Gospel Story Finder

One day after having a good time cracking jokes at the expense of one of my closest friends, I began to feel guilty. It had seemed so harmless at the time. I tried to fight off my guilty feelings by telling myself, It was just a joke. She needs to lighten up. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was all it ever was with me—a joke.
I couldn’t help but think back to how I had been acting. It had taken me a while to notice, even though others had told me, “You used to be so nice to everyone.” A few had even said, “I remember when you used to never say anything rude about anyone.” At the time I hadn’t thought much of what they were telling me. I just thought it was their problem if they didn’t like it.
But I really had changed, and it all began with a few harmless jokes. I had always loved to make people laugh, so when people began to tell me how funny I was or ask me how I could come up with such funny things, I naturally loved it. I figured if they liked how funny I was then, they would love it when I really started cracking jokes.
For a while I was right. But soon I was going overboard and taking two of my best friends with me. People began to feel insecure when they were around me. They were always very uncomfortable. I was even told by a boy who had been one of my good friends the year before that it seemed like I was thriving on making people mad. I don’t see how people like my close friends could have stuck by me. I guess I was just one lucky girl.
I decided that maybe I should kneel down and pray about what I was doing. I now had a habit that seemed impossible to break. I prayed wholeheartedly, but when an answer didn’t come immediately I began to doubt the Lord would help me. I remembered that sometimes it just takes patience, so I decided to continue praying until I received an answer.
After a week of prayer both morning and night, I was nearly ready to give up. One day after I finished praying, I propped my head up against the headboard and reached for my scriptures. I closed my eyes for a moment. I was feeling miserable, and I couldn’t help thinking about the story in the scriptures that taught if you wasted your talents you would lose them (see Matt. 25:15–30).
All of a sudden an answer came to me. If I could get in the habit of doing bad deeds, I could definitely work on doing good deeds until soon I wouldn’t have to think about doing good. It would just come naturally. I knew it wouldn’t be easy at first, but it was definitely a skill I needed.
I prayed for Heavenly Father to be with me. I began to plan service projects, volunteer for charities, and do many other positive things. It’s been a year since I started. I’m not yet to the point where I would like to be, and it’s not always easy for me to control what I say. But I’m getting there.
Old habits do die hard. But now I’m working to develop a new, better habit that I hope will be around for a long time.

I had a friend who was active for a long time in the Church. He always came alone because his family had decided they no longer wanted to come. I was impressed by his strength and courage. But then one day I heard that he no longer came to church. I felt strongly prompted by the Spirit that I should talk with him. I told him how impressed I had been that he had come alone to church, and I told him not to give up. That next Sunday he came to sacrament meeting and since then has continued to come to church. By being faithful and living the gospel, we can be examples to our friends and give them the love and support they need.Marina V., 18, Småland, Sweden

When my seminary class discussed anything that had to do with the hereafter, from spirit prison to sealed couples being sorted into their degrees of glory together, my stomach started to do somersaults. I won’t lie—I do worry about where my family will fit in after death. I try to trust in the knowledge that God is good and that my dad is good, but right now, there’s a gap in our family’s eternal future. We simply don’t know what will happen.

Tip: Show empathy for others. Families with less-active members aren’t the only people who deal with this, but it can be emotionally taxing, especially in Church settings. When I share my concerns, I’m not looking for answers—I’m just looking for empathy, for someone to agree that this is hard sometimes.
I eventually realized that I could soften a negative discussion by piping up and saying, “Oh, I disagree. My dad is less active, and …” Almost immediately, people’s comments became kinder, and many even backtracked on their previous insensitive statements.

Tip: A good rule of thumb in Church discussions is to assume that no matter what you’re discussing, someone in your group has experienced it, is experiencing it, or will experience it—or they have a loved one who is going through it. Once people knew about my family situation, they were much gentler. They knew that, to me, this wasn’t just a conversation about less-active or disaffected members—this was about my father.

All of this boils down to what we already know and what we are taught: be empathetic and loving. Elder W. Craig Zwick, an emeritus General Authority Seventy, said: “The willingness to see through each other’s eyes will transform ‘corrupt communication’ into ‘minister[ing] grace.’ … It may not change or solve the problem, but the more important possibility may be whether ministering grace could change us.”1

Mortality means we all end up in unique circumstances. And whatever those circumstances are, we can always be accepting and kind to all. My family is a part of my unique mortal journey, and I love them as they are. But I do have hope that Heavenly Father will help everything work out for our eternal family in the end.

“When I became an assistant to the mission president, it was difficult initially,” recalls Houston. “I had to train missionaries, including some who had more education than I had. I felt inadequate until I prayed and received a testimony that ‘whom the Lord calls, the Lord qualifies’ (Thomas S. Monson quoting Harold B. Lee, “Who Honors God, God Honors,” Ensign, November 1995, 50). This knowledge helped me proceed.”

I close with a recent, personal experience. Not long ago, Mary and I knelt by our bed to say our evening prayer. It was my turn to say the prayer, and I began by praying for many of the same things that we've always prayed for. We prayed for President Monson, his counselors and the Twelve. We prayed for our missionaries and for other missionaries, for our children and for our grandchildren, and for ourselves. Then an unusual spirit came upon us and I said, “Heavenly Father, all that is left in our lives is to do whatsoever Thou would have us do and to work to bring the blessings of the gospel more strongly into the lives of our children, our grandchildren and, if Thou allows it, our great grandchildren.”

After so many experiences together, Mary and I have come to that place where we are willing, absolutely willing, to fully surrender to our Heavenly Father’s will, not because of force or fear of consequence, but because of our love for Him, and our gratitude for His Son, and our complete confidence in Him as our Father, who loves us. We know that He sees farther than we do. We know that He can provide for us and others in ways we cannot understand. We know that as we follow His will, even when we do not fully understand why, and even when it is contrary to something that we have planned or even worked toward, He will bless us in ways we cannot now even imagine. How we love Him and His Son. How we trust them. How grateful we are for His blessings, and especially those blessings which have required work, faith and trust.

The next morning I sat shyly, uncertainly, on a big wooden kitchen chair, Oscar, my teddy bear, on my lap. I looked across the table at a long, tall newspaper with a strong hand clutching each side. I knew it was Grandpa because when I had walked down the stairs and peeked timidly around the corner, he had lowered the paper and winked at me.
“Would you like some hot chocolate, dear?” Grandma had asked in her quiet voice.
I jumped slightly at her question, chewed on Oscar’s ear, and tried desperately to think of an answer. It shouldn’t have been so hard, but you see, Grandma was very quiet, and I was a little afraid of her.
“Yes, dear,” I heard the deep voice from behind the newspaper answer.
Oh, I thought, embarrassed. I was glad I hadn’t answered. I soon learned that Grandma would never ask me if I wanted some. If I did, I had to ask her.
I drove thoughtfully around corners, through child-infested residential areas, almost afraid to arrive at my destination.
Grandma had sounded as quiet as ever on the telephone. “You’d better come,” she had said. As usual her voice confused me. She gave only words. I could never see what was in her mind, in her heart. If only she would cry or something to give me a clue.
“Come now,” she said. So I came. But I was afraid.
What if Grandpa looked less than majestic? I didn’t want to remember him the rest of my life as small and shriveled, perhaps even senseless. Oh, how I longed to sit on his lap once again, to place childish arms securely around his neck, hear a story, share a laugh. Why hadn’t I come back last year when I had planned to? Why had I waited till now when … I shook my head angrily. I had been having too much fun. And in my mind there had been no rush. Grandpa would be there forever. I couldn’t imagine it any other way. And his lively, colorful letters brought him into my apartment weekly.
Suddenly I saw a flash of blue before me. My hands gripped the steering wheel; my foot reached for the brake. Screeching, I stopped just inches short of the boy on his blue bicycle. My head pounded, my palms sweat, but he just pedaled by, his hands in the air, unafraid, cocky. It seems like everyone has a nice bike these days. With a smile I remembered mine.
It was the most beautiful bicycle I had ever seen. Next to it the twinkling Christmas tree looked dim. It was shiny lavender and white, with coal-black seat and tires, sparkling spokes, and what surely would have been the envy of every kid at home—lavender plastic tassles dangling gaily from the handlebars. My eyes laughed. My mouth didn’t utter a sound, for there was more, even more, and my little heart could hardly stand it. There in the center of the handlebars, strapped securely in place, was a dainty, white, woven basket with two purple plastic flowers on the front. It was too much, really too much. Why, I knew kids back home who would’ve been glad to come in Christmas morning and find anything that had two wheels and could move by their Christmas tree. I used to have a friend named Sara who never sat down while riding her scratched, squeaky bicycle because it had no seat. In fact, I knew an older boy back home, well he was at least 12, who had picked up junk from the junkyard and made his own bike. It was a strange looking thing, but it worked.
I caressed my shiny new handlebars. I turned and grinned at Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma stood quietly, with a hint of a smile about her mouth. Grandpa beamed. I had been suspicious lately of this man, Santa Claus. I mean he never did get anything right and he always gave more to the kids whose parents had money than he gave to poorer families, and it seemed like it should be the other way around. Seeing Grandma and Grandpa like they were that Christmas morning, I decided once and for all that Santa was not responsible for this wonderful surprise. Grandma was too pleased, Grandpa too proud. This was one of those times that my mama had told me I’d have someday when I would cry with happiness and wisdom.
The difference between me then and many kids now is that I knew how truly lucky I was to have that bike.
I remember another morning, a summer morning that dawned slowly on me, slow and dimly gray … different. I pulled my blankets over my shoulders. My room felt cool and clammy. The sunshine that fell across my bed seemed shrouded, not glorious like a Saturday morning. My mind was foggy. My eyes studied the room, wall to pink wall, corner to corner.
“Is this Saturday?” I blinked and tried again. A clear, glassed window answers all kinds of questions. I hated the window in the bathroom. It was made of some fuzzy, bumpy kind of glass, and you couldn’t see through it at all. My bedroom window was my world. I could see green through it. I could see blue. I could vaguely see the colorless, transcendental, sparkly shine, but it was having a hard time getting through those raindrops on the window. Raindrops! I threw back my covers, swung my feet to the floor, and ran to the window.
“It is Saturday and it rained last night!” Tears sprang to my eyes, and I knew, I just knew that my bike would be nothing but a big pile of rust.
Who would have thought last night when the full moon fell all over the yard and the clear, black sky stretched on forever that clouds would sneak in and drench everything during the night? I ran hysterically down the stairs, holding my big, poofy nightgown in one fist around my waist so I wouldn’t trip. I ran to the kitchen window and threw back the curtain. A little bubble popped in my chest—my bike hadn’t disintegrated to rust yet. I grabbed a dish towel from Grandma’s apron. Grandma looked up questioningly from spattering bacon and eggs. I ran out the door.
Oh my bike, my bike, it was wet! Wet all over, wet white and lavender, wet droopy tassles, wet little basket, wet, wet, wet! I could hardly see it through my tears as I wiped madly with Grandma’s dish towel. Soon the salty droplets were one with the raindrops. My face was wet and cold.
I didn’t hear the door bang shut. I didn’t hear the footsteps. I only saw the hand, the big, masculine hand clenched around another dish towel gently wiping up raindrops. I looked up. He hooked a bit blurry. No questions, no amused grin. Grandpa helped me dry my bike.
The hospital was tall, five stories tall. It was a new building with hundreds of windows in uniform rows. I stood before it, my head bent back as my eyes scanned the top row of windows. So many windows, each with a personal story behind it. Which one housed my grandpa, my childhood, my life? I looked to the pavement below my feet and slowly shook my head. My hand wiped away a tear, and I entered the modern, colorful house of birth, of joy, of pain, of loneliness, and … I shuddered … and hoped I would never have to come here again.
“Room 363, intensive care.” The woman’s face was blank, expressionless. Again I felt the tightness in my chest. Something wanted to explode there. I leaned against the elevator wall, my eyes shut tight.
The nurse was a little more human. “You’ll have to wait a moment, dear. The doctor is with him,” she whispered. The hall, the air was hushed and still. At the end of the hall in the corner, a quiet bottle rack stood with rows of empty pop bottles. It made me think of Grandpa’s store. Grandpa kept all the empty pop bottles in a bushel basket just inside the back door. It didn’t take me long to figure out that if I went in the back door, took a couple of bottles, went out the back door and around to the front door, I could give Grandpa the bottles and buy a candy bar. Then Grandpa would take the bottles out back and put them into the bushel basket to wait till the next time I got a craving for a Hershey bar. Back home we had to search up and down the streets, in and out of alleys, through garbage cans to find an empty pop bottle. Life was just easier all the way around here with Grandpa and Grandma.
Thinking of Grandma made me feel a little apprehensive. She was in with Grandpa now, but sooner or later I would have to see her, I would have to say something. It doesn’t seem possible that two people could live in the same house together for 13 years and still be strangers. How could she be so unlike Grandpa? She’d never been cross or impatient, but I couldn’t talk to her. I secretly suspected that she’d been relieved to see me go. I sighed tiredly. Grandma wouldn’t understand my hurt. How could she? She didn’t know me.
I had finally come to know myself. I remember a day when, 15 and confused, I borrowed Sandy’s jeans. Sandy was everything I wished I was—cute, popular, self-confident. Somehow I guess I thought that if I wore her jeans, I’d be more like her. But her body, shapely for 15, was about three sizes bigger than my wiry one. I guess I looked pretty silly with her pants hanging on me like a bag, held tight around my waist with a belt, then ballooning out like a clown’s costume. I remember Grandpa’s face, so serious, so gentle: “Honey, why do you wear Sandy’s clothes? Why do you talk like her and laugh like her?” Embarrassed I looked to the floor, at the pants that hung inches past my feet.
“Why not be yourself?” he said.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I sobbed. “How can I be myself? I don’t even know who I am.”
Grandpa held me on his lap as if I were a child again, quietly, till the crying stopped and the tears dried. With a smile he looked into my eyes. “You used to know,” he said. “But we all forget sometimes. Take Sandy’s pants back to her. Together we’ll rediscover you. Then you can be yourself.”
Grandpa knew me. He hadn’t forgotten who I was. I soon remembered who I was. But Grandma had never known.
The door swung silently open. The doctor walked through the doorway and looked kindly at me. “You must be Janie,” he said. “Your Grandpa has been asking for you.”
I let out a long breath and stood. I felt light-headed. My legs felt like jelly. I looked to the doctor for strength. But he didn’t know me either. He smiled and walked down the hall.
I entered the room. Grandpa was not small and shriveled. He was not senseless. He smiled at me. He looked very pale.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I cried and ran to his open arms. He held me, patting my back.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I have no regrets.” I looked at him with a teary face. His eyes were clear. He looked tired.
“Don’t cry, Blondie Boo. Don’t cry.” His eyes closed. He held me a moment longer, then his hands, his arms, relaxed. They lay heavy on my back.
“Grandpa,” I sobbed. I could see him lying still. But someone’s warm hands were on my shoulders. I turned to look into Grandma’s face.
“For the first time in his life he was wrong,” she said. “It’s all right to cry.” Surprised, I saw that she was crying, too. I could only stare.
“Come stay with me for a while,” she said suddenly. I was confused.
“Please,” she said. “It will be kind of like wiping up raindrops. I’ll help you … and you can help me.” I couldn’t believe it. She did understand. And in her quiet way she probably always had.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll stay.” I had a grandmother to get to know.

After that experience, the temple was one of her favorite topics. “Chris, isn’t the temple a beautiful place? That’s where I’ll get married someday. I’ve promised myself that.”
“I guess I wouldn’t mind getting married there either,” I said. “It’s really no different than a cathedral.”
“It is different. When two people are married in the temple, they’re married forever.”
“That’s fine with me. I’ve always believed that true love lasts forever.”
Liz grew very serious. “You don’t understand. Only active members of the Church are allowed in the temple. You wouldn’t be allowed to enter.” She explained again that when her time came, she would be married in the temple. No other place was acceptable for her.
“But what if you really love a guy who’s not LDS?” I asked. “If you really love someone, it shouldn’t matter where you get married. All that matters is that you’re together and you’re in love.”
“If two people really love each other,” she answered shaking her head, “they’d never settle for anything less than an eternal relationship.” She paused and looked me in the eye. “I never would.”
As we neared the end of our senior year, we had many arguments about temple marriage. Liz maintained that she’d never marry outside of the temple. I argued that, in true love, the ceremony was not important. Love was eternal regardless of the type of marriage.
The more we discussed it, the more she talked about the temple and how special it was. I was confounded. It was obvious that we were falling in love, yet Liz wouldn’t budge on her temple marriage hang-up. I felt positive that if our love matured, she would eventually give in and agree to be married anywhere. I was wrong.
One afternoon at school, Liz met me at our locker. Her eyes were tearfully red, and her voice was taut with emotion. “Chris, I’ve decided that we can’t see each other anymore. We can’t go out again—ever.”
Her words stunned me. “What do you mean? Look, I don’t care what your parents think …”
She looked up at me with tears streaming down her face. “It’s not my parents. It’s me. I can’t allow myself to date you. I don’t want to fall in love with you.”
“Liz, you’re just upset. Why don’t we just talk this out like we’ve always done? You’ll feel better in a little while.”
She backed away from me. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” she sobbed. “I can’t afford to see you again!” She pressed a shiny black paperback into my hands and ran down the hall.
We stopped seeing each other. Liz started going out with LDS guys, and I moped around campus. I thought about the many discussions we’d had. What was it that made her so stubborn about a temple marriage? Why wouldn’t she compromise? What made her so special?
Several weeks after we broke up, I returned to school late one spring afternoon. I searched through the mess in my locker and soon found what I was looking for. The little black paperback was slightly dog-eared but still readable. Maybe it would answer some of my questions. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me carrying an LDS book, tucked it inside my jacket, and went home.
When I got home I hurried upstairs with my secret bundle and hid it in my desk drawer. I knew my parents wouldn’t approve of me reading Mormon “propaganda.”
Two weeks passed before I had a chance to be alone with the book. When I had the opportunity, I took the book out of my desk, stretched out on my bed, and started to read.
I opened the book, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, and skimmed its pages. A section about the Joseph Smith story caught my eye, so I read it carefully. As I read the story of Joseph Smith’s vision, I knew that it was true. I also knew that if his story was true, then the church he founded must also be true.
A little later I agreed to take the missionary discussions, and I rapidly gained a testimony of the principles of the gospel. After the discussions, I knew that I should join the Church, and after much fasting, praying, and soul searching, I was baptized. Liz was there. She cried.
A little more than a year after I was baptized, Liz and I again visited the temple, this time to be married for time and all eternity. That was 13 years ago. Today, and every day, as I watch our family blossom and grow, I’m grateful for the strong testimony of that cute little Mormon girl. I’m thankful that she was courageous enough to refuse to compromise on an issue that meant eternal happiness for her, and eventually, for me too.

Those who come from a family where no one attends the temple can be a great example to their families if they have a positive attitude toward the temple. A former temple matron describes hearing a young woman speak in sacrament meeting about the temple. “Her parents are divorced, and there has been a lot of sadness in their family. But this bright spirit stood at the pulpit telling how she wants to go to the temple and how to prepare for it. Her father was there to hear it, and he hadn’t been to church for years. She’s drawing their family together and has been a wonderful example to them.”

The day that President Howard W. Hunter died was a memorable one for all the Hinckley grandchildren. They were saddened that President Hunter had served such a short time. They were apprehensive because of the great responsibility their grandfather would take on. As President of the Quorum of the Twelve, their grandfather would become the next President of the Church.

Joseph and Spencer Hinckley were on a backpacking trip with their dad. “We were driving into a town,” says Joseph. “All the flags were at half-mast. As soon as he saw the flags, Dad knew exactly what had happened. He kind of took a deep breath.”

At the solemn assembly during general conference when President Hinckley was sustained as the prophet by the Church membership, all the grandchildren stood at the appropriate times and raised their hands to sustain the new prophet.
“It was an amazing experience,” says Ada Hinckley, 16, “to raise your hand to the square and sustain the prophet, the President of the Church, who is also your grandpa. When they sing, ‘We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet,’ you are just kind of taken aback because they are singing about your grandfather.”
But Ada found that the very thing that helped a lot of young women in the Church also helped her gain a testimony of the prophet. She attended the general Young Women meeting before April conference where the theme was gaining a testimony of the prophet. “It helped me a lot to gain a testimony that he is a prophet and that he leads the Church. I know he does.”
Katie says, “I sustain him as the prophet, not as my grandpa. With or without the prophet being my grandfather, I have to know for myself if the Church is true. I do.”
Did they notice a difference in their grandfather after he was sustained as the prophet? James answers, “At first he was really quiet and just humbled.”
“He spent more time alone,” says Ada. “I think humble is a good word. It’s cool when I hear people talk about him, and they don’t know I’m related. People just love him.”
Jessica notices a difference most when he is speaking. “At conference, when he is speaking from the pulpit, you can see the mantle of his calling on him.”
Amy agrees, “He’ll be giving a talk, and he’ll be saying amazing things. I think ‘Wow.’ When we visit him at his office, then I see him as both. Then he is Grandpa and the prophet at the same time.”
Even though their grandfather gets to meet with important and influential people and leaders, he sees people just as they are. “When he has met the president of the United States or someone like that,” says Amy, “we ask, ‘Are you excited?’ He says, ‘He’s just a man.’ He doesn’t see the different levels or positions of authority. He just sees everyone as equal. If he meets a president or a housewife, he reacts the same way.”
“Yes,” adds James, “he has respect for everyone.”
Ask any of the grandchildren if their grandfather, the prophet, understands what it is like for teenagers these days, and they will answer quickly and confidently. “He is never negative about our generation,” says Katie. “He’s really positive. I think sometimes he wishes he were young.”
“Is he in touch with the younger generation?” Spencer asks and then answers. “Yes, because of us.”
“He knows us,” says Ann. “And he knows what we’re involved in and what our pressures are and what our joys are. He knows what’s hard for us and what’s easy.”
And just as he does for his own grandchildren, the prophet prays for the young people of the Church. And he knows that every day in every temple the youth of the Church are prayed for specifically. The advice he gives to his grandchildren would also be great advice for every LDS teen to follow: Do the best you can. Work hard. Do what is right.
When Jessica attended an Especially for Youth program at Ricks College, no one except her close friends knew who her grandfather was. In one class, the teacher asked if any of those attending had met any of the General Authorities or President Hinckley. Jessica did not raise her hand. It wasn’t because she was embarrassed. She just wanted to hear what other people had to say. “I was interested that people loved seeing him at temple dedications or conferences.”
“How lucky I am,” says Ann, “that I know him as a person and a grandfather and as a prophet. What an amazing thing that is.”

During my childhood, my family and I lived in a two-story building with six apartments, and every year all six families would join together to celebrate Christmas. As a young man, that was one of my favourite times of the year.
A pine tree was placed in the centre of the yard and along with my brothers and friends, we would help decorate both the tree and the yard. After the adults had finished preparing the lights, they were painted in different colours and then used to decorate the tree.
One of the most beautiful moments was when we turned the lights on. The colour combination made the place even more cheerful, especially when the lights reflected the nativity scene.
I still vividly remember those moments and the joy that we felt year after year helping prepare for this glorious celebration. This Christmas Eve I want to invite you to ponder on the question what is Christmas to you?

A few months after my stepfather passed away, I told my mother about my baptism. That did not go as well. Nevertheless, when I went to the Netherlands to visit Dutch family members on my mother’s side, I shared my conversion with them. That’s when I learned of another family connection to the Church.
During my visit, my uncle approached me. “I have something to give you,” he said. Then he handed me a first edition of the Book of Mormon in Dutch, published in 1890.
“It belonged to our family long ago,” he said. “I want you to have it.”
These two family connections to the Church were very comforting to me. Today, I treasure that Book of Mormon in Dutch. It reminds me of those first missionaries who visited me. It reminds me of how important teaching the Book of Mormon was to my conversion. It reminds me of my late father’s respect for the Church and that some of my ancestors had accepted the restored gospel.

This incident happened during World War II. I was serving on a four-man agriculture advisory committee to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and was chief executive officer of the National Council of Farmer Cooperatives, a federation of 4,600 farmers’ marketing organizations located in every state of the Union and in Puerto Rico.
Because of the demands of the war, materials used in farming were in short supply. With the help of the board of directors, we had organized a National Committee for Farm Production Supplies to help focus the attention of heads of government agencies on the needs of farmers. If they were to produce to the maximum, meet the challenge of the president of the United States that “food will win the war,” they must have adequate production supplies.
I had gone to my office at 1731 “I” Street N.W. early to prepare for the meeting at the White House and also the meeting of the committee in the hope that I would get much work done before office hours began and the telephone started ringing.
I had just arrived at my desk when the telephone rang. A total stranger on the other end of the line introduced himself as a prominent businessman from Chicago. He invited me to have lunch with him at a downtown hotel. I told him I was too busy for lunch, but he was so sincere and earnest that I finally agreed, and so at one o’clock I faced him across the luncheon table at the Washington Hotel in downtown Chicago.
After introductions he said, “I suppose you wonder why I have invited you to lunch inasmuch as I am a total stranger.”
I said, “Yes, I have been wondering.”
Then he said this: “Earlier in the week I came out of a businessmen’s luncheon in Chicago and while talking with some of my friends, I told them that I was going to Washington, D.C., to set up an office and hire a young man to take charge of the office and represent our corporation in the nation’s capital. I began telling my business friends the kind of a young man I would like to have represent our firm. I said I would want a young man whose integrity would never be questioned, who was clean in his habits, who would leave liquor alone and was living a clean, moral life. In fact, I would prefer to have a young man who didn’t smoke.”
Then he said, “One of my business associates said, ‘What you want is a returned Mormon missionary.’
“I had heard about the Mormon Church,” he continued, “but I knew very little about their organization or standards. I knew they had missionaries because my wife told me that she had a very pleasant conversation with two young men in dark suits who had called during the day and left literature.”
He added, “As I rode down here on the train last evening, I thought to myself that possibly the suggestion of my business friend had merit. Possibly that’s just the kind of a young man I do want—a returned Mormon missionary. When I registered at the hotel here last evening, I said to the clerk at the desk, ‘Are there any Mormons in Washington?’
“He said, ‘I don’t know. I suppose there are; they seem to be everywhere.’ But I said to him, ‘Do you know any?’ He said, ‘Frankly I can’t say that I do, but Mr. Bush, the manager, is here, and maybe he can help you.’”
Then my new acquaintance said, “I put the question to Mr. Bush and he gave me your name. Now that’s why I’ve invited you to lunch. Can you give me the names of three or four young men who meet the standards I have outlined? I would like to interview them for a job that I think has a great future with a starting salary of some eight or nine thousand dollars.” (In the 1940s the purchasing power of the dollar was about three times what it is today.)
My new-found friend continued, “Our corporation is one of the largest in Chicago and has among its assets the largest hotel in the city.” And he repeated, “Can you give me the names of three or four young men?”
I was happy to tell him, as president of the Washington Stake, that I could not only give him the names of three or four, but ten, or fifteen, or twenty, any one of whom I felt sure would meet the standards that he had outlined.
Yes, it pays for young men, and young women too, to maintain the standards of the Church and be true to the faith.

Mary Elizabeth Rollins was just a young teenager when she went to a missionary meeting at the Isaac Morley farm. Isaac Morley had the only copy of the Book of Mormon in that area at the time, and Mary Elizabeth pleaded with him to let her take it home to read. She pleaded so earnestly that he let her take it, but only if she would return it before breakfast the next morning.
As soon as she got home, she and her uncle took turns reading the Book of Mormon until late that night. At dawn she got up and memorized the first verse before taking the book back to Brother Morley.
When she gave it to him, he was surprised to see how much of it she and her uncle had read. And when she recited the first verse and the outline of Nephi’s history, to her delight he told her to take the book back with her and finish it. He would gladly wait for it, knowing that she cherished it as he did.

“Few people know it, but Brother Monson is the self-appointed chaplain at a number of nursing homes around town,” notes Elder Boyd K. Packer, who sat next to Elder Monson in the Quorum of the Twelve for fifteen years. “He visits them anytime his busy schedule will permit, and sometimes even when he doesn’t have free time.”
(A well-meaning person once told President Monson that it was useless for him to visit these elderly people, talking at length with them when they seldom answered a word. “You might as well save your time and breath, Elder Monson. They don’t know who you are.”
“Whether they know me or not is beside the point,” the determined Thomas Monson replied. “I don’t talk to them because they know me; I talk to them because I know them.”)

After several months of improvement, the moment you’ve been striving for arrives. The mission assistants pull up to your fale one morning and say, “Pack your box, Elder, you’re transferred.” You are now in a new area, and your new companion has been in the mission field for three days. That means you’re in the driver’s seat, the senior companion, charged with directing the work of the Lord in your area.

This is your big opportunity to do things your way. A wave of fear sweeps over you as you realize that you really are in charge, and your new companion looks at you like, “Well, what do we do now?” You fight off your fear, “gird up your loins,” and go out to preach repentance to the people.

A month passes, maybe two. You’re putting in the hours, working the area, giving discussions, making out the reports. All the physical essentials of proselyting are there, but something is missing. People are polite. They let you into their homes and let you give a lesson if you wish. But they seldom ask you back, and you can tell that they aren’t really interested. Their custom prescribes that they receive you cordially, and they honor their custom.

You begin to do some real soul-searching and pray earnestly to understand how to get through to the people. And then the words of counsel that your father gave you before you left focus sharply in your memory: “Son, unless you really love those people, nothing else you do matters.” The words ring true. You ask yourself: “Do I? Do I really love these people?” And your own conscience gives you the answer.

The next time you go out to proselyte, your methods are changed. Instead of just preaching, you begin to listen—not only to what people are saying, but you fine-tune your spirit to the feelings behind the words. It’s a revelation to you as you begin to understand that these people have real problems, joys, hopes, and fears just like everyone else.

One Sunday one of the sisters in the branch approaches you and asks you and your companion to bless her baby who is critically ill. Your faith wavers, but hers doesn’t. The blessing is given, and a life is saved by a mother’s faith. You are left with a deep respect for the faith of a people who, when one of theirs is sick, go to the elders even before they seek medical help.

You visit a nonmember family. As is often the case, they prepare a meal for you before you leave. This is common, and you had not taken much note of it before. This time you pay particular attention. The little red rooster that had been crowing when you arrived is now boiling in the pot. The last bunch of bananas is plucked. Enough money is found to buy a can of corned beef. You look around. The house is small, the roof needs patching, there are many children in the family, and they have little clothing. Yet they give you the best they have, and the only reward they hope for from you is your blessing, as a servant of the Lord, upon their family. As you leave there is a lump in your throat and mist in your eyes. You are humbled with the realization that you are charged with teaching the perfect gospel to a people who know and live the principles of true Christianity. You find there is much to be learned from them as you teach them the restored gospel.

A change in your sources of motivation now begins to take place. Language and language study become tools to better communicate the feelings of the Spirit, not just to impress your fellow missionaries or to send tapes home in a foreign language to impress Mom and Dad. Your fasting and prayers change from an emphasis upon your own needs to those of your contacts. Gospel study changes from a mere accumulation of theological facts to a sincere application of those truths in your own life. A whole new realm opens up to you now. Experiences that seem natural in themselves become revelations of truth.

You find that the Spirit of the Lord can be as powerfully present in a grass hut as in the nicest chapel; that the greatest gift with which a missionary can be blessed is to teach effectively and with the Spirit, to be sensitive and perceptive of the feelings of others, to discern their needs and wants; that the most productive and rewarding hours of your proselyting day are the “overtime” or “extra-mile” hours given in service when the body says, “I’m tired; let’s go home,” but the greater desire within you says, “One more house—maybe, just maybe, we’ll find a receptive spirit”; that the true fruits of your labors consist not in how many but in what kind of baptisms result—be it one or one hundred—and the feeling of grateful joy you receive when the Lord permits you to be a partner in the miracle of conversion.

The end of your mission nears. You are now an old timer among your fellow missionaries. On one of those last days, 9:00 A.M. finds you and your companion, as usual, walking to your first appointment of the day. Buried in your own thoughts you think of how the sun made a golden highway across a glassy sea as it rose that morning; how the storm of the day before made the rivers and waterfalls swell and the green foliage seem so much deeper and brighter after the clouds receded a little and the sun broke through; how the sunset over the tops of the mountains was reflected from one cloud to another until the whole sky was filled with shades of purple, yellow, pink, and blue; of the night breeze that cleared away the clouds and caused the palm leaves to clatter and the roar of the breakers to be carried clearly across the beach and village green long seconds after appearing as silver crests of reflected moonlight, tumbling one on the other against the coral reef hundreds of yards from the shore, to become mere lappings upon reaching the sand. All of this is but a fitting stage on which some of God’s choicest children have been placed.

As you continue up the trail, the now familiar lump again rises in your throat and the mist comes to your eyes, accompanied by a prayer in your heart that in some way you have given as much as you have received.

So, future missionary, be it the South Pacific, the Orient, South or Central America, Europe, Scandinavia, or the USA, the conditions and challenges may differ, but the key to success is love, the love you feel for your Father in heaven and the love you have for his children.

Each year our players work as camp coaches for young players who love the sport and often have dreams of someday attending and playing soccer at BYU. Most of our players attended camps when they were younger, so they know how exciting it is for young campers to come and hang out with them for a week. In fact, I first met several of the current players on our team at camp when they were only ten or eleven years old.

One summer several years ago we had a young girl attend who was shy but also uncooperative, and she didn’t want to participate in the drills or games with her group. A couple of my players who were coaching her weren’t sure what to do with her. I mentioned that maybe they should just spend a little more time with her, get to know her, and sit with her at lunch or dinner. I told them that maybe she just needed a little extra love and attention.

The girls did a great job, and toward the end of the week she was much more engaged in the training and seemed to be having a lot of fun with her team.

A week or so after the camp, I received a thank-you note from her mom, explaining that this young girl had not wanted to come to camp. Her mom basically had made her attend. Obviously, this is one reason why she had gotten off to a rough start. Her mom went on to explain that her daughter loved soccer but was from an area where there weren’t any members who played, and she was slowly losing interest in attending her Young Women group, seminary, and even church on Sunday. It was becoming a battle for her parents to keep her moving in the right direction.

Her parents thought maybe it would be good for her to be around some members of the Church who also loved soccer. Her mom was quick to point out that her daughter’s experience at camp that week had been life changing. Her daughter had found new motivation, inspiration, and direction. She wanted to be like the campers and players on the team and go to BYU someday.

She continued to attend camp for several summers after that. Although she was never quite at a level to play college soccer, she was inspired at a young age to make good choices during her high school experience, and she ended up attending BYU.

Several years ago our son Spencer was interviewing with prospective employers as he prepared to graduate from BYU with a degree in finance.

One large company invited him to Chicago for additional “in-house” interviews, meetings, and social gatherings. Spencer was joined by a cohort of qualified candidates from other fine academic institutions from across the country. It soon became clear, however, that from this process only a few positions would be offered.

Several other recruits whose flights had arrived at the same time, one of whom was Hispanic, joined Spencer on the ride from the airport to corporate headquarters. Because he had served a mission to Venezuela, Spencer engaged this new friend in conversation in her native Spanish, much to the surprise of the other passengers. As days passed, the group learned that the guy from BYU refused alcohol at dinner, was married, had been a missionary, and preferred to retire comparatively early. Although he was friendly and amusing, compared to the cohorts, he was definitely different.

On the last day of the visit, the group was given a hypothetical situation that required each person to prepare a presentation arguing for a specific corporate program. Spencer was assigned to argue that the corporation should donate funds to a local low-income, home-building project. Although little time was given to prepare, Spencer’s presentation began: “A wise man once said that no other success can compensate for failure in the home.” The company representatives were intrigued. They leaned closer and became attentive; they had never heard such profound counsel before. Spencer continued to expound gospel-centered principles about the importance of the home to society as he argued for the contribution. Ultimately Spencer got the job offer. Why? Because he was different—in a good way.

I have pleasant memories associated with the fall season of the year and the time of the harvest. After eight years of living in sunny California, we moved to New York, where I was again reminded of the more dramatic seasonal changes of a cooler climate.

One morning as I was walking down the street on the way to the train station, kicking through the leaves that had fallen on the walk overnight, I suddenly had the urge, the strongest urge, to bite into a beautiful crisp, red apple. The association of the rustle of the leaves and that taste of an apple just seemed to go together. I could hardly wait to arrive in the city and find a fruit stand to buy one. I was not disappointed; the falling leaves and a big, red apple were just as pleasant to enjoy as I remembered from my boyhood.

Jill Johnson of Sandy, Utah, tells how the Lord blessed her family: “As newly married college students, we had carefully budgeted our meager monthly income. Then the landlord raised our rent. We prayed for a blessing. The next day our old car broke down beyond repair. We wondered why we had these trials all at once, but the loss of the car turned out to be a blessing. With help from family and friends, we found we could manage without a car. The money saved on gas and oil was the same amount as our increase in rent. Sometimes we are blessed for obedience in unexpected ways.”

I love playing soccer and making stop-motion videos. Last summer, I turned 11 and was so excited that I could be ordained to the priesthood in a year. I decided to prepare. I became more sensitive to the Spirit and repented regularly. Soon after, President Nelson announced changes that meant I could be ordained before I turned 12! I was grateful I had prepared so that I could be ordained at the beginning of this year.
Atticus P., 13, Utah, USA