Gospel Story Finder

When I was three years old, my mom was cooking and set a cup of boiling water on the counter. I grabbed the cup and accidentally spilled it on my tummy. The hot water hurt my skin and I cried. Dad gave me a priesthood blessing, and prayed that I would be healed. The next morning, I woke up and there was only a small red spot where I had been burned so badly. I have a testimony that the power of the priesthood heals.

When Tracey Gould was only five months old, she lost both legs below the knees, half of one arm, and part of her remaining hand. But that hasn’t stopped her from ranking third among all the women crossbow competitors in the British Isles.
Tracey wins most countrywide crossbow competitions, and has received a sports scholarship for her talent. She was also presented to H.R.H. Lady Diana at a civic reception where she had been chosen to represent Derbyshire County for courage in sports.
Tracey also teaches Primary, plays volleyball and table tennis, skates, skis, types, and paints. Although she has undergone countless operations over the past 18 years, she’s aware that many blessings have accompanied her ordeals.

One way we can share our testimony is to have a nativity in our home so we can spark conversations about the Lord’s birth. Another way is to relate stories like that of John Weightman in The Mansion.

John Weightman was a successful man whose charities brought him attention and renown. One evening, after perusing a pile of newspaper clippings praising him for his generosity, he picked up his Bible. Soon he fell asleep after reading the Savior’s words: “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal” (Matthew 6:19).

As he slept, John found himself in “the heavenly city,” traveling with others as they received their mansions. When the Keeper of the Gate stopped in front of a tiny hut built of cast-off materials, he said to John, “This is your mansion.”

John protested, listing his many public contributions.

“Were not all these carefully recorded on earth where they would add to your credit?” asked the Keeper of the Gate. “You have had your reward for them. Would you be paid twice?”1

During this Christmas season, I hope each of us has the opportunity to give anonymously.

My phone rang one afternoon many years ago. The young man on the other end of the line said frantically that he needed to see me. I told him that I was involved with appointments for the remainder of the day and asked if he could come tomorrow. He stated that he had to see me at once. I told him to come and asked my secretary to change the other appointments. In a few minutes he walked in, a boy with a hunted and haunted look. His hair was long, his appearance miserable. I invited him to sit and to talk openly and frankly. I assured him of my interest in his problem and of my desire to help him.

He unraveled a story distressing and miserable. He was in serious trouble. He had broken the law, he had been unclean, he had blighted his life. Now in his extremity there had come a realization of the terrible plight in which he found himself. He needed help beyond his own strength, and he pleaded for it. I asked him if his father knew of his difficulties. He replied by saying that he could not talk with his father, that his father hated him.

I happened to know his father, and I knew that his father did not hate him. He loved him and mourned and grieved for him, but that father had an uncontrolled temper. Whenever he disciplined his children, he lost control and destroyed both them and himself.

As I looked across the desk at that trembling, broken young man, estranged from a father he considered his enemy, I thought of the great words of revealed truth given through the Prophet Joseph Smith. They set forth in essence the governing spirit of the priesthood, and I believe they apply to the government of our homes.

“No power or influence can or ought to be maintained … , only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned;
“By kindness, and pure knowledge, which shall greatly enlarge the soul without hypocrisy, and without guile” (D&C 121:41–42).
I believe those marvelous and simple words set forth the spirit in which we should stand as parents. Do they mean that we should not exercise appropriate but sensitive discipline, that we should not wisely reprove? Note these further words:
“Reproving betimes with sharpness, [When? While angry or in a fit of temper? No.] when moved upon by the Holy Ghost; [Does the Holy Ghost attend contentious reprovings? No.] and then showing forth afterwards an increase of love toward him whom thou hast reproved, lest he esteem thee to be thine enemy;
“That he may know that thy faithfulness is stronger than the cords of death” (D&C 121:43–44).
This, my brethren and sisters who stand at the head of families, is the key to government in the home directed by the Holy Spirit. I commend those words to every parent and do not hesitate to promise that if you will govern your families in the spirit of those words, which have come from the Lord, you will have cause to rejoice, as will those for whom you are responsible.
These inspired words are the spiritual sinews of the gospel and become the fiber of our faith. God help us to cultivate them in every activity in the Church and in every association in our homes.

During a previous spring term at BYU, I attended a training class for would-be Book of Mormon teachers. It was a spring as beautiful as this one, and we were expected to reread the entire Book of Mormon. During the middle of the term I had to leave for several days to attend a law school conference in Florida. I thought I would see a beautiful new place, but monsoon-like rain kept me in for three days. After my meetings adjourned each day, I spent my time alone in the hotel room reading Ether, Mormon, and Moroni. I walked the floor reading to stay awake, as beds mean sleep to me. After completing the Book of Mormon this time, I wrote the following in my journal:

I feel to sing a song of thanksgiving for the Book of Mormon. I have spent hours reading and thrilled at the message of the brother of Jared, the prophet Ether, and the prophets Mormon and Moroni. I have thought deeply about faith, hope, and charity and how they interrelate. I have hope in Christ’s appearing and in my resurrection. That hope gives birth to faith and is likewise fed by the same—that he is my Redeemer and the Redeemer of all mankind. And through that faith and hope, I will continue to pray to be filled with His pure love—even charity. I want to be a participant in the covenant of God with his children that a Savior would be provided to redeem them from their sins. I want to be a part of the proclamation of that message.

I recently learned a valuable lesson about seeing deeply from a young woman named Rozlyn.
The story was shared with me by my friend who was devastated when her husband of 20 years moved out. With her children splitting time between parents, the prospect of attending church alone seemed daunting. She recounts:
“In a church where the family is of paramount importance, sitting solo can be painful. That first Sunday I walked in praying no one would speak to me. I was barely holding it together, and tears were on the brink. I sat in my typical spot, hoping no one would notice how empty the bench seemed.
“A young woman in our ward turned and looked at me. I pretended to smile. She smiled back. I could see the concern in her face. I silently pleaded that she wouldn’t come to talk to me—I had nothing positive to say and knew I would cry. I looked back down at my lap and avoided eye contact.
“During the next hour, I noticed her looking back at me occasionally. As soon as the meeting ended, she made a beeline for me. ‘Hi, Rozlyn,’ I whispered. She wrapped me in her arms and said, ‘Sister Smith, I can tell today is a bad day for you. I’m so sorry. I love you.’ As predicted, the tears came as she hugged me again. But as I walked away, I thought to myself, ‘Maybe I can do this after all.’
“That sweet 16-year-old young woman, less than half my age, found me every Sunday for the rest of that year to give me a hug and ask, ‘How are you?’ It made such a difference in how I felt about coming to church. The truth is I started to rely on those hugs. Someone noticed me. Someone knew I was there. Someone cared.”
As with all gifts the Father so willingly offers, seeing deeply requires us to ask Him—and then act. Ask to see others as He does—as His true sons and daughters with infinite and divine potential. Then act by loving, serving, and affirming their worth and potential as prompted. As this becomes the pattern of our lives, we will find ourselves becoming “true followers of … Jesus Christ.” Others will be able to trust our hearts with theirs. And in this pattern we will also discover our own true identity and purpose.
My friend recalled another experience while sitting in that same empty pew, alone, wondering if 20 years of effort to live the gospel in her home was all for naught. She needed more than calming reassurance; she needed vision. She felt a question pierce her heart: “Why did you do those things? Did you do them for the reward, the praise of others, or the desired outcome?” She hesitated for a moment, searched her heart, and was then able to answer confidently, “I did them because I love the Savior. And I love His gospel.” The Lord opened her eyes to help her see. This simple but powerful change of vision helped her continue to press on with faith in Christ, despite her circumstances.

During a lesson in the Laurel class of the Pickering Ward, Toronto East Stake, the girls were talking about how to help others, particularly those in the Young Women program in their own ward. They proposed a “big sister” program.
Each Laurel was assigned two or three girls in the Beehive or Mia Maid classes. They were to keep the names of their “little sisters” secret but were to offer acts of service and help their girls to feel accepted.
The program was successful in that it resulted in some new friendships and an increase of love among the Young Women.

Soon after receiving the priesthood and becoming a deacon at the age of 12, I also became a cadet in the Royal Canadian 52nd Air Cadet Squadron. It was a new and challenging experience adapting to the military. I especially remember how difficult the first summer was. As a new cadet, I attended basic training. So while my other friends from school were out-of-doors playing, I was learning how to march and to obey commands.
Unfortunately I wasn’t a very good marcher, and that’s all we seemed to do. The sun shone fiercely, and the heat was unbearable in our dark green uniforms. I thought I would faint. The food was cold, and the mess hall served none of the foods I liked. Military life certainly was different from what I was used to.
On our first Saturday night before bed, all the cadets assembled in the corridor of our barracks. When our flight sergeant came in, everyone snapped to attention.
“In the morning,” he shouted, “we are all going to church. There are only two churches on this base—Catholic and Protestant—so make sure you know where you want to go before tomorrow! Is that clear?”
The corps of young cadets shouted back in strict unison, “Yes, sergeant!” Then he left.
That night I had trouble sleeping. This would be the first time I wouldn’t be able to attend Sunday meetings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I didn’t know what to do. I climbed out of bed and began to pray again. I was desperate to know what I should do. I told Heavenly Father that I was really confused and scared. Would he please help me? As I crawled into bed the second time, I was still worried, but I began to feel that things would work out.
Bright and early the next morning, we lined up outside our barracks in the drizzling rain. The sergeant in his rain-tarp jacket gave the command I was dreading. “Catholics stand on one side, Protestants on the other!” After everyone had moved, I found myself standing alone between the two lines.
The flight sergeant glared across the square and shouted to me, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, sergeant—I’m a Latter-day Saint.”
He looked at me with a frightful glare, shook his head, and ordered, “Follow me.”
I followed him to the chaplain’s barracks. Inside, the ministers were still preparing for their Sunday meetings. The sergeant gave a sharp knock, and a voice within called for us to enter. As we stepped in from the rain, a gentleman dressed in camouflage and wearing a Catholic priest’s collar around his neck met us.
“This one’s a Latter-day Saint,” the sergeant complained, then ducked back out into the rain.
The priest invited me to sit down, and he and another priest began to decide between themselves what to do in such an interesting situation. They finally decided that they didn’t know enough about the Church to make a decision, and they asked me what we believed.
At first I wasn’t sure what to say, and then my mind suddenly cleared and I started quoting the Articles of Faith: “‘We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.’”
They both nodded in agreement.
I continued, “‘We believe that men will be punished for their own sins, and not for Adam’s transgression.’”
At this point, one priest suggested that it might be best if I went with the Protestant minister.
After the Protestant meeting, the minister found me in my barracks. He asked me how I had enjoyed the meeting. I told him that it certainly was different from what I was used to.
“What else do Latter-day Saints believe?” he asked, pulling up a chair. The other cadets in my room drew closer to listen. It was exciting as I repeated all the Articles of Faith. Everyone seemed very interested when I spoke of the Book of Mormon, of how it was another testament of Jesus Christ.
Later that night I made a long-distance call to my mother and told her how my difficult experience had turned into a missionary opportunity. I also requested that she send me a Book of Mormon so that I could give it to my minister friend.
The week went on, and finally the Book of Mormon arrived. On the inside cover I wrote my testimony and slid in the card containing the Articles of Faith that my mother had also sent me. The minister gladly accepted my gift and promised me that he would read it.
I never learned if that Book of Mormon changed the life of the minister. But as I look back, I recognize how Heavenly Father taught me the importance of being willing to stick up for the truth—and knowing the Articles of Faith.

After he received the gold plates, Joseph Smith’s life was threatened and many attempts were made to steal the plates. Joseph and Emma, his wife, moved to Harmony, Pennsylvania, and Martin Harris, a friend from Palmyra, New York, came to visit.
Mr. Harris … returned again to my house about the 12th of April, 1828, and commenced writing for me while I translated from the plates, which we continued until the 14th of June following, by which time he had written one hundred and sixteen pages of manuscript. … Mr. Harris … began to importune (beg) me to [let] him … carry the writings home and show them; and desired of me that I would inquire of the Lord … if he might not do so. I did inquire, and the answer was that he must not. However, he was not satisfied with this answer, and desired that I should inquire again. I did so, and the answer was as before. Still he … insisted that I should inquire once more. … Permission was granted … on certain conditions; which were, that he show them only to his brother, Preserved Harris, his own wife, his father and his mother, and a Mrs. Cobb, a sister to his wife. In accordance with this last answer, I required of him that he should bind himself in a covenant to me … that he would not do otherwise than had been directed. … He bound himself as I required of him, took the writings, and went his way.
Martin Harris had been gone for three weeks, and Joseph had heard nothing from him. Joseph took a stagecoach, then walked the last twenty miles in the dark to his parents’ home in Manchester, near Palmyra. He immediately sent for Martin. Several hours later, Martin arrived and explained that the manuscript pages had been lost.
Notwithstanding … the great restrictions which [Martin Harris] had been laid under, and the solemnity [seriousness] of the covenant which he had made with me, he did show [the manuscript pages] to others, and by stratagem they got them away from him, and they never have been recovered unto this day.
I should have been satisfied with the first answer which I received from the Lord; for he told me that it was not safe to let the writing go out of my possession.
I returned immediately home. Soon after my arrival, I commenced humbling myself in mighty prayer before the Lord … that if possible I might obtain mercy at his hands and be forgiven of all that I had done contrary to his will.
Both the plates and the Urim and Thummim were taken from me … ; but in a few days they were returned to me, … and the Lord said thus unto me:
“Now, behold, I say unto you, that because you delivered up those writings … into the hands of a wicked man, you have lost them.
“And you also lost your gift [of translation] at the same time, and your mind became darkened.
“Nevertheless, it is now restored unto you again; therefore see that you are faithful and continue on unto the finishing of the remainder of the work of translation as you have begun.” (D&C 10:1–3.)
The Lord told Joseph Smith that the people who stole the manuscript planned to change some of the words. If Joseph translated the same plates again, the thieves would show the pages they had altered and say that Joseph wasn’t a prophet because the two translations weren’t identical. The Lord long ago commanded the Book of Mormon prophet Nephi to prepare a second set of plates covering the same things, and He told Joseph to translate this set, instead.
(See History of the Church, vol. 1, pages 18–24; The History of Joseph Smith, Lucy Mack Smith, pages 128, 133.)

This principle was brought to light when I was in high school. I had taken an art class in my senior year, because it seemed like an easy A.

When the teacher assigned each of us to sculpt from clay, our favorite figure, I decided in my state of consummate humility, to sculpt myself.....I chose an action pose of myself as a football player. I was excited each day to get to my art class to work on perfecting me. After a few days, what was once a large block of clay began to take form. There were few projects throughout my high school life that I spent more time on, as it was important to perfect this image. After all, I surmised, someday my children will observe this masterpiece and I want there to be no doubt that the small statue looked just like me. I took a few liberties, of course, and depicted the muscles to be a bit bigger and the facial features to be more handsome. I carved in my jersey number to leave no doubt as to who this masterpiece resembled.

Once the sculpture was complete, it was set on the shelf to dry. Within a few days it would be placed into the furnace to remove all of the moisture from the clay and harden the statue to resist the test of time. It was spring break and so the statue was left over the weeklong holiday on the shelf. When I returned, to my surprise, the small statue had hardened on its own. To the eye and touch, it seemed that it was hard enough and so I decided to bypass the oven. I began to paint the sculpture the school colors and painstakingly insured that every detail was covered. I was so proud of my work. The replica of me had actually turned out to be better than the original. I received a much anticipated A on the project and proudly took the statue home and placed it on the shelf in my bedroom. A few months later, as I was cleaning out my room in anticipation for my mission, I moved the statue to a different shelf. I was surprised when one of the legs fell off. I grabbed some glue from the drawer and attempted to glue the leg back on.

When I returned the next day and tried to check on the result of my glue job, I picked up the statue and both legs fell off. I was beside myself; how could my masterpiece be falling apart? All efforts to put it back together failed and along with the legs, eventually the arms fell off, as well. Sadly, and out of options, I ultimately took what was left of the crumbling figure that had once so wonderfully represented me and placed it in the trash can. I reflected then, and still do, on my consummate failure. I had put so much into this project and yet, I failed to follow one of the most important steps in the creation of my masterpiece. In spite of all my efforts, what seemed like a small omission led to the ultimate destruction of “me”.

I’m not sure why I strayed from the Church. Maybe it was because I grew up in the turbulent ’60s and took up the social causes of the day. Perhaps it was because I distanced myself from my extended family. Whatever the reason, I stopped going to church, and for many years I was less active.
I was attending a university in Idaho when a young Native American woman came to me and said, “I know you’re a member of my church. Do you want to go to church with me?”
I was shocked, to say the least. I wasn’t living the type of life Latter-day Saints are supposed to live. How did she know I was a member?
“Sure,” I replied. So Rosemary and I went to sacrament meeting together, and from there our friendship grew.
Just before summer break, Rosemary invited me to spend the summer with her family in Alaska. With no firm plans for the summer and wanting some adventure, I agreed.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when our airplane touched down on an emerald green island with peaks shrouded in fog. We were greeted by Rosemary’s three brothers in an old pickup truck. As we rumbled into town on the island’s only paved road, I suddenly realized I was in a special place.
I learned many things that summer. I learned how to slime fish at the salmon cannery. I learned to respect the ancient Native American customs and culture. I learned to love the sea as I explored the rugged, rocky, solitary beaches.
But most of all my heart began to be softened toward the Church as I was accepted by strangers who didn’t care what I looked like on the outside but cared deeply about who I was on the inside.
The branch on the island met at a deserted World War II Coast Guard base. As a handful of Native American Saints gathered on a Sunday morning, I was amazed to realize that the Church here was the same as the one I had known as a child. A feeling of comfort came to me, and I realized that even here, so far from home, I could worship as I had once been taught. I learned that no matter where one goes in the world the gospel is always the same and the Church is for everyone, regardless of culture or background.
I was forever altered by my stay on the island. When it was time to go back to school, I understood I had been given new insight into the meaning of life. My heart had been touched, and although I didn’t realize it at the time, I was beginning my long journey back to activity.
Over the years, Rosemary and I eventually lost contact. But in quiet times my mind still wanders back to that magical summer when a dear friend and a small group of Saints on a starkly beautiful island helped reawaken in me a remembrance of my gospel roots.

It had been abandoned beside a barn, and weeds were growing around and inside it. It may not have interested some families; but we were so excited at the prospect of a true, classic automobile to restore that we were almost afraid to ask the owners about it. We drove by the barn three times, looking and talking excitedly. Finally we stopped and, with a surge of courage, made the purchase. We slept little that night and even less during many nights to come as the family planned, unbolted, repaired, restored, rebolted, and refinished the Auburn as a family project.
Around the supper table, usually three nights each week, we talked of the previous night’s progress and planned the work that needed to be done. Rust, grease, and road dirt by the pound, accumulated over nearly half a century, were scraped, wire brushed, and washed away. Many bolts, under stress for years, had to be sawed off to allow complete disassembly of vital running parts. All the bearings required either repacking or replacement. New upholstery with the same fine leather and the original style had to be made to restore the convertible’s interior. Replating all the bright work with copper, nickel, and chromium added to the list of goals to be reached.
We took special trips so the family could learn how to take care of the metallurgical testing of the rods, pistons, crank, and camshaft. We personally observed the lead-pouring of the engine bearings. With fascination we all watched “striking-a-match” to a newly rewound electric starter. Fusing the electrical insulation by fire was actually necessary in such old-type winding.
The second springtime after we had begun the project was especially memorable for us. The mechanical work was nearly completed. The family just had to hear, see, and feel the Auburn in action. After carefully oiling each cylinder and bearing, we rolled the car out into the beautiful, warm, Saturday-morning sun. Because of the tightness of the newly poured lead bearings, rods, and piston rings, the starter couldn’t turn the engine over; so we had to tow the car a few blocks to get it started. It was like Christmas to a five-year-old. The family celebrated the halfway goal we had set for ourselves and each took a turn driving the Auburn around the yard. None of us (and probably none of the neighbors) will ever forget that thrilling morning when the King again roared to life.
The project wasn’t strictly limited to our family, either. Neighbors and friends were caught up in the spirit of the King of the Road. Ted, with his welding torch, a perfect diversion from his chemistry lecturing at the university, put smooth metalwork in place of rusted-out panels. Rebuilding the engine and drive train with new bearings and piston rings would not have been possible without Tony’s skilled hands. Compliments received for the beautifully restored body lines gleaming with a dozen hand-rubbed coats of black lacquer were the result of Richard’s creative ability. It was during hundreds of hours of working together that Richard fell in love with our Auburn, and more important, he and his family learned more of the gospel and were baptized into the Church.
The thrill of driving that masterpiece of design and engineering and the countless hours of labor to restore it have indeed strengthened the life of each individual member of our family. Seeing the goal, planning and working together to achieve it, and finally feeling the achievement of driving that beautiful King has made our family goals, temporal and eternal, very real and important to us.
At the time of restoration, the Auburn was important to every member of our family. Today, in our philosophy of life, it has become merely the symbol of our real achievement. We have found that most of our life problems and challenges can be planned and worked out together much the way we restored the Auburn.

To the west of our home was our garden plot. Part of the garden was in potatoes. One day my father said to my sister and me, “There are more potatoes than we can use. If you would like to sell some, you may do so.” My sister Alice and I dug some up and hauled them down to a hotel and sold them. When we showed the money to our father, he asked what we were going to do with it. We said we would divide it before buying some things we wanted. Then he questioned, “What about your tithing?” He said, “The Lord has been good to us. We planted and cultivated and harvested, but the earth is the Lord’s. He sent the moisture and the sunshine. One-tenth we always give back to the Lord for His part.” My father made no requirement; he merely explained it so convincingly that we felt it an honor and privilege to pay tithing.

Many years ago I had an experience with being unforgiving. I felt I had been taken advantage of, and I did not like the person. I did not want to be around him. I would pass to the other side of the street if he came down the side I was on. I wouldn’t talk to him; and long after the issue should have been closed, it was still cankering my soul. One day my wife, who is very astute and knows when I’m not doing everything I should, said, “You don’t like so and so, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” I said, “but how could you tell?”

“Well, it shows—in your countenance it shows. Why don’t you do something about it,” she said.

“Well, like what?”

“Why don’t you pray about it.”

I said, “Well, I did pray once, and I still don’t like him.”

“No,” she said, “Why don’t you really pray about it?”

Then I began to think, and I knew what she really meant. So I decided that I was going to pray for a better feeling about this person until I had one. That night I got on my knees, and I prayed and opened up my heart to the Lord. But when I got off my knees, I still didn’t like him. The next morning I knelt and prayed and asked to have a feeling of goodness toward him; but when I finished my prayers, I still didn’t like him. The next night I still didn’t like him; a week later I didn’t like him; and a month later I didn’t like him—and I had been praying every night and every morning. But I kept it up, and I finally started pleading, not just praying, but pleading. After much prayer—and I can’t tell you a specific time because it didn’t happen like that—the time came when without question or reservation I knew I could stand before the Lord, if I were asked to, and that He would know that at least in this instance my heart was pure. A change came over me after a period of time. Now that stone of unforgiveness needs to be removed from all of us, if it happens to be there, and I suggest that persistent prayer might be a way to remove it.

Several weeks after the experience with the apples I set out to join my friends in the wooded area close to home, anticipating that we would devise some activity or game to play. As I approached them, they were huddled together. I saw smoke rising in the air above them and recognized the aroma of burning tobacco. One of them had obtained a packet of cigarettes, and they were smoking. They invited me to join them, but I declined. They persisted, suggesting that my reluctance to participate was a sign of weakness. Their taunts turned to ridicule, combined with condescending remarks. But nothing they could say or do could persuade me to change my mind. I had not been raised with a knowledge of the restored gospel and knew nothing of the Word of Wisdom, but I was restrained by a feeling within that I should not participate with them.
As I walked home reflecting on the decision I had made, I felt good inside. Although my expectations for the day had not materialized and I would have to find a way to occupy my time without my friends, I had discovered something about myself—about the source of real happiness and the invigoration that results from making the right decision, whatever the circumstances or outcome may be.

One early morning my telephone rang in the Church Office Building. I don’t want to sound as if I’m boasting, but it was a little before seven in the morning. Some of us take a little longer to get in a day’s work. And that familiar voice of President Spencer W. Kimball—weak, but powerful—said, “Marvin, could I come up to your office and see you?” And I said, “President Kimball, if you want to see me, I’ll be right down.” He said, “Would you do that?” (I could make a sermon on courtesy, but gather that from what I just said.) I was down in his office in thirty seconds. He handed me a letter. He said, “Would you read this and tell me what you think?” I suppose he’s done this with a lot of us—asking for our opinion. My opinion isn’t that special. I read it and said, “President Kimball, you might want to think about doing it this way.” And, bless his heart, he said, “That’s what I thought and that’s what we’ll do.” I went back to my office and felt fear and trembling and uneasiness for the rest of the day.

A few weeks ago, some members of my family visited the Winter Quarters cemetery at Florence, Nebraska. There they saw Avard T. Fairbanks’s marvelous statue of the pioneer parents looking down at the body of their baby, soon to be left in its grave at the side of the trail. Those pioneers received some of their toughest tests at graveside. Some modern pioneers receive their tests at bedside. One sister wrote:

“My mother cared for her mother until [Grandma] was ninety-eight. My dad now has Alzheimer’s disease, and my mother patiently cares for him. … The amazing part of this is the attitude of my mother. She always thought she would travel after she retired. She has always kept a beautiful home, loving to entertain others. She maintains her home as best she can, but has had to put aside many things that bring her joy. The amazing part is the joy my mother radiates. Her attitude is so beautiful. She finds real joy in the simple things of life. She is the pillar of strength to the whole family as she uplifts us all with her positive attitude.”

“From infancy I had enjoyed the simplified and pictured Bible stories, but the original Bible seemed so interminable in length, so difficult of understanding that I had avoided it until a challenge came to me [as a teenager attending stake conference. The speaker] gave a discourse on the value of reading the Bible. In conclusion she asked for a showing of hands of all who had read it through. The hands that were raised out of the large congregation were so few and so timid! … I was shocked into an unalterable determination to read the great book.
“As soon as I reached home after the meeting I began with the first verse of Genesis and continued faithfully every day with the reading.
“What a satisfaction it was to me [a year later] to realize I had read the Bible through from beginning to end! And what exultation of spirit! …
“I commend it to you” (“What I Read as a Boy,” Children’s Friend, November 1943, 508).

“Stop right here!” barked the full-time missionary sitting next to me.
“What is it, Elder?” I replied.
“Somebody who lives there needs our help,” answered the short, stocky missionary sitting in the passenger seat.
I looked over at the dark, uninviting house he was talking about, and it was hard not to ridicule the young missionary for thinking something good could come from knocking on that door. But, because he had a sacred calling as a missionary in the Lord’s Church and I was only a 17-year-old convert, I obeyed his request and rolled my car to a stop.
It was a warm spring night in southern California. The only sound I heard as we walked up to the house was the symphony the crickets were performing. Though their music was pleasant, I still had an eerie feeling while knocking on the old door in front of us.
“Elder, I don’t think anybody’s home. We can try some other time.”
“Just wait,” the missionary pleaded.
Just as I was about to drag my temporary companion away from the dark doorstep, the door creaked open. In front of us stood a short, skinny man in his mid-30s. He wore a pair of tattered jeans and an off-white T-shirt decorated with small holes and grease stains.
“Who are you?” the man softly inquired.
“I am Elder Johnson, and this is my friend Gabe. We are here on behalf of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
Tears began to roll down the man’s face, and he started to sob uncontrollably. We stood in front of him, absolutely amazed at the scene that was unfolding before our eyes. Behind the tears he was shedding, the man’s eyes lit up with hope.
“Are you the angels I asked for?” the man questioned.
It turns out that Sam, the man we were speaking with, had been planning to end his life that night. In a final prayer to God, he pleaded that he would receive forgiveness for what he was about to do. Finally, his last hopeful request was for the Lord to send him an angel in this time of great need.
A fire burned in my chest as I realized the Lord was using this missionary and me as instruments in His hands. I felt so foolish for doubting the elder’s impression to stop.
This experience helped me realize I had something important to do with my life.
I didn’t know how many other people like Sam were across the world, but I imagined it was no small number. If I abandoned the opportunity to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary, would I miss other opportunities to make the Lord’s house calls in emergencies such as this? I dreaded the thought of leaving anybody stranded without the gospel. That’s one reason I decided to serve in the Lord’s royal army of missionaries.

I do not have all the answers, but hopefully the following experience, which happened several years ago, may be helpful to some who are still battling the question of why.
On a small Pacific island an infant girl was born to a faithful family. They called her Felila. There was happiness and joy as this grateful spirit made her debut into mortal life, but soon there were problems. Her head was abnormally large. The doctors diagnosed it as hydrocephalus. The questions of brain damage, of normalcy, of other problems all raised their haunting heads. After much fasting and prayer the elders quorum president approached the branch president, who in turn talked with the district president, who after adequate checking came to me as the mission president to see if there were some additional help available.
The medical authorities were consulted, and it was determined that there was little if anything they could do locally. Letters were written, information was sent back and forth, x-rays were taken and analyzed. There was so much to do—so many questions to be answered, so many pieces to fit together. Finally after exasperatingly long delays, things began to fall into place. A family in Salt Lake agreed to accept full responsibility for the infant, even if it meant years of outpatient care; the doctors agreed on the possibility of her eventual recovery; the hospital accepted the case on a service basis; funds were raised for her air fare; some local travelers arranged their schedules to bring her right to the hospital. But there were other problems—visas, health certificates, reservations, passports.
All during these trying days the family, and the elders quorum, and even the whole branch continued to fast and pray. The time of departure of the infrequent airplane grew near.
One morning, amidst myriads of other pressing matters, I had the strong impression that I must take the time now and put forth the extra effort required to get everything done so she could go. I got on the overseas telephone. The consulate finally agreed to issue a visa; the airlines made a special reservation; the passport people agreed to waive the normal regulations; others gave that extra effort and cooperation; and soon all was in order.
Normally I would have sent someone to bring the family in to sign the final papers, but again I felt strongly impressed that I should personally go and see the branch president. I located him in the early afternoon near the school where he was teaching. He was standing alone outside as though he were waiting for me.
Excitedly I ran up to him: “Guess what? It’s all set. Miraculously everything has worked out and Felila can leave tomorrow. Please get word to the family immediately.”
His calm, penetrating gaze quelled my exuberance. “It’s true,” I said. “I know it’s been long and there have been lots of disappointments, but she really is going now. What’s the matter?”
His steady gaze seemed to penetrate my very soul. Then softly in his liquid native tongue he informed me that when all the preparations had been made, when the hearts of so many had been stretched in service, when the goal of unity and selflessness had been achieved in those many hearts, when all had made the final commitment of others above self, at the height of all this activity that very morning, little Felila had quietly and unobtrusively slipped away—gone to that better care which so many had fasted and prayed and worked so long and hard for her to receive.
Gone? This morning? But all that work, all that time, all that fasting and praying and those strong feelings. Gone? No!
Without once shifting his gaze, he, having more faith than I, offered a few words of truth and encouragement, then quietly turned and rejoined his class.
And I was left alone, or so it seemed. I moved slowly and heavily down that dusty trail. Why? Why? After all that work and that strong faith of so many and those impressions, why?
I sensed the brightness of the sun and felt the warmth of the breeze as it lazily tossed the palm leaves and slowly shifted the silent clouds against the clear blue sky. A feeling came over me. I realized that the earth was beautiful, that life went on and was eternal. And while I cannot describe fully what happened next, part of the experience is proper to relate. The best explanation is contained in the phrase, “I was overcome by the Spirit.” It was as though one took me by the hand and led me to a high place and stood by me and said, “Look.” And I looked and beheld such beauty and magnificence as man cannot conceive. And I heard a voice, such a tender, compassionate voice—yet so unmistakably powerful—that all nature stood still and listened and obeyed.
“Come home, Felila, my daughter. Come home to the care your loved ones have sought for you. I have heard their prayers and have known their fasting and love for you, and I answer. Come home, my daughter. You have finished your mission in life. Hearts have been softened; souls have been stretched; faith has been increased. Come home now, Felila.”
He knew her! He knew her name. He knew all about her and about all those others. How perfect our Father’s love! He had heard the prayers. He had done what was best. He knew everything—which thing, though I believed, I never had supposed. In some marvelous way, which is beyond our mortal comprehension, he knows and understands all things.
My questions as to why—as to justice and reasons—were all at that moment completely swept away. They were so irrelevant, my questioning so totally out of place, like one trying to dig the Grand Canyon with a teaspoon.