Gospel Story Finder

As a missionary, Elder Eves spent mornings tutoring trainees who were working on their high school certificates or an equivalent diploma. “I could not have passed my math section without him,” says Brandy, a single mother working to improve her employment skills.
But David’s tutoring wasn’t just about teaching educational skills. He also taught the missionary discussions to Rita Roberts, another trainee. “He helped me understand the gospel step by step,” Rita says. “And I knew I could count on him for anything. He and his family helped me move twice. You couldn’t find a better person—not just in the classroom, but anywhere. He’s unique.”

Soccer may be Raphael’s sport of choice, but volleyball is most definitely his game. And he is really good at it. He is so good, in fact, that he played in the final game of the high school volleyball nationals. “That,” Raphael says, “was one of the three happiest days of my life.”
It was a friend who introduced Raphael to volleyball. In 2001 a teammate on his soccer team in Recife pointed out that some private high schools offer volleyball scholarships. At the time, Raphael was trying for a soccer scholarship but found his physical skills kept him from playing at the level the coaches wanted. But he seemed to have an unexplored talent for volleyball. “So I played volleyball until I got good at it,” he says. He became so good that he was able to secure a full scholarship to a private high school.
At school, he played in the Recife city championships, then in the regionals in northeast Brazil, one of the most important tournaments in the country. But his success didn’t end there. Not long afterward, he was asked to join the Pernambuco State team to prepare for the national high school tournament. His team won almost all of its games, losing only in the final match. He has the medals to show for it.
“As a volleyball player,” he says, “I’ve learned to play as a member of a team. One person can’t win alone. You have to look out for one another and help one another.”
In the same way, the Church has taught him to play as a member of the Lord’s team. “The Church has taught me to teach and care for others, to always watch for when people need help. There’s no better place to learn to live the gospel than in the Church. The Lord wants all of us to practice the gospel. That’s why I’m going on a mission.”
Raphael will be giving up a college athletic scholarship to do so. Recruited by several schools, he was tempted to accept a scholarship from one of them. But at this point in his life, he would rather serve on a mission than serve on a volleyball court. He knows he is making the right choice.
“As much success as I have had in sports,” he says, “I want to do better as a missionary. I feel that no matter where I go, I can do well—if I let the Lord coach me.”

Matthew Holland was born in 1966, Mary Alice in 1969, and David Frank (who recently returned after serving a mission in the Czech Republic) in 1973. Matt, now a doctoral student at Duke University, recalls that spiritual training was a part of everyday family life. On an outing when he was about 12 years old, he had his first experience with feeling personal revelation.

Returning from an exploring trip on backcountry roads, he and his father came to an unexpected fork and could not remember which road to take. It was late in the day, and they knew darkness would be enveloping them in unfamiliar territory. Seizing a teaching moment, Jeffrey Holland asked his son to pray for direction. Afterward, he asked his son what he felt, and Matt replied that he felt strongly they should go to the left. Replying that he had felt the same way, his father turned the truck to the left. Ten minutes later, they came to a dead end and returned to take the other route.

Matt thought for a time and then asked his father why they would get that kind of answer to a prayer. His father replied that with the sun going down, that was undoubtedly the quickest way for the Lord to give them information—in this case, which one was the wrong road. Now, though the other road might not be familiar and could be difficult in places, they could proceed confidently, knowing it was the right one, even in the dark.

I was recently in Vladivostok, on the east coast of Russia. As I sat on the stand at the beginning of a youth and adult fireside, I noticed a young man in the second row immersed in a Duty to God guidebook for priests. I was thrilled and thought to myself: “Marvelous! Seventeen time zones away from Salt Lake City, and Duty to God is alive and well.” When I rose to speak, I asked him what his name was.
“Gere,” was the reply.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
I then moved to my real inquiry: “I noticed that you have been reading a book. What book have you been reading?”
Quickly came the reply: “I don’t know!”
“Well, where did you get it?”
“Out in the hall just before the meeting!” was his reply.
Immediately, as Gere spoke, Dimitri, a young man on the front row, jumped up, left the room, quickly returned with his own copy, and began to read. They were so ready for opportunities to grow.

There was no moon, and it seemed extra dark to Nellie Kunz as she sat by the fire. She stared into the darkness toward the trees that she knew were there. She wished she had never heard all the stories of mountain lions and wolves that her father and brothers had told.
Nellie was twelve years old, and this was the first time she had come to the sheep camp to cook for her father and brothers and the hired men. They were up in the mountains and over fifty miles from home.
Zina, Nellie’s younger sister, sat beside her and poked a stick at the burning embers. She had come to be Nellie’s assistant and companion while the men took care of the sheep. Besides being sisters, the girls were best friends.
“We’d better get to bed now,” their dad said. “The sheep are all settled down for the night, and we have a lot of work ahead of us in the morning.”
“I’m tired anyway,” said Zina. “And Nellie and I have made a comfortable bed in the wagon.”
“Good night, Daddy,” Nellie said as she gave him a hug. “Good night!” she called to the others.
Zina climbed into the wagon first and Nellie followed her. The wagon was covered with canvas and all their food supplies were stored inside. The girls had made a bed of straw topped with their favorite quilts and pillows from home.
The men slept under the stars near the campfire. Nellie didn’t envy them at all. She liked the idea of sleeping in something enclosed and comfortable. It seemed a little safer and more like being at home.
“It’s so quiet,” whispered Zina.
“Yes,” agreed Nellie. “It’s far more quiet than when Sister Jenkins dropped a pin for us to hear in Primary last week.”
“Don’t forget your prayers,” said Nellie. As she knelt on her soft down quilt, she thanked Heavenly Father for her family and for her many blessings. She asked him to watch over and protect all of them.
“Are you scared?” whispered Zina.
“Sure. Are you?” answered Nellie.
“Yes,” said Zina and they squeezed each other’s hand before they snuggled down into their quilts.
Zina became more and more quiet and Nellie knew she was falling asleep. But Nellie couldn’t sleep. She lay wide awake, staring at the darkness.
After a while she heard a noise. At first, Nellie thought it was the wind blowing the tree branches, but then she felt sure something was moving outside. The sound came closer and closer, and soon Nellie could hear another sound—a heavy breathing sound.
“Zina!” she whispered. “Zina!” She gently shook her sister’s arm.
“What’s the matter?” answered Zina.
“I don’t know,” whispered Nellie, “but when I count to three, scream as loud as you can. One … two … three!” Both girls screamed.
There was a crashing sound beside the wagon as something bounded away. Dad and all the men jumped up from their bedrolls, grabbed their guns, and raced for the wagon.
Everyone was shouting and talking at once for a few minutes as Nellie and Zina tried to tell what they had heard. The men started the fire up again and, holding their torches high, they looked around the wagon. “Looks like the tracks of a mighty big mountain lion,” said Nellie’s oldest brother when he came back from his search. “Took off through the woods.”
“There’s no use trying to track him down,” said Dad. “He’s clear over the mountain by now, with the scare these two girls gave him. I’ve never heard such a row.”
Nellie smiled at her dad, though she was still shaking. “Come on, Zina,” she said as they climbed back into the wagon. “Let’s kneel down again. We need two prayers tonight—another one to say thank you.”

Grandma was quiet for a while, then started chuckling. “Did I ever tell you about my Grandma Ruth, Sarey?”
“No,” said Sara, grateful that Grandma’s mind had wandered off to a different subject.
“She was born and raised in North Carolina and moved to Kentucky when she was a bride of sixteen. She rode a horse alongside her husband. They had everything they owned piled onto their two horses, and it wasn’t much, I can tell you.”
Grandma set a bulb into the hole she had been digging and continued, “One thing that Ruth had with her was a little bag of tulip bulbs. Her mama gave them to her before she left. As soon as Ruth’s husband got a little log cabin built, Ruth planted those bulbs. Then came one of the hardest winters on record in Kentucky, and she and her husband nearly froze to death. But when those tulips came peeking through the ground in the spring, she knew that they would make it.”
“Ever since then, we’ve been a tulip family,” Grandma went on. “I received some bulbs from Grandma Ruth when I married and went to Missouri with your grandpa. Many’s the year the tulips coming up in the spring have lifted my spirits. Grandma Ruth always said that tulips are the Lord’s promise to us. No matter what happens, those tulips just keep coming up every spring.”

One summer while I was growing up in Arkansas, my neighbors invited me to join them for a couple days of camping, fishing, and swimming at a large reservoir near Sardis, Mississippi. We spent several days enjoying all sorts of outside activities.
On our last day we were getting our final swim in before heading home. As my friends and I were throwing a beach ball back and forth, the ball sailed over my head and landed a few feet beyond me. The wind immediately started blowing the ball away from me along the top of the water. I started after it, but the wind kept blowing the ball just beyond my reach. In a short time I had reached the markers that bordered the shallow swimming area. The ball had been blown beyond the markers toward the main body of the reservoir.
As I approached the markers, I gave little thought to swimming beyond them. The ball was not that far in front of me, and I was sure I could catch it. After all, I had completed a lifesaving course and proudly wore the course emblem on my swimming trunks. I felt comfortable in water and confident that I was strong enough to retrieve the ball.
The wind, however, continued to keep the ball outside my reach. Sometimes I would get so close to it that I could touch it with my fingertips, only to see it sail off again. Finally, a gust blew it far beyond my reach.
I was not aware of how far I had traveled until I stopped to rest. The water seemed much darker and colder than it was in the shallow swimming area. When I looked back toward the shore, I realized that I was close to the middle of the reservoir. I decided to abandon the beach ball and swim back to shore. I was tired and worn out, but I wasn’t worried. I was young and felt that I would be all right.
But as I tried to return to shore, the wind that had assisted the beach ball worked against me. It seemed that no matter how hard I swam, I made little progress. My arms and legs began to burn and ache. I stopped to dog paddle and float, trying to regain my strength.
Then I heard a familiar sound—the sound of a motorboat. I was happy and relieved to soon see a man in a small boat pull up beside me and offer me a ride to shore. My arms and legs were spent. I couldn’t even pull myself into the boat, so I put one arm over the side and hung on while the stranger slowly towed me back to the swimming area. I grabbed one of the markers, let go of the boat, waved a thank-you, and swam to shore.

Thirteen years ago we discovered that our daughter Becky was expecting twins. The doctors determined through many tests that they were at high risk, developing in the same sac, with a mortality rate of 20 to 60 percent. Normally this condition requires automatic hospitalization at 24 weeks so the babies can constantly be monitored. With a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old already in her family we knew that this would be next to impossible. Immediately we all started praying for miracles, whatever that meant. The priesthood blessings she received from her husband gave her great comfort.
At about 16 weeks she saw the specialist for the first time. He reviewed the past tests and came back with the same grim results. Then he did yet another ultrasound. The doctor was stunned by what he found, so he called in other doctors to verify his findings. Finally he reported that they had actually seen the faintest membrane developing, meaning that the babies were indeed in two separate sacs. Our son-in-law, her husband, who is also a doctor, had seen all the previous test results and now this new one. He said it was nothing short of a medical miracle – a membrane was developing. Our Becky called me in tears and said, “People can explain it however they want, but I know it’s the miracle we’ve been praying for.”
After many other uncertainties and complications during the pregnancy coupled with amazing blessings, two miraculously perfect little 5 pound girls were born. I felt that angels were attending our daughter and I knew that the day of miracles has not ceased.

Earlier this year, my three sons and I visited the sites in France where my father fought in the U.S. Army in World War I. Great was the suffering and terrible were the consequences to all involved in that war. Millions lost their lives. Although my father was not killed, he carried mental and physical scars until he died. Despite his terrifying experiences, he prefaced his diary as follows: “If I had to do it again, I would do it because it was my duty.” As we traveled 80 years later through the beautiful countryside, we visited battle sites and cemeteries of the combatants on both sides. In the military cemetery outside Paris, with my hand resting on Stanford Hinckley’s cross, I called President Hinckley on a cellular phone to express my feelings on that occasion.
World War I was particularly tragic for our family because my father had some second cousins serving on the other side of that conflict in some of the same general battle areas. We eventually became acquainted with these relatives and found them to be decent, God-fearing Christians. They had nothing to do with the grand geopolitics or causes of the war. Like my father, they were serving their country because it was their duty. World War I and the wars that followed brought such great suffering and caused the deaths of countless innocent people. In its simplest terms, wars are so often caused by a great lust for power.

One of my assignments at BYU is to direct a performing folk dance company called Traditionz. This ensemble provides outreach performances in elementary and middle schools during spring term. For four weeks, we perform two or three times a day. It’s exhausting, but it’s a lot of fun!

One day a few months ago, we had a three-and-a-half-hour break in the middle of our two shows, which is atypical. While the students were cleaning up their costumes after the first show, I mused on how we would pass the time during the long lunch break. The weather was too chilly to spend several hours outside at a park.

As I was trying to think about what there was to do in the area, I remembered the previous year when we had performed nearby and had gone to the Taylorsville Utah Temple open house. “It’s too bad that we don’t have a temple open house to go to,” I thought. And then I realized, “Wait—there is one going on in Syracuse right now!” I mapped out the distance and, surprisingly, it was only a forty-minute drive there and a twenty-five-minute drive back to our afternoon school. Three-and-a-half hours would be enough time to drive to Syracuse, go through the open house, get some lunch, and drive back to West Valley City for our second show.

As I pitched my idea to the students, there were mixed reactions: Some were excited and immediately cheered, “Yes!” More than a few, though, were concerned about the way we were dressed. You see, the dancers were in casual traveling clothes that consisted mostly of sweats. I had considered this and was appreciative of their desire to show respect for the house of the Lord, but I persisted. “If we had planned for this in advance, we would have dressed up,” I reasoned, “but there actually isn’t an official dress code for an open house. People come dressed in all types of clothing. I think the Lord will understand why we are dressed this way, and He’d rather have us come than stay away. If we don’t go today, we won’t have another opportunity to do this during our tour.”

We put it to a straw poll, and it was decided that we would attend the open house. As we got out of the vans and approached the temple grounds, I could tell that some students were still feeling uncomfortable about their appearance. We got our shoe covers on and proceeded to the front doors, where we were stopped and asked to wait a few minutes for a tour to begin.

Looking across the threshold, I noticed a group of about seven people signing to each other. I glanced over at one of my students, Betsy, who had served an American Sign Language mission and now teaches ASL at the Missionary Training Center, to see if she would try to converse with them. After a moment of visually eavesdropping on their conversation, she realized they needed help. She swiftly stepped over to them and chimed in, “I can interpret!”

We proceeded into the temple with this group and stayed with them all the way through the temple tour with Betsy as their interpreter. My students and I watched her in amazement. Some of my students were grinning. Others, like me, had tears rolling down their cheeks. Betsy’s hands were deftly flying, her face was expressive, and her countenance was radiant as she confidently and beautifully served. Her many years of language study and previous service as an ASL missionary enabled her to speak fluently and with love for the gospel. She was dressed in a pink BYU Dance T-shirt and a pair of black joggers, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Any self-consciousness about our casual appearance had evaporated.

One by one, students sidled up to me quietly. “We needed to be here,” they whispered in amazement. “They needed Betsy.”

Unspoken, but in all of our minds, was the thought, “What if we had stayed away because of our appearance?”

And then, audibly, the question came: “How did you know? How did you know we needed to come?”

“I . . . I didn’t,” I stammered. And that was true. I was as amazed as they were! I hadn’t followed what I considered to be a strong feeling or what we might think of as a prompting. It was just an idea of a good thing to do with our time.

At the conclusion of the tour, our group waited outside at a distance as Betsy was thanked and hugged by her new friends. Through tears, they signed, “We know you were sent to help us.” It was at this point that they shared their story with her. They had come from a Deaf branch in Ogden, Utah. Unlike us, they had made an appointment for the open house in advance and had requested that interpretation services be provided for them. However, when they arrived, for some unknown reason there was no one there who could assist them. They were understandably very disappointed. It was at this point that the BYU folk dancers walked up to join the tour.

As Betsy’s new friends departed, the rest of my students waved goodbye and silently cheered for them, many signing, “I love you.” This spontaneous gesture touched my heart because it was so genuine and joyful. We were all just Betsy’s ride, but truly, we all felt enveloped in charity, the pure love of Christ.

I left the temple awestruck and filled with gratitude that I was able to witness this beautiful display of God’s awareness of and merciful love for His children. I knew that God knew Betsy. He knew her unique talents and abilities just as He knew the disappointed hearts of those visitors who were Deaf. In ways I am incapable of understanding with my mortal mind, He was able to bring them together in perfect timing.

Do I know how it happened? No. But what I can attribute part of this miraculous experience to are the prayers we prayed together as a group before embarking on our day. Each morning we asked our Heavenly Father for opportunities to connect with those in our path. We included God in our plans and He, like a master choreographer, provided the design.

One night in late May, three enemy shells exploded near Neal’s mortar position. Up until then, the Japanese had not been able to find the location of his squad. But now it seemed the artillerymen had triangulated his position and were closing in. When another shell exploded just a few feet away, Neal feared the next one would find its target.

Leaping from the foxhole, he took cover against a knoll. Then, realizing he was still in danger, he scurried back to the hole to await whatever came next.

Illustration by Greg Newbold

In the mud and darkness, Neal got on his knees and began to pray. He knew he did not deserve any special favors from God and that many righteous men had died after offering fervent prayers during battle. Still, he pleaded with the Lord to spare his life, promising to dedicate himself to God’s service if he survived. He had a smudged copy of his patriarchal blessing in his pocket, and he thought of a promise it contained.

“I seal you up against the power of the destroyer that your life may not be shortened,” his blessing read, “and that you may not be deprived of fulfilling every assignment that was given unto you in the preexistent state.”

Neal finished his prayer and looked up into the night sky. The shattering explosions had ceased, and all was quiet. When the shelling did not resume, he felt in his soul that the Lord had preserved his life.3

Not long after, Neal wrote a few letters to his family back home. “I’m so lonely for you, sometimes I feel like crying,” he said. “All I have to do is be worthy of my patriarchal blessing, your prayers, and my religion. But time and so much action hang heavy on a man’s soul.”

“I can say only God prevented my death at times,” he wrote. “I have a testimony no one can crumble.”4

When I was born, my father was reading a textbook on wills and testaments in the hospital waiting room. He had decided to become a law student when he worked with lawyers at the Los Angeles Flood Control District in Southern California. Always a family man, my dad felt he could support the family better if he were a lawyer himself. With a wife, two children, and a full-time job, however, he knew school and studying would have to be at night.
Later, when I was in law school myself, I wondered how my dad had managed. I asked, “When did you sleep?” He said he studied as much as he could, and when he was so tired that he couldn’t study anymore, he would sleep for three to four hours. That went on for five years. I marveled at his grit.

Another new member is Rocío Flores Rojas, 15. “Elder and Sister de la Cruz taught and baptized my mother,” she says. “At first I didn’t want to be baptized. But they kept coming and talking to me about the word of God. And they treated me so well—like they do all the people. I came to know that their message was true and was baptized last Sunday. More than anything, we would like them to stay with us forever. But when they have completed their mission, they have a right to return to their family.”

Kari’s family knelt by the couch for family prayer. Everyone reverently folded their arms. Papa asked Kari’s little sister, Liv, to say the prayer.
“Don’t forget to thank Heavenly Father for our many blessings,” Papa reminded her.
“And don’t forget to pray for Erik,” Mama added. Mama always reminded them to pray for Erik.
Erik was Kari’s older brother. Before he left for university, he and Kari were best friends. She really missed all the fun things they used to do together.
Then a few months ago, Erik told Mama and Papa that he didn’t want to be a member of the Church anymore. Kari and her family were surprised and sad. They started praying for Erik every night. Sometimes they prayed that he would feel the Holy Ghost and want to go back to church. Papa prayed that Erik’s mind would be clear to make good choices. Mama often prayed that somebody he trusted could help him find the right path. After all of their prayers, Kari couldn’t help feeling a little angry. Why hadn’t Heavenly Father brought Erik back to church?
Finally, just as Liv had opened her mouth to pray, Kari couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Why hasn’t Heavenly Father answered our prayers?” she blurted out. Everyone looked at Kari in surprise, but she was too upset to care. For a minute nobody said anything.
“Kari,” Papa said, “when you got home from school today, did you put your backpack away?”
“Huh?” Kari asked, confused. What did her backpack have to do with anything? She glanced at the front door and saw her backpack thrown against the wall instead of hung up beside Liv’s. “No … sorry.”
“Didn’t Mama remind you to hang it up?”
“Yes,” Kari answered. She looked down at her knees.
“Doesn’t Mama often remind you to hang up your backpack?”
“Yes,” Kari muttered. She still didn’t know what this had to do with anything. Wasn’t Papa taking her question seriously?
“I know that when we pray for Erik, Heavenly Father does answer our prayers—every time. The problem is that Erik may not be listening right now. Erik gets to choose whether he listens to the Holy Ghost, just like you choose whether to listen to Mama about your backpack. But do you think that you will always ignore Mama when she asks you to hang up your backpack?”
“No, I guess not,” Kari said.
“Someday she’ll listen!” Mama said, winking at Kari. Kari smiled.
“So maybe someday Erik will listen too,” Kari added.
“Absolutely,” Mama said. “Listening to the Holy Ghost is a skill you have to develop. Maybe Erik hasn’t learned that skill yet.” Kari began to feel a little better.
They all bowed their heads while Liv said the prayer. She prayed that Erik would learn to listen to the Holy Ghost. While Liv was praying, Kari felt peaceful and warm. She knew that Heavenly Father was hearing their prayers. As Liv listed some of the ways their family had been blessed, Kari thought of another blessing to add to the list—she understood more about prayer now!
As the prayer ended, Kari knew that Heavenly Father hadn’t forgotten Erik. She also knew that He would never forget her.

There have been times when I found myself acting more like a judge than a teacher. When I was a young father, I volunteered as a coach for my children’s soccer teams. I remember one game in particular—I was shouting from the sidelines, pointing out mistakes, and expressing frustration when players were out of position or lost the ball.

At the time, I did not understand that a more effective way to motivate and inspire is to recognize what people are doing right, not just what they are doing wrong. As I began to change my approach, I noticed something important: the players responded differently. They trusted me more. The attitude and atmosphere changed. I moved from being a judge and a critic to being a supporter and a teacher.

Mariah (as she preferred to be called) is one of the reasons my family is even in the Church. She was baptized in 1840 in England, was endowed in Nauvoo, Illinois, was sealed to her husband in Winter Quarters, Nebraska, and died in Utah. My thoughts about her while I was in the temple were not about her need to have ordinances performed but about how those ordinances bound her and me together across time and space.

When others see the only known photograph of my grandmother Mariah, they often comment on how grim or unpleasant she appears to them. I immediately defend her because I know her. I know the person that walked along the River Severn as a young girl and as a mother with small children. I know the person who sailed across an ocean, giving birth to her fourth child during the journey. I know the person who sent a husband to war and lost an infant child during his absence. I know the person who walked 1,000 miles (1,609 km) to a new home in the western American desert. I know the person who worked and covenanted and farmed and loved. And in knowing her, I get a taste of our heavenly parents’ love for her and for each of their children.

When I was 10, my family traveled to Idaho to visit my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. My grandfather accidentally hit the family dog, Margie, with his car. There was so much commotion—Margie had to be taken to the veterinarian, and all of my cousins were crying. We were afraid that Margie would die.
Once again, I knew that I needed to pray. I was the only member of the Church there, and I took my cousins to a corner of the garden, asked them to kneel down, and we prayed that Margie would be all right. I felt that familiar feeling of the Holy Ghost telling me that everything would be fine. Hours later, Margie came home from the veterinarian with her legs bandaged up, but she was going to get better.
None of my cousins attended church of any kind. That experience of prayer probably was very unfamiliar to them. When Margie was driven away to the veterinarian, we thought there wasn’t a thing we could do to help, but I knew there was one thing we could do, and that was pray.

I remember the winters in New England being unbelievably cold. In Calais, Maine, there was a small grocery store not more than 40 feet from our apartment. One morning we ran from our door to that store, and the cold felt like fire on my face. My skin was left frost burned for several days afterward. It was 60 below with the wind chill factor, the radio had said.
Calais was my first area on my mission.
On one of those cold mornings my companion, Elder Bond, and I had an appointment with a family that lived in a town which was over 20 miles away.
We walked out into the cold to our car. It was nearly buried in snow. Elder Bond handed me the keys.
“Start it,” he said. “I’ll sweep it off.”
The car door wouldn’t open.
“It’s broken.”
“Just frozen,” Elder Bond answered. He had a bright red and green checked scarf wrapped around his face. You could only see his eyes.
I bent down and looked at the door. I’d never seen a frozen car door handle before, but then there were a lot of things here that I hadn’t seen before. I’d never seen it this cold before for one thing. At least I thought it was cold. The local people didn’t think it was too bad. “Cold, naw, t’ain’t cold yet. Why this is shirt-sleeve weather. If it gets any warmer the apple trees are going to start to blossom.”
Elder Bond set his broom down and walked over to the car door. He hit the handle with his hand and then opened the door. His eyes narrowed, and I knew that behind the scarf he was smiling.
“Nothin’ to it,” he said.
I slipped down into the seat, pumped the gas a couple of times, and turned the key. We had an electric car warmer, and the engine started right off. Warm air started coming through the heater, defrosting the window. Elder Bond got into the car.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“I don’t think we’d better.”
“What’s wrong?”
I pointed to the gas gauge.
“Empty.”
He pulled the scarf from his face and leaned over.
“It’s not quite empty. It’s just above the empty mark.”
“It’s not enough.”
Neither of us had any money for gas. It was the end of the month, and our checks from home were a week overdue.
“We just can’t go.”
Elder Bond wrinkled his face.
“I hadn’t thought of this. I had really strong feelings about going.”
He bowed his head and sat there for nearly a full minute, not moving. He looked up and smiled.
“We’ll be all right,” he said.
“What?”
“We’re going.”
“I don’t think we should go. If we run out we might have to walk 20 miles.”
“Sometimes, elder,” he said, “you just have to trust.”
“Crazy,” I mumbled and put the car in gear. The discussion with the family went very well. They were ready for a commitment. We set the date with them for baptism in two weeks. On the way back it started to snow lightly. I watched the gas gauge sink until it stopped.
“Any minute now.” We were ten miles from Calais. It would be a miserable ten miles if we had to walk it.
For another three miles the car kept moving.
“Maybe this will be like the widow’s vessel of oil,” I said.
Elder Bond smiled and then began telling about his girl friend for the 3,000th time. I could tell you exactly where she lived back then. How old she was. What her favorite color was. That she cooked wonderful lasagna. And I could also tell you, now, that she married someone other than Elder Bond just a couple of months later.
Just then the car sputtered and then killed. I drove it to a stop at the side of the road.
“Well, I guess miracles don’t happen anymore, at least not today for us.”
“Have faith, elder,” Elder Bond opened his door and got out.
“We’d better start right now. It’s getting dark. We’ll hope our checks come tomorrow.”
Just then a car pulled in behind us and stopped.
A small man got out and walked toward us.
“Trouble?” he asked.
“Out of gas,” I said.
“I have a gas can in my trunk. I can take you into town and bring you back,” he said smiling.
“You can give us a ride into Calais. We live in Calais, but we don’t have enough money for gas.”
“We’re expecting checks in the mail tomorrow.”
The man smiled again: “I know how that is. Get in.”
We got into his car. It was clean and it was about ten years old. He reached over and shook our hands.
“I’m Mr. Hendricks.”
We introduced ourselves to him.
“Elder, elder, are you boys some kind of ministers?”
“We’re Mormon missionaries.”
The man was suddenly silent. He pulled the car around and started toward Calais.
“Tell me about your church,” he finally said.
Elder Bond began explaining the plan of salvation. When we reached Calais the man pulled into a service station and took out the can. He had it filled and put it back in the car.
“We appreciate this,” Elder Bond said on the way back to the car. The man was silent again for a few minutes.
“Funny about me stopping. I just had a strong feeling I should.”
He pulled the car in behind ours and stopped.
“We buried my daughter yesterday. She was only one year old. The funeral, it didn’t seem right. It didn’t leave much hope. That plan of salvation you mentioned, would you come and tell my family about it some afternoon? We’ll give you dinner.”
“We’d be more than happy to share that with you,” Elder Bond said. “When would be good for your family?”
“How about Saturday?”
Elder Bond smiled: “Great.”
“Can you come at six?”
“Yes.”
He took out a notebook and pencil.
“If you don’t have enough gas then, call me.” He handed the paper to Elder Bond. “This is my address and my telephone number. We’ll be expecting you.”
We poured the gas into the car, all five gallons of it, said our good-byes and thank-yous and then started for Calais. The gas gauge was well above empty. We had more gas than when we’d started.

While reading this letter, I returned in my thoughts to a visit to one of the great art galleries of the world—even the famed Victoria and Albert Museum in London, England. There, exquisitely framed, was a masterpiece painted in 1831 by Joseph Mallord William Turner. The painting features heavy-laden black clouds and the fury of a turbulent sea portending danger and death. A light from a stranded vessel gleams far off. In the foreground, tossed high by incoming waves of foaming water, is a large lifeboat. The men pull mightily on the oars as the lifeboat plunges into the tempest. On the shore there stand a wife and two children, wet with rain and whipped by wind. They gaze anxiously seaward. In my mind I abbreviated the name of the painting. To me, it became To the Rescue.
Amidst the storms of life, danger lurks; and men, like boats, find themselves stranded and facing destruction. Who will man the lifeboats, leaving behind the comforts of home and family, and go to the rescue?
President John Taylor cautioned us, “If you do not magnify your callings, God will hold you responsible for those whom you might have saved had you done your duty.”
Brethren, our task is not insurmountable. We are on the Lord’s errand, and therefore we are entitled to the Lord’s help. But we must try. From the stage play Shenandoah comes the spoken line which inspires: “If we don’t try, then we don’t do; and if we don’t do, then why are we here?”
When the Master ministered among men, He called fishermen at Galilee to leave their nets and follow Him, declaring, “I will make you fishers of men.” And so He did. Tonight He issues a call to each of us to “come join the ranks.” He provides our battle plan with His admonition, “Wherefore, now let every man learn his duty, and to act in the office in which he is appointed, in all diligence.”
I love and cherish the noble word duty. Let us hearken to the stirring reminder found in the epistle of James: “Be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving your own selves.”
There is an old song of my vintage. It’s entitled “Wishing Will Make It So.” It’s not true. Wishing will not make it so. The Lord expects our thinking. He expects our action. He expects our labors. He expects our testimonies. He expects our devotion. Unfortunately, there are those who have departed from the track of priesthood activity. Let us help them back to that path that leads to life eternal. Let us build that strong Melchizedek Priesthood base which will be the foundation of Church activity and growth. It will be the underpinning to strengthen every family, every home, every quorum in every land.
Brethren, we can reach out to those for whom we are responsible and bring them to the table of the Lord, there to feast on His word and to enjoy the companionship of His Spirit and be “no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God.”
The passage of time has not altered the capacity of the Redeemer to change men’s lives—our lives and the lives of those with whom we labor. As He said to the dead Lazarus, so He says today: “Come forth.” Come forth from the despair of doubt. Come forth from the sorrow of sin. Come forth from the death of disbelief. Come forth to a newness of life. Come forth.
We will discover that those whom we serve, who have felt through our labors the touch of the Master’s hand, somehow cannot explain the change which comes into their lives. There is a desire to serve faithfully, to walk humbly, and to live more like the Savior. Having received their spiritual eyesight and glimpsed the promises of eternity, they echo the words of the blind man to whom Jesus restored sight, who said, “One thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see.”
How can we account for these miracles? Why the upsurge of activity in men long dormant? The poet, speaking of death, wrote, “God … touched him, and he slept.” I say, speaking of this new birth, “God touched them, and they awakened.”
Two fundamental reasons largely account for these changes of attitudes, of habits, of actions. First, men have been shown their eternal possibilities and have made the decision to achieve them. Men cannot really long rest content with mediocrity once they see excellence is within their reach.
Second, other men have followed the admonition of the Savior and have loved their neighbors as themselves and helped to bring their neighbors’ dreams to fulfillment and their ambitions to realization.
The catalyst in this process has been—and will continue to be—the principle of love.
Another principle of truth which will guide us in our determination is that boys and men can change. I’m reminded of the words of a prison warden who taught this fact. A critic who knew of Warden Duffy’s efforts to rehabilitate men said, “Don’t you know that leopards can’t change their spots?”
Warden Duffy responded, “You should know I don’t work with leopards. I work with men, and men change every day.”
Many years ago, before leaving to become president of the Canadian Mission, headquartered in Toronto, Ontario, I had developed a friendship with a man by the name of Shelley, who lived in my ward but did not embrace the gospel, irrespective of the fact that his wife and children had done so. Shelley had been known as the toughest man in town when he was young. He was quite a pugilist. His fights were rarely in the ring but rather elsewhere. Try as I might, I could not bring about a change in Shelley’s attitude. The task appeared hopeless. In time, Shelley and his family moved from our ward.
After I had returned from Canada and was called to the Twelve, I received a telephone call from Shelley. He said, “Will you seal my wife and me and our family in the Salt Lake Temple?”
I answered hesitatingly, “Shelley, you first must be a baptized member of the Church.”
He laughed and responded, “Oh, I took care of that while you were in Canada. My home teacher was a school crossing guard, and every weekday as he and I would visit at the crossing, we would discuss the gospel.”
The sealings were performed; a family was united; joy followed.
Abraham Lincoln offered this wise counsel, which surely applies to home teachers: “If you would win a man to your cause, first convince him that you are his sincere friend.”
A friend makes more than a dutiful visit each month. A friend is more concerned about helping people than getting credit. A friend cares. A friend loves. A friend listens. And a friend reaches out.
There are brethren in every ward who seem to have a special skill and aptitude to penetrate the outer shell and reach the heart. Such was Raymond L. Egan, who served as my counselor in the bishopric. He loved to befriend and activate in the Church the father of a family and thereby bring into the fold a dear wife and precious children as well. This wonderful phenomenon occurred many times right up until Brother Egan departed mortality.
There are other ways, as well, by which one might lift and serve. On one occasion, I was speaking with a retired executive I had known for a long time. I asked him, “Ed, what are you doing in the Church?” He replied, “I have the best assignment in the ward. My responsibility is to help men who are unemployed find permanent employment. This year I have helped 12 of my brethren who were out of work to obtain good jobs. I have never been happier in my entire life.” Short in stature, “Little Ed,” as we affectionately called him, stood tall that evening as his eyes glistened and his voice quavered. He showed his love by helping those in need. He restored human dignity. He opened doors for those who knew not how to do so themselves.
I truly believe that those who have the ability to reach out and to lift up have found the formula descriptive of Brother Walter Stover—a man who spent his entire life in service to others. At Brother Stover’s funeral, his son-in-law paid tribute to him in these words: “Walter Stover had the ability to see Christ in every face he encountered, and he treated each person accordingly.” Legendary are his acts of compassionate help and his talent to lift heavenward every person whom he met. His guiding light was the Master’s voice speaking, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … , ye have done it unto me.”
Brethren, acquire the language of the Spirit. It is not learned from textbooks written by men of letters, nor is it acquired through reading and memorization. The language of the Spirit comes to him who seeks with all his heart to know God and keep His divine commandments. Proficiency in this “language” permits one to breach barriers, overcome obstacles, and touch the human heart.
In a day of danger or a time of trial, such knowledge, such hope, such understanding bring comfort to a troubled soul and a grieving heart. Shadows of despair are dispelled by rays of hope; sorrow yields to joy; and the feeling of being lost in the crowd of life vanishes with the certain knowledge that our Heavenly Father is mindful of each of us.
In closing, I return to the painting by Turner. In a very real sense, those persons stranded on the vessel which had run aground in the storm-tossed sea are like many young men—and older men as well—who await rescue by those of us who have the priesthood responsibility to man the lifeboats. Their hearts yearn for help. Mothers and fathers pray for their sons. Wives and children plead to heaven that Daddy and others may be reached.
Tonight I pray that all of us who hold the priesthood may sense our responsibilities and, as one, follow our Leader—even the Lord Jesus Christ, and His prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley—to the rescue.
In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Most of us have memories of perfect days—days that stand apart from the rest because something or someone made them unforgettable. One of mine happened when I was in the fifth grade. On a particularly bleak Saturday morning in January, my father suddenly announced that we were going skiing.
“All of us?” I asked, thinking of my brothers, John and Jim.
“No,” he responded, “just you and I.”
He urged me to finish my breakfast in a hurry as he gathered our equipment together. Half an hour later we were heading up Provo Canyon to the old Timp Haven ski resort. Dad and I spent the entire morning there, perfecting our snowplows and challenging one another to races. Later that day, after thoroughly exhausting ourselves on the slopes, we traveled to my Grandpa Edwards’s warehouse where we helped him and other family members bag potatoes for hauling. Although it was cold outside, dad worked so hard that huge beads of perspiration rolled freely off his forehead. Afterwards, he and I went to a nearby drive-in and had hamburgers, fries, and shakes—just the two of us.