Gospel Story Finder

But Brother Ng’s search for truth had started years earlier. His grandmother, a Buddhist, had begun attending Christian churches shortly before her death, and Brother Ng often accompanied her. “I was looking for a god who was different than the one I’d been taught about while growing up,” he remembers. “But the pastors and preachers at those meetings were difficult to approach, and they were more concerned with donations than with answering my questions.”
Brother Ng’s questions went unanswered until he met the missionaries. “From the beginning, I learned about our Father in Heaven and his son, Jesus Christ. The missionaries taught of our relationship to these beings. And they continually talked of being children of God,” he remembers.

A few months later, I made a decision that raised eyebrows all around me. I decided to serve a full-time mission too. My decision to serve came as a blow to a greater part of my family and my closest friends. Most of them, if not 100 percent of them, counselled me not to, but my desire to serve the Lord and humanity was not thwarted because I knew what foundation I was built upon and my parent’s trust and support kept me going.
Amid the impending situation, I felt so different from everyone else and I remembered the talk by President Monson in which he quotes an old Primary song: “Dare to be a Mormon; Dare to stand alone. Dare to have a purpose firm; Dare to make it known”.1
This ultimately drove me to obtain my patriarchal blessing, and in it I realized the Lord has a greater work for me and that it can be accomplished successfully only if I exercise unyielding faith in Him. That helped me press on to pursue His course.

“The Lord never asks us to do something that won’t help us in the end.”
Huia faced uncertainty when she received a prompting she didn’t expect. She shares, “When I was at a youth conference, I felt the strongest impression that I needed to serve a mission. My whole life I didn’t want to—like really didn’t want to. I was happy for my two brothers to go on missions, but it was not for me.
“I don’t deny it. I’ve tried to make other plans for myself, but in the back of my head, I always think, I should really do what He tells me to do.”
With time, Huia decided to do the Lord’s will and prepare for a mission. “I’m doing my best to prepare for that day, because I know that the Lord never asks us to do something that won’t help us in the end.”
While preparing to serve a mission, Huia’s seen the blessings of her obedience. “I can already see little ways the Lord is preparing the way for me to accomplish the things He’s asked me to do. I don’t always know exactly what will happen when I follow His guidance, but I know that there is always going to be a bright place afterward.”

2 Joseph F. never forgot one happy occasion when he sat on the knee of the Prophet Joseph Smith, brother of Hyrum. Joseph F. was only five years old and was playing on the bank of the Mississippi River when his father and his Uncle Joseph crossed the river on their way home to prepare to go to Carthage.
3 When they landed, little Joseph F. took his father’s hand, and they went with the Prophet to Hyrum’s house. There, while Hyrum was shaving, the Prophet took Joseph F. on his knee and said to his brother, “Hyrum, what’s the matter with Joseph; he seems so white?”
“Oh,” answered Hyrum, joking about the poverty of the family, “he lives on skim milk.”
4 Joseph F. always remembered the anguish he felt the last time he saw his father. He wrote, “Without getting off his horse, Father leaned over in his saddle and picked me up off the ground. He kissed me good-bye and put me down again, and I saw him ride away.” Several days passed before five-year-old Joseph F. and his mother, Mary Fielding Smith, had any news of Hyrum.
5 Then the tragic night came. Joseph F. later wrote, “I remember the night of the murder … when one of the brethren came from Carthage and knocked on Mother’s window after dark and, with a trembling voice, called to my mother, ‘Sister Smith, your husband has been killed.’”
6 Joseph F. always remembered the fear he felt that night as he lay in his bed listening to his mother crying.
7 Soon after Hyrum’s death, the family began making preparations to go west. With his father gone, Joseph F. assumed responsibility for helping his mother all he could. Not yet ten years of age, Joseph F. drove the oxen the entire distance from Winter Quarters to the Salt Lake Valley—over a thousand miles—in the summer of 1848.
8 This journey proved to be an extra hardship because the captain of their group was against Mary Fielding Smith and her family going on the arduous journey without a father to take care of their needs. He told Mary that she and her children would be a burden to the rest of the company. But Mary told the captain that she would ask no special favors, would make the trip without his help, and would even beat him to the valley! She kept her word, with much help from her young son, Joseph F., the future prophet.

When Austin Johnson asked his grandfather to help him complete the Genealogy merit badge requirements, he didn’t realize how much he’d enjoy researching his family tree. “I found a bunch of cool ties in my ancestors, like Benjamin F. Johnson, who was one of the best friends of the Prophet Joseph Smith. It makes me feel grateful that they decided to go through what wasn’t necessarily easy for them, because it changed how I live.”

David had been playing on a children’s baseball team all season. More than anything else he wanted to be a regular member on the team, and he wanted to be a pitcher. He never missed a practice or a game. Whenever his dad or his older brother could find the time, he’d get them to throw the ball back and forth with him. Even when David watched television he would wear his baseball glove and pop a ball in and out of it almost automatically. Sometimes he’d forget to take the mitt off when his mother called him for meals, and then the family would have to wait while David put the mitt away, washed his hands, and came to the table.
Near the end of the baseball season the coach told all the little leaguers they should meet at the ball park on a certain Sunday morning to have a special practice and to have their pictures taken. “I can’t come on Sunday,” said David.
“You’d better,” said the coach, “because we’re going to talk about our team for next year after we have our pictures taken.”
Usually, David ran home full of excitement after a ball game or a practice. But this night he was late, and he hardly answered when his family spoke to him. He was unusually quiet all week, but on Sunday he didn’t go to the ball park. On Monday he was at practice and at every practice afterward. Finally the day came for the tests to see who would be on next year’s team.
“You’ll be one of our regular pitchers,” the coach told David, “but you’ll have to play whenever a game is scheduled. We need you, and that will mean sometimes you will play on a Sunday.”
“I can’t play ball on Sundays,” David said.
“Then you’ll have to be an alternate pitcher instead of a regular one,” answered the coach. And that is how it was all season. Sometimes David had a chance to pitch a game but more often he didn’t. The other boys on the team played on Sundays, but David went to Sunday School and sacrament meeting with his family.
In the spring when David was ten years old, the coach called the boys together to begin a new season and to make selections for the team. “We’ll need you for a regular pitcher this year, David,” he said. “But sometimes you’ll need to play on a Sunday.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” said David. That night he talked the problem over with his dad, and then he said a special prayer for help to have the courage to do what he knew was right. The next day he told the coach he’d have to be just a standby pitcher again. The coach only shook his head.
Several weeks went by and David was at every practice. One night the coach called the boys around him. He explained that David couldn’t play ball on Sunday even though the team often had a game on that day. “But I’d like him to be our pitcher anyhow,” he went on. “If you agree, we could let David be our regular weekday pitcher and have a standby pitcher for Sunday games. How about it?”
There was a moment of silence. David could hardly breathe. The team members hesitated only a minute, and then every little leaguer agreed wholeheartedly to the plan.
The coach smiled. “Then it’s settled,” he said. “David will be our pitcher.” David’s eyes filled with tears. He knew that Heavenly Father had helped him to do what was right.

During the recent flood disaster at Rexburg, Idaho, one man was separated from his family by the raging torrents. He feared the worst but six hours later found that all had survived the ordeal. The next day he remarked: “I have lived my life under the false illusion that security was achieved by the accumulation of this world’s goods; but now, with all that swept away by the flood and my wife and children spared and at my side, all is well. I feel like a millionaire, and we are ready to start all over again.”

A freshman in college! I could hardly believe the excitement I felt at being on my own, of being free to make my own choices and be my own person. I quickly found out there was much more to university life than just going to school. I became immersed in the fun activities of college life, and many, many nights I stayed up past the moon.
Saturday nights in particular were a problem because everyone knew there were no classes the next day. My previous 100 percent attendance at church became a thing of the past. I logged so little sleep before my 9:00 A.M. Sunday meeting that crawling out of bed seemed physically impossible. On mornings when I was able to drag my limp body to the church doors—late, of course—even the hard, wooden benches seemed to invite me to stretch out and sleep.
Needless to say, I wasn’t getting much out of the meetings. Finally one Sunday I realized I hadn’t been to church for two weeks in a row. My conscience bothered me. Maybe that’s why I began reading in the Old Testament. If I couldn’t get to my formal meetings, maybe I could at least learn something on my own.
Then I noticed a scripture I had highlighted during some previous reading. The words seemed to almost grab me and shake me.
“I have taught thee in the way of wisdom; I have led thee in right paths. … Take fast hold of instructions; … for she is thy life. Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil men” (Prov. 4:11, 13–14).
It was as if my Heavenly Father were saying, “You should know better!” All of my life, loving parents, teachers, and leaders had taught me “the way of wisdom.” I had been led “in right paths.” I ought to have had enough understanding to know how to do what is right, to remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.
For the first time since I’d been at school, I realized the awesome responsibility I held for my own spirituality. It wasn’t up to my parents or other adults to keep me from the “path of the wicked.” I had to do it myself.
I guess I’m still something of a night owl. And I probably could do better at making sure I’m 100 percent prepared for the Sabbath. But since the day I read that scripture, I’ve learned that I’d better get some sleep on Saturday night if I want to be sharp on Sunday. It has become a priority in my life.

President Spencer W. Kimball also recognized the benefits of taking on a challenging goal. He told this story of a goal he made when he was 14:

“When I heard a Church leader from Salt Lake City tell us at conference that we should read the scriptures, … I walked to my home a block away … and I read the first chapters of Genesis. …

“I found that this Bible that I was reading had in it 66 books, and then I was nearly dissuaded when I found that it had in it 1,189 chapters, and then I also found that it had 1,519 pages. It was formidable, but I knew if others did it that I could do it.”

That amount of reading wasn’t easy for a teenager, but nevertheless President Kimball persevered and completed his goal. As an adult, he said, “I have always been glad I read the Bible from cover to cover.”

President Kimball benefited from taking the time to think through the logistics of his goal. Even though it sounded daunting, the information prepared him to succeed. As was the case with President Kimball, reaching for and achieving a challenging goal at a young age can bring feelings of confidence and satisfaction to serve us throughout life.

I had just graduated from high school and went to work as a disc jockey at a radio station. As I was making money and gaining valuable experience in broadcasting, the thought of serving a mission was pushed further and further from my mind. After much deliberation I accepted a mission call. I had a great mission and grew to know that some things in life are not as important as we sometimes feel. When I got home, the radio station that I had worked for before my mission called me and asked if I would like to return. I did and had a great opportunity to do sportscasting, my ultimate goal.
I shake when I think of the time that I considered not going on a mission in order to pursue my own goals. I know the Lord will bless you in your life pursuits when you decide to put his work first.
Scott C. Miller, 23Bountiful, Utah

My theory comes from thinking about many gifts and many holidays. But one day and one gift can illustrate it. The day was not Christmas. It was a summer day. My mother died in the early afternoon. My father, my brother, and I had gone from the hospital to our family home, just the three of us. Friends and family came to the house, and went. In a lull, we fixed ourselves a snack. And then we visited with more callers. It grew late, dusk fell, and I remember we had still not turned on the lights.
Dad answered the door bell. It was Aunt Catherine and Uncle Bill. When they’d walked just a few feet past the vestibule, Uncle Bill extended his hand and I could see that he was holding a bottle of cherries. I can still see the deep red, almost purple, cherries and the shining gold cap on the mason jar. He said, “You might enjoy these. You probably haven’t had dessert.”
We hadn’t. The three of us sat around the kitchen table and put some cherries in bowls and ate them as Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine cleared some dishes. Uncle Bill asked, “Are there people you haven’t had time to call? Just give me some names and I’ll do it.” We mentioned a few relatives who would want to know of mother’s death. And then Aunt Catherine and Uncle Bill were gone. They could not have been with us more than 20 minutes.
Now, you can understand my theory best if you focus on one gift: the bottle of cherries. As nearly as I can tell, the giving and receiving of a great gift always has three parts. Here they are, illustrated by that gift on a summer evening.
First, I knew that Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine had felt what I was feeling and had been touched. They must have felt we’d be too tired to fix much food. They must have felt that a bowl of cherries, home-canned cherries, would make us, for a moment, feel like a family again. Just knowing that someone had understood meant far more than the cherries themselves. I can’t remember the taste of the cherries, but I remember that someone knew my heart and cared.
Second, I felt the gift was free. I knew Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine had chosen freely to bring a gift. And I knew they weren’t doing it to compel a response from me. The gift seemed to provide them joy in the giving.
And third, there was sacrifice. I knew that from the cherries being home bottled. That meant Aunt Catherine had made them for her family. They must have liked cherries. But she took that possible pleasure for them and gave it to me. That’s sacrifice. But I realized since then this marvelous fact: it must have seemed to Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine that they’d have more pleasure if I had the cherries than if they did. There was sacrifice, but it was made for a greater return to them—my happiness. Anyone can feel deprived as they sacrifice, and then let the person who gets a gift know it. But only the expert can let you sense that his sacrifice brings him joy because it blesses you.

The warm spring sun sparkled on the melting snow, and icicles wept as Liv and Ivar gazed out the window at the rolling white ridges. From the wooden tower they could see their lonely ski tracks winding through the fir saplings.
“I feel as though we’re the only people left in Norway,” said Ivar solemnly.
“Looking at the mountains makes it seem that way,” Liv agreed a little uneasily. “But we know it isn’t so. Papa and Mama will soon be back from their skiing tour to Hornfjell. Let’s go back now so we can be at the hut before they arrive.”
Ivar was only six, and Liv had not intended to bring him so far. But the sight of the fire-watcher’s tower in the distance had tempted them to continue just when they had been going to turn back.
“Remember, we are the only family in the area this vacation,” Mama had warned Liv before she and Papa had left that morning. “That means you have to really take care of yourself and Ivar. I think twelve is old enough to do that.”
Her stomach growled, and Liv wished she had brought some sandwiches. Papa never went anywhere on skis without food and extra clothes in his backpack. “It’s best to be prepared for emergencies,” he always said. Thinking about Papa, Liv wanted to hurry. She hated to have him see that she had gone exploring unprepared.
“We may be the only people around here, but we are not the only animals,” said Liv as she stopped to fasten her skis. “Look at all the mouse tracks.”
“Where are the mice?” Ivar asked.
“They live in tunnels under the snow,” explained Liv. “They eat moss and seeds and sleep in grass nests. In the spring they come out and enjoy the sun.”
Ivar squatted and stared at a hole in the snow.
“Is it warm down there?” he asked.
“I think so,” said Liv. “The snow is like a blanket that keeps the wind and cold away.”
As Liv pulled Ivar’s cap down over his ears, she said, “Let’s go back along the north edge of this ridge. If we stay out of the trees we can go much faster.”
The snow was hardening in the late afternoon cool, and every kick gave them a long glide as they sped along.
“Look how long my shadow is, Liv,” called Ivar. “I’m a giant—a hungry giant.”
“We’ll be home soon,” she called back.
But Liv was pushing away fear. It seemed to her that they had skied farther now than on the trip to the tower. Maybe she had been wrong to take a different trail above the trees. They could be going astray.
“Let’s climb to the top of the ridge and see if we can see the lake by our cabin,” Liv suggested as she turned to face her brother. But Ivar was not behind her. He had been skiing more and more slowly until he was far behind.
“I can’t climb that hill,” Ivar sobbed when he caught up. “I’m too tired and I’m hungry.”
“I know you’re tired, but we have to get home before dark. I have a piece of chocolate I’ll give you at the top.” Liv’s heart was pounding, but she forced her voice to sound calm.
Slowly zigzagging up the short slope and urging Ivar along, Liv willed that the summit show them the way home. But when they reached the top, all she could see was another snowy ridge, and then another.
With shaking hands, Liv took out the chocolate bar and broke it in half. Ivar gobbled his piece in two bites, but she put hers back into her pocket. They might need it later.
Liv tried to think, but her mind was racing, leaping from idea to idea: They were not going to find the lake before dark. They were lost. It had already turned cold, and the slushy snow would soon be ice. As long as they exercised, they might keep warm enough, but how much longer could Ivar go on? “Let’s get off this ridge. The wind is coming up.” Liv’s voice wavered as she fought back tears.
Branches caught at their clothes, and buried stumps tripped them as they picked their way down through the trees. When Ivar fell, he lay listlessly in the snow until Liv pulled him up by the arm and set him on his skis again.
At the bottom of the hill there was a meadow, and as the last light faded, Liv thought she could see a shed on the other side. Despair ran through her like ice water when the shed turned out to be nothing more than four posts and a roof to protect hay from rain. A few armloads of last summer’s hay lay scattered about.
Ivar was shivering. He was silent except for an occasional whimper. Like a little mouse, thought Liv sadly.
Of course! Like a little mouse! Suddenly she knew what to do. “I’m going to make a mouse house, and you can help,” she announced with all the enthusiasm she could muster.
She yanked a loose shingle from the hay shelter. Finding a sapling bent almost double by the snow, Liv began digging under it as fast as she could. The branches would provide support for the roof of a tunnel.
“Bring that hay over here, please,” she called to Ivar.
Ivar slowly gathered an armload of hay and shuffled over to Liv. When he saw how the snow was flying, he hurried for the second load. The more he hurried, the warmer he got.
When the tunnel was deep enough, Liv stuffed the old hay inside. “Now,” she said, “the ‘mice’ are going to crawl into their warm grass nest.”
Ivar chuckled, and the two of them wiggled feet first into the snow cave. Liv pulled hay over the top of them, and they curled up together. It wasn’t exactly toasty, but Liv knew that at least it wasn’t going to get any colder.
After an eternity of holding the gently snoring Ivar, Liv heard the skreek, skreek of skis on icy snow. She wriggled out of the tunnel and peered across the meadow. There, not ten meters away, was a looming figure with a bright lantern attached to its forehead.
“Papa!” cried Liv bursting out of the cave in a flurry of snow and moldy hay.
“Thank goodness! There you are at last.” Papa sounded angry, but when Liv told him what they had done to keep warm, he started to laugh and she knew everything was all right.
As they hugged each other, Ivar popped out of the hole. “Did you know mice live under the snow, Papa? Liv did.” Ivar danced with excitement.
Papa put down his heavy pack. He had brought a small tent, warm sleeping bags, plenty of gjetost (goat cheese) and kneipbrod (brown bread).
“How did you find us?” Liv asked when they were settled inside the tent.
“I followed your tracks. They froze solid before the wind could cover them. Since no one else is around here, I knew they were yours.”
Later, when Ivar was sleeping, Liv whispered, “Are you cross with me, Papa, for being so foolish?”
“No,” he said softly. “You broke the safety rules, but you saved Ivar and yourself by using your wits.”

A young mother knelt beside her three-year-old and listened to his heartfelt bedtime prayer. As he gave thanks for his big brother, for snow, for clouds, and for pizza, she tried to remember the last time she had thanked the Lord for such things. She realized that, although she always thanked our Heavenly Father for health, family, and the gospel, she had forgotten to remember the plain, the ordinary, the simple blessings of her own life. When she began expressing daily gratitude for all these blessings, she saw the world with new eyes. She found that grief and hardship became easier to bear and that she was spiritually nourished (see Lisa Ray Turner, Ensign, July 1992, pages 51–52).

A few years ago, the company for which I worked transferred me and my family to Southern California. A few weeks before we moved, Arnold, a neighbor, told me a story that I will never forget.
One Saturday afternoon he saw our three-year-old son, Lawrence, in front of his house. Lawrence was down on his hands and knees searching for something in the gravel and along the sidewalk. When Arnold came outside to get the paper, he asked Lawrence what he was looking for. Lawrence told him that he had lost a nickel. Then Arnold went back inside his house to read the newspaper.
Several hours later when he looked outside again, Lawrence was still out there. It was beginning to get dark. Lawrence had taken off his shoes so he could rub his bare feet around with the hope that he could feel the nickel that had somehow escaped his sight.
Our neighbor went outside to offer his sympathy and then suggested, “Maybe you should go home and come back tomorrow when it’s lighter.”
Lawrence picked up his shoes, came home, and told his mother and me that he had lost his nickel. Later that evening when Lawrence went to bed his mother comforted him, “Maybe you can find your nickel tomorrow.”
The next morning when Arnold went to get the Sunday newspaper, Lawrence was in his pajamas searching in the grass.
“My, but you are up early this morning,” Arnold said. “Are you still looking for your lost nickel?”
Lawrence nodded his head and kept on looking.
A short time later, Lawrence came into the house and came to our bedroom and shook his mother. “I found my nickel,” he told her, his voice full of pleasure.
Hardly being awake, his mother answered sleepily, “Fine, Lawrence, go back to bed.”
I made the same kind of suggestion to him and he went downstairs to his own room.
Not long afterward the older boys and I got up and went to priesthood meeting. When we came home, Lawrence and the rest of the family were all ready to go to Sunday School. When we walked through the front door of the chapel, we met Arnold.
“Well, Lawrence, you must have found your nickel,” he said.
“Yes, it was my tithing saves,” Lawrence replied.
Arnold said he was humbled by a three-year-old boy who had taken a great deal of time to look for a nickel—not just to have his nickel but because it belonged to the Lord.
On the day we were ready to move, Arnold and his wife came to tell us good-bye and give us a package. I’ll never forget my feeling when we unwrapped the package and found inside a framed picture of a nickel pasted on a piece of white cardboard. Underneath the coin these words were written: The Lord’s Nickel.

I recently learned about an experience in the life of Elder James E. Talmage that caused me to pause and consider how I love and serve those around me. As a young professor, before he became an Apostle, in the height of the deadly diphtheria epidemic of 1892, Elder Talmage discovered a family of strangers, not members of the Church, who lived near him and who were stricken by the disease. No one wanted to put themselves at risk by going inside the infected home. Elder Talmage, however, immediately proceeded to the home. He found four children: a two-and-a-half-year-old dead on the bed, a five-year-old and ten-year-old in great pain, and a weakened thirteen-year-old. The parents were suffering with grief and fatigue.

Elder Talmage dressed the dead and the living, swept the rooms, carried out the soiled clothing, and burned filthy rags covered with the disease. He worked all day and then returned the next morning. The ten-year-old died during the night. He lifted and held the five-year-old. She coughed bloody mucus all over his face and clothes. He wrote, “I could not put her from me,” and he held her until she died in his arms. He helped bury all three children and arranged for food and clean clothing for the grieving family. Upon returning home, Brother Talmage disposed of his clothes, bathed in a zinc solution, quarantined himself from his family, and suffered through a mild attack of the disease.20

One preparatory event happened when I was in an auto accident while visiting France. Moments after I was strongly prompted to fasten my seat belt, the car skidded and plummeted down a 20-foot (6-m) embankment. Because of the warning voice and because I regained use of my feet and legs while others with similar injuries are often left permanently paralyzed, I began to understand that a divine power much greater than I was in control.

One afternoon during my internship as an air traffic controller at the airport in Tijuana, Mexico, my instructor and I noticed that a fogbank from the ocean had covered the airport and a large part of the city. Visibility, however, was within the limits allowed for aircraft to land and take off.
Soon, we detected on radar a Cessna 172 coming from the south along the coast, flying via visual flight rules (VFR). Under VFR, pilots locate themselves visually with reference points on the ground to reach their destination.
Unfortunately, the pilot had gotten lost in the fog. Flying in circles around the coastal area, he tried to locate himself in relation to the airport, but the poor visibility restricted his vision. I asked my instructor what we could do to help him.
“He needs to tune in to the tower’s airband frequency and communicate with us,” he replied. “Otherwise, we can’t do anything for him.”
I didn’t understand why the lost pilot didn’t communicate with us. Did he have a problem with his radio? Did he feel that he could get out of danger by himself?
Minutes passed. Finally, the pilot tuned in to the tower frequency. With a worried tone, he asked for help. Immediately we gave him directions to lead him safely to the airport runway. He just had to trust our instructions and his flight instruments.
Seeing the plane emerge from the fog a few minutes later and then land safely gave us indescribable joy.
On the way home, I pondered what the pilot had experienced. Calling us on the right airband frequency made the difference between receiving help or flying in circles—or worse.

The bishop asked me later if I knew when I visited the old man that Sunday afternoon. I guess I did.
“Jamie, come in. And you got Mark with you too. Come on in.”
We stood in front of him as he lay in the hospital bed. “Mark, crank me up so I can get a good look at you both.” Mark looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Down at the foot of the bed, you see a big handle there? Looks like they took it from a Model T, don’t it?” Mark finally found it. “You turn that a few times and I’ll be able to see something besides the ceiling.” Mark turned the handle and the upper end of the bed began to rise. “Not too much. I don’t want to be bent double. There, that’s fine.”
“Jamie, it’s good to see you.” He put out his hand for me to shake. I knew he was pretty sick because his grip was so weak.
“I got permission from the bishop for Mark and me to come and give you the sacrament.”
“I’d be pleased to take it, boys.” We closed the door to the hall, and I took a small slice of my mom’s homemade bread and put it on a paper plate. Mark filled a paper cup with water. I took the bread and carefully broke it and then knelt down and read the prayer. Afterwards I held the plate while he reached down and guided a piece to his mouth. Then Mark knelt down and blessed the water and handed him the cup. He spilled a little of it, but mostly he did fine. When he finished, he had tears in his eyes. “Thank you, boys.”
Mark sat around for a few minutes and then said he had to go home. He didn’t know the old man like I did.
The old man and I sat around and talked a little and watched the afternoon shadow move across the floor.
He was very old. His face was tough as if the wind and sun had carved out the soft flesh and left only the leathery surface. For 60 years he had farmed in the valley until his children had grown up and left, his wife had died, and he was alone with his garden, a plug horse named Blaze, and the Church.
I guess he’d always been in our ward, but kind of in the background. But I remember he used to bear his testimony nearly every month, and whenever Dad took me to the welfare farm for a work party, he would always be there.
When I turned 14 and was called to go home teaching, I was assigned to be his companion. He didn’t have a car and I didn’t drive then, so I rode my bike over to his place, now just a little way out of town since things had grown so much since he first moved there.
His living room had a round kitchen table with four chairs around it, with a shaggy throw rug on the floor and a reading lamp that hung from the high ceiling. Lying on the table were a large copy of the Book of Mormon and a Bible.
He shuffled over to the reading lamp and switched it on. Once he told me a horse had kicked him and left him with a limp. He stood there looking at me and then reached in his back pocket and pulled out a large handkerchief and wiped his nose.
“Jamie, we got to have a word of prayer.” He grabbed the edge of the table for support and lowered himself to a kneeling position with his hands folded on the seat of the chair. Then he looked up at me and said, “You kneel, don’t you?”
I knelt down.
“Father in heaven,” he began, “Jamie and me come to ask thee to help us as we go as home teachers into the homes of thy Saints.” It was a long prayer, and my knees were soon aching, so I tried to shift my weight around to get a better position, but by the time I found it, he had finished.
“Jamie, help me up.”
I reached down and put my arm under his elbow and pulled. He was a big man, and it was a struggle to get him on his feet.
He walked over to the window and looked out.
“Come over here. Do you see the place over there by the big tree, and the place next to it down the road? On the way here, do you remember seeing the place with the ‘Rhubarb for Sale’ sign nailed to the fence?” I nodded my head. “The Lord’s given us stewardship over those families. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes sir.”
“What does it mean?”
“Well, we have to visit them once a month.”
He rubbed one hand over his stubble beard. “Is that what you think it means?”
“I think so.”
“You got a long way to go, son.”
The nurse came in and gave him some pills. He didn’t look very good. But when he talked, and you forgot about the chalky grayness of his face and his short, quick breaths, he was the same.
“Did you go fishing yesterday?”
“No, I’m waiting for you to get out so we can go together.”
He looked out the window for a long time, and I thought he hadn’t heard me. But after a few minutes he turned to me.
“Jamie, you better learn to tie your own flies. I can’t furnish you with free equipment your whole life.”
“I will.”
“I would have taught you before, but you were such a slow learner at fishing. I thought I’d better wait.”
The first time he offered to take me fishing behind his place, I brought the stuff my friends and I used when we fished from the old country bridge.
“What kind of a rig you call that?” He looked at my large lead sinker and a treble hook with a wad of dried-up cheese stuck to it. “Here, let me see that. You’re not supposed to club the fish to death.” He took the sinker from the line. “And what’s this?” he said, pointing to the cheese. “You bring your lunch?”
“I usually use worms or cheese for bait.”
He shook his head. “I’ll teach you to fly fish. Then you’ll know something about fishing.”
He stepped a little ways into the river so he could get a free swing with his fly rod. “Look over there, just in front of the boulder.” He whipped the fly line back and forth a couple of times to let out line, and then cast. The fly landed gently on the water and glided into the swirling water downstream from the boulder. Suddenly the water boiled as a German Brown rose up and took the fly. He carefully fought it to his side and then reached down and swished it up in his net. “You think you can learn to do that?” he said as he reached down into the net and pulled out the trout and dropped him gently back into the water.
Nearly every weekday afternoon that summer I’d go over to his place with my rod, and we’d walk across his field to the river. He taught me how to cast a fly rod, and where to stand, and what kind of flies to use for each part of the summer. “You got to find out what they’re feeding on, Jamie. That’s the secret.”
He slept a while because of the pills. The bishop stopped by to see him, but saw him asleep, and said he’d come back later.
The second month that we went home teaching, Brother Johnson had just bought a new horse. And so we walked out to the corral and took a look.
“Mort, how much you pay for that mare?”
“About a thousand dollars. Why?”
“She’s a fine horse. How come you spent so much money for her?”
“She’s got a good line.” Then he stopped and looked at the old man. “Why are you asking me a question like that? You been around horses most of your life.”
“I never had a horse worth a thousand bucks. What will you do with her, sell her to the glue factory?”
“You know I’m not going to do that.”
“Yep, I know that.” He looked at the mare for a while and then turned to Brother Johnson and said, “Mort, how long did your dad serve as a bishop?”
“About ten years, I guess. Why?”
“You come from a good line, Mort. As far as the Lord is concerned, you’re registered stock. But you’re no good to the Lord the way you are now. It’d be less of a waste to sell that horse to the rendering plant as for you to keep away from church any longer. The Lord wants you back in harness, Mort.”
Brother Johnson took the toothpick out of his mouth and dropped it on the ground. “You may be right,” he said simply.
When the old man woke up, he was embarrassed that he’d fallen asleep. But I said it was okay; I didn’t mind, and it would make him get better fast.
“Jamie, you been here too long. Your folks’ll be worrying about you.”
“It’s okay. They know I’m here.”
He turned his head so he could see outside. “What day is it?”
“June 13.”
“June 13. Now starting in a few days, I’d try an Adams with a number 14 hook. You got enough flies? If you need any, you know where they are.”
All of a sudden he seemed to get some strength, and he leaned forward. “Now, you keep visiting them families, you hear? The Johnsons are coming along fine, but you ask the bishop to get the Scoutmaster over there to get their boy Brad in Scouting.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard, and there was an urgency to his voice. “Jamie, you keep yourself clean so you can marry a pure and beautiful LDS girl in the temple when the time comes. And get ready to go on your mission. You need to read the scriptures more than you do.”
“I will.”
He still was holding onto my hand. “Jamie, once on my mission I went and saw the changing of the guards … Jamie …”
Before he could finish, a nurse stuck her head into the room. “I’m sorry but visiting hours are over.”
He released his grip. “You’d better go, Jamie. Come back tomorrow if you can.”
The next day when I got home from my softball game, my mom told me he had died that afternoon.
I walked over to his place and down the path to the fishing spot on the river where we used to go, and sat down on a rock. The river takes a bend just upstream from that point, and there was a hole where the eddy currents curled around in slow lazy loops, and there, he told me, the fish stayed when they were feeding on a hatch of flies coming down the river. The spot was hard to find because of the growth of trees on both sides, and most people who fished it probably got their line tangled in the fallen branches that lay in the water. But he told me where to stand and how to cast so you avoided the hidden traps.
My thoughts were interrupted by a trout jumping clear of the water for a fly. And then, for a moment, I could hear in my mind the old man say, “Don’t whip the water, just let it slide down nice and easy. You’re supposed to make the fish think a fly is landing on the water and not that a tree has fallen into the river. Use the Royal Coachman now, Jamie. How come you’ve never read the Book of Mormon? I want you to read it, and in three months I want you to tell Brother Johnson about it and bear your testimony.”
I sat there for a couple of hours thinking about him, until finally it was too dark and I got up and walked back down the path to my home.

As I mentioned in the beginning, I grew up on a ranch in a dry part of Utah. I did not see the ocean until I flew over it on my way to my mission in Australia. I could not believe how much water was underneath that airplane and I was very grateful that I was in the air and not on the water. In 1970, I met Sister Olson at the Latter-day Saint Student Association International Conference that was held at BYU Provo. After we dated for a short while and things were getting more serious in our relationship, Sister Olson's family wanted to see how this cowboy would fit into their family who happened to be a family of surfers from California. Once, when we were dating, I took a trip to California to visit Sister Olson. Her family suggested that we go surfing. Being the strong and courageous young man that I was, I agreed because I was eager to fit in. Little did they know how absolutely terrified I was to go surfing in the ocean. Swimming to me at that time was a matter of survival and I knew that if I fell off the surfboard I would be in big trouble.

When we got to the beach and they pulled their surfboards out, the first thing I noticed was that there were no lifejackets. I couldn't understand how you could go swim in the ocean and have the water below you 10,000 feet deep and not have a life jacket on. I didn't say what I was thinking because this cowboy from Utah had to be tough. My father-in-law to be gave me some instructions on the beach as I listened intently. Finally he said, "Let's go. Just come and follow me."

We paddled out what I thought seemed to be a mile. The shaking and shivering that I was experiencing was not just because the water was cold. My arms and shoulders ached, my chest was rubbed raw and I was scared to death. I had noticed that the surfboards did not have a leash attached to them like I see on today's surfboards, so obviously there was nothing attached to me. As I paddled out, I thought to myself that when I fell off the surfboard I would just grab the board and hold on for dear life. Judy's father caught a few waves and kept instructing me on what I needed to do. Finally he said that it was time for me to try to catch a wave. I did notice that we were not out a mile from the beach; We were just several hundred yards out, but that didn't make any difference to me because if I didn't fall ON the surfboard, I knew I was going to drown in that 10,000 feet of water that was below me. I did catch a little wave and actually did begin to stand up when the surfboard shot out from under me, faster than I thought was possible and way too fast for me to grab hold of it. I thought to myself, "Well my life was a pretty good life. Now I'm going to die." As I fell into the water, all of a sudden I hit the bottom. I stood up and the water was only neck deep. You don't know how relieved and grateful I was. I had a wonderful time the rest of the day because I knew there was a firm and solid foundation underneath me. Wherever we go, whatever we are doing, whatever circumstances that this life deals us, we must stand on solid ground and be not moved.

I was serving as a senior sister missionary in the Missouri Independence Mission when Church meetings were canceled and we began self-isolating in our apartments. We used our phones and computers to keep in touch with members and to reach out to those we were working with, who didn’t attend church regularly.
To keep busy, I decided to do some family history, even though for quite a while it has been difficult for me to find any new names. When I logged on to FamilySearch, I found a notification of a record waiting to be attached. That one record led me to find about 70 people in my line. After five days, the flow of names stopped. Later that day, we found out we were all being released to go home. I am sad to leave, but I also feel blessed that I was able to serve family on the other side of the veil during this difficult time.
Kim Nielson, Oregon, USA