Gospel Story Finder

My friend, Marcia, had moved several times in her young years as her father’s work required it. She was now ten years old and facing another new school. Marcia’s mother could see the concern on her daughter’s face and sat down with her to discuss what was bothering her.
Marcia talked about the challenge of joining classes at midterm and trying to get in step with the subject matter, teacher, and other students. Mother pledged her support to help Marcia make the adjustment. Then tears welled up in Marcia’s eyes. In all honesty, she shared with her mother, “I can overcome the difficulties with the academics and the new teachers. But, Mother,” she said, with tears trickling over her freckled cheeks, “I just hate eating my lunch alone.”
Marcia needed someone to recognize her situation and invite her to join a group and get acquainted. The Savior told us: “And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.” (Eph. 4:32.)

Let me illustrate with a sacred experience which brought these guidelines together in blessing the lives of those in need.

While serving as a bishop, one cold winter day I visited an elderly couple who lived in a two-room duplex. The modest home was heated by a small coal-burning Heatrola. As I approached the home, I met the 82-year-old husband, his aged body bent in the driving snow as he gathered a few pieces of wet coal from his exposed supply of fuel. I helped him with his burden but made a solemn resolve to do more.

I prayed and pondered, seeking a solution. Step by step the inspiration came. In the ward was an unemployed carpenter. He had no fuel for his furnace but was too proud to receive the stoker slack he needed to keep his house warm. I suggested to the carpenter a way he could work for the help he received. Would he build a coal shed for a couple in need? “Of course,” he replied.

Now where were we to obtain the materials? I approached the proprietors of a local lumberyard from whom we frequently purchased products. I remember saying to the men, “How would the two of you like to paint a bright spot on your souls this winter day?” Not knowing exactly what I meant, they agreed readily. They were invited to donate the lumber and hardware for the coal shed.

Within days the project was completed. I was invited to inspect the outcome. The coal shed was simply beautiful in its sleek covering of battleship-gray paint. The carpenter, who was a high priest, testified that he had actually felt inspired as he labored on this modest shed.

My older friend, with obvious appreciation, stroked the wall of the sturdy structure. He pointed out to me the wide door, the shiny hinges, and then opened to my view the supply of dry coal which filled the shed. In a voice filled with emotion, he said in words I shall ever treasure, “Bishop, take a look at the finest coal shed a man ever had.” Its beauty was only surpassed by the pride in the builder’s heart. And the elderly recipient labored each day at the ward chapel, dusting the benches, vacuuming the carpet runners, arranging the hymnbooks. He, too, worked for that which he had received.

Once again, the welfare plan of the Lord had blessed the lives of His children.

I shall always remember the great experiences I had at the open house prior to the dedication of the Washington D.C. Temple. For part of a week, I stood in the entrance to the temple as a host to special guests. Those guests included the wife of the president of the United States, justices of the Supreme Court, senators and congressmen, ambassadors from various nations, clergymen, educators, and business leaders.
Almost without exception, those who came were appreciative and respectful. Many were deeply touched in their hearts. Upon leaving the temple, the wife of the president of the United States commented: “This is a truly great experience for me. … It’s an inspiration to all.”

Although some of the most exciting Christmas gifts come in a physical form, the best gift I ever received came through an act of service. My family has the tradition of delivering food boxes to the needy during the holiday season. Most of the encounters that my family has had are valuable experiences, but one in particular will remain with me.
Carrying a food box and gifts, my family approached a small, run-down apartment and knocked on the door. We were greeted by a lady who spoke only Spanish. Immediately after she opened the door, my family began singing “Silent Night.” Not long into the song, she broke into tears out of gratefulness. All she could say was “Gracias, gracias” repeatedly as she embraced us.
Although her language and background were entirely different from ours, we immediately felt a connection. She was grateful for our offer of help, and I understood what it meant to truly be thankful for even the simplest necessities. I walked out of the apartment with a whole new outlook, realizing that we owe the Lord our gratitude for even our most basic needs.
—Rhett Wilkinson

Where will Personal Progress take you? It took the young women of the Colorado Miramont Ward to Hawaii—well, kind of. The young women earned “miles” to travel the 3,000-plus miles to “Hawaii” every time they completed a Personal Progress goal or project.
Haley Tyler, a Laurel, loved the idea of going somewhere exotic. “I was excited because I thought it was a good way to get more motivated about Personal Progress.” One of Haley’s projects was sewing teddy bears for hospitals and fire departments.
The night they went to Hawaii was unforgettable. Even though Hawaii was actually in the backyard of one of their advisers, the girls didn’t mind. They ate tropical food and listened to Hawaiian music, and a stake member taught them how to dance the Hukilau.
Clarissa Clements, a Laurel, said, “It was awesome. The food was great. I loved the dancing.” She also liked learning how to play traditional Hawaiian instruments.
Next year the Miramont young women plan on going to “France.”

“Father was a good man, but he had a problem keeping the Word of Wisdom. Some people would have called him an alcoholic. He had a drinking problem for thirty-eight years. Mother would say to us, ‘Honor your father, and someday he will honor the priesthood.’ And he did. When Max and I were sixteen, Father made the decision to stop drinking, and that was it. For the last twenty years of his life, he was just what Mother had told us all our lives that he would be.
“Mother was the strength of the family. She held us together. She was a great woman and one source of our faith.
“When I was eleven, the Fourth of July was a real big event in Spanish Fork. World War II had begun, and the whole town was having a parade to send off the men who were leaving to serve in the war. The night before the Fourth I went outside to play. I sat on the porch, and my mother said, ‘You’re not going to go anywhere, are you?’ I said, ‘No, I’ll stay here.’
“Then my friend Mark came across the street and said, ‘I have a big box of firecrackers. Let’s go up to Janet’s and show the girls how to light them!’ I forgot that my mother had asked me to stay home. The only thought in my mind was to go up to Janet’s and light some firecrackers.
“We lighted all the firecrackers that would light, and the remainder we put in a cardboard box and set on fire. Mark and I were both burned in the resulting explosion. In fact, our faces, chests, hands, and arms were burned so severely that it didn’t look like we were going to make it.
“Sister Hill, Janet’s mother, came out when she heard the explosion, and she saw five kids on fire. Somehow the fires were put out, and she calmly took us into the house, knelt us down in the living room, and offered a prayer. Then she called the doctor, and we went down to Dr. Moody’s office.
“He operated on my face to put it back together. Before he started, I asked my father to give me a blessing. Dr. Moody was also an elder, so the two of them administered to me. My father said in the blessing that if I would have faith, the Lord would make me well. You have to remember that at that time my father was an alcoholic. But when he said that the Lord would make me well, I knew it was true.
“Then Dr. Moody began to work on me. I didn’t have any anesthetic because they were afraid of shock. into my mind came the words of one of my mother’s favorite hymns:
O how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day;
So when life gets dark and dreary,
Don’t forget to pray.
(Hymns, no. 31.)
“I couldn’t speak, but I could hum. For the whole two and a half to three hours while the doctor was trying to fix my face, I hummed that hymn. When he was finished with me, I looked just like a mummy. My face and arms were all wrapped up with bandages. It appeared that I had lost the sight of one eye and severely damaged the other. My hands were as black as shoe leather, and they were hard and crinkled.
“All five of us were healed and back in school in the fall. Janet had a severely damaged finger, Mark had burns on his face, as I did, and on his arms, but we were all back in school. Someone in the ward had placed our names on the prayer roll in the temple. To Mother that was tantamount to saying, ‘Don’t worry, if your names are on the prayer roll in the temple, you can just count on being healed.’ And we were.
“I’ve thought a lot about where our faith came from. I think it came from a lot of places. Certainly it came from our Heavenly Father. Why would the hymn come into my mind? There’s something about hymns that strengthens us; we remember the words and have good feelings when we sing them. Our Church leaders helped build our faith also by teaching us and by working with us.
“Sometimes our greatest faith is brought about after we’ve made an error. Had I just obeyed my mother, the explosion never would have happened. None of us would have been injured.
“The scriptures say that the Savior learned obedience through the things that He suffered. I don’t think that He suffered because He sinned or made mistakes but because He understood the gospel; He felt pain and anguish more deeply than those who bring punishment upon themselves, as we did when we were unwise and disobedient.
“I think that if children just learn to have enough faith to obey, perhaps they wouldn’t have to exercise so much faith to be healed, to overcome a hurt, to get back in the good graces of parents or teachers or others. They could avoid having to learn to obey by suffering. Obedience provides strength because if you obey, you feel confident in going to the Lord and asking for His help. And I think if there is ever a time when children need to feel confident in going before the Lord, it is now.”

I had to get my tonsils and adenoids removed and have tubes placed in my ears. The day before my surgery I started feeling nervous. My dad asked two other men to come over that night, and they helped my dad give me a blessing so that I would be OK. After the blessing I felt better. I made it through my surgery well the next day and got to come home right afterward. I am thankful that my dad has the priesthood so he can help people when they need it.Abbey Hancock, age 10 St. George, Utah

One of the great examples of mercy in our time was extended by the Prophet Joseph to W. W. Phelps during the troubles of the Saints in the state of Missouri. Elder Phelps fell into apostasy. After suffering buffetings, on June 29, 1840, while in Dayton, Ohio, W. W. Phelps wrote to the Prophet Joseph:
“I have seen the folly of my way, and I tremble at the gulf I have passed. … I will repent and live, and ask my old brethren to forgive me, and though they chasten me to death, yet I will die with them, for their God is my God. The least place with them is enough for me, yea, it is bigger and better than all Babylon. …
“… I have done wrong and I am sorry. … I have not walked along with my friends according to my holy anointing. I ask forgiveness in the name of Jesus Christ of all the Saints, for I will do right, God helping me. I want your fellowship; if you cannot grant that, grant me your peace and friendship, for we are brethren, and our communion used to be sweet.”
To this the Prophet Joseph replied:
“It is true, that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough … , was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us. One with whom we had oft taken sweet counsel together, and enjoyed many refreshing seasons from the Lord—‘had it been an enemy, we could have borne it.’ …
“However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive. … And having been delivered from the hands of wicked men by the mercy of our God, we say it is your privilege to be delivered from the powers of the adversary, … and again take your stand among the Saints of the Most High, and by diligence, humility, and love unfeigned, commend yourself to our God, and your God, and to the Church of Jesus Christ.
“Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. …
“‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
“‘For friends at first, are friends again at last.’
“Yours as ever, Joseph Smith, Jun.”
W. W. Phelps remained true and faithful and wrote the words to the marvelous hymn “Praise to the Man,” affirming his great love and admiration for the Prophet Joseph:
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!
Jesus anointed that Prophet and Seer.
Blessed to open the last dispensation,
Kings shall extol him, and nations revere.

Harry was fighting in a torrent of rain and blood one night on New Guinea during World War II. Shrapnel from enemy mortar shells ripped his stomach apart, and he lay dying in a muddy foxhole. As he pled with God to send a rescue crew, he closed his eyes and a dreamlike picture of his sweetheart flooded his mind’s eye. The image of returning to her and raising a family together gave him the will to live until a British officer named Abel scooped him onto a stretcher. Harry returned home to marry the girl of his dream, and soon they joined the Church. Fifty years later, their posterity is among the strength of the Australia Devonport Stake. Harry was kept alive—physically and spiritually—by his dream of family love.

I recall a day when one of our children was leaving for school with his friend. I waved good-bye and called out, “Remember who you are.” As they walked away, I overheard the friend ask, “Why does your mother always say that to you? What does she mean?” I heard our son’s quick reply, “She means, ‘Be good.’” He was exactly right. We remember who we are by doing good, and we do good when we remember who we are.

Sometimes the lessons will come quietly. A few weeks ago I was visiting a sacrament meeting at a care facility in Salt Lake City. The priests at the sacrament table were sitting quietly prior to performing their duties when the opening hymn was announced. A patient near the front of the large room had difficulty opening his hymnbook. Without so much as a question, one of the young men slipped to the patient’s side and, gently turning the pages to the correct hymn, placed the disabled man’s finger at the beginning of the first verse of the hymn. They exchanged an understanding smile, and the priest returned to his seat. This modest gesture of love and helpfulness impressed me. I congratulated him and said, “You are going to be an effective missionary.”

Illustration by Steven Keele
Envy is a strong word. When people talked about being “envious,” I knew it would never describe me. So when I listened to Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s talk “The Laborers in the Vineyard” in the April 2012 general conference, I didn’t really think he was talking to me. I tried to think of things I would occasionally be jealous of—someone’s dress, my friend’s bag, or my sister’s good grade. Yet all of these things came and went quickly; I never thought I dwelled on jealousy.
But as I went back and read Elder Holland’s words, his paraphrasing of a line from a parable stuck out to me: “Why should you be jealous because I choose to be kind?” (Ensign, May 2012, 31). Now, this was a different type of jealousy—not about material things but about someone’s choices. I began to think of the many times I may have been envious of my siblings, and then it clicked: this is exactly what I have been struggling with.
My little sister Mary is about to move out and start her first year in college, so I was talking to my dad about where she would work this summer. I knew he most likely had three jobs lined up for her like he had for me, because when I graduated from high school he made it very clear that if I planned on going to college, I would need a summer job. This was stressed so much that I even started a job the day of my graduation. I worked hard all summer and earned the money to pay my way through school. So naturally, when I was talking to my dad about Mary’s summer before college, I expected to hear the same story.
To my surprise, my dad explained that Mary would just be working at her part-time job until June and then take the summer off before school. Immediately several thoughts came to mind: “What about paying for school by yourself? How is she going to afford tuition? And what about paying for that nice apartment she’s decided to move into?” This just wasn’t fair.
I don’t know why it bothered me so much, but I let it continue to affect me. That is, until I reread Elder Holland’s conference talk. I read the question: “Why should you be jealous because I choose to be kind?” This time I changed it to fit my situation and asked myself: “Why should I be jealous that my parents are being kind to my sister?” Still a little upset, I then thought, “Well, why didn’t they show that kindness to me?”
I sat there pondering my emotions and then read through Elder Holland’s words again. This time I realized what I was missing: I had been looking for everything to be fair. In my eyes, the same thing that worked for me was obviously the right choice for the rest of my siblings. But Mary isn’t me. Mary is much more of a homebody than I am, and I started realizing how the transition to college might be tougher on her than it was for me. Maybe having a few months just to spend with my family is something she needs.
I suddenly felt embarrassed about my envious thoughts. Elder Holland compared envy with “downing another quart of pickle juice every time anyone around you has a happy moment” (Ensign, May 2012, 32), and that is not how I want to be.
I am so grateful for general conference and the inspired messages that are shared. I know that if we open our hearts to the messages of the living prophets and prayerfully search through their words several times, we will find what God wants us to hear at this time in our lives.

I’ve been LDS my whole life, and I was always a basically good kid. Then I entered ninth grade. Everything went downhill from there. I was so tired of being teased about being a goody-goody. I never intended to ever do anything really wrong. I just didn’t want to be hassled anymore. So I came up with what seemed like a great plan. Looking back I realize it was pretty stupid.
I decided I would lead a double life. When I was at church or with LDS friends, I would act the part of a perfect Mormon. When I was with my nonmember friends, I would go wherever they went, talk like them, and try to seem like one of them. I figured that as long as I didn’t drink their beer or smoke their pot I was still okay. Unfortunately, I was living a lie with both groups of friends. You can’t get away with a lie for very long. It wasn’t long before my LDS friends started to keep their distance. One girl told me that her mother had told her she couldn’t hang around with me anymore because I smoked pot and drank. She didn’t want her daughter being influenced by me. It just wasn’t true! But how do you convince someone of that when all of your actions point to a different conclusion?
My friends from school started seeing the lie too. My first kiss was in the backseat of a stranger’s car with a boy whose name I didn’t even know. He wanted to go farther than I was willing. Later, his friend told me it was time I started following through on the life I was claiming to live. My partying friends decided that it was time to prove I was one of them, so they planned a little pot party in my honor for the last day of school. I didn’t go to school that day. It was the coward’s way out, but deep down inside I knew they weren’t really my friends.
That was when I realized how foolish I’d been. I had destroyed my reputation in six short months! My LDS friends didn’t believe a thing I said, and my nonmember friends thought I was a jerk—all talk and no play.

Sybil heaved a sigh of relief as she tucked her youngest brother between the clean homespun sheets and kissed him good night. As the oldest of eight children, she worked hard helping her mother care for the little ones. Usually she enjoyed getting them ready for bed, but tonight Sybil was bored. She paced back and forth before the open door of their home in Fredericksburg, New York.
“What’s the matter, Sybil?” her father asked, looking up from his work at his cluttered desk. “You seem restless.”
“I don’t know, Father,” she answered truthfully, “I just have a feeling … I want to do something—something important for a change.”
Her father smiled. “Spring fever,” he consoled her. “You’re a young girl, and you’re impatient. That’s understandable. And as for doing something important, why don’t you go help your mother with the mending?”
“I don’t want to do mending. I’m always doing mending. And besides, Father, I’m not a young girl. Mother was already married to you at fifteen, and I’m sixteen!”
Colonel Ludington smiled again sympathetically and turned back to his work. When Sybil was in one of her headstrong moods, it was hard for her to patiently do ordinary, but needed, tasks.
Suddenly they were both startled by the sound of pounding hooves in the cool spring night. Seconds later an exhausted messenger burst through the door, dripping with perspiration and barely able to stand. Sybil could see his lathered horse tethered outside.
“The British!” the man gasped. “They’re raiding Danbury! They’re burning the town and sacking our supply center. The Continentals can’t hold out. You’ve got to muster your militia, Colonel, and drive the British back!”
Colonel Ludington leaped to his feet. Rural New York was sparsely settled in 1777, and his volunteer militiamen were scattered in farms and villages over a wide area. Someone would have to rouse the men and tell them to meet at the Ludington home prepared to defend their young country against the British. But who could go? This messenger and his horse were too tired to go any farther, Colonel Ludington knew, and he himself had to remain to organize the men as they gathered there.
“Father, I’m going to go,” Sybil spoke up determinedly.
The messenger looked at her in surprise as her father sputtered, “Y-You? I won’t allow it! It’s late, and the roads are narrow and dangerous.”
Sybil’s eyes flashed as she grabbed her coat and declared, “I can do it, Father. Star is a good horse, and I know the way. My country needs me.”
There was little time for argument. Colonel Ludington looked hard at his oldest child and said softly, “All right, Sybil”—she was halfway to the barn to saddle Star before he could finish the sentence—“but be careful!”
Grabbing a stick to pound on the doors of the sleeping soldiers, she was off. The night was dark, and a chilly breeze whipped through her hair as she and Star sped on their desperate mission. As the girl passed each militiaman’s house, she pounded on the door with her stick and shouted, “Wake up! The British are burning Danbury! Go to the colonel’s prepared to fight!”
Sybil stayed only long enough at each house to insure that the militiaman was awake. Then she was gone.
She rode to Carmel, past Mahopac Falls, over the treacherous rocky path to Kent Cliffs. At times the moon’s faint light was obscured by drifting clouds, and the path was plunged into eerie darkness. Once Star tripped on an outcropping of rock and fell to his knees, but Sybil clung to the saddle and urged him up and onward through the night. Finally a very weary Sybil reached the last tiny settlement, Stormville, and rapped with her stick on the doors there.
Her job was finished.
Star was limping as they returned to the brightly lit Ludington home, and Sybil was slumped in the saddle with fatigue. The courageous ride had taken hours. The first gauzy rays of the sun were just visible over the horizon as she groomed the exhausted horse and brought it fresh water and feed.
“You did a fine job, Star,” she praised him before she went into the house.
Most of the volunteer militiamen were already there, and the small parlor was strewn with muskets and horns and flasks of gunpowder. Sybil caught her father’s eye, and the room became silent.
“This young woman,” Colonel Ludington said, his eyes shining with pride, “has proven herself a patriot!”
The soldiers stood in a silent tribute to the courage and gallantry Sybil had shown by calling them out in the dead of the night.
Colonel Ludington’s forces were able to join General Wooster at Ridgefield, a town near Danbury, in time to drive the British back to their ships in Long Island Sound. Sybil’s “spring fever” had brought success to the Continental Army. A statue of her astride Star stands by Gleneida Lake in Carmel, New York, not far from the very path she rode on that desperate night over two hundred years ago.

In a refugee camp in Bataan, Philippines, I watched as one of our lovely lady missionaries sat down on the dirty floor beside an old woman who was weeping and confused and afraid. She gently pulled this woman’s head over onto her shoulder and smoothed her hair with one hand as she put her other arm around her to comfort her.
I learned that this woman had been driven from her home. Some of her family members had been killed. She had been abused and driven through the forests and jungles and finally out of her own country. She could not even speak the language of her present benefactors.
Later, as we talked of the work she was doing, the lady missionary said, with tears running down her face, “This is the finest thing I have ever done.” Many things are only interesting and enticing, while other things are important.

“It sure takes a long time to wait a few minutes!” Daniel muttered to himself, glancing at the schoolroom clock. Just thinking about picking apples after school with Grandpa made him feel like jumping up and down and hollering. Even hard work with Grandpa was fun.
“Class!” Mrs. Webb waited until everyone was quiet. “Your assignment for language arts is to write a story about an ancestor. Remember that every story must have a dilemma—a problem to solve. Any questions?”
Daniel’s heart sank. I’m tired of hearing about ancestors, he thought. I don’t care a scrap about mine. How can I? I’m adopted! And I don’t even have to hunt for a dilemma—I am one!
It seemed lately that every talk in church and every Primary lesson was about ancestors. “I can’t write any names on this chart,” he had told his Primary teacher. “I don’t even know who my real parents are, let alone my grandparents.”
“But you’ve been sealed to your mom and dad and legally adopted,” she said. “In the eyes of the Lord, your mom and dad are your real parents, and their ancestors are yours.”
“I guess I just feel that that’s not fair or honest. I wish I knew who I really am.”
Daniel’s memories were interrupted by the final school bell, and he plodded sadly off to Grandpa’s house. Even the cookie-and-milk snack he got there didn’t cheer him up. When Grandpa asked, “Why the sad face?” Daniel burst into tears.
Grandpa sat on the rocking chair and pulled Daniel onto his lap. “Trouble at school? Hurtin’ someplace? Why not tell your old grandpap all about it?”
Never before had Daniel mentioned his worries about being adopted. Now he blurted out the whole sad story. Grandpa listened quietly. “Oh, Grandpa, I’m sorry,” Daniel said. “A big fourth-grade guy shouldn’t be bawling like this.”
“Well, he should if he needs to. Even old men sometimes do.”
“I bet you never did.”
“Oh yes I have! I’ve even shed happy tears.”
“How can anyone cry about being happy?”
“I can remember being pretty weepy when I first saw you. I was grateful that you were going to be part of my family. Your parents had been awfully sad because they had no children. You were an answer to all our prayers.”
Daniel and Grandpa walked to the orchard and began to pick apples. One happy idea led to others, and they were soon talking about family fun and activities. Then Daniel suddenly stopped working. He stood thoughtfully, holding an apple in each hand. “Hey, how did this happen? These were both growing on the same tree, but they aren’t alike at all. They’re even different colors.”
Grandpa explained about grafting—how a branch from one tree can be joined to another, how it can become so much a part of the tree that it’s hard to tell that it was ever separate. “The whole tree is supported and fed by the same roots,” Grandpa said. “It’s really quite a miracle.”
“Why, Grandpa, that’s just like me, isn’t it? And now I’m growing on your family tree. That would make a good story for me to write, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I surely do—a story with a very happy ending.”
“I’m glad I found out about grafting. And, Grandpa, you must be the very best root in the whole world.”
“And no family tree has a better branch than you,” Grandpa said, giving Daniel a grandpa-sized hug.

His first mission lasted for five years. Nineteen years later Matthew returned to New Zealand as mission president. The saints there were thrilled to have him back with them and welcomed him as their tumuaki (great leader or big chief).
When Tumuaki Cowley returned to New Zealand as mission president, he adopted the words Kia Ngawari as a slogan for all the Saints there. He had the phrase printed on little signs that could be taken into every home. Each talk Tumuaki Cowley gave ended with these stirring words. There is no exact translation for them in English. Some say the meaning is “be sincere”; others, “be loving and kind.”
Today the Maoris sing a song that has this slogan for a title. It was written in honor of Tumuaki Cowley, and as they sing it they remember him with special love.
Kia Ngawari!

Before he met the missionaries, Brother Dupont said, he had been like a wanderer in a drought-ravaged land. Then suddenly he stumbled into a lake of water. The gospel was rich and refreshing to him, and he could not drink his fill. In his exuberance to immerse himself in his new-found treasure, he could not understand why others did not want to savor the same message. This lack of communication spilled into his marriage. His wife didn’t understand what had changed her husband.
As we ate, she told us of the war years, when he was bedridden. She had managed to find food for both of them, even during shortages. She had nursed him daily. Even after the war, he had required her constant care for several years before he gained the strength to walk. Then he had spent more years training and rehabilitating himself while she supported the family. No sooner had he started working again than two Americans began talking religion with him. Then he joined their church—he was the only member in town, and they baptized him in the river—and more and more of his life belonged to his church, not to her. She felt deprived, then embarrassed, when parishioners laughed at her, the wife of the town fanatic.
President Dupont repeated over and over again that the Church was true, that he knew it was true, and that he would do whatever he could to share it with his wife. “But,” he said, “she just won’t listen.”
“Can’t you see?” I said one night after they had been sharp with each other. “What you’re really saying is that you love each other. Sister Dupont, all these years you’ve been asking your husband to spend more time with you. That’s important and it’s right. And President Dupont, all you want to do is share with your wife the thing that’s most precious to you. Right?”
He nodded yes. I turned to Sister Dupont.
“Can’t you see that he wants to share the gospel with you because he loves you?”
She didn’t say anything, but you could tell she was thinking. We excused ourselves quietly and went home.
Elder Granville’s prayer that night was straightforward and concerned.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help the Duponts to understand each other. They’re both good people.”
“Amen,” I said. And it sounded so good that I said it again in a whisper.
We had teaching appointments elsewhere for the next two weeks, and then we had to go to Bordeaux for district conference. Although we stopped to see President Dupont on branch business a couple of times, it was almost a month before we were asked back to the Duponts’ home. President Dupont delivered the invitation.
“You won’t believe it,” he said. “My wife’s been reading Church books! and she’s asking questions, good, honest questions. I try to answer them, but I get too pushy. She really wants to talk to you again.” If we hadn’t had another teaching appointment, we might have rushed over right then.
“C’est incroyable!” Sister Dupont said the next time we all sat in the kitchen. “It’s incredible. Or it’s stupid! A 14-year-old boy can’t talk to God. And the Bible. It’s complete. Why should we need any more scriptures than we already have? And the priesthood. My husband’s never been to divinity school. Why should he be able to hold the priesthood?”
Good questions, all right. How could we handle this? I could imagine Elder Granville thinking this was more like the Sister Dupont of old. Maybe the niceness had been too good to last.
“Sister Dupont,” Elder Granville’s calm voice interrupted my thoughts, “we can answer all those questions for you. But we can’t answer them all at the same time. We have a series of discussions that will answer them one at a time. Would you be interested in listening to those discussions?”
She said yes.
How about that! I said to myself. There’s hope for this junior companion yet!
I wouldn’t exactly say that Sister Dupont became a golden investigator. But she did become our friend. She listened intently to the first discussion. She even joined us as her husband kneeled in prayer. And she invited us to dinner again the following Sunday. It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”
During the next two months Sister Dupont read the book—at least, she read more than half of it. And she had two more discussions, and prayed, and was talking to her husband more and more. And he was seeming happier and happier all the time. That’s when my transfer letter came.
I was moving north to Brittany where I would finish my mission. Elder Granville would be getting his third senior missionary companion. The letter had been delayed by postal strikes. I would have to catch the first train in the morning.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave, Elder Granville,” I said. “We’ve been working so well here. The branch president’s happy and excited again, and the members are working with him. We’ve got some inactive members coming out to church and a couple of solid investigators. The Marcellas family is getting ready for baptism. I guess I’ll just have to leave it up to you.”
A knock at the door.
“President Dupont!” Elder Granville greeted the visitor. “Come in, come in.”
President Dupont looked at me.
“I heard about the transfer,” he said. “I know you’re leaving tomorrow. My wife wants you to come say good-bye.”
There was a lot of packing and farewelling to take care of, but I knew I had to visit his wife.
“Of course we’ll be by,” I said.
The living room was dark. The wallpaper, however, was a bright combination of browns, yellows, and tans. Sister Dupont was seated on the orange couch, a tray of cookies and hot chocolate before her.
“Hello, elders,” she said. “Have a seat. What’s this about Elder Romney leaving?”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Tomorrow morning.”
“That means there will be a new missionary here, too.”
“That’s right. Elder Taylor. He’s from New York.”
“I guess I’ll have to get to know him, too.”
I could see the smile on President Dupont’s face.
“I hope you will,” I said.
“Will you write to us?”
“Of course I’ll keep in touch,” I promised. “Trust me.”
“If you can’t trust the elders, who can you trust?” she said.
I thought I might cry.
I did keep in touch, especially five months later when I got home from my mission. It was hard, and President Dupont wrote to me more than I wrote to him. But we did exchange photos (I still have a nice picture of the Duponts with their grandchildren on vacation on the Spanish coast), and Christmas cards, and news of our families. Whatever I sent, even a postcard, I always got letters back, scrawled out in President Dupont’s longhand. He would let me know when he heard from one of the elders, especially from Elder Granville. He always included greetings from his wife, but I never received anything written personally by her. Other missionaries told me that she remained friendly and supported her husband, but she never joined the Church. Every once in a while I would write to her personally and bear my testimony to her through the mail.
I’ve been home for several years now, and this week I received an unusual letter from France. The address was strange, the handwriting unfamiliar. I opened it before I got to my desk.
“Dear Elder Romney” it began. “I’ve wanted to write to you many times over the years, but I always figured my husband kept us in contact with you. Now my husband is gone. I wanted to let you know so that you could tell the other missionaries. He loved them all so much. Let them know the Church members held a funeral for him.
“I remember much of what you both told me about life after death. Perhaps my husband is there waiting for me, as you said he would be. I never did understand all you tried to tell me, all that he wanted to share with me, but I know you both believed it was true. I’m living with my daughter and her family now. Please write to me if you will.”
You know I will, Sister Dupont. You know I will.

Anthony peered out the window of his pretend time machine. It was actually a cardboard box that he had decorated with markers, foil, and other things. For several days he had had lots of fun playing in it. Now he was imagining a strange-looking object in front of him. It was like a car, but it had wings. It was big enough for him to take a ride in, and that was what he wanted to do. But as he began to climb out of the time machine to do that, a real-life voice spoke to him: “Time to get ready for bed, Anthony.”
“Ah, Mom,” he said, flopping down on the floor in disappointment. “I was just going to take a ride in a flying car.”
“Well, you’ll have to play that pretend game tomorrow,” Mom replied. “Right now you need to get ready for Book of Mormon time and bed.”
Anthony reluctantly dragged the box into the corner where they kept the toys, then went off to his room. In a few minutes everyone was sitting in the living room with a Book of Mormon in hand.
Dad said, “Tonight we’ve come to the part where Nephi tells us about the words of a prophet named Isaiah. He’s the same prophet Isaiah who’s in the Bible.” Father showed them where the book of Isaiah was in the Bible, then where Isaiah was quoted in the Book of Mormon. He began to read what Isaiah had said.
Anthony found the right page and tried to follow along, but after a few minutes his eyes started to close. The next thing he knew, his mother was waking him up, telling him that it was time for bed.
The following night Anthony had taken another imaginary ride to the future. When his mother called, he was pretending to talk to some creatures from Pluto who had come to earth to live. Slowly he climbed out of the box, went to his room, got ready for bed, then sat down for scripture time.
But he didn’t understand what Dad was reading, and he kept wriggling and squirming. That made his brother and sister wriggle and squirm too. When Anthony’s mother reminded them all to sit still and listen, Anthony tried to, but even the words he knew sounded strange, somehow. “Isaiah is too hard,” he said when Dad finished for that night.
“Yes, it’s difficult,” Dad agreed. “But if we read slowly and you listen carefully, you might be able to understand.”
“And,” Mom added, “we can ask Heavenly Father to help us understand.” As she offered the prayer that evening, she asked for help in understanding Isaiah.
The next night, Anthony was dragging his box to the corner again when Dad stopped him. “Wait, Anthony. Leave your box there for now. I want to do something different for our scripture reading tonight.”
When everyone was settled, Father began. “Tonight I thought that we should learn more about Isaiah and his teachings. That way we might be able to understand a little better when we read his words.
“Isaiah was a prophet who lived a long time ago, even a long time before Jesus was born. But he prophesied, or told about, things that would happen many years later. When we read his words, it’s like listening to someone who had traveled in a time machine.”
Anthony sat up tall. “Did he travel to the future?”
“No,” Dad answered. “But with Heavenly Father’s help, he saw visions of things that would happen in the future and he told about those things.”
Dad had the three children climb into Anthony’s time machine. “When we read Isaiah,” Dad said, “it’s like we are traveling in a time machine with him. We can listen to his words and imagine that we are there, seeing the things that he saw.”
Anthony and his brother and sister were excited. They wanted to ride in the time machine with Isaiah.
Father went on. “In the Bible, we learn about things that happened while he was actually alive. One of those stories is about a king named Hezekiah. One time King Hezekiah was very sick and was about to die. He prayed and asked the Lord to let him live longer. The Lord told Isaiah what Hezekiah should do to get better, and He told Isaiah to tell Hezekiah that he could live for fifteen more years. As a sign to Hezekiah, the Lord turned the sun back ten degrees. Another time Isaiah helped King Hezekiah win a battle and save Jerusalem.”
The next night they read about things that Isaiah saw would happen in the future. They climbed in the time machine and pretended that they were with Isaiah when he saw a vision showing Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus. They listened to the prophet’s beautiful words: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given. …”
The children next listened to Isaiah’s words about the sad time when Jesus died: “But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities.”
Then they pretended to travel ahead many more years and listened to Isaiah telling about the coming of the Book of Mormon: “Thy voice shall be, as of one that hath a familiar spirit, out of the ground, and thy speech shall whisper out of the dust.”
Each night that week at Book of Mormon time, they climbed into the time machine and pretended to travel with Isaiah. One night Anthony asked, “Has everything that Isaiah saw already happened?”
“No,” Dad answered, “not everything. Isaiah saw things that would happen in our very own day, and he saw things that are still in the future, in a time called the Millennium, when Jesus will come and live on earth again.”
“Isaiah was so lucky,” Anthony’s little sister said. “He saw so many things.”
“Yeah,” Anthony agreed as he climbed back into the time machine. “But we’re lucky, too—we can go with him and see them, too, when we read the scriptures.”

Carlos Aguero, of Mendoza, Argentina, was called to go to Paris, France for his mission. He had seldom been out of his own city. He knew no French. But like Nephi, he did not murmur and he went. When he arrived in France, he found that his mission president did not speak Spanish. In fact, none of the other missionaries spoke Spanish; they only spoke English and French. Elder Aguero could not speak English. All the zone conferences and instructions were given in English. All other speaking was in French. Carlos studied, he prayed, he cried, he pleaded with the Lord and asked for help from his mission president and his companions. It took months, but he learned French and English. He served an honorable mission. Now living in Mendoza, Argentina, he often uses his English in Church service and in his profession.