Gospel Story Finder

When my family moved here in August 2016 as part of the U.S. military, we were overwhelmed with new weather and a new culture, but we also met wonderful people and began to experience the strong presence of the gospel here.
After we adjusted to our new ward for a few weeks, our bishop invited us to attend the Talofofo Group, located in the village of Talofofo, several miles away from the chapel. Here a group of faithful saints met outside under a canopy each Sunday.
There were many challenges when meeting outside: the heat, dogs, rain, mud, mosquitos, ants, chickens, and so on. Regardless of these challenges, I have never felt the Spirit so strongly before. It reminds me of how the Saints in the time of Joseph Smith met outdoors in open weather, lacking necessities, with many distractions.
The Saints in the group feel like family, and I love each one of them as my brothers and sisters.

I remember vividly the day I was baptized—December 15, 2007. As I stood in the cold water with Elder Kelsey and he raised his hand to the square, the Spirit just filled me up; it seemed to take over my whole frame. I could say that I was also grinning from ear to ear, but that description doesn’t even come close to describing what I felt.
After my baptism I continued to feel the Spirit. I felt sanctified. I knew that my sins had been remitted. I felt the approval of Heavenly Father that this was, indeed, the path I was supposed to take.

One day while I was reading Saints: The Story of the Church of Jesus Christ in the Latter Days, I came across a remarkable story about a woman of the early Restoration. Eunice Franklin seemed to have my same questions and worries.
Eunice was baptized in New York by a missionary named Elijah Able. She had been truly converted to the gospel at her baptism. But then, after Elijah left for Canada to preach, Eunice began to doubt the gospel and what she had once known to be true. She began to wonder if Joseph Smith really was a prophet and if the Book of Mormon was true scripture. She lost many nights of sleep, thinking she may have been deceived.
The Lord showed Eunice’s struggle to Elijah in a dream, and he immediately returned to New York. When he knocked on her door, Eunice was stunned—she had been planning on telling him she no longer believed when she saw him again. Instead, she let him in. When Elijah invited her to his sermon that evening, she hesitated and didn’t want to go. But she eventually gave in and went to listen to what he had to say.
At his sermon, Elijah quoted 1 Peter 4:12, which says to “think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you.” The fiery trial that had sought to destroy Eunice’s faith could not succeed—as Eunice heard Elijah speak, her doubts melted away. Saints tells it this way: “The certainty she had once felt flooded back.”3
Eunice’s experience struck me, and I’ve reflected on it again and again. Just like Eunice, I learned from Elijah’s simple and powerful words. We should “think it not strange” to have questions about our faith. It’s completely OK. While truth may have once seemed to pour down from heaven, there may be later moments where we feel a spiritual drought. We might wonder if we ever truly felt the rain. With no answers or confirmations yet given, we can continue to pray for the rain of revelation. We can seek a witness to know that what was true yesterday is still true today. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “If it was right when you prayed about it and trusted it and lived for it, it is right now. … Face your doubts. Master your fears.”4
By opening the door to her missionary friend again, even when she wondered why she should, Eunice reopened her heart. The Lord could again reach Eunice and help her feel a confirmation of all that she once knew. In a similar way, each of us can leave the door open to faith even when struggling with doubts. We can keep doing what’s right and seeking revelation—even when we’re unsure why exactly we’re doing it.
I know that as we keep our doors and hearts open to truth, God will help us feel what’s real and what’s not through the Holy Ghost. Our spiritual experiences will be undeniable in the moment. And every moment after that, when we feel doubts creeping back in, we can remind ourselves of how we felt. Just as it did for Eunice, our certainty about gospel truths can come flooding back.

Some responses made us chuckle. John, a Christian from South Africa in London, read page 232 and said:

I didn't know that I agreed with your doctrine. I think I am a secret Mormon!

Finding John was a pretty special experience in and of itself. The team was set up on the corner of Hyde Park and Marble Arch in London, at a little place known as Speaker’s Corner. For those familiar with the history of Missionary Work in the Church, this is the same location where the first missionaries from the Church sent to England preached the Gospel publically. Today this location is still reserved on Sunday as a public space for open discussion and preaching of religion. But the modern scene might best be described as chaotic and loud. There are people on soap boxes and people on ladders yelling with megaphones.

John told us that he had moved to London from South Africa 22 years ago and had been coming every Sunday to Speaker’s Corner looking for religion. He had not felt the spirit of confirmation he had been searching for until he had stopped and read a page from the Book of Mormon. He exclaimed, “I didn't know I agreed with your doctrine. I think I am a secret Mormon.”

President and Sister Johnson were set to begin their service in July 2020, but their arrival was delayed nearly seven weeks waiting for their visas to be processed during the unprecedented circumstances surrounding COVID-19.

“We are humbled by and grateful for the legacy of faith and the foundation of righteousness that exists throughout the United Kingdom,” said President Johnson to listeners at their first, Why I Believe online devotional in September.

Even during their two-week self-isolation in England when they arrived, the Johnsons were busy engaging with each of their missionaries via Zoom.

“It was amazing to feel instant love and gratitude for each missionary in the Manchester mission,” said Sister Johnson. “That is the miracle of serving God and one another.”

I can remember the first words Cort Tyler ever said to me. He leaned over my shoulder, looked at the book I was reading before I could jerk it out of sight, and said, “Hey, you’re reading I, Robot.”
We were standing in line, waiting to get into the high school basketball tournament. Actually I was in line with my best friend, Laney. Cort was with his girlfriend, Trish, standing right behind us.
Of course, I knew who he was. He was in my stake, and sometimes I saw him playing basketball in our building. I always thought he didn’t know who I was. At that time I was suffering from an invisibility complex. I thought that no one really ever saw me, especially someone I was developing a crush on. So I was more than a little surprised when Cort spoke to me.
I turned to look at him, but ended up face to face with Trish instead. She was watching me with a look my cat gets when he’s sitting in the windowsill watching robins land on the ledge on the other side of the glass.
“I just checked it out of the library,” I said, glancing from Trish back to Cort. “I started reading it on the bus on the way home. That was my mistake. Now I can’t put it down.”
I stuffed the book into my purse, but Cort kept talking.
“I think I’ve read every one of Asimov’s science fiction books,” he said. “I can’t believe a guy could write that many, but he’s great.”
I could hardly concentrate on what Cort was saying. Trish kept her eyes on my face. There was no possibility of a smile on those lips until Cort glanced down at her at his side. She flashed her teeth and slipped an arm around his waist, hooking her thumb through his belt loop.
Cort absentmindedly hung his arm across her shoulders and kept talking to me. “I think I have about four paperbacks at home that belong to the library. I wasn’t going to return them, but I’ll take them back if you want them.”
“Sure, I’d like … ,” I tried to say, but just then the line started to move. The surge of the crowd carried us through the doors. Laney and I went to sit with the Pep Club, but I watched Cort walk through the crowd until he sat with some friends at the top of the bleachers. Trish was still glued to his side, his arm still around her shoulders, but he had his head turned away, talking to someone I couldn’t quite see.
I didn’t talk to Cort again for five months. I was in the habit of checking for him wherever I went. Sometimes I would see him across the cultural hall at stake dances, but he was always with the guys that hang around the edges making fun of some of the girls—the guys that act up until one of the chaperones plants himself in the middle of the group to interrupt the obnoxiousness that seems to feed on itself. Other than that I only saw him in the halls at school.
I wasn’t at all prepared for our second conversation.

Many years ago I read of an experience at Christmastime which took place when thousands of weary travelers were stranded in the congested Atlanta, Georgia, airport.1 An ice storm had seriously delayed air travel as these people were trying to get wherever they most wanted to be for Christmas—most likely home.
It happened in December of 1970. As the midnight hour tolled, unhappy passengers clustered around the ticket counters conferring anxiously with agents whose cheerfulness had long since evaporated. They too wanted to be home. A few people managed to doze in uncomfortable seats. Others gathered at the newsstands to thumb silently through paperback books. If there was a common bond among this diverse throng it was loneliness: pervasive, inescapable, suffocating loneliness. …
The fact of the matter was that there were more passengers than there were available seats on any of the planes. When an occasional plane managed to break out, more passengers stayed behind than made it aboard. …
Gate 67 in Atlanta was a microcosm of the whole cavernous airport. Scarcely more than a glassed-in cubicle, it was jammed with travelers hoping to fly to New Orleans, Dallas, and points west. Except for the fortunate few traveling in pairs, there was little conversation at gate 67. A salesman stared absently into space as if resigned. A young mother cradled an infant in her arms, gently rocking in a vain effort to soothe the soft whimpering.
Then there was a man in a finely-tailored gray flannel suit, who somehow seemed impervious to the collective suffering. There was a certain indifference about his manner. He was absorbed in paperwork: figuring the year-end corporate profits perhaps. A nerve-frayed traveler sitting nearby observing this busy man might have indentified him as an Ebenezer Scrooge.
Suddenly the relative silence was broken by a commotion. A young man in military uniform, no more than 19 years old, was in animated conversation with the desk agent. The boy held a low-priority ticket. He pleaded with the agent to help him get to New Orleans so that he could take the bus to the obscure Louisiana village he called home.
The agent wearily told him that prospects were poor for the next 24 hours, maybe longer. The boy grew frantic. Immediately after Christmas, his unit was to be sent to Vietnam—where at that time war was raging—and if he didn’t make this flight, he might never again spend Christmas at home. Even the businessman looked up from his cryptic computations to show a guarded interest. The agent clearly was moved, even a bit embarrassed. But he could only offer sympathy, not hope. The boy stood at the departure desk casting anxious looks around the crowded room, as if seeking just one friendly face.
Finally the agent announced that the flight was ready for boarding. The travelers who had been waiting long hours heaved themselves up, gathered their belongings, and shuffled down the small corridor to the waiting aircraft: 20, 30, 100, until there were no more seats. The agent turned to the frantic young soldier and shrugged.
Inexplicably, the businessman had lingered behind. Now he stepped forward. “I have a confirmed ticket,” he quietly told the agent. “I’d like to give my seat to this young man.” The agent stared incredulously; then he motioned to the soldier. Unable to speak, tears streaming down his face, the boy in olive drab shook hands with the man in the gray flannel suit, who simply murmured, “Good luck. Have a fine Christmas. Good luck.”
As the plane door closed and the engines began their rising whine, the businessman turned away, clutching his briefcase and trudged toward the all-night restaurant.
No more than a few among the thousands stranded there at the Atlanta airport witnessed the drama at gate 67. But for those who did, the sullenness, the frustration, the hostility all dissolved into a glow. That act of love and kindness between strangers had brought the spirit of Christmas into their hearts.
The lights of the departing plane blinked starlike as the craft moved off into the darkness. The infant slept silently, now in the lap of the young mother. Perhaps another flight would be leaving before many more hours. But those who witnessed the interchange were less impatient. The glow lingered gently, pervasively in that small glass and plastic stable at gate 67.

My father was a man who suggested to his sons that they work early in life. He had a very convincing way of doing that; he would indicate that starting on such-and-such a date, we would begin buying our own clothes and shoes and other personal needs. In this way we were somewhat “pressed into service” to find some kind of a job.
At age 11, I attempted to obtain my first job working as a newspaper boy. I had just turned 11 and was an entire year away from the minimum age of 12 required for being a newspaper boy. It was difficult at first trying to convince the man that someone so young could really be an effective worker, but with the help of my dad, I talked him into giving me a try.
The Lord really blessed me as a young man because I was able to effectively carry out that important job. It was an important job to me for I learned as a young man how to collect and be accountable for money, how to deal with the public, and how to sell newspaper subscriptions. I remember the many contests and prizes that I won as a result of much effort in learning how to persuade people to take subscriptions to the afternoon newspaper I worked for. A tenth of my income was always paid willingly to the Lord as tithing.

Years ago I was counseling a young couple who were struggling in their marriage. The husband was addicted to pornography; it had a serious adverse affect upon their relationship. Finally he committed to give it up. One day, however, the wife came home from work and felt an evil spirit in their home. She noticed her husband's briefcase by the dining room table. She opened it up and there she saw the pornography she so abhorred. Then she said, "I know that pornography was the cause of the evil spirit in our home." If this evil plagues you then see your Bishop and overcome it so you can replace its captive hold with the sweet and liberating whisperings of the spirit.

A missionary district leader was wondering why Elder Parker, who was about to conclude his mission, was successful in spite of his inability to memorize the discussions. To understand, he teamed with Elder Parker to give a discussion. Elder Parker’s presentation was so disorganized that by the end of the formal lesson, the district leader was confused and surmised that the family being taught felt the same way.
It was then that “Elder Parker leaned forward and put his hand on the arm of the family’s father. He then looked him straight in the eyes, told him how much he loved him and his family, and bore one of the most humble and powerful testimonies that the district leader had ever heard. By the time he finished, every member of the family, including the father, and both elders had tears running down their cheeks. Next Elder Parker taught the father how to pray, and they all knelt down while the father prayed that they might receive testimonies of their own and thanked Heavenly Father for the great love that he felt. Two weeks later the whole family was baptized.”
Later, Elder Parker apologized to his district leader for not knowing the discussions. He said he struggled with memorization, even though he spent hours each day working on it. He said he knelt in prayer before teaching each family and asked Heavenly Father to bless him when he bore his testimony so that people would feel his love and the Spirit and know they were being taught the truth (see Allan K. Burgess and Max H. Molgard, “That Is the Worst Lesson I’ve Ever Heard!” in Sunshine for the Latter-day Saint Soul [1998], 181–83).

I saw evidence of that in a Church Board of Education meeting. President Spencer W. Kimball by then had given years of service while enduring a series of health challenges only Job would understand. He was chairing the meeting that morning.

Suddenly, he stopped speaking. He slumped in his chair. His eyes closed. His head fell on his chest. I was seated near him. Elder Holland was next to us. The two of us rose to help him. Inexperienced as we were in emergencies, we decided to carry him, still seated in his chair, to his nearby office.

He became our teacher in that moment of his extremity. With one of us lifting each side of his chair, we went out of the meeting room into the hallway of the Church Administration Building. He half opened his eyes, still dazed, and said, “Oh, please be careful. Don’t hurt your backs.” As we got near his office door, he said, “Oh, I feel terrible that I interrupted the meeting.” Minutes after we got him into his office, still not knowing what his problems were, he looked up at us and said, “Don’t you think you ought to go back to the meeting?”

We left and hurried back, knowing that somehow our being there must matter to the Lord. President Kimball had since his childhood pushed himself beyond his limits of endurance to serve and to love the Lord. It was a habit so ingrained that it was there when he needed it. He was prepared. And so he was able to teach and show us how to be prepared to keep the oath and covenant: by steady preparation over the years, through all our strength in what might appear to be little tasks with small consequences.

It was a hot and sultry July day in 1970. Though the wind was blowing in my face, my back felt wet, and perspiration formed on my arms. This was going to be a scorcher, and I only hoped that it would not be a wasted trip. I geared down into third as the little red, four-door Datsun rounded a turn in the road. Many thoughts raced through my mind as I drove toward San Fernando, Mexico, that morning.
It had been only two months since my co-companion, Elder Mont Garrett, and I had been transferred to the city of Matamoros, just across the border from Brownsville, Texas. I had been serving in the Mexico North Mission for two years now, and both Elder Garrett and I felt strange being transferred to a city so close to the United States.
Beginning in 1969 and continuing for the next several years, the Mexican missions had all experienced astounding success in converting people of all ages to the Church. While I had enjoyed some success during my mission, I was still not satisfied that I had done my best, and so the transfer to Matamoros offered a last opportunity to really succeed as a representative of the Lord.
Ten days earlier, as Elder Garrett and I were visiting with the district president, he casually remarked that Hermana (Sister) Villafranca, from the small farming community of San Fernando, had asked him to send the missionaries to visit her. Since neither my companion nor l had ever heard of San Fernando, it came as something of a surprise to us. I immediately asked if there would be any investigators present, if they would be willing to be taught the gospel, and how much planning had gone into this proposed “visit.” The district president smilingly replied that the Hermana had arranged to use her home in the city as a site for a Sunday School that would be held the following week. The district president and several members had agreed to attend and assist with the procedural problems if we would teach a class for investigators. I was rather skeptical of the entire idea but contacted the mission president and asked for permission to go.
The mission president was also somewhat reluctant to accept the idea, but he finally granted his permission—with the understanding that we should make arrangements to see that our commitments in Matamoros were met for that day. We would be able to return to San Fernando only if there were enough investigators present to justify the time involved. Since as zone leader I was responsible for all missionary work outside the city, Elder Garrett and I agreed that he would remain in Matamoros to work with a local companion and I would meet the district president in San Fernando on the next Sunday.
Other thoughts crowded in as I slowly drove toward San Fernando. I supposed that during the time of my mission I had told the Joseph Smith story over a thousand times, but it was something that I still enjoyed doing. I hoped to tell it with particular conviction to the investigators in San Fernando because, with my date of release only weeks away, I knew that my opportunities were very limited. Never did I dream, though, that the next six hours would bring one of the most spiritually exciting experiences of my life.
San Fernando lies about 80 miles south of Matamoros, and as my journey was coming to an end, I was aware for the first time of the physical setting. On both sides of the two-lane highway there were gently rolling hills and seemingly endless fields of sorghum and wild grass. Notwithstanding the hot and monotonously humid days, I later found that the mornings were cool and refreshing in the early hours, and the evenings were graced with strikingly beautiful orange, red, and purple sunsets that led to majestically silent evenings interrupted only by the music of insects. The intense feeling of peace was very relaxing.
My daydreaming was interrupted as I approached the outskirts of town. After asking directions from several hesitant citizens (seeing a gringo, especially one who could more or less speak the native tongue, was something of a novelty in San Fernando), I soon arrived at Hermana Villafranca’s home. The house was situated at the end of a long, uphill street that disappeared into the underbrush of the hillside. The thatch-roofed building was made of adobe bricks that had recently been whitewashed (I later discovered that Hermana Villafranca had ordered the whitewashing especially for this occasion). I drove slowly through a narrow gate and parked under a shaggy tree. The district president greeted me, stating that the Hermana would be along soon.
Minutes later we were roused from our conversation by the insistent honking of a horn that grew louder as a large truck approached. As the truck arrived I discovered the cargo area was bulging with faces of all ages, sizes, and descriptions. The good Hermana stepped down and encouraged her passengers to alight and make themselves comfortable. I exchanged the usual formal greetings with her, and then she immediately announced that we must hurry if we were to start the meeting on time.
In terms of her physical appearance, she was not unlike many Mexican women whom I had met. I soon learned, however, that the spiritual attributes of Hermana Villafranca were entirely her own and can only be described as breathtaking. She always radiated a spirit of goodness, and her seemingly inexhaustible supply of faith was a power that was undeniable and also entirely reliable.
The inside dimensions of Hermana Villafranca’s home were small, about 15 by 30 feet. She had removed all the furniture so that the single room with the hard dirt floor was converted into a hall for the entire congregation. There were about 50 people at Sunday School that morning, and as we sang the opening song a cappella, I couldn’t help but wonder how many were investigators and how many were Church members from outlying areas. I soon found out. After the opening exercises were over, I was asked to remain in the house and teach the investigators while the members moved outside for their lessons.
Sometimes nothing is more difficult than setting up an umbrella-type flannelboard, especially when you are shaking. I was about to present the Joseph Smith story to 30 anxious listeners!
As I began the discussion, the room was expectantly quiet. Every student listened with sincere interest. When I asked questions of the class, it seemed as if they had memorized the answers beforehand, and I found myself becoming more and more excited as it became apparent that I had not one golden contact, but a whole room full of them. When it came time to ask if, after they had studied, prayed, and listened to the rest of the discussions, they would be baptized, I was greeted with a chorus of “Sí.”
After the class was over, I quickly left the room to visit with Hermana Villafranca. Tears came to her dark eyes when I told of the class. She said that she had been looking forward to that day for many years. I could only look at her and marvel at her faith, determination, and persistence.
Two weeks later Elder Garrett and I conducted a small baptismal service in San Fernando. On this occasion I was able to baptize three of the class members, including Hermana Villafranca’s brother, in the shallow waters of a small river that passes through the north end of town. The next month I turned the work over to Elder Garrett and returned home.
The experience in San Fernando ended my mission in a very gratifying way. I sensed that it was an important incident, but I did not then realize how far-reaching the effects would be. Now, six years later, there is a branch with almost 200 members in San Fernando. It is there because of the missionary efforts of one stalwart sister who was not afraid to tell others about the gospel, and to do it with the faith that precedes any miracle.

After finishing my first year of college, I was called to serve a mission, however, I did not have the finances to pay for it. But when it came time for me to leave the Lord helped provide a way. As I gave my missionary farewell speech in sacrament meeting, a less-active sister attending for the first time in years sat and listened intently. After sacrament, she went into the stake president's office and told him that she now knew why the Lord told her to attend church today. She opened her checkbook and paid for all two years of my mission.2

Some time ago a man came into my office in deep emotional distress. He was a big, tough-looking man, but he wept bitterly as he told me his story.
He had been married in the temple some twenty years earlier and thought he had a good marriage. He and his wife had their problems, but he assured me that anyone in their ward would say they were the happiest couple in the ward. Then, one day his wife packed up, took the kids, moved out of their home, and filed for divorce.
This man was astonished that his wife had left him. He also expressed deep resentment and anger toward her. It was clear that he considered her action viciously evil and that he felt it had to be stopped at any cost. I became more uncomfortable as I realized that he wanted me to find some way to force his wife to come back to him. Finally I interrupted him and said, “I can’t make your wife come back to you if she is determined not to.”
He looked very disappointed. “I’ve gone to my bishop and my stake president,” he said, “and they couldn’t help me. They told me you were a marriage counselor, so I came to see you, and you say you can’t help me. Now where do I turn?”
I tried to help him consider some approach other than forcing his wife to come back. But as he saw it, she was wrong and had to be punished soundly and forced to do right. He resented the very suggestion that there might be an alternative. As far as I know, he never changed, and his marriage dissolved.

The Lord warned me about that years ago, when I was the young college president here. Ed Wiliams invited my oldest son to join him and other geology teachers and students to climb the South Teton. My son was ten years old. I had climbed many mountains before. I wanted to prove I could still do it, and I wanted that sense of victory for my son. Just four hundred feet from the summit, my son seemed tired. I could tell he was exhausted. All my drive to succeed urged me upwards. But there was something about the spot where we stood on a sunlit place, which made me say to the others, "You go on to the summit. I will stay here with my son."

It is years later that I have come to understand why that wait with my son for the others to come back down was so satisfying and why I had such a feeling of success when we reached the bottom after dark. The climbs to the places God would have us go are never for us alone. If we forget that, we will not have His full power to lift us. Somehow the Lord let me feel that day in the mountains that the summit for me was on that sunlit place where I could set up our little stove and share hot soup with my son.

Pia is a 16-year-old Laurel in the Frederiksberg Ward, Copenhagen Denmark Stake. Her mom is a lifelong member of the Church and Pia can remember going to Primary when she was younger, but Pia has been a Church member for only one year.
“My mom and dad are Church members, so when I was young, I went to Primary. But I never was baptized,” Pia says.
After her parents divorced, Pia, her two brothers, and their mother stopped going to church. Pia turned 8 but wasn’t baptized. She turned 12 and didn’t attend Young Women. For about 10 years there was little Church involvement in her life. Home teachers still came and visiting teachers called on her mom, but the Hentzens stayed home on Sundays.
Then a Young Women leader called Pia and invited her to start attending activities. “My leader wrote letters inviting me to go to church. I went once but thought it was boring and didn’t want to go back. But the missionaries changed my mind about church,” she says, laughing.
The missionaries knew Pia had never been baptized, so they scheduled a time to visit her. At that first appointment, they brought a short spiritual message. That pattern continued for several weeks until one day they tried something different, bringing with them something every missionary has to offer—the first discussion.
“They asked if they could give me the first discussion, and I said, ‘OK.’ It didn’t take long—probably a few weeks—before I finished all the discussions and agreed to be baptized.” About this same time, Pia’s mother started becoming active again, as did her two brothers.
Today, in the small group that makes up the Young Men and Young Women program of the Frederiksberg Ward, Pia is at home. Joining the Church and being active took some getting used to. Now it’s a way of life. “I’m the only Laurel in the ward. We also have two Mia Maids and two Beehives. That’s our Young Women,” she says. Then she stops and thinks seriously about how the Church has changed her life. “I think my life is better now,” she concludes. “I have something I know is true.”

Hela lifted the large basket of produce to his head and took a deep breath, hoping the air would fill him with courage. It didn’t. It wasn’t so much that he feared the task before him as that he hated it. He just didn’t want to take the vegetables to sell in the city.
Tilling the soil and watching the rich black earth soften and crumble under the hoe always filled Hela’s heart with gladness. And watching the crops begin to send up green messages of life was exciting. Hela even enjoyed digging out the weeds as the plants grew.
But after watering and weeding and growing, the vegetables must be taken to market. That task had once been Hela’s favorite, but now he could barely force himself to go.
For more than five years—ever since Samuel the Lamanite prophet had stood on the city wall and called the people to repentance—the persecution had gotten worse. Each month, each week, each day, the nonbelievers became bolder in tormenting the people who believed that Christ would come.
Everyone at the marketplace knew that Hela, who bore the name of his father, was a follower of Nephi the prophet. And they knew that Hela’s father taught people about Christ’s coming. So they spat on Hela and swore at him. Sometimes they even beat him when he went to the marketplace. But Hela said nothing about his tormentors because he knew his family needed the money from the sale of the vegetables. He also knew that his father would probably take the produce to market himself to protect his son, and then his father would not be able to teach the gospel.
“Are you leaving for the market now, my son?” Hela’s mother asked.
“Yes,” Hela said, taking one more deep breath.
“Such a son!” his mother said, clapping her hands together. “Only twelve years old and doing the work of three men!”
Hela smiled. His mother always exaggerated about him. “Now, Mother,” he protested.
“Well, maybe only the work of two men. But still, such a son!” The twinkle in her eyes danced happily as she clapped Hela’s cheeks between her hands and kissed his forehead, almost causing the basket to tumble from his head. Hela blushed and hurried along the dusty road, expertly balancing the large basket without ever touching it with his hands.
As the sun began peeking through the trees in the east, the road became crowded with people and animals on their way to market. Hela moved swiftly through the noise and commotion until he neared the city wall. “Zarahemla,” he whispered to himself, “what will I find within your gates today?” Saying a silent prayer, he passed through the city gate.
By now the noise was almost deafening—people calling, shouting, bartering; animals bleating, cackling, barking. Swiftly he moved in and out of the crowd, balancing the basket with one hand now.
“He is here again!”
Hela heard the coarse grating voice of Laman and thought, Today will be no different from the others.
“We thought perhaps you would be joining your father in frivolous pursuits and daydreams,” the man taunted him. “But if a father must play away his time, a son must do the work. Is that not so, my friends?” Laman jeered, and the other men laughed loudly.
As Hela turned to go, someone threw a vegetable that hit him just above the shoulder blade. He didn’t look back or acknowledge that he had been struck, but from the smell he knew that the vegetable was rotten. Quickly finding a place against the wall, Hela set his basket down. He hoped the produce would sell fast so that he could go home soon.
“If it isn’t Hela, the dreamer!” Hela looked up to see Ammah, Laman’s son, a boy his own age, standing with both hands on his hips. “What is a dreamer doing in the marketplace? Can’t dreamers eat their dreams?” Ammah laughed as if this was the greatest of all jokes. “Are you still waiting for the Christ to come?”
Hela ignored the boy, but soon others gathered. Once when they were small, they had all been friends and had played in the marketplace while their fathers sold their wares. Hela felt the familiar stab of sorrow as the derision continued.
“If the Christ were coming, He would have been here by now!” Ammah shouted. “It is past the five years Samuel predicted.” Ammah laughed loudly, and the other boys joined him. “Yes, and why would He go to Jerusalem and not come here? Are we not a better people?”
Hela knew the boys were only repeating the things they had heard their fathers say, but he felt so helpless. What will happen to these boys, who used to be my friends, when the Christ comes? he wondered.
After a while the boys grew tired of their reviling, and they left. The produce finally sold, and with a sigh of relief, Hela picked up his basket and hurried away.
As he neared his adobe home, he was greeted by the bleating of the goat and the clucking of the chickens. Hela smiled. How nice they sounded, how peaceful after all he had heard in the marketplace. Suddenly he saw his father’s donkey tethered to the fence. Dropping his basket, he hurried to the house.
“Is something wrong?” Hela cried out as he threw open the door. Instead of finding his father hurt and his mother crying, Hela saw his parents sitting quietly at the table, their faces filled with a peace and joy that he had not seen for a long, long time. Confused, he shut the door and waited for them to explain.
“Come in, my son,” his father said quietly. “How did the marketplace fare today?”
“Fine, Father,” Hela answered.
“I cannot believe that,” Hela’s father said, adding with a heartwarming smile, “You are a good son, Hela. I know of the things that are said and done at the marketplace, and I know that you have suffered for me and for the gospel.”
Hela did not reply. All the while he had been keeping his secret, it had never occurred to Hela that his father must know.
“My son, I appreciate all you have done. If it had not been for you, I would not have been able to do my work.”
“Please, Father,” Hela said carefully, not wanting to interrupt but unable to contain his curiosity any longer. “Why are you home so early?” Hela knew from the look on his parents’ faces that nothing was wrong, but he wanted to know what had happened.
“Nothing is wrong. As a matter of fact, something is very right.”
“What is it?” Hela asked.
“Come, sit here,” his mother invited.
As Hela started for the chair, a great commotion sounded from the road. Hela and his parents ran to the window.
“Hela! Hela, the dreamer!” shouted a deep voice from a large mob of people. “We want Hela, the dreamer, the teacher of dreams and fables.”
“False dreams and lies!” someone else shouted.
Quickly Hela’s mother bolted the door while his father fastened the shutters over the windows.
The noise from the crowd became so loud that Hela could no longer make out what anyone was saying. But he could feel and hear the anger in their voices. His heart pounded, and his knees felt weak.
Slowly his father opened a little door in one of the shutters, then waited for the noise to die down. When it was quieter, he called out, “What is it you want?”
“We want you, dream teacher.”
“And what do you want with me?”
“We have decided that we have had enough of your tales and your lies. The five years Samuel spoke of are long past. We will give you only three days more. If the signs you teach of do not come to pass by then, we are going to rid ourselves of your company.”
Hela shuddered. He had felt their hatred; he had even felt the sting of a whip or a hand across his back, but he had not realized that the people hated so much that they would kill.
“If it is me you want, take me now. There is no need to harm my family,” Hela heard his father answer.
“No!” Hela whispered through clenched teeth.
Hela’s mother put her arms around him. “Do not be frightened, my son,” she whispered. “God will protect us.”
“It is not just you we want,” a man in the mob was yelling. “We want all believers in such lies. In three days Nephi will have no followers. We will be free of your false prophecies and teachings. We will kill all of you and put an end to this foolishness.”
“It is not foolishness. The Savior will come,” Hela’s father called back.
“For your sakes He had better!” The man laughed, and the crowd joined in.
Suddenly someone threw a rock against the house. The heated mob seemed to pulse with renewed anger as they all began throwing rocks and cursing. The small house trembled and echoed from the pelting, and the awful shouting seemed like a tremendous storm.
Hela covered his ears and hid his face against his mother’s shoulder. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of his father’s face. Despite all that was happening, the expression of peace and love on his father’s face was unchanged.
Suddenly the people began banging the walls of the house with cudgels. “Oh, Father!” Hela cried. “What more can happen?”
Hela’s father patted his son’s hand and said something to him, but for all the banging, Hela could not make out the words. Then he heard a great crashing, ripping sound over the din of the mob as the door buckled and fell onto the floor.
Framed in the broken doorway was Laman. “You would not come out to us, so we came in to you!”
(To be concluded.)

That suggests at least two things. One is to recognize and welcome those whom the Lord sends to help us. The other is to see in every assignment the opportunity to strengthen another. A mission president once told me of a missionary he assigned to more than 12 or 13 companions. He said to me, “Every one of those companions was about to go home early or be sent home. But we didn’t lose one of them.”
When I mentioned that miraculous fact later to the companion who saved so many at the point of their being overwhelmed, I got a response which surprised and taught me. It was this: “I don’t think that story is true. I never had a companion who was failing.”
I could see that a mission president had been inspired to send the right angel time after time. We can expect in our service to have help sent to us at the right time who will see strength in us and lift us up. And we can look forward to being the one sent by the Lord to encourage another.

Help with temporal tasks is also a form of ministering. At the October 1856 general conference, President Brigham Young announced that handcart pioneers were stranded in deep snow 270–370 miles (435–595 km) away. He called for the Latter-day Saints in Salt Lake City to rescue them and to “attend strictly to those things which we call temporal.”4
Lucy Meserve Smith recorded that the women took off their warm underskirts and stockings right there in the tabernacle and piled them into wagons to send to the freezing pioneers. Then they gathered bedding and clothing for those who would eventually come with few belongings. When the handcart companies arrived, a building in the town was “loaded with provisions for them.”5

After college, I worked full-time as a camp director and an adventure therapist. For one of my responsibilities, I oversaw a camp for adjudicated youth. During one session of camp, I received an urgent call from my brother, who conveyed that my oldest step-sister had been killed from a senseless act of violence, and my step-brother was fighting for his life. I hung up the phone. In the silence of my office, a few months out of college and 2000 miles from home, I felt overwhelmed and alone.

On that difficult day as a recreational therapist, I knew it would matter how I used my time after my day’s work. I needed renewal. Sitting in my tiny cabin to agonize over this tragedy would lend little comfort. I decided to go to the local pool. Donning my swim cap and goggles, I began the slow cadence of laps. The silence of the water created a timeless moment in which I could focus on one thing. I prayed. With no outside stimuli of flashing screens or pinging notifications, my skill matched the task at hand, allowing me to be immersed in my toil. [2] The benefit of clarity of thought, emotional regulation, and physical satisfaction outweighed the exhaustion I knew would come from the swim.