Gospel Story Finder

A few weeks ago, my mission president asked all the missionaries to prepare a four-minute talk on the blessings of the Savior’s mercy and grace in their life. It took a while for me just to understand what the topic really meant. I was little confused, and I needed help. Knowing exactly what to do when I need help, I knelt down, prayed, and asked our Father in Heaven to help me to understand this topic and prepare the talk for the zone conference.
The Spirit of the Lord began to guide me. With the help of the Spirit, I searched the scriptures diligently to learn more about what the mercy and grace of the Atonement of Jesus Christ does for me and all those who have faith in him. After studying several scriptures, I paused and read the topic again. The last three words of the topic struck out to me: IN MY LIFE.
When I started to think about the blessings of mercy and grace because of the Atonement in my life, the following three questions came to my mind. First, what are the blessings you have received in the past? Second, what are the blessings which you are receiving now? Third, what are the blessings which you’re going to receive in the future because of his mercy and grace?
My dear brothers, sisters, and friends, I testify that it was because of the great mercy and grace of His infinite Atonement that my family was blessed with the restored gospel when I was 15 years old. And because of His mercy and love I was forgiven of all my sins when I took Christ’s name upon myself through the ordinance of baptism.
Though I was one of the weakest of the weak, because of His grace, I received strength to do more than what was expected of me in my callings from the day I joined the Church. As it says in Ether 12:27, His grace was and will be sufficient for me and you to overcome all our weaknesses. Jesus Christ made my weaknesses into strengths, little by little, because of His grace.
It was very painful to face failures in my life, especially in my studies. In twelfth standard, I failed in my subjects again and again and again. It was too hard for me to bear. I almost gave up. But the Savior indeed helped me to stay strong and showed His bounteous mercy and grace to me, which helped me not to give up. Having a great hope in my heart, I took a different course and chose to do a diploma in mining engineering in which I was able to succeed. In fact, I was one of the toppers of my college in all six semesters of my 3-year course. It may sound magical, but it was a miracle. How did this happen? I testify that it was because of Christ’s grace that I received light in my life which helped me to have success in my education.
Today, my family has been blessed with peace, love, joy, and unity. Though my dad is not with us, I know that he is resting in paradise because I was able to be baptized for him in the temple and we were sealed as a family to live together in eternity. This was made possible only through the grace of the Lord by His atoning sacrifice for all God’s children. Because of His tender mercy and grace, I’m able to be a full-time missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My heart and soul rejoice greatly to share the gospel.
I know for a surety that I’m going to receive many, many, many other blessings from our loving Heavenly Father through the mercy and grace of Jesus Christ.
Each time I have received a blessing in my life, I had to do something on my part. I would like to suggest three things you can do to access mercy and grace in your life and receive blessings. First, exercise your faith in the Atonement of Jesus Christ by learning more than you know now about His grace and mercy from the scriptures and from the church magazines. Second, seek His help by praying more often and third, follow Him to the end and never give up.
I promise you that as you do these three things in your life, you will definitely see blessings and miracles. As President Gordon B. Hinckley said, “May we go with determination to try a little harder to be a little better” (Gordon B. Hinckley, “We Have a Work to Do,” Ensign, May 1995, 87; see also www.ChurchofJesusChrist.org/study/general-conference/1995/04/we-have-a-work-to-do?lang=eng).
I bear my witness that Jesus is the Christ who came down from heaven, lived a sinless life, and died to save you and me. I also testify that this is His church and He directs it through prophets and apostles. I know for myself that Joseph Smith was blessed to see Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ face-to-face and received divine help and strength to restore the fullness of the gospel. I know that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. The Atonement of Jesus Christ is real and the only way for our salvation and exaltation. I know that families can live together forever in the celestial kingdom of God. In the name of the Lord and Savior, even Jesus Christ, amen.

A Thanksgiving story about the Laie Temple helps us see it.
After the temple was dedicated on Thanksgiving Day in 1919, Saints throughout the islands would plan Thanksgiving trips to the temple each year to commemorate its opening.
Saints on Molokai sacrificed much to save money to attend the temple. All year long they would sell vegetables and fruits and hold bake sales. One family went without electricity in their home to afford the trip to Oahu so they could be sealed in the temple.

I remember my daughter as she was growing up had a constant feeling in her mind that the second coming was just around the corner and she would not live to adulthood or have the privilege of raising children. It was interesting as this feeling of insecurity constantly bothered her. We were unaware that in Family Night as we spoke of the Second Coming and as she listened to the daily news about the cold war and the A bomb, she was internalizing this in a way that she was afraid. She would even go to the extent of saving food and putting it in a drawer. This was her way of implementing the food storage program. It was not uncommon for her mother while cleaning her room to find a chicken leg or wing stuffed in one of the dresser drawers.

“Hey, Carmen, are you ready yet?”
That’s my brother calling. Even though he’s two years older than I am, I’m taller by a ponytail. I can see him through the window, sitting on our apartment steps, squirting marbles out of his pouch. Mom sewed it especially for him, with his initials in gold thread.
Peewee may be the smallest player in the neighborhood, but he has the biggest marble collection for blocks around. He even has names for his favorite marbles, like Thunderbird and Crusher. Then there’s Rocket and Eyeball (yuck!) and the striped one, Bonkers.
I used to think that Peewee was bonkers the way that he talked to those marbles. He ignored everyone around him, including me; he said that his marbles were better listeners. But that was before Laser-Beam and the Blueberries and everything . …
It all started right before the National Marbles Tournament last year. Back then Peewee wouldn’t play a game without his prize marble, Laser-Beam. He was counting on it to pull him through the championships.
With the tournament so close, Peewee decided to get in some last-minute practice around the neighborhood. “Carmen,” he groused, “do you have to tag along?”
He always said that. But I wasn’t going to miss any of the action. Only nobody was around for him to play with. “How about you and me playing a game?” I figured that he’d say no.
“Go ahead,” he said, tugging my ponytail, “ante up.”
“You mean it?”
“Yeah, you shoot OK … for a girl.”
“What do you mean?” I could feel my face getting hot. “I can shoot as good as any guy.” I gripped my shooter, a glittery one that I called Twinkle. Knuckles down, ready, and …
Somebody was blocking my light. I stared up into eyes as steely blue as ball-bearing shooters. I’d never seen this kid before. He was big! He had red freckles sprayed all over his face, and he had a mop of hair to match. He squinted over at Peewee.
“Monroe’s the name—marbles my game.”
Uh-oh, I thought.
“Word is that you’re the top player around here, but that without your shooter, Laser-what’s-its-name, you’re nothing.”
This Monroe sounded like trouble to me, but Peewee was talking to Thunderbird and ignoring him. Finally Monroe left, and I was ready to win some marbles with my famous backspin. A quick flick, and Twinkle zoomed across the concrete, missed, and landed in the weeds.
The next day the weather was perfect for a championship—right on the beach too. Peewee was looking pretty official in his shorts and kneepads, but I knew that it was only my brother under that sun visor. Mom and Dad were sitting in their second-row seats, while I hung around the ring. I wanted to watch the referees line up the target marbles, little frosty blue ones that I called Blueberries.
Peewee was breezing through the preliminaries. One more shot, and he’d win his best of three matches. A snap of his thumbnail, and craaaack! There went the Blueberry. But something was wrong with Laser-Beam!
Peewee was holding it like it was sick. Mom and Dad stood up, and the referee hurried over. “Laser,” Peewee was mumbling, “you split wide open.”
Peewee’s good-luck charm was broken. The ref declared that Peewee had to substitute a new shooter or be disqualified. What could be worse?
“Worse” was standing across the ring, a big smile plastered across his freckles—Peewee’s next opponent, Monroe!
“You didn’t bring your other shooters with you, Peewee?” I asked. “Not even Eyeball?” He’d be out of the tournament for sure now. “Wait a minute!” I dug down in my jeans pocket and pulled out Twinkle.
Peewee turned kind of pale. “I—I don’t think I can do it without Laser-Beam.”
“Come on, Peewee. You have to try.”
There was no time to argue. Monroe won the first shot and scattered the Blueberries. Five marbles later, he finally missed.
“Don’t let him down, Twinkle,” I whispered as Peewee crouched to shoot.
Whump! The shot was a little wobbly, but one Blueberry was knocked out of the circle. That set up an easy shot at another blueberry, one on the edge of the ring. “Oh, no!” I groaned as Peewee missed it wide.
Monroe sauntered back up. He looked confident now that Laser-Beam was out of the picture—maybe too confident. He put so much pressure on his shooter that it jumped clean over the Blueberries. What a break! But without Laser-Beam, could Peewee do it?
I can still see Peewee circling the ring, looking for his best shot and talking—but not to any marble. This time he was talking to himself. He seemed to stand a little taller. Then he hunkered down and took aim.
Sparks seemed to fly as Twinkle bounced off the edger—knocking it out—and sailed into a pile of Blueberries, smacking out two of them. “Wow!” I murmured appreciatively. “Three marbles out with one shot!” Peewee didn’t need his “good-luck” shooter anymore. It was as though he believed that he could win, no matter what shooter he used. Monroe was certainly believing, because Peewee was shooting out the rest of the Berries right under his nose.
Everyone was applauding. Mom and Dad were sure proud of Peewee, and I had to admit that he played a terrific tournament. He finally lost a close game to a kid from Baltimore, but there would always be next year.
Through the crowd I noticed Monroe edging toward Peewee. He seemed to be explaining some surefire remedy to prevent splitting, something about soaking marbles in grease.
Monroe didn’t strike me as being a great listener, but it looked as though Peewee was starting to talk to someone instead of just to marbles:
“Some kind of shooting.”
“Yeah, you too.”
“Great match.”
“If it wasn’t for my kid sister …”
Who, me?
Then Peewee signaled for me to join them. I couldn’t believe it! They both offered to help me practice for the girls’ tournament next year. I could feel Twinkle, warm in my pocket, as I shuffled along beside them. In fact, I remember that I felt kind of warm all over.
Now here it is next year, and Peewee’s calling me again from the apartment steps out front: “Carmen, are you coming?”
I guess that I’d better grab my marbles and get going. We’re meeting Monroe for a practice session. This year’s championships are almost here, and I need a little work on my famous backspin.

Margie sat quietly on the back seat of the car, her dark eyes staring out at the city buildings whirling by in the soft evening light. The weight of her sadness felt like a stone on her chest. How she wished she could have moved to Chicago with the Petersen family. They had seemed as unhappy as Margie when the unexpected word came that Brother Petersen had to report at once for his new work. She had spent two school years with them, and it was almost like parting with her own family in Arizona when she had to say good-bye. The Petersens had taught her much about their ways, and they had been eager to learn of her Apache world.
“Well, Margie,” said Brother Randall, the Church social worker, interrupting the girl’s thoughts, “a week from tonight is Christmas Eve.”
Suddenly Margie realized that she had no gifts for her new family. She had given beads she had made and a few things bought with her allowance to the Petersens. Now she had no money to buy gifts and no time to make more.
“How many children did you say the Strattons have?” she asked Sister Randall who was sitting beside her.
“Four. Vicky is ten years old—the same as you. Paul is seven, Ted is five, and the baby is the age of our Tricia.” Sister Randall reached down to pat the baby, who laughed and then grabbed the bracelet on her mother’s wrist.
“We’re in Reseda now, Margie,” Brother Randall said. “Look at the tall palm trees on both sides of the street. We turn right at the next light.”
Margie felt her heart beat faster. What if the Strattons don’t like me, she thought, and what if I don’t like them? She wondered if she would ever see the Petersens again. Then, longing to be back on the reservation, she closed her eyes and could see her mother frying bread and hear her gentle voice talking to the little ones.
The car pulled into a driveway and stopped. When Margie opened the car door to get out, she heard a shout. The front door burst open and six people rushed out of the house to greet her. Margie remembered to look into their faces as the Petersens had taught her, but it was hard to think of anything to say. Quickly her bags were carried into the house, and she waved good-bye to Brother Randall and his family.
Vicky showed Margie where to put her clothes as she unpacked in the room they would share. Before prayers and bed that night, there was time to admire the Christmas tree. There were already some brightly wrapped packages under it, and Margie saw that her name was on some of them.
Later in bed, Margie lay listening to Vicky’s quiet breathing and let the tears run silently down her cheeks. She felt sad because she missed her other families and because she had brought no Christmas gifts for this new family who had so warmly received her into their home.
The next morning Margie stood at the bedroom window watching Paul and Ted playing games on the back lawn. Vickie had already gone downstairs. There was a light rap on the open door, and Sister Stratton asked, “May I come in?”
Margie nodded and smiled shyly.
“Margie,” Sister Stratton explained, “we have a Christmas tradition in our family that we have followed for several years. Each Christmas Eve we have a special program where we learn something about the cultures of our brothers and sisters in other lands. This year we have not prepared anything, hoping that you could share with us some of the traditions of your people.”
Because of her shyness, Margie was tempted to say that she couldn’t, but seeing the kind and expectant look in Sister Stratton’s eyes, Margie nodded that she would.
On Christmas Eve Margie wore the beautiful squaw dress her mother had made for her last summer. When they had bought the trim for the yards and yards of material, Margie had remarked that it must be a mile long. Now she smiled with satisfaction as she looked into the mirror. She divided her long black hair into two sections and tied each strand with yarn to match the dress.
When it was time for the Christmas Eve program, Vicky started the record for Margie’s part, and all the other Strattons smiled their pleasure when she entered the room. Slowly, rhythmically, Margie moved with grace and ease to the beat of the drum and the chanting voices. After the dance was over, the Strattons clapped enthusiastically and then Margie told them about her family in Arizona and the customs of her people. “Now,” she said, “if you will excuse me for just a minute, I’ll make you some Apache frybread.”
In the kitchen Margie stretched the dough she had prepared earlier and dropped it into hot oil. She could hear the children’s excited chatter in the other room. Vicky and Paul were eager to learn the Apache dance. Ted insisted that he wanted to play the drums and “say” the songs.
Brother Stratton came into the kitchen and put his arm around Margie. “Margie, this has been one of the nicest Christmas Eves we have ever had. Thank you for giving us so much!”
Margie smiled shyly and handed him a plate of frybread.

Hazel Price, a longstanding member of Aylesbury Ward, has always enjoyed singing, including singing in ward and stake choirs. It was in a rehearsal in her home ward where her ward music leader, Jill Neenan, became her singing tutor.
As Hazel began to develop her talent during her singing lessons, she was invited to join a newly formed community choir with Jill as the musical director. With over 100 members, The Wing Singers, allowed Hazel’s talent to thrive as she joined in as many public performances as possible—both within the main choir and in small ensembles.
During a lesson with Jill, Hazel shared that her lifelong dream was to be able to sing solo. Jill introduced ‘soirees’ after some of the regular choir evenings. These allowed Hazel and others to try something different in a safe environment and led to Jill encouraging Hazel to study for her grade 5 music theatre exam. This brought together two of her loves in life, singing and costume making!
Being a member of the Church had given Hazel the opportunity to develop her skills over the years when making costumes for various roadshows in the Watford Stake; with her support, Aylesbury Ward had won the best costumes award many times.
Solo-singing opportunities began to appear, on a few occasions at a local care home in 2016. Then she stepped on to the stage as a solo singer for the first time in January 2017. She helped raise funds for the Stoke Mandeville Hospital Scan Appeal at the Wing Musicathon. She performed “With One Look” from Sunset Boulevard in front of about 100 people, most of whom she didn’t know! The year of 2017 also saw Hazel taking her grade 5 musical theatre singing exam, which she passed with merit.
Having accepted the challenge in February 2018 to enter her first competition—the Milton Keynes Festival of the Arts and Drama—she performed two songs within two categories: musical theatre and operetta. She was accompanied by her tutor and performed in front of about 30 people, most of whom were also there to compete.
Jill persuaded Hazel to perform in her costumes and with the props she had made and used for her exam. Hazel recalled, “Being the only one in costumes, I stood out like a sore thumb! I admit I felt rather unnerved, but I ploughed on. I got excellent feedback and an award for my rendition of ‘I’m Called Little Buttercup’, the adjudicator enjoying the fun that was portrayed, which was in keeping with it being from HMS Pinafore.”
In 2021, despite not being able to meet up in person with her choir or her mentor, Hazel decided to again enter the Milton Keynes Festival of the Arts and Drama competition again. COVID-19 lockdown regulations demanded video entries. Hazel rose to the challenge, practising while being recorded by her teenage son to ensure she could submit her best possible video. She and her son had to overcome obstacles, hunting around the house for the optimum lighting and sound.
Hazel was especially concerned when she discovered that the videos would be put online so everyone could watch them. Hazel said, “This threw me. It was not as bad as when I did my first public solo for charity, but I admit I didn’t do so well then. However, I was determined I would send in my entry, so I submitted it despite knowing the errors I had made and the cooker alarm going off in the background. However, I did ask them not to put my video online if it was just too embarrassing.”
She continued, “I was convinced I did not have a chance to win a place at all. I had not been able to have lessons for many months, so I resigned myself to not participating in the competition. I also wondered if it was likely to go ahead due to the current global situation. In addition, I was stepping right out of my comfort zone by singing ‘a cappella’ (i.e., unaccompanied by music). This was something I had to do because I had no suitable accompaniment or backing track.”
She explained that while some might say when singing a cappella that it allowed them to sing in their way (any errors being intended), it is not so. Each entrant was required to send in a copy of the sheet music for this competition, so the adjudicators knew exactly what singing was intended. Furthermore, without a backing track, there is nothing to hide any errors. Hazel informed the adjudicators that she did not wait out the musical interludes but allowed the song to flow, which was approved of in their feedback.
Hazel waited anxiously for the results. She shared, “I like this competition for amateur singers, on a comparable basis to why I love being a member of The Wing Singers—it is open to all ages and all abilities. From what I can tell, you do not have to live locally to enter. The competition covers music, dance, drama; and the website is already showing details of 2022 competition.”
She confided that joining The Wing Singers choir and entering this competition twice is all part of a journey. The entry for 2021 was very different from her entry in 2018. This time she had no encouragement, not even her singing tutor. Hazel did not even tell her tutor until after she had sent in her submission. This journey was part of her need to support herself and celebrate her attempting hard things, for managing her reaction to obstacles, and overcoming her deep-rooted negativity and self-doubt.
“Encouragement and praise were not something experienced in my home life as a child, quite the contrary—it was full of abuse, shame and negativity in many forms, most of which I blocked out for about half of my life. For the other half of my life, I have been learning about the abuse, the effects on me, my character, confidence, and self-worth.
“In the short time between the competition deadline and my 60th birthday, I happened to see a video on social media that helped me understand me more than anything else has done in my life, especially when dealing with putting up barriers and not achieving all that I hope to. It also, briefly, left me with the feeling that I cannot change; that I could never succeed.
“So, as I look back at this now, knowing all the mistakes and everything else surrounding my entry, I feel I have done some good in starting to break down another barrier and push against Satan and all the negativity I can be bombarded with.”
Finally, Hazel had news of the competition results. When the envelope arrived, she was happy to see the positive feedback. From experience, she knew that awards are always genuine, as is the feedback.
“I was delighted … but not as delighted as I was when I went to return the feedback page in the envelope and realised on the other side was a certificate! I was extremely excited to see I had been awarded 2nd place, with commendation, in my chosen category.”
So, what next for Hazel? She adds, “In 2019 my singing tutor talked with me and a few other students about setting up a troupe to go into care homes, hospitals and possibly schools. The idea is to perform with costumes and props and make it as entertaining and engaging as possible. … I would love to see this happen. For me, it would be another step in the right direction. I look forward to getting back on track with my next singing exam, and yes, I will compete again next year—with an accompanist.
“My accomplishments in life may not seem very grand compared to others, but I know Heavenly Father is aware of me, all I have been through and all the lessons and learning I have had during the COVID-19 pandemic. As I look back on my life, I realise I have lived in fear for almost everything. However, I also know that as long as I stay close to Heavenly Father and make the most of any opportunities I may get, He will continue to help me change, to heal and become all that He would like me to be.”

It was a beautiful morning in April 2012 when John Ekow-Mensah entered the Accra Ghana Temple. The elderly brother, now in his 80s, had made the trip with a group of Saints from Nkawkaw, where he lived alone. The group planned to stay the night in nearby rooms for temple patrons and spend two days serving in the temple.
Seated inside the temple, Brother Ekow-Mensah was waiting to participate in initiatory ordinances when a younger man sat down beside him. The younger man, age 54, had planned to go through an endowment session that morning with his wife but, arriving too late for that session, he decided to do initiatory ordinances.
“Where are you from?” Brother Ekow-Mensah asked.
“Sekondi,” the man replied.
“What part of Sekondi?” Brother Ekow-Mensah asked.
“Ketan,” the younger one answered, “in the area where the schools are located.” As the conversation continued, the men both sensed where these questions might be leading.
Moved by a growing sense of recognition, the younger man looked at Brother Ekow-Mensah. “You are my father,” he announced. “What is your name?”
“John Ekow-Mensah.”
“That is my name too,” the son replied.
Illustration by Brian Call
After serving in the temple, the two men sat for a long time in the celestial room, reconnecting their lives and rekindling their love. Though everything Brother Ekow-Mensah Jr. said and did was respectful and proper, he seemed not quite ready to embrace his father wholeheartedly—until he learned why his father had to leave and why he could not contact his family.
Nearly 50 years ago Brother Ekow-Mensah Sr. had married a woman whose grandmother—the oldest matriarch at that time—held sovereign power in their tribe. Sadly, the matriarch had been opposed to John’s marriage to her granddaughter. At her insistence the couple ultimately separated when their oldest son, John Jr., was just four or five years old. John Jr. had known his great-grandmother as a strong, hard-working woman, not as the power that had deprived him of all association with his natural father for nearly 50 years.
Expulsion from the family essentially severed all ties. Because of the lack of telephones or mail service, John Sr. had no way to keep contact with his family. His search for work took him many hours away. He lived in Mankessim from about 1963 to 1989, where he operated a small paint shop. From there he moved to Ada, where a woman whose building he was painting introduced him to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Brother Ekow-Mensah Sr. joined the Church in 1991.
Because Brother Ekow-Mensah Jr. was so young when his parents’ marriage dissolved, he didn’t know much about his heritage. Occasionally his mother remarked that he was a “carbon copy” of his father, but that was the extent of his knowledge.
After he grew up and married, John and his wife, Deborah, decided to find a church they could join. John was at the University of Ghana in Accra when he saw a Liahona magazine on a shelf. He picked it up and found himself interested in what it had to say. John noted the publisher: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
When John returned from school to his home in Sekondi, his wife was anxious to tell him of a church she had learned about from a friend. She told him the name was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. John told her this was the church he had read about in a magazine at the university.
John and Deborah were taught the gospel and baptized in 1999. A decade later they were sealed in the Accra Ghana Temple, and the three youngest of their five children were sealed to them.
Then in the temple in April 2012, tears came as the father and son recognized each other. Their joy was compounded by their understanding that they had separately joined the Church and found their way into the temple that beautiful morning.

By December 1827 there had been several attempts to steal the plates, so Joseph decided to move with Emma to the home of her parents in Harmony Township, Pennsylvania.
Emma Smith
When Joseph and Emma arrived, Joseph allowed Isaac Hale, Emma’s father, to heft the plates in a box. Isaac later stated, “I was allowed to feel the weight of the box, and they gave me to understand, that the book of plates was then in the box.” Yet he was unconvinced and dissatisfied with the situation. He told Joseph to either show him the plates or remove them from his house. Joseph hid the plates in the nearby woods until he and Emma moved into their own home on the Hale property.10
An adjacent farm was owned by Joseph and Sarah McKune. Their granddaughter later reported that Joseph McKune had been allowed “to take in his hands a pillow-case in which the supposed saintly treasure was wrapped, and to feel through the cloth that it had leaves.”11
In Harmony, Joseph Smith began his translation of the Book of Mormon by the gift and power of God. His initial scribes were his wife, Emma, and his friend Martin Harris.12 Like members of the Harris and Smith families, Emma hefted the plates, as she “would lift and move them” while cleaning.13 She also felt the individual leaves and heard the sound they made when moved, describing them in this way: “I once felt of the plates, as they thus lay on the table, tracing their outline and shape. They seemed to be pliable like thick paper, and would rustle with a metallic sound when the edges were moved by the thumb, as one does sometimes thumb the edges of a book.”14

Suddenly it dawned on me. What about a mission. Oh sure, I always told my friends and family that I would go. I even told my employer I was planning on a mission. But all of that seemed unimportant now. All I could see was personal satisfaction, and I didn’t care what kind of spiritual development I’d surely miss. The voice of the prophet still echoed in my mind, “Every young man is to fulfill a mission.” But the thought always came back, “In two years’ time, look how far you could be as a paramedic.”
I didn’t know what to do! I knew deep down in my heart that a mission was the right thing, but I was so terribly blinded by worldly greed. The decision to go or not to go was constantly on my mind. I thought about it from the time I got up until the time I went to bed at night. Because we worked 24-hour shifts, I had lots of time to think.
One night right after I had gone to bed, I was awakened by the ring of the telephone. The highway patrol was calling for an ambulance to respond to a car-truck accident on the freeway, and soon I was at the scene of a two-car accident. A small car had run into the back of a semitrailer loaded with wooden fence posts. The badly mangled car had two occupants—a young couple that had recently been married. The husband, who was driving, had been killed instantly. His wife was critically injured. We worked desperately to save the slowly fading life of that beautiful nineteen-year-old woman. I thought to myself, How could something so terrible happen to this fine couple and totally destroy their future plans and happiness?
We rushed her to the hospital, where a team of highly trained doctors and nurses were waiting. Soon a helicopter arrived to transport her to a hospital in Salt Lake City, where she could receive special treatment for a severe head injury.
After I calmed down from the shock of such a terrible accident, I remembered talking to the highway patrolman who would be responsible for notifying the next of kin. I’ll never forget the solemn look on his face, and the glaze of tears in his eyes as he drove away. I thought to myself, What a horrible assignment! What if they were my parents being notified? Then another thought came to my mind: What will be the look on my face when I give an accounting to the Savior of the time I spent here in mortality?
The night air was chilled with a late frost. As I gazed up into the night, I noticed how clear and calm the sky looked. Tears ran freely down my cheeks, and I found myself pleading with the Lord for that young woman’s life. At that moment, when my heart actually seemed to swell painfully with love and compassion, I finally began to understand. Doctors and nurses and paramedics were wonderful, but they could only treat the body. They couldn’t heal the deeper wounds, the ones that would keep us from going home to our Father. Only one Physician could do that, and I was denying myself the chance to be his helper. I made a decision. I would do all I could to further the work of the Master Healer. I would serve a mission!

Aurelia stood on the bank of the Mississippi River and looked back across it. Never before in her eleven-and-a-half years had she been west of the wide river, and now here she was in Iowa.
She shivered in the February cold and tucked one hand into her coat. With the other, she held George’s hand. He was only six and was her responsibility. Ellen, thirteen, and nine-year-old Catherine walked ahead with seven-year-old Howard; little Lucy rode in the wagon with Mama, who was still very sick. But Aurelia and George stood and looked back across the river to Nauvoo.
Nauvoo! How could they bear to leave their beautiful home? All was cold and gray across the river, but Aurelia remembered how the city had looked when she first saw it.
It was already a bustling, growing city when the Spencer family arrived. Thousands of people lived there, and more were coming every day. There were hundreds of log cabins and many brick homes. People were building, buying and selling, planting, working everywhere! Aurelia had never seen so many people—and most of them were Latter-day Saints.
Her family had rented a room until Papa could build a house for them. He had chosen a lot on a hill above the town, a little northeast of where the temple was being built.
Their lot, like most in Nauvoo, was big enough to plant a large garden and some fruit trees. Ellen and Aurelia had helped Papa plant the trees that first spring—peach and apple trees, Papa said, although they looked like twigs to Aurelia. She had asked Papa why he planted the tiny trees so far apart.
“They are small now,” he had said, “but if we want them to grow large and give fruit, they will need space to grow.” Aurelia had watched them grow until last year they had finally blossomed and borne fruit!
All of Nauvoo blossomed in the spring. The mud in the streets was deep enough to suck the boots right off your feet, but flowers and fruit trees bloomed in every yard. Aurelia wished she could see spring come to Nauvoo again. But the Prophet Joseph was dead, and soon his beautiful city would be deserted.
George had been too young to remember the first time he and Aurelia met the Prophet. Aurelia remembered it clearly. She had met a real, living prophet! He had come to their home to visit, and he limped very slightly when he walked, just like Papa! Papa told her later it was caused by the same illness that had caused his limp—typhus fever, which had settled in his leg.
Lucy was born there, and when Joseph saw her, he exclaimed, “Oh, what a little black head!” Even as a baby, Lucy’s hair was thick and dark. Joseph had laid his hand on Lucy’s head and blessed her. Aurelia had loved the Prophet from that moment. He was God’s own prophet and the most important man in Nauvoo, yet he loved little children and liked to be with them.
Aurelia shivered as she remembered the terrible day two years later, when Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed by a mob in the nearby town of Carthage. Aurelia could scarcely believe that anyone could be so wicked as to kill a kind man like the Prophet.
Aurelia’s Papa had taken her to the Mansion House to see Joseph’s body. A great crowd was there, all crying and crowding to look. Aurelia couldn’t see, so Papa had lifted her up to the window from where she could see Brother Joseph one last time. That had been nearly two years ago.
Things had been hard since Joseph’s death. Nauvoo wasn’t allowed to use its police force, so bad men did what they wanted. They burned farms outside town and caused trouble in Nauvoo. Then some of the Latter-day Saint boys formed the “Whittling and Whistling Brigade.” When one of the bad men came to town, the boys followed him everywhere, whistling and whittling pieces of wood with their pocketknives. There were too many boys for the man to fight, and they wouldn’t let him out of their sight long enough for him to do anything bad, so finally he would leave and look for mischief someplace else. Howard and George couldn’t wait to join the brigade, but they were only six and four then, and Mama wouldn’t let them use her knives to learn to whittle. They practiced whistling, however. Finally, though, even the brave boys couldn’t keep the bad men away.
Aurelia squeezed George’s hand and pointed to show him the temple across the river. Even on this cold, gray day, the tall building seemed to shine on the hill. She remembered when its roof had caught fire one day. She lived only a block away and had run with a bucket of water to help fight the fire. It had been put out, and work on the temple had continued. Just two months ago, Mama and Papa had gone to the temple to be sealed together. Mama said that that was the hardest part of leaving Nauvoo—leaving the temple they’d worked so hard to build. It still wasn’t quite finished. “Heaven only knows when we’ll have a temple again,” Mama had said. “We’ve been blessed to have this one.”
Aurelia looked to the left of the temple to see if their house was visible from here. She couldn’t see it. But she did see Mary Ann Stearn’s house. Mary Ann and her cousin Ellen Pratt were Aurelia’s best friends. They had gone to school together and played together. Aurelia stared at Mary Ann’s house, but she knew that Mary Ann wasn’t there. She, too, was going west with her family. Aurelia wondered if they’d meet again on the way to the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she hoped so! It was hard leaving everything and everyone to travel to a strange land. Why shouldn’t the bad men have to leave instead? It wasn’t fair to be forced to leave friends, homes, gardens, orchards, the temple!
Thinking of Mary Ann made Aurelia remember something else. At the last general conference, in October, Mary Ann’s stepfather, Parley P. Pratt had spoken to the Saints. People had crowded into the temple to listen. Elder Pratt spoke about how hard the Saints had worked to build a beautiful city and temple and how hard it was to leave it all behind. But the Lord had other plans for this people, Elder Pratt had said. He explained that a small nursery could produce many thousands of fruit trees, but that as they grew, they must be transplanted. They need room to grow if they are to produce fruit. He promised that the Lord had a place for the Saints to grow, where they wouldn’t be crowded and where they would enjoy liberty and equal rights.
Aurelia knew that it was true. She thought of those tiny twigs of fruit trees she and Ellen and Papa had planted. She had seen them grow and blossom and produce sweet fruit. It was hard to leave Nauvoo, but it was time to be transplanted to a place where she and her family and all the Saints could grow strong and bloom.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.

Allow me to share this afternoon with you one of the most precious things to me—the story of how I myself was found.
Just before I turned 15, I was invited by my uncle Manuel Bustos to spend some time with him and his family here in the United States. This would be a great opportunity for me to learn some English. My uncle had converted to the Church many years before, and he had a great missionary spirit. That is probably why my mother, without my knowing, spoke with him and said she would agree to the invitation on one condition: that he did not try to convince me to become a member of his Church. We were Catholics, and we had been for generations, and there was no reason to change. My uncle was in complete agreement and kept his word to the point that he didn’t want to answer even simple questions about the Church.
Of course, what my uncle and his sweet wife, Marjorie, could not avoid was being who they were.3
I was assigned a room that contained a large library of books. I could see that in this library there were roughly 200 copies of the Book of Mormon in different languages, 20 of them in Spanish.
One day, out of curiosity, I took down a copy of the Book of Mormon in Spanish.
It was one of those copies with a sky-blue soft cover, with the figure of the angel Moroni on the front. When I opened it, on the first page there was written the following promise: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
And then it added: “And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”4
It is difficult to explain the impact that these scriptures had on my mind and heart. To be honest, I was not looking for “the truth.” I was just a teenager, happy with his life, enjoying this new culture.
Nevertheless, with that promise in mind, I secretly began reading the book. As I read more, I understood that if I really wanted to get anything from this, I had better start to pray. And we all know what happens when you decide not only to read but also to pray about the Book of Mormon. Well, that is just what happened to me. It was something so special and so unique—yes, just the same as what has happened to millions of others around the world. I came to know by the power of the Holy Ghost that the Book of Mormon was true.
I then went to my uncle to explain to him what had happened and that I was ready to be baptized. My uncle could not contain his astonishment. He got into his car, drove to the airport, and returned back with my plane ticket to fly back home, with a note addressed to my mother that simply stated, “I had nothing to do with this!”
In a way he was right. I had been found directly by the power of the Book of Mormon.

When I returned to Buenos Aires, my mother realized that I truly wanted to be baptized. Since I had a somewhat rebellious spirit, instead of opposing me, she very wisely took my side. And without even knowing it, she did my baptismal interview herself. Indeed, I believe that her interview was even more in-depth than those that our missionaries conduct. She told me, “If you want to be baptized, I will support you. But first I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to think very hard and answer me honestly. Do you commit to attend church absolutely every Sunday?”
I told her, “Yes, of course I’m going to do that.”
“Do you have any idea how long church is?”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
She replied, “Well, if you get baptized, I am going to make sure that you attend.” Then she asked me if I was truly willing to never drink alcohol or smoke.
I answered, “Yes, of course I am going to comply with that as well.”
To which she added, “If you get baptized, I am going to make sure that that is the case.” And she proceeded on in that way with almost every commandment.
My uncle had called my mother to tell her not to worry, that I would get over this soon. Four years later, when I received my call to serve in the Uruguay Montevideo Mission, my mother called my uncle to ask him exactly when I was going to get over all this. The truth is that from the time I was baptized, my mother was a happier mother.

When I graduated high school and left my home of Hawai’i to come to the continental United States for college, I did not anticipate how difficult the transition would be for me. I was always excited to leave home and explore the world outside of what I had always known, but it did come with a lot of growing pains, especially during my first winter.
The first time I saw snow fall was both magical and awful. It was apparent how much I was not mentally or physically prepared for the cold when my mind and heart could not escape the sadness I felt. When I talked to my mom about my depression, she reminded me of my courageous and faithful Hawaiian ancestors who left their homes in the Pacific to come to Utah to participate in and receive the blessings of the temple.
Iosepa Colony was established in 1889 by Hawaiian and Polynesian members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. There in the desert of Skull Valley, Utah, USA, my ancestors built and beautifully crafted their new home and faithfully journeyed to Salt Lake City often to do temple work.
My mom asked me what I thought our ancestors felt in their first winter. I imagined how difficult and trying that season would have been for them. I am blessed with heaters, access to warm clothing, buildings that are well insulated, and much more, but this was not the case for the Iosepa Saints.1
As I thought about what their experience might have been like, I felt less alone in my depression, and I also became curious. I knew that if my ancestors could survive and thrive in challenging and unfamiliar surroundings, I could too.
But remembering my ancestors’ story affected me beyond just helping me get through that winter. Although I don’t have personal records of what my immigrant Iosepa ancestors experienced in their first winter, I used my imagination and humanity to guide me to believe that they were helped. I know that there were people that looked out for my family and were kind. I imagine that these acts of goodness buoyed the Iosepa Saints even under the climate, social, and political stresses of their time. Now I ask myself: “How can I be more loving to those who are in need around me?”
When I see others who are experiencing their own winters of the mind and heart, I am reminded of my experience of being depressed, and I am moved to help as best as I can through love and service. I am especially moved when I see immigrants in my country who are here to try to make a better life for themselves. Now more than ever, I feel responsible to love and support them just as I hope others did for my ancestors.

As Joseph contemplated those dreary months of imprisonment in Missouri, he must have recalled the night, when confined in a dungeon, he rebuked the guards. He and his brethren were trying to get a little sleep, but were kept awake by the awful blasphemies and obscene jests of their jailers, who were recounting the dreadful deeds of robbery and murder they had committed among the Mormons. These were no idle boasts, for these awful atrocities had actually been committed. Suddenly, Joseph rose to his feet and, in a voice that seemed to shake the very building, cried out:

Silence, ye fiends of the infernal pit! In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still; I will not live another minute and hear such language. Cease such talk, or you or I die this instant! [HC 3:208]

The effect must have been electric in its suddenness. Some begged his pardon while others slunk into the dark corners of Liberty Jail to hide their shame.

The power of Jesus Christ, whose name he had invoked in his rebuke, was upon him. His hands and feet were in chains, but these the guards did not see. They saw only the righteous anger in his shining face, and felt the divine power in his voice as he rebuked them.

“Oh, boy! Does this situation sound familiar. This last year one of my close friends fell into this same situation. It was hurting me and her and everyone else involved, and it seemed that we had tried everything to help her. Then one night as I was praying for her, the idea came to hold a special fast for her. We contacted everyone who knew her and informed them of this special fast. Then after the fast we set a goal to be especially kind and loving to this girl (but not in an over-obvious way). Eventually, with the help of all these people and her family, this girl came back into the Church.
“The only advice I can give is to try what we tried. Pray and fast for her and constantly, by your actions, reassure her that she is loved. Don’t condemn her but follow the advice in 3 Nephi 18:23–24.” [3 Ne. 18:23–24]
Sherry StottBynum, Montana

The beginnings were underway. The stone was beginning to roll forth. But with the grown came opposition. The Prophet moved the center of his operations from Ohio to Missouri, and was then driven to Illinois. By 1840 twelve stakes had been organized: one in Ohio, one in Iowa, two in Missouri, and eight in Illinois. The time had then come to expand the work over the great waters. The year 1839 saw members of the newly called Quorum of the Twelve Apostles preparing for missionary assignments. The expansion created a need for better travel and communications. The Lord was already preparing the way with new and advanced technology. Morse was developing the first telegraph system in 1837. The first crossing of the Atlantic by a steam-powered ship occurred in 1838. The railroad had started to grow in the United States and by 1840 there were 2,818 miles of track.

Then opposition struck at the very heart of this new Church: The Prophet was illegally imprisoned. On the 27th day of June of 1844, a mob stormed the jail and his life was taken. After the death of the Prophet, persecution became so intense that again it was necessary for the Saints to leave their homes and journey into a barren frontier. Under the leadership of Brigham Young, members of the Church moved forward across the Mississippi and on towards the West in the epic pioneer trek. Of the almost 70,000 who attempted the journey, about 9 percent were laid to rest along the way—a tremendous loss for a young, struggling church.

In 2010, Andre Sebako was a young man seeking for truth. Though he had never offered a heartfelt prayer before, he decided to try. Shortly afterward he met the missionaries. They gave him a pass-along card with a picture of the Book of Mormon. Andre felt something and asked if the missionaries would sell him the book. They said he could have the book for free if he would come to church.1
Andre attended the then-recently created Mochudi Branch in Botswana, Africa, alone. But the branch was a loving, tight-knit group consisting of about 40 members.2 They welcomed Andre with open arms. He received the missionary lessons and was baptized. It was wonderful!

Another great lesson was learned when as a young man of eighteen I took a summer job with the U.S. Forest Service. One of our duties was to be part of a twenty-man fire crew that could be called out from time to time to fight wildfires. Earlier, a wildfire had claimed the lives of four firefighters when in a panic they failed to follow the direction of their crew boss and tried to outrun an unexpected and fierce advance of a fire. The shockwaves of that incident were felt all around the region, and rigorous training ensued. Following the command of the crew boss without question or hesitation was given particular emphasis.
We fought several fires that season, and then, late in August, our crew was called out to fight a wildfire in Southern California. This was a large fire that had many crews dispatched to fight it. Our crew, along with two other crews, was assigned a sector of the fire. It was a chaparral brush fire that had a tremendously fine fuel load of dried grasses and weeds in the understory. We were obliged to make a two-mile hike from the nearest road through the brush to where the fire was burning.
It was not a particularly intense blaze, and we were to build black line—a fire line right against the burning edge of the fire. As our three twenty-man crews, marching single file through the brush, approached the fire, the sector boss suddenly appeared on a nearby ridgeline. His urgent command was to become indelibly impressed upon my mind. His voice screamed through our radios, “She’s blowing up, she’s blowing up! Into the burn!”
My pulse raced and my heart sank as I watched the small campfire-type flames, fanned on by an intense wind shift, transform into a raging inferno racing directly toward us. The command “Into the burn!” meant that we would charge through the fire and into the area where the fire had consumed the fuel. My instinctive impulse was to turn and run, and I could see others considering that option. Our crew boss, without hesitation, reiterated the command “Into the burn!” and though it did not seem the intuitive thing to do, my training and my memory of the tragic earlier deaths compelled me to follow my leader through that wall of fire. On the other side we found a blackened moonscape where the fire could not return. With eyes and lungs burning from the heat in the whirling smoke and ash, we resorted to dancing on the top of hot rocks to protect our feet from the searing deep ash. We had made the right decision and were preserved.
After about thirty minutes the wind died down, and we were able to cross back out of the burn and begin our black line. That was an intense lesson that helped me to understand the importance of knowing in advance who you should trust and follow without hesitation, especially when the correct choice may be obscured by our own limited experience or instinctive bias.
That lesson was reinforced in my life just a few years ago when I was invited to participate in a grizzly bear study in Alaska, where we were to observe the response of grizzlies to the influences of smells, sounds, and colors that humans bring into the backcountry. Part of that experience was a safety training session that included instruction of what to do if approached or charged by a bear. If we were charged by a grizzly, the instruction we received was to turn and face the bear (do not run and invoke the predator/prey killing response), make yourself as big in posture as possible, and yell at the bear to go away. Well, I had been in Alaska before and had searched to see a bear with no such luck, so I wasn’t too concerned and took the training somewhat lightly.
Shortly after the training, the bear biologist who had trained us asked if I wanted to go with him to wade the river and count bears. Of course I couldn’t wait. We donned our chest waders and were off for a two-kilometer walk in a river. I couldn’t believe all the bears and how close we were and how much they didn’t seem to care. In that walk we counted over forty grizzly bears.
On our way back we got behind a mother bear and her three little cubs. She was going painfully slow, and I suggested we pass her. The biologist said that was only a good idea if I was tired of breathing. So we followed patiently behind the bears until we reached a place where the river made a great horseshoe bend and we had our chance to cut through on a brushy trail to get ahead of her. In our haste we apparently intruded on another bear that we hadn’t seen, and as I waddled down the path behind my guide, I heard the huff and paw pounding of a bear coming up behind us. I spun and saw a large bear coming upon us fast. The biologist, true to his training, faced the attack, taking up a firm stand—right behind me! As I turned to face the bear, armed only with my small can of bear mace, it dawned on me why they had invited this great big, juicy botanist to join the party. I mean, what bear in their right mind would choose a tofu–diet-burger biologist when they could have the super–double-deluxe meal of a tender and juicy botanist—and, yes, fries with that!
While turning to run seemed the prudent thing to do, I trusted and followed the instruction I had received. Facing the bear, in my deepest, most menacing voice I yelled repeatedly, “Go away, bear! Go away!” The bear pulled up just short of me, paused for an eternal moment, twisted her head back and forth, and finally turned and slipped away into the underbrush. As I regained my faculties, I realized that I had begun to breathe again. After checking to be sure that I still had all of my body parts and functions, I trundled off back to camp, following my biologist friend who was explaining that this charge “wasn’t really so bad!”

This story happened in the USA.
Eight . . . nine . . . ten!
Izzy carefully put the 10th egg in her basket. Grandpa paid her one penny per egg. Since there were 10 eggs, Izzy would get 10 cents today.
The chickens fluttered and clucked as Izzy tossed them their food. She was careful to keep her Sunday skirt clean. The chickens had to be fed every day, even on Sunday. And the eggs had to be gathered.
“Thanks for the eggs, hens!” Izzy said. “And thanks for the 10 cents!”
Izzy looked at the beautiful eggs in her basket. Grandpa wouldn’t need all 10. He would give most of them to Izzy’s family. But he liked to have an egg for his breakfast. She skipped across the yard and into Grandpa’s kitchen.
“Special delivery!” Izzy called.
“Thanks!” Grandpa smiled. “I feel so happy when you bring me an egg.”
Izzy handed him the biggest egg from the basket. “I love you, Grandpa,” she said.
Grandpa tapped the egg on the edge of a hot frying pan and cracked it open. The golden egg yolk sizzled in the pan.
“Now get your 10 pennies from my jar.” Grandpa gave Izzy a hug. “Then I’ll see you at church!”
Izzy ran home with the other nine eggs in her basket and 10 shiny pennies jingling in her pocket.
When she went to Primary, Izzy still had her pennies with her. She put her hand in her pocket to hold them while she listened to the lesson.
“Tithing is when we give one-tenth of what we earn back to Heavenly Father,” Sister Ayala said. “So if you have 10 cents, you give one cent as tithing.”
Izzy’s face felt hot. Give one of her pennies? She couldn’t! She held her money tighter.
“Why does God need our money?” asked Izzy’s friend Jaime. “He doesn’t even use money.”
Sister Ayala smiled. “But God knows it takes money to pay for things like this beautiful church building,” she said. “He asks us to pay tithing so we can meet the Church’s needs. But more importantly, He wants to bless us. If we pay our tithing, God promises us blessings from heaven.”
Izzy felt the pennies in her pocket and thought about Grandpa’s egg.
The eggs were from his chickens, but he kept only one for himself. It made Grandpa so happy to get an egg every morning that Izzy wanted to give him the very best one. Besides, she loved Grandpa more than eggs. That was the most important thing.
“So,” Izzy said slowly, “we give Heavenly Father back a little of what He gives us. Because we want to show Him we love Him.”
“Exactly.” Sister Ayala handed each child a tithing envelope.
Izzy took out her 10 shiny pennies and counted them in her lap.
Eight . . . nine . . . ten.
Feeling warm all over, Izzy took the shiniest penny and slipped it into her envelope to give to Heavenly Father. “Thanks for the pennies,” she whispered. “And thanks for the blessings from heaven.”
Illustrations by Alyssa Petersen

Soon my 12th birthday came. I was ordained a deacon. Around this time, my family moved to Madison, Wisconsin, USA. I missed my friends but wanted to make new ones. Madison was much bigger than Manti. My new school was large. There weren’t many members of the Church. One day some popular kids invited me to a party. But the party was on the same night as a Church activity. I had learned from my experience in Primary that good things happen when I am faithful in attending my Church meetings. So I thanked them for inviting me and explained why I couldn’t come.
I am glad I went to the Church activity. The next day, everyone at school was talking about the party. Some kids had been drinking alcohol, they had damaged some furniture, and everyone who went got in a lot of trouble! I was so grateful that I had been where I needed to be.

“I wasn’t really enjoying it, and I was having a hard time with the sport,” he remembers. “I was just trying to push through it, and I could not do it anymore. I said, ‘Lord, what do I do?’”
Chris got the first part of his answer when he went to talk to his bishop, who encouraged him to pray about his plan to delay his mission. “His advice kind of went in one ear and out the other,” Chris admits. “But my life got to the point where I really did have to ask, and I really did have to listen.”
The second part of Chris’s answer came during a sacrament meeting. As he listened to his Young Men president talk about his own mission call, the Spirit told him, “‘Chris, you need to serve a mission when you’re 19, or you’re going to have a tough life.’ The message was so clear I actually turned around to see if someone was there,” he says. “The feeling came back 10 times stronger, and I knew I had to go on a mission.”
That night Chris called his partner and coaches to give them the news. When he had first started training with them, he told them that a mission was a possibility. But none of them had expected him to go—at least not yet. Although they were disappointed, Chris says, “They’ve been very supportive of me and my mission, and I give them credit for that.”
His call to the Baltic States Mission, Russian speaking, was exciting for Chris, especially since he knows speaking Russian will help him if he still wants to return to ice dancing after his mission. (Many of the competitors and coaches speak Russian.) He also wants to be a coach eventually. But for now, he says, “I just want to try to bring people to a knowledge of the gospel.”