Gospel Story Finder

Juliano stood up to rest his back. Pulling weeds was hard work, but he knew that his family needed a good crop of potatoes. The ch’unu (freeze-dried potatoes) that they made from them would feed them all winter.
He could see his awquinaca (parents) at the other end of the field. They had finished their rows and were headed back home for dinner. Juliano finished his row and headed for the house too. When he got there, he stopped in surprise. Two men were talking to his parents. He could tell that they weren’t Aymara Indians. The tall one had blond hair. Both of the men wore white shirts. Because his parents couldn’t speak English or Spanish and strangers never spoke Aymara, he wondered how they could talk together.
As he drew closer, he could hear the strangers—and they were speaking Aymara! He wondered what they wanted with his parents, who were just humble yapur jake (farmers) living in a mud house.
Juliano sat down where the men wouldn’t notice him. They seemed to feel at home and sat on a rock when his parents sat down. The mud house was too small to invite anyone inside.
Ana, Juliano’s sister, was drawn to the blond hair of the tall man. When she touched his hair, he laughed.
Juliano soon learned that the men were missionaries from a new church—at least it was new to Patacamaya, a very small village so far into the altiplano, or high plain, of Bolivia that few strangers ever visited there.
The tall one held Ana on his lap while he talked. Juliano’s family listened politely. They had never heard a stranger speak their tongue. Soon Juliano noticed that this man was more than just speaking in their language. He was teaching his parents.
Juliano looked at his parents. They were carefully listening to everything that these men said. Juliano started to really listen too. They told of a book that was a history of their people from long ago. It told of a white god, Jesus Christ, and of how He had visited their ancestors.
He saw tears form in his mother’s eyes. She seemed to be excited and touched by what they taught.
After that, the missionaries came often. Juliano continued to sit in the shadows and listen, but he was still too shy to come any closer. His father asked many questions.
One night the tall blond man asked them if they were ready to be baptized. Juliano’s father said, “Yes,” and his mother eagerly agreed. Then the man turned to Juliano.
“Are you ready to be baptized?” the man asked.
“I’m only ten years old,” Juliano answered, surprised. “How can I know the truth?”
“You can know the same way that your parents do,” the missionary answered softly. “You can think about what we’ve taught you. You can read the Book of Mormon. Then you must pray and receive an answer for yourself.”
The other missionary spoke. “Your parents will soon be baptized. Ana is too young to be baptized, but you’re not. We would like you to be baptized with your parents. But you must seek and gain a testimony of your own.”
Juliano knew that his parents wanted him to be baptized. But he wanted to be sure for himself. He decided to do as the missionaries had told him. Every night he read the Book of Mormon to his parents, who had never learned to read. Juliano was glad that the Book of Mormon had been translated into Aymara. It made it easier for them all. After they read in it, they had family prayer.
One morning after doing his chores, Juliano took the Book of Mormon into the hills behind their home. He sat down next to the path, then read again Moroni’s promise: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”*
“How can the Holy Ghost visit a young boy like me?” he asked himself after he read it. Then Juliano remembered a story that the blond man had told him from the Book of Mormon. The story was about a boy just his age when he learned that he was to be the future keeper of the gold plates. Quickly he searched through the scriptures. Yes, here it is! Juliano thought with satisfaction. The boy my age was Mormon! Maybe it doesn’t matter how old you are for the Holy Ghost to testify to you. Maybe it only matters how faithful you are!
Juliano knelt by the path and bowed his head. He prayed as the blond man had taught him. When he finished, he felt a peaceful feeling spread through him. Now I know that the Book of Mormon is true, he thought.
That Saturday night Juliano joined his family at a nearby jawira (river). The baptism was beautiful. As he came up out of the water, he felt especially clean. He had never felt closer to his family, and he had never felt closer to his Heavenly Father. He was glad that even a boy can know for sure that the Church is true.

The Neels have been reading the scriptures in the morning as a family and studying the plan of salvation. That helps to strengthen Drew’s understanding of where he came from, why he is here, and where he is going. At one of those family discussions, his parents talked with him about a special experience that took place when he was born. “Just when you were getting here, there were problems,” his father explains. “But thanks to faith and a priesthood blessing, both you and your mother pulled through.”

In 1991, as the world marked the 150th year since the death of Mozart, the BYU Singers were invited by the Israel Chamber Orchestra to join them for a series of all-Mozart concerts performed throughout their country. We faced enormous opposition as we were preparing for the trip. We thought for a long while that the Kuwaiti-Iranian conflict had finished all plans for the trip. But as that conflict ended, President Lee told us to proceed with faith and confidence.

We arrived in Israel with great excitement and anticipation and found, much to my chagrin, that the greatest conflict we were to meet was a conflict with the orchestra itself. This is a professional orchestra, made up of sophisticated musicians, most of whom have immigrated to Israel from Western and Eastern Europe, Russia, and the United States. I am sure they were grumbling to themselves as this totally unknown, probably inexperienced choral conductor from a department of music of one of those American universities was introduced at the first of our two rehearsals. To make matters worse, the orchestra had been trained to play with a delayed attack, coming after the ictus of the conductor’s beat. That means that rather than playing at the point where my conducting pattern would create the beat, they would slightly delay the sound. I have observed and been puzzled by conductors who work this way and was inexperienced when it came to that sort of music-making.

Although the attitude of the orchestra changed noticeably as they heard the musical preparation and sound of our choir, the rehearsal was riddled with precision problems that were totally unacceptable in any music, but doubly so in Mozart, where precision of articulation, dynamic shifts, attacks, and releases is elemental to the music’s sound and style. Though the music had held together generally, I left that rehearsal sick at heart. What was I going to do?

We were the orchestra’s guests in the country. We knew of the delicate relationship of our Church, particularly the university’s Jerusalem Center, and the Israeli government. We were on a mission to build goodwill. We had been told by then Elder Hunter that our mission was not to harvest, probably not even to plant, but to clear away a few more stones. And I did not want to start throwing verbal stones at members of that orchestra and impede our greater purpose for being there.

We were lodging at the Jerusalem Center because the Gulf War had forced cancellation of the Semester Abroad Program that season. I spent most of that night standing at the window of the room where my wife and I were staying, looking out over the Old City wondering what more I should have done to prepare and praying earnestly for the right way to approach our last rehearsal the following morning.

Morning came, and when Jan was ready to go up to breakfast, I told her to go without me, that I wanted to fast. After she had left, my heart was increasingly heavy, and I knew I had to speak my anxiety aloud. I walked over to my bed, and as I knelt down, even before I could address Father in Heaven, two words were spoken forcefully and simultaneously to my mind and to my heart: “Be strong.”

“But be courteous,” I added of my own accord.

And then the words came a second time, as forcefully as before: “Be strong.”

I knew then and know now that this was a great blessing, given not so much for me as for the small contribution toward the unfolding of a very large work. On the bus from Jerusalem down to Tel Aviv, Jan squeezed my hand and asked what I was going to do. “Be strong,” I answered. As we began that last rehearsal, I stated my expectation as clearly and as firmly as I could. The orchestra understood, and with only the need for small reminders, we found the precision, the musicality, the greater communication we all sought.

My family moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, when I was about 11, but I didn’t join the Church until I was 24. Looking back, I can see why no one shared the gospel with me. I was not a golden contact on the surface. Actually, I was a bit of a rowdy kid. I got into fights and got into trouble at school regularly.
I had a number of LDS friends, but only one ever talked about the Church. And that was because I teased him about reading the Book of Mormon when he babysat.
I was curious about things, though. My mom took me to a local Christian church. I once asked them why Jesus hadn’t come to the Americas. They kind of laughed at me for asking such a question, so I didn’t ask anything else about it.
Years later I decided to visit the visitors’ center on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. There was a diorama on Christ in America. Suddenly I remembered my questions about that topic from my younger years. That’s when the Spirit hit me, and I knew I was ready to listen.
The example of my friends from high school stayed with me. In fact, the people I respected most were LDS. Randy Ridd and his wife both went to my school. They were always great examples, very good people. That made a big impact on me later. I thought, “If Randy believed this was real, it must be important.”
I don’t know what might have happened if they had shared more about the gospel at the time. I might not have been ready. But looking back, I wish they had. I know it would have had an impact on me.

One day when I was young, my father happened upon a little lost lamb in the desert. The lamb’s flock had moved on, and if we had left him, the coyotes might have found him. If he didn’t die because of the coyotes, he would have starved. So my father brought him home and gave him to me to care for.
I named the little lamb Nigh; I’m not sure why. I fed him with a bottle, and soon he grew strong and healthy. He and I became great friends, and I could just call him and he would come running. We liked to play on the grass together. Sometimes I would lie down with my head on his fleece and gaze up at the clouds floating by in the blue sky overhead.
One night there came a terrible storm. I usually locked up Nigh in the barn each night, but that night I forgot to do it until after I had gone to bed. As I lay there, I could hear the fierce wind howling and I could hear my little lamb bleating, frightened and fearful. But I just didn’t want to leave that warm, comfortable bed to take care of him.
The next morning I awoke to find that I was not the only one who had heard my lamb bleating. Some dogs had heard him and had killed him. My heart was broken. My father looked at me with disappointment written on his face. “Son,” he said, “couldn’t I trust you to take care of just one lamb?”
The lesson I learned that day was one I will never forget. I resolved that when a lamb needed to be cared for or when anyone needed my help, I would respond right away rather than wait for a more “convenient” time.

I’m a farm boy. My family raised cotton, alfalfa, and grains. As a boy I learned that growing cotton requires a certain type of weather. When the weather is too wet and cool, cotton plants grow very fast and spend all their energy growing branches and leaves. But if the weather is hot and the cotton plant has just enough moisture, the cotton balls will grow.
One year when I was a teenager, it had been quite a cool spring with lots of rain. Dad could see that the cotton plants were growing very fast and that he would have a problem meeting his financial obligations if the weather continued in the same pattern. He went to the bank and borrowed some money. Then he took me with him to our bishop’s office and prepaid his tithing for that year, even though it looked like the crop might not be very good. Immediately after he paid his tithing, the weather changed and got very hot. We had a large crop, and Dad met all his financial obligations. Needless to say, I was born of goodly parents who taught me to live the gospel by example.

Some years ago I enjoyed a stake conference assignment as a junior companion to Elder LeGrand Richards, who had, under the influence of this directing Spirit, reorganized a stake presidency. We were driving home; he was very pensive. After a rather long period of silence, I asked him if there was something he would like to teach me. Quietly he said, “We have too many in the Church who deny the spirit of prophecy and of revelation.” That was it—he said no more about it. As I reminisced about the calling of the new stake president that day, it occurred to me then that this Church could not function for even one day without the spirit of prophecy and revelation.

Changing habits of nineteen or twenty years’ standing requires a careful persuasion of spirit, a restructured schedule of activities, and a conviction that the new habits will prove more valuable and effective than the old ones. A missionary, newly called, faces the necessity of revising his more worldly tendencies and arranging his life on a spiritual plane. His spirit is willing, and he knows that the main thing is to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ; but how does he make daily preparation to accomplish that goal?
The answers are provided in a five-day program of transition at the Missionary Home in Salt Lake City, Utah. Under the supervision of President and Sister J. Murray Rawson, elders and sisters exchange their individual touches of hesitance, reluctance, and fear, for conviction and confidence. They begin on
Registration is from 9:00 A.M. to 12:00 noon. A sister missionary walks bravely into the room marked “Missionaries—Register Here.” She reports her name, pays a fee to cover meals, and is given a short briefing by a member of the mission presidency as well as written instructions relative to her future for the next eighteen months and instructions to attend her first meeting at 2:00 P.M. Now she somehow wrestles her suitcases upstairs—“Missionaries Only” territory. In her room are seven bunk beds with pink bedspreads, several closets, some mirrors, and another sister lying on one of the beds. She sits up.
“Is that all you brought? Oh no! I’ve overpacked!”
Downstairs two mothers wait, watching missionaries form small groups, shake hands, and ask, “Where are you going?”
Both mothers are smiling; they’re also keeping score.
“Look! There’s another lady missionary there.”
“That’s two we’ve seen.”
By the wall map of mission divisions a father points for his two children.
“Do you want to see where Richard is going?”
Then it’s two o’clock and time for the first meeting and the first rule of missionary life: Missionary time is five minutes early.
The hunt for assigned seats causes some confusion, but soon the missionaries get themselves properly distributed. Seated in front of the sisters are the missionary couples going into the field. One woman confides to the sister next to her, “Look at these clean looking kids. I call them kids. My husband says I will have to get used to calling them elders. You know, it’s exciting to watch them change.”
The meeting begins. “Elders and sisters …” Each meeting is opened and concluded with a song and a prayer. Today’s meeting begins with a welcome from the mission presidency. The group learns that the present group of missionaries represents twenty-seven states of the United States plus Australia and Canada.
Next, Sister Rawson speaks on housekeeping, personal habits, and grooming. Little-known facts of ministerial grooming emerge. The missionaries learn that they can remove grass stains with rubbing alcohol and ballpoint pen marks with hair spray. Then there are talks from the counselors in the mission presidency, President Rees and President Broberg.
After dinner the group is introduced to the missionary discussions, and then President Rawson talks to them about spirituality.
The missionaries then spend a half hour in temple preparation. A more serious mood settles upon them with a deeper realization of their relationship as missionaries to the plan of salvation.
Next comes an introduction to discussion memorization by the teaching director. A few mumbles follow his announcement of the “easy way” to do it.
“I think I have a congenital memorization inadequacy.”
“How about me? I almost failed Primary because I couldn’t memorize the Articles of Faith.”
But then the teaching director concludes his remarks with the fact that sixty percent of the previous group memorized all discussions while still in the Missionary Home and adds his testimony.
“Looks like it’s not impossible after all, doesn’t it?”
Ten-thirty is bedtime. There is a long line of sinks in the women’s dormitory, each equipped with a sister missionary.
“… because the Lord wants me here, that’s why.”
“My goal is to go through every temple in the world.”
“Everyone told me I’d probably be called to some place close, and now just think, Southern Italy. Wow!”
“If someone could just take my make-up case, it would take care of my six excess pounds of luggage.”
“My boyfriend said he’d wait for me, but …”
Back in their bedrooms the sisters kneel together in prayer and know the comfort of feeling their spirits united in a mutual goal: to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ. An exchange of good-nights closes the day, except for a whispered, “The top bunk? I’ve never slept in a bunk bed before.” The light goes out, because in a shorter time than could be possible it’s
“Elders and sisters, it’s 6:15. All hands on deck!” President Rawson’s voice comes through the intercom, and missionaries in various stages of alertness arise and turn to make their beds.
Breakfast is at 6:30 in the new Church Office Building, where all meals are served during the five-day stay in the Missionary Home. The elders extend the sisters the courtesy of allowing them to be first in line at the cafeteria.
“I’m glad the Church doesn’t practice women’s lib!”
“Is there a rule against perfume?”
During breakfast the sisters make the acquaintance of a sister missionary whose family is all grown and married and whose husband is dead. She has been called to the Alabama-Florida Mission and speaks proudly of her children, all of whom graduated from college and were married in the temple.
“The Lord has been so good to me; I could not possibly refuse this call.”
Following breakfast the missionaries meet in the Visitor’s Center for a tour. The Tabernacle Choir broadcast then provides a half hour of enjoyment and relaxation prior to the first classes.
At 10:15 the sisters meet with the wives of the mission presidency for orientation and a question and answer session. The rest of the morning is spent discussing goals, self-improvement, and how to get organized.
After lunch it’s discussion study again. All the teachers are returned missionaries who have been called and set apart to this position. Each has completed a three-month training course.
Sunday morning the teaching staff for the sister missionaries gathers in the dormitory study area for a meeting to review the results of the previous week, check weak points, and assign study groups of six to ten sisters. The supervisor encourages her staff to maintain their enthusiasm and love for the sisters and to stimulate them to strive to reach the goals they have set. A member of the teaching staff reflects on her appreciation for this special calling with the comment:
“Sunday is the best day of the week!”
Sacrament meeting concludes with the testimonies of recent converts and Lamanite missionaries. A convert of one year bears his testimony to a congregation quiet in contemplation and reverence.
There are a few minutes between dinner and the evening classes, so the sisters use the dormitory to discuss mission rules, passports, bicycles, the language, hometowns, and expected conduct.
“We should exercise for a few minutes every day.”
“Let’s run in place; it’s good for your heart.”
“You mean all that walking isn’t going to do anything for our hearts?”
Then it’s back to the discussions again. The sisters approach memorization of the discussions with a concept of key-wording to establish a broad outline of thought patterns and content rather than the mechanical memorization of words, phrases, and sentences.
The legendary Mr. Brown becomes Sister Brown as the sisters pair off to tackle the first discussion.
“I think I make a better Mr. Brown than Elder Jones.” They memorize the first two discussions on Sunday.
Then, after straining their memories for two hours on the discussions, the missionaries strain them again with a class on how to remember names. Finally, it’s time for family prayer, and the day closes in the same peace of spirit with which the missionaries plan to meet
The temple session begins at 6:45, so the sisters get up at 6:15. The automatic protests at the early hour are brief and overshadowed by a low-voiced exchange of reasons for wanting to be part of this aspect of the Lord’s work.
“Every time I open my eyes it hurts.”
“… share something beautiful …”
“… an overwhelming desire to serve the Lord.”
“… feeling of peace as I signed the final papers in the bishop’s office.”
Between the two temple sessions that they attend, the missionaries meet with President Lee in the temple, where he answers any questions they may have about the endowment ceremony and the temple.
A late lunch is followed by a return to the classrooms, where the elders and sisters learn about door approaches and the use of the Book of Mormon in proselyting.
After dinner they memorize discussions three and four.
Two and a half days after their first apprehensive and impatient hours in the Missionary Home, the missionaries begin to feel a sense of purpose and belonging caused by tangible actions as well as their strong desires and aspirations. With this positive assurance they face
The day begins for the sisters with a morning prayer and song, and then a trip to the mailbox. A disconsolate elder stares at his empty box.
“I guess nobody loves me.”
“Sure they do. They were just glad to get rid of you.”
“Yeah! My brother was wearing my clothes even before I left.”
Most of the day Tuesday is spent learning about some important practical matters such as companion relationships, investigator relationships, health problems, auto safety, mission organization, and the daily work schedule.
Sandwiched in between these subjects is a unique little class taught by a member of the mission presidency. It is called “Listening.” In it the missionaries are taught how to listen perceptively and compassionately to others.
After dinner the missionaries memorize discussions five, six, and seven. Actually they have spent every spare minute all day long in concentrated study of the discussions. The time is only a few minutes snatched here and there, but it’s enough for most to get the job done.
It’s been a long day, but time seems to go faster each day. Lights out at 10:30, and more quickly than ever it’s
Today is the last day in the Missionary Home. This evening many of the elders and sisters will leave in buses for the language training missions at Ricks College and BYU. Others will leave on Thursday morning flights for their mission fields.
Everyone looks forward to Wednesday morning, not because it’s their last but because that’s the day the General Authorities speak to them. These leaders bear moving witness of the divine mission of Joseph Smith, of the importance of modern apostles and prophets, of the truth of the gospel, and of the divinity of Christ. They also explain the order of Church government in priesthood correlation, and advise the missionaries regarding their personal conduct. The morning passes far too quickly.
After lunch there is a testimony meeting. It ends with the elders and sisters singing “God Be with You” with some tears but mostly a sense of hope and enthusiasm and minds and hearts filled with words to remember.
“Smile, elders and sisters! These are glad tidings!”
“If you want to have a certain quality, act as if you already had that quality.”
“I told the brethren that the Book of Mormon was the most correct of any book on earth and the keystone of our religion, and a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts than by any other book.”—Joseph Smith
“The gospel makes bad men good and good men better; it changes human nature.”—David O. McKay
Each missionary takes from the Missionary Home his suitcases, packages, “mission library,” and two special gifts: the gospel and the chance to share it, and the knowledge that he is prepared to succeed.

Clark was deeply touched when, on a typically marvelous Monson fishing experience, his father asked him to reel in his line for a moment. When the lines were in and the rods set aside in the boat, Brother Monson said, “In about five minutes your brother Tom will be sitting down to take the bar examination admitting him to the practice of law. He has worked hard through three years of law school for this and he will be a little nervous. Let’s just kneel here in the boat. I’ll offer a prayer for him, and then you offer one.”
“That was one of the greatest experiences of my life,” Clark later reported. He was also deeply touched years later when his father turned the car around and drove sixty-four kilometers out of his way to let Clark get a good look at a hawk’s nest. “I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he would do that. It’s exactly the kind of thing he has done all his life for those he sees in need.”

The McDowell family moved into Mr. Capper’s house nearly six months ago. They sure are different from the rest of the families in the neighborhood! The first McDowell I met was Nephi, the family’s eleven-year-old son. Nephi told me that his parents named him after an ancient American prophet. I’d never heard of any ancient American prophets, but he showed me a book where his name was written—a book called the Book of Mormon.
My family goes to church, and sometimes we read the Bible, but neither my parents nor I had ever heard of the Book of Mormon. Nephi called it a second testament of Jesus Christ, and said that it was an ancient record of the Lord’s dealings with people in the Americas. That was my first clue that Nephi and his family were “different.”
Next, I met Nephi’s older sister, Glitchen. She wasn’t named for a prophet, but for her great-grandmother, Glitchen Kelly, who came to America from Ireland a long time ago. Glitchen’s great-grandmother had red hair and married a man from Poland named Alex. Glitchen knows all this because her family studies their family history.
All I know about my family is that my parents were born in Mexico and grew up in Arizona. I’d like to know more, but I can’t imagine spending the time that Glitchen’s mother does researching their ancestors, or “growing the family tree,” as she calls it.
When the McDowells first moved in, the whole neighborhood changed. For one thing, it looked better. Mr. Capper hadn’t kept up his house too well, but not long after unloading their furniture, the McDowells set to work repairing their new home. They put a fresh coat of paint on the house and fixed the front gate on the picket fence. Then Mr. McDowell put Nephi to work in the old garden plot, clearing weeds and tilling the soil.
Back then, no one in the neighborhood cared much for gardening, but Nephi said that their prophet wanted them to grow a garden and be as independent as they could. At first I thought he meant the same prophet Nephi was named after, or maybe Moses or Abraham. But Nephi said that he meant the living prophet, the one that stands at the head of their church today. A man who speaks for God down here on earth. After all, he said, the world needs a prophet today as much as ancient Israel needed one in the Bible.
When I told Mom about this living prophet, she didn’t laugh, like I thought she might. Instead, she sighed and said that she prayed that such things were true. That evening we went into our own abandoned garden plot to pull weeds.
So Mom, Dad, and I grew our garden, and the McDowells grew theirs. In the fall, Mom and Mrs. McDowell swapped zucchini recipes, and Mrs. McDowell taught Mom how to bottle fruit and freeze corn. Then Nephi’s dad and my dad began fishing together on Saturdays and sometimes on Friday evenings—but never on Sundays. We learned fast just what the McDowells would and would not do on Sundays.
“It’s our Sabbath,” Nephi told me. They didn’t fish or hunt or have birthday parties or go boating or shopping or do anything but spend family time together and do church stuff. I really felt sorry for Nephi and Glitchen, but they didn’t seem to mind, even when I heard Nephi’s stomach growling one Sunday when he’d been fasting all day.
Now, believe it or not, after all I’ve seen of the McDowells, I still like them. Maybe it’s because they laugh a lot and seem to enjoy each other. Or maybe it’s because Nephi throws such a mean fastball. Or maybe it’s because I just feel good when I’m with them.
Tonight, after dinner, the McDowells are bringing over some missionaries to tell my parents and me more about their church. Mom has cleaned the house and made cinnamon cake, and Nephi and Glitchen are bringing a Book of Mormon just for me.
I’ll soon know all about Nephi the prophet, and about family history stuff and gardens and the Sabbath day, plus a whole lot more. I’ll even learn what it means to be different, like the McDowells. Sometimes different is good.

And then comes the matter of children and family. First, a personal story. Shortly after Jennifer and I learned that she was pregnant with our fifth child, we sat our four children down to tell them that we were having another baby. The younger three were ecstatic. But our oldest son, seven-year-old Chase, seemed very reserved about what we all thought was great news. We were a bit concerned by his reaction, or lack of, and asked him how he really felt. He looked at the floor for a bit, then looked up at us, and said, in a somber tone, “Well, I guess it’s OK. God did say to multiply and punish the earth with children.”

May I add my testimony of this by illustrating an example I witnessed in Albania of this great principle? At each of our zone conferences it was our practice to have the district leaders stand a report on his districts’ service projects for the previous weeks. At one particular zone conference, a district leader came forward and then for his report he asked his entire district to stand, face the missionaries, and then show them their hands. As they did, we all quickly saw that they were all covered with blisters. Then he reported that their service project for the past month had been to dig a well for one of the poor member families in Elbasan who had no running water in their home. He then told of how the senior missionary couple there had seen their dilemma and found that they were hauling water each day from a neighbor a hundred yards or so away who had a well. After doing some investigation, he found out how deep the well was and he concluded that if they could dig down that far, they could dig a well for this family–and so they had begun.

When the district leader reported that day, they were down about 12 feet. Initially, when they had started digging the 6' feet in diameter well the digging was relatively easy. Two elders dug for a while and then traded off with two others. As the hole got deeper, they soon couldn’t throw the dirt up and over the edge. Then they devised a system to fill buckets tied to a rope that was thrown over a log. When the bucket was filled, they would hoist it up where the two elders on top would take it and haul the dirt away to dump. It was quite a project.

You know, when you get down 15' or so, that is a deep hole. At 16' they hit solid rock. That’s pretty discouraging when you have dug that long. How great is your faith at a time like this? The senior missionary was discouraged, but not dismayed. After some searching, he found the one man in the little city who had a jack hammer. However, after the man broke two bits while drilling, he refused to go any further. How does this affect your faith? With a home made sledge hammer they continued on chipping away using the sledge and old railroad spikes.

Brothers and Sisters, How is your faith when you get to 20' & you’re still in rock with no water? How about 25'? It was at about 26' when they came out one morning and found the rock in the bottom of the well was wet. They broke through the rock that day, went down another foot, and the next day at 27 feet, they came out to find a foot of water in their well.

Brothers and Sisters, true disciples of Christ must have faith to step into the darkness knowing the light will follow. They must be willing to dig down 27' knowing they’ll find water even when digging in solid rock. This Rock came from the depths of that well. It is my constant reminder of the well and the faith it took to dig it.

Then take your children to tithing settlement with you, just as President Howard W. Hunter’s grandson was taken with his father several years ago. In that experience the bishop indicated his pleasure in young Brother Hunter’s wanting to pay a full tithing. In the process of receiving the coins, he asked the lad if he thought the gospel were true. As the boy handed over his full tithing of 14 cents, this seven-year-old said he guessed the gospel was true but “it sure costs a lot of money.” Well, the buildings, programs, and materials I have mentioned do have an attached cost. That is not an unimportant lesson for our children to learn in their youth.

Then a year or two ago, almost thirty years after Peter’s death, I dreamed that I was on a business trip, driving my car on a highway that ran alongside the ocean. I think I was supposed to be in northern California.
In my dream I was admiring the beautiful coastal scenery and listening to the car radio.
Suddenly, in my dream, coming toward me on the other side of the road was Peter. He was a full-grown adult, but I recognized him immediately.
Quickly I stopped the car, got out, and ran to him. We hugged and danced like two happy little boys. Then we stood arm-in-arm, face-to-face, with the mighty ocean as a backdrop and talked eagerly for about fifteen minutes.
Never mentioning death, or saying “it’s good to see you after all of these years,” or anything like that, Peter finally said to me, “Well, I’ve got to be going.”
Knowing and feeling that to be true, I said to him, “Where are you going?”
“To take care of some business,” he said simply. I knew better than to ask any more. He was about his Father’s business. My heart told me so. I know that to be true of Andrew also.
I still remember how wonderful it felt in that dream to see Peter again, to hug him and talk with him after all those years since he died. The Spirit bore witness to me that Peter and I will meet again someday and that meeting will be as sweet and natural as it was in that wonderful dream.

Nathan’s eyes shifted now to the rearview mirror. The reflection in it of the back of the truck prompted his memory of the time he rode in it the day of his baptism. His father’s car had broken down, so the family piled into the old truck. Nathan sat in the open bed with his brother, Frank, and his little sister, Ashley. His father and mother rode up in the cab with Grandpa Virgil.

Nathan liked the feel of the breeze on his face. Grandpa had said that maybe it was the same easy wind that had cooled the brows of the early handcarters as, seeking peace, they trudged across the plains with their families to their new beginnings in these very valleys.

Peace! Nathan thought, his eyes filling with hot, stinging tears at the reality of his grandfather’s absence. Peace is what I need now to help me deal with Grandpa Virgil’s being gone. He pushed his face out the open window into a breeze that had arisen with the dawn. Maybe it was the same wind, he speculated, that cooled the tears of the handcart pioneers who had to bury their dead in shallow graves and continue on their way. That’s what Grandpa would want of me now—to continue on my way and be the best I can be. “I will, Grandpa,” he whispered out loud. “I will.”

Later that morning as everyone gathered around the breakfast table, Nathan’s father asked Frank, Nathan, and Ashley what one thing they would each like to have that had belonged to Grandpa Virgil, as a remembrance of him. Frank chose Grandpa’s fishing pole. “It’s yours,” Father agreed with a kindly smile. “And all his tackle. I know how you cherished your time with him under that old willow by the fishing hole.” He turned his smile toward Nathan’s sister. “What about you, Ash?”

“Grandpa’s scriptures,” she said after a moment’s thought, “the ones he always took to church.”

Father patted the small girl’s hand and nodded. “I think Grandpa especially wanted you to have them because he knew you’d really study them like he did.” He then turned toward his firstborn. “And you, Nathan? What would you like, son?”

Nathan hesitated, knowing how much his father needed the extra milk cows. His eyes fell, and he poked at his food. Then, mustering a smile, he looked up and said, “I really can’t think of anything, Dad.”

Father and Mother exchanged glances. They knew different. “It’s Grandpa Virgil’s old pickup, isn’t it, Nathan?”

He nodded. “But the extra milk cows—you need the money you’ll get from Mr. Finch for Grandpa’s truck to buy them.”

“I made all of you kids an offer, Nathan,” Father reminded him. “You’d like to have his old pickup, and we want you to have it. Besides—” he glanced away quickly to blink back a tear— “I saw you outside, sitting in Grandpa’s truck, and I could tell that to you that old pickup is as priceless an earthly treasure as a boy or man could ever hope for.” He leaned forward and spoke with warm finality: “The old pickup is yours.”

Before Nathan could protest, Father added, “The extra cows can wait, Nathan. We have managed without them this long, haven’t we? And if this year’s harvest is good, I just might be able to buy them then—OK?”

That night Nathan sat by his bedroom window, staring out at the green pickup in the tall weeds. It was as alive in his mind as it was in the yard—as alive as Grandpa Virgil would always be, for memories were eternal, his grandfather once said, “and things eternal never die.” Nathan had been wrestling in his mind with something ever since supper. Now a look of peace and contentment washed over him. He regarded the battered machine in the soft glow of moonlight a final moment, then went to bed.

Early the next morning, he approached his father with a determined look on his face. “I have something to say, Dad.”

“Sure,” his father answered. “What is it, son?”

“It’s something I want to do. I just feel it. It’s what Grandpa would do if he were here.”

“OK,” Father said slowly, waiting to hear his son out.

“I called Mr. Finch about the pickup—I’m selling it to him.”

“You’re what?”

“I want to be like Grandpa, Dad. I want to help.”

“I told you, Nathan, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, Dad,” Nathan interrupted. “I really want to.”

Nathan went with his father for the last ride in the pickup. Mother drove the other family truck, Frank and Ashley riding with her. After they dropped off Grandpa Virgil’s pickup at Mr. Finch’s, they would head for Mr. Anderson’s farm to purchase two more milk cows. It was hot enough that Nathan could roll down the truck window and let the wind rush across his face. He seemed to hear in his mind Grandpa Virgil saying that maybe it was the same easy wind that had cooled the brows of the early handcart pioneers as they trudged across the plains.

Nathan smiled and gazed affectionately around the old truck, which was still alive with memories—the kind of memories that go on forever. Just like Grandpa Virgil.

We have a wonderful zone leader in this mission, born and raised in Mexico. As a young boy, he and his siblings were pleading, one day, with his father to take them to a movie. His father said, "No, I don't have time to take you to a movie." They continued to plead and beg, the way only young children could do. Finally out of exasperation his father said, "Well, if it rains, I will take you to a movie." They lived in a very dry portion of Mexico. His father thought he was making a very safe arrangement. But this little boy and his siblings went into their room, knelt down and plead with the Lord for rain. They really wanted to see that movie.

The next morning as they all got up, the father looked out the window and it had rained. Now the Lord didn't care about that movie, but He cared deeply about the faith of one of his future missionaries and He wanted him to know that God does answer prayers. So that young man not only got a movie, but he got a personal testimony of the reality of prayer.

Illiam Jones lives in a place of fairy tales and myths. It’s the Isle of Man, located in the sea between England and Ireland. And, naturally, there’s a legend about how the island came to be.
“A giant from England and a giant from Ireland were having an argument,” ten-year-old Illiam explains. “They got so angry with each other that the giant from England picked up a rock and threw it at the giant from Ireland. But he couldn’t throw it far enough to reach Ireland. It landed in the middle of the ocean and became the Isle of Man.”
Although the Isle of Man is part of the United Kingdom, it has its own money, its own stamps, and a flag and coat of arms featuring a symbol with three legs. People who live on the Isle of Man speak English, but some people know an older language, Manx.
The Isle of Man has many things to remind you of its heritage—steam and electric railways; the world’s largest working water wheel; a village folk museum; and Tynwald Hill, where Vikings used to meet to make their laws. Every year, the Isle of Man is the site of motorcycle, bicycle, and automobile races.
The island is also known for unusual animals, like the Manx cat, which has no tail, and the Loghton sheep, which has four horns—two pointing up and two curling down.
But for Illiam, the Isle of Man is just home. He says the races mostly bring noise and crowds to Douglas, the city where he lives. He thinks all the tourists staring at the sheep “make the sheep seem like show-offs, trying to be ‘posh’ with their four horns.” He’s more keen on playing football (soccer), going to school, and eating “chips,” or fried potatoes.
Most of all, Illiam loves to sing with his seven-year-old sister, Voirrey (the Manx name for Mary). They often sing duets in their ward, and sometimes they’re asked to sing in other religions’ churches.
“I love to sing,” Illiam says. “My favorite hymn is ‘As I Have Loved You.’ I’ve sung it at nearly every single baptism held in our ward.”
His own baptism was an occasion to remember. “It was the best day of my whole life!” he says exuberantly.
School teachers, friends, and friends’ parents all came, and each received a small handmade paper book from Illiam and his mother, with poems, pictures, photos, and Illiam’s written testimony.
“It helped them to be better informed about our church and its teachings,” Illiam says.
When he was baptized, he says, “I felt like the Holy Ghost was with me all the time, especially when I went under the water.” He had a special feeling that he was very close to Heavenly Father and that Jesus was proud of him.
Illiam also loves to go to Primary. “I love the sing-alongs, and when we act out stories from the scriptures. But most of all, I like learning about Heavenly Father and Jesus. Learning about them is the most important thing in life, so that you can do the things they want you to do.”
On an island where myths and fairy tales abound, Illiam Jones has clearly learned a lot about knowing the truth.

One young woman had an experience soon after President Hinckley’s fireside when she began to question her friendship with some people.
“As I approached this group of people that I called my friends and that I had spent half my life with, their aura seemed different, confusing, and unappealing. They were taking turns telling bad jokes and the spirit that I encountered there was one I did not want to be a part of. I hesitated to leave my friends and stayed for half a joke and then made up my mind to not be a part of this demeaning situation.”
She went on to explain that although it was difficult leaving her group of friends, it was well worth it.
“As I look back on that minute in time, that thought of walking away was probably the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Now I find it to have been the single most important event in my life. I am now in a different crowd of people.
I think differently, and most importantly I act differently because of my change of friends.”

When I first heard the gospel, I loved it and knew I wanted it to be a part of my life. I wanted to be married someday to a returned missionary, have children, and live happily ever after. I fell in love with the most wonderful guy. He was also a convert. After he served his mission, we were married in the Washington D.C. Temple.
Five years and two children later, I found myself sitting in a general conference broadcast all alone. My children had stayed home with their father.
I will never forget the feelings I had that day. The “happily ever after” I longed for seemed to be slipping from my hands. My sweet husband, the returned missionary I married in the temple, was struggling with activity in the Church. I prayed for him and put his name on the prayer roll in the temple. Still, he chose not to attend church. It was heart wrenching to hear my two-year-old son plead, “Come to church with us, Daddy.”
As I sat in conference that day long ago, my soul was stirred by the excellent talks, but I also felt saddened. I so wanted my husband there. We were on this earthly journey together, but we were walking different paths. I needed strength to carry on. Sitting alone at church with a newborn and a two-year-old can be trying under any circumstances, but we were living in a new city, in a big ward, and many of the members were students just like my husband. I thought I was the only one who had a less-active husband, and I felt out of place. But I plastered on a smile and continued going to church, all the while dying inside.
During conference that day, the congregation rose to its feet to sing “How Firm a Foundation,” and I simply sat there. I did not have the energy to stand.
As the third and final verse began, I started to feel different. Something was changing, and the sweetness of the Spirit engulfed my whole being as I listened to the words:
Fear not, I am with thee; oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid.
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand, …
Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.
(Hymns, no. 85)
Then one of the most amazing moments of my life happened. It seemed to me that someone was literally helping me to stand. I looked around, but no one was there. From that moment I was a changed person. I knew I was not alone. And in that one instant I knew that someday all would be well.
A smile came to my face in a recent sacrament meeting—18 years after that conference—as my husband was released from the bishopric and called to be the Young Men president. I received a new calling too—the one I’ve feared my whole life—Relief Society president. Feeling overwhelmed, I felt my heart skip a beat as the closing hymn was announced: “How Firm a Foundation.” My tears always flow when that hymn is sung, and on that day they were in abundance. They were tears of gratitude, and I knew again that all would be well.

Several years ago, in my mid-twenties and single, I moved to Boston seeking a change of scenery and new opportunities. I was employed part-time at two jobs while seeking full-time employment. The first was planting flowers (especially tulips) at the Boston Massachusetts Temple. I loved that job! The other was working in the Student Life program at an all-women’s Catholic College. One day in a meeting, I was asked about my other job by some of the Catholic sisters, who were dressed at the time in common clothing, not their traditional cloaks or habits. When I revealed that I worked on the grounds at the Latter-day Saint temple, they immediately became very inquisitive.
Two things stand out to me from that conversation: the first was their reverence for not only the ceremonial clothing worn at the temple as a symbol of purity, but their obvious respect for the garment worn daily as a constant reminder of our covenant connection to Jesus Christ. Finally, they asked, “Are you recommended?” I was grateful to acknowledge that I did hold a current temple recommend; and took it from my purse to show them. They passed it around the room, and each examined it with such carefulness, as if it were a valuable treasure. And in fact, it is.