Gospel Story Finder

I would like to tell you of another who lived the Golden Rule. Many already know part of this story. It occurred a few years ago in the winter at O’Hare International Airport, that great and busy place that serves the city of Chicago. On this occasion a severe storm had caused delays and cancellations of flights. The thousands of people stranded or delayed there were impatient and cross and irritable. Among those in trouble was a woman, a young mother standing in a long line at the check-in counter. She had a two-year-old child who was on the dirty floor at her feet. She was pregnant with another child. She was sick and weary to the bone. Her doctor had warned her against bending and picking up anything heavy, so as she moved slowly with the line she pushed her crying and hungry child with her foot. People who saw her made critical remarks, but none offered to help.
Then a man came toward her and with a smile of kindness on his face said, “You need help. Let me help you.” He lifted the dirty, crying child from the floor and held her warmly in his arms. Taking a stick of gum from his pocket, he gave it to the child. Its sweet taste calmed her. He explained to those in the line the woman’s need of help, then took her to the head of the line, spoke with the ticket agent, and soon had her checked in. He then found seats where she and her child could be comfortable, chatted for a moment, and disappeared into the crowd without giving his name. She went on her way to her home in Michigan.
Years later there came to the office of the President of the Church a letter which reads as follows:
“Dear President Kimball:
“I am a student at Brigham Young University. I have just returned from my mission in Munich, West Germany. I had a lovely mission and learned much. …
“I was sitting in priesthood meeting last week, when a story was told of a loving service which you performed some twenty-one years ago in the Chicago airport. The story told of how you met a young pregnant mother with a … screaming child, in … distress, waiting in a long line for her tickets. She was threatening miscarriage and therefore couldn’t lift her child to comfort her. She had experienced four previous miscarriages, which gave added reason for the doctor’s orders not to bend or lift.
“You comforted the crying child and explained the dilemma to the other passengers in line. This act of love took the strain and tension off my mother. I was born a few months later in Flint, Michigan.
“I just want to thank you for your love. Thank you for your example!”
The world truly would be a different place if each of us frequently and seriously considered our Lord’s request: “Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them” (Matt. 7:12).

Why?
Sven stood watching as his brothers, Nils and Erik, began digging. An icy wind had started, and the snow was falling hard again. It had been snowing steadily now for ten days. Sven folded his arms tightly against his body, more out of habit than for warmth; the question was more bitter than any pain the cold and the snow could bring.
Why had He brought them here for this?
Back behind his family’s tent Sven could see the other members of the company moving their carts into line getting ready to start for the day. A large man wrapped in a heavy wool blanket left the line and walked to their camp and stood by their fire.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” the man said, “but there’s no time for this. You’ll just have to cover her with snow. We have to be moving.”
Nils slammed his pick down and glared at the man: “We won’t bury her in the snow.”
“We’ll catch up,” Erik said.
The man glanced over his shoulder at the line of handcarts.
“We’ve lost people who’ve stayed behind and tried to catch up.”
“The wolves …” Erik said. “It’s hard enough for our father as it is. We can’t bury her in the snow.”
The man looked at the tent and nodded his head.
“I heard your father was taking it pretty badly.”
The man held his hands over the fire for nearly a full minute savoring the heat.
“We can’t help you if you get into trouble. I’m sorry. There were five others who died last night.” The man turned and walked away. Nils started hammering at the frozen earth again. Erik looked at Sven.
“Get the covering from the handcart and put it in the tent.”
The canvas was frozen stiff. Sven shook the snow from it and then carefully folded it. In the tent he found his father kneeling next to his mother. Except for the paleness of his mother’s face, she looked more alive than his father did.
“You’d better come out by the fire, father,” Sven said. His father didn’t move. He was a large man. He’d been a stonecutter in Sweden and planned on helping to build the temple in Zion.
Now, Sven thought, his face looks like it’s been cut from the same gray stone he once worked with. Sven set the canvas down and backed out of the tent. Through the haze of the falling snow he could see the line of handcarts moving slowly away. He watched until they vanished.
When the grave was nearly two feet deep, Erik stopped digging. “This will have to do.”
“No,” Nils said. “It’s not deep enough.”
“It’s nearly noon. We won’t be able to catch up to the company if we wait any longer.”
“Just a little more.” Nils started digging again. Erik stepped from the grave.
“Sven, you’ll have to help me.”
Erik bent down and entered the tent. Sven followed. Their father hadn’t moved. He was still kneeling next to their mother.
“We’ve finished digging, father.”
Their father remained motionless.
“We’re nearly half a day behind the company.”
Erik took a deep breath, picked up the canvas, and spread it next to his mother’s body. He then took the blanket that was covering her and laid it on the canvas. Sven knew they needed the blanket, but it felt right to leave it with her. She’d given them so much.
Why?
The question was now an incessant drumming in his consciousness that muted all other thoughts and memories.
“She looks so young,” Erik said. “It’s as if death is giving her back her youth.”
Sven looked at her face. She did look young. There was a slight smile. He remembered how easily a smile had always come to her face. When they had decided to go to Utah, he remembered how happy she had been. “Zion,” she’d said. “We’re going to Zion.” Sven had never heard a word spoken with more pleasure.
“Zion.” He unconsciously whispered the word out loud. His father looked up at him.
“Lift her shoulders,” Erik said.
They lifted her onto the blanket and then carefully wrapped her in it. Erik tied the bundle with a cord. Their father followed them out of the tent. Nils stepped from the grave, and they laid the body down gently. The dark earth in the grave and the canvas were quickly covered by snow.
“What do we say? The prayer should be right.”
“I’ve never done it before, not a funeral,” Erik said. “I think father should do it.”
He shook his head without looking up.
“Maybe it’s like the baptism prayer.”
“We have the priesthood,” Erik said. “It will be right. The words will come.”
Erik reached out his hand for Nils and his father. They took hands, the four of them, and knelt in the snow.
“By the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood and in the name of the Savior,” Erik began the prayer. He whispered the words and sometimes the sound of his voice was lost in the wind, but still, somehow, they all heard the prayer.
Sven felt the tenseness in his brother’s hands relax. The pain that he felt also should have been softened by the prayer, but the question, the drumming noise in his head that was as intense as thunder, was too loud.
Why?
How could God allow this to happen? Sven had seen others die on the journey to Zion, friends, people he loved, but somehow that was distant, and then his mother had always been there to help him understand. In Sweden when his best friend, Ole, had drowned, his mother had talked with him the entire night after the accident happened. Where was she now for this death, the death that he needed her the most for?
When the prayer was finished, they stood.
“I wish we had some flowers, anything.”
“She always loved flowers.”
Erik took the shovel and began to fill the grave.
Their father held out his hand. “Wait.”
He walked over to the cart and took out a small bag and then walked back to the grave. He poured the contents of the bag into his hand.
“They were her favorite flowers.” His voice was hoarse.
He scattered the dark seeds over the grave.
That night, when they finally reached the company, and two days later, when help reached them from Salt Lake City, the question with its dulling thunder was still with Sven. It was with him five years later when he was traveling from Salt Lake City to the East to buy equipment for their stonecutting business.
The weather was cool and crisp when the sun came up over the mountains. Sven’s breath steamed up in the morning, but the newborn sunlight was warm on his face. It was spring. The leaves on the trees were a bright yellow-green, and the earth was covered with new grass.
Sven made his way carefully down a slope. He’d been drawn back to this area. This was where they had traveled with their handcarts. Somewhere on this trail his mother was buried.
He started up a long narrow swale. The floor of the hollow was covered with clover, and dandelions were scattered along the edge of a small stream. Sven couldn’t remember the stream or the trees or even the shape of the land, but the place was still familiar. His recognition was more of a feeling. The morning was warm now. The sunlight was strong, but Sven felt cold. He shivered. The question was drumming hard. It was more than just a question about his mother’s death now. It was his own death that he was facing also.
Sven stopped. There was something, something familiar, a fragrance. It was a memory that took him back beyond the day when his mother had died, back to Sweden. It was a good smell, the smell of his old home. With it came the memory of other smells of baking bread, of a warm fire, of linen. He started walking toward the fragrance. The small valley twisted ahead, and around the turn it broadened into a meadow. Sven stopped again. He began to feel what he knew was true, about eternity, about the things his mother had tried to teach him, about life continuing after death.
An area in the meadow, near the stream, was covered with the same flowers his mother had planted around their home in Sweden.

The next morning, Sunday dawns warm and sunny, with a sky full of puffy white clouds. Buenos Aires is a beautiful city of broad, tree-lined boulevards—think of it as Paris with palm trees. Later in the morning, sidewalks and parks will fill with people out for a stroll. For now, some of the busiest places are the LDS chapels, like the one in the suburb of Belgrano. Here you meet young people like Federico Casco. His dad was going to the United States on business, and Federico had the chance to go along and visit Disneyland. Instead, he stayed home so he could have four years of perfect attendance at seminary. Now he’s graduated, and he says, “It was a light in my life. It helped me obtain a stronger testimony and helped me decide to go on a mission.”

Going on missions is not easy for Argentine youth. The economy is just starting to improve after years of high unemployment and super-high inflation. There are very few jobs available for young people under 18, so saving money is tough. On the bright side, without part-time jobs, friends have more time for each other and for Church service.

Mauro Berta is first counselor in his ward Sunday School and an assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. Florencia Gomez is Young Women’s secretary and teaches the Stars in Primary. And Guillermo Pitbladdo is Sunday School president. Sunday night finds them at the Pacheco chapel with other friends from their stake.

These are not just recent converts, clinging to seminary to learn about their new faith. Many of them come from second- and third-generation Latter-day Saint families. They have been taught the gospel in their homes. But Diego Griffith says, “Everything I had not learned during the fourteen years that I have been a member of the Church I learned in four years of seminary. That’s where I started to become more familiar with the scriptures and where I learned about the promises of the Lord.”

Besides, as Debora Walker points out, when you are a teen, there seem to be lots more temptations around, and without seminary “it would be much more difficult to resist those temptations.”

Maybe Juan José Zopetti sums it up best: “Seminary helps me primarily to increase my testimony of Jesus Christ—his love and his mission.”

That restored knowledge of Jesus Christ—his mission and commandments—that’s the gospel. That’s what Elder Ballard sent rolling forth across a whole continent nearly 70 years ago. And here at the center, where it began, LDS youth are making sure the wave is still building.

I read with great interest the article about President Walter Stover in the May 1987 issue. It brought back cherished memories of that beloved man, my conversion to the church in 1947, the Freud-Echo in Berlin in 1948, and, yes, the green Cadillac! I saw the Caddy late one evening in Zwickau, driving up the Bahnhofstrasse. It was quite a sight for us Germans. What a huge car!
At the Freud-Echo, President Stover awarded me a Book of Mormon with his signature for winning in writing a poem. My Book of Mormon is rather old and in bad repair by now. I think I’ll have it restored since it is very special to me.
I hope President Stover is happy and in good health. A lot of German Saints keep him in their hearts and prayers.
God bless President Stover always.

An act of service on the part of my neighbors taught me a memorable lesson on the importance of identifying others’ needs and helping to meet them.
As a single mother of three children, I had learned to be rather self-reliant in caring for my family. However, in the spring of 1989, changes in my circumstances brought new challenges. My older son, a returned missionary, was married and serving far away as a United States Navy officer. My daughter and younger son were preparing to leave within two weeks of each other for missionary service. For the first time, I would be alone.
Well, I would not be completely alone—there was Mischa, our large, beautiful Samoyed dog. One of the children took her for a walk every day, but now that they would all be gone, this task would become mine. The problem was, I was scheduled to undergo surgery for bone spurs in my heel, and walking would be extremely painful for at least several weeks.
During one of the last walks my younger son took with Mischa before leaving for the Missionary Training Center, he was stopped by our neighbor. The man said he would walk our dog every day until one of the children returned home.
The first evening our neighbor came to walk Mischa, she would not go with him because he was a stranger. So he stayed and just played with her for about 15 minutes. He came the next night to play with her and make friends, but she still refused to go for a walk. Finally on the third night, she was willing to go, and soon she was waiting impatiently for her new friend each night.
Long after my foot had healed from the surgery and I could have taken over the responsibility, my neighbor continued to walk Mischa. When a night job kept him busy three nights a week, his wife took over. For a year and a half until my daughter returned, these wonderful neighbors walked my dog for at least one hour every night except for three nights when they apologetically took a brief vacation out of town. That totaled more than 547 hours of service!
I am convinced my neighbors were in touch with the Spirit, and I am grateful they identified my need and responded to it. It was not something I would have asked them to do. But given my responsibilities at that time, no other service would have been of greater help to me. Following Alma’s admonition “to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light” (Mosiah 18:8), these neighbors set an example of loving service that will always remain with me.

Photograph courtesy of Allie Bradford
I received my mission call in January to the Cape Verde Praia Mission! I’m really excited about my mission, but I was just as excited to be able to go through the temple and receive my endowment.
Both my bishop and my stake president reminded me that the temple is not merely a stepping-stone to the mission. The covenants I make in the temple are literally vital for my salvation; a mission is not.
I prepared to go to the temple by focusing on my baptismal covenants, reading the booklet Preparing to Enter the Holy Temple, reading my scriptures daily, and praying a lot. I felt like I was about as prepared as I could have been, without actually knowing specifically what was going to happen.
I feel like I’ve been preparing for my endowment my whole life. I wasn’t really nervous about it, even though I still didn’t know what to expect. I had my parents, other family members, and temple workers escorting me the whole time, so I was never alone.
Before I went to the temple, I got the same advice from a lot of people: Don’t worry about trying to learn or remember it all the first time, don’t stress about the symbolism, and don’t worry if you don’t understand everything; just focus on feeling the Spirit. That’s just what I did, and my first time in the temple was a very good experience. The Spirit was so strong.
The things that happen in the temple are different from the way we worship outside the temple. But the Spirit is the same, and that’s the most important thing. When we’re worthy and prepared to be there, we can truly feel God’s presence in His house. I’m so grateful that I’ve been able to receive my endowment and make those important covenants. I look forward to going back again and again.
Allie Bradford, 20, Utah, USA

“Three days?” Dad asked, sitting with me across the desk from Ed Flores, Coronado High’s assistant principal. “I hate to see him get behind.”
Mr. Flores adjusted his glasses and studied the suspension referral so he wouldn’t have to look at Dad or me. “If he was so worried about his studies,” Mr. Flores answered tersely, “he shouldn’t have picked a fight with Tanner Briggs. Tanner has a broken nose and a lower lip that will take a couple of stitches.”
Dad twisted nervously in the chair. “JD usually doesn’t pick fights. Now he’s not gonna let somebody push him,” Dad added quickly. “But he’s …”
“Dad, he’s not changing his mind,” I muttered, leaning forward in my chair. I hated dragging Dad in here. He was self-conscious around teachers and principals because he had dropped out of high school when he was 16 and settled for a GED a month before enlisting in the Marines.
“Is this other kid a troublemaker?” Dad questioned. “Because if he is, that would sure explain things. My boy’s a good student.”
Mr. Flores cast me a tired, impatient glance. “Joseph must be a real scholar,” he said, unable to keep the bite of sarcasm from his tone.
“JD,” I corrected warmly. I had already explained three times that I didn’t use Joseph Dale, my first and middle names.
Mr. Flores ignored my correction and studied my clothes—faded jeans, a sweatshirt with a rip under the left arm, and tan suede-laced boots. I wasn’t exactly the picture of preppy scholarship. What Mr. Flores obviously didn’t understand was that I was a good student and that I carried a 3.84 GPA. “Perhaps when you return Monday, you can hit the books rather than the first guy who bumps into you in the hall.”
Dad and I didn’t speak again until we were in the car. “Do you want to talk about it?” Dad questioned, keeping his eyes on the road as he lit a cigarette and opened the window a few inches. He knew I didn’t like his smoking, and he usually didn’t smoke while I was in the car. But he was nervous after his encounter with Mr. Flores. Mom had tried to get Dad to stop smoking, but all he committed to do was not bring it into the house. When Mom died, even that changed.
Slumping down in the front seat, I gazed out the window. “It was the regular ‘new kid’ stuff,” I answered tiredly. “If it hadn’t been today, it would’ve been tomorrow or next week. He tried to start something yesterday in P.E. I couldn’t tuck tail and crawl out.”
Dad looked over at me. “Your mom didn’t ever like you fighting. Maybe I shouldn’t have taught you to fight.”
“Then I’d have the broken nose and sewed-up lip.”
I knew Dad was having second thoughts, wondering if we should have moved from Mesa, Arizona, to Albuquerque, New Mexico. An old buddy from his Vietnam days had invited him to work in his machine shop here, so we had picked up and moved. “It’s no big deal, Dad. Now I’ll be home to help you finish moving in.”
“I wish you had a friend or two. Just somebody to hang around with. Since your mom died, you’ve been too much of a loner.” He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Are there Mormon kids here?”
I laughed and shook my head. “If there are, they make themselves scarce. I don’t need anybody to hang around with, Dad. Like you said, I’m a loner. That suits me fine.”
“Maybe we should find a Mormon church,” Dad said. “You could make friends there. Your mother always wanted that. I should’ve done that much for her.”
“Dad, the Mormon kids aren’t interested in me. I’m not one of them.”
I stared out the window. The last time we were in a church was at my mother’s funeral, two weeks after I turned 13. Mom had always been active, and I’d gone with her. But after she died we moved from our old ward, and I never went back. I knew I should go to church—that Mom would want me to—but I’d grown accustomed to being alone. It was easier that way.
Monday at lunch I wandered by myself to the cafeteria, found an empty table, and ate my lunch while I finished a geometry assignment.
“There’s a corner spot on the patio,” someone spoke to me. I looked up to face a guy about my height but 20 pounds lighter. His blond hair was shaved to the skin around his ears and was thick and straight on top. He had three gold studs in his right ear. “I’m Bo Kramer. Some of us hang out there.”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin and nodded down at my open geometry book. “I have some homework to do.”
“I heard about your trouble with Tanner Briggs. He needed someone to rearrange his face.” Bo looked me over and raised his brow. “I didn’t take you for a brain, Chugg.” He smiled. “Sure you don’t want to join us?”
I considered the offer and shook my head. Bo frowned, turned and walked away. I watched him go, knowing that I didn’t belong to Bo Kramer’s crowd any more than I belonged with the Mormons. I’d face Coronado High on my own.
A week later I stepped into one of the rest rooms. Bo and a group of his buddies were there hanging out. Ignoring the sullen glares, I began washing my hands as Bo and a friend opened a can of snuff.
As I was getting ready to leave, a young freshman kid charged through the door. He was inside before he realized who was in there. Startled, Bo hid his can of dip. The kid froze a few steps inside the rest room. He gulped and wet his lips.
“I just needed to …” He nervously cleared his throat. “I just needed to, uh, um, wash my hands. But I’ll, you know, come back later.”
“Don’t run off, big guy,” Bo said, walking over to him and putting his arm over his shoulder. “We were wondering when you’d show. What’s your name?”
“Tyler,” he answered, his voice breaking as I snatched a paper towel and began drying my hands. Tyler glanced in my direction. To him I was one more of them.
Bo laughed, holding the tobacco. “Tyler came in for his noon-hour buzz,” he announced. “Have a pinch, Tyler. It’ll grow hair on your chest.”
Tyler’s face paled as he stared down at the open can. “I don’t use it.” His protest was a mere whisper.
“What’s that?” Bo blared. “Speak up, big guy.”
Tyler shook his head and tried again. “I don’t use it.”
Bo mocked surprise, looking about the group with his mouth hanging open. Jabbing a thumb in Tyler’s direction, he gasped, “The kid don’t use the stuff.” Turning on Tyler, he growled, “Take some, kid, before I stuff the whole can in your mouth.”
Tyler looked sick, his face ashen and his thin, tight lips pressed together. He shook his head. Bo wasn’t smiling anymore. “One pinch won’t kill you.”
“It’s against my religion,” Tyler managed to squeak. “I’m a Mormon.” His breath came in short, anxious wheezes.
Bo snorted dryly while the others laughed. “I don’t care if you’re Mormon. They ain’t gonna kick you out of church for one little pinch.”
“He said he didn’t chew,” I spoke for the first time, still holding my wadded-up paper towel.
Genuinely surprised that I had spoken, Bo and his friends turned their gazes from Tyler to me. Bo studied me for a moment and then took a step away from Tyler in my direction. “Are you a good little Mormon too, Chugg?”
I couldn’t remember the last time I had ever admitted being LDS. I hadn’t exactly denied it, but I certainly hadn’t looked or acted so that anyone would ever accuse me of being one. “Maybe not such a good one, but I’m Mormon,” I answered evenly. “And I don’t use the stinkin’ stuff, either.”
I turned to Tyler and said, “Wash your hands.”
I knew Tyler didn’t want to wash his hands just then, but he did. Too flustered and nervous to grab a paper towel, he charged for the door, his hands still dripping soapy water. I followed him out, but he disappeared down the hall without saying a word to me.
The next day in the cafeteria I was eating when someone stopped at my table. I looked up to see Tyler. He pointed at the empty chair across the table from me. “You saving that for somebody?”
I hesitated a moment. “Nobody’s fighting over it.” Tyler set his tray on the table and sat down.
“I want to thank you.” He grinned. “I was in a bit of a hurry yesterday. I thought it was all over for me.”
We both started eating without speaking. “Are you really Mormon?” Tyler asked after a moment’s lull. I looked across the table at him. He was staring at me intently. “Or was that just something you said as a joke? I mean, I guess I just wasn’t …” He didn’t finish his sentence.
I rolled my tongue around in my mouth. “You don’t think I look Mormon?” I asked, keeping my face stony serious.
He flinched slightly. His mouth twitched and he permitted himself a reluctant, worried smile. “Well, you don’t exactly look like you’re expecting your mission call.”
I stuffed the last quarter of my hamburger in my mouth and chewed slowly without taking my eyes from Tyler. “Why should I kid? I’m not 19 yet.”
It was as though I’d told the funniest joke in the world because Tyler busted out laughing. “You are Mormon, aren’t you?”
His laugh was comfortably contagious. I could feel my face muscles loosen, and in a moment I was smiling. “Don’t expect me in sacrament meeting next Sunday, though.”
“Maybe we’re in the same ward. Which ward are you in?”
“How would I know? I haven’t been to church for years.”
Tyler and I were as different as a house cat and a junkyard dog, but we talked. I told him about our move from Arizona. He talked to me about his dad, how he worked on old cars as a hobby. He had fixed up a ’49 Buick Roadmaster and entered it in car shows. He was working on a ’51 Mercury now. Although I preferred being alone, Tyler was so unassuming and so uninhibited in his conversation that I really didn’t mind him hanging around.
The following day at lunch he spotted me as I was coming out of line and waved me over to his table. He had a couple of friends with him, and he invited me to sit down and join them.
“This is JD,” he said, introducing me. He turned to me a bit embarrassed. “I don’t know your last name.”
“Chugg.”
“This is Mick and Tyson,” Tyler went on. “They’re in my ward.” Turning to Mick and Tyson, he added, “JD’s waiting for his mission call.” While Mick and Tyson’s mouths dropped open, Tyler looked across the table at me, winked, and then grinned.
I couldn’t pass up joining in the joke. “Yeah,” I sighed, raking my fingers through my long hair,”it should be here any day now. That’s why I shaved and cut my hair. You should have seen me before.”
Lunch with Tyler became a regular thing. Sometimes he had other friends there. Sometimes he didn’t. It didn’t make any difference to him. Since he was a freshman and I was a junior, we didn’t have classes together. But he discovered that he lived three blocks past me, so we started walking home together.
About three weeks after the confrontation with Bo, Tyler was absent from school a day. I ate in the cafeteria alone. I had done that hundreds of times in Mesa, but for the first time in a long time I felt a tinge of loneliness. Of course, I didn’t admit that to myself right then, but I knew it was different not having Tyler’s friendly chatter.
“Were you ditching school yesterday?” I accused Tyler the next day.
“My dad let me go over to Santa Fe with him to look at an old Dodge truck he might buy. Did you miss me?” He grinned.
“I barely made it through the day,” I retorted sarcastically. “I almost had to leave school early just because you weren’t around.”
Tyler was suddenly serious. “I was going to invite you to go with us. I think you would have liked it. And I’d like Dad to meet you.”
“It’s nice to invite me now that you’re back,” I grumbled playfully. “Some friend you are. Why didn’t you invite me two days ago when I could have at least turned you down?”
“You’re pretty studious. I didn’t figure you’d want to leave school.”
He was serious. I could feel it. He really had wanted me to be with him. And he really had worried about my studies so he hadn’t asked. I continued to joke with Tyler, trying to make him feel like a jerk for not inviting me. But it was a cover-up on my part.
The following Sunday I came down with a good case of the flu. For the next couple of days I stayed in bed, aching, shaking, and coughing.
On Tuesday afternoon there was a knock at the door, which I ignored. But whoever was there was persistent. The longer they knocked, the more stubborn I became. I was not going to answer that door. Finally the knocking stopped, and I assumed they had given up. A moment later, I heard the door knob turn and the front door creak open.
“JD, are you awake?” Tyler called.
“I wondered who was banging on the door,” I said. “Can’t you take a hint?”
“I knew you were in here. What, did your dad tell you not to let strangers in while he was away?”
“Yeah, and you’re as strange as they come.”
“I brought you something.”
“Well, you’ve already woke me up. This better be good.”
Tyler came down the hall to my bedroom with a brown paper sack in one arm and his other one loaded with books. He dropped the books on the floor.
“Where’d they come from?”
“I got them out of your locker. I checked with each of your teachers and collected your homework.”
“Some pal you are,” I joked, rolling my eyes. “I stayed here to get away from the work, and you drag it home to me.”
“I didn’t want you to get behind. But I did bring some other stuff.” He opened the sack, pulled out three oranges, a carton of milk, and a bag of corn chips. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”
I laughed. “Well, I guess if you’ll leave the food I’ll let you leave the books too.”
He then reached over and rubbed the week’s growth of beard on my chin. “How long you been growing this?”
“Almost a week.”
“You look a little on the rough side. You know the bishop’s going to make you shave before your mission.”
“You and your mission,” I grumbled. “One of these days I ought to show up at church, walk up to your bishop and say, ‘Hi, bishop. I’m the new prospective missionary Tyler’s been telling you about.’”
Tyler smiled. “I’d like that, JD. I’d like that a lot.”
After he left, I thought of what he’d said, and I knew he really wanted me to be there in church. Just like he had wanted me to be in Santa Fe with him and his dad.
Wednesday afternoon I shaved. That evening Dad trimmed my hair. When I returned to school Thursday I found Tyler sitting with Mick and Tyson in the cafeteria. I took a chair across the table from them.
“Gosh,” Tyler gasped. “JD really must have gotten his mission call! They probably called him to the Coronado High Student Gang Mission. When do you report, JD?”
I felt my cheeks color.
I sighed. “The bishop told me I couldn’t accept.”
“Why? Are they closing down the mission because there’s too much violence at Coronado?”
Feigning disappointment, I shook my head. “The bishop said I’d have to return the call because I’ve missed church one too many times.”
“Man, I should have picked you up Sunday.”
“I knew it was your fault,” I accused, smiling all the time. “When you see the bishop, tell him you’re the reason I had to pass this mission call up.”
Tyler’s smile slowly disappeared. He became serious. “Maybe you’d better go to church and tell the bishop yourself.” He shrugged, and the faint traces of a smile flickered across his lips. “I’d like that, JD.”
After years of being a loner, I realized that Tyler, in his kind, innocent way, had shown me what it was like to belong. Ever since Mom died, I had thought off and on about returning to church. But this was the first time I felt as though I really wanted to be there. I shrugged.
“Well, Tyler, maybe I’ll show up one of these first Sundays. Now keep in mind I only said maybe.”
Tyler’s face exploded into a genuine grin of triumph. “Maybe is good enough for me. I guess that means I’ll see you Sunday, JD?”
I tried to scowl, but deep down I knew I was going to be there. And when I arrived, I knew Tyler would be there with me.

I want to share with you some of the great blessings the Book of Mormon can bring to us. The Book of Mormon can and does change lives. After our son John received his mission call to Japan, he said to me, “Dad, before I enter the Missionary Training Center, I am going to read the Book of Mormon twice.” I said to John, “That is quite a demanding goal.” I felt his resolve and made the decision to follow his example. I began reading early each morning. A few days later when I came home from work, John said to me, “I caught up with you today.” I asked, “What do you mean?” His response, “I caught up to where you are in the Book of Mormon. You left it open on your desk.” The next morning after my reading, I felt inspired to turn about 150 pages past where I was. I left my Book of Mormon open where he could not miss it and went to work. After a meeting that morning, I checked my voice mail. The very first message said, “Yeah, sure, Dad!”

Why this story? As I watched my son read from the Book of Mormon, I began to see a special change in his life as he prepared to enter the Missionary Training Center. That experience has anchored my son to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

When the Church meetinghouse was opened at Cwmbran, Sister Howells was wheeled in in a chair, and sent a note to President Pulman, the presiding officer, asking that she should have the opportunity of bearing her testimony.
This request was granted, but when called upon to do so she did not have the strength to stand.
President Pulman lifted her up and held her in his arms. In a clear voice she declared to all present her knowledge of the truthfulness of the gospel.

When the music gets going, it’s hard to hold the audiences down. Feet start tapping, heads bobbing, and children patting out rhythms on their chairs. Music warms the hall and pulls people into the imaginative worlds of lost loves, of Luke Skywalker, of Sleeping Beauty and Spanish flamenco dancers. The concert closes too soon; the audience yells, whistles, shouts “bravo” and “encore”—and the group does another number or two.
Whether bouncing through the energetic “Stars and Stripes Forever,” jiving to “Disco on the Danube” (a contemporary version of a Strauss waltz), floating a romantic medley of Barry Manilow’s hits, or peacefully performing “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” the Mormon Youth Symphony and Chorus works a special magic on its audiences. Part of the spell is the music itself—but even more, what is communicated through the music. This is no ordinary performing group, as audiences are quick to understand.
“I’ve heard the New York Philharmonic and the Chicago Symphony play this piece, but I’ve never listened before with tears in my eyes. Can you tell me why?” asked a member of the Music Educators Conference who had just heard Mormon Youth perform “The Pines of Rome.”
“The young people in the group are not only superb musicians, they radiate goodness,” said one nonmember at a recent California concert. “It makes me wonder, who are these young people?”
Well, they’re law students, medical students, high school and college students, bank tellers, electricians, gardeners, teachers, florists, printers, accountants, and many other people between 16 and 30 years old. Some are single, some married, and all 375 are excellent musicians. And most important, they want to share their testimonies through the music they perform.
“When you join, you know that you’re in the group for more than just musical reasons,” said Kevin Call, principal violist who’s soloed in the Tabernacle with the group several times. “My motivation for joining is to use my music as a missionary tool.”
Janice Call, who sings with the chorus, agrees. “When you’ve put on a good performance, you can feel the Spirit so strongly. You feel like you’ve developed your talents for a good reason, and that you’re in the group for a purpose—to help people get closer to the Lord.”
“It’s difficult to describe the exhilaration you feel when you’re performing,” said Kathy Broadbent, whose three sisters have also sung with Mormon Youth. “I guess the only way to describe it is, I just love my Heavenly Father and feel so warm inside to know that I can do something for him and am using a talent he’s given me. We’re touching people with the music, and that’s something I think he would have me do.”
It’s hard to measure the impact of the group. Letters pour into the Mormon Youth office monthly asking what makes the group so unusual and asking for more information about the Church. And the impression the group gives of the Mormon Church can only be measured by attitude changes—and converts.
One woman who was asked never to return home after she joined the Church convinced her mother to attend one of the concerts, and her mother’s attitude toward the Church completely changed. “I’ll be able to go back to my home now,” said the daughter. Another man who had been investigating the Church for three years decided to join after hearing the Mormon Youth perform in Sacramento, California. And another couple in Modesto, California, said they were so affected by the spirit at the two Mormon Youth concerts they attended that they decided to join the Church.
The influence of the group has an international appeal, too. A Mormon Youth Christmas special was the first LDS programming to be allowed in France, and after it aired, three more programs were requested. A segment that aired on Norwegian television opened countless doors that had previously been closed to the missionaries in Norway. The Bicentennial special that aired in the U.S. on July 4th came in third in the ratings nationally, and prompted a wealthy New Yorker to offer to send the entire group to Russia to tour. And the stories of how the group has touched people and helped with missionary work go on and on.
“With our weekly radio program alone we reach a potential listening audience of 144 million in the United States, Canada, and Europe,” said Robert Bowden, conductor of the group (and guest conductor of the Boston Pops when he lived in Massachusetts). “We also do 20 concerts a year and usually one or two television specials. In fact, we just won a regional Emmy for one of them.”
With such a busy performance schedule and only one rehearsal a week, the musicians need to be a dedicated lot, he added. That’s one reason being a member of Mormon Youth is a Church calling.
“Mormon Youth is not a social organization but a working organization,” said Brother Bowden. “I tell people auditioning that if they want to join for social reasons, they’re in the wrong place. We’re working for the Church and the missionary program.
“Often we’ll rehearse the music one Saturday morning and record it the next. It takes a top player or singer to do this, one who sight reads well, too. I marvel at what this group can do. They know they’re serving the Lord, so they want to be as professional as they can.”
When the group is touring, the challenges are varied. Usually they’ll have at least one performance a day, and between travel, standing in lines for food, and getting little sleep, it can be quite a wearing experience.
“You have to learn how to be discreet while yawning on stage,” said one musician.
“The hardest part of touring is that we get so tired,” said Linda Taylor, an alto. “There isn’t really time to relax. But when you perform, all the inconveniences disappear. Every time we sing ‘I Know That My Redeemer Lives’ I get chills all over.”
Meals are often served in ward cultural halls or provided by host families, or the musicians fend for themselves in the cities they visit. “You can’t just walk into a restaurant with seven busloads of people,” said Ray Furgeson, president of the group. “It takes a lot of planning long before we go on the road.”
Staying with host families is one highlight of a tour. “The sightseeing is fun, but to me one of the best parts of touring is staying with the LDS families,” said Jim Lamoreaux, a tenor. “They take you in like you’re one of their kids and roll out the red carpet for you. When you leave it’s like you’ve known them all your life.”
As always, the group weaves its particular magic while on tour, just as on the home front. At the end of the California tour last summer, the seven bus drivers (some LDS, some not) gathered together and addressed the group. “We’d like to thank you for the privilege of traveling with you,” said their spokesperson. “We have enough roses for each of the girls, just to tell you thanks for being such a great group.” And 14 dozen roses were presented to the young women.
“Music is a very powerful force,” said Brother Bowden. “How many times have you gone to Church, and because of a musical number or hymn, tears have come to your eyes? It can be a force for our Heavenly Father, though some music can be a force for the devil. You have to be careful about how you use music.
“These young people have decided how to use their talents, and have caught the spirit of what they’re doing. They can take a piece of music and do more than I could ever expect them to, because they have the spirit of what’s going on. You can feel it in the audience—a hush—and you realize the people are feeling the music and saying, ‘My goodness, listen to that!’ It’s exciting to be a part of that.”
And undoubtedly each member of the group would agree. That’s why some of them didn’t mind the year and a half waiting list to get in. Or why they all sacrifice Saturday mornings for rehearsals when the ski slopes whisper gentle little enticements.
“When I think of the happiness that playing with Mormon Youth has brought me and the people who listen and how blessed I am for the privilege of playing with the symphony, it fills my whole soul with so much joy. For me, walking that path is a step toward heaven,” said Steve Duncan, percussionist. “The sacrifice and long hours are really worth it.”

Several years ago, I was in a sacrament meeting where a new member shared what led to his conversion. One day, he was working in his garden when two young missionaries walked up the path towards him. One of the missionaries then asked him this question: “How would you feel if you knew that there was a living prophet and twelve Apostles on the earth today?” The man had never considered such a thing, and although not religious, he immediately wanted to know more. The missionaries taught him the gospel and he gained a personal testimony. All because he learned that once again we have living prophets and apostles walking the earth.

Zipporah Garba of Jos District Nigeria
I grew up with the knowledge that I am creative, and I love it. As I grew up, I became more interested in the production of garments, but I needed to learn the skill of sewing to help me achieve my dreams. I enrolled in the self-reliance program and took the Education for Better Work course. I chose tailoring/fashion design and then applied for the PEF loan. That started my journey into the fashion world. It was a beautiful experience. I learned tailoring in one year and now I can make female garments in African styles and English wears. I made my first wedding dress in 2019 and have been able to create many beautiful designs and patterns.
Currently I teach draft garment patterns to some sisters from the Dogon Dutse Branch, and in my neighborhood, as my own way of giving back to my people. I do not only see myself as teaching but also as ministering. I hope that by the end of 2020 I will have created a style and standard for myself and the garments I make which will be a signature for my work because I hope that it becomes a global brand.
I am so grateful to our Heavenly Father for the privilege of the PEF. It has greatly blessed my life and put me on the pedestal of achieving all my dreams. I am prepared to pursue my dreams including all I learned in the self-reliance group meetings.

Some time ago, a young man came to my office requesting a blessing. He was about eighteen years of age and had some problems. There were no serious moral problems, but he was mixed up in his thinking and worried. He requested a blessing.
I said to him, “Have you ever asked your father to give you a blessing? Your father is a member of the Church, I assume?”
He said, “Yes, he is an elder, a rather inactive elder.”
When I asked, “Do you love your father?” he replied, “Yes, Brother Benson, he is a good man. I love him.” He then said, “He doesn’t attend to his priesthood duties as he should. He doesn’t go to church regularly, I don’t know that he is a tithe payer, but he is a good man, a good provider, a kind man.”
I said, “How would you like to talk to him at an opportune time and ask him if he would be willing to give you a father’s blessing?”
“Oh,” he said, “I think that would frighten him.”
I then said, “Are you willing to try it? I will be praying for you.”
He said, “All right; on that basis, I will.”
A few days later he came back. He said, “Brother Benson, that’s the sweetest thing that has happened in our family.” He could hardly control his feelings as he told me what had happened. He said, “When the opportunity was right, I mentioned it to Father, and he replied, ‘Son, do you really want me to give you a blessing?’ I told him, ‘Yes, Dad, I would like you to.’” Then he said, “Brother Benson, he gave me one of the most beautiful blessings you could ever ask for. Mother sat there crying all during the blessing. When he got through there was a bond of appreciation and gratitude and love between us that we have never had in our home.”

Samuel, however, stayed behind and found employment in The Gambia, hoping to still, at some point, realize his dream. During the early days of his employment, he noticed a beautiful young woman working in another department. As he describes it, “My antenna was switched on,” and he enquired after her, wishing to know if she were married. He was told definitively that she was not, so he approached her to ask for a date. She rebutted him, telling him she was married already. Recounting her response, Samuel laughed and said, “She lied!”
Persistence paid off and eventually his requests for a date proved fruitful. After a period of courtship, Samuel and Fatou Badjan were married. There was no Church presence in The Gambia at that time, and Fatou was Muslim, so they were married civilly and began to raise their family there. But Samuel’s faith and dedication to the Lord never wavered—he knew that the covenant path leads to a temple sealing. Without any formal Church presence in The Gambia, Samuel and his friend Albert F. Alexander met every Sunday with their families to partake of the sacrament. Samuel and his friend sometimes invite friends to join them.
When some members moved into the area, and his missionary efforts continued. The little congregation grew, and for the next 25 years, he welcomed Church members and friends into his home for Church services. These efforts were unofficial as the Church did not have legal status in The Gambia, and the country had not been dedicated for the work of the Lord.
In June 1988, Elder Terrence Vinson, then-President of the Africa West Area Presidency, accompanied by his counsellor, Elder Marcus Nash, visited The Gambia. They met with Samuel, his wife, Fatou, their children Sampson, Daniel, Princess Amelia, Hannah, his sister Juliana Sandra and Albert Frederick Alexander, his longtime good friend, fellow Church member and fellow returned missionary.
Elder Vinson and Elder Nash authorised them to meet as a group and hold sacrament meetings. It was an exciting moment. The two sons of Samuel, namely Sampson and Daniel, were later baptized by Samuel after the visit by the General Authorities.
The year 2022 turned out to be what Samuel describes as the most momentous year in the history of the Church in The Gambia.
In January 2022, President Hugo Martinez, President of the Africa West Area Presidency and his First Counsellor, Elder Larry S. Kacher, also visited The Gambia. They met with Samuel and his family and the group in The Gambia.
In February 2022, Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles came to The Gambia to dedicate the country and to meet with government officials to pave the way for the Church’s legal status.
Fatou Badjan Amako, Samuel’s wife, finally joined the Church and was baptised in February 2022, shortly after Elder Christofferson’s visit.
Finally, on June 10, 2022, the Banjul Branch of The Gambia was formally organized, and Samuel Owusu Amako was made its first branch president. In September of that year, Daniel Nana Kofi Owusu Amako, Samuel’s second son, was called as the first missionary of the Church from The Gambia to serve a full-time mission. He served in the Congo Brazzaville Mission.
Princess Amelia Nana Ama Ahima Amako, Samuel and Fatou’s eldest daughter, joined the Church in October 2022.
In August of 2024, Samuel and members of his branch made the journey from The Gambia to Accra, Ghana. He was returning to the place where he began his missionary service so many years before, and where there is now a temple, so that he and his family could be sealed in the house of the Lord. They met their son Daniel there, who was returning home from his mission just in time for the sealing.
Besides the unspeakable joy of becoming an eternal family, Samuel experienced the additional sweetness and tender mercies of the Lord in a most special way. The president of the Accra Ghana Temple, who sealed Samuel and his wife and children, was John K. Buah, the very same missionary who had confirmed Samuel a member of the Church. And the incoming temple president, who will replace President Buah, is President Anthony M. Kaku, who baptized Samuel. According to Samuel, “God is the unfailing compass of our lives.”
A pioneer in establishing the Church in Gambia, Samuel Owusu Amako reflects on his reasons for going to the Gambia in the first place: to get a travel visa and see the world, something which has never happened. “How did I miss that?” he asked rhetorically with a big smile just before returning to his home with his family. He knows that he was led to The Gambia for a higher purpose, a mission that began on that harmattan-cold December morning in 1986 when he “failed to flee”.

Elder Zivic faced another difficult decision when it came time to choose a vocation. For four straight years of secondary school, he had to take an additional end-of-year test in accounting because he did so poorly in the subject during the year.
“I really didn’t like accounting,” he says. But when he prayerfully considered his career path, he felt strongly that he should go into accounting. Trusting in the Lord, he received his accounting degree from the University of Buenos Aires and enjoyed a career as a certified public accountant.

A single man, Jamie, who also received a water tank, had moved to the valley from Canberra shortly before the fires. His home was destroyed. He, like many others, has never fully recovered emotionally from the fires and feels very much alone. The fact that people cared enough to donate a much-needed water tank and visit him to see how he was progressing had a positive impact on him.
Jamie is now building his own house on his property with whatever items of material he can find. From time-to-time, friends donate materials, but it is a slow process—he is doing it largely by himself, with the occasional help from professional friends. He is planning to position the water tank next to the new house once completed.

On another occasion we were returning from area conferences in Europe, and we had a rather extended layover in New York City. Although tired and weary from his rigorous schedule, President Kimball eagerly visited with six missionaries who were en route to the Germany Munich Mission. He inquired about their families, their personal feelings about serving on missions, and then he charged them to be the best missionaries in their mission. He encouraged them to be diligent and faithful and promised that success would accompany such efforts. The missionaries left feeling uplifted in spirit and determined to serve valiantly. President Kimball edifies and inspires others.

One such experience occurred when my older brother, Adrian, needed surgery. Medical facilities here are limited, and it was necessary for him to leave his wife and children to fly to the mainland. He resisted the trip, fearing a problem with the small plane he would be taking. But in the end, he had to go. Boarding with him were the pilot and two television reporters.
As I heard the plane fly overhead, I sent my thoughts with my brother: Have no fear, Adrian. Heavenly Father will watch over you. Yet I felt prompted to go to my room and pray for his protection.
I was still on my knees when my husband came in. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he began.
“Tell me what?”
“Adrian’s plane has crashed into the sea. We don’t know yet if there are any survivors.”
Thankfully, all four men lived. They were rescued by some people in a fishing boat and were soon back safe on the island. The entire population was waiting for them when they returned to the dock. We applauded with relief and joy and shed many tears of gratitude.
The next day the two reporters came to my place of work and gave me their version of what had happened. When the plane began to go down, the pilot ordered them to break the windows and throw out anything they could. Suitcases, cameras, shoes—everything was sacrificed to help the plane stay afloat as long as possible after crashing. The pilot gave some final instructions, and they buckled their seat belts.
Then Adrian began to pray aloud. He told the Lord that all of them felt they had a lot of living left to do. They were heads of families. They all had small children. He pleaded for another chance.
When he finished the prayer, he began to sing one of our hymns, “The Lord is my light; then why should I fear? …” (Hymns, 1985, number 89). The reporters said that without knowing the hymn, they began to sing with him. The music and his prayer gave them hope that they might be saved.
Within a few seconds of impact, the plane sank. But those few seconds were enough. They got the door open and inflated a raft. After the fishing boat picked them up, someone spotted a suitcase floating. It was Adrian’s. Inside was the tithing from our branch, which he was to deliver to Church leaders on the mainland. Other than the four men, the suitcase was the only thing that was saved.
Although we live in one of the most remote places of the earth, we know our Father in Heaven is mindful of us. We have felt his almighty hand, and he has answered our prayers.

Ned Winder, a lifelong friend and formerly the executive secretary of the Missionary Department, tells of an amusing and humbling encounter which he experienced.

Two of the General Authorities, accompanied by Brother Winder, were walking down a staircase in view of a mother and her son, who were sitting on a couch facing the staircase. Seeing the brethren approach, the boy said to his mother, “Who is that first man?”

She replied, “He is Elder Marvin J. Ashton, a member of the Council of the Twelve Apostles.”

The boy continued, “Who is the man next to him?”

Mother replied, “He is Elder Loren Dunn, of the First Quorum of the Seventy.”

Then the boy concluded, “Who is the other man?”

The mother spoke more softly, yet she was still audible to Brother Winder: “Oh, he’s nobody.”

I am overjoyed that you have shed some light on sexual abuse (“Hidden Agony,” Mar. ’92), a subject often left in the dark. I was investigating the Church two years ago, but even though I knew it was true, I felt I was not worthy to receive the blessings given to Heavenly Father’s “clean” children. Later, my bishop approached me and I was ready for him to tell me to repent. Instead, he told me Heavenly Father loves me and this was not my sin. Then he gave me a blessing and I had an overwhelming feeling of comfort. Six months later I was baptized. I feel pure and new again, and my fiancé and I are now looking forward to a temple marriage.
Name Withheld