Gospel Story Finder

When I was in the missionary training center preparing to go to Norway, President Dallin H. Oaks of the First Presidency came and spoke to us. He taught something simple that stayed with me my whole mission: “Focus on what you can do.”
What’s a Service Mission?
A few weeks after President Oaks’s talk, I was sent home to California for medical reasons. I was crushed. I finally felt like I was learning the language and was excited to enter the field.
I met with my stake president, and he asked me if I would like to serve a service mission.
A service mission? I had no idea what that even was.
I learned that service missionaries can choose from a variety of options of where, when, and how they’ll serve. Service missions focus on helping the missionary use their abilities in a way that will serve others.
A Good Option for Me
I decided a service mission was a good option for me to focus on my health and serve the Lord at the same time. Some of my assignments included:
Guiding tours as a docent in a museum.
Serving as a receptionist at the mission office.
Assisting at food banks and a Church camp.
Helping with wildfire disaster relief.
Serving in the temple.
My service mission allowed me to live at home and improve my health while serving. It was the mission I never expected, but I loved every minute. It helped me focus on what I can do and develop the abilities I had to bring good to the world.
Lifelong Lessons from My Mission
The simple yet powerful teaching from President Oaks impacted not only my mission but also my life. It changed my perspective. Instead of focusing on things that aren’t in my control, I now focus on bringing good into the world with the resources and talents I have. By focusing on the abilities we each have, we can change the world and those around us for good.

When 33-year-old Joseph Fielding Smith entered the Salt Lake Tabernacle on April 6, 1910, to attend general conference, an usher said to him, “Well Joseph, who is the new apostle to be?”
“I don’t know,” replied Joseph. “But it won’t be you and it won’t be me!”1
As the names of the Twelve Apostles were being read for a sustaining vote, Joseph suddenly received an impression that his name might be the next one mentioned. It was, and he was then sustained as the 12th man in that esteemed quorum.
Joseph’s humility and sense of humor were demonstrated when he returned home from the conference to inform his family of his new calling. He greeted his wife with a puzzling statement: “I guess we’ll have to sell the cow,” he said. Undoubtedly, she was surprised as she waited for further explanation. His simple response was, “I haven’t time to take care of it any more!”2 Thus commenced an apostolic ministry that lasted over six decades.

My father could remember the very day, even the very hour, that his family—father, mother, and four children—left the Church, many never to return again in this life. He was 13 years old, a deacon, and in those days families attended Sunday School in the morning and then sacrament meeting in the afternoon. On a beautiful spring day, after returning home from Sunday morning worship services and having a midday family meal together, his mother turned to his father and asked simply, “Well, dear, do you think we should go to sacrament meeting this afternoon, or should we take the family for a ride in the country?”
The idea that there was an option to sacrament meeting had never occurred to my father, but he and his three teenage siblings all sat up and paid careful attention. That Sunday afternoon ride in the country was probably an enjoyable family activity, but that small decision became the start of a new direction which ultimately led his family away from the Church with its safety, security, and blessings and onto a different path.

Though Illinois was for a time a refuge of peace and safety for the Saints, that refuge was short-lived. The Prophet Joseph’s death on 27 June 1844 at Carthage brought more persecution and suffering to his followers. But despite hardship, many Saints—like Sidney Tanner—continued to endure faithfully. Sidney suffered the loss of his wife and three children within a two-year period, yet on 13 April 1845, when he wrote from Winter Quarters to his in-laws, James and Elsie Conlee (who were rather antagonistic toward the Saints) to tell them of his wife’s death, he said,
“[My wife, Louisa] requested me to write to you and tell you that she died in the full triumph of the faith of Jesus Christ and her greatest desire for living was for the benefit of her family and friends and [to] do what she was afraid they would not do for themselves, that they might arrive to a glorious salvation in the kingdom of God, where she expects to meet them and enjoy their society.”14

It happened for me when I performed the baptism of a young man. I knew that I had been called by the Savior’s ordained servants as a missionary to teach His gospel and to testify of Him and of His true Church. My missionary companion and I had promised the young man that he would be cleansed through the power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ as he repented with faith in the Savior and was baptized by one of His authorized servants.
As I lifted the young man out of the waters of the baptismal font, he whispered in my ear, “I am clean, I am clean.” In that moment, I remembered the Savior’s baptism by John the Baptist in the River Jordan. Even more, I remembered that I was doing the saving work of a resurrected and living Savior—attended by the Holy Ghost, as John had been.

Just a couple of days later Stubbs and I were playing ball. I cracked a good one with my bat, and the ball sailed over the fence. Old Stubbs bounded through the open gate after the ball.

Suddenly I heard car brakes screeching and a yelp from Stubbs. I shot through the gate like lightning just in time to see a man getting out of his car. Stubbs was lying still in the street.

“Stubbs!” I cried. I ran over to him and felt sick to my stomach when I saw the blood.

“I’m sorry,” said the motorist. “I tried to stop. Have you a blanket? I’ll be glad to take you and your dog to a veterinarian.”

I nodded and ran home, sobbing and yelling “Mom” all at the same time. She grabbed a blanket and ran outside right behind me.

We put Stubbs on the blanket and carefully carried him to the man’s car. While we rode to the animal hospital, I gently stroked Stubb’s head.

It seemed like hours later when the doctor finally came out and told us that Stubbs was still alive. He had stitched him up, but Stubbs had lost a lot of blood.

“Can I take him home?” I asked. I was really scared that if I left the animal hospital without him, I’d never see him again.

The veterinarian talked to Mom a minute, then disappeared and came back carrying Stubbs, who lay very still in his arms. “You take good care of him, and call me if there’s any change.”

That night I told Dad that I wanted to sleep next to Stubbs and take care of him during the night. I filled Stubbs’s bowl with water, in case he woke up and was thirsty. Then I got a blanket and lay down next to him.

Dad came to say good night, and then he said gently, “Mark, Stubbs is pretty sick. I want you to prepare yourself in case he doesn’t make it.”

“Dad, can we please say a prayer.”

“Of course, Mark. We can pray and exercise our faith in Heavenly Father’s goodness and in His ability to heal Stubbs.”

“Dad, … how do we do it? I’m not sure I have any faith to exercise.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Mark, we exercise our faith by believing that God loves us. We tell Him our problems, then have faith that whatever happens is really for the best.”

“You just let Him decide?” I asked. It didn’t seem quite enough.

“Well,” Dad answered, “we have to do our part. We have to do everything possible to help.” Dad gave me a kiss and then put his arm around me as he said a prayer for Stubbs.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pleaded with God to help Stubbs get better.

After Dad left, I thought about what he’d said concerning faith. I wished I’d listened better to Sister Higgins’s lesson. I needed to know all I could about faith, because Stubbs needed all the help I could give. I did remember writing “Faith without works is dead” on my paper in Primary. So I thought about that each time I patted Stubbs and checked to see if he’d changed at all. Maybe if I did the “works” part really well, it might make up for the faith part a little.

I spent the night checking Stubbs—talking quietly into his ear, patting him, and praying over and over.

The next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to the morning sun. My hand was holding Stubb’s paw. I squeezed my eyes closed one more time and pleaded with Heavenly Father to please help Stubbs get better. That was when I felt something wet on my fingers. I raised up and stared at Stubbs. One eye looked up at me, and his tongue licked my hand again.

“Dad! Mom!” I yelled. I didn’t care if it was 6:00 A.M. “Stubbs is better!”

I think now that I must have had beginner’s faith—you know, like beginner’s luck, when you first learn how to do something. Heavenly Father must have helped Stubbs get better. Maybe I helped a little too. The veterinarian said that I had a miracle dog.

In junior high, I didn’t think life was fair. I was short—not just a little below average, but officially vertically challenged. One day my entire grade lined up by height for a picture. I was at the end of the line—the short end.

Despite my height, I loved basketball and was determined to make the team. As a gym full of boys began running drills to win their places on the squad, I hoped my many hours of practice would pay off. The coaches stood in the middle of the gym, observing us and taking notes on their clipboards. At my size, I just prayed they would notice me.

After warm-ups, the head coach blew his whistle and explained our first shooting drill. He handed me a ball. I was one of the first to dribble from half court and pull up inside the three-point line for a jump shot. I knew everyone was watching; my shaking hands reminded me with every dribble. I stopped at the top of the key, jumped, and let go of the ball. I hoped that it would at least hit the rim. The ball rolled around the iron and dropped through the net.

Sooner than I wanted, it was my turn again. Again my shot found its way through the hoop. Through the next rotation, my luck continued. The returning center of the team noticed me and decided to help out an underdog. He began calling attention to me right before each of my next shots. Thankfully, I kept making my shots.

At the end of the day, when the list of those who made first cuts was posted, my name was there. I had just climbed the first leg of my Mount Everest.

After a few more days of tense nerves and early-morning drills, another cut was posted. I made it past my second hurdle. With only one or two cuts left, my chances were getting better, but my competition was stiffer.

At the end of the week, tryouts were over. I tried to remain calm as I walked to the coaches’ office to see if I made the team. My name was missing from the list.

The assistant coach, who was also my science teacher, pulled me aside. “You’re a good little ball player. You’ve got a lot of potential.” His compliments didn’t help my disappointment. “It’s hard to cut people. It’s just that right now you don’t have the size to play for the team. Maybe next year.”

Why me? One of my dreams crashed, and it wasn’t because I didn’t try or practice. It was because of something out of my control. Life just didn’t seem fair.

I stood with my face pressed against the window, trying to see the shed next to our house. For three days, the whirling, howling wind had threatened to blow our house down. We were in the middle of a big blizzard. My family was living in Wisdom, Montana, where Dad was working on a large cattle ranch. He said I was his best cowhand, aside from Mom, of course.
“Danny, it’s time to go feed the cows,” Mom called as she walked into the room carrying my two-year-old sister Brenda. My other sister, June, trailed behind.
We bundled up in our coats, hats, and gloves, and climbed into the red pickup. “We should have a truck with four-wheel-drive in these conditions,” Dad said, shaking his head. Mom looked at Dad with concern. But she knew that the cattle must be fed, even in a fierce storm like this.
The raging wind yanked the truck from side to side as we drove to the haystack. A frozen snowdrift completely covered the fence. It was frozen so hard that the cows could walk right over it and eat the hay.
When Dad opened the truck door and jumped out, a cold blast of wind made us huddle in our coats. It took Dad a long time to dig the tractor out of the snow and load it with hay. It took even longer to move the hay to where the cows could eat it. The wind kept blowing it away.
Finally the cattle were fed, and we headed for home. The wind had picked up speed and was blowing snow from the open fields all around us, surrounding us with white. Snow had also blown across the road, creating huge snowdrifts. Dad had to speed up before each snowdrift. Without a running start, the truck couldn’t make it through them. It seemed like it took forever just to go a short distance.
About the time Mom said we were a mile from home, we hit a drift that stopped us in our tracks. Dad and Mom worked for some time to dig us out, but we stayed stuck. They climbed back into the truck and Dad thought for a moment.
“Danny,” he said, “you and I will walk to the house and come back for Mom and the girls on the snowmobiles.”
“Good idea, Dad!” I exclaimed. Excitement welled up inside me. I loved riding the snowmobiles! I slid out of the truck and walked in Dad’s footprints through the snowdrifts toward home. Even though the wind threatened to knock me down, and the snow blowing against my face felt like bundles of knives skinning me, I still felt like I was having a great adventure with Dad.
Anticipation kept my feet going until we arrived at the shed with the snowmobiles. I looked up at Dad. “Can I ride up over the hill?” I asked. “I’ll stay alongside the road and then go on down to the truck.”
“No, Son. Please stay on the road,” Dad said without hesitation. He turned and looked right at me. “Blizzards are very dangerous, Danny. You need to stay on the road and go straight to the truck. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dad.”
He started a snowmobile for me. “Can I go now?” I asked.
“OK, but remember to stay on the road. It will guide you back to the truck.”
I climbed on the snowmobile and headed out. “I’ll go over the hill. It will be faster. I can beat Dad back to the truck,” I thought once I was out of Dad’s sight. I quickly turned and drove up the hill. The wind swirled around me and I was having trouble seeing very far ahead. But I was having fun. Surely I could beat Dad to the truck.
I rode and rode in what I thought was the right direction. No truck. I rode further. Still no truck. Fear started to creep up inside me. “I should be to the truck by now.” I came to a large ravine, stopped, and looked around, trying to recognize my surroundings.
“Where am I?” This wasn’t fun anymore. My glorious adventure was gone, and I was freezing! The wind yanked at me. It was so loud I couldn’t think.
I was lost and plain scared. “What can I do?” I remembered Dad’s words and how I had disobeyed him. I closed my eyes tight, trying to hold back the tears. Suddenly I realized I could die in this blizzard!
“Oh please, someone help me.” My words were scattered by the wind just as the hay had been.
Then I felt a warm, tingling feeling spread over me like a blanket. I knew what I needed to do. I quickly climbed off the snowmobile and knelt beside it to offer a simple prayer. “Heavenly Father,” I said, “I’m lost. I’m sorry I disobeyed Dad. Please help me get home.”
As soon as I finished my prayer, a feeling inside me said, “Look up.” I looked up and saw the power lines. This was the way home and an answer to my prayer!
I hopped back on my snowmobile and carefully followed the power lines back to the house. Leaving my snowmobile running, I ran inside to see if Dad had made it back with Mom and the girls. No one was there. I turned and ran back outside, jumped on the snowmobile, and started for the truck, this time following the road. But I only made it a few yards when the snowmobile ran out of gas. I was so cold! I ran back inside and curled up in a sleeping bag to warm up.
Moments later, Dad, Mom, and my sisters arrived home on the other snowmobile.
“Danny!” Mom exclaimed as she rushed in, pulled me to her, and held me tight. “What happened? Why didn’t you make it to the truck?”
I looked up into her eyes and told the truth: I had disobeyed Dad and gotten lost. “Mom, I know Heavenly Father loves me because I made it home safe again. He answered my prayer today.”

Let me share with you the account of a lifelong friend, now departed from mortality. His name was Leonard. He was not a member of the Church, although his wife and children were. His wife served as a Primary president; his son served an honorable mission. His daughter and his son married companions in solemn ceremonies and had families of their own.

Everyone who knew Leonard liked him, as did I. He supported his wife and children in their Church assignments. He attended many Church-sponsored events with them. He lived a good and a clean life, even a life of service and kindness. His family, and indeed many others, wondered why Leonard had gone through mortality without the blessings the gospel brings to its members.

In Leonard’s advanced years, his health declined. Eventually he was hospitalized, and life was ebbing away. In what turned out to be my last conversation with Leonard, he said, “Tom, I’ve known you since you were a boy. I feel persuaded to explain to you why I have never joined the Church.” He then related an experience of his parents which took place many, many years before. Reluctantly, the family had reached a point where they felt it was necessary to sell their farm, and an offer had been received. Then a neighboring farmer asked that the farm be sold to him instead—although at a lesser price—adding, “We’ve been such close friends. This way, if I own the property, I’ll be able to watch over it.” At length Leonard’s parents agreed, and the farm was sold. The buyer—even the neighbor—held a responsible position in the Church, and the trust this implied helped to persuade the family to sell to him, even though they did not realize as much money from the sale as they would have if they had sold to the first interested buyer. Not long after the sale was made, the neighbor sold both his own farm and the farm acquired from Leonard’s family in a combined parcel which maximized the value and hence the selling price. The long-asked question of why Leonard had never joined the Church had been answered. He always felt that his family had been deceived by the neighbor.

He confided to me following our conversation that he felt a great burden had at last been lifted as he prepared to meet his Maker. The tragedy is that a hidden wedge had kept Leonard from soaring to greater heights.

I almost talked myself out of going that evening. I knew that a night of remembrance might help me cope with the loss of my mother, but I also knew that the evening would bring tears as I continued to grieve and mourn her passing.
As the hour for the night of remembrance drew near, I found myself getting ready to go despite my earlier hesitations. I had decided that being there would be good for me.
The night of remembrance, which honored several people who had recently passed away, was held by the funeral home that handled my mother’s burial arrangements. Other than the funeral home director and his family, I knew none of the people in the room. During the evening, each deceased person’s name was read, and a family representative lit a small candle in memory of that person.
After the service, I stood up to make my way to the refreshments. Those who had sat behind me had all left except for a frail lady attached to a breathing apparatus sitting beside her walker. I felt her sadness and pain. I also felt that I needed to give her a hug.
I did not know how she would feel about a stranger giving her a hug, but I followed this simple prompting. I came up to her with my arms outstretched. She reached both her arms toward me and pulled me down to her. She kissed my cheek and said, “Thank you for knowing I needed a hug. You are an angel.” We then visited for a few moments.
This experience cemented in my mind and soul the reason I needed to be there. Would someone else have given this woman a hug that evening if I had not gone? I will never know, but I do know that I was prompted to hug her, and because I did so, we were both richly blessed.

“Mom!” Desiree cried. “I’m scared!”
Mom appeared in Desiree’s doorway and turned on the bedroom light. Desiree squinted into the corner where the scary shadows had been. Nothing was there.
“I thought I saw a wolf in that corner,” Desiree said.
Mom wrapped her arms around Desiree, making her feel snug and safe. “When the light is on, we can see that there’s really nothing there,” Mom said.
When Desiree felt better, Mom turned out the light and went back to bed. Desiree closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Then she opened one eye and looked at the wall. The shadows were still there.
“Mom!” she cried again.
This time Mom didn’t smile when she turned on the light. She looked tired. She asked, “Desiree, do you remember what you were watching on television earlier?”
Desiree nodded. She had watched a program about wolves.
Mom sat on Desiree’s bed. “What we watch can really influence us—our thoughts, our actions, and even our feelings.”
“But the show I watched about wolves wasn’t bad,” Desiree said.
“What we watch on television can affect our thoughts, even if it isn’t a bad program. I think that what you watched tonight played a part in how you are feeling,” Mom explained.
Desiree thought about what Mom said. She had never noticed being affected by what she watched before.
“Wow,” Desiree said. “I’ll have to be more careful in deciding what to watch.”
Mom smiled. “That’s a good idea, Desiree.”
“But what about tonight? I still feel scared.”
“I have an idea,” Mom said. She took a picture of Jesus Christ off Desiree’s desk and pulled it out of its wooden frame. Then she neatly taped it to the wall where Desiree had seen the scary shadows. “He will always be there for you, Desiree. Remember that when you are afraid.”
As Mom turned off the light, a warm feeling filled Desiree’s heart. She knew what Mom had said was true. Jesus would always watch over her, help her, and quiet her fears.

Billy loved Ashley, his baby sister. He really did.
What he didn’t like was that she took up so much of his mother’s time.
If his mother wasn’t feeding Ashley, she was changing her diaper.
If she wasn’t changing her diaper, she was giving her a bath.
If she wasn’t giving her a bath, she was rocking her to sleep.
And if his mother wasn’t rocking Ashley to sleep, she was taking a nap herself because Ashley had cried and kept her up most of the night.
Billy wished that his mother had a little more time for him. He dreamed about them doing something together. Like going to the park on a picnic. Just the two of them. Without Ashley.
One day, as though his mother could read his thoughts, she ruffled his hair and said, “I think that it’s time you and I did something together. Just the two of us.”
Billy beamed hopefully. “Nobody else?”
“Nobody else.”
“Could we go on a picnic?”
His mother closed her eyes and smiled. “Ah, yes, a picnic. That sounds good to me. Let’s do it this Saturday.”
Billy could hardly wait. He dragged out the old quilt for them to sit on. He washed out the thermos bottle and wiped off the picnic basket. He could almost taste the cold fried chicken and the wonderful thumbprint cookies.
Finally Saturday came.
His mother came into his room. She wasn’t smiling. There were dark circles under her eyes. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our picnic,” she said. “Ashley is sick. I have to take her to the doctor.”
After his mother had gone, Billy put the quilt away. And the thermos bottle. And the picnic basket. Then he went into Ashley’s room. Her yellow rattle was on the floor. Billy kicked it. Then he was sorry and picked it up and washed it off.
When Ashley was feeling better, Billy’s mother took his hands in hers. “It’s time to plan that picnic again.”
Billy smiled. He got the quilt and the thermos bottle and the basket ready. He was very quiet and very kind to Ashley. He did not want her to get sick. And she didn’t.
On Saturday morning Ashley gurgled happily in her crib. The sun was shining. Billy’s mother was wrapping up the cookies.
The phone rang. When Billy’s mother hung up, her face was sad. “That was Mrs. Benson. She sprained her ankle this morning. She can’t take care of Ashley today.”
Billy didn’t bother to put the quilt and thermos bottle away. When his mother offered him a cookie, he shook his head. As he passed Ashley’s room, he wanted to push the door shut with a bang, but he remembered how he felt when he kicked the rattle, so he didn’t.
The following Saturday, Ashley was not sick and Mrs. Benson’s ankle was fine. But Billy could have cried—it was raining!
He thumped down the stairs. His mother was putting food in the basket.
“It’s raining,” Billy said.
“So I’ve noticed,” his mother said cheerily.
“So we can’t have the picnic.”
Billy’s mother laughed. “I think the picnic has been postponed long enough. Please get the umbrella.”
Billy did as he was told, though he couldn’t imagine a picnic in the rain.
“Everything will get soggy,” he said as they waved good-bye to Ashley and Mrs. Benson.
Billy’s mother handed him the basket. “You carry this. I’ll hold the umbrella.”
The two of them walked down one street and up another. Billy kept asking, “Where are we going?”
And his mother kept saying, “On a picnic, of course!”
Finally they came to a big old house. The kind you see in storybooks. It had a wide, wrap-around porch.
“Right this way,” Billy’s mother said.
“Whose house is this?”
“It’s Mrs. Benson’s house. She said that we could use it. Isn’t this a wonderful porch? It’s just perfect for a picnic.”
Billy held out his hands. He didn’t feel a single drop of rain. They would be snug and dry on Mrs. Benson’s porch—and they would still be outside!
It was a wonderful picnic! Billy ate three pieces of chicken and two cookies. He drank at least four cups of lemonade. Best of all, Billy had his special time with his mother.
They talked about all sorts of things. About the new ant farm in Billy’s classroom. About the trouble he was having kicking the soccer ball. About why spring was Billy’s favorite season and autumn was his mother’s. And they talked about when Billy was a baby like Ashley.
“Did I cry like Ashley?”
His mother laughed. “Oh, much louder. And longer.”
“Did I take up so much of your time?”
“More of it. I was new at mothering when I had you.”
“Did you love me like you love Ashley … even though I cried louder?”
“I loved you every bit as much.” She smiled, hugging him. “I still do!”
When it was time to go home, they made sure they left Mrs. Benson’s porch as clean as they had found it.
It was still raining. Billy carried the basket, and his mother carried the umbrella. “We’ll do something together again soon,” she said. “I promise.”
Billy squeezed his mother’s hand. She was busy these days. But she loved him.

Hannah and Ellen Joy trust that the Holy Ghost can guide them. Hannah said, “The Holy Ghost can help me anywhere! I have to wash my hands a lot and be careful and listen to the Holy Ghost to help me.”
When Ellen Joy was five, she wanted to eat her friend’s chicken nuggets. But she got a feeling that she shouldn’t, so she ate her own lunch. She found out later the chicken nuggets had milk in them and could have made her sick.

Elder Michael Hayes of the Walsall Ward spends time serving with the Walsall Society for the Blind and the Billion Graves Project. In sharing his thoughts about the blessing of service, Elder Hayes said, “Unfortunately, due to health challenges, I couldn’t serve a teaching mission. I remember sitting at home upset that I wouldn’t be able to serve the Lord. Then one day, the bishop spoke with me about a new mission opportunity. I will never forget the feeling I had when he told me that I could serve for two years as a service missionary. I didn’t know what a service mission was until he spoke about it, but what I did know is that I felt the Spirit so strongly, without hesitation I said, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ I knew this is what I had to do. I am nervous, but I know that with the help of my Heavenly Father, I can do anything.”

One day when I was really struggling, I read my patriarchal blessing. As I read it, I realized that I do have a future. God has a plan for me, and He actually loves me. Going to church, taking the sacrament, reading the scriptures, and praying has brought so much light and happiness into my life. I soon realized, “This actually helps me.” That’s when I knew I always wanted the gospel in my life. After everything I’ve been through, I know that the gospel has saved my life, and I’m very happy about that.

Throughout my teenage years, I prepared for my mission. When a loving priests quorum adviser, David Poulsen, offered to teach any of the priests the missionary discussions, a few of us took him up on his offer. We faithfully attended 7:00 A.M. classes each Sunday.
We studied the missionary discussions, and I had most of them memorized before I ever entered the mission home. We even went out a few times and taught ward members who pretended to be investigators. Most of them were a lot tougher than any real investigators with whom I worked! In 1971 I was thrilled to accept a call to serve in the Argentina North Mission.
A mission brands the gospel on your heart. I like the way President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) described a mission as the “university of the Lord,” as an opportunity to serve others and to learn many valuable principles the Lord wants His disciples to learn. These are principles that will help us in everything we do from then on, whether in building His kingdom or in improving our personal lives.
After I returned from Argentina, missionary service remained very important to me. As I earned both a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree, I looked for chances to share the gospel. I married Jan Nielson, and we have taught our seven children the importance of missionary work.
My whole family had an opportunity to put those teachings into practice in 1994, when my wife and I received a call to preside over the Uruguay Montevideo Mission. During that time, our son Jason served in the Portland Oregon Mission and our son Andy in the Brazil Recife Mission. The rest of the family enjoyed our missionary work in Uruguay.
We are definitely a missionary family. We have learned that there is no greater work, no greater joy, than sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ.
One of my favorite things to do even now as a member of the Seventy is meet with missionaries and experience the joy that comes from serving the Lord and working with others who are also serving Him.
This interest in missionary work, this commitment to share the gospel, began when I was Primary age. That’s the age at which all boys should decide to serve a mission. That most important decision will then be a guiding influence on all that they do throughout their growing-up years.

Dene has two sets of proud grandparents in England who keep scrapbooks of his achievements and are always eager for news of his progress. His Grandfather and Grandmother Wood recently came to the states for a long vacation. They were able to see Dene play both football and soccer, and Dene was able to hear some stories of the old days again.

His granddad is both a cheerleader and a critic. “I’ve always believed in telling the truth,” he says. “When he deserves it, I praise him, and when he deserves it, I kick him in the pants.” It is a spring afternoon and Dene, his mother and father and grandmother and grandfather are sitting out on the front lawn. His grandfather smiles. “Wasn’t that a marvelous goal last night?” he asks. “Sometimes I tell him that he’s rubbish, but when he scores a goal like that, what more can you say? I’m proud of him, of course. He likes sports, and to me you can’t go wrong that way. A bit of sport and you’re on the right road. My daughter always writes to us in England and gives us an account of what he’s doing, and I share it with everybody. It gives me a tremendous amount of pleasure to see him excel.” He looks Dene over appraisingly and then adds, “He’s a fine looking lad, isn’t he?”

Dene goes into the house and proudly comes out with a treasured championship medal from his grandfather’s soccer days. As first grandson, he has received it as a birthright.

“I’ve always been proud of him,” his Grandmother Wood says. “He was our first grandson, and with me having three girls, it was really something that was delightful to have someone to carry on grandpa’s participation in sports. When Dene turned out to enjoy playing football, well of course it was just the thing. I knew grandpa would be delighted, which of course he was. I think sports give young men a good backing for life, a wider scope of give and take. If you’re a sportsman, you can both give it and take it, can’t you? And a team sport teaches you to play as a team and not be selfish. I’m proud of all my grandchildren.”

Let me share with you a personal experience that may be of some help to those who feel insignificant, forgotten, or alone.
Many years ago I attended pilot training in the United States Air Force. I was far away from my home, a young West German soldier, born in Czechoslovakia, who had grown up in East Germany and spoke English only with great difficulty. I clearly remember my journey to our training base in Texas. I was on a plane, sitting next to a passenger who spoke with a heavy Southern accent. I could scarcely understand a word he said. I actually wondered if I had been taught the wrong language all along. I was terrified by the thought that I had to compete for the coveted top spots in pilot training against students who were native English speakers.
When I arrived on the air base in the small town of Big Spring, Texas, I looked for and found the Latter-day Saint branch, which consisted of a handful of wonderful members who were meeting in rented rooms on the air base itself. The members were in the process of building a small meetinghouse that would serve as a permanent place for the Church. Back in those days members provided much of the labor on new buildings.
Day after day I attended my pilot training and studied as hard as I could and then spent most of my spare time working on the new meetinghouse. There I learned that a two-by-four is not a dance step but a piece of wood. I also learned the important survival skill of missing my thumb when pounding a nail.
I spent so much time working on the meetinghouse that the branch president—who also happened to be one of our flight instructors—expressed concern that I perhaps should spend more time studying.
My friends and fellow student pilots engaged themselves in free-time activities as well, although I think it’s safe to say that some of those activities would not have been in alignment with today’s For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. For my part, I enjoyed being an active part of this tiny west Texas branch, practicing my newly acquired carpentry skills, and improving my English as I fulfilled my callings to teach in the elders quorum and in Sunday School.
At the time, Big Spring, despite its name, was a small, insignificant, and unknown place. And I often felt exactly the same way about myself—insignificant, unknown, and quite alone. Even so, I never once wondered if the Lord had forgotten me or if He would ever be able to find me there. I knew that it didn’t matter to Heavenly Father where I was, where I ranked with others in my pilot training class, or what my calling in the Church was. What mattered to Him was that I was doing the best I could, that my heart was inclined toward Him, and that I was willing to help those around me. I knew if I did the best I could, all would be well.
And all was well.15

I had a difficult time being a single mother in the Church, but I believe God blessed me with the gift of testimony, so I remained active.
Nevertheless, I struggled to break the unhealthy patterns in my relationship with my ex-husband. He would just drop by my home unannounced and expect to spend time with our son, and I allowed him to do it. I knew logically that I needed to set firmer boundaries, but it was so hard.
I talked to my bishop about my situation. When he asked me, “Are you reading the Book of Mormon regularly?” I admitted I was not. He invited me to start reading it.
I believed that by following my bishop’s counsel to read the Book of Mormon, I could find answers to my questions and strength to overcome my challenges. I began studying the Book of Mormon with the prayerful purpose of finding God’s strength to help me. I journaled my thoughts and the things I learned as I read. It was a way for me to recognize and remember the things the Spirit was teaching me.
As I studied the Book of Mormon and became closer to the Lord through prayer, I felt stronger than I had ever felt. I experienced increased hope and strength every day. I received power to set firmer boundaries with my ex-husband and others.

A few days into the #GiveThanks challenge issued by President Russell M. Nelson in late November, I was already feeling sensitised to the many blessings around me. I noted with thanks my beautiful family, my job, the gospel, and the sunshine we enjoy almost every day of the year in South Africa.
And then, on Tuesday, the doorbell rang.
I had just managed to get my three-year-old daughter down for her afternoon nap. Our young baby was also fussing and tired. As a working mom of three small children I too was in a haze of fatigue. On top of that, I was in pain because I had sprained my ankle while running that morning, and was feeling a little sorry for myself because I had been participating in a fitness challenge that I knew I now wouldn’t be able to finish.
I felt concerned that the noise of the bell would wake my sleeping daughter, irritated at the inconvenience of moving my sore ankle and impatient to get my baby to sleep, so that I could get back to my work deadline.
I limped to the door.
A man who was doing construction at a house down the road stood outside the gate. He said he hadn’t brought his skaftin (lunchbox). He asked if I could I please give him some lunch.
My husband mentioned that this was the third time that someone from the same construction project had come to ask for food.
I told him this was a bad time: I was trying to get my baby to sleep.
He said please, just a piece of bread, just for him.
“I’ll give you something simple, but please try to remember your lunchbox tomorrow,” I said.
I went into my kitchen and opened my fridge. It was teeming with fresh, healthy food. In that moment, I felt a simultaneous sense of gratitude and guilt: grateful for the abundance of food I enjoy each day; guilty for having felt inconvenienced by his request.
The scripture of Matthew 25:35 came to mind: “For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.”
The Spirit prodded me with a question. Was I a true follower of Christ if I wasn’t willing to inconvenience myself to help someone in their time of need?
I hobbled outside to my gate, holding my baby in one arm; two peanut butter sandwiches and two apples in the other. I smiled and told him the bread was still slightly frozen.
My offering was meagre and hastily prepared, but the man looked genuinely surprised as I handed him the four items through the gate. Both sandwiches? Both apples? All for him? His eyes seemed to ask.
Then it was my turn to be surprised. I saw his eyes well up with tears. “Thank you, Mami,” he kept saying, “Thank you. Mami, Mami . . . this will go a long way.” I looked away—embarrassed at his reaction to my small donation, scared I might also tear up, and bid him goodbye.
What did it take to give someone four minutes of my day and two peanut butter sandwiches? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
What did it mean to the man at the gate? Evidently, a whole lot.
It occurred to me that, due to the downturn of construction projects and the huge spike in unemployment in South Africa following the outbreak of the Coronavirus, this man might have been earning money for the first time in several months. It occurred to me that he probably needs every cent he earns to help support several other unemployed family members.
It occurred to me that he wasn’t forgetting his lunchbox at all.
It occurred to me that he couldn’t afford to eat lunch.
In the few moments following that tiny interaction, I felt almost overcome with emotion. My action had been small and flawed. Yet despite that, it had made a huge difference to the man I helped. I felt a deep sense of gratitude that the Lord would allow the weak and simple (See D&C 1:23) such as myself to help achieve his ends.
I give thanks for the millions of lessons such as this one that Heavenly Father offers to us, for these small opportunities of connecting with other human spirits, for the grace of God in allowing us—through no qualification of our own—to breathe tiny particles of goodness into others’ existence.
I give thanks for the lesson I learned from the man at my gate.