Gospel Story Finder

At 18, the idea of going away to work at a mountain resort was very appealing to me. I wanted to get away from the pressures of my parents and also of my religion. I planned on keeping my religion a secret the whole summer. I was so tired of people asking questions like “Aren’t you Mormons a cult?” or “Don’t you still practice polygamy?” I thought I would scream.
I decided that I needed a break from religion and that I would not step foot in church all summer. I even left my set of scriptures at home. But the summer didn’t turn out quite the way I had expected it to.
This was the summer I learned about mountains and pitfalls. During the first few weeks at the resort, I realized that the only way I would be able to combat all the peer pressure was to grow closer to my Heavenly Father. I had my parents send my scriptures, and I found a great branch to go to which held services every Sunday at a nearby lodge. Above all, I set many goals for myself and worked hard to accomplish them.
When the summer came to an end, I had avoided the pitfalls which I had encountered from day to day—alcohol, drugs, and immorality. This was only possible through prayer, scripture reading, and church attendance. Without these things, I would never have obtained my goal of resisting temptation during those three months. I reached the top of the mountain. I learned that I could accomplish anything with the help of Heavenly Father.

While I was serving in Venezuela, we taught a man who had investigated many churches but still had not found what he was looking for. He loved everything we taught him about the Church, but he did not feel he had received an answer through prayer. He began to have a lot of doubts. Then his doubts disappeared. He told us that he had been jogging in the park when he found a Liahona on an empty bench. He sat down and read it, and it answered his questions. He then was able to set a baptism date. Thank you for the Liahona!Elder Jordan Eves, Chile Viña del Mar Mission

Along with six other Mormons, Debra attends the Hazelwood Integrated College in Belfast, a school where the student body is about 50 percent Catholic and 50 percent Protestant. “I’m fairly new at the school, and at the start they’re all, ‘Oh, she’s one of them mad Mormons,’ and they tease you about being a moron, because it sounds the same,” Debra says. “But now, they’re asking questions, like why I don’t take tea or coffee. They’re kind of interested in it more.”

The next morning, Joseph said nothing about Moroni, even though he knew his father also believed in visions and angels. Instead, they spent the morning harvesting a nearby field with Alvin.

The work was difficult. Joseph tried to keep pace with his brother as they swung their scythes back and forth through the tall grain. But Moroni’s visits had kept him awake all night, and his thoughts kept returning to the ancient record and the hill where they were buried.

Soon he stopped working, and Alvin noticed. “We must keep to work,” he called out to Joseph, “or we shall not get our task done.”14

Joseph tried to work harder and faster, but no matter what he did, he could not keep up with Alvin. After a while, Joseph Sr. noticed that Joseph looked pale and had stopped working again. “Go home,” he said, believing his son was sick.

Joseph obeyed his father and stumbled back toward the house. But as he tried to cross a fence, he collapsed to the ground, exhausted.

While he lay there, gathering strength, he saw Moroni standing above him once more, surrounded by light. “Why did you not tell your father what I told you?” he asked.

Joseph said he was afraid his father would not believe him.

“He will,” Moroni assured him, then repeated his message from the night before.15

Joseph Sr. wept when his son told him about the angel and his message. “It was a vision from God,” he said. “Attend to it.”16

My daughters, ages 8 and 10, seemed to be growing farther and farther apart. As their mother, I ached inside to see the bickering between them and the mean looks they often directed at each other.
During this time I was praying earnestly to the Lord to help me with my own weaknesses. I prayed that He would help me learn what I needed to learn about charity, and I was led to some beautiful passages of scripture.
One night things came to a head with my daughters. I lost my temper and, after ranting and raving at them, stormed outside to cool down and think. After a few minutes, the Spirit began to soften my heart, prompting me to go inside and apologize to my eldest daughter, who had caught the worst of my temper.
As I entered her bedroom, I saw my 10-year-old daughter kneeling beside her bed, weeping. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I don’t know what to do.” She told me she wanted to pray and read her scriptures so she would feel better, but she couldn’t because she felt so bad.
When she told me how sorry she felt for her part in our quarrel and then said I was not to blame, oh, what shame I felt. We talked a while and then turned to the scriptures, where I read to her about charity, “the pure love of Christ” (Moroni 7:47), and shared some of the things I had learned. At that point her younger sister looked in the room, and we invited her to join us. I then explained, in words an eight-year-old could understand, what we had read about charity.
After I had finished, both girls turned to me with big eyes and expressed a desire to be filled with this great love spoken of in the scriptures. We then knelt and, as Mormon counseled, humbly asked the Father to fill us with this love (see Moroni 7:48).
Touched by the Spirit, we could not help but weep. We rose from our knees, embraced, and expressed our love for each other. At that moment I saw an eternal sisterhood and friendship begin to bloom between my daughters, and I was comforted.
Their relationship has continued to grow since then. They have a greater desire to work out their differences, show more patience, and share their belongings. I am grateful for their righteous desires and efforts.
I will always treasure that experience, and I pray that there will be more like it as we continue to strengthen the bonds of charity and love in our home.

It was New Year’s Day, and a snowstorm had just blanketed the small mountain town of Estes Park, Colorado, where I lived. Filled with the excitement of the holiday season, my older brother, Roger, and I had gone outside to play in a field near our home. A little lake where we had played on the ice many times before now lay underneath a fresh mantle of snow, flat and absolutely flawless.
No one worried about the lake being unsafe at that time of year—we lived at such a high altitude that the cold weather generally insured that small lakes would be frozen. But as we were playing, Roger suddenly fell through a soft spot in the ice. I was only six years old, and I didn’t know what to do. I could see no sticks around to pull him out with; everything was covered by snow. His heavy clothing soon pulled him under the water.
I ran all the way home through the deep snow, over a mile, to get my father. We drove back to the lake, and he dove through the ice and somehow found my brother. He tried to revive him, but by that time Roger had drowned.
That experience left me with several feelings. First, I saw the strength of the gospel in my parents’ lives. We were the only members of the Church in our community. Everyone rallied around my parents to give them support and comfort, but I think that the whole community gained more comfort and understanding by watching how a knowledge of the gospel helped my family handle that very difficult situation.
Years later, after I had a family of my own, my wife’s mother heard a caller in a radio talk show describe how he had watched a young family that had lost a son in a drowning accident. He didn’t mention the names of my parents, but the accident had occurred in Estes Park. It was obvious of whom he was speaking. He said it had taught him a great lesson about the strength of that family and the principles that guided their lives. Even then, about twenty-five years after the accident, my parents’ conduct continued to influence others.
Second, I learned about the purpose of this mortal experience. We come to earth to gain a body. Some of us are going to live on the earth a shorter time than others. When you’re literally side by side with your brother, and he goes through the ice and drowns and you don’t, it gives you a whole different way of thinking about life. It could have just as easily been me that drowned. But I’ve always felt that my brother’s mission here on earth had been completed and that he was just “called home” at an earlier age than most of us. But being the one who was allowed to remain, it was important to live as well as I could so that not only Heavenly Father but also my brother would be pleased with my actions.
Third, I learned a great deal from the courage exhibited by my father. He risked his life to break through that ice and dive underneath it to try to rescue his ten-year-old son. It was an immediate response; he did what he felt he needed to do. He showed great love, courage, and strength of character.
Mortality is significant, but it is a very small part of our eternal existence, I learned that lesson then too. I also learned to appreciate that through the ordinances and covenants of the temple our family relationships truly can be eternal.
There’s always another side to tragedy, and that side is one of greater understanding of the purpose of life. I know that Heavenly Father provides special comfort to family and friends who go through painful experiences, as He did with my family. It was a time when Heavenly Father was particularly close to us. And He will be close to you in times of difficulty if you call on Him in prayer.

Sally Randall of Nauvoo, Illinois, whose 14-year-old son died, found great comfort in the promise of eternal families. After her husband was baptized for their son, she wrote to her relatives: “What a glorious thing it is that we … can be baptized for all of our dead [ancestors] and save them as far back as we can get any knowledge of them.” Then she asked her relatives to send her information on their ancestors, saying, “I intend to do what I can to save [our family].”4

“After keeping record of my time spent on social media for the first week, I was a little shocked at the amount of time I spent on my phone. It was definitely a good idea for me to use some of that time for the Book of Mormon, especially because diligently reading scriptures is not one of my strengths.
“Ironically, one of the first days I read my scriptures in the morning was a terrible day. However, I knew that reading scriptures would only improve my life, so I kept reading.
“I think the greatest impact from reading every day was that I felt much more in tune with the Spirit. I was able to make decisions much easier. I felt more love for the people around me and an increased desire to serve. When I read my scriptures in the morning, the day went so much better. When I read at night, I slept well. I would strongly recommend that everyone try this. What a difference it makes!”
Bryn C., 18, Utah, USA

Coach Ken Jenks has some good news and some bad news for the boys on his soccer team. As members of a recreation-league soccer team, they’ve had incredible success. The LDS boys, who have teamed up with nonmember friends, are some of the best soccer players in the area.
The coach starts with the good news. “Well, boys, we’ve got a great team, and the Southern California Soccer League championship is in the bag,” he says. Then his face clouds a bit, and he delivers the bad news. “But we’ll be playing three games, and one of them is on a Sunday. How do you feel about that?”
Five hands reluctantly but firmly go up. Eric Miller, 14, Jeff Jenks, 14, Justin Bonsey, 14, and twins Trent and Travis Weaver, 15, stand up and tell the group, “We can’t play on Sunday.” The boys, who are members of the Cypress First Ward, Cypress California Stake, aren’t happy about the idea of missing out on the biggest game of the season, but they are sure about their decision.
They’re following a precedent set five years earlier by a basketball team of mostly Primary-aged Mormon boys (some of whom now play on the soccer team) from the Cypress Stake. The team, the Cypress Bulldogs, chose to play basketball with the Orange County youth league because games were not held on Sunday.
The Bulldogs won every game and were set for the championship final game play-off. But unlike regular-season play, the championship game was scheduled on a Sunday. When the coach (who is also a member of the Church) found out about the Sunday game, he called the team together. He explained to them his belief that they shouldn’t play on Sunday, but he left the decision of whether or not they should play to the boys. He suggested that they take a vote to see if the team wanted to play on Sunday or not. The team voted unanimously to support their coach, meaning they would forfeit the game.
Richard Wynder, who is now 15, says, “Even though we had won every game during the whole season, nobody had second thoughts about not playing the championship game on Sunday. It was something we all felt we had to do.”
John Harris, one of the members of the basketball team who was not LDS, has since joined the Church because of the examples of his LDS teammates. Also, some of the other basketball teams from the area are now refusing to play on Sunday. This has also influenced several of the soccer teams and football teams who have taken the same stand.
One of the non-LDS coaches said, “I don’t want the league to schedule games on Sunday because some of my best players are Mormons.”
Although the controversy of the games on Sunday still continues in Orange County sports leagues, the boys’ stand is beginning to make a difference. Many local sports organizations are holding Sunday games less often.
So, as expected, the soccer team plays well on Saturday and wins easily. Then the Mormon boys wish their team the best and go to church on Sunday. The non-LDS members of the team play the championship game and lose. The team takes third place.
Eric shrugs his shoulders, “This game is a temporary thing. I really would have liked to play that championship game if it hadn’t been on Sunday, but I know that keeping the Sabbath will help me return to my Father in Heaven.”
Justin echoes Eric, “It was an individual decision for me, too. I know that it is right and so it didn’t bother me either. The next day some of the kids at school were a little upset, but I think they respected me for staying with my standards.”
And respect from peers, parents, coaches, and other players is a valuable by-product of the sacrifice these boys have made. But perhaps even more important than that is the fact that their example does not go unnoticed by the younger boys waiting for their turn to play the game—but not on Sunday.
Editor’s note: Because of the stand these and other LDS boys have made, regular-season soccer games are no longer held on Sunday in Orange County, California.

Gaining a testimony and being baptized were among the highlights in the life of Kriangkrai Pitakpong. Other highlights include his marriage to Mukdahan, whom he introduced to the Church; his callings as president of the Khon Kaen Branch and then as president of the Khon Kaen District; and a 1990 airplane flight with his family and other Thai Saints to the Manila Philippines Temple.
“When we flew to Manila, it was a milestone in the history of the Church in Thailand. There were about two hundred of us. We were all very excited,” he remembers. “It was a trip we had planned for a long time. It was very expensive, approximately $350 per person. Everyone worked hard to raise the money to go. Even our ten-year-old daughter, Kesarin, made some money selling charcoal for cooking. It was a special time for us.”

While she was still very young, Louisa began working as a seamstress and as a housemaid. Whatever money she earned Louisa gave to help support her family. At about the age of sixteen Louisa began teaching school also. The same barn where her first play had been presented now became her classroom. Her students delighted in the fairy tales Louisa made up to entertain them. Louisa’s first book, Flower Fables, was a collection of these tales.

When I was a teenager, my Young Men president invited the young men in our ward to read the Book of Mormon by the end of the year.
I didn’t accept that invitation. I’ve usually been someone who is ready to take on any challenge, but I was at a really low point spiritually.
Interestingly, during this time, I was “preparing” to serve a mission, but I was only going through the motions. My testimony was weak, and I told myself I would serve just to make my parents happy. I had decided that after my mission, I would figure things out for myself. I would believe what I wanted to and do my own thing.
Although I was exerting myself in my schoolwork at the time, I had fallen into a pit of spiritual idleness. I felt so distant from God that I started questioning His existence. I had doubts concerning the authenticity of the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith’s call to be a prophet. I struggled with self-esteem and self-hate, and I had no strong conviction regarding the purpose of life.
“I was in the darkest abyss” (Mosiah 27:29), so I had little desire to read the Book of Mormon.
One night, I was reading a novel when an impression came to me that I believe and know with all my heart was from the Spirit. I found myself getting deeply wrapped up in the plot of this book, and then the thought came to me that I had never studied the Book of Mormon seriously—at least not as seriously as I was reading and pondering this particular book.
I had casually studied the Book of Mormon, taken notes, and prayed about it multiple times before, but I’d been missing a crucial part of Moroni’s admonition in the last chapter of the Book of Mormon: to ask “with a sincere heart, with real intent” (Moroni 10:4). I knew that it was the perfect time for me to ask my Father in Heaven again for answers. I felt spiritually hungry, and this time the answer actually mattered to me. Without realizing it, I had arrived at a spiritual crossroads, where my faith in the gospel hinged on knowing whether or not the Book of Mormon was true.
The same night I received that impression, I began to read the Book of Mormon—but this time with purpose.
Now eager to accept my Young Men leader’s invitation and finish reading by the end of the year, I read my pocket-size copy at every opportunity possible: on the train, during bus rides to school, in between classes, in between chores, before and after meals, and before bed. At every possible opportunity, I read. And every time I read, I kept praying: “I need to know. I need to know.”
One day my family and I went to the Manila Philippines Temple, but I forgot to bring my temple recommend. I did have my tiny copy of the Book of Mormon with me, though, so I sat in a waiting area and continued to read. Occasionally, I would stop to admire the beauty of the temple—the chandelier, the staircase, the stained-glass windows, and the people coming and going ever so reverently with great love for the Lord in their hearts.
At some point while I was reading, I received a very distinct impression from the Spirit in my mind. When it came, it spoke to me on many different levels. I was actually so shocked when it hit me that I sat up a little straighter. I felt such a powerful feeling that I could not dismiss it as a passing thought or a fleeting emotion.
“Totoo ‘to,” is what I heard in my mind.
A simple yet profound statement in my native tongue, Tagalog, that means, “This is true.”
I had received a confirmation that the Book of Mormon was true—that it was the word of God. I finally knew it with all my heart because I knew that impression had come from heaven.
But that’s not all that I learned.
Growing up, I had read the Book of Mormon and learned about the gospel in English. As a matter of fact, during the first few years of my life, I had a better grasp of English than Tagalog. But receiving this spiritual impression out of nowhere in Tagalog—the language native to my country—spoke truth to my heart.
I knew in that moment that God knows me in a very real and personal way.
I knew that He really is there. I knew that He speaks my language, that He loves me, and that He is aware of my struggles and weaknesses. I had that confirmation, but there was something else I needed to know for sure, so I sought out the answer immediately: “Heavenly Father, is Joseph Smith really a true prophet?” The feeling came again, this time more powerfully into my heart: “Totoo ‘to!”
I knew then that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. He saw both the Father and the Son. Through Joseph Smith, the gospel of Jesus Christ was restored in its fulness.
What peace and comfort and knowledge did I receive! At that moment, I wanted to rush out on the temple grounds, waving my small copy of the Book of Mormon in the air and exclaiming, “Totoo ‘to! Totoo ‘to!” I felt like Alma when he exclaimed, “Oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold” (Alma 36:20).
After this experience, my reason for going on a mission immediately changed. Soon my papers were in, and I got my call to serve in Colorado, USA. I was so excited. I knew that someone out there was experiencing what I had gone through—crying out for help and longing for happiness and truth. And I knew that through the gospel of Jesus Christ, they would find that help and happiness, just as I had.
I hope that we may all come to know: “Totoo ‘to!”

“I quietly observed the woman sitting next to me on my 7:00 a.m. flight home. She had ordered an alcoholic drink before the plane had taken off, and when she asked me if I was married, my negative judgments of her began piling up.
“‘Yes, I have four children and four grandchildren,’ I answered with some pride.
“She then told me something that changed everything. Her husband had passed away the previous day after being in a coma for five days. Though she was an emergency physician, she had been unable to save him after he collapsed while on vacation.
“I was ashamed that my quick judgments were so far off the mark. What could I say to her? As I gathered my composure, I felt Heavenly Father pour out His Spirit so I could minister to this woman and share some of the precious truths of the gospel.
“I learned that though she didn’t attend any church, she believed in Jesus Christ and read the Bible. When I asked if she knew about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, she replied that she knew very little. I shared with her a general conference message by Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) titled, ‘The Eternal Blessings of Marriage,’ and then testified of eternal families and how Heavenly Father knows and loves each of us individually. I found that she was going to Hawaii, USA, where she had grown up, and I encouraged her to visit the Laie Hawaii Temple.
“We parted in the Salt Lake City, Utah, airport. I am so grateful that the Lord was able to use me, in spite of my faults, to reach a sister in need of love and comfort.”
John Tippetts, Utah, USA

I was in the front yard, dragging our big, recently emptied trash cans around back, when I noticed a stranger walking down the street toward me. He wore casual clothes, with nothing to indicate his business.
“Are you Scott?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, wondering how he knew my name.
“Scott Allen?” he added.
“Yes,” I said again, my curiosity turning to apprehension.
The man then flashed a deputy marshall’s badge in my face. “Sit down!” he ordered.
I plopped down abruptly on our brick steps. Now I was really worried. My mind was racing. I could see myself being handcuffed and led away to a jail cell where red tape would keep me locked up with all sorts of scary men for who knew how long.
“I’m not the Scott Allen you’re looking for!” I told him.
“That’s what they all say,” he replied.

Looking the deputy in the eye and trying to keep my voice steady, I said, “There’s a guy going around committing crimes using my name. I have a card from the police that tells all about it.”
After what seemed like an eternity, the deputy said, “All right, let’s see it.”
He then stayed right on my heels as I went to my room, where I fished the card from my wallet. He kept one eye on me as he read, then dialed the number on the card.
“Looks like you check out,” he said as he handed the card back to me. “Sorry to scare you.”
Just then my mom walked in. She was surprised to see the stranger, and worried to see my shaken appearance.
The deputy quickly explained. He said that once a positive identification of the suspect is made, an officer is under no obligation to listen to explanations or arguments. He can just say, “You’re under arrest,” handcuff the suspect, read him his rights, then haul him off to jail.
“But,” he said to my mom, “your son didn’t look like a car thief, so I did something I rarely do—I gave him the benefit of the doubt and listened.”
I learned a powerful lesson that day about the importance of appearance. I was grateful I had a “missionary style” haircut and could look the deputy in the eye knowing I had nothing to hide. He saw who I truly was in my countenance. People do sometimes judge one another by appearance, and it’s important that the outside reflect what’s on the inside.

Thank you for the article “Praying Our Way to Church” (June 2010). When we are out of town on vacation my family rarely attends church. Recently I spent two weeks at a summer writing program and didn’t plan on attending church while I was away. During the plane ride I came across the article and read it with great interest. I prayed to find a way to go to church that next Sunday. I found out that I had to have a permission slip to be released from the campus, but after a little persistence I was able to attend Sunday meetings.
Samantha F.

A few years after my wife, Gisèle, and I returned from presiding over the Fiji Suva Mission, Gisèle was diagnosed with stomach cancer. The ordeal would eventually include three delicate surgical operations and complications that resulted in the complete removal of her stomach. It was at the height of watching my wife’s suffering that I came to better understand the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
I remember feeling completely overwhelmed by what Gisèle was experiencing. What had she done to deserve such an affliction? Hadn’t she served the Lord faithfully? Hadn’t she lived the Word of Wisdom? Why couldn’t He have prevented this illness? Why?
One particular night I let my heart and my feelings burst in prayer as I recounted to the Lord all of my frustrations. “I can no longer stand to watch my dear wife endure such pain!” I told Him. Then I decided to turn to the scriptures. I found these comforting verses about Jesus Christ in Alma 7:11–12:
“And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.
“And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.”
Until that moment I had not considered all that the Savior’s wondrous Atonement entailed. I had not truly realized that Jesus Christ would take upon Him Gisèle’s pain—or mine. I shifted my hurt and fear upon Him who takes “the pains and the sicknesses of his people.” With this new understanding, I felt a heavy burden lifted!
Today, Gisèle is doing very well, as though she never had cancer. At her regular checkups, her doctor tells her that she is “a miracle.” I am so grateful for her physical healing, but I am also grateful for the healing that I experienced, a healing of the heart. The comfort that is available only through the Savior gave me a peaceful assurance that everything would be all right.
Now whenever I face tribulation, my thoughts always turn to that powerful lesson and to what the Lord told the Prophet Joseph Smith: “The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?” (D&C 122:8). Remembering Jesus Christ’s sacrifice invariably comforts me.

I underwent an operation on September 24, 2018, and had many people by my side taking care of me. A few days after the operation and being discharged, while at home, I felt a lot of fever inside me. I visited the clinic again, and after several tests, they found that during the surgery to remove the colon tumor, they had left a small hole causing the fever. I developed sepsis because no hole was supposed to remain after the operation. I had to stay in the clinic for one more week.
On the third day of being hospitalized, I felt extremely sad. I prayed to Heavenly Father and asked many questions. After finishing my prayer and shedding many tears, there was a knock on the door of my room, and to my surprise, it was the two missionaries who were attending my ward at that time. Seeing me crying, they prayed with and encouraged me. I told them about the prayer I had made and how the Lord had sent these two messengers to me.
Thanks to my Heavenly Father, I overcame the sepsis and moved on to the next stage, which, although difficult, was a true miracle. I had to undergo chemotherapy, and when I received the first treatment, I suffered another health setback. A port was inserted to administer the chemotherapy, and the doctor who placed it put it in too high, causing me to have four embolisms and two pulmonary infarctions. My oncologist couldn’t explain how I had survived the embolisms and infarctions. I told her that I believed God was keeping me alive because I still had important work to do for Him.

The old car barely ran anymore. The engine stalled just as I pulled into the parking lot. There were few other cars around; it was just the beginning of August, and school didn’t start for another month. The dormitory was a long rectangle of orange-brown brick. It looked rather like a warehouse with lots of windows. I coasted to a space with a clear downhill run in front of it, so I wouldn’t have to get someone to push-start me when I had to leave. I set the parking brake and let out a big sigh. It had been more than two years.
I staggered up the steps with all my worldly possessions balanced precariously in my arms. Luckily someone had the door wedged open with a folded welcome mat. I plopped all of my things down in front of the table in the lobby where Coach Reese was passing out room keys.
“Marchant, David C.,” I said.
“Marchant …” he repeated as he sorted through his box of keys. He found one with my name on it and handed it to me. “Don’t we have to call you Pastor, or Father, or something like that now?”
“Coach, I explained all of that before I left,” I said with pretended impatience, “but if you’ve forgotten, I suppose I could spare an hour or two right now. Could you call for some pizza?”
“Always a wise guy,” he said, shaking his head. “I just hope you still remember how to play football after two years in South America.”
“Me too,” I called back as I started down the hallway with my pile of bags.
I could hear the music even before I got close to my room. Obviously my future roommate had already arrived, and he liked playing music loud enough to rattle our door. I carefully let my things fall to the floor of the hallway and listened. It definitely wasn’t the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The doorknob buzzed my fingertips as I turned it and stepped inside. Dorm rooms are comfortably furnished, about on par with your average state prison cell; they contain a couple of desks with chairs, two closets, and a pair of beds about six inches shorter than most football players. One of the beds in my room was occupied by a large young man casually flipping through the pages of a magazine. He had already staked claim to one side of the room; it was covered with posters, a pyramid of beer cans, and a giant stereo box that looked detailed enough to control a manned space flight. He hadn’t noticed me as I hadn’t yet made any noise over a hundred decibels, so I leaned in front of him and waved. He looked up with a start, stood up, and turned down the music. I’m six-foot-four, and he was a little taller than me, and looked generally like the kind of guy you like to have on your side if a fight ever breaks out.
“Mike Webster,” he said, grabbing my outstretched hand. “Freshman tight end.”
“Dave Marchant,” I said. “Sophomore linebacker.” I nodded my head toward the bare side of the room. “I’ll take this bed.”
Training camp is football’s version of the Missionary Training Center. For a month you’re cut off from the outside world. You do nothing but eat, sleep, and practice football, and your body soon feels like the losing entry in a demolition derby. The passage of time is eased somewhat by the wonderful company you keep; one hundred bruisers whose demeanor would give Miss Manners a terminal migraine. Actually, by the end of the month quite a brotherhood develops among teammates under such trying circumstances.
That first night all we had was an orientation meeting, and after it was over I went straight back to the room and got ready for bed. Mike came in a couple of minutes later.
“Man,” he said, “those coaches treated me like a king when they came to my high school in the spring.” He sat down on his bed and started examining the playbook they’d just given us. “Now they act like I’m some Marine recruit or something!”
I laughed a little, remembering my freshman year. “They tend to take things a little serious during camp,” I said, “but don’t let it get to you.” Out of habit I turned back the covers on my bed and knelt down to say my prayers. Even before I got started, I had a strange feeling that someone was watching me.
I turned around, and sure enough, Mike was staring at me like I’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a concerned voice. I wasn’t sure what to say. I got up and sat down on my bed for a second. I hadn’t thought about how I was going to act in situations like this. Before my mission it was easy being the only member of the Church on the team; I was just a Mormon incognito. I kept the gospel tucked carefully under a bushel, ensuring that no one could make life miserable for me. Remembering how I used to act was starting to make me feel guilty; here I was a returned missionary, and the guy who would be my roommate for a whole month didn’t even know I was a member of the Church.
“I believe in God and I’m saying my prayers,” I explained in my best door-approach-type voice. “I’ll be doing this every night and every morning.
You can basically ignore me, but I would appreciate it if there was no music playing during that time, if that’s possible.” His eyes were still as big as golf balls.
“Oh,” he said nervously. His eyes were searching as if he were looking for a possible escape route. “Fine. Fine. That’s uh … That’s just fine.” I turned back to my prayers. After I finished I stayed on my knees a while, thinking about what my duty as a missionary was in this situation. I should get up and tell Mike I’m Mormon, I thought. I should ask him what he knows about the Church and if he’d like to know more. Then I’ll challenge him to take the discussions. I reconsidered when I thought about how he reacted to my prayer. He’d freak out, I concluded to myself. He’d grab his stereo box and go sleep on a couch in the lobby tonight and ask coach for a room change first thing in the morning.
Then I remembered something my mission president had told me in my last interview with him, not two months before.
“Missionary work involves both planting and harvesting,” he counseled. “You have seen a lot of harvesting the past two years. Now go home and do some planting.”
For the first time, what President Bender had told me started to make sense. It was no longer my calling to teach Mike the discussions and challenge him to be baptized. My job now was to let the light of the gospel plant the seeds inside of him. I knew what to do. I’d throw away that candle-snuffing bushel, and I’d start acting more like a candlestick.
I climbed in bed and got ready to read my scriptures. I took out a blue missionary copy of the Book of Mormon and placed it in plain view on the edge of my desk. I opened the New Testament to Matthew, chapter 5, where the Savior talks about this whole candlestick and bushel thing. I glanced over at Mike, who was unsuccessfully trying to act nonchalant and ignore me. I was obviously the first praying and Bible-reading linebacker he’d met.
The next day during the afternoon practice, the linebackers, tight ends, and running backs met for tackling drill. This is a very sophisticated variation of running into a brick wall on purpose. Two players line up ten yards apart and run full speed into each other, smashing themselves senseless. I was fourth in line on my side. I looked over at the other side and saw Mike. He was third in his line. I said “excuse me,” and stepped around the guy in front of me, so I would be in line to tackle Mike. I could see Mike peering around his line, trying to see what I was doing. I could see a smile creep onto his face when he realized I had changed places so I could tackle him. I knew what he was thinking: This is one of those religious wimps. He reads the Bible. I hope I don’t put him in the hospital.
Now, for Mike to have a reasonable basis for serious consideration of the gospel, his preconception about men of faith would have to be reformed. So when our turn came I did my best. I have to admit that it was a great effort. I let out two years of pent-up tackling energy on Mike. Planting my helmet square into his number, I lifted him up off the ground and body-slammed him into the grass, ending up almost in a headstand on his sternum. He just lay there for a second. I helped him up, gave him a friendly slap on the helmet, and trotted off. When I got back in line I looked over and saw him in the other line, rubbing his chest and looking very perplexed. He was getting ready to see some light.
I continued to leave the Book of Mormon on the edge of the desk. It took another week before Mike’s curiosity got to him, or at least before I caught him. The linebacker meeting ran a little late that night, so when I got to the room I opened the door quietly in case Mike was asleep. He was leaning over from his side of the room, gingerly holding open the Book of Mormon with his fingertips, as if it might bite him, and peering inside.
“Hi there!” I said cheerfully. He just about jumped out of his socks.
“How ya doin’?” he said, trying to think of something to say. “I was just …”
“Listen,” I interrupted, “you can borrow that book anytime you want. You don’t even have to ask.”
“Oh no,” he stammered, “I don’t … uh …”
“Honestly,” I said. “It’s no bother. I have two copies.”
“Well,” he said, “maybe I will look at it some other time.” I left it at that.
Two nights later it was really hot, and I was having trouble sleeping. I could tell Mike was awake also, as I heard him wrestle with his sheets about every fives minutes in a vain effort to get comfortable.
“Marchant,” he whispered, “you awake?”
“Yeah,” I said, “what’s up?”
“Is that book—” he asked, “that blue one on your desk—is it like the Mormon Bible or something?”
“Well, it’s not a Mormon Bible,” I explained. “But it is a religious history, like the Bible is. We consider them both to be books of scripture.”
“What do you mean, history book!” he said out loud in the darkness.
“Well, Mike,” I started out, “the Bible is basically a religious history of the ancient Mideastern people, and the Book of Mormon is a religious history of the ancient American people.”
“Don’t give me that!” he shot back in the darkness. “That’s no history book.” He threw off the covers and turned on the light. He grabbed the Book of Mormon off my desk and flipped right to the page with Arnold Fribergs’s painting of a well-muscled Nephi on it.
“Look at this guy!” he said, shoving the book in my face and pointing to Nephi. “This looks more like Muscle and Fitness magazine!”
It took me the better part of an hour to explain that picture and all the rest of them to his satisfaction. After that Mike kept the Book of Mormon on his desk, and whenever we couldn’t sleep we would talk about the gospel.
At the first of September school started. Mike and I decided we’d see if we could room together for the whole school year. His parents flew in from California for the first home game, to see their son’s college debut. As I was jogging off the field after the game, Mike grabbed me and introduced me to them.
“Mom, Dad, this is my roommate, Dave Marchant. He’s that Mormon guy I’ve been telling you about.”
I got a lump in my throat. I was sure they were going to tell me that they weren’t going to allow Mike to have a roommate who was a religious fanatic.
“How do you do,” I said. “Your son is pretty tough for a freshman.”
“We’ve heard about you,” his father said as he shook my hand. Oh no, I thought to myself. Here it comes.
“And we want to thank you for being such a good friend to Mike,” he continued. His mother put her hand on my shoulder and said: “Our next-door neighbors at home are LDS, and they’re such fine people.” I offered a prayer of gratitude in my heart for the light of that family, whoever they were.
Mike’s parents took us both to dinner at their hotel, and afterward I drove him to the airport so he could see them off. They wanted to let us use their rental car to drive back to the university, because we always had to push-start my car, but we said we were used to it. On the way home, while we were stopped at a stoplight, I asked Mike if he had told his parents anything else about the Mormons, besides the fact that I was one.
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly, “I told them I was thinking about becoming one.”
“You did what?” I choked, as I popped the clutch and stalled the car right in the middle of the intersection.
“Well,” he explained, “I told them that I read the Book of Mormon and I think it’s true. They’ve always said that when I was old enough, I could choose my own religious beliefs. Anyway, I think we better get out of the middle of the intersection.”
He got out and push-started us. When we got going again I decided I had better find out if he was really serious.
“Mike,” I counseled, “are you sure about this? When did you read the Book of Mormon?”
“Whenever you weren’t around,” he said, “and sometimes I used my flashlight and read it after you were asleep. Anyway, it says in this part at the end to pray to God to find out if it’s true.” He stared out the window at the lights going by. “I did, and it is.” He turned toward me. “What do you have to do to belong to this church of yours?”
I started to feel that missionary glow inside again. It was a nice feeling.
“Well,” I said, “I suppose we could find some harvesters around town someplace.”
“Harvesters?” Mike’s voice had that concerned tone again.
“I meant missionaries,” I laughed. “I told you how I used to be one.”
“Oh, yeah,” he remembered. “Who push-started the car for you when you were in South America?”

For instance, consider my friend Bob and his watchcare over an elder who smoked. Nearly every morning, Bob would see a fellow member of his quorum and pray with him to help him overcome smoking and then give him a pack of Lifesavers or package of gum to help him during the day. Later, Bob would see him and his wife with hands linked across the temple altar, sealed for eternity. What was it that changed and helped to bring this all about? The gospel and “the heart and a willing mind.”

Laurels from Garland, Utah, got to know several women in their ward by becoming a “secret granddaughter” to them. Each girl chose a woman from the ward and then spent three weeks leaving small surprises and sending good wishes through the mail. During the fourth week, the girls interviewed their grandmothers about their lives. At the end of the activity, the Laurels gave a dinner party honoring their grandmothers.

The girls provided much-needed fellowship for the sisters, many of whom are in poor health. And they had a great time doing it. “This is the most fun activity we have ever planned,” said one Laurel.