Gospel Story Finder

The LDS Scouts came from all over the world, including Germany, Wales, Guam, England, and South Africa, but most were from the United States and Canada. One thing they all shared was a zest for getting to know Scouts from other parts of the world. One LDS Scout executive was worried because he had heard a complaint that the U.S. Scouts weren’t integrating well enough with other contingents. Determined to do his part, he hailed a passing English Scout. He was surprised to find that the lad did not have an English accent.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Campbell.”
“Where are you from?”
“Salt Lake City.”
The “English” Scout had traded uniforms with a friend in the British contingent. This was not unusual. By the end of the jamboree, many of the LDS Scouts looked rather like a walking world atlas, with headgear from one nation, shirt from another, trousers from another, and a neckerchief from still another.

I had 467 full-time missionaries given to me over a period of three years. What a glorious experience. I remember I hadn’t been in New England more than an hour when the telephone rang. On the line was an elder I hadn’t met yet, an elder who had been in the mission field just one week. He had some concerns, as sometimes missionaries do, and he wanted to go home. He didn’t just say, “I want to go home.” He announced he was going. He was a small young man in stature, quite good-looking, and a sharp athlete; but he was born with a handicap, and this was one of his barriers. He had only half a larynx. When he spoke he spoke with a harsh voice, and people often made fun of him. He announced on the phone, “President Dunn, I just called to tell you I’m going home tonight, so don’t try to stop me.”
I said, “Well, at least pay me the courtesy of coming over and getting acquainted and saying good-bye.”
“All right, I’ll come by on my way to the airport.”
He came over. In the meantime, I checked his file and found among other things one thing in my favor—he wanted to be an athlete. He was a good one. He wanted to make a career out of sports. I sat him down. He said, “Now, President, you’re not going to talk me into staying.”
I said, “Didn’t intend to. Tell me your problem.”
He said, “It’s very simple. I don’t have a testimony. I don’t believe in the Lord. Furthermore, and you’ll learn sometime, my home life hasn’t been what it ought to be. I hate my dad, I hate my mother, I hate this Church, I hate this mission, and I already hate you.”
I thought, “Well, this is a thrilling challenge; first day on your mission and you’ve got a young man thinking like this.” I said, “I don’t know what all the circumstances are, but let me tell you something. The Lord lives, and he loves you. Your parents, for reasons you can’t fully comprehend, love you. This Church loves you, this mission loves you, and I like you a little bit. Now,” I said, “you can walk out of this mission anytime you want; but I don’t think you’re going to and let me tell you why. You’re not a quitter. You may have a lot of hang-ups and problems, but you’re not a quitter. I noticed from your athletic record that you don’t quit. Let me tell you something you may not know. I played professional baseball for a number of years and found myself behind in early and middle innings of many a ball game. If you were my coach, and we were behind five to two in the seventh inning, and I came to you and said, ‘Coach, let’s get out of here while we can and save face,’ what would you say?”
He said, “We’ve got two more innings to catch up and win.”
I said, “Exactly, and a mission is no different!”
“Well,” he said, “that’s baseball.”
I said, “No, it isn’t. The game of life plays by the same rules and principles. I just don’t think you’re going to quit because you’re not that kind of player. There’s the door. You can go if you must, but I don’t think you will.”
“Well,” he said, “I’ll try it one more week.”
“Fine. One more week. You call me next week, and we’ll talk about it.”
He called me the next week, and he gave me the same dialogue. He didn’t even miss a line. He had it out again, and would you believe for the next 103 weeks. Every week, through the mail, in person, on the phone, “I’m going, President!”
“So long, Elder; but I don’t think you are.”
And then it happened, the 104th week. Another phone call and he said, “I’ve got to tell you. It happened. I got the spirit!” And he told me of some very special experiences he had had that week, how the Lord had answered his prayers and how he received a testimony. Through real hardship and prayers he got an answer.
The following Sunday he came into the mission home for his last evening prior to his departure home. We used to have a simple ceremony when a group departed; and when it came time for him to speak he said, “Can I say something, President?”
I said, “You haven’t hesitated up to now. What do you want to tell us?”
He said, “You know what I found out this week? I’ve found what a testimony is. I believe in the Lord. He lives, and I love him. I love my mom and dad. I love this Church. I love this mission, and I kind of like you.”

I served my mission in Kingston Jamaica, I had a very wealthy, funny mission president, President Calvert. From what I was told, he owned a very successful law firm. I saw his wallet once, and boy it was full of all kinds of large Jamaican and U.S. bills. He would always tell us as missionaries to look for your eternal companion, but don’t be obsessed with it. Become anxiously engaged in a good cause and serve the Lord and you will find your eternal companion along the way. He told us that when he was going through college, he bagged groceries at the local supermarket. One day the Football team’s Quarterback walks in with his girlfriend so she could buy some things. President would say, “So here she was, the Quarterback’s girlfriend, right in front of me. I’m waiting to bag her items, and watch her as she turns to her boyfriend and say, ‘I’m short 20 bucks?’ The quarterback replies, ‘I don’t have any money’. So as I stood there I reached into to my pocket and handed her a 20 dollar bill.” Then he would go on to say, “I’ve been giving her money ever since”. My short, bald-headed mission president marries the quarterback's pretty girlfriend. He was such a funny man. He would always get up during Zone conferences and butcher my name on purpose so everyone could get a laugh. He would also always say, “Well brethren, God only made a few perfect heads, and the rest he put hair on them.” I sure miss and love him.

For Zac Marshall from England, the simple step of watching an educational video about the Book of Mormon opened his mind to the possibility that the book might be plausible. “I had read it before in family scripture study and on my own without real intent,” he explains. “But I quit being active in the Church as a teenager, so the evidence I saw in the video caused me to read the Book of Mormon intentionally for the first time.” After experimenting on the word of God, Zac started replacing doubt with belief. He now says, “The Church I once saw as restrictive I now see as liberating in the same way Jesus says, ‘The truth shall make you free’ [John 8:32].”

When I was a little girl, I noticed that my grandfather kept a picture of a young man on his desk. The young man was not especially handsome, nor was he a relative that I knew of. I didn’t think that he was anyone famous, either, but I knew that he must be someone very important to hold such a place of honor. So one day I asked my grandmother, “Who is that man in the picture?”
My grandmother stopped dusting, and a tender smile lit up her face. She gently touched the frame and answered, “He is the missionary who taught Papa about the gospel.”
I wondered at the reverent expression in her voice. I knew that Papa had joined the Church many years ago, after he had married my grandmother. She had grown up in the Church.
But that was such a long time ago! I thought. And they still remember it!
Though my grandparents moved many times, they always took the picture with them. And they always placed it once again where they could look at it every day and remember lovingly the young man who cared enough to share some of his life and his testimony.
Several years ago, my grandparents passed away. I’m sure they took the picture with them in their hearts.

“My mom says that I can’t be friends with Mormons because they believe in Joseph Smith,” Cody said as they spilled out of their classroom onto the playground for recess.
Ricky’s face burned with confusion. Cody had been Ricky’s very best friend since Ricky had moved in at the beginning of the year. They had played soccer every recess, sat together every lunch, and promised they’d always be best friends. Ricky had even asked Cody to come to his baptism.
“My mom thinks Mormons are bad and I’m not supposed to play with you anymore. I’m sorry,” Cody said as he nervously looked at the ground. Ricky pushed his hands into his pockets and forced the tears back as he watched his best friend run across the blacktop out to the soccer field.
Since as far back as Ricky could remember, he had imagined his own baptism with pure excitement. But now, with the special day less than a week away, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Cody had said.
At dinner Sunday evening, Ricky sat quietly picking at his plate.
“Hey, Ricky, what’s up?” Mom asked. “You’ve been moping around all weekend.”
“Why do we have to get baptized?” Ricky asked.
“You know all the reasons, Ricky: to become members of Christ’s Church, to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, to follow Jesus’s example,” Mom said. “But most important, we get baptized because we want to, not because we have to. What’s bothering you, honey?”
“If I get baptized, Cody won’t be my friend anymore,” Ricky finally said.
“It’s a very important decision and it needs to be yours,” Mom said. “I have an idea. Get your pajamas on and brush your teeth and then meet me on the top of the bunk bed.” It was Ricky’s favorite quiet place where he often went to escape his busy little brothers.
As Ricky clambered up the ladder, he thought Mom looked awfully silly with her head bent to the side to keep from bumping the ceiling. She was holding a worn copy of Book of Mormon Stories.
“Ricky, before we begin, will you say a prayer and ask the Spirit to be here?” Mom asked.
Ricky folded his arms. “Dear Heavenly Father, please let Thy Spirit be here while we read. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” A still quiet fell upon the room. Tears filled Mom’s eyes as she opened the book to the first page and began.
“ ‘One day Joseph read James 1:5 in the Bible,’ ” Mom read. “ ‘If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God.’ ” Ricky had heard this story a thousand times, but this time, it all felt very different to him. Mom continued. “ ‘When Joseph told some people what he had seen and heard, they laughed at him.’ ”*
Ricky listened carefully as Mom read about how Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ came to Joseph Smith in a pillar of light. She read about how the angel Moroni had told Joseph about the gold plates, and how Joseph translated them. The words became the Book of Mormon.
“How can you know if Joseph Smith really saw Heavenly Father and Jesus?” Mom asked.
Ricky thought about how he had prayed about important things and answers had come. He knew he needed to pray for an answer. On the cozy little bunk bed, Ricky and his mom scooted up on their knees and folded their arms.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” Ricky began, “I need to know if Joseph Smith really saw a vision, and if the Book of Mormon is really true because I’m supposed to get baptized this week.” A quiet peace filled Ricky’s heart as he spoke the words. “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Then his heart seemed to fill with joy. As Ricky put his arms around Mom’s neck and she squeezed him back, he knew that Mom felt it too. Ricky had never felt so happy and so sure about anything before.
“Sometimes we have to make hard choices so we can do the right thing, just like Joseph Smith,” Ricky thought as he climbed down from the bunk bed.
When his little brothers scampered into the room, Ricky pressed his fingers to his lips. “Shh,” he whispered. “I don’t want this feeling to go away.” Wonderful peace warmed the whole house as Ricky continued to remind his family through the rest of the evening: “Shh, I don’t want this feeling to go away.”

Before my days at WordPerfect, I had the opportunity to play on a basketball team with Hall of Famer, Charles Barkley. We were teammates on the United States team that competed in the 1983 University Games held in Vancouver, Canada. When we played together, I witnessed Barkley’s skills as a basketball player firsthand. Today, he is well-known for his unapologetic banter. I, however, remember Barkley fondly for a time he did not say a word. During a particular exhibition game, Barkley made a rare mistake. The coach pulled him out, and Barkley sat near me on the bench. Stomping over, the coach did not hold back as he yelled at Barkley for the mistake. He then continued to yell some more at Barkley. Charles took it all and didn't say a word. And, later, when the coach put him back in the game, he made the necessary adjustments and played well. That’s the value of humility, of being coachable. I was impressed with how well he responded to the criticism. When someone chastises us, we have the opportunity to choose our response and be teachable or not. We can take it, learn from it, make the needed changes, and hopefully avoid similar conversations with the coach in the future.

By way of introduction to the subject of my talk - the power and blessings from prayer - I would like to share with you a recent experience. Last November I received a telephone message that one of our great Utah Provo missionaries and a superb missionary leader urgently wanted to talk with his mission president. I was informed that Aaron Alley would be undergoing major brain surgery in a few days to remove a mass on his brain stem. Reportedly his survival from this complicated surgery was uncertain.

In a few moments I was able to reach Aaron's mother, Linda. She informed me that he was a second-year student at the University of Oklahoma Medical School earning straight A's. She gave me his telephone number, and soon Connie and I were talking with our beloved missionary. We then learned that the immediate surgery was intended to deal with a congenital defect whereby the brain stem extends too far down to the spinal column causing dizziness, restriction in head movements, and potential interruption of blood flow. For the time being, the abnormal brain tissue would be observed and dealt with in later surgery and radiation. The surgeons now needed to correct and realign the tilting brain stem.

As he faced this major surgery, Aaron turned to those nearest to him for counsel, encouragement, and spiritual strength. One of them questioned the intervening value of faith and prayer in his behalf, saying, "If the Lord wants you here, He will keep you here; otherwise He won't. What difference can I make?" Aaron quickly responded, "Am I going to make it, I don't know. But I do know that God will respond to people's faith and answer their prayers. You are not leaving room for the exercise of faith and the power of prayer."

The faith and prayers of those of us close to Aaron coupled with those offered in the temples of the Lord and those of various faiths in churches throughout his relatively small hometown of Woodward, Oklahoma, combined to prolong his life, enabled him to return to his medical school studies, and look unafraid to the future.

I was only 45 minutes late getting home with the Ford, and that was only because Darrell, who is my best friend, wanted to be dropped off at his girl friend’s house in Cupertino. If I had known what was going on at home, I would have hurried. What was going on at home was the end of my peace and happiness.
“Shhh,” said Anne, my younger sister who is 16 and had been driving for three wonderful months of parking tickets and running out of gas in odd places.
“What’s up? Somebody having a surprise party?” I asked.
“No,” said my brother Todd. “At least, we’re not. But Mom and Dad seem to be having some kind of party.”
“What’s wrong? Everybody looks so serious.”
“What’s wrong?” asked my older sister Val in tones of righteous indignation. “What’s wrong?”
“Yeah. I mean, what’s wrong?”
And then they told me. All at once, in loud whispers. When I had finally sorted out all the different stories, this is what I got:
When Anne got home with the Pinto, it had a new dent in the door from opening it hard into a light pole in a parking lot. But Mom and Dad weren’t angry—they just smiled and took the car keys from her and went into the bedroom and locked the door. When Todd got home with the car, it was nearly out of gas, and he didn’t have enough money to fill it up; but Mom and Dad didn’t complain, just took the keys and went back to their bedroom and locked the door. And when Val came home four hours late from a “quick trip to the store to get more shampoo,” Mom and Dad didn’t complain about the Volkswagen being gone so long—just took the car keys, and you know what happened then.
And no sooner had they finished telling me their stories than out of their bedroom came Mom and Dad, chortling and smiling. “Hi, Jerry,” said Dad.
“Hi,” I said. “Sorry I was late getting back, but I had to take Darrell to his girl friend’s house in Cupertino.”
“That’s fine,” said Mom.
“Is the car nearly out of gas?” asked Dad.
“I didn’t have any money to fill it up,” I said.
“Oh, fine, fine,” Mom said, giggling a little. “Could I have your car keys?”
“How come?” I asked.
Father just grinned a little broader. “We want to press them and put them in your baby book.”
I handed over the keys.
“Come into the living room, children, my loves,” sang Mother, and I swear it looked like they were prancing as they led the way.
As we followed them, Anne looked at me with a frightened expression on her face. “I think Mom and Dad are going crazy, Jerry,” she said. Her voice was trembling.
When we got into the living room, Mom and Dad were playing catch with the car keys.
“Definitely,” I told Anne. “Bonkers. Bananas. Out, so to speak, of their minds.”
When we had all settled down, looking at our once-stable parents with expressions that ranged from concern to near panic, Father began a little speech.
“Perhaps you children have never counted, but we, a middle income family, have four cars. Four cars is an unusually large number of automobiles for a middle income family, but then we have an unusually large number of drivers at home. Six, to be exact. Six drivers and four cars. One could reasonably suppose that this would be enough cars to go around, but not so. Today your mother had an appointment at the dentist’s. The appointment was at 2:00, but at 2:00, even though there were supposed to be three cars at home, there were none. Mother missed her dental appointment. Does your tooth hurt, Mother?”
Mother nodded, holding her jaw. “My tooth hurts, Father.” She laughed.
“And I today received three pieces of mail. One was the insurance bill. One was the bill from our gasoline credit card. And one was the monthly statement from the bank on the two cars we are still paying for. I added them up and reached a sobering conclusion.”
He did not look particularly somber.
“My dear children, I believe we are the largest single mainstay for the automobile and insurance and oil business in America today. If we did not use our cars for one week, Ford Motor Company stock would drop three points and there would be a coup in Saudi Arabia. If we did not use our cars for a year, our country would be plunged into a major depression. We are supporting the economy of the United States of America.
“We are honored. This is a privilege for us, and we don’t plan to shirk our responsibilities. However, some of this privilege ought to be shared. Mother, will you get the documents?”
Mother left the room. While she was gone, Father asked each of us in turn how much we made at our jobs. None of us was making a fortune, but we were doing surprisingly well. Even Anne, who worked in a hamburger drive-in after school, pulled down about a hundred a month. No wonder she always looked like she stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.
And then Mother came back and handed each of us a piece of paper with the words LEASE AGREEMENT at the top of the page. I won’t give you the legal language. Boiled down, it went this way:
Each of us who planned to drive any car at all during a given month had to pay a basic fee of $8.00 to cover part of the insurance costs. If our grades fell below a B average, we had to pay $20.00 a month.
“That’s quite a jump,” said Anne, who often did not have a B average.
“So is the jump in insurance rates when your grades go down,” answered Mom.
The agreement also called for us to pay all traffic fines, the deductible on the insurance in case of collision, and all the gas we used.
“What?” asked Val, turning white. “All the gas?”
“The car is to be returned home with the tank full, every time,” Dad said.
There was also a mileage fee. For the LTD, 10¢ per mile. For the Pinto, 8¢ per mile. For the Volkswagen, because it was old, 6¢ per mile, and for the Galaxy, commonly known around the house as “the Ford,” 12¢ a mile.
“Twelve cents a mile!” I shouted. That was the car I preferred to drive.
“It’s the newest car. It has the greatest depreciation,” said my father, smiling.
“You will keep track of the mileage,” said Mother, “on these handy little Automobile Record sheets, which we will have printed up and placed in the glove compartment of every car. After every use of the car, you will write down your mileage and the number on the odometer. When you come home, you will give your Automobile Record sheet to the leasing company—your father or myself.”
And the final clause of the contract was the stinger. “Permission for use of the cars will automatically be suspended until all dues and remunerations are paid in full.”
“You mean we can’t even be late?”
“Not even by a day,” Father said, smiling.
Anne was outraged. “I thought we were a family, not a business!”
Mother only smiled her if-you-get-upset-it-will-only-make-it-worse smile. “Every family is a business, dear. There are income and expenses and cash flow. We just think it’s time that your father stopped supplying all the income and you stopped monopolizing the expenses. There’s the contract. You will all please sign.”
“And if we don’t?” asked Todd, already cringing because he knew the answer before he asked.
Father held up all the car keys—quite a bundle of them—and said, “The cars will no doubt miss you, and you will probably wear out your shoes faster, but the walking will be good for your health.”
Anne didn’t get it. “You mean if we don’t sign, we don’t drive?”
“That’s what he means,” said Val.
“Here are the pens,” said Mother.
“Sign or walk,” said Father. We signed.
“After all these years,” I said, “I never knew that my parents were so greedy.”
“Think of it this way,” Dad said, putting his arm around my shoulder. “By saving money on the cars, we can go on putting food on the table. It’s a fringe benefit that isn’t written into the contract. Your parents won’t go broke.”

Permit me to share an experience which I believe illustrates further this edifying process.
A few years ago, some missionaries referred me to a lovely couple to whom they had been teaching the gospel. These people had been taught a number of lessons and had attended church on several occasions. But they were having some difficulty in recognizing a developing testimony.
After some silent praying, I was impressed to ask the husband, “Was prayer an important part of your life before you met the missionaries?”
“No,” he replied. “Until recently I seldom prayed.”
I then inquired, “Do you pray now?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “We pray all the time. We bless the food before each meal; we have family prayers; and I pray frequently about my work.”
I commended him for cultivating this habit and invited him to read with me this scripture: “For if ye would hearken unto the Spirit which teacheth a man to pray ye would know that ye must pray; for the evil spirit teacheth not a man to pray.” (2 Ne. 32:8.)
My friend quickly admitted that he had been listening to the right spirit.
I then asked the investigator about his knowledge of Christ’s teachings, and without hesitation he explained that before his contact with the missionaries his knowledge was very limited. He seemed eager, however, to let me know that the missionaries had taught him some significant things, including the plan of salvation. Once more, I invited him to read with me: “Now, we will compare the word unto a seed. … If ye give place, that a seed may be planted in your heart, behold, if it be a true seed, or a good seed, if ye do not cast it out by your unbelief, that ye will resist the Spirit of the Lord, behold, it will begin to swell within your breasts; and when you feel these swelling motions, ye will begin to say within yourselves—It must needs be that this is a good seed, or that the word is good, for it beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding.” (Alma 32:28.)
It required little persuasion for my friend to acknowledge that the word was true and good, and that he had felt the Spirit of the Lord.
The third question I directed to his wife. It was: “What kind of companion and father was your husband prior to meeting the missionaries?”
Somewhat reluctantly she answered, “He could have been better—he had a tendency to take me for granted and to neglect the children.”
I expressed thanks for her honest answer and suggested that we read together the following: “But he that believeth these things which I have spoken, him will I visit with the manifestations of my Spirit. … For because of my Spirit he shall know that these things are true; for it persuadeth men to do good.” (Ether 4:11.)
She, too, was willing to testify that a new spirit had entered their home and that this same spirit had changed her husband’s life.
Finally, I spoke again to the man and asked about his faith in Christ. He confessed that before his meetings with the missionaries, his faith had wavered and that he had entertained serious doubts concerning the Savior. He pointed out that recently his faith had been strengthened because of the teachings and testimonies of the missionaries. I then requested that we read: “For behold, the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil; wherefore, I show unto you the way to judge; for everything which inviteth to do good, and to persuade to believe in Christ, is sent forth by the power and gift of Christ; wherefore ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of God.” (Moro. 7:16.)
Our discussion concluded with an open acknowledgment by my investigator friends that a new and precious spirit had entered their lives. The influence of prayer, the expanded knowledge, the tendency toward goodness, and the rediscovered faith had given them a new perspective and a new purpose for living.
And, as the teacher in this case, I also benefited from the experience. My heart burned within me as I realized that the Spirit had assisted me in recalling relevant scriptures and had prompted me in determining what to say.

Having my long lockdown locks chopped off and donating them to a charity has been very rewarding. The charity to which I donate my hair makes quality, real-hair wigs, free of charge for children and youth suffering from the effects of cancer.
I first heard about hair donation through my congregation on Preston New Road. A charity called locksoflove.org was asking for hair so it could carry on its amazing work. That was over 22 years ago and I have been growing, cutting and then donating my hair every 2-3 years ever since. This will be my eighth donation.

Shortly after the death of Sister LeGrand Richards, I was assigned to be Elder Richards’ junior companion to assist him in creating the Atlanta Georgia Stake. As we were flying toward his beloved Southern States Mission, he said to me, “Brother Ballard, I am not afraid to die; the only thing I worry about is, will I be able to find Mommy over there.”
I was impressed to say to Elder Richards that in his case that could be a real problem. Immediately, I had his full attention. He looked me directly in the eye and said, “What do you mean by that?”
With my emotions near the surface, I answered this great missionary, “Elder Richards, when you die, so many people there will be anxious to greet you because you introduced the gospel to them that you might have difficulty finding Mommy in the crowd.” His response was, “Oh, you don’t mean that.”
We all might ask ourselves the question, Who will be there to greet us?
Oh, that I could have the power to touch your hearts that you would have the faith to take the simple steps that will bring the light of the gospel to many more of our Father’s children. The more I am involved in this work, the more I realize that Satan would have you and me believe that we cannot succeed in sharing the gospel. He lies to us. In fact, he is the father of all lies. Do not listen to him. Listen to the prompting of the Holy Ghost, and then act in faith in sharing the gospel.
I testify to you, my brothers and sisters, that I know the Lord lives. I know that when we are willing to seek his help and guidance, when we trust in him completely, he will bless us to understand what to do and how to proceed in the wonderful work of sharing this glorious message with others.
We do appreciate all you have done in the past. The leaders of the Church have great faith that, united together, the members and the missionaries of this Church can do much more in the future to build the kingdom of God.
May the Lord bless us all with increased faith to move his work forward, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Just this week we received a letter from a mother telling of her Navy son, now stationed on a small island 1,200 miles south of India out in the Indian Ocean. It has only the military base and a small coconut plantation. This young man has located six other LDS boys and they are now holding regular Church services. He wrote his mother telling of his opportunity now to prepare lessons for their priesthood meetings—young men on a tiny speck of land in a vast ocean recognizing and using their priesthood authority. They are different.

The midnight sun ruled the June evening in Sweden, where its fiery red and yellow spears still pierced the solemn blue sky. Children played, tumbling and jumping as though they had not walked three miles to the Lutheran seminary that day and had not spent two hours that evening raking in the hayfields. Suddenly their laughter was interrupted by the shouting of an older boy running toward them down the soggy road.
The small blond ones stood alert, staring at the intruder, who shouted again, “The Mormons are coming!” Expressions on young faces hardened, and little mouths lost their smiles and became straight lines. Bright blue eyes clouded.
The children ran up the nearby hill, picking up stones and sticks along the way. At the top of the hill they gathered in a group and looked out over the rolling meadowland. No one was in sight except the boy who had sounded the warning. They waited for him on the hill.
When the older boy reached the other children, he shouted commands: “Girls, stop crying. Go to your homes and take the little ones with you. Ask your fathers to come help us. Ja (yes)! The Mormons are coming!”
The boys began stacking stones in the furrows near the road. Girls and younger children ran across the fields toward their small wooden houses.
Hulda and Anna, the twins, and their younger brother, Gustav, had the farthest to go. Their house and land, located at the far north corner of the farmland near Hogbrun, West Vinåker, were rented from a wealthy landowner. Gustav fell down, but the girls pulled him up, paying no attention to his ripped trousers. As they neared the house, they could see their mother, Ingrid, a younger sister, Carolina, and baby sister, Maria, picking bouquets of tiny white-belled lilies of the valley.
“Mor (Mother)! Mor! The Mormons are coming! Shall we go to Farfar (Grandfather) Lars’s? They’ll eat us up and burn our house!”
The young woman frowned at Gustav’s skinned knees and tried to comfort him. She looked at her five children, whose father had died a year before from pneumonia. “If your far (father) were here, he would not be afraid of the Mormons. I do not fear them either. Those Mormons may be from the devil, but if they come here, I’ll use this devil’s pitchfork on them! Go into the house and say your prayers and go to bed.”
The children crawled into their beds, but they could not sleep. Their mother stood outdoors in the changing light of the midnight sun, resting her body against the house. She sighed and closed her eyes and thought of the approaching Mormons.
Farfar Lars hated the Mormons. He had warned, “Don’t ever shake hands with Mormon missionaries or they’ll get you.” But Ingrid had to admit that those Mormon hymns Britta Larsson had sung, while they were spinning during her last visit, were comforting.
Ingrid’s thoughts were interrupted by the bellowing of the family bull. She looked up and saw him tossing his head and pawing the ground in the middle of the road. Picking up a rope from the front yard, Ingrid hurried toward the road. She voiced her irritation under her breath and snatched up a dead limb lying close by. Holding the limb in front of her and moving slowly, step by step, she approached the bull. The bull, with lowered head, took a step toward her. Ingrid trembled for a moment then retreated a step, caught her foot in a hole, and fell to the ground.
Suddenly the bull charged, and the young woman rolled into the ditch for what little protection it provided. Miraculously, the snorting bull missed her and charged down the road, tossing clods of mud with his horns as he went.
The shaking woman lifted her head and watched the bull grow smaller in the distance. Then she stood up and dropped a rock she noticed was still clenched in her fist.
The sound of shouting was heard from down the road. That bull has met someone else, Ingrid decided. The shouts increased, and the frightened woman picked up her twill skirts with trembling hands, swallowed hard, and forced her feet to run along the rutted road. Just over a rise she saw two men chasing the bull. The big animal stopped suddenly and again began pawing the dirt. The woman’s lips formed some word, but the cry caught and could not escape. Her eyes widened in fear, and again Ingrid swallowed. Her chest heaved rapidly, begging for more air before she started to run again.
One man threw his coat over the bull’s head and tried holding him by the horns while the other young man, who had found an old rope, secured it around the bull’s neck. Leading him toward the woman, the man asked, “Is this your bull?” His hair was dark, and he walked lightly and talked with a strange accent.
“Yes,” she answered in airy gasps. “He broke … out … of the field … and … and … nearly gored me when I fell.”
“Let us help you take him back and mend your fence,” offered the other young man.
The bull kicked and began pulling his captor down the road, and the young man shouted and made play by mocking the bull. Terror again crept into the woman’s eyes, but when the young men began to laugh, she laughed with them.
After the bull was penned and the fence mended, Ingrid said, “May I make something for you to eat?”
The men’s eyes lighted up, but then one of them answered, “We have an appointment in the village and we’re already late.”
“At least let me give you some knäckebröd (hardtack) and smör (butter),” insisted the woman.
“Thank you,” came the warm reply.
Ingrid went into the small frame house and reached up to the rafters, where several months’ supply of knäckebröd hung, dry and crisp. She slipped two of the large, thin disks of rye bread from the pole and carefully buttered each one. Adjusting the braids in her hair, she returned to the waiting men.
“Here,” she said, smiling shyly. “May this satisfy your hunger. And if you come this way again, please stop by to say hello.”
“Thank you, we hope to return soon.”
Ingrid watched the men leave. As soon as they were a few feet from the cottage, they broke off large chunks of knäckebröd and ate hungrily.
Just then the woman thought to warn them. “Watch out for the Mormons! They’re coming this way, you know.”
The men stopped their eating and walked back quietly, “We are the Mormons,” one of them said gently.
“And I hope you still mean your invitation to stop on our way back,” added the other.
Ingrid looked into their kind eyes for a moment. “Yes, I do,” she said. “I would like my children to meet you.”

A few years ago I had a personal experience that confirmed Nephi’s account in a dramatic way. I was a guest of the director of the Vatican Library in Rome, and he brought out their fourth century copy of the complete Bible for me to see—Codex Vaticanus B. The first page we looked at had numerous erasures, additions, and changes written right on the page in different inks and different hands! I asked, pointing to some of these, “What is that?” The reply: “Oh, that’s where they made corrections.” Over the last two decades, many New Testament scholars have argued convincingly that the final texts of the gospels and the epistles that were eventually canonized, took shape during a long period in which they were modified as necessary to support the emerging theological orthodoxy among the leaders of the Christian churches. Their principal evidence comes from scriptural quotations in second century documents which are different and which would not have supported the theological orthodoxy that emerged later.

As the sun rose one June morning, a couple started their day with a prayer of thanksgiving. This day they were witnessing the answer to 13 years of earnest prayer. Their 27-year-old son and his wife had worked with loving bishops to put their lives in order so they might be worthy to enter the temple. That morning they would be sealed for all eternity.

This grateful mother reflects: “The joy we felt was unspeakable. As we sat in the temple with our son and his sweet companion, my mind was taken back to the time when this boy was 14 and began making choices that drew him away from the guidance of the Spirit. The time came when we needed extra help from a loving Heavenly Father.

“Attending the temple had always been important to us, and we felt prompted to pray for our son in this holy place. Each time we attended the temple, we placed our son’s name on the prayer roll.

“We wanted our prayers to be answered today—or tomorrow at the latest. But years passed, and our son remained less active. We were not left without hope, however. We often felt the comforting influence of the Holy Ghost. One evening while my husband and I were praying in the temple, the Spirit let us know unmistakably that our son was being watched over and that he would eventually repent and return to Church activity. We were also taught that we must never give up and never stop loving him. Our faith was strengthened, and a great peace settled into our hearts.

“And then came that sacred day when our prayers were answered.”

Some years ago in the early spring, I took little Shelly’s hand in mine, and for hours we carefully picked our way from one rock to the next along the creek bed shaded by some tall trees. The gurgling water was like a musical accompaniment to the dance we were creating as we would take a step, hesitate, take another, and then wait a moment to secure our balance.

Before long, we were drawn to an open meadow where some large cottonwood trees had been recently cut. Making my way through the tall grass, I held Shelly’s hand in mine as she cautiously placed one foot ahead of the other, walking the full length of the tree and back again. We noticed in that springtime tender green shoots forcing their way through the earthy floor and the winter snow receding toward the mountain peaks. It seemed as though all of nature bore evidence of God’s creations and his love for us.

Our afternoon activities continued until the evening breeze reminded us that our special day was coming to a close. Approaching the narrow, steep garden path leading to my home, I let go Shelly’s hand, allowing her to go first. Our hands struck together for a moment. A bond had formed from the warmth of the day through our shared adventures.

Just before reaching the clearing near the house, we stopped. Bending down, I lifted Shelly up to see into a little nest built by a robin in the branch of a tree.

At the close of this memorable day, before tucking my little niece (whom my sister shares with me) into bed, we knelt together while she expressed her own thanks which included the creek, the slippery rocks, the big tree, and the robin’s nest. Feeling a renewed appreciation for those same wonderful blessings, I tucked the covers around her and bent down for a goodnight kiss. Reaching up with both arms around my neck and pulling me close to her, Shelly whispered, “I wish we were in the same family.”

“Shelly, my dear,” I quickly explained, “we are in the same family.”

“No, I mean the very same family. My last name is Larsen, and your last name is Kapp, and that isn’t the same. I mean if you were my sister and we had the very same last name.”

Even though she was very young, I felt that she might sense the security of our eternal relationship if I could awaken within her a great eternal truth. “Shelly, we really are in the very same family. You see, we are all our Heavenly Father’s children, every one of us, and that makes us in one great family. We are brothers and sisters, and Jesus is our Brother, too, our Elder Brother.”

“Then, what is Jesus’ last name?” she asked.

“Shelly, we know our Savior as Jesus the Christ.” With the pure innocence of youth, she began to make us all one family by securing this relationship as she linked my first name with the surname “The Christ.”

“Oh, no, my dear. We don’t put our names together like that.”

“But why not?” she asked.

Wanting her to be aware of the sacredness of our relationship with the Savior, I tried to explain. “I guess maybe it’s because sometimes we are not good enough. I don’t feel worthy yet.”

With that, she raised up on her little elbow. “What do you do that’s wrong? Why don’t you stop doing it, and then we can all be in the same family? We can all use his name.”

As I pondered the answer to her simple questions, I heard in my mind words as though I was hearing them for the first time. And yet, it had been only two days since I had attended sacrament meeting, where I had listened to the same words. I had heard them with my ears often before, but now it seemed different. It was as though I was hearing them with my whole heart and soul:

That they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him, and keep his commandments which he has given them. [D&C 20:77]

Wasn’t this the very thing that we were talking about—the responsibility of taking upon oneself that sacred name and committing to try always to remember him and keep his commandments?

Last fall Sister Rasband and I were on our way to Goshen, Utah, for a worldwide Face to Face event being broadcast to over 600,000 people in 16 different languages. The program was to focus on the events of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, with questions submitted by young adults from around the world. Sister Rasband and I had personally reviewed the questions; they gave us the opportunity to testify of Joseph Smith as a prophet of God, the power of revelation in our lives, the ongoing Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the truths and commandments that we treasure. Many listening today were part of that miraculous event.
Initially the broadcast was to originate in the Sacred Grove in upstate New York, where, as Joseph Smith testified: “I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!” That, brothers and sisters, was a miracle.
The worldwide pandemic forced us to relocate the broadcast to Goshen, Utah, where The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has re-created, for filming, a section of old Jerusalem. Sister Rasband and I were within a few miles of Goshen that Sunday evening when we saw thick smoke coming from the direction of our destination. Wildfires were blazing in the area, and we worried the broadcast might be at risk. Sure enough, at 20 minutes to 6:00, our broadcast time, the power in the entire complex went out. No power! No broadcast. There was one generator that some thought we might be able to power up, but there was no assurance it could sustain the sophisticated equipment at hand.
All of us on the program, including narrators, musicians, and technicians—even 20 young adults from our own extended family—were fully invested in what was to take place. I stepped away from their tears and confusion and pleaded with the Lord for a miracle. “Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “I have rarely asked for a miracle, but I am asking for one now. This meeting must happen for all our young adults around the world. We need the power to go on if it be Thy will.”
Seven minutes after 6:00, as quickly as the power had gone out, it came back on. Everything started working, from the music and microphones to the videos and all the transmission equipment. We were off and running. We had experienced a miracle.
As Sister Rasband and I were in the car returning home later that evening, President and Sister Nelson texted us with this message: “Ron, we want you to know that as soon as we heard the power was out, we prayed for a miracle.”
In latter-day scripture it is written, “For I, the Lord, have put forth my hand to exert the powers of heaven; ye cannot see it now, yet a little while and ye shall see it, and know that I am, and that I will come and reign with my people.”
That is exactly what happened. The Lord had put forth His hand, and the power came on.

My best friend, Aniyah, isn’t a member of the Church. Aniyah’s brother Khali is best friends with my brother Nathaniel. We wanted to share the gospel with their family. Aniyah and Khali’s mother recently had a baby. My mom wanted to let Aniyah’s mom have time with the new baby. We took Aniyah and Khali to our pioneer picnic, the ward beach party, and later to the ward Halloween party.
We found out that their mom had never been given a baby shower [party] even though this was her third child. My mom insisted on giving her one. I helped my mom get the house ready and prepare the lunch. I had so much fun, and her family really appreciated the party.
Nathaniel was recently baptized, and Aniyah’s whole family came. They were touched by the service, and I know they felt the Lord’s Spirit there. I learned that by serving others we can share the gospel.

Several months ago, my grandson asked his mom, “Why are we here on earth? If God knows everything, then He knows what choices I will make. Why can’t He just send me now to where He knows I will choose to go?” My daughter told him about an institute class she had attended years before. The teacher asked the students, “Why was Abraham commanded to sacrifice Isaac if God already knew Abraham would obey?” After some discussion, the class decided it was because Abraham needed to know that Abraham would obey. My grandson thought about that for a moment and then said, “So, I guess I need to have the experience of choosing for myself.”