised me.

Dr. Selzman began by mentioning that “Whenever you start talking about health care with [President Nelson], he gets a little twinkle in his eye.… It’s just amazing to see how energized he [gets] talking about all that stuff.” [3] But then, Dr. Selzman provided a follow-up on the effect of being “the Nelson chair,” not just on him, but also on members of his Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery. Referring to President Nelson’s initials, RMN, Dr. Selzman said, “There is an ‘RMN’ ethos that now pervades the Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery at the University of Utah. We know that we can’t live up to it, but it is aspirational.”

For those not familiar with the word ethos, it is used to describe the guiding beliefs or ideals that characterize a group. Dr. Selzman mentioned that in frustrating situations, when some choice words come into his mind, he remembers the RMN ethos. He continued, “I do what we now teach our trainees to do—focus, get over it, and do the best you can. This ethos lives in us every day.”

Dr. Selzman observed, “One of the most important things in my office is the medallion I received for the Nelson endowed chair. I remind myself every day of this ethos. We give lapel pins to every member of the division and new trainee. The pin has the University of Utah logo at its center with the words Cardiothoracic Surgery underneath the logo. Around the pin’s exterior are four things, three words ‘Teach,’ ‘Heal,’ and ‘Discover,’ and at the very bottom, the letters, RMN." The ethos that is characteristic of President Nelson’s life, Dr. Selzman said, “is foundational to our approach; we teach it to everyone.”

My wife and I are impressed by the effect President Nelson’s name had on Dr. Selzman. Not only has he tried to emulate President Nelson’s attributes, but he has also encouraged others to do the same. Dr. Selzman is striving to take on President Nelson’s characteristics because his name, Selzman, is now linked to President Nelson’s.

When I was released from my calling as a stake president, my sons were excited about spending more time with me. Three weeks later I was called as a Seventy. At first I thought they might be disappointed, but my youngest son’s humble response was “Daddy, don’t worry. We are an eternal family.” What a simple and clear truth it was! I worried a little because I looked around at this mortal life first, but my son was happy because he did not look around but looked up with eyes toward eternity and the purposes of the Lord.

Raquel “Liriel” Domiciano was about to sing in front of millions of people. Was she worried about messing up? A little. Was she worried about what to wear? Naturally. But what worried her most?

Only 19 at the time, Liriel, a member of the Church for five years, wanted to stand as a witness “of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

Liriel was about to perform in Brazil’s largest televised talent competition, the Raul Gil Amateur Show. She had been told she couldn’t say anything about her religion. But she knew that many of Brazil’s Latter-day Saints would be watching, and she wanted everyone to know she wasn’t ashamed of the gospel. After praying in her room before her first performance, she looked up and saw her Young Women medallion. It was the answer she had been looking for.

Liriel wore her medallion during every level of the competition. Eventually she and her partner, tenor Rinaldo Viana, won the contest, signed a recording contract, and watched as their first CD became the second-highest best-seller in Brazil’s history, with more than one million copies sold.

Wearing the medallion as she performed was her way of letting people know she was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and willing to stand as a witness, even in front of millions.

“I’m the Wishgiver,” Kaitlyn sang.
Jeremy jumped from his bed and stood at the door of his room. That’s all he needed—his little sister messing with his stuff.
“Look, Jeremy! Look!”
Kaitlyn spun in circles, almost tripping over the cape that swirled around her ankles.
The costume didn’t look all that great. Just a big T-shirt that used to be his and that Mom had sewn a big W on, and an old beach towel with two corners tied in a knot in front. “Looks good,” Jeremy said, forcing a smile.
“Make a wish.” Swirling her cape again, Kaitlyn moved closer to his room.
Closing his door behind him, Jeremy led the lively Wishgiver to the family room. “I wish to see you rehearse your part in the play as our family home evening activity tonight,” he chuckled good-naturedly.
After that, every day Kaitlyn bounced around in her costume. Mom laughed, “You’re going to wear your costume out before the play.” Then she hugged Kaitlyn and played the Wishgiver game.
Jeremy holed up in his room. It was hard to pretend, even for Kaitlyn, in a superhero who could make wishes come true. He was glad that she realized that it was only make-believe and didn’t pretend Dad was alive, or something like that.
At last the play was only three days away. Jeremy, Kaitlyn, and Mom sat at the kitchen table, eating breakfast.
Jeremy swallowed a bite of toast. “I’m supposed to take treats to the soccer party Saturday.”
“Are brownies OK?” Mom asked. “We’ll make them Friday—I have to work Saturday.” She turned to Kaitlyn. “Honey, I’m sorry, but I can’t come to your play.”
Kaitlyn plunked her spoon into her cereal bowl. Milk sloshed over its sides. “You’re not coming?”
Mom took Kaitlyn’s face in her hands. “I tried, honey, but I can’t get another nurse to take my shift.”
“But it’s my play!”
Jeremy focused on his banana. He peeled the skin back, picking off bits that were left behind.
Kaitlyn’s lip quivered. Mom hugged her. “Mrs. Santangelo will take you. She’s really looking forward to seeing your play.”
“But you’re my mommy. Mrs. Santangelo’s not the same. She’s not my family. Jeremy, can’t you come?”
Jeremy wadded the banana peel. “I have a party that day.”
“You can’t come, either?”
Jeremy didn’t look up from the squished peel. He knew how Kaitlyn was feeling. Not too many weeks ago, at his soccer game, he’d felt the same way.
Most of the kids had dads there. Mom was OK. She cheered and knew the rules. But she couldn’t come to the final game. She’d had to work then too. Even so, before the game, he’d searched the sidelines. No Mom.
He’d played well—each time he kicked the ball, he’d think of Mom not being there and the ball would sail far. He’d scored three goals, and the score was 5–4 in favor of the opponents when he got the ball again in the final minutes. He dribbled it down the field, evaded the defense, and aimed at the goal. The ball bounded toward the goal, hit the corner of the post, and went … outside.
“I lost the game,” Jeremy moaned. Knowing that no one was there waiting for him in the bleachers, but still hoping, he trudged off the field.
The game had been days ago, and as Jeremy cleared his dishes from the table, he wanted to forget about how awful and alone he’d felt. He tried not to notice that Kaitlyn had started to cry.
For the next three days, Kaitlyn didn’t dress in the Wishgiver costume, and no one played the Wishgiver game. Even if it was dumb, Jeremy missed it. “Hey, Kaitlyn,” he coaxed, “put on your costume. I have a wish for you.”
“It’s just a costume,” Kaitlyn muttered. “The Wishgiver can’t really make things happen.”
The day of the play, Mom hustled Kaitlyn into the car to take her to the Santangelo’s. Kaitlyn was quiet, all the bubble gone. Mom didn’t say much, either. As she opened the car door, she turned to Jeremy. “The brownies are on the kitchen table. Be careful crossing the highway. And have a good time at the party.”
Jeremy watched Mom climb into the car. The party. It was just a dumb old party—a bunch of guys horsing around and … “Hey, Mom, wait up!” He raced to the car. “Do you think Mrs. Santangelo would mind if I came?”
Mom turned off the engine and looked into his eyes. Her own eyes were kind of misty. “But your party. … You don’t want to miss that.”
“The guys’ll just mess around. I can get there after the play in plenty of time for the food. Do we have time to drop the brownies off?”
He raced into the house, grabbed his treats, then raced back out to the car and piled into the back seat next to Kaitlyn. For the first time in three days, she smiled—a big smile, big enough to show her missing teeth. “You’re coming to my play!”
“I’ve nothing better to do—no big deal.”
Kaitlyn giggled and snuggled as close to him as the seat belt would allow.
At the play, Jeremy sat between Mrs. Santangelo and some big guy, probably some kid’s dad. There weren’t many kids there. At his party he’d be with lots of them, all his friends.
For a bunch of little kids, the play wasn’t bad. The parents clapped and clapped. Then all the actors came in front of the curtain and told not what they wished for but what they were thankful for.
When it was Kaitlyn’s turn, Jeremy squirmed in his seat. She scared easily. She stood in front of the footlights, squinting into the glare. Scrunching her eyebrows, she searched the audience. “I’m thankful for … I’m thankful for my brother.”
Jeremy sat tall. The guy next to him didn’t seem so big.
The kids rushed off the stage, and in the push, Kaitlyn tripped and fell, tearing her precious cape. Jeremy helped her up.
She smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming. “Did you like it?”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“Do you have to go to your party now?”
She looked so tiny and alone with her missing teeth and her torn cape.
“Nah—it looks like they have good food here. I’ll hang around.”
Maybe you don’t have to be a Wishgiver to make wishes come true.

When we were baptized into the church in 1971, there were no temples in the Philippines, the nearest temple was in Tokyo, Japan. Upon learning about the ordinances of the temple and the sealing power that binds families to the eternities, we were so eager for the temple in the Philippines. It was a long wait until 1984 when the Manila Temple was dedicated by President Gordon B. Hinckley.
We were one of the many Filipino saints who rushed to the Manila Temple to be sealed as a family. Our joy was full when we received the ordinances and were sealed as a family. From that time on we never neglected our covenants with God, we regularly went to the temple despite the distance from Pangasinan to Manila. Like most Filipinos, we faced economic difficulties but we saved money to be able to enter the temple regularly. It was a joy to renew our covenants with God and perform ordinances for our dead.

When I was 11 years old, I had a wonderful Primary teacher. One day in class, she walked in on a discussion among us 11-year-old boys about our mothers and how tough they were on us. Our mothers would insist that we make our beds, help with the dishes, take out the garbage, and even help with other housework.
Our teacher said nothing but went ahead with our lesson. At the end of the class, she said that on the coming Saturday morning we were going to have a special activity at her house.
That Saturday, we peddled our bicycles to her home. She gathered us around her dining room table where she had some liquids in bottles. She also had small, empty bottles for each of us. We poured so much of this and so much of that through a funnel into our bottles. We learned that we were making hand lotion for our mothers.
When we finished, our teacher gave us a small piece of paper on which she had written a verse. We each copied it down and taped the verse onto our bottles. We proudly took the lotion home to our mothers as a gift.
My mother was wise so, instead of using the lotion, she put it on the middle shelf of our bathroom’s medicine cabinet. It remained there through all my teenage years. Every day, as I opened that cabinet to get my toothbrush or comb, there on the shelf was the bottle with that handwritten verse. It was still there the day I combed my hair before leaving for my mission.
That verse impacted my life permanently. It said, “Bless the hands that never tire in their loving care for me.” That message, which I read every day, drove deep into my heart love, respect, and appreciation for my mom.

I decided to transfer to Ricks College in Rexburg Idaho. Many times I wondered why was I there especially when those cold Teton winds would blow through the campus. Why did I leave warm and sunny Hawaii, with a secured job at PCC. I was a poor student. I worked as a custodian. Thank goodness for the Law of Tithing and the Idaho potato. Through payment of tithing, I had the means to pay for my education and the baked Idaho potatoes gave me sustenance.

What a blessing it is for me to have the opportunity to pursue a Master's degree. I returned to Fiji and served as Assistant Principal and Principal at the Fiji LDS Technical College. After spending 7 and half years in Fiji, my family returned to Utah. The opportunity presented itself for me to pursue a doctorate degree. Having this post doctorate degree has opened many doors of opportunity.

Young Women in the Shelley First Ward, Shelley Idaho Stake, wanted to learn a useful skill. They also wanted to let their bishop know how much they loved him. So they decided to learn how to crochet to make him an afghan. After weeks of hard work, fun, and some frustration, the girls presented their beautiful gift.
“The blanket will remind the bishop of how much we love him every time he uses it,” said one girl.

Scott ran home from the bus stop. It was Friday! He could have friends over, play games, and—best of all—spend time with Dad.
Dad had been working long hours lately. He left before Scott woke up and didn’t come home until after bedtime. But Dad always saved the weekends for family and church.
“Mom!” Scott called as he came through the door. “Can I invite Cayden to come over and play?” Mom had just put down the phone, and Scott stopped when he saw the serious expression on her face.
“First I need to talk to you,” Mom said. “There’s been another hurricane, this time in Louisiana, and Dad’s been asked to help with cleanup again.”
“Can I go with him?” Scott asked. Dad always came back from cleanup trips with interesting stories about serving and working. He had promised that when Scott got old enough he could come along.
Mom closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m glad you want to help,” she said. “But you still aren’t quite old enough, and your dad might not be able to go after all.”
What would keep Dad from going? Scott wondered. More work? Was he sick?
“Actually, whether or not Dad can go depends a lot on you,” Mom said. Scott’s eyebrows shot up.
“Why would it depend on me?” he asked.
“Remember how my foot has been hurting the past few days?” Mom asked. Scott nodded. He and his sisters had helped her with the ice packs and pillows she needed to help her foot feel better.
“Well, today I found out that it’s probably broken. I need to stay completely off of it while it heals.”
She paused for a minute, but Scott was already ahead of her. “So you need me and the others to help while Dad is gone? Like making meals and cleaning the house?”
Mom nodded.
“Will I be in charge?”
Mom smiled. “I’ll be in charge. But you’d be the head helper.” Her face looked serious again. “If it’s too much, Dad can stay home. I told him I thought you could handle it, but we wanted to ask you first. It would be your way of doing hurricane help, because if you help here, you’ll make it so he can help there.”
Now it was Scott’s turn to be serious. “Mom,” he said. “I can totally do this. You can count on me!”
Mom smiled and gave Scott a big hug.
On Saturday morning, Dad was already gone when Scott woke up. Mom called out advice as Scott made pancakes for his four younger siblings. Scott even made a car-shaped pancake for Michael. Later, for lunch, Scott made sandwiches.
“Do you want jelly or honey on your sandwich?” Scott asked Allison. She wanted jelly.
At dinner Scott asked Abigail to get the peas to go with the macaroni and cheese. “We have to be healthy and eat our vegetables,” he told her.
After each meal, everyone helped clear the table and wash the dishes. Scott swept the floor and made sure everyone played quietly so Mom could rest. That night he got everyone together for family prayers.
When Dad came home the next day, Scott and his siblings had a surprise for him. They had their own stories to share about working to help others.

I have always believed in the power of prayer. When my family first moved to a new city, I had to wait to start school for two months until a new semester began. Although I enjoyed spending time with my family, I wanted a good friend with the same beliefs I have. I eventually met all of my neighbors, and although some were the same age, they didn’t have the same standards. When I was able to go to school, I met a lot of kids my age and made some friends.
One time I went out for dinner with friends. After dinner some of them left, but the rest still wanted to do something and decided they wanted to go drink. They invited me, but I told them no. I felt even more lonesome. I went home that night and prayed to find a good friend.
A few weeks later I went out to dinner with friends again and made it clear that I wouldn’t drink with them. After dinner all but one other person left to go drinking. We started to talk and found that we had the same standards—standards we kept by personal choice. I know that Heavenly Father always answers prayers.

Late one evening, my son Garrett called from Eau Claire, Wisconsin, USA. He and his wife, Shelly, and their children, were traveling from Alabama, where Garrett had military training, to Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota. He explained that while they were traveling through Wisconsin, Shelly became seriously ill. They had found a hospital, and Shelly was scheduled for an emergency appendectomy the next morning.
I arranged to fly and meet them, but I couldn’t get there until the following day. My son expressed concern about what to do with his children—a five-year-old, a one-year-old, and a three-week-old baby—while their mom was in surgery. Not knowing anyone in the area, he decided to call the bishop in Minot, even though they had not met. The bishop in Minot said he would contact the bishop in Eau Claire.
The following morning, the bishop in Eau Claire, along with the Relief Society president, met Garrett at his hotel. They said they would be happy to care for the children while Shelly was in surgery. Shelly later commented that she was completely at peace letting two strangers—who were family in the gospel—watch her children. By the time I arrived in Eau Claire, Shelly was recovering and my grandkids were back with her and Garrett. We were grateful for the help we received in our time of need.

The neonatal resuscitation training concerns in Ghana mirror those of Lesotho and Uganda. Dr. David Gourley, a Salt Lake City physician and member of the Humanitarian Services advisory committee, reported that “a simplified course designed for rural midwives and community nurses will provide basic resuscitation skills and equipment necessary to lower Ghana’s infant mortality rate.”
Dr. Gourley related the following account from a recently trained midwife: “Dora attended a breech delivery. She thought the baby was dead because he was floppy and not breathing. Dora went through the initial steps of resuscitation. She needed only to correctly position the baby’s airway and suction with a bulb syringe before the baby began breathing and tone improved. Today the baby is thriving.”

When Elder Dallin Ashley opened his mission call at his home in Fruit Heights, Utah, and read the words “Australia Melbourne Mission,” he immediately began thinking of the things he knew about Australia, which, admittedly, wasn’t much.
He thought about living in a different hemisphere. He thought of how it would be summer in Melbourne when it was winter in his Utah home. He even thought about kangaroos.
One thing he didn’t think about was a traffic jam in Provo, Utah.
Yet there is Elder Ashley on August 11 of last year, sitting in a car on 900 East with his mother and grandparents. This is how his mission is beginning—waiting behind a long line of cars all going to the same place: the Missionary Training Center.
Joining the masses
Each Wednesday, between 400 and 800 young men and women come to the Provo MTC to begin their missions and receive instruction about how to become effective missionaries. Most of those learning a language will be there for approximately eight weeks. For those like Elder Ashley who require no language instruction, their stays are between two and three weeks.
On this day, Elder Ashley is one of 488 missionaries entering the MTC.
Many of the 488 are milling around, waiting for the orientation session to begin. “I’m ready,” he says to his mom. “This is going to be great.”
Each week there are usually five or six orientations, depending on the number of missionaries scheduled to enter the MTC. The 12:30 orientation, the one Elder Ashley is attending, is the first of the day, with missionaries, along with family, spending their last moments together. By 3:30, the final orientation will have begun, and the lobby will be silent.
But now it’s a cacophony of noise and wall-to-wall people. Three things are a given in the lobby area of the MTC in the early afternoon on Wednesdays: lots of young men in dark suits, lots of picture-taking, and teary-eyed moms and dads—not necessarily in that order.
Elder Ashley is three for three in that department. His grandpa has already snapped a lot of photos, and Elder Ashley’s mom’s eyes are glistening. Dressed in his new suit and crisp, white shirt, Elder Ashley puts his arm around Mom for another picture, looking very much the part of a missionary.
Before long, Elder Ashley and his family walk into a large room where Homefront commercials are playing on several TV screens. The Church-produced spots about the importance of families make everybody feel good and seem to momentarily take their minds off what will happen in about 30 minutes. The room quickly fills up, with Elder Ashley seated on the fourth row. The meeting begins with the congregation singing “Called to Serve.” A sister missionary offers the opening prayer, and then Sister Kay Edman, wife of Missionary Training Center President W. Brent Edman, spends a few moments talking about what the missionaries can expect during their stay. She emphasizes that every minute of every day is accounted for and that the MTC is a great place to learn. “You’ll be amazed at how busy you’ll be in class. But you will get breaks in your day by going to lots of meetings,” she says with a smile.
The “lots of meetings” line is followed by lots of laughter.
She finishes by talking about service opportunities on the MTC campus, weekly devotionals with General Authorities, and trips to the nearby Provo Utah Temple to go along with the hours and hours of class time. Elder Ashley turns and smiles at his grandparents. So far so good.
President Edman then seconds much of what his wife has said. “Many of you have heard about the rigorous demands of the MTC, and many of you may be worried about that. Those are the very things that will be a blessing in your lives,” he says. “The MTC experience is a time of preparation. Blessings come while you’re here, but your experience will sometimes be very taxing.”
Elder Ashley thinks back to earlier in the day when he carried his two stuffed-full suitcases in from the car. His shoulders ache, and he doesn’t disagree with his mission president’s last statement.
Time to say good-bye
Once the meeting ends, missionaries are instructed to go out one door, while family members are escorted through another. Maybe everything else is new to Elder Ashley. This moment, however, he’s prepared for. He knows he’s going to leave his family for two years, and this is where it starts. After several hugs and a few more tears, Elder Ashley walks out the door. His mission is underway.
Even though he was set apart as a missionary the night before, he figures it became official when he signed in and received his name tag. “Elder Ashley,” he says, reading his badge. “Looks pretty good.”
As the new missionaries stand in a line, the “Hi, how are you?” salutation is replaced with “Where are you going, Elder?”
The answers—“Chicago; Osaka, Japan; and Lima, Peru”—are varied, which isn’t surprising. After all, this is the MTC.
Settling in
Elder Ashley sits down and fills out a personal information sheet and looks through a packet of papers that include his mailbox number, his branch president’s name, and his dorm assignment.
With that safely in hand, Elder Ashley follows one of the MTC’s many volunteer guides, who directs him down the hall to another room. There he notices the other missionaries have removed their suit jackets. He then spots two nurses standing in the middle of the room.
“Shots,” he says.
Actually, just one. A hepatitis-B booster. If it hurt, nobody could tell. Although his gritted-teeth smile suggests it probably did.
“Glad that’s over,” he adds while rebuttoning his shirt sleeve.
After he picks up his books and other materials from the bookstore, he heads to his dorm in the Rey L. Pratt building, room 337.
There to greet him is Elder Michael Harker from Magrath, Alberta, Canada. Elder Harker is already unpacking. Elder Ashley won’t meet his companion, Elder Michael Tanner, and another roommate, Elder Michael Stowell, until a couple of hours later. Fortunately, all four are known as “Elder” because with three Michaels, “Dallin” doesn’t quite fit.
Once he retrieves his luggage from the lobby area, he goes back to his dorm to unpack. Dinner is at five o’clock, and another orientation meeting with his branch president follows. Elder Ashley quickly learns that Sister Edman was right.
The first day of his mission is over. It was long and tiring but very rewarding. “I’m finally a missionary. It’s hard to believe,” he says.
So much happened that it’s difficult for him to remember everything. But there’s not much time to think about that. Lights must be out by 10:30, and Elder Ashley isn’t complaining.

The brothers—Michael, Peter, and Matthias Lehmann—had spent their lives behind barbed wire and concrete walls, guarded by men who would shoot to kill anyone who tried to escape. It looked like a life sentence with no hope of parole.
Inmates of a maximum security prison? Hardly. The Lehmanns are an active LDS family whose only “crime” was being born in East Germany. And it looked like future generations of Lehmanns would also be born behind the barbed wire.
Then, suddenly, in November of 1989, the East German government collapsed. Guard towers stood deserted. And the Berlin Wall that had split East from West was hammered into a million pieces.
While many East Germans rushed to fill their shopping bags in the West, Peter, Matthias, and Michael Lehmann hurried to fill out their mission papers.
The young men’s parents, Rudolf and Ruth Lehmann, had joined the Church just months before the infamous wall was built in 1961. They proceeded to raise seven LDS sons in a country where families were small and atheism was the official religion. Like other East German citizens, the Lehmanns were told where they could and could not travel, what schools they could attend, what occupations they could pursue, and what they couldn’t read or say. They could practice their religion in their home, and they could meet in small branches, but government agents sometimes visited their meetings. They could have their scriptures, but other Church literature was stopped at the border. Proselyting was forbidden, and going on missions was out of the question. It was a challenging place in which to grow up as faithful Church members.
Peter Lehmann remembers being made fun of in citizenship classes in school. Everyone knew he was a Mormon. “In fact,” he says, “they probably knew more about my life than I did. We were watched. I think my family had a red dot on any record we had in any government office. We belonged to the Mormon church. We had seven sons. We were a different family.”
Michael Lehmann recalls: “My parents tried to raise me in a way that I wouldn’t talk about certain topics in public. They taught me to be careful in case I was near somebody who might have installed microphones or something like that. You never knew who to trust.”
In those conditions, people either dropped away from the Church completely, or they clung to it—and each other. It was a place where faith grew despite the surroundings. And, as President Spencer W. Kimball said, faith precedes miracles.
Most of the miracles were quiet ones: healings and the blessings that come from paying tithing and living the Word of Wisdom. And there was the miracle of developing and keeping a testimony in such a place.
Michael: “When I started going to school, I had a hard time with it because my parents told me about God, but everybody around me—students and teachers—tried to tell me there was no God at all.”
Peter: “In citizenship classes in school we were taught atheism as official policy. They made fun of religion in class and said if you belonged to a religious organization, you were working against the government. The government was more or less worshiped.”
Parents taught one thing; society often taught the opposite. Like LDS teens everywhere, the Lehmann brothers had to find out for themselves. “We had a really good home,” Peter recalls. “I kind of recognized the importance of doing what my parents wanted me to do. Still, with all of the experiences I had in school—people and teachers gave us a hard time and wanted me to get up and deny God—I said to myself, ‘We’re doing all this stuff. Why? There’s got to be something.’ I got on my knees and said, ‘I want to know for myself. I want to have the feeling in my heart.’
“I prayed and studied the Book of Mormon, and I got a testimony at that time, a little testimony that grew.”
Gaining a testimony is a major step. But what do you do when you know something is true and necessary—but it looks impossible to achieve? For example, what do you do when you have been taught how important temples are, yet you can’t travel to one? You do what the Lehmanns and other East German Saints did. You pray, and you live to be worthy of temple blessings someday in the future. And it looked like it would be a long way into the future.
But even faithful people can be surprised by blessings. And when the East German government announced in 1982 that the Church would be allowed to build a temple there, the members were grateful and astonished. “I was amazed,” says Michael simply. “From that time on, I knew everything else was possible.”
The brothers talk about the time they went with their father to see the temple while it was under construction. After work one night, they took off, riding their dilapidated bikes twenty-five miles through the hilly countryside. And when they got to the temple site, they just stood across the street from the rising walls and watched.
And they wept.
The four eldest Lehmann brothers had grown up in the Church, found occupations, married—all without real hope of first serving missions. And it looked like the three youngest would follow the same path.
Michael, oldest of the three, says, “In church, everybody talks about saving money for a mission, but because the wall was up, none of the younger people believed we would be able to go on missions.”
“My parents taught me to save money to go on a mission,” says Matthias, “and I did it, too. But I never really thought I’d be able to go.” His patriarchal blessing did say he would serve a mission, but he assumed it would be later in life. When he served as a stake missionary at the open house prior to the temple dedication, Matthias thought maybe that was the fulfillment of the blessing.
Then there was Peter, youngest of the sons. He knew something his brothers didn’t know. Peter received his patriarchal blessing in 1986, after the temple dedication. He talks about going to a small town on the Polish border, attending a small branch in a shabby rented building rich with the Spirit, and then going to the home of the patriarch.
“He told me that I would go on a full-time mission. I would serve in a different country and a different language, and it would be in my youth. I was crying, I felt so close to the Lord in that moment. Afterward, I read my patriarchal blessing every night. I prayed. And I started saving money for my mission. I knew I was going soon.”
Peter just didn’t know where he would be going. (He thought somehow it might be Russia, since he spoke that language fairly well.) And, for some reason, he shared his blessing with his parents but not his brothers. “I was kind of different in my family. I always said, ‘We’re going on a mission, and it’s going to be great. We’re going to change things.’ My brother Matthias was skeptical. But I had my patriarchal blessing. I knew.”
Still, Peter didn’t know how it would happen.
Then, not long before the hated wall came down, the East German government began to allow a few full-time missionaries into East Germany for the first time in fifty years. At the same time, a handful of East German missionaries were allowed out of the country to serve in other nations. For some reason, none of the Lehmanns were permitted to be part of that group.
But then came those November days that were replayed on TV screens all over the world. East Berliners sat atop the wall with hammers and iron bars, tearing apart a barrier that had already been undermined by faith and prayer.
Peter was the first to submit his mission papers. Matthias and Michael followed soon after. All three were called to missions in the United States: Michael in the Tennessee Nashville Mission, Matthias in the Idaho Boise Mission, and Peter in the Colorado Denver Mission.
They knew what it was like to become free. Now they were ready to help others tear down another kind of wall. Every conversion, every life changed, is another person set free spiritually. And that is the greatest freedom. Just ask the Lehmanns.

I sat, legs crossed, in my dorm room. My roommate’s bed was empty because she had gone away for the weekend, so I started to fold my clean clothes on it. I glanced up at our big wall clock. Finally it was a quarter to three. I picked up my keys and headed to the campus mail boxes. When I got back to my room, I sank to the floor, let a pile of mail fall to my side, and ripped open a far more important letter.
Keller had written me back, finally. Before when I had written to him, he made it a point to answer quickly. The news in this last letter must have really shocked him. I could understand that. It had taken me almost two weeks to get my thoughts together and finally write the letter. I had written him almost two months ago about our father’s health problems. Neither of us had been particularly close to Dad, but when I found out he had cancer, I knew Keller would want to know immediately. This letter also provided me an opportunity to ask a question that I had needed an answer to for a long time.
Ever since Keller and I were little we knew only two things about Dad, that he loved Mom and that he loved our house. He loved Mom because of her patience, her wisdom, her strength, and her beauty—both inside and out. He loved our house because he had grown up there; his father had died there. Keller and I sometimes wondered if Dad loved us or the house more. We knew he loved Mom the most, but his love for the house was always a mystery.
Our family had lived in that house since I was a baby. It was an old house and had lots of problems. The basement flooded when we had heavy rains, and the well dried up at least once every summer. The house was out in the middle of nowhere, so in the winter our road didn’t even get plowed. Dad bought a tractor and every morning, before he went to work, he plowed out our whole road, from one end to the other.
Keller and I didn’t mind being out in the middle of nowhere though. We used that as an excuse to go wherever we wanted and do whatever we wanted. We built dams in the creek, forts in the woods, and clay slides in the front yard. The house was perfect for two adventurous children like us, and it was perfect for Dad too. Only Mom seemed to be bothered by the frequent problems, but she never complained. She kept herself almost too busy, planting and maintaining our gardens, pruning our apple trees, and raising two fearless explorers. She handled it all so well that no one even realized that she was sick. She kept it from everyone until she was too bad off to continue hiding it. She still wanted to do her jobs, and finally Dad had to take off work just to keep her in bed.
Every day Dad would go into her room and find out what she wanted him to do that day. He even let her tell him how to do the jobs. He knew perfectly well how to weed a garden, but he let her tell him how to do it anyway. The last instructions that she gave him were to help me with my bath and to make Keller take his. She died when Keller was seven and I was five.
Dad lost his job when he asked for the rest of the summer off to take care of us. They said he had already taken too much time. Dad spent close to five months hunting for a new job. He wanted one close enough to our house so that we wouldn’t have to move. He got a position at an architectural firm 71 miles away. He spent more time there than at home.
As we grew up, living in the country lost its appeal. All the problems with the house were a lot worse when there was no one around to fix them. When Dad came home each night, he would fix dinner, take a shower, and then go straight to bed. It seemed that almost overnight a once huge house grew too small, and Keller and I no longer wanted to explore. Neither of us had bothered to replant the gardens once we were old enough to do the work, and Mom’s apple trees had gone years without pruning. All the magic and life that Mom had brought to the house had died with her. Since Dad worked in the city it just made sense that we should live closer to it. If we moved we could get a newer house and not have to worry about the problems. He continued to commute, however, no matter how much we argued in favor of moving.
“That reminds me of your question, which I didn’t think was as strange as you thought I would. I even think I have an answer for you that might actually make sense. Part of it I learned here on my mission.
“I realized long ago that Dad doesn’t firmly believe in God because no one has ever reached him with the message; neither you nor I could do it. I think his house is the only place on earth that he feels connected to his father. After Mom died, I think he felt the same thing there with her. He doesn’t know about the afterlife, or doesn’t believe in it, so earthly connections are very important to him.
At that moment I understood just how much our house meant to Dad. It meant as much to him as the Church meant to Keller and me. It’s the same for anyone who has ever valued anything. From the moment I joined the Church I began a journey toward eternity. Before I reach my destination, I’ll travel through life and have great trials and sacrifices. But when I arrive home to be with my Heavenly Father, the value of being there will be a thousand times greater than the value of all I might ever have possibly had to give up.

In 1967 Norman elected to join a religious service fraternity, and I worried that this would be one more barrier to his conversion. Strenuously, I told my objections, telling him it would lead to further prejudice against the Church. When he said he was not prejudiced, I asked, “Are you tolerant enough to go to church with me?” He didn’t answer, but later that day he said that if I really wanted him to attend, he would. So he began attending the investigators’ class in Sunday School, and within a year he was also attending sacrament meeting. Of course, the boys and I were delighted, and we will be forever grateful to the ward members for the way they welcomed him and made him a part of the ward. But through that year I could sense a great struggle going on inside him. He questioned many doctrines. (Later, when we asked him what was most instrumental in his conversion, he said that his family meant more to him than anything else, and this church’s family orientation was a strong appeal. Second, he was unable to prove the gospel wrong, so decided it must be right.) I was also gratified that we were invited to many social activities in the homes of ward members, and Norman found that we could enjoy ourselves without the need for alcoholic drinks. He also supported both boys on missions and gave brief talks in sacrament meeting prior to their leaving.