Gospel Story Finder

Thanks to 150 young people in the Dallas East Stake, some long-gone residents of Texas will not be forgotten. The youth spent their three-day youth conference cleaning up the local Oakland Cemetery and extracting names from the headstones. In all, they submitted 2,500 names to the Family History Department.
Howard Hooper, an administrator at the cemetery, had this to say about their efforts: “I had lived perfectly convinced that all the young people of today are soft, spoiled, pampered and definitely irresponsible. But your visit to the Oakland Cemetery has taught me much. Your demonstrating your amazing vim, vigor, and vitality, plus your daring bravery against fire ants from Mars, showed me that if you are soft, spoiled, and pampered, you are doing a good job of hiding the fact.”

Meredith sat on the stone steps of the old gray house on Avenue Molière in Brussels, Belgium. The sky was gray, and an occasional brown leaf drifted down from the sycamore trees that lined the median. Meredith looked at the gray and black connected houses and thought about how October would be at home in Vermont: The hills would be blazing with red maples and yellow birches, orange pumpkins would be sitting on the front porch, and the sky would be a deep, vibrant blue.
Her parents seemed thrilled to be here, but in the three days they’d been here, Meredith had felt nothing but sad and lonely and homesick. Her father said that wherever they were was home as long as they were together, but this dark, somber city didn’t seem like home to Meredith. The streets and sidewalks were made of square, gray stone too bumpy for her skateboard. And her favorite TV shows were in French. So far, she knew only the little French that her father had taught her.
As Meredith rested her chin in her hands, a tear rolled down her cheek. She was startled when the door behind her opened. A girl near her age, wearing a pleated skirt and a bright red sweater, stepped out. “Bonjour (Hello),” the girl said, smiling.
“Bonjour,” Meredith answered. Then the girl said something in French that Meredith didn’t understand. “Anglais (English),” Meredith said flatly.
“Très bien (Very good)!” The girl smiled broadly. “I would like to practice my English. My name is Yvette, and I’m eleven years old.” She sat down next to Meredith.
“Je m’appelle (My name is) Meredith. I need to practice my French, too, but I don’t know much.”
“Do you live in my building?”
“Oui (Yes),” Meredith replied.
“Are you busy? Could we do something?” Yvette asked.
“No, I’m not busy. It’s such a gloomy day, though. What could we do?”
“What is ‘gloomy’?” Yvette asked.
“Dark and cloudy and gray.”
Yvette laughed. “Meredith, if we wait for the sun to shine in Brussels, we will never do anything. Have you seen the Grand Place and the Palais de (Palace of) Justice?”
“No, I haven’t seen much of anything yet,” Meredith said. “We’re still unpacking.”
“Oh, you must see them. We can ask our mothers.”
“Is it far?” Meredith asked.
“Not far. We walk to Avenue Louise and then ride the tram. You will need some money for the tram.”
Meredith’s mother was a little worried about the excursion until Yvette’s mother came and introduced herself and reassured her that it would be easy and safe.
Soon the two girls were walking along the cobbled stones.
“Is everything gray here?” Meredith asked as she looked around her.
Yvette was thoughtful. “Well, not everything. There are other colors, but you have to look for them. See those leaves?” Yvette pointed, and Meredith saw a bright red vine growing along a gray wall.
Meredith looked at Yvette. “And you’re colorful in your red sweater.”
“Merci (thank you),” Yvette laughed.
On the tram, Meredith laid down her coins and said merci when the conductor handed her a ticket. Yvette put a card from her pocket into a little square machine until it clicked, then took it out again. As they sat together on the red vinyl seats, Meredith looked at Yvette’s happy face. “You speak English very well,” she said.
“Merci beaucoup (Thank you very much). My father taught it to me. Sometimes at church I speak with the American missionaries in English, but I am glad I met you so that I can practice every day.”
“American missionaries? What church do you belong to?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“That’s a long name,” Meredith said.
“People just call us Mormons.”
“I’ve heard of that back in Vermont. And I think I’ve seen those missionaries—young men in suits.”
“Oui,” Yvette said. “Young women, too, sometimes. And older couples.”
After they left the tram, they walked down narrow streets lined with shops and restaurants with tables outside beautifully set with linens and silver. When they stepped into the square of the Grand Place, Meredith stared. It was big—it covered a whole city block—and the buildings were enormous, the tower of the Town Hall reaching high into the sky. Some buildings were trimmed in gold, and flower boxes with bright geraniums decorated the windows. People were walking in all directions over the square stones, and in the center were dozens of containers of flowers for sale.
The girls looked in the shop windows at the beautiful lace and the rows of chocolates. At one place, Yvette told Meredith, “In this house, above the restaurant, the great writer Victor Hugo lived.”
Meredith looked up at the windows. “You mean people actually used to live in these buildings?”
“Yes,” Yvette said, smiling. “That one was the baker’s house. It is almost as large as the king’s house—food is important.” They both laughed. On another little street, Yvette bought waffles for them both.
As they approached the Palais de Justice, Meredith could see that it was huge. But it wasn’t until they were standing at the bottom of the steps by pillars as big around as three people could reach, and looking up at the roof far above, that she really felt its enormity. Statues of men much bigger than life stood on each side of the stairs.
“I think that this is the biggest building in Europe,” Yvette said.
“Why is it so big? What’s it for?” Meredith asked.
“It is for justice.”
“You mean it’s a courthouse?” Meredith thought that the square stone building on the corner of Main Street at home would fit on the porch of this building.
“Yes, that is it, a courthouse.”
“But why is it so big?”
“Maybe if you are a criminal, it makes you feel small and humble, sorry for your crime. Come on, we will go up the steps and look some more. Then we will go to the Sablon.”
By the time they reached the cathedral that Yvette had called the Sablon, Meredith’s feet ached from so much walking over the uneven stones. They opened the big door quietly and sat down on the high-backed chairs. In the loft behind them, in a clear, beautiful voice, a woman was singing words that Meredith couldn’t understand. A few people walked around in the church. Marble statues stood at the front, and a pulpit of beautifully carved wood was in the middle.
Meredith looked around at the stained glass windows, their bright colors glowing with the light, at the high, vaulted ceiling, and at the lovely white statues. “Do Mormons have beautiful churches like this?”
Yvette looked around thoughtfully. “No, our churches are very plain.”
“So what do you look at when the sermons are dull?” When Yvette laughed, Meredith added, “Maybe they’re never dull.”
“Yes, they are, sometimes,” Yvette said, “but it is more the feeling you have inside yourself when you’re there—you just feel happy and loving. That is the beautiful part.”
Meredith nodded, and they sat quietly for a few minutes, resting and listening to the singing. Meredith was thinking about how happy she’d been with Yvette. Yvette was friendly, and she knew how to make things fun. “Is it your church that makes you so happy?” Meredith asked.
Yvette smiled. “I think so.” She paused. “Come with me to church. Then you can see for yourself.”
“Maybe I will,” Meredith said. “I’m glad you found me on the steps this morning.”
“Moi, aussi (Me, too).”
As they walked again along Avenue Molière, Yvette put her arm through Meredith’s. A small shaft of sunlight came through the clouds and brightened the red vines they’d seen earlier.
Meredith smiled at Yvette. “Thank you for teaching me where to look for the beauty in Brussels. I know I’m going to like it here now.”

“I will be back in a few minutes,” my Thai host father said on his way out the front door. At least, I think that’s what he said. My comprehension of the Thai language was sketchy at best.
I had lived in Thailand for about four months as a community service volunteer, and although I could speak basic Thai, I still had a lot to learn. I had just changed areas, but my new host family already understood that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I did my best to explain my values and even gave the family a Thai Book of Mormon and a For the Strength of Youth pamphlet.
As I waited for my host father to come home, I sat on the living room floor and began studying a Thai phrase book. Suddenly, a strong impression came to me to invite him to pray with me. It had occurred to me before to ask him, but the impression had never come so powerfully. During my time in Thailand, I had shared the gospel on many occasions, but I had never asked anyone to pray with me.
My host father and I had a good relationship. I even called him “Dad,” which he seemed to appreciate. I felt excited and then nervous. What if he told me no? What if he felt uncomfortable around me for the rest of my time with his family? Should I chance ruining our relationship? To make matters worse, I didn’t know how to pray in Thai. I didn’t even know enough Thai to ask my host father to pray, so I asked my Heavenly Father for help.
Shortly afterward, I heard a loud clang as the front gate closed. As my host father entered, he greeted me and announced that he was going to bed. I realized that I couldn’t let this opportunity pass. As I opened my mouth to speak, I immediately knew what to say and how to say it in Thai.
“Dad, in America I used to pray with my family, and I really miss doing so. Would you pray with me?” I was surprised by his response.
“Jon,” he replied, “of course I would. Teach me how.”
I then explained in Thai what prayer is but decided to say my prayer in English. I knew God was listening, and I knew my host father felt the Spirit. My eyes welled with tears as he followed the conclusion of my prayer with “amen.”
I can’t express in words the joy and love I felt for my host father and my Heavenly Father. That experience gave me confidence and led to more experiences in sharing the gospel with others. Unfortunately, my host family never accepted my invitation to attend the local branch, but I know that the knowledge I shared with them will benefit them sooner or later.
Though we may not always see the fruits of our labors in this life, I learned that planting gospel seeds can bless at least one life—your own. And in the Lord’s time, those seeds may bless the lives of others.

Recently, I spoke with a Laurel from the United States. I quote from her email:
“This past year some of my friends on Facebook began posting their position on marriage. Many favored same-sex marriage, and several LDS youth indicated they ‘liked’ the postings. I made no comment.
“I decided to declare my belief in traditional marriage in a thoughtful way.
“With my profile picture, I added the caption ‘I believe in marriage between a man and a woman.’ Almost instantly I started receiving messages. ‘You are selfish.’ ‘You are judgmental.’ One compared me to a slave owner. And I received this post from a great friend who is a strong member of the Church: ‘You need to catch up with the times. Things are changing and so should you.’
“I did not fight back,” she said, “but I did not take my statement down.”
She concludes: “Sometimes, as President Monson said, ‘You have to stand alone.’ Hopefully as youth, we will stand together in being true to God and to the teachings of His living prophets.”11

Last summer, Gabriel and Michael M. of Georgia, USA, both received the Boy Scouts of America Honor Medal for saving their father’s life. While the boys and their father were on a kayaking trip in Texas, their father fell off a rope swing 22 feet above the Guadalupe River. He fell onto the kayaks below, passed out, and sank to the bottom of the river. Gabriel swam down and pulled his father to the surface. With an uncle’s help, Gabriel and Michael were able to get their father into his kayak. Then they had to help guide him over one-half mile to the nearest takeout point where help was waiting to take him to the hospital. Their father had broken his right shoulder, six fingers, several ribs, and his right ankle. Just weeks before the accident, Michael had taken lifesaving and kayaking classes at Scout camp.

I serve as a Church-service missionary with the PathwayConnect program in the Kyiv Ukraine Stake. The leaders of the program decided to train all of us who lead in-person gatherings so that we could conduct them virtually. The very next day, the government announced quarantine measures in Kyiv.
I love the opportunity to gather together for PathwayConnect. And I love the opportunity to gather together to worship and sing together at home on Sundays. I am grateful for the assurance that where two or three gather in His name, He is there. No one knows how long we will be in quarantine in Kyiv, but we know that the Savior will hear our singing.
Kateryna Serdyuk, Kyiv, Ukraine

I met one such young man not long ago while I was attending a stake conference in another country. We were about to conclude a Saturday afternoon meeting with the stake presidency when a knock came at the office door. The president opened it, and I saw a hand give an envelope to him. It had my name on it. The letter inside introduced me to a young man who needed an interview in order to be accepted as a missionary.

As soon as our meeting with the stake presidency was concluded, I excused them and invited the young man in. His initial appearance shocked me. I couldn’t believe he was being recommended to go out and serve as a missionary. His clothes were somewhat wrinkled; he needed a shave; he reeked with tobacco smoke; he even had some sort of paperback book rolled up in his hands. What could he offer in the service of the Master, I thought.

And then it happened—he walked over and shook hands with me. As I looked into his eyes, I was electrified. He was different. He was special, in spite of his outward appearance. As we sat down he told me his story. He first excused himself for appearing to be untidy and in a hurry. He said he had just gotten off the bus after a 13-hour ride from his home and, if I didn’t mind, he hoped he would be able to be back on the bus in another hour for another 13-hour ride to his home.

I then began to put two and two together. I knew now why his clothes were wrinkled and why he needed a shave. I knew the tobacco smoke was not of his choosing, but from the close confinement in the bus. I made another observation. That paperback book in his hand was the Book of Mormon—well read, well used, a priceless possession. He went on to say that three years ago he had joined the Church because of his association with our young people. He said they were different. His parents had given him permission if he wanted to, but warned that if he did, he would no longer have a bed in their home. He could no longer live with them as their son.

When he was baptized, his father kept his word and opened the back door, telling him never to return. The young man didn’t. He moved in with friends. He told me that for the past three years he had been working and going to school. He said he had saved over $2,000 to keep himself on a mission. Please, could he go, he said; he wanted to more than anything in the world. The impression of the Spirit said yes, and he’s now part of the army of 18,000 stalwarts who are out covering the earth as servants of the Master.

As I ponder this admonition of the Lord, I am reminded of a special friend. As I have worked with her, I have been inspired by her devotion to her family and church. A large family and an invalid husband didn’t keep her from accepting a leadership responsibility in Relief Society. I asked her how she managed so well. She answered, “My Relief Society sisters help me. Their love lifts my spirit when I feel down; the lessons give me strength and direction. My problems don’t seem so big when they are shared.”

She set a pattern for her day, starting with an early morning prayer while the rest of her family slept. She organized in her mind the duties to be performed that day and asked her Heavenly Father for his help in accomplishing them. Each day ended with a grateful report as she expressed her appreciation and love to her Father in Heaven for his help and the help of kind friends. She felt she could not have accomplished the day’s tasks alone.

What an example this mother has been to her family! She has taught them the power of prayer, the value of being organized, and the joy that comes from serving others and the Lord.

As I stepped over the concrete and rebar jutting out of the ground, I thought this had to be the strangest family home evening ever. Mom and Dad had loaded all five of us kids into the van and driven us to where our future home was being built. We were excited about our new house and often visited the site to see the progress.
At this stage, however, the progress wasn’t very exciting—just long rows of poured cement that looked more like buried walls with iron rebar running through them.
“Sit down,” Dad said, and we all looked around to find a comfortable spot to sit. “This is the foundation of our house,” he explained. “Our home will be supported by all of this concrete and metal. This foundation will keep our house safe during storms. It will even keep our house standing strong during an earthquake.”
This got my attention. Living in California, we were all used to earthquakes, both big and small. We’d seen what earthquakes could do to homes.
“Normally, builders don’t make foundations go this deep into the ground for a house this size,” my dad gestured into the trench holding the underground concrete. “And once the house is built, we won’t even see it. Some people told me I was wasting money to build a deep foundation for our home, but I wanted to make sure our home was as safe as I could make it.”
The building of our home was a big part of our lives, but my dad had taken to talking about it at every opportunity. Now he was giving us a family home evening lesson on overbuilt slabs of concrete and iron that no one would ever see after a few more weeks.
Of course, Dad wasn’t done with his lesson.
“There is another kind of foundation we need to build as well.” We all looked at him expectantly. “Each of us needs as his or her own foundation a testimony of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Just like our home’s foundation will keep us physically safe during storms and earthquakes, a testimony will keep us spiritually safe when we face trials and challenges.”
Dad continued, “I challenge each of you to build strong foundations by learning about our Savior and praying for help and ways to know Him better. Follow His example and keep His commandments, and you will be blessed with a strong testimony of Him.”
Since that family home evening lesson, set amid the crucial beginnings of our new home, I have learned just how important it is to have a strong, deep testimony of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ as my own personal foundation. When adversity comes, I can always rely on what I know to be true. My testimony keeps me strong and makes it possible for me to weather the many storms of life.

On one occasion some men were constructing a watering gate in a canal on grandfather’s farm. He noticed that they were placing the gate in the wrong location. He tried to persuade them to put the gate in a location that they had originally agreed upon. The foreman became angry. He said, “Johansen, that will be enough from you. We’re going to do just as we please.” Grandfather replied, “And so will all robbers.” Then he began to sing the words of a Danish song that begins, “Be careful what you say.” These words were a reminder to him to remain forgiving. The men continued to build the watering gate, but the gate did grandfather very little good. He never mentioned the wrong that these men had done to him, but he often recorded how he had to pray for rain because he could get so little water from the canal. He also records that the rain came.

Matt and Margaret (all names have been changed) turned off the television following the concluding session of general conference. The messages had been inspiring, and they had enjoyed the positive atmosphere that had permeated their home that weekend.
Nobody could have been more disappointed than Matt and Margaret were when, less than 24 hours later, they were having a heated argument over whether to save an unexpected bonus Matt had received at work or spend it on school clothes for the older kids. The debate was not resolved, and Matt and Margaret each moved on to other tasks feeling misunderstood.
To create a lasting, happy marriage, couples must learn how to resolve conflicts so that each individual feels understood and decisions are made that involve acceptable compromise.
Scriptures and words of prophets and apostles provide ample cautions about contention. In 3 Nephi we read, “He that hath the spirit of contention is not of me, but is of the devil, who is the father of contention” (3 Nephi 11:29). Elder M. Russell Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught that Satan “works to drive a wedge of disharmony between a father and a mother. He entices children to be disobedient to their parents. … Satan knows that the surest and most effective way to disrupt the Lord’s work is to diminish the effectiveness of the family and the sanctity of the home.”1
Differences of opinion, habit, or background are inevitable, but we have ample resources to help us know how to cope. Doctrine and instruction taught in Sunday worship and Church publications can help and can be supplemented with quality professional information as needed. Couples can learn methods for dealing with conflict. Inspiration can lead to changing hearts that soften each spouse from the inside.
President Thomas S. Monson cautioned: “Some of our greatest opportunities to demonstrate our love will be within the walls of our own homes. Love should be the very heart of family life, and yet sometimes it is not. There can be too much impatience, too much arguing, too many fights, too many tears.”2
When troubles persist and become destructive to family life, there can be more serious causes of conflict, including immaturity, selfishness, desire to win power struggles, and pride. President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) taught, “I have long felt that the greatest factor in a happy marriage is an anxious concern for the comfort and well-being of one’s companion. In most cases selfishness is the leading factor that causes argument, separation, divorce, and broken hearts.”3
Elder Marvin J. Ashton (1915–94) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles also commented: “When one considers the bad feeling and the unpleasantness caused by contention, it is well to ask, ‘Why do I participate?’ …
“… It is important to recognize that we choose our behavior. At the root of this issue is the age-old problem of pride.”4
Whatever the cause, we need to learn new skills and soften our hearts when problems persist.
There are many causes of conflict, ranging from superficial personal biases to deeper ingrained communication styles. In addition to overcoming selfishness and immaturity, couples will face other common causes of conflict including such factors as the following:
Newlyweds learning to adjust to one another’s styles
Natural differences between men and women
Edginess prompted by exhaustion
Different opinions on how to best raise children or manage finances
Children learning to use agency
Different likes and dislikes
Overreactions to stress
Lack of understanding or skill in resolving conflict
Many marital or family conflicts arise because of uncontrolled anger. If we’re not careful, we can follow an angry incident with constant thinking about how we were wronged. The longer we ruminate the more reasons we can generate to justify our perspective. This brooding can prevent us from calming down, and when a second wave of anger emerges before the first is resolved, hormonal reactions can lead to additional outbursts.
For example, in a counseling session, Marilyn described how frustrating it had been to lie in bed after she and her husband had yelled at each other. “I knew I was in the right,” she said. “I knew he was going to flip on the light and apologize, but he never did. The more I thought about it, the madder I got. When I heard him start to snore, I couldn’t stand it—I jumped out of bed and yelled at him some more and then went downstairs. Can you believe that he still didn’t apologize?” Marilyn’s experience is a good example of how not to deal with angry feelings.
Habits, even short-term ones, can seem hard to break. But spouses can learn skills to help. Here are some useful practices:
Challenge thoughts quickly. In our example, Marilyn could have said to herself, “It seems like I’m right, but I’m blowing it out of proportion. My relationship with my husband matters more to me than what we’re arguing about.”
Allow your emotions to calm before you try tackling a problem. Wait out the chemical reaction that may be taking place.
Find a distraction. Choose to think about something else or take a walk.
Write down your thoughts. For some, this helps to increase self-awareness.
Let it out in productive ways. Yelling about your feelings won’t help you “get it out of your system.” The more you vent in an angry manner, the more intense your feelings will become.
Listen to calming music or read uplifting literature.
Start over. Catch yourself in the beginning of a disagreement. Research has shown that the first three to five minutes of a conversation lays the foundation for what is likely to follow. Say, “This is going in a bad direction. Let’s start over.”
Strengthening Marriage, an LDS Family Services’ manual, recommends three steps for resolving conflict: (1) expressing views, (2) exploring concerns, and (3) selecting mutually satisfying solutions.5 These steps are based on a communication and sharing model that is cooperative and addresses the issues of all concerned.
Each individual shares views in an honest but non-attacking manner. Sometimes thoughtful reflection resolves the problem as it becomes clear the disagreement was merely a misunderstanding. For example, a wife who thinks her husband is selfishly insisting that she attend a high school basketball game with him instead of going out to dinner for a date, might come to understand that he is less interested in basketball than in showing attention to a player who has stopped attending his Sunday School class.
Couples explore concerns at a deeper level. The focus is on understanding and accepting one another’s concerns. Continuing the basketball example, the wife, while understanding her husband’s concern for the student, might believe that he is developing a pattern of always putting the needs of others before those of the marriage. In this case, a more thoughtful discussion must be held in which each expresses feelings in a sensitive manner and opposition gives way to cooperation.
Couples brainstorm and decide on mutually satisfying solutions. The focus is on what each individual can do to address the concerns rather than on what their spouse can do. Such negotiation can test maturity and patience but, over time, lead to a belief that there is safety in expressing feelings and confidence that each person’s desires will be addressed. Our couple may agree to spend one Friday night together at a basketball game, one Friday night in which the husband attends the game alone, and two Friday nights doing couple activities. It is not as important how the couple chooses to spend Friday night as it is that the quality of the decision-making process is satisfying to both.
Wonderful blessings flow from resolving conflicts in an atmosphere of love. These include security; personal growth, which leads to inner peace; increased faith; enhanced character; and personal righteousness.
When conflicts are resolved, new patterns can take their place. The door then opens for spouses to express positive thoughts and demonstrate support. Sister Jean B. Bingham, Relief Society General President, said: “Words have surprising power, both to build up and to tear down. We can all probably remember negative words that brought us low and other words spoken with love that made our spirits soar. Choosing to say only that which is positive about—and to—others lifts and strengthens those around us and helps others follow in the Savior’s way.”6
Couples who have made long-term progress in resolving conflict reap desirable rewards. A husband of a previously troubled relationship said, “It’s hard for me to look back on how it used to be and believe that it was real. How could I have treated my wife the way I did? I’m grateful for the Spirit getting my attention and for the patience my wife has shown to me.”
Overcoming conflict takes conscious effort and follow-through. The very next thing you say or do can start more positive communication patterns in your marriage. You too can reap the fruits of the Spirit as experienced by the Nephites: “There was no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people.
“And there were no envyings, nor strifes, nor tumults … ; and surely there could not be a happier people” (4 Nephi 1:15–16).

A few years ago a girl I knew well submitted a story in the Mayhew Contest. Like many of the other stories submitted that year, hers featured raw “realism”—sex, violence, etc. I was puzzled because I was this girl’s campus bishop, and I had heard her several times in sacrament meetings bear testimony of the gospel and otherwise express her feelings. She seemed an unusually spiritual, refined, sensitive girl, and I could not understand why she would write such a story. So I called her to my office.
“Why did you write this story?” I asked. “Is this the real you coming out, the inner self that just had to be expressed?”
“Oh, no!” she answered. “I’m not at all like that, Bishop.”
“Then why did you write that way?”
“Because I thought I had to write that way to be published,” she said.
Right then I determined to do something so that students might know that they don’t have to write “that way” to be published. And this essay is one of my efforts. Young writers, and old ones too, should have freedom to write any way they want, for an artist must be true to himself—no matter what the truth. But writers who want to resist the popular fashions of our times and write in harmony with convictions and ideals that may be out of fashion also need reassurance that this is their privilege and that there may be an audience larger than they realize who will rejoice in their affirmation, integrity, and courage.

During the fervor of the early years of World War II, one of our teachers quorum members, Fritz, wanted to defend our country but didn’t want to wait until he reached the minimum age required to serve. He falsified his age and enlisted in the United States Navy. Soon he found himself far away in the Pacific sea battles. The vessel on which he served was sent to the bottom, with many hands lost. Fritz survived and later appeared in our quorum meeting in full uniform, with battle ribbons affixed. I remember asking Fritz, “Fritz, do you have any advice for us?” We were all on the very doorstep of mandatory military service.
Fritz thought for a moment and then said, “Never lie about your age or about anything else!” That one-sentence declaration is remembered yet.

The following experience was posted on a Christian website by a physician in Colorado, USA, who coasted into a gas station after his car had sputtered and died. As he prepared to call a tow truck, he saw a woman, whose old car was parked by a gas pump, slip and fall down.
“I got out to see if she was okay. When I got there, it looked more like she had been overcome by sobs than that she had fallen; she was [a] young woman who looked really haggard with dark circles under her eyes. She dropped something as I helped her up, and I picked it up to give it to her. It was a nickel.
“At that moment, everything came into focus for me: the crying woman, the ancient [car] crammed full of stuff with three kids in the back (one in a car seat), and the gas pump reading [U.S.] $4.95. I asked her if she was okay and if she needed help, and she just kept saying, ‘I don’t want my kids to see me crying.’”
Understanding her situation, the physician took out his credit card, filled up her car with gas, and then bought two big bags of food and some gift certificates for her and her children at a fast-food restaurant next to the gas station.
“She told me her name, and that she lived in Kansas City [Missouri, USA],” he said. “Her boyfriend [had] left two months ago, and she had not been able to make ends meet. … In desperation [she] had finally called her parents, with whom she had not spoken in about five years. They lived in California and said she could come live with them and try to get on her feet there. So she packed up everything she owned in the car.”
The doctor gave her a hug and offered a prayer for her safety on the road. As he walked to his car, the woman asked, “Are you like an angel or something?”
The doctor replied, “Sometimes God uses regular people.”
Then he observed: “It was so incredible to be a part of someone else’s miracle. And of course, … when I got in my car it started right away and got me home with no problem. I’ll put it in the shop tomorrow to check, but I suspect the mechanic won’t find anything wrong.”3

It was a hot day in early summer when the big black Labrador retriever appeared. They saw him trotting along the riverbank. Brad stopped eating his lunch. He glanced quickly at Kevin and Tom and Jill sitting in the shade of the maple tree near him. They were all staring at the dog too. Even baby Kristy was watching him.
“Come on, boy,” Brad coaxed softly. This time he was sure Heavenly Father had answered their prayers. The dog started down the path toward them. He came slowly, a few steps at a time, then hesitated before venturing closer. Brad glanced toward the house. He could hear the clink of jars from the kitchen. Mother was still busy making jam. The dog had gained another ten feet when Brad looked back at him. He wagged his long tail uncertainly.
“Here, boy,” Jill whispered. She raised her arm with a sandwich in her hand.
“Don’t throw it!” Brad warned quietly. “You’ll scare him.” Jill dropped her arm.
The dog trembled as he came closer, his eyes bright and eager and friendly. Brad got to his feet and held out his half-eaten sandwich. The dog sat down and swept the path with his wagging tail. Brad moved closer to the dog and dropped the sandwich in front of him. The dog wolfed it down and looked for more. Quickly three more half-eaten sandwiches landed in front of him. He gulped them down and licked his chops.
Little Kristy toddled over and stuck her sandwich under his nose. Brad held his breath. The dog was hungry—he could bite Kristy’s hand as well as the sandwich! But before Brad could move, the dog reached out and daintily took a corner of the bread between his teeth. He waited until Kristy let go, then swallowed the sandwich whole.
Kristy clapped her hands and laughed. Then she threw her arms around the dog’s neck. They all surrounded the dog and petted his dull, rough coat. Brad squatted beside Kristy and stroked the dog’s head and ears. The dog stood quietly for a few moments, then trotted off into the tall grass and brought back a stick. He dropped it at Brad’s feet and wagged his tail expectantly.
“He wants to play!” Brad said as he tossed the stick down the path. The dog raced after it and brought it back.
“It’s my turn!” Jill shouted. She snatched up the stick and threw it without taking aim. The stick landed in the river.
“Now we have to find another one,” Kevin said disgustedly.
But the dog was already leaping from the bank into the swiftly flowing water. His jaws closed over the stick, and he swam back against the current. He climbed up the bank and shook himself off. Then he trotted over to Jill and dropped the stick at her feet.
“Did you see that?” Jill cried.
The screen door slammed, and the children looked up to see their mother coming toward them. She stopped a safe distance away with her hands on her hips. “So that’s what all the noise is about. Where did that dog come from?” she asked.
Brad shrugged. “We don’t know. He just came to us.”
“He was hungry,” Tom added.
“And I suppose you fed him your sandwiches,” Mother said with a sigh. They all hung their heads and nodded. “Well now that he’s full, chase him away.”
“Can’t we keep him?” Kevin pleaded. “He isn’t wearing a license, and we’ve been praying to Heavenly Father for a dog for a long time.”
“He’s gentle too,” Jill added. “Please, Mom.”
“We’ll keep him outside,” Brad offered eagerly, “so he won’t track up the house.”
Mother shook her head. “I’ve been praying to Heavenly Father, too—but for help, not a dog.” She clapped her hands and shouted, “Shoo!” The dog streaked away along the riverbank and disappeared around the bend. Mother’s face softened. “You know we can’t afford to feed an animal with the new baby coming and your father out of work. Now hurry and pick that flat of strawberries for Mrs. Linden. She’ll be here soon. Jill, you help the boys while I take Kristy in for her nap and get started on the sewing for Mrs. Fredricks.” She picked up the baby and went back into the house.
The four youngsters picked up their berry carriers and started for the strawberry patch.
“I hope Dad gets that job today,” Tom said. “Then we can have a dog.”
Jill sighed. “No, we can’t. Mom is afraid of dogs,” she confided. “Grandma once told me that Mom was bitten by a dog when she was a little girl. She’s been afraid of dogs ever since.”
“Now we’ll never get a dog,” Kevin wailed.
“I guess we’d better get the strawberries picked,” Brad said.
Their carriers were half full when they heard Mother shout. They left the berries in the field and ran for the house.
“What’s the matter?” Brad called when they saw Mother hurrying down the path to the river.
“It’s Kristy,” Mother sobbed. “I was on the phone when I looked out the window and saw her heading straight toward the river. By the time I got outside, she had disappeared.”
They all ran to the riverbank.
“I don’t see her anywhere,” Brad said. He searched the swiftly moving water, hoping to catch sight of Kristy’s blue overalls.
“Maybe she’s already been carried around the bend,” Tom suggested.
“I’ll go look,” Brad said. He turned to run, then stopped and listened. “Did you hear something?” he asked.
From the bushes on the riverbank came a muffled, angry sob. The big black dog backed slowly out of the bushes, tugging a dry, struggling Kristy by the back of her overalls. When she was free of the branches, he let go of the little girl and nudged her toward her mother.
“No! Water!” Kristy cried and started off again before Mother could catch her. But the dog blocked her path.
Mother laughed and picked her up. “Heavenly Father works in mysterious ways,” she said. “I prayed for help, and you all prayed for a dog. We all got what we wanted when He sent us this ‘angel.’” She reached out and patted the dog.
“Angel?” they all asked, staring at her in disbelief.
Mother smiled. “Yes, because he must be a guardian angel,” she explained. “I’m not afraid of him, and Kristy certainly needs one. She might have drowned in the river!”
Kevin and Brad and Tom and Jill watched Mother walk back to the house with the dog padding along beside her. Then they turned back to look at each other.
“We’ve got a dog!” Brad whooped.
They skipped and laughed all the way back to the strawberry patch.

As members of the Church today, some of us may find it easy to take these glorious eternal truths for granted. They have become second nature to us. Sometimes it is helpful when we see them through the eyes of those who learn about them for the very first time. This became evident to me through a recent experience.

Last year, just prior to the rededication of the Tokyo Japan Temple, many guests not of our faith toured that temple. One such tour included a thoughtful leader from another religion. We taught our guest about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness, Jesus Christ’s redeeming role in that plan, and the doctrine that families can be united eternally through the sealing ordinance.

At the conclusion of the tour, I invited our friend to share his feelings. In reference to the uniting of families—past, present, and future—this good man asked in all sincerity, “Do the members of your faith truly understand just how profound this doctrine is?” He added, “This may well be one of the only teachings that can unite this world that is so divided.”

Grant was only six weeks old when his father, H. Grant Heaton, was called to preside over the Southern Far East Mission. Unlike most children in the United States, Grant spoke his first words in Chinese. His little sister, Lisa Lee, who was born a year and a half after the family moved to Hong Kong, also learned Chinese first.
The mission home was filled with happiness until March 1958, when Grant was three years old. One day his neck became stiff, and there was pain in his chest. Soon he could not walk on his legs. President and Sister Heaton asked the missionaries to fast and pray for their son, but still his condition grew worse.
Grant’s father gave him a special blessing before taking him to the hospital. After tests, the illness was diagnosed as paralytic polio. The doctors said Grant would soon need an iron lung to help him breathe. Polio is not common among the Chinese, however, and the only iron lung in the country was being used by a British sailor.
By the end of a week in the hospital, Grant was completely paralyzed. Only his eyes moved, and the little body that had seemed healthy just a week before was quickly wasting away.
One morning Sister Heaton was with Grant. It was so hard for him to breathe that she thought surely he would soon return to our Heavenly Father. Two men came to the hospital that morning. They represented the Chinese Saints who had held a special fast and a prayer meeting the day before.
Both men had been members of the Church less than a year and neither held the priesthood, but they wanted to help. They asked permission to pray for Grant. Sister Heaton readily agreed and bowed her head to join them. She felt the faith of these humble Chinese men as they knelt beside Grant’s bed and prayed that this little boy’s health might be restored.
As they rose to their feet and left the room, Grant’s mother followed them down the hall. She thanked them and then went to the refrigerator where special food for Grant was stored.
Just as she opened the door, a familiar little voice called from down the hall and she turned around quickly to see Grant coming toward her.
“Look, Mommy,” he exclaimed with a happy smile. “I can walk!”
The doctors were amazed, but when the polio symptoms did not return, they let Grant go home. President and Sister Heaton and the missionaries gratefully acknowledged the power of the Lord and the faith of the Chinese Saints in behalf of their son.
Grant is now eighteen and lives with his family in Salt Lake City, Utah. He doesn’t remember his illness in China. His strong legs that helped him make the football team and wrestle for his high school don’t remember either!
Not long after the Church was organized in 1830, the General Authorities thought of sending missionaries to China. It was not until October 1852, however, that three elders left Salt Lake and arrived in Hong Kong on April 27, 1853. They had many problems and were not successful in converting anyone. Before long they returned to Utah.
In January 1921 David O. McKay, who was then an apostle, and Elder Hugh J. Cannon visited China. It was at this time that Elder McKay dedicated all of China for the preaching of the gospel. Now there are three missions for the Chinese people: Hong Kong, Singapore, and Taiwan. Although the first missionaries were very discouraged, later ones have had thrilling experiences in China. “I Can Walk!” is one of them that took place in Hong Kong.

Recently, a colleague I worked with years ago contacted me online. We have not seen each other in years. Retired now, he was less interested in discussing professional accomplishments and more interested in discussing our personal lives. Since reconnecting, we’ve kept up an online dialogue about friends, family, and life stages. He’s interested in religion now in a way that never seemed to be the case when we worked together.
“Life changes,” he wrote to me. “There are some things you have that seem deeply satisfying and that profoundly affect me. I may never join your church, but I appreciate your perspective.”

One experience that truly humbled me happened on my mission. I think most missionaries grapple with feelings of inadequacy while trying to bring people to Jesus Christ. On my mission, I spent hours a day just trying to find someone to teach and was rejected over and over. I didn’t feel successful. I didn’t feel that my efforts were enough. Eventually, I began to feel that I was not enough.
While it might not seem like humility was what I needed, when I explained my feelings to my mission president, he helped me see that part of my problem was thinking I was exempt from the problems that missionaries all over the world face. But I am not the first missionary to feel rejected, and I certainly won’t be the last.
Somehow I had convinced myself that my difficulties were entirely my own fault, despite the fact that some of the best missionaries in history—like the original Twelve Apostles, the sons of Mosiah, and Alma the Younger—have faced far worse rejection and persecution than I ever have.
Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I began to be able to feel that I was standing shoulder to shoulder with Jesus Christ in my struggles. And when I felt ashamed of my imperfect efforts, I remembered what President Jeffrey R. Holland, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, taught: “The Atonement [of Christ] will carry the missionaries perhaps even more importantly than it will carry the investigators. When you struggle, when you are rejected, … you are standing with the best life this world has ever known, the only pure and perfect life ever lived.”
I still look back on this experience when I need to remember to be humble and trust in the Lord.

From our youth, many of us may remember the story of a very young boy who was abducted from his parents and his home and taken to a village situated far away. Under these conditions, the small boy grew to young manhood without a knowledge of his actual parents or earthly home.
But where was home to be found? Where were his mother and father to be discovered? Oh, if only he could remember even their names, his task would be less hopeless. Desperately he sought to recall even a glimpse of his childhood.
Like a flash of inspiration, he remembered the sound of a bell which from the tower atop the village church pealed its welcome each Sabbath morning. From village to village the young man wandered, ever listening for that familiar bell to chime. Some bells were similar, others far different from the sound he remembered.
At length the weary young man stood one Sunday morning before a church of a typical town. He listened carefully as the bell began to peal. The sound was familiar. It was unlike any other he had heard, save that bell which pealed in the memory of his childhood days. Yes, it was the same bell. Its ring was true. His eyes filled with tears. His heart rejoiced in gladness. His soul overflowed with gratitude. The young man dropped to his knees, looked upward beyond the bell tower—even toward heaven—and in a prayer of gratitude whispered, “Thanks be to God. I’m home.”