Gospel Story Finder

For generations it has inspired those who read it. Herbert Schreiter had read his German translation of the Book of Mormon. In it he read:
“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.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”
Herbert Schreiter tested the promise and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In 1946, released as a prisoner of war, Herbert returned to his wife and three little daughters in Leipzig, Germany. Soon thereafter, he went as a missionary to Bernburg, Germany. Alone, without a companion, he sat cold and hungry in a room, wondering how he should begin.
He thought of what he had to offer the war-devastated people. He printed by hand a placard which read, “Will there be a further life after death?” and posted it on a wall.
About that same time, a family from a small village in Poland came to Bernburg.
Manfred Schütze was four years old. His father had been killed in the war. His mother, with his grandparents, and his mother’s sister, also a widow, and her two little girls, were forced to evacuate their village with only 30 minutes’ notice. They grabbed what they could and headed west. Manfred and his mother pulled and pushed a small cart. At times, the ailing grandfather rode in the cart. One Polish officer looked at the pathetic little Manfred and began to weep.
At the border, soldiers ransacked their belongings and threw their bedding into the river. Manfred and his mother were then separated from the family. His mother wondered if they might have gone to Bernburg, where her grandmother was born, perhaps to relatives there. After weeks of unbelievable suffering, they arrived in Bernburg and found the family.
The seven of them lived together in one small room. But their troubles were not over. The mother of the two little girls died. The grieving grandmother cried out for a preacher, and asked, “Will I see my family again?”
The preacher answered, “My dear lady, there is no such thing as the Resurrection. They who are dead are dead!”
They wrapped the body in a paper bag for burial.
On the way from the grave, the grandfather talked of taking their own lives, as many others had done. Just then they saw the placard that Elder Schreiter had posted on the building—“Is there further life after death?”—with an invitation from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a meeting, they learned of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.
They joined the Church. Soon their lives changed. The grandfather found work as a baker and could provide bread for his family and also for Elder Schreiter, who had given them “the bread of life.”
Then help came from the Church in the United States. Manfred grew up eating grain out of little sacks with a picture of a beehive on them and peaches from California. He wore clothes from the welfare supplies of the Church.
Manfred Schütze is now a member of the Third Quorum of Seventy and supervises our seminaries in Eastern Europe. His mother, now 88, still attends the temple at Freiberg where Herbert Schreiter once served as a counselor to the president.

When I was a child, my parents took me to church only occasionally. I was baptized and ordained a deacon, but attending church was not a big part of our lives. By the time I was 14, I wasn’t attending church at all. I was in the middle of yet another custody battle between my parents. When I moved in with my mom, I had no motivation to study, because I saw no purpose in my life. A lot of people stayed away from me in my new school because I wore black clothing and combat boots. My grades were terrible. That was the year I entered ninth grade.
One day I was visiting my grandma when she told me that if I would graduate from seminary, she would give me $100. For me that was a lot of money. I said I’d think about it.
When I went to my new school to register, the school counselor signed me up for three shop classes because other classes were full. I didn’t want to take shop, and then I remembered Grandma’s offer. Suddenly the idea of getting out of shop and getting $100 sounded pretty good. I signed up for released-time seminary. I went to class, but I sat in the back and participated as little as possible.
One day I got to seminary class late, and the only seat available was on the front row. I sat down and heard our teacher, Brother Peck, say, “I don’t know why, but I feel like we need to watch this today.”
We watched How Rare a Possession, a movie about how the Book of Mormon affected the lives of different people. As the movie ended and we got up to leave, something unexpected happened: I realized that I felt peaceful. It was such a foreign feeling that I wondered what it could mean. An impression came: I was feeling the Spirit. At that moment I knew the Book of Mormon was an inspired book.
I started going to church with some friends in our neighborhood. But then we moved and I stopped going.
In my new school I signed up for seminary. I began reading the scriptures daily. One night it hit me just how much my life needed changing. I had been learning about the gospel, but I hadn’t been living it. I was still hanging out with people who made it difficult to live righteously. I knew I had to get serious about changing my life. The next day I went and talked to Brother Porter, my seminary teacher. He told me when and where my ward met.
The next Sunday I went to church but sat down in the back of the chapel. It took a while to make friends because of my reputation, but I kept going each week because I knew that was where I was supposed to be. For my 15th birthday, my other grandma gave me a gift certificate for a haircut and some new clothes. A few days later I was ordained a teacher.
When general conference came, Brother Porter gave us an assignment to watch at least one session. I put off the assignment until Sunday morning. When the session started, I rolled over in my bed and turned on the TV. As I watched President Thomas S. Monson, then the Second Counselor in the First Presidency, talk about the history of the Church in the German Democratic Republic, I felt that same feeling of peace. I recognized it as the Spirit testifying that I was listening to prophets. That afternoon my mom and brothers went grocery shopping. I stayed home to watch another session.
By that point I had made two very important decisions: I would live the gospel, and I wanted to get married in the temple. But I wasn’t going to spend two years on a mission. Then our seminary teacher gave some lessons on missionary work. By the end of the week, I knew that going on a mission was the right thing to do.
I went to the bishop to get a recommend for my patriarchal blessing. Through that experience, I learned that God had a plan for my life. That knowledge helped me form my own plans for the future. My grades improved, and I started getting involved in clubs and activities at school. I was assigned to be a home teacher with a neighbor, who taught me about service and how a priesthood holder should live.
Despite the changes I made, my life wasn’t easy. In some ways it became more difficult. Going to church meant more conflicts with my family over the kinds of activities we engaged in on Sunday and the kinds of movies we watched. Most of the time I went to church by myself. I missed out on dinners, movies, and visits to amusement parks. But that was more than made up for by the Spirit I felt. The Holy Ghost comforted me in difficult times and taught me as I read the scriptures.
When I graduated from high school and seminary, my grandma gave me the promised check for $100. I thanked her and told her I didn’t want it, but she insisted. The testimony I had gained of a loving Heavenly Father, the Savior, the Holy Ghost, the restored Church, and prophets who lead us today was worth far more than any amount of money.

Born in Ixelles, Belgium, 5 October 1935, Charles Didier recalls that his father, Andre, a Belgian Army officer, was captured at the beginning of World War II. After escaping, he stayed hidden and saw his family only during occasional surprise visits. Elder Didier looks back on a time after his own ninth birthday:
“Because the secret police were looking for him [his father], we were searched—and barely escaped. We went to where he was hiding in Antwerp Province, and from there to live with my great-grandmother in Flanders.” Then Belgium was liberated. “I vividly remember the soldiers trying to get away on bicycles, the airplanes coming, the shooting, and the Allied troops coming into the village.”
Like those around him, young Charles was educated in Catholic doctrine as a boy. He attended mass regularly, the only one in his family to do so.
In 1950, while the family was living in Namur, Belgium, and Charles was finishing junior high school, two Latter-day Saint missionaries from the United States knocked on their door. His mother, Gabrielle, let them in and listened. During Easter vacation of the following year, she was baptized in a little font in Brussels, but Charles missed the baptism. He was in Rome to see the Pope on a trip organized by the Catholic church.
Although Charles resisted invitations to attend the local branch, he did attend an English club taught by the missionaries, leaving before the evening’s youth activities started because he “didn’t want to be trapped.” But he was asked to take part in a branch play, and then his mother persuaded him to attend church with her on a Sunday. Soon his sister, Jacqueline, was baptized. When Charles left home to go to the university in Liège, he says, “I attended youth activities from time to time. I did some little things all the time but did not want to participate. I was very shy. I really did not want to be in front of people.”
Then missionary Elder Dewitt Paul challenged him, asking why he would not be baptized, since he was “doing everything a member does,” Elder Didier recalls.
“I said I didn’t see the necessity. I had a good life. I could attend and not have responsibilities. He said, ‘Let’s pray about the Book of Mormon, about Joseph Smith. Then if you have a testimony, I think you’ll recognize that you need to be baptized.’
“And so we prayed about it. I got up from that prayer with a testimony—an answer to my prayers. It was nothing like a light, a voice—just a reassuring influence: ‘Go ahead and do it. There is wisdom. This is my commandment.’” In November 1957, Charles was baptized in a swimming pool in Brussels by Elder Paul.
Traveling between Liège and Namur, he continued his studies at the University of Liège, graduating in 1959 with a degree in economics. Then he entered the reserve officer training program of the Belgian Air Force, finishing his military service as a lieutenant and radar supervisor.
A short time later, stationed only a few kilometers from Liège, he had time to go out with a brown-eyed girl he had met in the Liège Branch, Lucie Lodomez. She had served as a missionary in France with his sister Jacqueline.
When his military service was completed, Lucie and Charles were married in Liège (they were sealed in the Swiss Temple in 1962) and moved into a tiny apartment there. Charles progressed through his job with a timber products importing company, and both he and Lucie grew through Church service. He received more and more responsibility in the Church, eventually becoming president of the 100-member branch in Liège.
But after five years of working in Liège, Charles was restless. He started investigating the possibilities of teaching or continuing his education. Then came “another answer to prayer.” He was asked to move to Frankfurt, Germany, to work as assistant to John E. Carr, director of temporal affairs for the Church in Europe.
The move lasted only nine months. He was asked to go back to Liège and take over the Church distribution center. Upon his return he was immediately called again as Liège Branch president.

Recently I listened to a lovely young lady just leaving her teens as she spoke in a stake conference, her first address ever. She had never known a true family of her own. She had experienced many temporary homes, made many mistakes, had much heartache and hopelessness. Then an older Church couple found her, and loved her, and taught her. Her prepared talk was witty and interesting, but when she laid it down and bore witness through tears, it became magic:

“No one ever helped me to understand that I was worth anything,” she said, “that I was special in any way. And then the missionaries taught me about Jesus Christ and his love and the God who sent him. They taught me that Jesus died for me—for me. I am valuable! I am valuable! He died for me.”

Jon Fuller is watching the horseshoeing demonstration when we catch up with him. He first heard about his Mormon Battalion ancestor in a general priesthood meeting talk. Jon was impressed with the story of a John Barnet Cole, who helped rescue a stranded handcart company and who had seen in a dream the woman he would marry. When he repeated the story to his mother, she told him that John Cole was his ancestor. Now, he is learning that his forefather was even more impressive than he had imagined. Jon sums it up: “He was pretty brave!”

“The Lord my shepherd is …” Music swirled around Jane Elizabeth Manning, but she couldn’t focus on the words. She was looking at her hands, deep in thought.
She had joined the Presbyterian church a year ago. But she still felt like something was missing. “I’m searching for something more,” she thought. But what could that be?
After the church meeting ended, Jane drifted outside with the rest of the congregation. The leaves were beginning to turn red and gold. Sunlight glinted off the nearby Norwalk River.
“A traveling missionary has come to town,” a man was saying. “He’s a Mormon, and he says God is speaking to prophets again.”
Jane stopped to listen. Could this be what she was searching for?
“Prophets?” another man scoffed. “Like from the Bible? Who would go listen to such a message?”
“I would!” Jane blurted out. A few people turned to stare at her, including the pastor. Jane felt her cheeks grow warm.
The pastor frowned. “I don’t think you should go hear him. It’s foolishness, that’s what. Do you understand?” When she said nothing, he nodded and moved to speak with someone else. Jane watched him leave and then hurried home.
Home wasn’t where Mamma and her brothers and sisters lived. It was at the Fitches’ farm. She had gone to live there as a servant when she was just six years old. Every day she worked hard, helping Mrs. Fitch with the washing, ironing, and cooking. She usually got up before the sun. She built the fire, kneaded bread, and churned the butter. Whenever she could, she went to visit her own family.
A few days later, Jane was still thinking about the missionary while she was hanging up Mr. Fitch’s shirts to dry. The clothes flapped in the brisk breeze.
The pastor had told her not to go, and yet …she needed to. She needed to see if this Mormon could help her find the truth she was searching for. By the time she finished hanging the clothes, she had made up her mind. She would go to the meeting, no matter what anyone else said.
On Sunday, Jane woke at dawn, put on her nicest dress, and walked alone to the meeting hall. She quietly slipped onto a wooden bench at the back of the hall. Jane smiled when she saw how many people were there. It seemed she was not the only one looking for something more!
The room quieted when Elder Wandell stood. The next hour passed quickly as he spoke about the Book of Mormon and a prophet named Joseph. He said people could be baptized by immersion, just as Christ was. And he talked about the Saints gathering to a faraway city called Nauvoo. By the end of the meeting, Jane’s heart felt so full she could hardly breathe.
That night, Jane visited her family.
“And what did you think of the missionary’s message?” her mother asked when Jane explained how she had spent her Sunday.
“I am fully convinced he presented the true gospel,” Jane said. “I must embrace it. I am going to be baptized next Sunday.”
“Baptized? You’re joining another church?” her brother, Isaac, asked, pulling up a chair.
“Yes! It’s what I’ve been searching for. It’s true.”
Isaac could tell she was serious. “So what happens next?” he asked quietly. “What will you do after you’re baptized?”
“I’ll gather with the Saints,” Jane said. “I’m going to Nauvoo.”
Jane was baptized the next Sunday. Soon afterward, she left Connecticut and began the long journey to Nauvoo.
It was hard. Jane had little money, and the trip was long and difficult. But she kept going because she believed God had answered her prayer.
When she finally arrived in Nauvoo, Jane was welcomed by the Saints. She felt at home among them and knew she had found the truth she had been searching for.

Having been born in Hawaii, I enjoy reading the history of those islands and their people. One of the things that I find most intriguing about the ancient Hawaiian men and their form of battle was the method used in training for spear warfare.
The Hawaiian warriors used, among other weapons, a long spear made from very hard wood. They did not have metal from which to make tips, but otherwise they were about the size and weight of the javelin used in modern track-and-field events. As preparatory exercises for war, the men would engage in sham battles. Now while a sham battle was, as the name implies, a mock combat, it could become training of a very deadly sort. After dividing the warriors into two groups, arrayed on opposite sides of an open meadow, the sham battle began with each group hurling their spears at each other. The object of the game was not just to keep from getting killed, but rather, after having hurled one’s spear at the “enemy,” to catch the incoming spears bare-handed and throw them back as well. For, you see, once you had thrown your spear you were unarmed. You rearmed yourself by catching those coming toward you.
You can well imagine the scene that such a melee would produce. King Kamehameha was observed in one such battle to catch three spears in his right hand, fend off a fourth with the spear in his left hand and dodge a fifth, all in one continuous motion.
I bring up the Hawaiian sham battle because it is helpful in drawing parallels with our fight against Satan. But there are some differences—important differences. The sham battle was a game of sorts. You might get severely injured or even killed, but that was merely the odds of the game, not the intent.
On the other hand, the spears of the adversary are not thrown with any thought that they may be harmlessly caught or skillfully dodged. Satan is not engaged in a sham battle wherein he expects his efforts to be easily sidestepped. He carefully plans, with his great wealth of knowledge, the formation of each battle, having little interest in evenly and fairly dispersed combatants. His cunning and perverse plans are intended to home in his fiery darts with swift accuracy, separating us, as Nephi warned, from the iron rod (see 1 Ne. 15:24). You and I may think the War in Heaven is over, but as far as Satan is concerned that was merely the initial battle. He continues with a hate-driven vengeance that you and I, filled with the light of Christ, cannot even begin to envision. He has devised schemes without number to gain men’s souls.
Overcoming the perverse enticings of Satan is an essential part of our progression and advancement. It is a very personal battle that we wage with Satan. No one can fight it for us. We can, however, strengthen and buoy each other up. That is the purpose of families and friends. It is also one reason for the programs of the Church.
Now, returning to the cliff-walking attitude I referred to earlier. As you and I thread our way through life’s paths, we become confronted with Satan’s detours, those opportunities to peer over the cliff. Being curious or bold or foolhardy, or however we so choose to characterize our attempts to come perilously close to the edge without falling, we often see just how far we can get from the iron rod, maybe just barely keeping contact with the tip of a finger. Then if one of Satan’s darts strikes too near the target, we slip over the edge with hardly a murmur. It was thrilling though, while it lasted, teetering there on the brink, knowing we were so close to peril but confident, oh so confident, that we had things in control.
Satan doesn’t care what he uses to get us—liquor, tobacco, drugs, desires for unearned wealth, dishonesty, lust. He’ll use whatever is at hand.
I recall a young couple who were having difficulty behaving themselves when alone on a date. They became concerned with their actions and worried that they might become increasingly involved to the point that they would lose all that they held dear. After talking things over, they decided they needed to begin each date with a prayer. That was a good plan, but their dates continued to end up with just the two of them in some secluded spot and walking on the edge of the cliff, as it were. They repeatedly fell into the same behavior for which they had prayed for strength to overcome. Peril-filled petting had greater attraction than did the calm plans made in the less secluded light of day. It was obvious that if they were going to stop flirting with danger, they would have to take steps to change their pattern of being alone. Yet it seems to be so human how, having once walked to the edge of the cliff, they returned so readily.
The story had a satisfactory ending. The girl finally realized they lacked the determination or discipline to modify their behavior, so she terminated their dating altogether and thus did not slip further into the abyss of immorality.
It really doesn’t matter what the temptation. In ten years as a bishop and high councilor, I have participated in several Church courts. I can testify to you that no one whose membership was on trial had stayed comfortably back from the edge of the cliff. Their fences, if indeed they had ever built them, were in a state of disrepair. With weakened safeguards and a mind full of fantasy, they danced to Satan’s tune until they stumbled over the edge.
We are here, you and I, to be tried, tested, and proven worthy to reenter our Father in Heaven’s kingdom. We are here, as was Christ, to overcome temptation and claim our crowns on high. While we may have forgotten all, we are not abandoned. We have the guidance of scriptures, the counsel of living prophets and other inspired leaders, and, for those baptized under the hands of the priesthood of God, the gift of the Holy Ghost.
The words of Paul to the Ephesians provide eloquent advice for you and me. Said he:
“Put on the whole armour of God, … that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.
“Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness;
“And your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace;
“Above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.
“And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God:
“Praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit, and watching thereunto with all perseverance and supplication for all saints” (Eph. 6:11, 13–18).
I believe that one of Satan’s greatest tools is to get you and me to become content to take the average road—to lie a little, to cheat a little, to take a little advantage because it’s the sort of thing that seems so common. By this we are led, as Nephi said, “carefully down to hell” (2 Ne. 28:21).
My young brothers and sisters, I testify to you that Satan is very, very real. I have both felt and witnessed his great power, and it is a frightening thing. It is my further testimony that Christ lives and that he provides each of us the necessary knowledge to recognize sin and error.
I pray that I can have the wisdom to continue. I pray that my children can prepare their fences, and I pray that each of you can recognize those avenues which Satan is stalking in his search for your souls and that you can likewise prepare adequate defenses.
Jesus Christ is the source of our strength. You and I need that strength if we are to turn away from evil and return to our Father in Heaven.

The friendship that Michelle and I had was one of those “one of a kind” things. It was a friendship that changed my life.
In the early stages of our friendship all that I knew about her was that her morals and values were much stronger than any of my other friends. It wasn’t until I was invited over to her house for a family home evening that I found out she was a Mormon.
It was at this family home evening that I was introduced to the gospel by two wonderful missionaries, Elder Stinchcombe and Elder Archibald. When they asked if I wanted to hear the discussions, I was filled with an unfamiliar but comfortable feeling. I accepted.
After having the discussions and resolving many of my concerns, we set a date for baptism. But, even though I felt good about my decision, I wanted some kind of confirmation that I was doing the right thing. I started to search desperately for the answer to my question, “Is the Church true?” I prayed morning, noon, and night, but I didn’t seem to be getting an answer.
It wasn’t until I met Davie Wilden, a Church member, that my hopes became a reality. After many hours of talking and reading with him, we decided it was time to pray. As we knelt and Davie began to pray, the room grew silent. He ended his prayer, asking Heavenly Father to help me; then it was my turn to pray.
I had just begun my prayer when I heard a voice. It said, “Say sorry, just say sorry.”
I prayed with all my heart for Heavenly Father to forgive my sins. I felt a warm, tingly feeling come right down through my arms and seem to pierce me to the very center. Five days later I was baptized.
Since then, my testimony of the gospel has grown stronger and stronger, and I know it came about through the prayers of myself and those who helped teach me the gospel. Exactly one year and two days after I was baptized, I entered the New Zealand MTC, being called on a mission to Perth, Australia. I now have a chance to experience the same joy as the people who taught me the gospel by sharing my testimony with others.

When we started talking about the sacrament in Sunday School, I thought I had a good understanding of it from earlier lessons in Primary and seminary and from completing my Personal Progress. But I found out I still had a lot to learn.
My teacher began the lesson by asking a simple question: “How do you keep your covenant to always remember the Savior?” I began to think about how I live each day and if I really always remember my Savior. Was I keeping my baptismal covenant the very best I could?
In class we talked about different things that would help us always remember Jesus Christ. Some of the things included having consistent daily prayer and scripture study, praying for the Spirit, singing hymns, taking time to ponder, writing in a journal, going to the temple, and keeping items around home that remind you of Jesus Christ, such as pictures of Him and of the temple. At the end of the class, we were asked to apply the things we’d discussed and to prepare all week long to take the sacrament the next Sunday.
During the week, I tried more diligently to focus on Jesus Christ. I studied scriptures about the sacrament, and I tried to allow myself quiet time to think about what I’d learned. Before then, I used to listen to popular music during most of my free time, but I decided to take a break and ponder sometimes or listen to hymns instead. I prayed for the Spirit to help me remember my covenant and tried to remember to act as the Savior would. I even took the advice to write in my journal, and at the end of each day I took time to reflect on what I’d done well and what I needed to improve. All week I looked forward to when I could take the sacrament again.
On Sunday, I prepared to go to church in a more reverent manner. I woke up early so I wouldn’t be in a rush to get ready right before I had to leave.
By living the principles from our lesson, I learned more about the sacrament and my baptismal covenant. It increased my testimony of the Savior and of His Atonement. I found that when I strive to remember Jesus Christ, I am much happier. It’s easier for me to deal with trials, because I know that He can help me through anything. I’m grateful for the sacrament and for the opportunity I had to make it a bigger part of my everyday life.

Many of the most important lessons Robert learned as a child came from the example of his parents and from his experiences in the Queens Ward. As deacons quorum president, Robert learned to respect his priesthood leaders after an experience with the bishop. At that time, the ward met in the Citizen’s League Hall. The sacrament table was on the main floor in front of the stage. The deacons used to take the sacrament trays, climb up onto the stage, put the trays away, and then run and jump off the stage, grab another tray, and repeat the process until all the trays were put away. “I came sailing off of that stage,” says Elder Hales, “and our new bishop was standing there. He caught me in flight. I said, ‘Well, everyone else is doing it,’ and he said, ‘Yes, but you are the president of the deacons quorum.’ The bishop said he wanted the sacrament taken care of properly, with reverence. That was when I began to learn an important lesson. I’ve appreciated priesthood leaders who have taken the time to teach me.”

The Smith family and others in their area were given opportunities to heft the ancient record and feel its individual plates at the Smith family home in Manchester Township, New York. Joseph’s younger brother William, age 16 in 1827, had a vivid memory of witnessing the plates, which he later shared in a sermon: “When the plates were brought in they were wrapped up in a tow frock. My father then put them into a pillow case. Father said, ‘What, Joseph, can we not see them?’ [Joseph responded,] ‘No. … I was forbidden to show them until they are translated, but you can feel them.’ We handled them and could tell what they were. … Could tell whether they were round or square. Could raise the leaves this way (raising a few leaves of the Bible before him). One could easily tell that they were not a stone, hewn out to deceive, or even a block of wood.”1

On another occasion, William provided further information: “I could tell they were plates of some kind and that they were fastened together by rings running through the back.”2 He also wrote that in addition to feeling the individual plates and rings, he had hefted the entire artifact: “I was permitted to lift them. … They weighed about 60 pounds according to the best of my judgment.”3 Joseph’s younger sister Katherine, age 14, also got to hold the plates the day Joseph brought them home. She “rippled her fingers up the edge of the plates and felt that they were separate metal plates and heard the tinkle of sound that they made.”4

When I was 17, I went to live with my aunt and uncle in Sekondi, Ghana, who were sponsoring my education. When I arrived at their home, I immediately noticed unusual things about their family. They had morning and evening prayers together and held family meetings on Monday evenings that seemed to make each family member feel loved and appreciated. Even though I was an active member of another faith, I became interested in finding out about their beliefs.
When I asked Uncle Sarfo about the Church, he explained many of the Church’s teachings. Some I believed, and others I did not understand.
My uncle then asked the missionaries to teach me the discussions, and I received all six of the lessons. But when the missionaries invited me to be baptized, I refused because I did not have a testimony of the Book of Mormon. I found it difficult to read and understand.
To please Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Sarfo, I had already been attending sacrament meeting. Now they encouraged me to enroll in the early-morning seminary course that was to begin in two weeks. Getting out of bed at 4:30 A.M. was no small matter for me, but the seminary teacher, Solomon Agbo, visited me, encouraged me to attend, and seemed already to care about me. I decided to go to seminary, and once I made that decision, I resolved not to be absent even for a single day. The course of study was the Book of Mormon, and I wanted to see if I might gain a testimony of the book.
As I began studying the Book of Mormon for seminary, I experienced the feelings Elder Parley P. Pratt (1807–57) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described when he first found the Book of Mormon. “I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page,” he wrote. “I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. After this I commenced its contents by course. I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [1985], 18).
As I read, the Spirit of the Lord bore witness that the Book of Mormon is truly another testament of Jesus Christ. Through seminary the Book of Mormon became much easier to read. Whenever it was hard to follow, my teacher helped me understand. I received a testimony that the Book of Mormon is “the most correct of any book on earth, … and a man [will] get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, selected by Joseph Fielding Smith [1976], 194).
I was baptized on 5 March 1995. By the time I was 21 I was a seminary teacher myself, helping others know of the divinity and truthfulness of the book that changed my life.

“Don’t scuff your new school shoes, Richy,” said Mother as the family left the meetinghouse. “Remember, they must last until spring.”
Richy liked to walk home from Sunday School alone. He enjoyed strolling across the green meadow and by the majestic cottonwood trees that grew beside the river. The wide cottonwood leaves reminded him of flakes of gold in the autumn sunlight.
Richy walked along the bank beside the whispering water, thinking how refreshing it would feel to his burning feet jammed inside the stiff leather shoes.
However, Father had often told Richy not to go wading on the Sabbath. “It isn’t a day for pleasure. The Lord gave us this day to rest and to count our blessings,” he would say.
Cold water on my hot feet would certainly be a blessing, Richy reasoned. But even as he sat down to remove his shoes and stockings, the boy was sure that his father would not approve of him cooling his feet in the water on the Sabbath.
Still, he rolled up his trousers and put his socks inside the new shoes before placing them carefully beneath some willows in a thicket. Then he ran down to the riverbank and splashed into the water.
Richy enjoyed the grainy feel of wet sand squishing between his toes and the push of chilly water against his ankles. But finally the lowering sun warned him that he had waded too long and would surely be late for dinner.
Out of the river, Richy ran back to the meadow. The summery feel of green grass under his feet was a delight, but he knew that he had to put on his new shoes again and hurry home.
“But where are my shoes?” Richy asked himself in panic. The willows all looked alike. He searched everywhere, but his shoes were nowhere to be found. Finally, he gave up and slowly started home, feeling more worried with every step. He decided that early the next morning he would carefully search for his new shoes in all the willows along the riverbank.
When I get home, Richy thought, I’ll walk quietly through the kitchen and into my bedroom. If I put on my old shoes, Father might not notice.
But later when the screen door slipped out of his hand and banged shut, the sound brought Richy’s parents into the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” his mother asked. “We’ve been so worried about you.”
His father started to talk but stopped when he looked down at Richy’s bare feet. “Young man, where are your shoes?” he demanded.
Richy’s heart was pounding, but he just couldn’t tell his parents that he had carelessly lost the shoes, bought with money saved a few coins at a time in Mother’s cedar handkerchief box. Without stopping to think, he blurted out, “Some boy stole them.”
Father looked upset. “You mean to tell me that a boy knocked you down and took your shoes?”
“Oh, no,” Richy said quickly. “My feet were so hot that I took my shoes off while I rested under a tree. I guess I feel asleep. When I woke up the shoes were gone.”
His father asked, “Do you have any idea who took them?”
Richy felt a painful tightness in his chest. Never before had he told his parents a lie. But if I say I waded in the river and that I couldn’t find my shoes, he thought, Father will be furious with me for breaking the Sabbath, and Mother will be upset because I was careless.
So Richy’s answer was, “No, I don’t know who it could be.”
Mother was puzzled. “But who in this town would steal your new shoes?” she asked.
“We must find out. We can’t afford another pair. Besides, whoever took them should be punished,” Father declared.
“Well,” Mother said, “you must eat your dinner now. Afterward we’ll talk about what to do.”
Richy was too upset to eat. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’ll just go in and put on my old shoes.”
Because Richy had disobeyed his father, lost his shoes, and then lied about it, he experienced a feeling far more painful than the pinching new shoes had ever caused.
Later, sitting quietly with his family before sacrament meeting began, Richy saw a new family from Denmark, looking lonely and shy, enter the meetinghouse. Richy thought, It must be very hard to come to a strange country. I’m sure life here is much different than it is in their homeland when they don’t know our language very well.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard his mother whisper to his father, “Look!”
Richy looked too. A tall boy came down the aisle with his parents. He wore a brown shirt, trousers too short for his long legs, and Richy’s new shoes!
Richy felt as though he were being held tightly by the throat because he couldn’t swallow. All through the meeting he kept his eyes lowered, too miserable to listen to the speakers.
After the closing prayer, when everyone stood up to leave, Richy’s father said sternly, “Son, come with me.”
Together they went to Bishop Feldon. “Bishop, I’m afraid a problem has come up,” Father said gravely. “We must ask you to speak to Brother Pedersen before he goes home. Richy’s shoes were stolen this morning and the Pedersen boy is wearing them.”
Richy’s legs felt like quivering twigs as he followed his father and the bishop outside. They waited beside the steps where he looked up at the sky. He thought it should be a shimmering, cheerful blue, but it only looked empty. Crimson leaves on the trees were just leaves. Richy discovered that nothing in the world outside looked right when he felt so wrong inside.
Richy glanced quickly at Lars and his family, who were stopped by Bishop Feldon. The tall boy smiled timidly as though he were saying, “I am very lonely in this strange country. Will you be my friend?”
Richy tried to smile back, but he couldn’t. Instead, tears came to his eyes.
“Richy,” his father said, “I want you to tell the bishop and Brother Pedersen and Lars about your shoes being stolen.”
Richy took a deep breath. He had never felt so awful in his life. Finally he swallowed what seemed like a big lump in his throat and then in a steady voice he said, “My shoes weren’t stolen, Father. Lars just found them.”
Surprised and confused, Father asked, “What do you mean, son? How could he just find them?”
In a trembling voice Richy explained, “My feet hurt so I took off the shoes to wade in the river. I hid them in some willows. But I couldn’t remember where and Lars must have come along and found them.”
Father sighed deeply. “Richy, you broke the Sabbath and that is a sorrow to me, but the lie you told has made other people worried and unhappy too.”
Richy lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know a lie could make me feel so miserable and cause other people so much trouble.”
His father nodded. “I guess you didn’t, however a lie always causes trouble.” Then he turned to Brother Pedersen and said, “I’m very sorry that this whole thing happened.” But the pain inside Richy grew worse as he saw the disappointment on Lars’ face when he realized that the sturdy shoes he was wearing so proudly must be given back to Richy.
The older men continued to talk, but Lars walked over and sat down on the grass. He gestured for Richy to sit beside him. Sadly he unlaced the shoes, took them off, and held them out to Richy. Then Lars pointed to his right foot. His big toe stuck through a hole in his stocking.
Lars began to laugh. The sound was so bright and happy that Richy laughed, too, and the hurt inside him melted a little.
Father will punish me, he thought, and he should. To tell a lie is very bad and I will try never to do it again.
Gradually the hurt inside Richy was lessened when he remembered that even though he had done wrong, he could be forgiven.
Again Lars laughed, wiggling his big toe, and Richy laughed with him because the sky was blue again, the leaves were golden red in the sunlight, and he had a new friend.

When serving in Peru as the Area President five years ago, I came to know General Vidal.

General Vidal had just been promoted to be the youngest general in the Peruvian National Police Force, and I had the chance to go to lunch with him. While we were having lunch, he told me an interesting story.

He said that about two years before, while he was still a colonel, he walked into his superior's office, the general in charge of all Peruvian police. There was another general sitting there, who said to him: "Colonel Vidal, you're a Mormon, aren't you? He replied, "Yes, I am." This other general said: "Well, I am Catolico, Apostolico, Romano (meaning I am a Catholic through and through), but I know about you, Colonel Vidal."

Turning to the general in charge of the police force, he said: "I need Colonel Vidal to go to this place and solve a corruption problem that I have there." "I am sorry", the superior replied, "but he can't go because he is straightening out a corruption problem where he is right now."

The other general then turned to Colonel Vidal and said: "Give me the name of another Mormon colonel". And Colonel Vidal did so. "Then I want that colonel to go to this place and solve the corruption problem." "I am sorry", once again the superior said, "but that colonel is also straightening out a corruption problem where he is right now."

Once again the general demanded of Colonel Vidal: "Give me the name of another Mormon colonel." "I am sorry, sir, said Colonel Vidal, "there are no other Mormon colonels."

Now, of course it is true, that there are people in every religion who are people of integrity. But I thought it was interesting that this general, "Catolico Apostolico Romano", had apparently formed such a favorable opinion of Mormons, that he wanted a Mormon colonel to solve his corruption problem. Because those two members of the Church were known to be honest and incorruptible.

I guess I had my first run-in with a bee on a hot summer day when I was about five years old. I was minding my own business when suddenly an angry bee flew into my shirt and stung me on the stomach. At least that’s what I told my mom. Actually, I was pulling the petals off of her yellow roses. You know, “She loves me not.” Pluck. “She loves me—ooh, yuck.”
I was just getting ready to prove once and for all that no yucky girl loved me when apparently I found a rose that was already in use. A bee came buzzing out and crawled through a tiny hole in my shirt. I tried holding still, something I’d always been told to do by my brave and more experienced brothers. But I panicked and frantically tried to brush the bee out from under my shirt. Unfortunately, the bee panicked too and stung me.
Inside, as Mom pulled out the stinger and dried my tears, she said, “I know you feel bad. But you should feel sorry for the bee. Once a bee has stung somebody it dies.” As I sniffled and thought about her words, I decided that maybe the score was about even. But nearly ten years later I wasn’t so sure.
When I was 14, I began working for a neighbor who raised bees as a hobby. My job was to take care of his horses, paint fences, mow the lawn, and weed the garden.
The beehives were located in the field behind the garden, and it seemed like every time I was there I’d end up getting stung or chased by some angry bee. I was beginning to wonder if the bees were trying to avenge the death of their long-lost ancestor.
I told my neighbor I was going to need combat pay if he wanted his garden weeded. He told me what I really needed was the right equipment. We went into his basement and he got out his bee suit: thick gloves with sleeves that went all the way up my arms, white pants and shirt because white tends to pacify bees, boots, a hat, and a screen mask that covered my face and head.
Feeling protected, I journeyed outside. Unfortunately it didn’t take long before I felt something crawling around on my head. There was a hole on the top of the mask. I’m not sure who panicked first, the bee or me. I took off running for the house, but before I got very far it was too late.
I guess you could say I got the point that day. But I really got it later when I was reading in Doctrine and Covenants 27:15 [D&C 27:15] where it says, “Wherefore, lift up your hearts and rejoice, and gird up your loins, and take upon you my whole armor, that ye may be able to withstand the evil day, having done all, that ye may be able to stand.”
In my spiritual life, I have learned the whole armor of God is essential to our salvation. We need to check our armor daily to see that it’s in place and in good repair—and that it doesn’t have holes in it. Prayer, daily scripture study, and repentance are just a few of the things that will help us win the spiritual battles we face.
It’s been a while since I’ve been stung by a bee, but I suppose if it happens again it will serve as a pointed reminder of the importance of putting on the whole armor of God.

As for General Authorities, let me digress for one moment.

You know, I have been to four funerals since April. I have seen the wives of General Authorities go, and I have seen a great General Authority leave us and leave his wife alone. It would be very easy for someone to say, “Why me?” It is the same thing that Job could have said. But I want to let you know that within two or three days after Elder Cullimore lost his wife, when I climbed on an airplane with Elder Ashton to go up to Ricks, there sitting in the first row, first seat, was Elder Cullimore going to his assignment. There is a message there for a young man or a young woman. It may be ten years, it may be twenty, it may be thirty, but the time will come when that lesson must be learned either by you or by your wife. None of us wants to face it, but we have leaders who show us how.

When my son married a young woman who belonged to another religion, our family hoped that someday she would become a Latter-day Saint. To my surprise, as I was getting ready for church one Sunday, she said to me, “I will go to your church with you.”
The missionaries started teaching her the discussions, and in 1997 she was baptized. On 10 September 1998 my son and his wife, Katya, were sealed in the temple for time and all eternity, and on 12 October 1998 their beautiful baby boy was born.

While growing up, I liked to hunt and fish. When I was about 10, I received a bow and arrow set for Christmas. A few days later, I asked my mom if I could go hunting with my bow and arrows in the red sand hills behind our house. She said OK, but to be home before dark. A rabbit soon jumped out in front of me. I shot one of my arrows at it, but missed. My bow and arrow set came with only five arrows, so I really wanted to find the one I had shot. I looked and looked, but couldn’t find it.

By then the sun was getting low, and I knew I had to get home soon. So I decided to do what I’d been taught to do if I needed help. I knelt down in the sand and asked Heavenly Father to help me find that arrow. When I opened my eyes, there it was, caught in a bush right in front of me. That was the first experience I can remember in which I really had a clear answer to my prayers. It was a strong beginning for my faith in the Lord and in the power of prayer.

I quit my job and went to Côte d’Ivoire to work on my mission application. When I arrived in Côte d’Ivoire, my elder sister hosted me. I stayed with her for a while before finding a job.
After a few months, I found a job in a boutique where I was to be paid 600 francs CFA a day, or 20,000 francs CFA a month. I had to accept it because it was the only opportunity I had.
I also met a girl who agreed to be my girlfriend. I told her about my beliefs and my plans, and she was willing to stand by me.
During working hours, I would go to money agencies to deposit money in amounts ranging from 500,000 francs CFA to 4,000,000 francs CFA. Whenever I received any amount of money and recounted it, there was always a surplus, which I gave back to my boss. Surprised at my honesty and integrity, he increased my salary and often gave me 1,000 to 3,000 francs CFA every evening in addition to my salary. Each time I received my salary at the end of the month, I completed one task on the requirements list for my mission. During this time of unrelenting effort, I had a misunderstanding with my elder sister, so I had to move out and embark on a new adventure. I had no place to sleep because all the money I earned at the end of the month was invested in my mission application. I slept at my friends’ homes, where sometimes four people shared a small room. Some close friends declined my request to spend the night in their homes. There came a time when I wandered from house to house with my suitcase, looking for a place to lay my head. One night, with no place to sleep, I slept on the ground at a marketplace.
Through it all, I kept my faith and knew that the Lord gives no commandment to the children of men without preparing a way for them. (See1 Nephi 3:7.)

Allow me to share with you an experience from my own boyhood. When I was 11 years old, my family had to leave East Germany and begin a new life in West Germany overnight. Until my father could get back into his original profession as a government employee, my parents operated a small laundry business in our little town. I became the laundry delivery boy. To be able to do that effectively, I needed a bicycle to pull the heavy laundry cart. I had always dreamed of owning a nice, sleek, shiny, sporty red bicycle. But there had never been enough money to fulfill this dream. What I got instead was a heavy, ugly, black, sturdy workhorse of a bicycle. I delivered laundry on that bike before and after school for quite a few years. Most of the time, I was not overly excited about the bike, the cart, or my job. Sometimes the cart seemed so heavy and the work so tiring that I thought my lungs would burst, and I often had to stop to catch my breath. Nevertheless, I did my part because I knew we desperately needed the income as a family, and it was my way to contribute.
If I had only known back then what I learned many years later—if I had only been able to see the end from the beginning—I would have had a better appreciation of these experiences, and it would have made my job so much easier.
Many years later, when I was about to be drafted into the military, I decided to volunteer instead and join the Air Force to become a pilot. I loved flying and thought being a pilot would be my thing.
To be accepted for the program I had to pass a number of tests, including a strict physical exam. The doctors were slightly concerned by the results and did some additional medical tests. Then they announced, “You have scars on your lung which are an indication of a lung disease in your early teenage years, but obviously you are fine now.” The doctors wondered what kind of treatment I had gone through to heal the disease. Until the day of that examination I had never known that I had any kind of lung disease. Then it became clear to me that my regular exercise in fresh air as a laundry boy had been a key factor in my healing from this illness. Without the extra effort of pedaling that heavy bicycle day in and day out, pulling the laundry cart up and down the streets of our town, I might never have become a jet fighter pilot and later a 747 airline captain.