Gospel Story Finder

One day at school, a friend and I were choosing a book to read together. The book my friend wanted to read was a ghost story. When we had read a few pages, I had an uneasy feeling because I remembered that my mom had told me not to read that book. My brother Ben had read it earlier, and it had bad things in it. After that we chose a different book. I was glad that the Holy Ghost had helped me remember.Laura Jossie, age 9Wichita, Kansas

I must have stared at his picture a thousand times—sometimes in anger and jealousy, other times with curiosity and wishful wondering. There it sat in the same place, year after year, on the top shelf of the bookcase in our living room. Once again I was looking at it, studying every detail, and searching my memory for any recollection of the laughing face in the picture before me.
I lifted it from the shelf, then curled up on the couch to study it. The boy in the picture was 15 years old at the time it was taken. He had black hair like my father and soft blue eyes like my mother. He had the wide grin that definitely belonged to my grandfather and the perfect, straight family nose that we all have. He had always been big for his age, but in this picture, he was quite thin. I knew that this was taken when he first became sick and at the same time his little sister was born, his little sister who was me.
At times I nearly hated him. Because of him and his sickness, I had a neglected babyhood. There are hardly any pictures of me as a baby in our family photo albums, and my family remembers few “cute” things I did while growing up. No one is sure when I started to walk, talk, or cut my first tooth. You see, at this time, the boy in the picture—my brother Brett—got leukemia. According to my family, he put up a huge fight for two years; but the disease eventually won, and at the age of 17, he died.
Whenever our family gets together for anything, the conversation always works its way back to memories of times with Brett, and then, of course, about his heroic struggle with his illness. But to me, he is a stranger, an envied, wondered about, sometimes resented stranger.
I suppose it’s self-centered of me to feel I was neglected as a small child, but being the youngest, you’d think I would have received a lot of attention. Brett must have demanded everyone’s time, love, and attention. I was sure I always had to take the back seat during my early childhood. My accomplishments—like pronouncing my first words—just weren’t as important as Brett’s accomplishments—like going into remission for a while.
Sometimes I’d feel angry and a little sad when my family would talk about times with Brett before I was born. Last weekend, when my brother and sister and their families came for Mother’s Day, it didn’t take long before I’d had enough of the memories I couldn’t share, so I escaped to the kitchen to scrub the countertops and dishes. Mom followed me into the kitchen.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to …”
I turned from the sink to face her with my arms folded. “Mom, since we always talk about stuff that happened when Brett was alive, I guess no one in this family thinks we’ve done anything interesting since Brett died, right?”
“Honey, you know that’s not true. We’ve had some wonderful times together since Brett died. We’ve had some great times. I know it’s hard for you to have to listen about times that you weren’t part of …”
Suddenly, from the other room, voices became even louder.
“Oh, that reminds me. Remember when Brett started high school?” Chuckling and laughter followed this remark of my sister, Tara.
“He wasn’t anything like the rest of you. He had to be the class clown and make everyone laugh.” That was Dad. “And yet he always managed to get wonderful grades.”
“And don’t forget what he did for the school itself. I remember how the principal and some of his teachers would tell him what a disappointment he was because of the stunts he’d pull. And look what he did—he won the debating awards and helped the football team go to state one year and region the next.” My brother Alex was only a year older than Brett. He remembers a lot of things about Brett that the rest of us never knew.
“I can’t believe how easily he could weasel into and out of all kinds of situations, like sneaking out his window at night and down the tree, and yet always making it back home just in time.” Tara’s voice again.
The conversation had pulled Mom back into the room. “Just exactly where he would sneak off to is something I’d like to know!” Mom laughed.
“Stop—I don’t want to know!” Dad laughed back.
I stood in the kitchen listening. I smiled to myself as I thought about some of the things he’d done that I’d heard stories about. But I couldn’t help the familiar, hollow feeling that grew inside of me. Sometimes I could laugh along with everyone else, but I’d always feel as if I’d missed out on something—and I hated feeling that way.
My family didn’t constantly talk about Brett. In fact, I could go for days, even weeks, without even thinking about him. But then I’d go into the living room and see his picture, and I’d start wondering again.
Today I turned 16. I had a pretty good birthday. My parents gave me lots of nice things, and Alex and Tara and their families came over to help me celebrate.
This evening Mom came into my room and dropped a long, faded white envelope into my lap with only the name “Kitty” printed on it in an unfamiliar handwriting.
“What’s this?” I questioned. Kitty. That had been an old family nickname for me when I’d been really little, but no one had called me that for years.
“Open it and find out.” Mom smiled at me in a funny kind of way, then left me, closing the door quietly behind her.
I frowned at the envelope in my hands. I couldn’t stop looking at the name “Kitty” suspiciously. Who would call me that? I finally ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper filled with handwriting that matched the name “Kitty” on the envelope.
Dear Kitty,
If Mom has done what she promised she’d do, then right now, today, you must be turning 16 years old, and I’m probably not around anymore. But at this very second, as I write this letter to you, you’re barely two.
Ever since you were just a little baby, you’ve saved your biggest smile for me. It’s impossible for me to believe that you’ll never remember me. You see, I’m very sick, and I know I’m not going to be here for much longer, so I won’t see my beautiful baby sister grow up. I won’t be there to help you along in your life. It doesn’t seem fair, and as I’ve watched you these past two years, I feel like I’m going to be cheated out of something incredible.
Two years ago, right before you were born, I found out I have leukemia. The fact that from then on, I would never lead a “normal” life made me want to give up and die. And then Mom came home from the hospital with you. The first time I held you and looked into those blue eyes of yours, I knew that now I had a reason to live. I couldn’t give up now—you needed me. And I knew I needed you. I wanted to see you grow up and help you, be there for you, and, hopefully, be your friend. We had a great start. I’ve spent more time with you these past two years than practically anyone else.
I have to thank you for these past two years you’ve given me. I know I wouldn’t have had them if it weren’t for you. Now I can honestly say that they’ve been two of the best. I’ve fought hard, but I know my time is short. The doctors say it’s amazing that I’ve lasted as long as I have, because I’m in bad shape. But don’t think I’m giving up or that I’m just going to leave you now. Not a chance! You helped me through the roughest two years of my life, so I have something for you that I hope will help you as much as you’ve helped me. It’s in the bottom of my gray strong box. Your name’s on it.
I love you,Brett
After retrieving the key for Brett’s strong box from Mom, I found a package covered with faded wrapping paper covered with lots of once-colorful balloons. The package was addressed to “Kitty—for her 16th birthday. With love, Brett.” With trembling hands, I ripped off the paper and carefully lifted the lid of the white box inside. A scarlet-colored book lay nestled in white tissue paper. Not just any book. It was a journal done by Brett, as if he were talking to me, of the last two years of his life, starting with the day I was born and ending on the day he died. He recorded everything we ever did together, including all of my babyhood milestones, along with his own milestones, as well as his feelings as he struggled with his illness. He also added in a lot of advice for me for when I was older, since he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell me in person. And on every page, no matter what happened during the day, he never forgot to write, “I love you.”
I was staring at a picture again today, studying it for the hundredth time. In the picture was the image of a dark-haired boy, sitting under a tree, smiling down at a tiny little girl sitting on his lap, laughing up at him. I smiled myself just looking at it. I placed it back on its spot on my dresser, right by the mirror. I had found it in Brett’s journal on my 16th birthday, so I’d framed it and filled an empty space on my dresser with it. I opened one of the drawers and took out the journal, my special journal from Brett, and hugged it. It too had filled an empty space—an empty space in my heart.
Mother poked her head around my opened bedroom door. “Well, your visitors are here. Are you ready?”
I nodded. “I’ll be right there.”
I quickly returned the journal to its drawer and turned to pick up the book I’d been reading a lot lately off of my bed. My mind raced back a few months to my eventful 16th birthday.
Under the tissue paper in that white box had been yet another book. This one had a midnight blue cover and one of the most peculiar titles I’d ever read. Brett had scrawled a message on the inside cover in his now strangely familiar handwriting:
This book was given to me by two amazing guys one day at the hospital during a particularly bad stay. It brought me a lot of comfort during my darkest hours, and now I’m not so scared to die anymore. If this book brought comfort to me to face death, then surely it should give you strength to face life.
According to what these two guys teach and what is found in this book, I will see you and all my family again someday. So, although our time together on earth was short, we’ll always have forever.
My heart was pounding after reading those words for about the millionth time. It had taken a lot of pleading and persuasion, but I’d finally convinced my parents to let me invite two special “visitors” to our house so that I could learn more about this book. My hands were shaking as I closed the cover, took a deep breath, and walked, clutching the book in my hands, down the hall to the living room.
The two young men in suits and ties stood up when I walked into the room. With huge smiles, they introduced themselves and shook my hand. My heart was still pounding as I nervously smiled back.
We all sat down, and then one of the young men asked if he could offer a prayer. I nodded, and as I did, my eyes found the laughing, smiling face in a picture standing where it always had been, on the top shelf of the bookcase in our living room. Only this time, I could swear the smile was bigger and happier than ever before.

At times an awareness of the elderly is brought into focus by a reminder from one ever so young. May I share with you a Pakistani folktale which illustrates this truth:

An ancient grandmother lived with her daughter and grandson. As she grew frail and feeble, instead of being a help around the house, she became a constant trial. She broke plates and cups, lost knives, spilled water. One day, exasperated because the old woman had broken another precious plate, the daughter sent the grandson to buy his grandmother a wooden plate. The boy hesitated because he knew a wooden plate would humiliate his grandmother. But his mother insisted, so off he went. He returned bringing not one, but two wooden plates.

“I only asked you to buy one,” his mother said. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yes,” said the boy. “But I bought the second one so there would be one for you when you get old.”

Let us walk these clearly defined paths. To help us do so we can follow the shortest sermon in the world. It can be found on a common traffic sign. It reads, “Keep Right.”

This advice was found and followed by Joe, who had been asked to get up at six in the morning and drive a crippled child 50 miles to a hospital. He didn’t want to do it, but he didn’t know how to say no. A woman carried the child out to the car and set him next to the driver’s seat, mumbling thanks through her tears. Joe said everything would be all right and drove off quickly.

After a mile or so, the child inquired shyly, “You’re God, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid not, little fellow,” replied Joe.

“I thought you must be God,” said the child. “I heard Mother praying next to my bed and asking God to help me get to the hospital, so I could get well and play with the other boys. Do you work for God?”

“Sometimes, I guess,” said Joe, “but not regularly. I think I’m going to work for Him a lot more from now on.”

I used to be one of those people you describe. The things I said about the Church were not good. I had some friends who were LDS—good, faithful people, and the things I said hurt them. But I didn’t know that what I was doing was wrong.
In that group of friends the Lord gave me a special blessing. They saw beyond my words to my heart and loved the person even though the words hurt. I will be forever grateful for that mature, Christlike love that looked on the “inward man.” Because of that love I read the Book of Mormon and listened to the missionaries. I could never take back the wrongs I had done, but I could set the record straight. I joined the Church and served a full-time mission.
There is no “secret formula,” no way to “prove” what you believe to be true. Only the love of the Master will change people. Since you are his disciple, I ask you to love those kids at school the same way I was loved. Their lives will change, and so will yours.
D. Layne Bell, 23Boise, Idaho

Elder Graham W. Doxey, who once served in the Second Quorum of the Seventy, told me of an experience. His mother, who was later a counselor in the Primary general presidency, also told me of this experience.
During World War II, he was in the navy posted to China. He and several others went by train to the city of Tientsin to look around.
Later they boarded a train to return to their base, but after more than an hour, the train turned north. They were on the wrong train! They spoke no Chinese. They pulled the emergency cord and stopped the train. They were put off somewhere in the countryside with nothing to do but walk back to the city.
After walking for some time, they found a small pump-handle car, the kind that the railroad workers use. They set it in the rails and began to pump their way along the tracks. It would coast downhill, but it had to be pushed uphill.
As they came to one steep downhill slope, they scrambled aboard the car and began to coast. Graham was the last to get aboard. The only place left for him was in the front of the car. He ran alongside and finally climbed aboard. As he did so, he slipped and fell. He was bouncing on his back with his feet against the car to keep from being run over. As the car quickly gained speed, he heard his mother’s voice say, “Bud, you be careful!”
He wore heavy military boots. His foot slipped, and the thick sole of his boot caught in a gear of a wheel and stopped the car just one foot (30 cm) from his hand.
His parents, who were presiding over the East Central States Mission at the time, were sleeping in a hotel room. His mother sat up at about 2:00 in the morning and awakened her husband: “Bud’s in trouble!” They knelt by the bed and prayed for the safety of their boy.
The next letter he received said, “Bud, what’s wrong? What happened to you?”
He then wrote to tell them what had happened. When they compared times, at the very time he was bouncing along that track, his parents were on their knees in the hotel room half a world away, praying for his safety.

The various activities of the day left the girls tired, but not too worn out to express their feelings during a testimony meeting. They read their favorite scriptures to each other, spoke again of their love for nature, for the gospel, and for the Lord, and talked about the lessons they had learned on their trip: lessons of perseverance, sacrifice, relaxation, and sharing the load.
“It’s unbelievable the feeling you get on top of a mountain,” said Sandy Kay, 17. “If you have an open mind and a humble heart, it can really help straighten out your priorities and help you see the reason why we’re here.”

As the newly called homemaking leader in a ward in Highland Village, Texas, Margo Merrill faced the seemingly impossible task of turning scraps of donated fabric into quilts for charity. She knew she lacked the experience to piece a quilt, but she began with what she could do: she pressed the scraps, then cut them and sorted the colors. She then brought packets of fabric to homemaking meeting, where she asked help from other sisters to arrange and sew them into tops, then quilt and bind the coverlets. The sisters gladly shared their talents, and the results pleased them all.

The message of the restored gospel appealed to my heart, though born Anglican to humble parents and, as the tradition of the Anglican Church, was given infant baptism with my other siblings in 1973. The Book of Mormon changed all that as the copy I was given in the investigators class and with marked portions to read, I tried my best in reading it not with a desire to obtain a testimony but with my student legal mind. I was searching for faults because nothing compares to my Holy Bible. I had been doing critical Bible study before coming to the Church. I finished the Book of Mormon in no time and diverted my love for secular books to love of scriptures, particularly the Book of Mormon.
My bishop extended a call to me the Sunday after my ordination in the Aaronic Priesthood as a Sunday School teacher. I was also called as a seminary teacher, and I enrolled in an Institute of Religion class. While I taught the Old Testament in seminary, I studied the Book of Mormon in the institute class. This connection to the scriptures changed my life as that was the beginning of a lifelong love for the standard works of the Church and other writings that I have accumulated over the years a large library of Church literatures and scriptures. I even went on to teach institute classes for years even as a stake president.
While I was in Lagos, Nigeria, where I did my National Youth Service, I received the strong feeling that I had a mission to establish the Church in my hometown. I felt inspired and decided to fulfill the mission. I began with my wife, who was not a member at the time. With her unique testimony, she joined the Church and I baptized her like I did our five children.
We went to church in Port Harcourt from Omoku, our hometown. It was about two-hour drive. We did this every Sunday until sometime in 2001 when the Port Harcourt West Stake Presidency authorized me and family to stay back and worship in Omoku under the supervision of the Rumueme Ward. We reactivated some members of the Church who resided in our town and surrounding towns, two of whom were old schoolmates at the university. We started worshipping in my one-room apartment and later moved into a three-rooms flat in the city center where, on the 9th of January 2005, the Church was officially organized with me as the first branch president and my wife as first counsellor in the Relief Society. We had 36 members of our branch.
Missionaries who taught us the gospel of Restoration and eternal families inspired us tremendously and helped to inspire our infant children to love missionary work.
The gospel of Jesus Christ means everything to me and my family. The principles of the gospel are true and life-changing when we apply every word therein. As a branch president in a new place, it naturally imposed a new life on me. They must see the change in me to believe and follow. This is a religion with everlasting promise, hope, and blessings.
The Aba Nigeria Temple was dedicated on August 7, 2005, by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008). Our family of five then—me, my wife, Justina, and our children (Joy, Daniel, and Gabriel)—were overjoyed. We got sealed as a family on September 22, 2005. Our sons John and Joseph were born in the covenant. My life is about family, Church, and community.

You are not too young to gain a testimony and bear it. In a stake conference we called on a young lady to speak. She had just returned from the Hill Cumorah pageant. She bore a fervent testimony. After she finished we called on 17-year-old Gary. He looked surprised when his name was called. He unwound his full six feet and came to the pulpit. His first words were, “I don’t know why the president called on me; I don’t even have a testimony” (referring, evidently, to the testimony borne by the young lady). For several minutes he spoke about seminary, he expressed gratitude for his family, then said: “I know the gospel is true, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

When I was growing up in Lehi, Utah, USA, my family had a garden large enough that we rotated the corn and potatoes every year. One day my father told me to weed the corn while he weeded the potatoes. As I worked my way down a row of six-inch-high (15 cm) corn, I found a solitary potato plant growing larger and more beautiful than any of the potato plants on Dad’s side of the garden. I called to him and asked, “What should I do with this?”
Dad barely looked up. “Pull it.”
Believing he hadn’t realized I was pointing to a potato plant, I objected, “But Dad, it isn’t a weed. It’s a potato.” Again, without looking up, he said, “Not this year. This year it’s a weed. Pull it.” So I did.
Since then I have often pondered the wisdom of my father’s words. I have come to realize that obedience is not just making a right choice but making a right choice in the right season. When I consider all the things Heavenly Father would have me do in this life, doing them at the right time seems as critical as doing them at all. For instance, serving a mission, dating, getting married, having children, gaining an education, and beginning full-time employment are right choices. Yet when people do these good things in the wrong order, the consequences are often disastrous.
King Benjamin taught that we should “see that all … things are done in wisdom and order” (Mosiah 4:27). Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Faith also includes trust in God’s timing, for He has said, ‘All things must come to pass in their time’ (D&C 64:32).”1
I believe Satan deceives us by convincing us to do the right things in the wrong order: sexual intimacy before marriage, dating before age 16, becoming a parent and then getting married, and so forth. The greatest commandments of God, when compromised or polluted, become plants grown out of season—weeds. When I have been tempted to justify doing the right thing in the wrong season, I have been grateful for my father’s important lesson: “Not this year. This year it’s a weed. Pull it.”

Four new missionaries had just arrived from the MTC with all their luggage, hair cuts, anticipation, and enthusiasm. They were seated in the study of the Canada Calgary Mission Home, waiting anxiously for their first assignments. How could I, as their mission president, know where to send them and who to assign them to? Of course I prayed diligently and prepared spiritually to receive inspiration, and inspiration came.
But I also knew that as I talked individually with these missionaries, I would discover that some were better prepared for the mission field than others, that some brought certain traits with them that would help them succeed as a missionary, while others brought with them challenges they would have to overcome in order to be effective.
Let me give you several examples. I’ve used made-up names, but the stories are all true.
When I asked Elder Werker to tell me about himself, I found out he had worked for his father.
“What business?”
“Construction.”
“Was it hard work?”
“Dad expected us to go to work as soon as it was light enough to see, and to work until the job was finished or until it was too dark to see.”
“Do you think you’ll have to work that hard here?”
“I don’t think I should work any less for the Lord than I do for my father. Do you?”
The answer was obvious.
Four or five weeks later at a zone conference, Elder Werker’s companion, who was a hard worker too, said, “President, how long do I have to train Elder Werker? The pace is killing me!”
By the end of his mission, Elder Werker had helped bring 56 people into the Church.
Elder Werker had something in common with a lot of successful missionaries. He came into the mission field with a knowledge of work. He knew what it meant to keep going even when he was tired or discouraged. He would stick with a job until it was completed.
President Benson has stated, “I have often said one of the greatest secrets of missionary work is work! If a missionary works, he will get the Spirit; if he gets the Spirit, he will teach by the Spirit; and if he teaches by the Spirit, he will touch the hearts of the people and he will be happy. There will be no homesickness, no worrying about families, for all time and talents and interests are centered on the work of the ministry. Work, work, work—there is no satisfactory substitute, especially in missionary work” (Texas San Antonio Mission, Mar. 2, 1986, in TheTeachings of Ezra Taft Benson, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1988, p. 200).
Elder Strong was six feet, two inches tall and weighed 220 pounds. He looked like he should be a linebacker for an American football team. But he seemed very unsure of himself when I asked what his strengths as a missionary would be.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, do you have some goals, something you’d like to accomplish while you’re here?”
“Uhm, well, I haven’t really … I don’t know.”
That night, after the missionaries were in bed, I went to my office. I always did this, in case someone felt a need to talk with me. The office was just down the stairs and two doors away from the room where the elders were sleeping.
In a few minutes, I heard someone tap on the door.
It was Elder Strong.
“I have to go home, president.”
“Tell me about it.”
After tears and a tender moment or two, he said at first that he didn’t have a testimony, that he was unsure of himself, that he couldn’t learn the scriptures, and a number of other excuses. But after we talked a little longer, it became evident that the real problem was that Elder Strong was homesick.
Until he entered the MTC, he had never been away from home overnight. He was so attached to his mother that even though he had just seen her at the airport a few hours ago, he felt he had to phone her and tell her that everything was all right. She had insisted that he call when he arrived, and he hadn’t.
So I talked to his mother for him.
Elder Strong had a problem that a lot of missionaries have to deal with—homesickness. It isn’t wrong to love your family. And it’s all right to miss them when you’re apart. But until you can stop constantly thinking about home and get on with your work, you’re not going to be fully involved as a missionary.
I think parents can do a lot in this area to help their sons (or daughters) be better prepared. Chaperoned and supervised Church programs offer young people the opportunity to learn what it’s like to be out on their own at youth conference, summer camp, or Scout camp.
A young person would benefit from visiting aunts and uncles or grandparents, staying overnight or over a weekend, gradually adjusting to the experience of being apart from the immediate family. If it’s feasible, attending college for a semester or two before entering the mission field may help a prospective missionary get used to living away from home.
Another tip: learn to write letters. This is the approved method for missionaries and parents to keep in touch. Missionaries and their parents should exchange letters, but only once a week.
In addition to questions about his goals and strengths, I asked Elder Handsome about his social life.
“Tell me about your girlfriends.”
He virtually leaped out of his chair.
“Girlfriend, not friends. There is a one and only. She’s the greatest. I can’t live without her.”
“What will it do to your mission when she marries someone else?”
“If I hear of her even dating anybody else, I am gone, I am history, I am out of here. I’ll go straight home.”
For months Elder Handsome struggled to become involved in his mission. He was continually figuring out clever things to write to his “one and only.” He spent much of his time thinking about her instead of the work.
When the “Dear John” came, Elder Handsome struggled even more. But he did not go home. He eventually became an outstanding missionary and a dedicated district and zone leader. He learned to love his mission, his area, the prospective members, and the local members.
A lot of elders have trouble leaving a girlfriend behind. And in this area, I think young women can help a lot. Recall the words of President Benson: “You can have a positive influence in motivating young men to serve full-time missions. Let the young men of your acquaintance know that you expect them to assume their missionary responsibilities, that you personally want them to serve in mission field, because you know that’s where the Lord wants them.
“Avoid steady dating with a young man prior to the time of his mission call. If your relationship with him is more casual, then he can make that decision to serve more easily and also can concentrate his full energies on his missionary work instead of the girlfriend back home” (Ensign, Nov. 1986, pp. 82–83).
And you young men may want to remember this example: Some years ago in our ward, the priests quorum adviser and his wife would go on double dates with the priests. They urged the young men to enjoy dating a number of young women, and cautioned them not to become involved with just one person at a time when such involvement could preclude a mission.
The adviser often reminded the young men before their mission, they weren’t ready to compete for jobs and success. “Neighbors look after you when you’re the neighbor’s kid,” he said. “But you become a married adult, you enter a business and professional world that’s highly competitive—you need the growth, activities, and training that come from a mission, school, and apprenticeships or other training before you’re ready for the awesome responsibilities of earning a living, raising a family, and competing in an adult world.”
Elder Newcome was a little bit nervous when he entered the office for his personal interview. Earlier, when all of us met together, I had noticed that he had trouble reading the scriptures.
“I’m a new convert. I’ve only been a member of the Church for a little over a year.”
“And you feel like you’ll never catch up with the others?”
“I’ve always had a hard time learning. I don’t know a lot about the details of the Church.”
“How do you feel about the Book of Mormon and the gospel?”
“The Spirit has born witness to me. I know they’re true.”
When I heard that, I knew he’d do well.
Elder Newcome was assigned to an area where a counselor in the stake presidency lived. That counselor came to me as the mission president and said, “I have a very well educated 29-year-old friend who has had a lot of problems in his life. He’s finally searching for some answers, and he’s anxious to be taught the gospel. Do you have some good elders who can teach him?”
At first I thought about sending my assistants. But the Spirit whispered to me that this was the assigned area for Elder Newcome and his companion, and this was a job for them.
Two weeks later, I had the opportunity of meeting with this member of the stake presidency and the investigator as well. They were both very complimentary of the missionaries and their ability to teach. A short time later, the investigator was baptized, and I spoke with him and the counselor again.
“Did you know that Elder Newcome cannot read?” the counselor asked me.
“Yes, I know,” I said with emotion. “But he knows our Father in Heaven and his Son.”
“And he teaches with the Spirit,” said our newly baptized friend.
Most missionaries have more time to prepare than Elder Newcome did. Yet some of them fail to use their preparation time wisely. Missionaries should learn what it means to have faith, to repent, to feel the Holy Ghost, and to search the scriptures. Even those who have not known the gospel for a long time can begin now to learn and grow, so that they have some background in these areas when they arrive in the mission field.
I can think of a lot of other missionaries who sat in my office during the three years I served in Canada. Some struggled with shyness or fear of meeting people, and eventually overcame it. Some were unprepared financially and wished they had saved more money, while others had saved for years and paid for their entire mission themselves. Some spent their whole mission reliving high school successes. Some looked for excuses to stay in their apartment if it was raining, snowing, or cold. Some had a natural ability to understand others. And some had a deep knowledge of doctrine and principles.
Eventually, most of them grew to understand the real reason they were on a mission—to bring souls to Christ, to ensure that those baptized were truly converted, to love and serve others.
“And now, behold, I say unto you, that the thing which will be of the most worth unto you will be to declare repentance unto this people, that you may bring souls unto me, that you may rest with them in the kingdom of my Father” (D&C 15:6 and D&C 16:6).
Over the three years I observed another common trait that I think distinguished those who gave the best service. They had participated in things that require consistent doing—music, competitive sports, farming, academics, scripture study (especially the Book of Mormon), seminary—and as a result had embedded in their lives the understanding that work is worthwhile. They had learned that dedication pays, that self-discipline is not a dirty word.
I also learned that most of those who came to mission field were surprised that their preparation time passed so rapidly. They seemed to be saying “Get ready, get set … wait a minute, I’m already here!”
Don’t let yourself get caught in that situation. You can begin preparing today.

One winter’s night during a particularly nasty snowstorm, there was a serious automobile accident in a small Idaho town not far from the Utah border. A young child was critically injured. I was an air ambulance pilot in the Salt Lake City area and was dispatched in a fixed-wing aircraft to pick her up and bring her back to Salt Lake.
The closest airport to the accident was in Pocatello, Idaho. While it would take us only about 45 minutes to fly from Salt Lake City to Pocatello, it would take the ambulance crew nearly three hours to transport the girl from the accident site to Pocatello because of hazardous driving conditions. Even though the air transport team would arrive well before the ambulance crew, the doctor in charge wanted us there early to transfer the little girl from the ambulance to the airplane without any delay, getting her on her way to a major trauma center.
The weather was bad; these were the absolute minimum conditions we could land in. A small commuter airliner was also on approach to Pocatello, about 10 minutes ahead of us. I listened intently to the other pilot’s radio communications, knowing we would encounter the same conditions. His approach was routine, until he should have been able to see the runway. It wasn’t visible, however, and he had to give up the approach and go around.
Now it was our turn. I was very concerned—what if we couldn’t get in and had to return without the injured girl? I quickly said a silent prayer. I told Heavenly Father if He wanted us to pick up that little girl I would need His help.
I began the descent. It seemed to take forever. I couldn’t see a thing except gray cloud and snow blowing horizontally past the windshield. I was quickly approaching the point where, like the commuter airliner, I would have to break off the approach. I waited until the last possible instant, and then suddenly the runway lights came into view. They were dim but good enough. I reduced the power and landed and offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the miracle I had just experienced.
As I taxied to our parking spot, two things were obvious—the storm wasn’t going to let up, and the company that usually provided us with deicing service and a hangar to protect the aircraft from the weather had closed for the evening.
A few minutes later the commuter airliner landed safely. Immediately the control tower closed and the controllers went home. After the passengers and crew of the commuter plane left, the ground staff locked up the airport terminal building and went home too. My colleagues and I were left with no way to deice the airplane or to put it in a hangar, and the snow was beginning to fall even harder. There was a very real possibility we would not be able to leave until the next morning.
The transport team and I decided it would be best to wait and see what conditions were like when the ambulance arrived. As I looked out the plane’s window, I could see the snow starting to stick to the commuter airliner, parked not far from where we were. Knowing it would be unsafe to attempt a takeoff with any amount of snow or ice on our airplane, I went outside. The snow was falling very hard and beginning to stick to our wings. I walked around to where I would be out of view and offered another prayer.
Time seemed to pass very slowly that evening. Occasionally I would look out at the snow accumulating steadily on the commuter plane, but I avoided going outside again to check our own wings.
After nearly two hours the ambulance arrived with the little girl. I opened the cabin door and got out. The commuter plane was covered with snow and ice. I turned around to see what condition our plane was in. Although I had tried to have faith and be optimistic, I am ashamed to say I was astounded by what I saw. Tears of gratitude welled up in my eyes as I walked around the airplane. It was clean and dry—absolutely no snow or ice anywhere on it. It looked as if it had just come out of a heated hangar. The snow had also stopped falling, and visibility had improved to the point where it would be possible to take off.
Heavenly Father had provided the miracles we needed that night to get a little girl to the hospital. It was a very humble pilot who bowed his head in gratitude that evening for the great blessings he had received.
The flight back to Salt Lake was completely routine. Certainly my prayers and the prayers of that girl’s family and friends had been answered. I never did hear what the little girl’s final outcome was, but my testimony of the overwhelming love and compassion our Father in Heaven has for His children was strengthened that winter night.

Stacey White, a mother of four in Indiana, USA, was longing for an opportunity to help a neighbor, friend, or even a stranger during the week she studied Matthew 25:35–40, where the Savior teaches that serving “the least of these” is, in fact, serving Him (verse 40).
“Because I am a busy stay-at-home mom of four young children, I sometimes feel frustrated that I’m not able to be of service as often as I would like,” Sister White explained. “I am so busy taking care of my own family’s needs that I have little time for anything extra.”
Sister White noted that as she continued to study, cross-reference, and ponder these scriptures, praying for opportunities to serve, “the week seemed to take on a higher level of stress than what normally comes with motherhood”—certainly not what she had hoped for.
“There were school projects to help with, more than the usual messes to clean up, sibling fights to referee, and a mountain of laundry that seemed to regenerate itself. The to-do list seemed to never come close to being completed. My prayer seemed to go unanswered as I longed for the free time and energy to serve someone other than my husband and children.”
But then, partway through the week, Sister White came to a realization: just because she didn’t have the opportunity to serve outside her home did not mean that the Lord had let her prayer go unanswered, and it didn’t mean that she hadn’t been serving in meaningful ways.
“The Lord was answering my prayer by giving me those opportunities within my own family,” she says. “At times I feel that the service within my own family somehow doesn’t count, that in order to be classified as service, it must be outside the home, rendered to someone other than a family member. But with my new understanding, while I was making beds, doing laundry, chauffeuring kids, and doing all my daily duties as a mother, I did them more joyfully. My tasks didn’t seem quite so mundane, and I realized I was making a difference for my family.”

I am encouraged by a story that appeared in the New Era some years ago. The author recounted the following:
“When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. I slept on the couch in the living room. …
“My dad, a steelworker, left home very early for work each day. Every morning he would … tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. I would be half-dreaming when I could sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I slowly awoke, I became embarrassed to have him there. I tried to pretend I was still asleep. … I became aware that as he stood beside my bed he was praying with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
“Each morning my dad prayed for me. He prayed that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he prayed for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day. …
“At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them that I understood completely how my father felt about me.”22

President Thomas S. Monson told a story about a man from the east who was traveling by bus to San Francisco. In Salt Lake City a Primary girl got on the bus and sat next to the man. As they started talking, he asked her if she was a Mormon. She answered yes. He asked her what Mormons believe. It was a big question for such a young girl. What would you have said? Imagine the look on the man’s face as she recited and explained the Articles of Faith. He couldn’t believe it!

After she got off the bus, the man thought about her courage and knowledge. As soon as he arrived in San Francisco, he looked in the telephone directory for the Church’s phone number, then called the local mission president and asked questions about the Church. The mission president sent missionaries to see him, and later the man’s entire family was baptized—all because a Primary girl knew and understood the Articles of Faith and had the courage to share them. (See Ensign, April 1994, pages 67–68.)

Melanie Gapiz of the Pasay First Ward, Pasay Philippines Stake, has firsthand knowledge of this principle. The daughter of Elder Ruben G. Gapiz, an Area Authority Seventy, Melanie is a successful freelance producer of television commercials. For several years she worked as head of the production department for a prominent television commercial production company in Manila. In that position she faced a difficult dilemma when she found out some employees were embezzling. “I discovered some irregularities involving some of the employees,” she says. “People were making money unethically within the company.”
She talked with her immediate boss and learned he was part of it. “So I went to the president. He wasn’t involved, but he somehow knew what was going on, and he couldn’t have cared less,” she says. This reaction left Melanie with a dilemma. She could turn her back and pretend the problem did not exist. But she knew if she kept working there, people might think she too was involved. “It was difficult,” she admits, “because I was earning monthly compensation and benefits.” But she knew what she had to do. After counseling with her parents—who reminded her of Church standards but told her it was her decision—she left the company and began working freelance.
“I left on good terms,” she explains. “Actually, when I talked with the president, he told me he admired my principles, but he couldn’t feed his people with principles.” She has never regretted her decision, and the Lord has blessed her in her work.
“I’ve always believed in the gospel of Jesus Christ,” says Sister Gapiz. “The law of tithing has helped me a lot. Fasting and prayer have helped. Every time there’s an important decision to make, I fast and pray about it, and I receive help.”

When we were in South America, in Uruguay, a woman there told us that she had only been a member of the Church for a year or two but that she had brought 92 people into the Church. She went to the market to get her food for the day, and there she would spend a little time with other women whom she had met before, and she would say to them, “Have you heard the Mormon elders from America? Well, you had better listen to them. They have a great message that will change your life. Ninety-two people had listened to her, and she had contacted the missionaries, and they had baptized them.

Preceding the comforting revelation to Joseph and Oliver that I have just cited, the Prophet endured a poignant, painful experience familiar to all of us that taught him to look to the Savior and not fear the opinions, pressures, and threats of men. I quote from the account in our Priesthood and Relief Society manual, Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Joseph Smith:

On June 14, 1828, Martin Harris left Harmony, Pennsylvania, taking the first 116 manuscript pages translated from the gold plates to show to some of his family members in Palmyra, New York. The very next day, Joseph and Emma's first child was born, a son they named Alvin. The baby died that same day, and Emma's health declined until she was near death herself. The Prophet's mother later wrote: "For some time, [Emma] seemed to tremble upon the verge of the silent home of her infant. So uncertain seemed her fate for a season that in the space of two weeks her husband never slept one hour in undisturbed quiet. At the end of this time, his anxiety became so great about the manuscript that he determined, as his wife was now some better, that as soon as she had gained a little more strength he would make a trip to New York and see after the same."[17] In July, at Emma's suggestion, the Prophet left Emma in her mother's care and traveled by stagecoach to his parents' home in Manchester Township, New York. The Prophet's trip covered about 125 miles and took two or three days to complete. Distraught about the loss of his firstborn son, worried about his wife, and gravely concerned about the manuscript, Joseph neither ate nor slept during the entire trip. A fellow traveler, the only other passenger on the stagecoach, observed the Prophet's weakened state and insisted on accompanying him for the 20-mile walk from the stagecoach station to the Smith home. For the last four miles of the walk, recalled the Prophet's mother, "the stranger was under the necessity of leading Joseph by his arm, for nature was too much exhausted to support him any longer and he would fall asleep as he stood upon his feet."[18] Immediately upon reaching his parents' home, the Prophet sent for Martin Harris. Martin arrived at the Smith home in the early afternoon, downcast and forlorn. He did not have the manuscript, he said, and did not know where it was. Hearing this, Joseph exclaimed, "Oh! My God, my God. ... All is lost, is lost. What shall I do? I have sinned. It is I that tempted the wrath of God by asking him for that which I had no right to ask.... How shall I appear before the Lord? Of what rebuke am I not worthy from the angel of the Most High?" As the day wore on, the Prophet paced back and forth in his parents' home in great distress, "weeping and grieving." The next day he left to return to Harmony, where, he said, "I commenced humbling myself in mighty prayer before the Lord ... that if possible I might obtain mercy at his hands and be forgiven of all that I had done which was contrary to his will."[19] The Lord severely chastised the Prophet for fearing man more than God, but assured him he could be forgiven. "Thou art Joseph," the Lord said, "and thou wast chosen to do the work of the Lord, but because of transgression, if thou art not aware thou wilt fall. But remember, God is merciful; therefore, repent of that which thou hast done which is contrary to the commandment which I gave you, and thou art still chosen, and art again called to the work."[20] For a time, the Lord took the Urim and Thummim and the plates from Joseph. But these things were soon restored to him. "The angel was rejoiced when he gave me back the Urim and Thummim," the Prophet recalled, "and said that God was pleased with my faithfulness and humility, and loved me for my penitence and diligence in prayer, in the which I had performed my duty so well as to ... be able to enter upon the work of translation again."[21] As Joseph moved forward in the great work before him, he was now fortified by the sweet feelings of receiving the Lord's forgiveness and a renewed determination to do His will.[22]

I applied for a classical piano competition a few months ago. I knew it would likely be on a Sunday, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. I started practicing three months before the competition, and it took a lot of time and effort to get ready.
A month before the competition, a seminary lesson on the Ten Commandments made me think about whether or not competing on a Sunday was a good idea. I wanted to push away the thought, because I’d already paid the application fee of TWD$1,400 (about US$50)—not to mention that I’d spent so much time practicing. I asked my seminary teacher if going to a piano competition would be breaking the Sabbath. He told me that was between God and me. But he bore his testimony that keeping the Sabbath day holy would be a blessing. I thought about it, and I really didn’t want to have to forfeit the competition.
Each day, I read a general conference article. I had just finished one talk and was about to put down the articles, but the next article caught my eye: “Stand in Holy Places” by President Thomas S. Monson (Ensign, Nov. 2011, 82). When I began reading it, I hadn’t been thinking at all about my piano competition, nor was I expecting an answer from the talk. But as I read, it was as if Heavenly Father were chastising me. President Monson’s words hit me hard:
“The Ten Commandments are just that—commandments. They are not suggestions. They are every bit as requisite today as they were when God gave them to the children of Israel” (83).
Then as I continued, I found:
“His constancy is something on which we can rely, an anchor to which we can hold fast and be safe, lest we be swept away into uncharted waters.
“… There is nothing which can bring more joy into our lives or more peace to our souls than the Spirit which can come to us as we follow the Savior and keep the commandments” (83).
I knew then what my Heavenly Father expected of me. I said a prayer and told Him that if it were necessary, I would forfeit the competition, even if I didn’t get a refund. I prayed that I wouldn’t have to forfeit if it were possible, that there might be a way for me to still compete, but that I would keep the Sabbath day holy no matter what.
At the end of the day, I told my piano teacher I couldn’t compete on a Sunday. She was surprisingly understanding. She said the competitions were divided by area and that I could try to transfer to an area that competed on a different day. I made a call the next day and successfully transferred to compete in Tainan, Taiwan, where the competition was held on Saturday.
I am so grateful that I made the decision to obey my Heavenly Father’s commandments. God not only wanted me to keep the Sabbath day holy, but He cared that the piano competition mattered a lot to me. Because I was willing to obey, my testimony of God’s love for me and of the blessings that come from obeying His commandments has been strengthened. I know that when we do our best to do what He asks, God will provide the rest.