Gospel Story Finder

President Brigham Young recalled:
“Over [the] kitchen was situated the room in which the Prophet received revelations and in which he instructed his brethren [the School of the Prophets]. The brethren came to that place for hundreds of miles to attend school in a little room probably no larger than eleven by fourteen [feet—about 3.3 by 4.2 meters]. When they assembled together in this room after breakfast, the first thing they did was to light their pipes, and, while smoking, talk about the great things of the kingdom, and spit all over the room, and as soon as the pipe was out of their mouths a large chew of tobacco would then be taken. Often when the Prophet entered the room to give the school instructions he would find himself in a cloud of tobacco smoke. This, and the complaints of his wife at having to clean so filthy a floor, made the Prophet think upon the matter, and he inquired of the Lord relating to the conduct of the Elders in using tobacco, and the revelation known as the Word of Wisdom was the result of his inquiry” (Brigham Young, in Journal of Discourses, 12:158).
Brother Zebedee Coltrin adds the following information to this story: “When the Word of Wisdom [D&C 89] was first presented by the Prophet Joseph … there were twenty out of the twenty-one who used tobacco and they all immediately threw their tobacco and pipes into the fire” (minutes, Salt Lake City School of Prophets, 3 October 1883, page 56).

Then came the first Sunday in March. I’ll never forget that day. Just after Sunday School Bishop Edwards asked me if I could come to his office an hour before fast meeting for a little talk. Well, I know the bishop doesn’t just call people in for a little talk for no reason. I wondered what I had done—or what I was going to do. But I did tell him I would be there.
At three o’clock I found myself stepping on the rich blue carpeting of the bishop’s office and then staring into the eyes of a man who, it seemed, instantly knew everything about me. I had known Bishop Edwards for a long time. He had been my Sunday School teacher when I was in junior high school and had been bishop now for a couple of years. I hadn’t known him as a bishop too well since I spent many Sundays in my student branch at school. But now, as I looked at him, I knew what a wonderful man he was and the great power he represented.
After a few minutes of small talk about school, family, and whatever, he got to the point of this meeting. “Today as I looked over the congregation, my eyes rested on you,” he said intensely, “and as clearly as we have been speaking to each other, a voice said to me, ‘That girl needs to go on a mission.’” I was stunned! That was the last thing I expected him to say. Me? On a mission? His voice interrupted my thoughts.
“I can see by your expression that you didn’t receive the same inspiration. It must come as quite a surprise. But it’s something you don’t have to decide right now. You think about it and be sure to include your parents and the Lord in your decision. Just let me know when you’ve found your answer.”
A few moments later I walked out of the door, and the fluorescent lighting of the hall hit me with the reality of the situation. I figured in two years I’d really be an old maid. But two years might give Allen time to join the Church on his own. It would give me a chance to find myself. And most important, it would be a chance to get closer to the Lord and serve his children more than I had ever done, I found an empty room and knelt in prayer, asking my Heavenly Father to help me make the right decision. When I stood, I felt a certain calm, even though I still didn’t feel that I had a positive answer.
As I made my way down the stairs and into the chapel, I met Emily and her baby in the foyer. It was her first time back to church since Julie’s birth. We talked for a minute and then entered the chapel. Emily and her mother sat in the row in front of me, and just before the meeting, Emily leaned back guiltily and whispered to me, “I forgot this was fast Sunday until I looked at the program. We just finished eating a turkey dinner at Ted’s, so I guess I’ll have to fast twice next month.” I smiled and just then my stomach growled uncomfortably, testifying to the fact that I had remembered.
Through the rows of heads and shoulders that I saw from my position on the fourth row from the back, I caught a glimpse of Karen and the rest of her family taking up an entire center bench. I was glad that she had made it but sorry I’d missed her before the meeting. I’d have to hurry to the front after the closing prayer to talk to her.
After the songs and announcements were over and after we had taken the sacrament, Bishop Edwards stood behind the pulpit and said, “This afternoon we have a special treat. I know many of you have known Karen Evans since she was a little girl.” Emily looked back at me and winked knowingly, but then turned her head sharply forward as the bishop went on. “Well, this afternoon Karen, now Karen Sanders, has brought her own little girl to receive a name and a blessing from her husband. Assisting in the circle will be her father and brothers.”
As I watched David take his little girl from Karen and carry her almost reverently to the front, I could see a side view of Emily. Tears were rapidly filling her deep blue eyes and streaming down her face onto Julie’s downy head. Her shoulders shook violently as she buried her head in her baby’s neck. Emily’s mother tenderly put her arm around her daughter’s throbbing shoulders, and I could see that she, too, was crying. Emily looked up, and I heard her gasp in a desperate whisper, “Oh Mama! Who is going to bless my baby?”
“I bless you, Melissa, with a sound mind and body,” I heard David Sanders say at the front of the room, “and that you will live a righteous life, that when the time comes, you will meet a choice son of our Father in heaven, one who honors his priesthood and who will take you to the temple of the Lord to be sealed to him for eternity.” Through the entire blessing and for the rest of the meeting, Julie’s baby shawl absorbed her tears.
And now, even though a year has passed, and even though the dark-haired women in this once strange country contrast vividly with blonde Emily, whenever my companion and I are out tracting, or we go to a branch meeting and I see a mother and baby alone, something grabs at my heart. For I keep seeing Emily.

Let me illustrate with a personal and treasured experience. For many years my assignments took me into that part of Germany which was behind what was called the Iron Curtain. Under Communist control, those who lived in that area of Germany had lost nearly all of their freedoms. Activities of youth were restricted; all actions were monitored.

Shortly after I assumed my responsibilities for that area, I attended a most uplifting conference held in that part of Germany. Following the inspirational songs and the spoken word, I felt the impression to meet briefly outside of the old building with the precious teenage youth. They were relatively few in number but listened to every word I spoke. They had hungered for the word and encouragement of an Apostle of the Lord.

Prior to attending the conference, before leaving the United States, I felt the prompting to buy three cartons of chewing gum. I purchased three flavors: Doublemint, Spearmint, and Juicy Fruit. Now, as the gathering of the youth was concluded, I distributed carefully to each youth two sticks of gum—something they had never before tasted. They received the gift with joy.

The years went by. I returned to Dresden—the site of our earlier conference. Now we had chapels; now the people had freedom. They had a temple. Germany was no longer separated by political boundaries but had become one nation. The youth were now adults with children of their own.

Following a large and inspirational conference, a mother and her daughter sought me out to speak to me. The daughter, who was about your age and who spoke some English, said to me, “President Monson, do you remember long ago holding a brief gathering of youth following a district conference, where you gave to each boy and each girl two sticks of chewing gum?”

I responded, “Oh, yes, I surely do remember.”

She continued, “My mother was one to whom you gave that gift. She told me that she rationed in little pieces one stick of gum. She mentioned how sweet to the taste it was and so precious to her.” Then, under the approving smile of her dear mother, she handed to me a small box. As I opened the lid of the box, there I beheld the other stick of gum, still with its wrapper after nearly 20 years. And then she said, “My mother and I want you to have this,” she said.

The tears flowed; embraces followed.

The mother then spoke to me: “Before you came to our conference so many years ago, I had prayed to my Heavenly Father to know that He indeed cared about me. I saved that gift so that I might remember and teach my daughter that Heavenly Father does hear our prayers.”

I hold before you tonight that gift—even a symbol of faith and assurance of the heavenly help our Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, will provide you.

Carlos Aguero, of Mendoza, Argentina, was called to go to Paris, France, for his mission. He had seldom been out of his own city. He knew no French. But he, like Nephi, did not murmur and he went. When he arrived in France, he found that his mission president did not speak Spanish. In fact, none of the other missionaries spoke Spanish; they only spoke English and French. Elder Aguero could not speak English. All the zone conferences and instructions were given in English. All other speaking was in French. Carlos studied, he prayed, he cried, he pleaded with the Lord and asked for help from his mission president and his companions. It took months, but he learned French and English. He served an honorable mission. Now living in Mendoza, Argentina, he often uses his English in Church service and in his profession. In April 1986 he translated for President Hinckley at a six-stake regional conference in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

“Do you know what I like best about Christmas?” five-year-old Sara asked, her big brown eyes shining.
Her mother stopped wrapping gifts. “Santa?”
“I like Santa, but the most fun is wrapping presents for you and Daddy and Mike and Tim.”
Mom was pleased with Sara’s answer. Tim and Mike, her older brothers, had long lists of expensive items they wanted. Sara had no list. She was more excited about the gifts she was wrapping.
“Hi, everyone!” Dad called. “I’m home early so we can go get our tree.”
“Hurray!” Sara shouted. “Then we can decorate it.”
But later, when Mom pulled out the boxes of ornaments, both boys groaned.
“Do we have to do that tonight?” Mike asked. “I have math homework.”
“Me too,” Tim moaned.
“How about helping for just a half hour?” Dad suggested.
While her brothers argued about where decorations should go, Sara quickly and quietly placed red bulbs on the tree.
“Sara,” Tim said, “your bulbs are all at the bottom. That doesn’t look right.”
Sara’s eyes lost their sparkle.
“We need lots of bulbs on the bottom,” Dad said. “Sara’s friends aren’t as tall as you boys, and when they visit us, we want them to see lots of bulbs.” He handed Sara another bulb, and a smile lit up her face.
That night at supper, Mom said quietly, “I think we’ve all lost the spirit of Christmas—that is, all of us except Sara.”
“Oh, Mom,” Mike protested, “we all decorated the tree. And we’ve bought most of our presents.”
“I think Mom’s talking about the real meaning of Christmas,” Dad said. “And she’s right. It’s like we’re getting ready for a big party, but we’ve forgotten whom the party is for.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “We all know it’s to celebrate the Savior’s birth,” he murmured.
“But, Tim,” Dad persisted, “how was your birthday party different from the one we’re planning for Jesus Christ?”
“Well, Jesus isn’t here to get His presents.”
“What presents?” Dad asked.
“How would you have felt if all your friends brought presents for each other but no presents for you?” Mom added.
“That wouldn’t have been much of a party,” Tim admitted.
“Well,” Dad asked, “do you have a gift for the Savior on December 25th?”
“You’re trying to tell us that we need to buy gifts for Jesus?” Mike wondered.
“You don’t buy gifts for Jesus,” Tim interrupted. “You give Him gifts in other ways—like doing something good for someone.”
“Now you have the idea,” Dad said. “Do you think there’s still time to do something good for someone else?”
“It’s over a week before Christmas,” Mom put in. “Sister Altos told me about a family across town whose father is out of work and who have huge medical bills to pay. Shall I find out more about them and see if we can help them this year?”
“Won’t they be embarrassed to have us take them presents?” Mike asked. “What if the kids go to our school?”
“We could do this anonymously,” Dad said. “We could sneak our things for them onto their doorstep on Christmas Eve, and they’d never have to know who did it.”
“How can we know what they need or want?” Tim asked.
“I’ll check with Sister Altos,” Mom said. “She might be able to get sizes and ideas without letting the family know.”
Sara had been listening quietly. Now she shouted, “I hope they have a little girl! She can have some of the presents Santa was going to give me this year.”
“Does this mean that we’re giving away the presents we’d be getting?” Mike yelped.
“How about if everyone gets just one gift from Santa,” Dad said, “and the rest of Santa’s gifts go to our ‘Christmas family’?”
“That’s fair,” both boys agreed.
The following night, Mother had a list from Sister Altos of sizes and ages. There were two boys, a younger sister, and a six-month-old baby.
“Remember,” Dad said, “you can still ask for one gift from Santa. Now, let’s make a list of gifts for these children.”
“I’ll start shopping tomorrow for the things we decide on,” Mom said.
“Can I go too?” Sara pleaded. “And can I help you wrap the presents?”
“Of course.” Mom looked at Tim and Mike. “It’d be fun if you’d wrap presents too. I think you’ll find it rather exciting.”
The days rushed by as everyone bought and wrapped gifts for their Christmas family. Finally Christmas Eve arrived, snowing and cold. Sara hopped up and down with excitement. Even the boys were eager to deliver the gifts.
Father drew them all around him. “I think that this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” he said, his voice choking with emotion. “I’m so proud of you children for giving your presents away to someone you don’t even know.”
“I just hope Santa remembers my roller blades,” Tim joked.
Everyone laughed. Dad pulled out a red envelope. “Mom, will you write a message to our Christmas family?” he asked. “We could put some money inside to help with the medical bills—what do you think?”
“I’ve saved about six dollars,” Mike volunteered. “They can have that.”
“I have about five,” Tim chimed in. He rushed to get his savings.
Sara hurried to get her piggy bank. “I have all this money!” she squealed, opening it to let a cascade of pennies, dimes, and nickels clatter to the table. “Can we wrap it in a box for the children?”
Soon every cent of her money was in a box with “Kids’ Money” written on a tag next to the bow.
Mom disappeared for a few moments. “I’ve been saving this for new curtains, but we can wait for those.” She slipped two fifty-dollar bills into the red envelope.
Dad took out his wallet. “I stopped by the bank today, thinking that they could use this.” He put a hundred-dollar bill into the envelope.
Mother placed a card with a note inside the envelope last, then sealed it.
Sister Altos had written down the address. The car resounded with Christmas songs until the correct street sign was spotted and everyone searched for the house number of their Christmas family.
“There it is!” Tim whooped. “They’re home!”
Dad drove past the house so that their car would be out of sight. “OK,” he said, “I’ll open the trunk, and we’ll load up with gifts. Be really quiet so that they don’t hear us. When all the presents are on the porch, we’ll all get back in the car except Mike. Mike, you wait until I’ve started the engine, then ring the doorbell and run.”
No one made a sound as they piled the gifts high on the front porch. Mom held up the red envelope. “I sure hope they see this,” she whispered, tucking it into the top present.
Everyone except Mike rushed to the car, Dad started the engine, and Mike rang the doorbell and raced to the car. As he jumped inside, the front door of the house opened and a little girl shouted, “Daddy! Daddy! Santa has come!”
All the way home the family chattered excitedly about how their Christmas family must be opening their gifts and how surprised they must be.
“I just hope they see the red envelope,” Mom worried aloud again.
When the family gathered for prayers that night, it was Sara’s turn. She blessed everyone in the family and their friends, adding, “Please bless our Christmas family that they’ll like our presents for them. Bless them to have a Merry Christmas.”
Early Christmas morning, the family gathered around their tree. “I got my roller blades,” Tim shouted.
Mike held up a snowboard. “Wow! This is the greatest!”
Sara discovered a doll with a white wicker bed. “Look what Santa brought me!”
They gathered into a circle and exchanged the gifts they had for each other. Mom kept wiping her eyes. Never before had she seen her children so happy.
“I hope our Christmas family is having lots of fun,” Sara said as she tucked her doll into the white bed.
Bright and early Sunday morning, the family hurried off to church. They still radiated with the glow of Christmas.
The last speaker, an elderly gentleman from another stake, was introduced.
Tears trickled down Mom’s cheeks. Father clasped her shoulder tightly. Tim, Mike, and Sara scooted closer to them.
“I hope we can find another Christmas family next year,” Mike whispered.
Tim and Sara nodded vigorously.

In September 1977, I was nineteen years old and studying in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, to become a school teacher. One afternoon while walking home, I noticed a little stream of rain water running down the street toward my apartment. It was carrying a piece of paper. Just to entertain myself, I decided to keep pace with that piece of paper. When I got to my apartment, I picked it up.
It was a pamphlet. I will never forget its title: The Church as Organized by Jesus Christ. At one time I had been very interested in finding the church that Jesus Christ had set up. I had investigated many churches, but I had joined none. I had finally given up my search. But now as I read the title on the pamphlet, somehow I knew I had found the true church. On the back of the pamphlet was a name—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I determined to find that church.
School resumed in January, and I went back to Quetzaltenango. Although I had lived in that city for three years, I had never seen a Latter-day Saint church there. One Sunday I decided that if one existed, I was going to find it. I got up early and began asking everyone I met if they knew the location of the church. At first, no one did. Others sent me in the wrong direction. But after three hours, I finally located the meetinghouse and literally ran toward it.
The building was beautiful. I wondered if this was a church just for the rich. Because I am a shy person, I quietly took a seat in the back of the chapel. I knew no one there, and nobody spoke to me, but I loved the meeting. There was a feeling in my heart that I had never felt in any other place on earth.
The next Sunday I returned, thinking that if the preacher asked people to come up front and accept Christ, I would be the first to go. But nobody called us to go up. Three members shared short messages. How different this church is! I thought. But I liked it. Unfortunately, the members still did not notice me, and I decided I would go back only one more week. I couldn’t keep attending if I had no one to talk to. At least I would have a beautiful memory to cherish.
The meetings were equally pleasing on the third Sunday. When they were over, everyone began leaving, talking happily. I sat on a bench in the entryway, almost in tears at the idea of not coming back. Then a well-dressed young man with blond hair sat down next to me. In broken Spanish, he asked how long I had been a member of the Church.
“I’m not a member,” I said, “only visiting.” He instantly took out a little book and asked for my address.
“Why do you need my address?”
“We would like to get to know you and teach you more about the Church,” he explained.
With great pleasure I accepted his invitation, and the missionaries began teaching me the gospel. I asked a great many questions, which they could not always answer, but they always came back with the answers the next day. People at school ridiculed me when they learned what I was doing, and family members who belonged to other churches kept trying to argue with me. But I kept learning, and in time I was baptized.

Davey’s kindergarten class was going to have an Easter egg hunt, and he could hardly wait. He had talked to his two little brothers about the exciting event and had solemnly promised them that he would not eat any of the Easter eggs he found but would bring them home to share.
That morning, Davey stood by his mother, waiting for the school bus. It was hard to stay still enough to carefully hold the two boiled eggs he was taking to color that day. There would be lots of fun on this last day of school before the Easter holiday.
Finally the large yellow bus rounded the corner and stopped to pick him up. He waved and smiled at his brothers, who were watching out the window of their home across the street.
His little brothers’ faces were in the window again when the large yellow bus delivered him home at the end of the school day. Davey was usually the first child off the bus at this stop. But not today. When he finally climbed off, Mom knew that something was wrong. She hurried out to meet him on the front walk. She knelt and looked into his drooping eyes. He fell into Mom’s arms and sobbed.
“I’m so sorry … let my little brothers down,” he choked out. “I didn’t mean to … saved everything … didn’t eat even one.”
Mom held him close for a long time and then, when his body stopped trembling, led him inside. She and Davey and his little brothers all huddled together for a big family hug.
“Let’s start again, Davey,” Mom said reassuringly. “Tell us about what happened from the beginning.”
Davey arrived at school with his precious boiled eggs unbroken. When the time came, he colored them sky blue to match his eyes. When they were dry, he placed his eggs in his basket. After his teacher read an Easter story, everyone in his class ran outside for recess. When they came back in, the teacher told them that candy eggs were hidden in their classroom. All the children scrambled to look for the candy eggs. Davey was a good finder, and he helped other children find some. He found a yellow marshmallow bunny too. After the egg hunt, many of the children ate a lot of their candy eggs during the party, but Davey saved every one, just as he had promised his little brothers.
His class was late boarding the school buses after school, and his usual seat behind the driver was already taken. Davey walked down the long aisle until he found a seat near the back. He sat down, carefully cradling his basket of treasures on his lap.
When the bus pulled out, some big boys behind him began to tease him. He could hear them whispering about him. Then they tweaked his hair, ears, and neck. He used one hand to protect his candy; with the other, he tried to bat their hands away. With all the noise and confusion on the bus, the driver didn’t hear Davey’s small protests as the teasing increased.
Then his candy eggs began to disappear as he turned his head this way and that, trying to get away from all the hands that were pinching and tickling him. The worst teaser was the boy who lived across the street. Davey had thought that he was a friend, but today he had become an enemy.
By the time the bus came to Davey’s stop, his marshmallow bunny and all the candy eggs were gone, and both of his sky-blue eggs, so carefully carried and colored, were cracked and smashed.
Mom, Davey, and his brothers all looked at Davey’s little Easter basket. It was a sorry sight.
“Well, Davey,” Mom asked, “what shall we do to let these boys know that you forgive them?”
Davey’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes got wide. “Forgive them?”
“What is Easter about, Davey?” Mom gently asked. “Is it about colored eggs and candy, or is it about forgiving others for the pain they cause?”
Davey was surprised. He had thought that Mom would march right across the street and tell the big boy’s mother exactly how mean her son had been. “Why should I be the one to forgive them first when I didn’t do anything wrong?” Davey asked.
“The Savior didn’t do anything wrong, either. But He forgave those who killed Him. He taught us to forgive everyone because that is what will bring us the greatest peace,” Mom said. “How do you feel inside right now?”
Davey’s face was still very red and tear-streaked. Couldn’t Mom guess how he felt? “I feel mad and sad and …”
“And do you like feeling that way?”
“No.”
“Jesus taught us that when people do bad things to us, the only way we can really feel better is to forgive them, even do something good for them.”
“But stealing is wrong,” Davey protested. “You and Dad have always taught us that when we take something that isn’t ours, we should give it back and say we’re sorry. That’s what those boys should do!”
“Davey, we can’t choose what they will do. We can only choose what we will do. We can do what Jesus did, or we can choose not to.”
“But Jesus never rode the bus and got His eggs stolen. The scriptures don’t say anything about that.”
“The scriptures say to forgive others as you would want to be forgiven,” Mom pointed out patiently. “The lessons that the scriptures teach are true, Davey, not just stories. They really work. Shall we try them out?”
After Davey thought about it, he decided to follow his mother’s suggestion. Maybe then she would find out that the scriptures weren’t talking about someone who stole your brothers’ candy.
Mom and the boys decided to stir up a big batch of cookies as a forgiveness offering. Before Davey knew it, he and Mom were walking across the street to deliver the cookies. Davey could see the neighbor boy through the living room window. He looked anxious when he saw both Davey and his mother coming up his walk. When he hesitantly answered the door, Davey gave him the large plate of cookies and wished him a happy Easter. Nothing was said about the trouble on the bus. The boy had a relieved but puzzled look on his face. As he closed the door, Davey and Mom waved good-bye and started back home.
It was then that Davey noticed a new feeling inside his chest. He had been mad and sad. Now, however, his chest wasn’t tight with anger, it was calm and peaceful. When they arrived home and were eating warm cookies with milk, Davey asked Mom how it could be that he felt so different so quickly.
“Because,” Mom said, “no matter what is broken in your life—your heart or anything else—following Jesus Christ is the best way to fix things. At Easter we celebrate not only that He died for us, but also how He lived. He taught us how to live and be happy, and if we do what He taught, we’ll be happy and have the Holy Ghost to comfort us. Living the gospel works.”
Davey thought about that for a long time—and he decided that the scriptures did teach about stolen Easter eggs, after all.

After I graduated from high school, I was drafted by the Los Angeles Dodgers on June 5, 1993. I had already signed a letter of intent to play baseball for BYU, and my plan was to go to college in Provo. After I had gone through the long, difficult process and come to the conclusion that I was going to go on a mission, I told the [baseball] scouts of my plans. I was called stupid by some scouts. But I did have one scout—the one who drafted me for the Dodgers—who told me if I went on my mission it would only help me when I returned to come and play baseball again. He said that’s mainly the reason why I was drafted. He just thought a mission would help me.

Well, my mission has helped me in more ways than that scout will ever know. I’ve had days out here where I’ll think back to when I was pitching, and I’ve come to realize that in the mission field there are more important things than baseball. I don’t think I really realized that back home. My testimony has grown a lot. I’ve learned so much out here about what I believe and about why I was given talents. I can see now that I can play baseball to build the kingdom of our Heavenly Father if I use that talent correctly. Had I gone straight into baseball without going on a mission, I might have fallen into the selfish I’m-playing-baseball-for-me trap.

Learning those lessons has been one of the great things about my mission. That’s why I’m so happy I chose to serve a mission, because that summer after I graduated from high school I wasn’t sure what I would do. I had this tempting offer from the Dodgers, but I had also signed a letter of intent to BYU.

When I got to high school, I made the baseball team and was a starting pitcher my freshman year. So when I was drafted, I had to jump back a little and look at things. I had a big decision to make. Would I accept the Dodgers’ offer, or would I go to BYU? Would I go on a mission?

Having already made that decision when I was younger really helped me as far as deciding about my mission and baseball. Once the Dodgers started talking money with me, I started getting really serious. I realized these guys were going to give me a lot of money to play ball for them. I needed to make a commitment one way or the other. I spent a lot of time on my knees never really feeling anything. I think part of the reason for that was because I was looking for the answer I wanted. I wanted to play professional baseball. I wanted that really bad.

Finally, by the end of the summer, I decided to sit down and kick everything out of my mind. Not long after, I had the feeling I should go to BYU and continue my baseball career there. I also had a strong feeling that I was supposed to go on a mission.

Many a major league scout came up to me and said the basic line, “If you play baseball you’ll be able to influence so many people.” I wondered if maybe that was what I was supposed to do.

It was during this time that I realized I needed to serve a full-time mission, and what the scouts were suggesting wasn’t for me. Now, almost two years since I was set apart as a missionary, I have a few new things to think about. Since the Dodgers lost the right to sign me when I went on my mission, I was eligible to be drafted again last June. I didn’t think any team would take a chance on me while I was serving a mission, but the Chicago Cubs did draft me. My plan right now is to finish my mission this month, and then return home and see what the Cubs are offering me. I’ll just have to wait and see.

Looking back on what has happened to me has helped me realize that the “sacrifice” I made to come on a mission was really not a sacrifice at all. I wouldn’t trade my mission experiences, good or bad, for all the money in the world. The Lord has made it possible for me to experience a mission and still continue to play baseball once I return.

I have loved my mission. I love baseball, but I also have loved the time I’ve been serving the Lord.

Maria Sanchez also has a story to tell. “When I was in secondary school,” she says, “I was very sad. I felt inferior to my friends. I was timid and didn’t like to stand up and speak in front of my classmates, although I studied hard and always knew the material. I had to make a class presentation one day, and I was very frightened, so I prayed to my Heavenly Father and said, ‘Today I have to speak in front of the class, and I’m scared. Please help me.’ I prayed with all the faith I had, and when my turn came, I stood up and started talking. I can’t remember what I said or how, but they all told me afterwards that my presentation was the best in the whole class. Since then I’ve known that I can always conquer my fears with the help of the Lord.”

I should like to give you another example. One of our most respected community-minded citizens began to act as though his feelings had been hurt and to stay away from socials where, in the past, he had gone and taken a most active part. People started accusing him of being a sorehead, a poor sport, antisocial, etc., and even evaded him whenever possible. Later, a medical diagnosis showed he was suffering from a brain tumor, which had been the cause of his lack of interest in activities that he had previously attended and even sponsored.

I remember the feeling of sinking into the chair in my bishop’s office. I felt hopeless and lost. What I had dedicated years of preparation to—what I had spent so long hoping for—was gone.
After many discussions with my bishop, stake president, and mental health professionals, we decided that because of my ongoing mental health issues, I would not be able to serve a teaching mission. The mental pictures I had painted of myself wearing a name tag, knocking on doors, riding bikes, and attending zone conferences couldn’t become reality.
With a broken heart, I remember asking my bishop, “Does the Lord want me? Do I still have a place in His work?”
He assured me that I did. And since that conversation, I’ve learned there are so many ways I can help build the Lord’s kingdom on the earth.
Elder John C. Pingree Jr. of the Seventy once asked: “Have you ever wondered if Heavenly Father has a work for you? Are there important things He has prepared you—and specifically you—to accomplish?”1
These questions followed me for the next several years. I yearned for places to serve. I wanted to contribute my whole heart to the Lord. But I felt lost in knowing how or where I could do that.
I served in callings and did what was asked of me, but I still felt like I wasn’t doing enough. After a few years of trying to find my place, I was at stake conference, in a new state and a new stake, feeling piercing isolation. But I listened as a sister began to speak about the temple. She told stories of her service as a temple worker that brought her and others closer to the Savior. Looking at her, I could tell she was glowing with the Spirit. She had found her place.
As she finished her address, she said the temple was currently looking for workers on Fridays. Immediately, I felt the Spirit pierce my soul. “That is what you can do. That is where you can serve.” The Spirit reinvigorated my desire to find a place in the Lord’s work.
The following Sunday, I asked my bishop about becoming a temple worker. And within a month, I was starting my first shift at the temple. When the temple president set me apart, I felt so much gratitude that I had found my place to serve the Lord. I had been set apart to work in His House.
The Lord wanted me to serve Him there.
I felt what the Apostle Paul described: “Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Ephesians 2:19). I felt like I was no longer a stranger in the Lord’s work.

Several years ago, I made a covenant with the Lord. I promised to give him anything he should require of me, and prayed this gesture might warrant forgiveness of my transgressions. Yesterday I gave the only thing I had left. It was something I cherished. I held on to it until the very last moment. I never thought of it as a selfish possession. That of which I speak flew out the window of my home when I turned on the television to watch the news and saw my picture on the television screen. I speak of my prized remaining possession—anonymity.
How I love not to be noticed! I don’t want to sit with the General Authorities in the “fishbowl” at the BYU football games in my dark blue suit! I want to sit in the stands with my father, wearing an obnoxious T-shirt which reads: “BYU #1. Enough said!” I have license and credentials to be obnoxious! I was born and raised in Provo, Utah. I attended school at Provo High School. I received my bachelor’s and master’s degrees from BYU. I’m a member of the Church, and I even work for the Church. My credentials are impeccable. I want to go berserk in the upper tier of the San Diego Stadium as I have the last four years at the Holiday Bowl—with the exception of Ohio State [which soundly beat BYU’s team in the bowl game], when I went into deep depression. I still have one faint hope—perhaps the Brethren will let me sit with Elder Perry at the ball games. Nevertheless, I give up my prized anonymity, just as I will give up my life if it is required of me.

Johanna was only eight when war came to her village in Holland and everything changed. When Johanna was ten, conditions were so bad that her only chance for life was to escape with an older sister and hide in a farmhouse many miles away from their home.
The two girls live with the Oosterveld family, who keep them hidden in an upstairs room—hidden from prying neighbors and from German soldiers who set up an office in the room just below them. Johanna and Sini spend days quietly in bed, bored and lonely and longing for exercise and fresh air. They spend years hidden away from the world.
This unforgettable book touches the heart and holds the reader breathless with excitement, wondering what will happen next. It was named a Newbery honor book for 1973.

“Cassie,” her father called, “will you please see if the morning newspaper is here yet?”
Cassie got slowly off the couch and dragged her feet to the front door. She stopped a moment, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Please, please let there be a story about a circus or a baseball game on the front page.”
She opened the door and glanced at the paper resting on the doormat. “War Escalates” shouted the big, black headline. She quickly rolled up the paper with the headline on the inside and ran to give it to Dad.
That morning was current events day at school. Jason brought the front-page story about the war. Miranda brought an article about a hurricane in the Caribbean. Cassie’s clipping was about a dog who could water ski. Her teacher reminded her that a story about a dog was not important news, but she didn’t care. The entire current events bulletin board was covered with stories about wars, disasters, and crime. She pinned her cute picture of the dog where she could easily see it.
Cassie was glad to get home after school. She did her homework and helped Mom with the dinner dishes. Dad invited her to come sit beside him in the family room and tell about her day while he watched the news. She had just started talking about the funny article she had taken for current events, when the news showed pictures of children who had been hurt when a bomb exploded.
Cassie ran to her room and closed the door. She threw herself on the bed and covered her head with pillows. Her throat was tight, and her stomach felt like it did on the roller coaster at the fair. Tears rolled down her cheeks and onto her comforter.
After a long time, Cassie heard a soft knock on the door, “May I come in, Cassie?” her mother asked quietly.
“I guess so.” Cassie’s voice was muffled by her pillows.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Did you have a bad day at school?”
“Not exactly,” Cassie mumbled through the pillows.
“Would you like to talk about whatever is bothering you? I can come back later if you want to be alone for now.” Mom sat down on the edge of the bed.
Cassie rolled over onto her back, and the pillows slid onto the floor. She lay staring at the ceiling for a moment, then finally said, “Mom, does Heavenly Father love everyone the same?”
“Yes, He does.”
“Then why are there wars where people get hurt and die? Why are so many people in the world unhappy? If Heavenly Father loves us, why doesn’t He stop the fighting?”
Mom thought for a moment. “Those are good questions. Let’s see if we can find some answers. Do you remember a few months ago in family home evening when we talked about our life before we came to earth? We learned about an important meeting at which Heavenly Father presented His plan for us.”
“I remember. Satan wanted to make everyone choose the right way so we would all return to Heavenly Father.”
“That’s right,” Mom replied. “Why wasn’t his idea a good one?”
“Because we would lose the right to choose for ourselves.”
“That’s right—Heavenly Father knew that it was better to let us choose to follow His commandments, even though He knew that some of us would choose to disobey and that many would not be able to return to live with Him.
“He also knew that some people would choose to hurt other people, even good people and children. He knew that Satan would work very hard to get us to hurt each other, because Satan doesn’t want us to live with Heavenly Father again. He wants us to be unhappy, like he is.”
Cassie rolled onto her side and looked at her mother. She had an important question to ask, but she was afraid to hear the answer. “What if a war starts here? I’m afraid someone in our family will be hurt or killed.”
Mom gathered Cassie into her arms and rocked her gently. “Oh, honey, I wish I could promise you that nothing bad will ever happen to any of us. There may never be a war here in our town, but as the world turns more and more to wickedness, there will be more dangers and more trials that we will have to deal with as best we can.”
Cassie began to cry again. “I just can’t stand it, Mom. Everywhere I look there is sadness and pain. I wish I had been born some other time.”
“There has always been suffering in the world, Cassie, but I think I know how you feel—sometimes it’s a little bit overwhelming. But did you know that Heavenly Father saved you to come to earth now? You were strong in the premortal existence, and you had just the qualities that Heavenly Father knew you would need to be able to handle temptations and hardship.”
“Really?” Cassie thought for a moment. “Then why am I so afraid?”
“Because the world is a scary place for an eleven-year-old. I have several ideas that I think will help you, though. First, when you say your prayers every day, ask for peace to come to your heart. The Holy Ghost is a comforter, and He can make you feel better. He can’t take away the wars and fighting, but He can make it easier for you to deal with such problems. Second, I think you should ask Dad for a father’s blessing.”
Cassie remembered how she had felt better after her father’s blessing just before school started. “That’s a good idea. I always feel good after Dad blesses me.”
“Me, too,” said Mom. “Another thing that I think will help is to try to look for good things. Heavenly Father wants us to be happy. Even though we live in a wicked time when many things are happening that cause us pain, we can still find joy. You can enjoy a beautiful sunset, or playing with your brother and sister. Let Dad and me do some of your worrying for you, at least until you’re older.”
“OK,” Cassie sighed happily. “It’s a deal.”
“I know one other thing that I hope will help you, but it’s a surprise.”
“When will I find out what it is?” Cassie loved surprises.
“Give me a few days,” Mom answered, smiling mysteriously.
All that week Cassie tried hard to do as her mother had suggested. She did feel better after her father’s beautiful blessing, and she tried hard to enjoy every day. A few days later, she walked into her room after school, and there on her wall, hung where she would see it first thing every morning, was a beautiful cross-stitch picture in a large golden hoop. There were birds and flowers and butterflies on it, and right in the middle was the scripture in John 14:27—“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

In His love for us, God has decreed that any worthy man, regardless of wealth, education, color, cultural background, or language may hold His priesthood. Thus, any properly ordained man who is clean in hand, heart, and mind can connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood. I learned this well as a young missionary years ago in the South Pacific.

My first assignment was to a small island hundreds of miles from headquarters, where no one spoke English, and I was the only white man. I was given a local companion named Feki who was serving a building mission and was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood.

After eight seasick days and nights on a small, smelly boat, we arrived at Niuatoputapu. I struggled with the heat, the mosquitoes, the strange food, culture, and language, as well as homesickness. One afternoon we heard cries of anguish and saw a family bringing the limp, seemingly lifeless body of their eight-year-old son to us. They wailed out that he had fallen from a mango tree and would not respond to anything. The faithful father and mother put him in my arms and said, “You have the Melchizedek Priesthood; bring him back to us whole and well.”

Though my knowledge of the language was still limited, I understood what they wanted, and I was scared. I wanted to run away, but the expressions of love and faith that shone from the eyes of the parents and brothers and sisters kept me glued to the spot.

I looked expectantly at my companion. He shrugged and said, “I don’t have the proper authority. You and the branch president hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.” Grasping at that straw, I said, “Then this is the duty of the branch president.”

No sooner had I said this than the branch president walked up. He had heard the commotion and came from his garden. He was sweaty and covered with dirt and mud. I explained what had happened and tried to give the young boy to him. He stepped back and said, “I will go and wash and put on clean clothes; then we will bless him and see what God has to say.”

In near panic, I cried, “Can’t you see? He needs help now!”

He calmly replied: “I know he needs a blessing. When I have washed myself and put on clean clothes, I will bring consecrated oil, and we will approach God and see what His will is. I cannot—I will not—approach God with dirty hands and muddy clothes.” He left me holding the boy. I was speechless.

Finally he returned, clean in body and dress and, I sensed, in heart as well. “Now,” he said, “I am clean, so we will approach the throne of God.”

That marvelous Tongan branch president, with clean hands and a pure heart, gave a beautiful and powerful priesthood blessing. I felt more like a witness than a participant. The words of the Psalmist came to my mind: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? … He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart” (Psalms 24:3–4). On that tiny island a worthy priesthood holder ascended into the hill of the Lord, and the power of the priesthood came down from heaven and authorized a young boy’s mortal life to continue.

With the fire of faith glowing from his eyes, the branch president told me what to do. Much additional faith and effort was required, but on the third day that little eight-year-old boy, full of life, was reunited with his family.

I hope you understand and feel these truths. This was a tiny island in the midst of a huge ocean—with no electricity, no hospital, no doctors—but none of that mattered. For in addition to great love and faith, there was a branch president who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, who understood the importance of cleanliness of hand and heart and its outward expression in cleanliness of body and dress, who exercised the priesthood in righteousness and purity according to the will of God. That day his individual power in the priesthood was sufficient to connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood over earthly life.

When I look into the heavens at night and contemplate the endless galaxies therein, I am amazed at what a tiny dot our little earth is and how infinitesimally small I am. Yet I do not feel afraid, alone, insignificant, or distant from God. For I have witnessed His priesthood power connecting with clean hands and pure hearts on a tiny island in a vast ocean.

Eight-year-old Sarah shivered in the backseat of the car. Her wet swimming suit was cold and clammy, and she pulled her beach towel tighter around her shoulders. Wet tendrils of shoulder-length brown hair made dark spots on the towel, and her face was pulled into a frown. Today’s swimming lesson had been a disaster, just like yesterday’s and the ones before that. Sarah’s mother and older brother, Mike, sat in the front seat.
“My teacher taught me the frog kick today,” Mike told Mother excitedly. To demonstrate, he pulled his knees together, bent them nearly to his chin, then kicked them wide apart, almost hitting his mother with one flying foot.
Mother laughed. “Be careful, Mike—I’m driving,” she said. “Sarah, how did your lesson go?”
“Sarah’s a fraidycat,” Mike piped up. “She sat on the steps during the whole lesson. The teacher couldn’t even get her into the water after warmups at the shallow end.”
“Hush up, Mike,” Sarah growled, her face turning red. She pulled the towel more tightly around her and crouched low in the seat.
“Deep water can be scary, Sarah,” Mother said. “Sometimes it takes a while to get used to it. You just keep trying, and it will get easier.”
But something was bothering Sarah more than the swimming lessons. “Mother, when I get baptized next week, do I really have to go under the water?” she asked. “I’m too afraid.”
“Yes, Sarah,” Mother answered. “We know from the scriptures that Jesus was baptized by immersion, and we need to follow His example.”
“Getting baptized isn’t scary,” said Mike. “Dad will be in the water with you. You can even plug your nose.”
Their words helped, but there still was a lump of fear in Sarah’s stomach whenever she thought about the deep water of the baptismal font.
That night, in the bathtub, Sarah thought about what Mother had said. Maybe here in the tub she could get used to the water. Concentrating on relaxing her tense muscles, she took a deep breath and slowly lowered her face beneath the water’s surface. As the warm water covered her face, panic seized her, and she gulped a huge mouthful of water. Coughing and spluttering, Sarah jerked upright and pulled her shaking body out of the tub. “What will I do?” she asked herself. “I’m too afraid of the water to be baptized!”
Baptism day drew nearer. With each passing day, Sarah’s fear grew stronger. Every night she prayed that she would be brave enough to go under the water.
The night before her baptism Sarah couldn’t sleep. She climbed out of bed and knelt to pray again, asking Heavenly Father for courage. Suddenly a thought came into her mind. She got up and walked softly down to her parents’ bedroom. “Daddy,” she whispered into the darkness.
“Is that you, Sarah?” her father asked sleepily.
“Yes,” she answered, “could I talk to you for a few minutes, please?”
Daddy quietly slid out of bed and put on his robe. He took Sarah’s hand, and they went back to her room.
“I’ve been praying that I won’t be too afraid to be baptized,” she began as they sat on her bed. “But tonight I couldn’t sleep, so I prayed again. While I was praying, I remembered a family home evening lesson that we had about priesthood blessings and about how they can help us with problems. Will you give me a blessing, please?”
“I’ll be glad to,” Daddy answered, giving her a hug.
He put his hands on Sarah’s head and spoke quiet, reassuring words, promising Sarah that she would not be afraid of the water when she was baptized. When he finished, Sarah hugged him tightly.
“Thank you, Daddy. I feel better already.” She climbed under the covers, adding, “But I’m glad that you’ll be with me in the water tomorrow.”
“Heavenly Father will be watching, too,” Daddy said, tucking the blanket around her. “He’s proud of your decision to be baptized, and so am I.”
At last the time came for Sarah and her family to go to the stake center. She was wearing a pretty new dress and felt excited and happy—but there was still a small knot of fear in her stomach.
“You look nice,” Daddy said. “Are you ready for this special day?”
Sarah hesitated before answering, “I think so.”
They arrived at the church early, and Sarah went into the ladies’ dressing room with Mother and changed into white clothes. Daddy changed into white clothes, too, and soon the family was sitting together in the chapel. Everyone sang a song, the bishop gave a short talk, and then it was time for the baptism. Sarah’s knees shook, and it was hard to walk back through the dressing room to the steps of the baptismal font.
Daddy took her hand as she started down. “I have you,” he whispered.
Sarah took three slow, deep breaths. She stepped carefully down the steps into the font.
Don’t panic—try to be calm, she thought over and over.
She stood close to Daddy and held his left wrist. He raised his right hand and said, “Sarah Marie Robinson, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
His right arm came down around her back, and she pinched her nose shut with her free hand. Daddy flashed an encouraging smile, then lowered her gently into the water. Its warmth closed around her, and with it she felt another warmth from inside. She knew then that she was doing the right thing, and she wasn’t afraid. As she came out of the water, she saw many smiling faces.
“You did it, Sarah!” her mother said later. “I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me, too,” Sarah answered, smiling.

I close with the example of a new friend, someone we met a few weeks ago while visiting the Zambia Lusaka Mission.

Elder Joseph Ssengooba is from Uganda. His father died when he was seven. At age nine, with his mother and relatives unable to care for him, he was on his own. At age 12, he met the missionaries and was baptized.

Joseph told me of his first day at church: “After sacrament meeting, I thought it was time to go home, but the missionaries introduced me to Joshua Walusimbi. Joshua told me that he was going to be my friend, and he handed me a Children’s Songbook so I wouldn’t have to go into Primary empty-handed. In Primary, Joshua put an extra chair right next to his. The Primary president invited me to the front and asked the whole Primary to sing for me ‘I Am a Child of God.’ I felt very special.”

The branch president took Joseph to the Pierre Mungoza family, and that became his home for the next four years.

Eight years later when Elder Joseph Ssengooba began his mission, to his great surprise his trainer was Elder Joshua Walusimbi, the boy who had made him feel so welcome on his first day in Primary. And his mission president? He is President Leif Erickson, the little boy who stayed away from Primary because he was terrified about giving a talk. God loves His children.

While the girls were waiting for the volleyball to start, Carol Lindsay of the London North Ward talked about her conversion. “I read a book written by a Protestant minister about the trek west led by Brigham Young. I thought when I read that there must be something to this church if they would walk all those many miles for it. I walked into a chapel in Edinburgh and said, ‘Here I am, what are you going to do with me?’ I got impatient during the missionary discussions waiting for them to challenge me to baptism.”

Every man and woman in this church knows something of the price paid by our forebears for their faith. I am reminded of this when I read the narrative of my wife’s grandmother. She tells of her childhood in Brighton, that delightful city on the south coast of England, where the soft, green hills of Sussex roll down to the sea. It was there that her family was baptized. Their conversion came naturally because the Spirit whispered in their hearts that it was true. But there were critical relatives and neighbors and even mobs to ridicule and arise anger in others against them. It took courage, that rare quality described as moral courage, to state their beliefs and to defend their beliefs, to be baptized and recognized as Mormons.

The family traveled to Liverpool, where with some nine hundred others they boarded the sailing vessel Horizon. As the wind caught the sails, they sang “Farewell, My Native Land, Farewell.”

After six weeks at sea—to cover the distance covered today by a jet plane in six hours—they landed at Boston, Massachusetts, and then traveled by steam train to Iowa City to get the equipment they needed. There they purchased two pairs of oxen, two cows, a wagon, and a tent. They were assigned to travel with and assist one of the handcart companies. At Iowa City, their youngest child, less than two years of age, suffering from exposure, died and was buried in a grave never again visited by a member of the family.

Now let me give you the actual words of this thirteen-year-old girl as I read a few lines from her story:
“We traveled from 24 to 40 kilometers a day … till we got to the Platte River. … We caught up with the handcart companies that day. We watched them cross the river. There were great lumps of ice floating down the river. It was bitter cold. The next morning there were fourteen dead. … We went back to camp and had our prayers, [and] … sang ‘Come, Come Ye Saints, No Toil Nor Labor Fear.’ I wondered what made my mother cry [that night]. … The next morning my little sister was born. It was the 23rd of September. We named her Edith. She lived six weeks and died. … [She was buried at the last crossing of the Sweetwater.]
“[We ran into heavy snow. I became lost in the snow.] My feet and legs were frozen. … The men rubbed me with snow. They put my feet in a bucket of water. The pain was terrible. …
“When we arrived at Devils Gate it was bitter cold. We left many of our things there. … My brother James … was as well as he ever was when he went to bed [that night]. In the morning he was dead. …
“My feet were frozen; also my [brother’s and my sister’s]. … It was nothing but snow [snow everywhere and the bitter Wyoming wind]. We could not drive the pegs in our tents. … We did not what would become of us. [Then] one night a man came to our camp and told us … Brigham Young had sent men and teams to help us. … We sang songs, some danced and some cried. … My mother had never got well. … She died between the Little and Big Mountains. … She 43 years of age. …
“We arrived in Salt lake City nine o’clock at night the 11th of December 1856. Three out of the four that were living were frozen. My mother was dead in the wagon. … Early next morning Brigham Young came. … When he saw our condition, our feet frozen and our mother dead, tears rolled down his cheeks. …
“The doctor amputated my toes … [while] the sisters were dressing mother for her grave. … When my feet were fixed they [carried] … us in to see our mother for the last time. Oh, how did we stand it? That afternoon she was buried. …
“I have thought often of my mother’s words before we left England. ‘Polly, I want to go to Zion while my children are small, so they can be raised in the Gospel of Christ, for I know this is the true church’” (Life of Mary Ann Goble Pay).

—“My dad runs a welding shop,” said Blaine Hill, 19, who hails from Burley, Idaho. “He was always building swing sets and monkey bars for the family, doing repairs and making things for people. I grew up with welding.”
But he had no idea that it was the sort of thing he could get a degree in.
“I imagined that when you went to college you’d have to major in something big, like being a doctor or a lawyer or something to make money. I thought welding was something you did in your spare time.”
Then in high school, he heard about a welding contest sponsored by Ricks. He entered it, and it changed his life.
“I won a scholarship, so I came here just to get a feel of what it would be like.”
Not only did he discover that “welding is what I’d like to do for the rest of my life,” he also found out that it’s a topic of study and research at a number of major universities.
Blaine is currently serving in the Oregon Portland Mission. When he returns, he’ll “probably go on to Arizona State University for a master’s degree in welding engineering and technology.” That program, like the associate degree program at Ricks, has a job placement approaching 100 percent.