Gospel Story Finder

Name has been changed.
I began to drink at a young age. In the country where I lived, that was socially accepted, and I felt pressure to drink to be accepted.
After I got married, my husband and I became submerged in alcoholism. This truly worried my parents. Even after my husband and I had our first child, our addiction to alcohol did not stop.
Soon after the birth of our child, I became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I stopped drinking and started making progress to overcome my addiction. These changes irritated my husband, and he was upset that I would not drink and party with him.
After much prayer and fasting, seeking to determine the will of the Lord, I left my husband and moved to the United States. As I strived to live the gospel of Jesus Christ, I was able to overcome my alcoholism, but I still struggled to manage my anxiety and feelings of desperation. I eventually got remarried to a fellow Church member, but I continued to struggle.
I was invited to an addiction recovery program group by a sister at church. I have no doubt that Heavenly Father is mindful of me because what I learned there was specifically for me. We discussed how the feeling of isolation is a common element for those who have experienced addiction. This isolation was something that I had imposed on myself and struggled with.
Through the addiction recovery program, I realized that I do not have to live isolated from God and others. I have the strength and the faith to face challenges and overcome them.
Now I know that I am not alone. I still attend the group meetings, and sometimes my husband attends the group meetings with me. There are people from everywhere at the online meetings, and we learn from each other’s experiences and offer support to each other. My bishop, my husband, and my children also know that I need their support.
Most of all, I know that it is through the Atonement of Christ that I can overcome my addiction.

One time in gym class we were about to start the social dance unit. Someone asked the teacher whether or not we needed to bring gym clothes for this unit. She answered, “No, you don’t. But don’t wear shoulderless shirts to gym. I realize that they’re currently in style, but it’ll make the boys feel uncomfortable because it doesn’t cover very much. The more the shirts cover, the more comfortable the boys will be.”
At this, little conversations broke out among the class members: “If that’s the case, then I’ll wear a long-sleeved shirt” and “I won’t wear one of those for sure.” Being a member of the Church, I knew that shoulderless shirts weren’t modest. I’d never worn one, so it wasn’t asking a lot of me, but it’d be harder for others. Yet at the next gym class, not a single girl wore that style of shirt. A week later I still didn’t see anyone from that class wearing a shoulderless shirt to school, even on the days we didn’t have gym.
It seems that they all got an important message about modesty that day. It was neat to hear the importance of modesty discussed in a positive way in a non-Church setting, which strengthened my testimony of what I’d already been taught and accepted. The answer my teacher gave, though simply stated, changed the way a lot of the class dresses and thinks now: if it’s too immodest for social dance, then it is and will always be immodest for anything else. So why wear it?

A few weeks later, my mom and I went for a vacation to Idaho with her sister. A couple of my cousins invited me to a youth dance at the church, and I had a great time. I danced with a young man who had received a mission call to Korea. He asked if he could write to me, and I agreed.
In his first letter, this young man shared missionary experiences with me and bore his testimony of the gospel. I don’t know whether I was swept off my feet by him or the Spirit. But after all those years of inactivity, I decided to go back to church and check things out.
I roped one of my older brothers into going with me so I wouldn’t have to sit alone. I don’t remember the meeting at all. I just remember thinking, “Everybody must be looking at me and saying, ‘Look, Gretchen is at church. I wonder why.’ ” I was so uncomfortable by the end of the meeting that I planned a quick escape as soon as the closing prayer ended.
That’s when something happened that changed my life forever. Four girls I remembered from Primary ran up and surrounded me. They were so happy to see me at church, and I felt their sincerity. They asked if I would come back later that night to a youth fireside. I agreed and then left for home.
I talked my brother into going with me again. At the fireside, a man stood to speak and said he felt impressed not to give his prepared talk but to share his testimony and then let us do the same. All of a sudden, my whole being felt on fire. I don’t know how long it took me to get up, but I stood and bore my testimony that now I knew why I had been feeling unhappy and lost. It was the gospel that was missing in my life. I knew I needed to make some changes.
Now, almost 30 years later, I am still grateful to those young women who didn’t let me escape the chapel that day. I later met and married a returned missionary in the Idaho Falls Temple. We have four children, three of whom have married in the temple. Our oldest son served a mission, and our last is now planning to go on his. I have served in the Young Women program of the Church. Each time I teach a lesson on service, I share my life-changing experience in hopes that the same will be done for others as was done for me.
I believe my simple prayer was answered on that mountaintop. Heavenly Father does hear and answer our prayers. And my prayer was answered because four girls chose the right. They put their arms around a lost soul and invited her back. There are Gretchens out there who need to be brought back. You never know whose life can and will be changed forever if you will just reach out and be a loving, caring friend.

Twenty years ago in general conference, I related a story first told by Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone of the Seventy that I believe bears repeating here.
In 1918 Brother George Goates was a farmer who raised sugar beets in Lehi, Utah. Winter came early that year and froze much of his beet crop in the ground. For George and his young son Francis, the harvest was slow and difficult. Meanwhile, an influenza epidemic was raging. The dreaded disease claimed the lives of George’s son Charles and three of Charles’s small children—two little girls and a boy. In the course of only six days, a grieving George Goates made three separate trips to Ogden, Utah, to bring the bodies home for burial. At the end of this terrible interlude, George and Francis hitched up their wagon and headed back to the beet field.
“[On the way] they passed wagon after wagon-load of beets being hauled to the factory and driven by neighborhood farmers. As they passed by, each driver would wave a greeting: ‘Hi ya, Uncle George,’ ‘Sure sorry, George,’ ‘Tough break, George,’ ‘You’ve got a lot of friends, George.’
“On the last wagon was … freckled-faced Jasper Rolfe. He waved a cheery greeting and called out: ‘That’s all of ’em, Uncle George.’
“[Brother Goates] turned to Francis and said: ‘I wish it was all of ours.’
“When they arrived at the farm gate, Francis jumped down off the big red beet wagon and opened the gate as [his father] drove onto the field. [George] pulled up, stopped the team, … and scanned the field. … There wasn’t a sugar beet on the whole field. Then it dawned upon him what Jasper Rolfe meant when he called out: ‘That’s all of ’em, Uncle George!’
“[George] got down off the wagon, picked up a handful of the rich, brown soil he loved so much, and then … a beet top, and he looked for a moment at these symbols of his labor, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Then [he] sat down on a pile of beet tops—this man who brought four of his loved ones home for burial in the course of only six days; made caskets, dug graves, and even helped with the burial clothing—this amazing man who never faltered, nor flinched, nor wavered throughout this agonizing ordeal—sat down on a pile of beet tops and sobbed like a little child.
“Then he arose, wiped his eyes, … looked up at the sky, and said: ‘Thanks, Father, for the elders of our ward.’”

Last November, I had the privilege of being invited—along with President Henry B. Eyring and Bishop Gérald Caussé—to attend a colloquium on marriage and family at the Vatican in Rome, Italy. In attendance were religious representatives from 14 different faiths and from six of the seven continents, all of whom had been invited to express their beliefs on what is happening to the family in today’s world.
Pope Francis opened the first session of the assembly with this statement: “We now live in a culture of the temporary, in which more and more people are simply giving up on marriage as a public commitment. This revolution in manners and morals has often flown the flag of freedom, but in fact it has brought spiritual and material devastation to countless human beings, especially the poorest and most vulnerable. … It is always they who suffer the most in this crisis.”
In referring to those of the rising generation, he said it is important that they “do not give themselves over to the poisonous [mentality] of the temporary, but rather be revolutionaries with the courage to seek true and lasting love, going against the common pattern”; this must be done.
This was followed by three days of presentation and discussion with religious leaders addressing the subject of marriage between a man and a woman. As I listened to the widest imaginable variety of worldwide religious leaders, I heard them agree completely with each other and express support for one another’s beliefs on the sanctity of the institution of marriage and of the importance of families as the basic unit of society. I felt a powerful sense of commonality and unity with them.
There were many who saw and expressed this unity, and they did so in a variety of ways. One of my favorites was when a Muslim scholar from Iran quoted two paragraphs verbatim from our very own proclamation on the family.
During the colloquium, I observed that when various faiths and denominations and religions are united on marriage and family, they are also united on the values and loyalty and commitment which are naturally associated with family units. It was remarkable for me to see how marriage and family-centered priorities cut across and superseded any political, economic, or religious differences. When it comes to love of spouse and hopes, worries, and dreams for children, we are all the same.
It was marvelous to be in meetings with worldwide presenters as they universally addressed their feelings of the importance of marriage between a man and a woman. Each of their addresses was followed by testimonies from other religious leaders. President Henry B. Eyring gave a final testimony at the colloquium. He bore powerful witness to the beauty of a committed marriage and to our belief in the promised blessing of eternal families.
President Eyring’s testimony was a fitting benediction to those three special days.

Whenever anyone said something nice to Dan, he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—accept it. A typical conversation with his teachers quorum adviser went something like this:
“Hey, Dan, glad you came! We can really use your help on the ward basketball team.”
“I’m no good at basketball. The only reason I came was because the other guys kept calling me.”
“Well, get warmed up. We need your outside shot.”
“I don’t have an outside shot. I don’t even have an inside shot.”
“So … what do you do in a game?”
“Mainly try to get the other team to feel sorry for me,” Dan said glumly.

Let’s take another look at Dan, this time with a more positive light in his life.
“Hey, Dan, glad you came! We can really use your help on the ward basketball team.”
“I’m glad to be here.”
“Well, get warmed up. We need your outside shot.”
“Okay. Maybe I can work with Steve a little. He’s good at passing, and that, along with what I can do, should be a good combination. You know, I’m starting to feel a little sorry for the other team.”

South Africa, London, Reno, Argentina, Maine …
The names of countries, capitals, cities, and states swirled through Julie’s mind as she watched her geography teacher, Ms. Simmons, pass out tests at the front of the room.
Julie tapped her feet on the floor. It wasn’t that she didn’t like geography—she loved it! But she was nervous about labeling the map. What if she mixed up Spain and France again?
Tate turned around in his chair and handed back a stack of tests. Julie took one and handed the rest to her friend Allie behind her. She drummed her pencil against her lower lip and stared at the paper. It had a big map of the world on it with lots of lines for her to fill in. Where should she even start?
She glanced up. That’s when she noticed that something strange was going on.
One of the boys was hiding a smile and pointing toward the front of the room. Other kids were noticing and starting to whisper.
Julie looked where the boy was pointing. Her heart started to pound.
A map of the world was still taped on the board! Ms. Simmons had forgotten to take it down, and all the answers were right there for everyone to see!
Quickly Julie ducked her head. She didn’t want to look at the map. That would be cheating. But it was suddenly very hard to keep her eyes on her test.
Maybe I can do my best without looking, she thought. And then I’ll just double-check my answers at the end. But no, that would be cheating too.
The longer she sat there, the worse Julie felt. Even if she didn’t look at the map, she wouldn’t feel completely honest if she didn’t tell Ms. Simmons about it.
Holding her breath, Julie slowly raised her hand.
Ms. Simmons walked down the aisle to her desk.
Julie felt like the whole class was glaring at her. Her face turned bright red with embarrassment.
“Yes, Julie?” Ms. Simmons asked. “Do you need something?”
“Ms. Simmons, I think you accidentally left the map on the board,” Julie whispered.
“Oh, dear. Thank you for pointing that out, Julie.” She walked over and took it down.
Julie heard some grumbling around her, but she kept her head down and focused on her test. The tension in the room seemed to melt away. I probably wasn’t the only one who wanted to say something, she thought. It was a lot easier to finish the test without feeling tempted to look at the board.
Julie was glad that she had kept her teacher’s trust. Most important, she knew that Heavenly Father would be happy with her choice to be completely honest. Heavenly Father, she prayed silently, thank Thee for giving me the courage to speak up.

I know exactly what it’s like to carry the burden of having a guilty conscience. I had something I needed to confess to my bishop, but it was of such a personal nature that I was horrified of telling him about it. To make matters worse, my bishop was also my neighbor. Every day I would see him and I would feel so uncomfortable when he’d smile at me and ask me how things were going. I knew deep in my heart that I needed to talk to him, but I needed strength and courage. I decided one day to fast and pray and search the scriptures for an answer and strength. I came across several scriptures that seemed to help me: Doctrine and Covenants 64:7; 82:1; 95:1; 98:47 [D&C 64:7; D&C 82:1; D&C 95:1; D&C 98:47]; Mosiah 26:29–30.

It is never easy for one to confess something one has done wrong, but if you will ask Heavenly Father for strength, he will bless you for it. He loves you as he loves all his children. I testify to you that by confessing and sharing your problems with your bishop, you will feel so much better. It will help take the weight off your shoulders and you can start on the road to forgiveness.

Name withheld

“One cool summer evening when I was a freshman in college, I had a date with someone I really liked. I didn’t know him well, but I looked up to him a lot.
“When he came to pick me up for the movie, we walked to the theater, since he didn’t have a car. We had a great time getting to know each other better.
“Then the movie started. It was okay for the first ten minutes, but even though it had a PG rating, it started making me uncomfortable. The dialogue became more and more suggestive, and I started to sink lower and lower in my seat.
“And do you know what he did? Even though we’d only been there a short time, he turned to me and said, ‘I really don’t like this movie. Do you mind if we leave?’ He didn’t make a big deal over it, he just suggested we leave. I’ll always remember that date because of his integrity. That’s the kind of man I want to marry.”

In April of 1830, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was organized in upstate New York. [8] By December of that same year, the Lord had given His fledgling Church “a commandment... that it is expedient in me that they should assemble together at the Ohio.” [9] The following month, He revealed: “There I will give unto you my law; and there you shall be endowed with power from on high.” [10]
Early missionaries found converts in Kirtland, and within months the Saints in New York were making their way to join them. [11] By 1832, the commands started coming to “organize” and “prepare” and to “establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God; That your incomings may be in the name of the Lord; that your outgoings may be in the name of the Lord; that all your salutation may be in the name of the Lord, with uplifted hands unto the Most High.” [12]
That language, recorded in the 88th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, is filled with a sense of excitement and anticipation for the outpouring of spiritual gifts the Lord had planned for His people once the temple was built and dedicated in Kirtland, Ohio. The temple is a place where heaven and earth overlap. It is a place where God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, can be more present in our lives. It is a place of sacred ordinance and covenant that amplifies and magnifies our most important relationships. In profound ways, “the power of godliness is manifest” most fully in the temple. [13]
Thus, when the Saints didn’t quite move fast enough or give construction of the temple the right priority, the Lord “chastened” them, and invited them to reconsider “the great commandment in all things, that I have given unto you concerning the building of mine house.” [14]
Received in June of 1833 by the Prophet Joseph, the 95th section of the Doctrine and Covenants reads like an anxious parent pleading with a child to receive some wonderful gift that the child cannot yet seem to appreciate or comprehend.
Indeed, the Lord had blessings in mind and was in a hurry. Quoting again from section 95, He says, “I design to prepare mine apostles to prune my vineyard for the last time... that I may pour out my Spirit... [and] endow those whom I have chosen with power from on high.” [15] Aware of how difficult it would be, He continued by promising the Saints that “if you keep my commandments you shall have power to build it.” [16]
Then, the Lord does something that emphasizes just how different and important this house, this temple, is going to be. He says, “Let the house be built, not after the manner of the world... [but] let it be built after the manner which I shall show unto three of you... The size thereof shall be fifty and five feet in width, and let it be sixty-five feet in length... And let the lower part of the inner court be dedicated unto me for your sacrament offering, and for your preaching, and your fasting, and your praying, and the offering up of your most holy desires unto me.” [17]
The “three” referenced in section 95 were Joseph Smith, Sidney Rigdon, and Frederick G. Williams, the First Presidency of the Church at the time. Truman G. Angell, a man who later became the architect of the Salt Lake Temple, recorded in his journal President Williams’ description of how the temple plans promised in section 95 were revealed. He wrote:
Joseph received the word of the Lord for him to take his two counsellors Williams and Rigdon and come before the Lord, and He would show them the plan or model of the House to be built. We went upon our knees, called on the Lord, and the Building appeared within viewing distance, I being the first to discover it. Then all of us viewed it together. After we had taken a good look at the exterior, the building seemed to come right over us. [18]
The revealed plans made such an impression that when he eventually saw the interior of the completed Kirtland Temple, President Williams observed that, “the Makeup of this Hall seemed to coincide with what I there saw [in vision] to a minutia.” [19]
Even with plans in hand, however, the Saints faced many barriers to construction in the summer of 1833. As a people, they were relatively few in number, they did not have enough money, and they were part of a new church trying to come together as a Zion people. [20]
Eliza Snow, who would later serve as the second General President of the Relief Society, described the scene in Kirtland this way:
At that time... the Saints were few in number, and most of them very poor; and, had it not been for the assurance that God had spoken, and had commanded that a house should be built to his name, of which he not only revealed the form, but also designated the dimensions, an attempt towards building that Temple, under the then existing circumstances, would have been, by all concerned, pronounced preposterous.
From 1833 to 1836, the construction of the Kirtland Temple was the primary focus of the Church in Kirtland. On June 5, 1833, they broke ground. On July 23, 1833, they laid the cornerstones. [21] A stone quarry two miles from the construction site was identified, and the Prophet Joseph himself would help quarry the stone used to build the temple. [22] Those who had a team of horses were enlisted to carry stones to the temple site. [23]
Obtaining wood was more difficult. Anything harvested nearby needed to be dried and seasoned before it could be cut and used in the construction of the temple. [24] To that end, the Saints built a kiln that, one historian explained, “required heat and evidently open flame.” [25] Unfortunately, the kiln caught fire frequently. In December of 1835, the Prophet Joseph recorded in his journal that:
The board kiln had taken fire... After laboring about one hour against this destructive element, we succeeded in conquering, and probably saved about one-fourth part of the lumber... There were about two hundred brethren engaged on this occasion; they displayed much activity and interest, and deserve much credit. [26]
Just three days later, the Prophet wrote, “To day the board kiln, took fire again.” [27] When the Saints could not overcome the problems with the kiln, they were forced to contract for lumber with a local supplier. [28]
Interruptions slowed or suspended construction on at least three occasions. [29] During the Winter of 1833–34, there was not enough wood, stone, or other materials. In the summer of 1834, Zion’s Camp took many of those working on the temple to Missouri in defense of Zion. During the winter of 1835–36, harsher and colder weather made work unbearable.
Those who helped build the temple worked long hours at considerable personal sacrifice. A brother named Daniel Tyler described those who worked on the temple this way:
How often have I seen those humble, faithful servants of the Lord, after toiling all day in the quarry, or on the building, when the walls were in course of erection, weary and faint, yet with cheerful countenances, retiring to their homes with a few pounds of corn meal that had been donated. And, in the case of those who lacked a cow to give a little milk, the corn meal was sometimes, for days together, all that they and their families had to subsist upon. When a little flour, butter or meat came in, they were luxuries. Sometimes a little New Orleans molasses, not as good as our sorghum, would be donated; but oftener the hands had to seek a job elsewhere to get a gallon or so, and then return to the labor on the temple. [30]
Others contributed and sacrificed from their homes. Heber C. Kimball reported that:
Women were engaged in spinning and knitting in order to clothe those who were laboring at the building, and the Lord only knows the scenes of poverty, tribulation, and distress which we passed through in order to accomplish this thing. My wife toiled all summer in lending her aid towards its accomplishment. She had a hundred pounds of wool, which... she spun in order to furnish clothing for those engaged in the building of the Temple, and although she had the privilege of keeping half the quantity of wool for herself, as a recompense for her labor, she did not reserve even so much as would make her a pair of stockings; but gave it for those who were laboring at the house of the Lord. She spun and wove and got the cloth dressed, and cut and made up into garments, and gave them to those men who labored on the Temple; almost all the sisters in Kirtland labored in knitting, sewing, spinning, etc., for the purpose of forwarding the work of the Lord. [31]
“Poverty” was a word used often in the many journals and records of the day. [32] When Heber C. Kimball arrived in Kirtland, he described the scene that greeted him:
When I got to Kirtland the brethren were engaged in building the house of the Lord. The commandment to build the house, and also the pattern of it was given in a revelation to Joseph Smith Jr., Sidney Rigdon, and Frederick G. Williams, and [it] was to be erected by a stated time. The church was in a state of poverty and distress, in consequence of which it appeared almost impossible that the commandment could be fulfilled, at the same time our enemies were raging and threatening destruction upon us. [33]
To keep the project moving, money was borrowed and missionaries were called to solicit funds. [34] By March of 1835, while the walls were still going up, Joseph felt the need to provide many of those working on the temple with a spiritual lift. One hundred nineteen individuals were gathered and received blessings given by the First Presidency. [35]
Later that same year, Joseph rallied the Twelve, promising them that:
Great blessings await us at this time, and will soon be poured out upon us, if we are faithful in all things... The house of the Lord must be prepared, and the solemn assembly called and organized in it, according to the order of the house of God... [ordinance there] is calculated to unite our hearts, that we may be one in feeling and sentiment, and that our faith may be strong... If we are faithful, and live by every word that proceeds forth from the mouth of God, I will venture to prophesy that we shall get a blessing that will be worth remembering... our blessing will be such as we have not realized before, nor received in this generation. [36]
On Sunday, March 27, 1836, the Kirtland Temple was dedicated. Of that day, the official history of the Church records Joseph’s account that:
The congregation began to assemble at the Temple, at about seven o’clock, an hour earlier than the doors were to be opened. Many had come in from the regions round about, to witness the dedication of the Lord’s House and share in His blessings; and such was the anxiety on this occasion that some hundreds (probably five or six) assembled before the doors were opened. The [First Presidency] entered with the doorkeepers, and stationed the latter at the inner and outer doors... The doors were then opened. Presidents Rigdon, Cowdery and myself seated the congregation as they came in, and, according to the best calculation we could make, we received between nine and ten hundred, which were as many as could be comfortably seated. We then informed the doorkeepers that we could receive no more, and a multitude were deprived of the bene?ts of the meeting on account of the house not being sufficiently capacious to receive them; and I felt to regret that any of my brethren and sisters should be deprived of the meeting, and I recommended them to repair to the schoolhouse and hold a meeting, which they did, and filled that house also, and yet many were left out... At nine o’clock a.m. President Sidney Rigdon commenced the services of the day by reading the 96th and 24th Psalms. [37]
For those without a seat in the temple or at the nearby schoolhouse, the windows of the temple were opened so that as many as possible could listen and a repeat of the dedicatory services was scheduled for the following Thursday. [38] Hymns were sung, sermons given, scriptures read, prayers offered, the sacrament passed, Church officers sustained, and then the dedication. [39]
Joseph had received the dedicatory prayer by way of revelation. [40] After reading it, those in the temple sang The Spirit of God by W. W. Phelps. [41]
In the days that followed, additional fast meetings were held. On March 31, a second dedicatory session was conducted. [43] On April 3, 1836, Christ appeared to Joseph and Oliver Cowdery and accepted the temple, saying, “I have accepted this house, and my name shall be here; and I will manifest myself to my people in mercy in this house.” [44] Appearances by Moses, Elias, and Elijah followed and the “keys of this dispensation” were committed. [45]
It is, I believe, important to remember that the outpouring of the Spirit at this time in Kirtland was universal and enjoyed by all those who came spiritually prepared to the dedication.
As Eliza Snow described it, “The ceremonies of that dedication may be rehearsed, but no mortal language can describe the heavenly manifestations of that memorable day. Angels appeared to some, while a sense of divine presence was realized by all present, and each heart was filled with ‘joy inexpressible and full of glory.’” [46]
The Savior appeared on five occasions, including a vision of both the Father and the Son. [47] Members of the congregation recorded the appearance of heavenly beings or angels at nine different meetings. [48] The letters and journals of the more than 1,000 who participated in the dedicatory meetings offer firsthand accounts that are remarkable, faith-filled, and transformative. [49]

His young life is full of memories. They begin on the island of Timor, several hundred miles north of Australia. His Chinese parents were working in the Portuguese colony there (Domingos is a Portuguese name) when it was invaded by Indonesia. The men fled to Portugal. Women and children escaped to Darwin. “My mother, myself, and some other relatives came on one of two boats that got away,” Domingos explains. “We were lucky to survive.”
Domingos’s father later joined them in Darwin. Thanks to hard work, the family prospered. Two more boys were born. Domingos learned English. He discovered sports—cricket, karate, tennis, soccer, handball, volleyball. He excelled in school, in music, and in art. He worked in his uncle’s restaurant.
One day his aunt, a newly baptized Latter-day Saint, introduced his family to the missionaries. Soon the Liaos joined the Church. “We were active for about a year,” Domingos says. “Then my parents stopped going. I kept on for a while; then I started to play cricket on Sundays. But my conscience kept nagging me that I should be in church.”
It was at this time that Domingos’s grandfather, who lived in Melbourne, suffered a stroke. He wasn’t expected to live. Domingos, 16, felt compelled to pray. “I told Heavenly Father if he would give Grandfather a chance, I would devote my life to the Church. But I didn’t just wait for him to recover. When we returned home, I returned to church. I’ve been taught that if you say something, you should do it.”
Grandpa did get better. And by the time he did, Domingos was going to church, not just to keep a promise, but because he truly believed it was the right thing to do.
By the time Domingos turned 18, his church activity began to irritate his father.
“Dad thought seminary was getting in the way of my schoolwork, so he banned me from getting up early to go. I wanted to honor him, so I quit going. But I still did seminary at home. Then he didn’t want that either, so I put that away.
“Then he’d find me reading my scriptures and think I hadn’t done my homework, even though my grades were good. One time he grabbed my scriptures and threw them in the rubbish bin. I had spent the last two years reading them and marking them, and they are really precious to me. The next morning I was able to get them back, but I had to give them to the branch president for safekeeping.”
It wasn’t long before Domingos’s father banned him from everything related to church activity—scripture study, Mutual activities, home teaching, and, finally, Sunday meetings.
“Even though I was 18 and legally my own person, my first reaction was to obey. Really. You want to obey your father because he is your father. But I knew I couldn’t break my promise to Heavenly Father by not attending church.
“Dad said if I went that Sunday, not to worry about coming back. So I packed my bags. My prayers were very sincere that night. The next morning, when he saw me dressed up, he was furious.”
Domingos left, but his parents came to the chapel and found him. They reached an agreement that he could attend every other Sunday. “I wasn’t happy with it, but it was better than nothing,” he says.
Then the next time he got ready for church, his father again told him if he went, never to return. “The second time was just as bad, probably worse. I’d been waiting to receive my patriarchal blessing, and the patriarch, who can only come about once a year, had come from far away. I got there for the appointment, but my father came at the same time. I had to go home and missed my blessing.”
The third time that his father confronted him in a similar way, Domingos left home and moved in with his grandmother. “Eventually my mum came and said my father was all right and he wouldn’t get angry again. So I came back.”
But in the meantime, he’d developed a desire to serve a full-time mission. “I prayed, and the answer was very certain that I should go when I turned 19. From then on my mind was made up—I just needed to prepare.”
If he would complete his first year of study, the University of the Northern Territory would agree to give him two years off to serve. But he’d have to carry an even harder class load for a few months before he left. “My coordinator actually encouraged me and said the mission would be a good experience,” Domingos says. He continued something he’d done since high school—telling fellow students about the steps of repentance and the plan of salvation.
He intensified his scripture study, memorizing many passages. “The scriptures brought me peace,” he says. “They reminded me of the things I should be doing.”
He joined the full-time missionaries when they gave discussions. He often bore his testimony. He kept a journal, writing in it every day. His Church leaders interviewed him, found him worthy, and sent in his missionary application.
Then one day, this time when he returned from church, his father kicked him out for the fourth time. “It was pretty final,” Domingos says. “He was not pleased with my plans for a mission and said if I went I wouldn’t be his son anymore.”
His branch president, Michael Kuhn, invited Domingos to live in his home until the mission call arrived.
Finished with his schoolwork, Domingos filled his days with prayer, with uplifting music, with Church activities, missionary work, and study of the scriptures. Sometimes he would read the scriptures all day long.
And then the letter came: “You are called to labor in the Hong Kong Mission.” Domingos returned home for a short time to try to make peace with his family before he left. “Mainly because they knew they could not change my mind, they yielded,” he says. Before he left, the family went out to dinner together and took lots of farewell photos.
Letters written from the Missionary Training Center and from the mission field reflect the joy that quickly followed:
—“At the airport I was able to meet one of the missionaries who taught me, Elder (Hoyt) Skabelund, and his wife and baby and parents. I am slowly learning Cantonese. The people in the MTC are wonderful.”
—“I’ve received two letters from my mother. Everything is going well at home. They are being blessed greatly and they know it! My family and relatives are now happy that I am serving a mission. Surely God is a God of miracles!”
—“I have done my first street display, talking to everyone who goes by. I have taught the six discussions in Cantonese.”
—“Now I have been transferred to Macau, a Portuguese colony neighbouring the coast of China. I am pretty lucky because not many missionaries get to serve here. We are teaching an investigator, and he will be baptized. I know that God called me here to do a special work.”
—“Every inconvenience was worth overcoming to read the Book of Mormon. Every insult was worth swallowing to keep the Sabbath holy. Every moment was worth waiting for to kneel in private prayer, every pain worth enduring to attend church. Every blow was worth taking, every torment worth suffering, every tear worth shedding to come on this mission.”
Today in Macau, Elder Liao looks out the window of his missionary apartment and sees a promised land.
“When I decided to go on a mission,” he says, “I knew there would be strong currents against me. I didn’t really know the dangers lurking in the water, what might try to sting me or to swallow me up. I was only thinking about making it. Now here I am, and I know that it’s worth it.”
And he’s eager to build a bridge to help others, including his family, to cross over to the other side.

A woman I’ll call Megan shared a poignant experience she had shortly after her husband announced his desire for a divorce. Recalling one Sunday when she was sitting in sacrament meeting, Megan said, “I hadn’t anticipated how awkward and painful it would be to sit there in church, pretending that everything was OK when inside my heart was breaking and my stomach was churning. The thoughts in my mind seemed to be on a continual loop of pleadings with the Lord: ‘What am I going to do? How can I be a single parent and provide the kind of life I want for my kids?’”

On that occasion Megan’s answer came in the closing hymn—“How Firm a Foundation.”11 As she heard the lyrics “As thy days may demand, so thy succor shall be,” her heart felt peace. To succor means to “run to support; … to help or relieve when in difficulty, want or distress; to assist and deliver from suffering.”12 Megan realized that even in her circumstances, she could turn to Christ and He would come to her aid. When we go through excruciating trials, even to the point of feeling abandoned by God, Christ will empathize with and succor us because He has experienced that very feeling.

My family and I were spending a day at the Japan Alps National Park, surrounded by the mountains of the North Alps. My children were running around excitedly. I was pregnant with our fourth child and was feeling rather tired, so I lay down under the trees. Looking up at the blue, cloudless sky, I began thinking about our financial problems. My heart became overwhelmed, and I burst into tears. “Lord, we are full-tithe payers. We have sacrificed so much. When will the windows of heaven open unto us and our burdens be lightened?”
I prayed with all my heart. Then I turned to watch my husband and children playing and laughing together. The scene looked so peaceful and beautiful to me. Suddenly, the Spirit testified to me that my blessings were abundant and that my family was the greatest blessing Heavenly Father could give me.

When I was growing up, every year or so my stake would put on a road show. For weeks before the event, leaders in the wards would concoct unlikely plots, create ridiculous songs and dances, and coerce reluctant youth into wearing outlandish costumes. Our road shows could hardly be termed theater, but they were a lot of fun.
Of all the stake road shows I took part in, one in particular stands out in my memory. The year I was 16, the stake presidency, of which my father was a member, decided the wards would not be allowed to use glitter in their costumes or makeup. Although the shimmering flecks looked wonderful on stage under the spotlight, they invariably found their way into the carpets and furniture. Because the road show was to be held on Saturday night, the stake presidency hoped this measure would help keep the building clean for the Sabbath.
But in the enthusiasm and good-natured competition of that year’s road show, the stake presidency’s counsel unfortunately went largely unheeded. When the performances concluded, I looked for my dad among the members slowly trickling from the building. They all seemed to have had a night of friendship and amusement. When I finally found my father in one of the rooms used for preparation, I could see that he was not amused. He was walking slowly around the room, surveying the damage.
“Most of the wards used glitter,” I said, stating the obvious.
“It’s like this in almost all the rooms,” he said and sighed, pointing to the glitter scattered across the carpet. “Weren’t we clear about not using glitter?”
“I think you were,” I said, hoping to ease some of the tension.
When we found the rest of the family and went home, it was already late. After seeing the younger kids to bed, my father took his coat and the car keys and went to the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Back to the stake center,” he said quietly, “to see what I can do to get it ready for Sunday. Do you want to come?”
I didn’t have any special desire to spend what remained of my Saturday evening cleaning, but then I thought about him doing all that work alone.
By the time we reached the stake center, my dad’s attitude had changed. As we cleaned, he seemed less and less discouraged and even somewhat enthusiastic about the challenge before us. He spent the time asking me about school and my friends.
Although the cleaning took several hours, we both felt a certain pleasure in our work and tried to be as thorough as possible. It wasn’t until after midnight that we felt the building was ready for church in the morning.
The next day, I felt special satisfaction as I looked through the clean rooms and remembered how they had appeared the night before. I considered telling my friends about my one-night stint at janitorial work, but that didn’t seem appropriate. Apparently, my father felt the same—to this day I can’t remember his mentioning that night to anyone.
Today when I think back to that road show, I’ve forgotten the humor, costumes, and music. What comes to my mind are images of my father vacuuming and sweeping and picking up glitter from the floor of the church—doing behind-the-scenes work in preparation for the Sabbath.

I will tell you of an experience I had before I was a General Authority that affected me profoundly. I sat on a plane next to a professed atheist who pressed his disbelief in God so urgently that I bore my testimony to him. “You are wrong,” I said. “There is a God. I know He lives!”
He protested, “You don’t know. Nobody knows that! You can’t know it!” When I would not yield, the atheist, who was an attorney, asked perhaps the ultimate question on the subject of testimony. “All right,” he said in a sneering, condescending way, “you say you know. Tell me how you know.”
When I attempted to answer, even though I held advanced academic degrees, I was helpless to communicate.
When I used the words Spirit and witness, the atheist responded, “I don’t know what you are talking about.” The words prayer, discernment, and faith were equally meaningless to him. “You see,” he said, “you don’t really know. If you did, you would be able to tell me how you know.”
I felt, perhaps, that I had borne my testimony to him unwisely and was at a loss as to what to do. Then came the experience! Something came into my mind. And I mention here a statement of the Prophet Joseph Smith: “A person may profit by noticing the first intimation of the spirit of revelation; for instance, when you feel pure intelligence flowing into you, it may give you sudden strokes of ideas … and thus by learning the Spirit of God and understanding it, you may grow into the principle of revelation, until you become perfect in Christ Jesus.”
Such an idea came into my mind, and I said to the atheist, “Let me ask if you know what salt tastes like.”
“Of course I do,” was his reply.
“Then,” I said, “assuming that I have never tasted salt, explain to me just what it tastes like.”
After some thought, he said, “Well, I, uh, it is not sweet and it is not sour.”
“You’ve told me what it isn’t, not what it is.”
After several attempts, of course, he could not do it. He could not convey, in words alone, so ordinary an experience as tasting salt. I bore testimony to him once again and said, “I know there is a God. You ridiculed that testimony and said that if I did know, I would be able to tell you exactly how I know. My friend, spiritually speaking, I have tasted salt. I am no more able to convey to you in words how this knowledge has come than you are to tell me what salt tastes like. But I say to you again, there is a God! He does live! And just because you don’t know, don’t try to tell me that I don’t know, for I do!”
As we parted, I heard him mutter, “I don’t need your religion for a crutch! I don’t need it.”
From that experience forward, I have never been embarrassed or ashamed that I could not explain in words alone everything I know spiritually. The Apostle Paul said it this way:
“We speak, not in the words which man’s wisdom teacheth, but which the Holy Ghost teacheth; comparing spiritual things with spiritual.
“But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned” (1 Corinthians 2:13–14).
The voice of the Spirit is described in the scriptures as being neither “loud” nor “harsh” (3 Nephi 11:3). It is “not a voice of thunder, neither … a voice of a great tumultuous noise,” but rather, “a still voice of perfect mildness, as if it had been a whisper,” and it can “pierce even to the very soul” (Helaman 5:30) and “cause [the heart] to burn” (3 Nephi 11:3). Remember, Elijah found the voice of the Lord was not in the wind, nor in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but was a “still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12).
The Spirit does not get our attention by shouting or shaking us with a heavy hand. Rather it whispers. It caresses so gently that if we are preoccupied we may not feel it at all.
Occasionally, it will press just firmly enough for us to pay heed. But most of the time, if we do not heed the gentle feeling, the Spirit will withdraw and wait until we come seeking and listening and say in our manner and expression, like Samuel of ancient times, “Speak [Lord], for thy servant heareth” (1 Samuel 3:10).
There is something else to learn. A testimony is not thrust upon you; a testimony grows. We become taller in testimony like we grow taller in physical stature; we hardly know it happens because it comes by growth.
You cannot force spiritual things. Such words as compel, coerce, constrain, pressure, and demand do not describe our privileges with the Spirit. You can no more force the Spirit to respond than you can force a bean to sprout or an egg to hatch before its time. You can create a climate to foster growth, nourish, and protect; but you cannot force or compel: you must await the growth.
Do not be impatient to gain great spiritual knowledge. Let it grow, help it grow, but do not force it or you will open the way to be misled.
We are expected to use the light and knowledge we already possess to work out our lives. We should not need a revelation to instruct us to be up and about our duty, for we have been told to do that already in the scriptures; nor should we expect revelation to replace the spiritual or temporal intelligence that we have already received—only to extend it. We must go about our life in an ordinary, workaday way, following the routines and rules and regulations that govern life.
Rules and regulations and commandments are valuable protection. If we need revealed instruction to alter our course, it will be waiting along the way as we arrive at the point of need. The counsel to be “anxiously engaged” is wise counsel indeed (see D&C 58:27).
Now, do not feel hesitant or ashamed if you do not know everything. Nephi said, “I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things” (1 Nephi 11:17).
There may be more power in your testimony than even you realize. The Lord said to the Nephites:
“Whoso cometh unto me with a broken heart and a contrite spirit, him will I baptize with fire and with the Holy Ghost, even as the Lamanites, because of their faith in me at the time of their conversion, were baptized with fire and with the Holy Ghost, and they knew it not” (3 Nephi 9:20; emphasis added).
Several years ago I met one of our sons in the mission field in a distant part of the world. He had been there for a year. His first question was this: “Dad, what can I do to grow spiritually? I have tried so hard to grow spiritually, and I just haven’t made any progress.”
That was his perception: to me it was otherwise. I could hardly believe the maturity, the spiritual growth that he had gained in just one year. He “knew it not,” for it had come as growth, not as a startling spiritual experience.
It is not unusual to have a missionary say, “How can I bear testimony until I get one? How can I testify that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that the gospel is true? If I do not have such a testimony, would that not be dishonest?”
Oh, if I could teach you this one principle: a testimony is to be found in the bearing of it! Somewhere in your quest for spiritual knowledge, there is that “leap of faith,” as the philosophers call it. It is the moment when you have gone to the edge of the light and stepped into the darkness to discover that the way is lighted ahead for just a footstep or two. “The spirit of man is,” as the scripture says, indeed “the candle of the Lord” (Proverbs 20:27).
It is one thing to receive a witness from what you have read or what another has said; and that is a necessary beginning. It is quite another to have the Spirit confirm to you in your bosom that what you have testified is true. Can you not see that it will be supplied as you share it? As you give that which you have, there is a replacement, with increase!
To speak out is the test of your faith.
Bear testimony of the things that you hope are true, as an act of faith. It is something of an experiment, like the experiment that the prophet Alma proposed to his followers. We begin with faith—not with a perfect knowledge of things. That sermon in the 32nd chapter of Alma is one of the greatest messages in holy writ, for it is addressed to the beginner, to the humble seeker. And it holds a key to a witness of the truth.
The Spirit and testimony of Christ will come to you for the most part when, and remain with you only if, you share it. In that process is the very essence of the gospel.
Is not this a perfect demonstration of Christianity? You cannot find it, nor keep it, nor enlarge it unless and until you are willing to share it. It is by giving it away freely that it becomes yours.
There is great power in this work, spiritual power. The ordinary member of the Church, like you, having received the gift of the Holy Ghost by confirmation, can do the work of the Lord.
Years ago a friend told this experience. He was 17 years old and with his companion stopped at a cottage in the southern states. It was his first day in the mission field and was his first door. A gray-haired woman stood inside the screen and asked what they wanted. His companion nudged him to proceed. Frightened and somewhat tongue-tied, he finally blurted out, “As man is God once was, and as God is man may become.”
Strangely enough, she was interested and asked where he got that. He answered, “It’s in the Bible.” She left the door for a moment, returned with her Bible. Commenting that she was a minister of a congregation, she handed it to him and said, “Here, show me.”
He took the Bible and nervously thumbed back and forth through it. Finally he handed it back saying, “Here, I can’t find it. I’m not even sure that it’s in there, and even if it is, I couldn’t find it. I’m just a poor farm boy from out in Cache Valley in Utah. I haven’t had much training. But I come from a family where we live the gospel of Jesus Christ. And it’s done so much for our family that I’ve accepted a call to come on a mission for two years, at my own expense, to tell people how I feel about it.”
After half a century, he could not hold back the tears as he told me how she pushed open the door and said, “Come in, my boy. I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
There is so much more to say. I could speak of prayer, of fasting, of priesthood and authority, of worthiness—all essential to revelation. When they are understood, it all fits together—perfectly. But some things one must learn individually, and alone, taught by the Spirit.
I know by experience too sacred to touch upon that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, that the gift of the Holy Ghost conferred upon us at our confirmation is a divine gift. The Book of Mormon is true! This is the Lord’s Church! Jesus is the Christ! There presides over us a prophet of God! The day of miracles has not ceased, neither have angels ceased to appear and minister unto man! The spiritual gifts are with the Church. Choice among them is the gift of the Holy Ghost!

“Hurry up! I want to see the lions,” Billy said, tugging on his sister’s sleeve.
“I’m coming,” Helen said. She jumped off the bench and grabbed Billy’s hand. They trotted off to see the lions.
When they reached the lions’ cage, they saw a man holding a camera and a little notebook. Children were gathered around him. A lady introduced the man. “Children, this is Mr. Maier,” she said. “He is an author visiting from New Jersey.”
An author! Helen liked meeting new people, especially famous people from far away.
“I travel from place to place and write about what I see,” Mr. Maier told the children. “Do any of you have a question for me?”
Helen raised her hand high in the air. Mr. Maier asked her to come to the front of the crowd. Helen scooted through the crowd until she stood near Mr. Maier.
“What are you writing about today?” Helen asked.
“Today I’m writing about Utah,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
Helen felt her heart start to beat faster. What could she think of to tell a famous author?
“Well, I’m 10 years old,” Helen said. Then she paused. Surely she could think of something more important. “And I’m a Mormon,” she added.
“A Mormon?” he asked. “Tell me more.”
“Well, my great-great-grandfather was Brigham Young, one of the prophets of our Church,” Helen replied. “And this Church is the true faith.”
“Is it really?” he asked.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “What is your religion?”
“I don’t have a religion,” Mr. Maier said.
Helen was surprised. “Why not?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But maybe you can pray for me so I can be blessed too.”
“I can do that,” Helen said.
Then Helen got an idea. “Why don’t you get baptized in the true faith?”
Mr. Maier smiled. “That’s kind of you,” he said. “I think I would like to learn more about this faith first.”
When Mr. Maier returned home to New Jersey, he wrote a newspaper article about Helen. He called her a “zealous little Mormon girl.” He meant that she was enthusiastic and devoted to her faith. Mr. Maier was so impressed with Helen that he wrote to her and sent her copies of his books.
A few years later, Mr. Maier passed away. When Helen was older, she received permission from Mr. Maier’s family to have his temple work done. Thanks to Helen, a young man was baptized in the temple for Mr. Maier in the “true faith.”

The Church in Taiwan offers many examples of those who have made the right decisions. Hsiung Kuan Ping, bishop of the Taipei Third Ward, Taipei Taiwan East Stake, remembers his father as one of those examples. “My father served as a bishop for many years,” Bishop Hsiung says. “The church was like our home. My father loved it. Every day he made sure the doors and windows were closed. I helped clean the meetinghouse and at age 14 began assisting the clerk. Now I’m very busy with work and family, but because of my father’s influence I make time for Church service. If I put the Church first, I find I have easier success in my work and family.”

Whether gardening or playing, the Gándola children like being outside. They jump on their trampoline, ride bikes, and play in the trees. Shawn and Micah are great tree-climbers, and Danielle and Lucas like hunting for green pinecones. One day, their next-door neighbor pruned some branches that fell down in the Gándolas’ yard and formed a wall of leaves. Shawn made a hole through them to serve as a door, and he calls the leaf-wall his fort.

There were 27 of us that day, all 18 or 19 years of age, except one fellow, 21, whom we called “Pop.” Three more had started out with us in our flight but had washed out along the way, unable to keep up with the grueling physical discipline of basic training in the Royal Canadian Air Force. We had been training hard for months to take the place of young men not much older than ourselves who, at watch behind machine guns and plexiglass bubbles, were still giving their lives over Germany.
Traditionally, completion of basic training called for a fitting “graduation ceremony.” Each flight was confident that it could outperform any other group in almost any sort of physical contest. The flight party at the end of basic training had become the recognized way for flight trainees to prove that they were second to none.
Our flight was no different. A youthful eagerness seemed to be pushing us to throw off the discipline for a night, to noisily proclaim that we were the top, and to somehow cram into one furious evening enough pleasure to last a lifetime. And so 27 of us sat down on the grass that day to discuss our flight party.
I sat down feeling very alone, and for the first time since our flight had been formed, I felt absolutely no desire to be part of the group. I watched the others smiling and laughing as they agreed that only a top night club would do, and I sensed the mounting excitement as they discussed the activities that they felt would be the most entertaining. It was suggested that each of us had an obligation to contribute his best thoughts on the matter, and after five or six fellows had enthusiastically expressed their ideas, someone said: “Let’s hear what Green has to say.”
Green was the only Mormon in the group and had no desire to say anything to anybody. All he wanted to do was withdraw. How do you tell 26 non-Mormons about the branch you attend every Sunday with a fellow Mormon from another flight? How do you convey the feelings you have about the mission home where you have a standing invitation every Sunday for dinner, and where you gather around the piano every Sunday evening to sing with the missionaries just before you and your buddy leave to catch the last streetcar back to the barracks before lights out? What could you say to 26 non-Mormons planning an all-out bash in a night club about how cold and dismal that Sunday night ride back to the barracks seemed? How sensitive would they be to your observation that you loathed setting foot in the barracks every Sunday night because you knew that the first word you heard would make a complete mockery of the word love.
The answer to all those questions, as they passed quickly through my mind that day, was: “They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t care. They’d probably sneer or laugh. Their idea of a flight party is a good indication of what they find important in life, and therefore it’s pointless to talk to them.” But somehow I had to come up with something that would get me off the hook, that would let me withdraw from the flight party. I was angry with myself because, after months of working together as a team with these fellows, I was going to suddenly and painfully resign. I was angry at them for putting me in a situation that I knew I was going to mishandle. They were going to judge me as the last type of person they wanted at the flight party, and I had already judged them as incapable of organizing a party I would want to attend.
“Let’s hear what Green has to say.”
“Yeah, Green. You haven’t said a word. What do you want to do?”
Green drew a deep breath, and looking rather sullenly at the grass in front of him made his brief withdrawal speech: “Well, if I were to go to a flight party … I’d be taking a pretty decent girl … so there’d be no drinking … and no smoking … and no swearing.” He didn’t dare look at anyone, and he gathered himself as best he could against the sudden onslaught he knew was coming.
And then it happened.
There was a good minute of utter silence. It was so still you could have heard a pin drop on the grass. Then someone from across the circle began to speak:
“Well …”
This was it. This was going to be the start. They would all have their say and then Green could beat his solitary retreat, leaving his worldly buddies with their frivolous taste for life.
“Well … I’d be taking a pretty nice girl myself …”
From beside him, “Who wouldn’t?”
There was another good minute of silence and then, from off to the right, “I nominate Green as master of ceremonies.” There were no other nominations.
A week later, all 27 members of the flight brought their beautifully dressed dates to our party. No drinking. No smoking. No swearing. Just lots of good food, good music, good dancing … and good memories of a flight party that was rather unique.
I remember, not without embarrassment, my thoughts on that sunny afternoon in 1944 as we sat down together on the grass. I remember that, unintentionally, I touched the lives of 26 young men. I thought I was putting them down. Generously, they put me at the top, and in my memory that’s exactly where I see them.

Justin hunted through the raspberry canes for a ripe, unblemished specimen. By passing inferior fruit and deceptive berries that had flawless fronts with bird-pecked backs, he suddenly found a beauty. It looked almost too perfect, hanging there among the gentle swish of green. Almost a mean thing to pluck such perfection, almost a crime to crush that splendour between teeth so the tangy juice could satisfy his stomach.
He plucked it from the bush, and his mouth was watering in anticipation when he saw the bug. There it was, hidden deep in the dark hollow of his prize, crawling swiftly from the snug depths to discover the cause of the disturbance.
Justin flung the raspberry to the ground in disgust, squashing it underfoot with sharp jabs. Typical, he thought, feeling a familiar rebellion rising through his system. Everything’s fake these days—family, friends, Church, life, and above all, missions. As that word filtered through his brain, it oozed in and out of his thoughts like the red stain spreading between the cracks of the old paving slabs.
His lean, tanned features drooped in sulky lines. “Mission, mission,” he muttered, “hadn’t I known it would come one day?” He punched the nearest leaves in frustration. “All my life’s been preparing for this time, and now it’s here I feel cheated. Two years of my life thrown away. And for what? To serve here in England—not even in foreign parts—but here, in my own country.”
Justin stuffed his clenched fists into his jeans pockets, angrily scuffing the dead berry with the toe of his shoe. Friends can have jobs, cars, girls, and I’ll miss the best time of life because I’m serving, keeping rules, suffering hardships, and for what?
A terribly honest thought struck Justin—I’m not sure I believe the Church is worth all this sacrifice. Panic replaced his anger.
He could see his mother heading for the fruit garden. Oh, no, not again, he thought in frustration. I can’t stand another motherly chat. But there was no escape. Mum’s cheery smile did nothing for his bad mood.
“I’m so glad you’re down here, Justin. I really am pushed for time. If you can help me pick these gooseberries, I’d be so grateful.”
“Okay, okay,” Justin sighed, steeling himself for the advice he was sure would come.
Mother began filling her earthenware bowl, fingers moving carefully between the greenery, uncovering plump, hairy fruit. Justin scowled at the bushes. He parted leaves with half-hearted movements. “Not worth the effort,” he muttered. “There’s hardly anything here.”
“It takes careful searching, dear. See, I’m finding loads by looking deeper.”
Justin gritted his teeth, waiting for the next words. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Like missionaries,” she said. “You know, never giving up.”
How is it, Justin thought, that Mother has such a knack for finding analogies to missionary work in everything we do? He thrust rebellious fingers deep into the bush, then, with a furious cry, jumped back, nursing a bleeding finger.
“That bush kills!” he yelled. “That’s stupid, that bush is. Fancy having murderous thorns lying in wait like that. I’ve gone off fruit picking. You seem to be doing all right without me. Do you mind if I go for a bandage?”
Ignoring the pleading in her son’s voice, his mother calmly handed him the bowl. “We’ll only be a few more minutes if you hold this.” She dropped a particularly fine, tawny gooseberry into the bowl. “It’s strange, Justin, but special people can be a lot like that too, you know. They’ll hide behind prickly exteriors, but with a little questioning and love, they’ll come into the fold. You’ll be able to find those people on your mission.”
“I don’t think I want to talk about this,” muttered Justin, but his mother had already taken the bowl and was on her way to the house.
“What’s that dear?” his mother asked.
“Oh, nothing,” said Justin. He plodded on, trying to turn his mind away from the gloomy rut it kept travelling. It always seemed like he was moving down a continual motorway in the dark with lights snaking off into the distance, but he could never see where they were headed or where they ended.
By his farewell sacrament meeting, he still wasn’t sure he was happy about this “sacrifice.”
“This fine young man, Elder Justin Barnes,” the bishop was saying, “is about to exchange two years of his life for something out of this world.”
Justin’s head was spinning as he sat on the stand, dreading his turn to speak. Why me? kept echoing inside. I don’t want to be out of this world. Why not Andy and Phil down there? They’re 19 and refused to go. Why don’t I stop all this and say no too? He looked down at his family, sitting on the front row, smiling at him—Mum and Dad looking proud; Adam, Sam, and John, eyes big with hero worship; and little Suzy and Pam, the twins, open-mouthed in awe of the occasion.
Justin moved to the rostrum, amazed his feet moved him. With dry mouth, perspiring hands, and trembling knees, he stumbled through his talk. “And although I’m not too sure why I’m going,” Justin concluded, “I suppose … er, I mean, … no, I am going because the prophet has said all young men should serve and because my family and I follow the prophet.”
Justin sat down in a dazed state, wondering where those words came from, wondering if he had really said them.
Two weeks later at the Missionary Training Center, his dad said, “First time I’ve felt like crying for many a year.” With his dad’s arm around his shoulders, Justin stood gazing up at the London Temple. Two hours later Justin wished he could have those minutes back, so he could say all the things he hadn’t been able to put into words. Things like, “I love you, Dad. You’re the greatest. Thanks for everything, Dad. I promise I’ll work hard.”
In the whirl of the MTC, however, it was hard to be lonely. It was study all the time, and soon Justin began to feel a sprinkling of testimony that quickly turned into a shower and then a downpour of spiritual experiences as new friends became brothers and sisters, sharing knowledge and insights. Those three weeks became an oasis, and Justin could see the clear road of the motorway until his first assignment in his mission field came along.
Justin stared at his new companion. This must be a joke, he thought. He looks like a boxer—a heavyweight. Talk about muscles. And that huge, flattened nose. No one will open the door to us!
“I’m glad to meet you, Elder Barnes. I’m Elder Warriner from Texas.” His voice was warmly encouraging, his smile transforming grim features to genial humour. But the handshake! Justin imagined his fingers would never return to normal.
Oh, wow! he thought. How do I cope with this one?
He soon found out. Elder Warriner never stopped. His energy and enthusiasm were exhausting, or catching, depending on Justin’s mood that day. But Justin gained an appreciation for his companion’s beefy shape the day they knocked on one particular door.
“Yeah?” snarled the sloppily dressed man, thrusting wide his front door. He was massive. A soggy cigarette dangled from half-closed lips, and a beer can looked ready to make a fast exit from his fist in the direction of the pair.
“Good morning.” Elder Warriner’s smile clipped corners off the man’s invisible barrier. At least that’s what Justin tried to tell himself as the beer can lowered and the man’s eyes narrowed.
“We’re from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we wondered if we could share a message with you for a few moments?”
The man’s eyes widened. He sniffed hard, wiping ash off his stubbled chin with the back of his hand.
“Um … yeah. Thought you were the TV license spies. What you want then? You a boxer or something?” he asked, staring at Elder Warriner’s craggy features. “Used to go in for boxing myself,” he went on, not waiting for a reply. “Well, come in then. Could do with a change from telly.”
Following him down the dark hallway, Justin noticed peeling wallpaper, tatty carpet, and the smell of damp chips.
This is not worth the effort, Justin thought. Poking Elder Warriner in the back, he pulled a waste-of-time face. A Texan eye winked back.
“My name’s Charlie,” their host announced. Then pointing to a frail woman hunched by the gas fire, he said. “This is my missus, Elspeth, and them’s my kids—Jimmy, Jane, Sally, and Thelma.” Four pairs of eyes flicked from TV to the elders, then back to TV.
“He actually sounds proud of them,” mused Justin, looking with astonishment at the thin, little foursome. “Wouldn’t Mum love to fatten them up,” he thought.
Charlie continued the introductions. “This here man’s a boxer, kid. Take a look at this face now. Your Uncle Bert looked like that when he went to Canada. Where you been boxing then lad?” This last question was flung at Elder Warriner from a sparring position. Charlie’s frame blocked the light as his weight shifted to his toes, his hands held in loose fists.
“Er … Charlie?” Elder Warriner sounded unusually solemn. “We have something more important than boxing to discuss. I used to box every day in the boys’ clubs back home, and I was pretty good, but I gave that up to come here and share this message with you.”
Charlie looked puzzled, then skeptical. “You a wimp or something?” He began moving towards the door, his face surly again. “No time for wimps.”
Justin scrambled to his feet, giving a let’s-move-it eyebrow signal to his companion. But before he could step forward, he heard his own voice speaking, “By the way, Charlie, is your mother important to you?”
The words quivered in silence. Justin’s mind did a swift action replay. For a brief second he was back in his own garden picking gooseberries. His Mum’s voice was saying, “They’ll hide behind a prickly exterior, but with gentle questioning and love they’ll come into the fold. You’ll be able to find those people on your mission.”
Justin jumped as Charlie took a step in his direction. “What do you know about my Ma?” With neck pushed forward, his head looked even more aggressive. But his tone softened as he began pacing the floor. “My little Ma, oh she was right lovely was my Ma.” His face took on a gentle sadness the more he reminisced.
Justin glanced at the children whose gaze had at last left the flickering screen. Tears dribbled down Charlie’s cheeks when he spoke of his mother’s death during his tenth year. Little Thelma jumped up and ran towards her Dad. She hugged him as far around as her thin arms could reach.
The effect was startling. Tenderly scooping her into his arms, he held her close, patting her back. “I still think of my Ma every night before going to sleep, I do. She had a tough life, but she loved every hair of my head.”
Charlie brought his focus back to the elders. He squinted closely at Justin’s face. “Young man, if you can tell me anything at all about Ma, then you’re welcome to stop and chat.” He motioned to his wife. “Let’s see a bit of that fire, Elspeth. How about a cup of tea for these boys. And you kids hitch up on that sofa. Give the lads a seat.”
While Elder Warriner began explaining their taste in drinks, which didn’t include tea, Justin recognized the familiar feeling creeping out of his heart, only this time it was different. He felt like he could catch a glimpse of their destination as he felt them moving together down the road. He thought back to his reluctance to go on a mission and his feeling of travelling a dark motorway. For all the trials and sacrifices, the Church was still worth more. Justin wanted Charlie to know that too.
Charlie and his family were baptized six weeks later. Baptism day produced a radiant family, washed, mended, and full of smiles.
Charlie’s big hand squeezed Justin’s shoulder when the service ended. “Lad, I can’t find words to thank you and your mate for all you’ve taught us. Your finding us has brought out feelings I never knew existed.” He sniffed. “You’re a cracking bit of inspiration from the eternities, you missionaries. There’s no more important work, is there, than getting this message across. Thanks, lad, a million thanks.”
Justin shook his hand. He felt a mixture of warmth and love for this big brother, and at the same time he envisioned a brightly lit motorway where he could see forever. As Justin caught another Texan wink from his companion, he had the warmest assurance that they were on the right path. His silent prayer of gratitude moved heavenward.
“Like Charlie says,” he whispered, “there’s no more important work.”