Gospel Story Finder

Let’s turn to the life of Mary Fielding Smith, wife of Hyrum Smith. This was her first marriage and his second. She came into a family where five children were left without a mother when the first wife died. By June 1839 Mary and Hyrum had been married for eighteen months. During that short period they had been driven from two homes, Hyrum had been imprisoned for six months, Mary had been bedridden for four months with a pregnancy, and now, without financial resources, they were struggling to establish another home. Listen to this excerpt written at the time by Mary to her brother Joseph Fielding:
It is now little more than a month since the Lord, in his marvelous power, returned my dear husband, with the rest of the brethren, to their families, in tolerable health. We are now living in Commerce, on the bank of the great Mississippi river. The situation is very pleasant; you would be much pleased to see it. How long we may be permitted to enjoy it I know not; but the Lord knows what is best for us. I feel but little concern about where I am, if I can keep my mind staid upon God; for, you know in this there is perfect peace.[Don Cecil Corbett, Mary Fielding Smith, Daughter of Britain; Portrait of Courage (Salt Lake City, UT: Deseret Book Co., 1966), p. 99]

September had come, and autumn was just around the corner. The leaves of the poplar and cottonwood trees had changed from green to golden yellow. The grass that grew beside the road had turned to rusty brown. And Malan had turned eight.
The day of Malan’s baptism finally arrived. He had learned about baptism in Primary and during family home evenings, and he had thought about the event for a long time. Using his own new copies of the scriptures, he and his dad had read about the baptism of Jesus (Matt. 3:13–17). Now he could be a member of record of the Church, like his mom and dad and the bishop and the boys who passed the sacrament. If he always tried to do the right thing, his baptism would enable him to “enter into the kingdom of God” (John 3:5), and that’s where he and Dad decided they wanted the whole family to be. Malan closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the car’s tires on the pavement as the car carried them to the Parkland Ward meetinghouse.
In a few minutes he and his sister, Ginger, his mom, Aunt Marcia and Uncle Scott, his cousins Jenny and Coral, and his Grandma and Grandpa would be there. His dad was already there, running water into the font and making sure that the white clothes were ready.
It seemed to Malan that time was dragging. The streets of the city were crammed with cars, and every red light seemed to refuse to turn green. A lane ahead was blocked because a truck had tipped over and spilled its load of wood.
Malan peered anxiously out the car window. A man was frantically directing the traffic and casting unhappy glances at his overturned truck. Behind him, driving along the ditch, was a police car with its red and blue lights flashing.
“Don’t worry,” Malan’s mom said, turning around and giving his arm a comforting squeeze. “We’ll be there in time.”
Malan sighed with relief when they finally pulled up in front of the large red brick building. He was so eager to get inside that he almost forgot how important it was to walk quietly and be reverent in the Lord’s house.
He saw his dad, dressed all in white, coming to meet him. But something was wrong! Dad knelt down; his kind blue eyes were concerned. “You have a decision to make, Son,” his dad said, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ve run the water for a long time, and it appears that the hot water heater is broken. The water in the font is very cold. Do you want to be baptized in cold water or wait until next week?”
Malan stood for a long moment and wondered what to do. Behind him he could hear his Grandpa talking, and the excited voices of his small cousins. Through the chapel window he could see the yellow-clad branch of a tall poplar tree as it scratched gently against the pane.
“Were you baptized in a river, Dad?” he asked.
His dad smiled. “Yes, I was baptized in the Moose Jaw River.”
“Was it cold?”
“Only for a few moments.”
Malan lifted his chin and hoped that his dad wouldn’t notice his trembling body. “I want to be baptized today. I don’t mind if the water is cold.”
Malan was uneasy as he changed into his white clothing. And although he tried to sit quietly through his Grandpa’s prayer and his mother’s talk about Jesus, Malan’s legs insisted upon swinging and his stomach had a big knot in it.
Finally it was time! As Malan stepped into the icy water, his knees shook and he wanted to run back through the halls and out to the shelter of the car. Then his dad’s strong hands reached for his. “Are you ready?”
Malan nodded. He listened to the prayer, then pinched his nose as the icy water swept over his head. When he stood up, he gasped for air and splashed to the stairs of the font. As he moved toward the dressing room, his body shook and his teeth chattered, but he hardly noticed. Inside he was filled with a golden warmth, like the autumn leaves outside.

The Bountiful (Utah) 42nd Ward wanted to give the shirts off their backs, but instead they arranged to buy some. New white shirts were purchased to be given to native missionaries entering the Chilean Missionary Training Center.
President Dave Lloyd, a member of the Bountiful Utah Mueller Park Stake, was serving as president of the Chilean Missionary Training Center. He and his wife returned to the United States while he underwent surgery. When President and sister Lloyd returned to Chile, they took the donated shirts and ties with them to aid missionaries entering the mission field in Chile.

Near the end of my junior year of high school, it was time to decide which classes to take my senior year. After signing up for all of the required classes, I still had one open space. Deciding how to fill it was an important decision to me, so I knelt and prayed for guidance. As I pondered what to do, the Spirit suggested that I study another foreign language. I’d already studied several years of Spanish, so I began to browse our school’s language courses. German, French, Italian, and others seemed interesting, but none seemed right. I finally reached the bottom of the list and read “Mandarin Chinese.” I didn’t know any Chinese people or even anyone who spoke Chinese, yet I felt the Spirit confirm that this was the right choice.
Despite my misgivings, I signed up for the course. I’ve felt and expressed gratitude to God for that decision almost every day of my life since. Choosing to learn an unfamiliar and difficult language—even when it wasn’t required—helped me when I was called to serve a Chinese-speaking mission in Taiwan. And that experience has led me to every internship, job, and opportunity I’ve had until now as a young adult. This experience taught me that Father in Heaven cares deeply about our education and that He expects us to pursue the best education possible, even when it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable, or challenging. When we follow Him by making that sacrifice, He always blesses us.
Brandon C., Utah, USA

For example, one time my buddies and I hiked into the mountains for a week of fishing. We had a lot of fun. The deer flies and mosquitoes were so tame they let us feed them. The jays were so friendly they’d swoop down and help themselves to food right off the griddle. And some of the trout were so dumb they let us catch them.
Now, we were on our way back. For breakfast that morning we finished off the last of the food we had packed in. Now we were surviving on lint-covered raisins from the bottom of our packs. We had about eight more miles to hike before we met our rides and headed home to good food and to showers that didn’t come directly out of a cloud.
Ordinarily, the packs are lighter on the hike out; you’ve eaten all of the food and lost half of everything else. But for some reason, I found it tougher going than usual. My companions, on the other hand, laughed as we walked uphill.
Maybe it was because my face was going from red to purple—at any rate, we stopped to rest for a few minutes. When we took off our packs, I made an interesting discovery. You see, we had brought an army surplus canvas bucket for carrying spring water into camp, and I had tied the empty bucket to the back of my pack for the trip out. But somewhere along the way someone had put a rock the size of a large grapefruit in that bucket.
Well, there was a lot of laughter. I laughed too—later. And with the heavy weight gone, I not only kept up with my buddies, I practically chased them up those hills. I also learned a valuable lesson: don’t carry unnecessary burdens.

Pam had never really thought of herself as being different. She had always known, of course, that she was Korean and that she had been adopted by Mom and Dad when she was just a baby. She loved to hear the story about how her parents went to the airport to get her and how excited they were to have the baby placed in their arms. She enjoyed looking at the special album her mother had, which contained her medical report, a brief history, and several pictures. She giggled at the two small pictures of the chubby baby in the strange Korean woman’s arms. Her mom always told her that she and Dad had taken one look at those pictures and said, “Yes, we want that child!”
But today she didn’t feel wanted as she huddled in a corner of the school yard and tried to keep the tears from falling. Just a few minutes ago their teacher, Mrs. Macy, had lined them up by the door and asked,
“All right, who’s turn is it to be the line leader for kickball today?”
“Me! Me!” Randy had demanded loudly.
Mrs. Macy had been gentle but firm. “Randy, you were leader last week.” After checking her list, she had given the ball to Pam.
When they were outside, Randy had come up to Pam and demanded to be the leader.
“It’s my turn. I want to do it,” Pam had said, clutching the ball more tightly.
“Come on, Pam. Let me do it.”
“No.”
“You dumb Chinese!”
The words had come out harshly and spitefully. Pam had frozen. Randy, pleased to be getting a reaction from her, had continued, “You don’t even belong in this country. You’re not like us at all! Why don’t you just go back to where you came from?”
Pam had felt the eyes of her other classmates boring into her. No one had said a word. Pam had dropped the ball and had run across the field.
It was hard to go back to the classroom when the bell rang. Pam slumped down in her seat all afternoon and didn’t speak to anyone. The minute school was over, she rushed out of the building and raced home. She gave her mother a brief hello, then locked herself in the bathroom. She stared at her slanted eyes, olive complexion, and straight black hair. She was different!
Pam barely said anything during dinner, but it all came pouring out when her mother brought out a pink brocade Oriental jacket she had bought for Pam.
Pam’s thank-you for the gift was barely audible.
“Don’t you like it?” her mother asked. “I think it’s beautiful.”
“No, I don’t!” Pam burst out. “It looks Oriental. I want to look like everyone else!”
Her parents exchanged glances. “What happened today, Pam?” her mother asked quietly.
Pam told them about what Randy had said and how the rest of the class had stared at her.
“Randy is mistaken,” Dad said. “First of all, you are not Chinese; you are Korean. You’re certainly not dumb. And what is most important to us, you are our daughter, and we love you very much.”
Talking to her parents helped. Pam felt secure in their love for her. But she still dreaded going to school the next day. She waited until the very last bell had rung before hurrying to her seat. She stared straight ahead throughout the class period, and when recess time came, she went to a corner of the field and stayed by herself. She didn’t talk to anyone the whole day, not even to Patti, her best friend. When school was over, and Patti started toward her, to walk home together the way they usually did, Pam hurried away.
Pam kept to herself the next week too. She didn’t play with anyone at school, and she spent her time at home reading in her room. Her mother urged her to go out and play with her friends, but Pam just shook her head.
The following Monday she walked home slowly. There was no need to hurry anymore, because Patti no longer tried to catch up with her. Pam was just heading into the field across from the service station when she heard a low whine. Something or somebody was in trouble! She stopped and listened. There it was again, a whine of pain just to her left. She hesitantly walked toward it. Bending down, she saw a dog tangled in some brush so that it couldn’t get free. While she spoke soothingly to the dog, Pam gently freed his trapped leg.
It was after she had untangled the dog and he was licking her hand gratefully that Pam got her first real look at him. He was the funniest-looking dog that she had ever seen. He had one huge black patch around one eye, and his nose was bent to one side. His ears were way too long for his short body, and Pam saw that his legs were short and bowlegged.
As Pam started for home again, the dog waddled along right behind her. “Go away now!” Pam told him firmly. “Go home!”
But the dog kept following her. When she reached her house, she wondered, What am I going to do with him? She knelt down and scratched him behind the ears. Again the dog’s tongue licked her. Pam sighed and went into the house, her new friend right at her heels.
“Pam, what is that!” Mother exclaimed.
Pam explained how she had found the dog and how he had followed her home. “He’s awfully skinny, Mom—can I feed him something?” she pleaded.
Worried about the dog’s ownership but happy to see Pam interested in something again, her mother went to the refrigerator for some leftover meat.
Pam spent the rest of the afternoon with the dog. She decided to call him Hector. After she gave him a bath with the garden hose, she brushed his coat until it was dry and shining. Then she found a stick and tried to teach him to chase it. When Hector got the idea and bounded eagerly after the stick with his curious lopsided gait, Pam laughed with delight. By the time her father came home, she thought Hector was the cutest dog she’d ever seen.
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
Pam giggled. “A dog!” She explained again how she had found him. “I call him Hector. Can we keep him? Oh, please! Can we?” she pleaded as her mother joined them in the backyard.
Her father knelt down beside her and Hector. “OK—but only if you check the newspaper. He probably belongs to someone, honey.”
“I will, Dad, but I’m sure he doesn’t! There’s no collar or anything. Please. I love him!”
“That funny looking thing?”
“He’s not funny looking!”
“What do you mean? Look at that patch, that nose, those legs.”
Pam drew Hector protectively into her arms. “But I like him! Just because he looks a little different from other dogs doesn’t mean that he isn’t the most super dog in the world. I love the way he looks.”
Her father stroked her hair. “Why, Pam. Do you mean that a dog—or a person—can look different and still be very wonderful and very loved?”
“Yes! That’s what I like about Hector. He’s different! He’s—” she stopped as she realized the point her father was making. Maybe she was a little different from the other kids, but Dad and Mom and Mrs. Macy and her friend Patti liked her just as she was!
Dad went into the house, and Pam sat outside for a long time, thinking and stroking Hector’s back. At last she got up and went into the house, with Hector following her. Her parents were sitting in the living room.
“I’m going to call Patti,” she said. “I want to see if she can come over after dinner and meet Hector.”

Craig Hannah, 17, has been a pioneer in his own family. “I first got involved with the Church at sports night. I got talking to the missionaries and they persuaded me to come to church on Sunday. It felt good, so I kept coming. They started teaching me the discussions; then they asked me to get baptised. I prayed about it and felt really good about it. So I said yes. And when I got baptised, a few more of my family followed.”

Sometimes while they gardened, Mom told Vanessa stories about what it was like to grow up on a farm. One day she said, “My mother used to tell me: ‘You reap what you sow. If you plant cucumber seeds, you get cucumber vines and cucumber blossoms, and, eventually, cucumbers. You’ll never get cauliflower from cucumber seeds. If we sow acts of kindness, we reap friendship and happiness.’”
“But if we sow evil and unkindness, then we reap the consequences—unhappiness and sadness,” Vanessa added. They were silent for a few minutes before Vanessa asked, “It can take a long time to see the results of what you’ve sown, can’t it, Mom?” She was thinking of a girl who had started at their school before Christmas and was extremely shy. Vanessa had been nice to her, but it had taken until February to get the girl to respond. But Vanessa’s persistence paid off; the girls were now good friends.

Light persuades us to do good; it leads us to Christ. It led my family as it has led yours, and it can and will lead all to him.
Archibald Stewart and his wife, Esther Lyle, are my great-great-grandparents. The Stewart family had learned to face persecution and hardship. Their ancestors had been forced to flee from Scotland to Northern Ireland, where they had been promised protection. But instead of finding peace, they again became victims of persecution at the hands of the Irish Greens. Independence and strong conviction were part of their heritage.
The Stewart family characteristics of love and devotion and a deep religious faith made them receptive to the gospel. When the Mormon missionaries came to the Stewart house, Elizabeth, the third child, immediately felt the truthfulness of their message. She began to study and search for more assurance of the things she felt within. Her feelings and study stirred an immediate response in her old granny, who was the matriarch of the Stewart household. Elizabeth spent many hours telling her granny about the new prophet of God, Joseph Smith, who had brought back to earth the simple, direct message that Christ was alive and had appeared to man. Elizabeth felt a testimony burning within and asked permission to be baptized. Because of the unpopularity of the Mormons, her parents objected. Elizabeth’s granny came to her rescue. “Let the child alone,” she said. “I have read all her books, and I do believe the child is right.”
As Elizabeth left her home to go to her baptism, her granny was at her side. The two walked to the river, where the elders had broken a hole in the ice that wintry March day. When the elders came toward Elizabeth to baptize her, her granny stepped up and said, “Watch your manners, child; never step in front of your elders.”
The elders baptized Granny in her street clothes; she even had on her little white cap. She had brought no extra clothes, so she walked home in her wet, frozen clothes. She did not take cold even though she did not change her clothes until the other family members had gone to bed. She said nothing about her baptism to the family but went about her usual tasks as if nothing had happened. After the others had gone to bed, she hung her clothing around the fireplace. In the morning when Archibald got up, he saw the clothes drying. He began to joke with the others about Granny having been dipped in the river along with Elizabeth. Granny listened to their fun and then said: “Archibald, if you don’t want people to hear, stop shouting so loudly. You can’t talk about Granny now, for she can hear better than any of you.”
Granny had been virtually deaf for twenty years, but a miracle had restored her hearing at the time she was baptized. From that day until her death, she could hear distinctly. Archibald said laughingly that she heard too much.
Most of the family members soon were baptized, in 1841.

Church pioneers in family history have had to learn to be very resourceful. In October 1939, L. Garrett Myers and Ernst Koehler were in charge of the first microfilming of records outside of Utah. They worked out of a hotel room in Tennessee. A big, troublesome fan in the hotel’s kitchen caused vibrations in their room that made working with the cameras difficult, so Brother Koehler decided they would have to film the records between ten at night and early morning, when the fan wasn’t turned on. They used the bathtub to process the film in and a clothesline to dry it on.

I have a blog where I write about modest fashion and style, because it can be challenging to dress modestly in a world where modesty is unpopular. I used to rely on my parents’ testimonies. I didn’t have my own until I was a young woman and started attending seminary. I found a desire to read the scriptures, and that’s when my faith began to grow. Now I feel in my heart for myself that the gospel of Jesus Christ is true.
Laura P., 18, Philippines

At times it is better to leave some things unsaid. As a newlywed, Sister Lola Walters read in a magazine that in order to strengthen a marriage, a couple should have regular, candid sharing sessions in which they would list any mannerisms they found to be annoying. She wrote:
“We were to name five things we found annoying, and I started off. … I told him that I didn’t like the way he ate grapefruit. He peeled it and ate it like an orange! Nobody else I knew ate grapefruit like that. Could a girl be expected to spend a lifetime, and even eternity, watching her husband eat grapefruit like an orange? …
“After I finished [with my five], it was his turn to tell the things he disliked about me. [He] said, ‘Well, to tell the truth, I can’t think of anything I don’t like about you, Honey.’
“Gasp.
“I quickly turned my back, because I didn’t know how to explain the tears that had filled my eyes and were running down my face.”
Sister Walters concluded, “Whenever I hear of married couples being incompatible, I always wonder if they are suffering from what I now call the Grapefruit Syndrome” (“The Grapefruit Syndrome,” Ensign, Apr. 1993, p. 13).
Yes, at times, it is better to leave some things unsaid.

Now let me contrast Brent with Jeff, who also had turned away from the established values of society, seeking in the hippie mode of living an identity and code of conduct. Like others whose hair grows long and who sometimes leave their shoes at home, his belief that “establishment” personalities care more about appearances than about people seemed to him confirmed wherever he turned, for he was often met with scorn and rejection. He wondered in his heart how he could ever cast his lot with a society whose members seemed to care little about what he cared for, namely, the love of individual for individual.
I tried to show Jeff point by point that every good hope that he nourished for mankind could be realized only in the Savior. One day Jeff came to me utterly crushed. He had, because of his hair length, been treated with scorn and derision by a man in a position of authority. Crying softly, Jeff said, “How can I cut my hair now? I have been thinking about doing so, but if I cut it now, it will be like groveling at his feet. It would be like saying ‘I have no backbone or integrity. I am willing to do anything just because I am threatened.’ How can I cut my hair? That man has made it impossible for me to do it now.”
I offered Jeff no advice. I simply read him the following passage from First Corinthians in which Paul counsels that there is nothing intrinsically wrong with eating meat offered to idols, except as it would offend a brother’s conscience. He says:
“… take heed lest by any means this liberty of yours becomes a stumblingblock to them that are weak.
“For if any man see thee which hast knowledge sit at meat in the idol’s temple, shall not the conscience of him which is weak be emboldened to eat those things which are offered to idols;
“And through thy knowledge shall the weak brother perish, for whom Christ died?
“But when ye sin so against the brethren, and wound their weak conscience, ye sin against Christ.
“Wherefore, if meat make my brother to offend, I will eat no flesh while the world standeth, lest I make my brother to offend.” (1 Cor. 8:9–13.)
Jeff brooded about these passages. They said to him: “Even though there may be no intrinsic reason why shorter hair is preferable, there is nevertheless a good reason for cutting your hair. You should cut it so you won’t be a stumblingblock for others. You should cut it so you won’t be the reason for this brother to be angry. You should cut it so others who see you won’t think you join with the general hippie culture in repudiating the morality of Jesus Christ and be encouraged, by what they think is your example, to repudiate it themselves. You should cut it for the same reason that you don’t dress in gaudy and patently materialistic clothing—because by your appearance you don’t want to encourage others in a way of life that is contrary to their consciences.”
To cut his hair under threat was one of the hardest things Jeff could have been asked to do, because in the eyes of his peers he would be seen as yielding to the threat of a member of the “establishment.” Nevertheless, the next time I saw him, his hair was cut. This was a magnificent Christian act, done wholly for others. It won’t surprise you to learn that Jeff is now on a mission, delightedly introducing to others what he has discovered.
What is the difference between Jeff and Brent? It is this: For Jeff, the gospel suddenly became a technicolor production. He had tasted its spirit. His love for the Savior had been stirred. He perceived the magnificent possibilities involved in treating other people in the way the Savior would treat them. For Jeff, the marvelous alternative of the gospel made Satan’s way of life pale by comparison. He had found another alternative besides the two choices that Brent had known. He didn’t have to choose, as did Brent, between the exciting rebelliousness of sin and the restrictions of a black-and-white, letter-of-the-law version of religion.
Suddenly for Jeff there were immediate opportunities for realization of his dreams. Suddenly the commandments of the Lord were no longer restrictive to him, for his desires, based primarily on selfish satisfactions that had put him in opposition to the Lord’s commandments, seemed to have been purged out of his soul. His will was no longer in conflict with the Lord’s; because of the power of God that had come into his heart and had purified him from selfish desires, the way was cleared for love and selflessness to become the dominant motivations of his actions. In this way he experienced for the first time the only real freedom that men can know: freedom from one’s inner enemies, one’s evil and selfish desires.
Jeff was now preoccupied not with a conflict with commandments that hedged his actions about, but with blessing people, in the course of doing which he automatically kept the commandments. In the words of the scripture, he had been dead to the spirit and alive to the law; but now he was “dead to the law” and to sin and alive to the Spirit and to the Savior. (See 2 Ne. 25:23–27.)
With this spirit, Jeff became a new person, and the fellow who used to sleep in his bed and wear his clothes—the fellow full of resentment and guilt and discontent—had somehow disappeared.

I was in my fifth year of studying humanities when I received a lesson about the worth of an example. Every time our teacher entered the classroom, he found a picture of himself—drawn by some of my classmates—on the blackboard. And every time, the professor would ask us to wipe away the drawing. However, he never said anything else about it.
I was very impressed with our professor’s wise and humble way of being, and I became curious about which church he belonged to. I found out that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I decided to receive the missionary discussions, and I was baptized on September 10, 2000. The man who had shown me an example through his way of living turned out to be my branch president.

When I was in my teenage years, my father was a stake president. At that time the General Authorities stayed overnight in the home of the stake president on Saturday night between stake conference sessions. We had a small, humble home with only two bedrooms appropriate for the visiting Brethren: my parent’s room and my simple room. My room became the guest room. I remember cleaning thoroughly and preparing my room so everything was neat, orderly, and appropriate for our guests. I felt everything and every activity conducted therein needed to contribute to an atmosphere where the Spirit could be present for our guests. Many apostles and other leaders spent a night in my room.

That experience led me to a lifelong quest to be sure my life is in order to invite the Spirit to be my companion. How we dress, our conduct, our environment, our associates, and the activities in which we engage all influence the opportunity for the Spirit to be a part of our lives. If we keep our lives in order, the companionship of the Spirit will provide us with peace, comfort, guidance, and promptings. It will enlighten us regarding the Lord’s will and help us testify of Christ.

Alden Maynes was a copilot on a B-17 bomber. He had completed 25 successful missions over Germany when his luck ran out. The crew had just released six bombs over Berlin when the tail of the airplane was shot away, throwing the plane into a barrel roll. As Brother Maynes tried to make his way to the escape hatch, his parachute caught on something and was pulled open. He attempted to close it without success and was forced to bail anyway. At 27,000 feet without oxygen, he lost consciousness as he fell through the air. When he came to, he was still falling and the war was going on around him. Planes were still dropping bombs and antiaircraft guns were still being fired. Falling toward a mass of fire and destruction, with his parachute trailing unopened above him, he gyrated in 25 foot circles. He tried to draw it down in hopes he could force it open, but the effort proved impossible. At this point, he talked to the God and told him that he had done all that he could do and that it was now in God's hands. Alden Maynes submitted completely trusted in the will of the Lord. Immediately a calm and peaceful feeling settled over him and he knew that whatever happened would be all right.
As he continued to fall, he drifted away from the bombed area. As he fell past a six-story building, his chute caught hold of the roof, holding him briefly and then tore loose. Barely missing the building, his parachute caught again, this time on a street lamp--saving his life, suspending him feet three feet above the sidewalk. Though he was taken prisoner, in his heart knew that God had spared his life. God did more for Alden Maynes than he ever could have done for himself.

I had been much more comfortable last week when I first got this job and was helping Bert Godfrey lay a brick wall to replace an old wooden one that had burned down. How could I help but like that leather-faced but kind-hearted man who had served three missions, two of them building missions.

The company had hired me for ten days, mostly to help build that wall. But Bert and I had worked so well together that we had finished it in a week. He didn’t seem to mind that I was a bit clumsy and lacked experience. He knew I was trying and he knew why. He just kept talking to me about serving the Lord.

Bert hadn’t told me that the real boss was on vacation, and it had come as a surprise when I showed up for work the next Monday morning. So far, though, my strategy seemed to be working. Although I was earning more than I had ever earned before, I figured that if I worked so hard that I was worth still more than they were paying me, maybe the boss would feel he just couldn’t afford to let me go.

I looked again at the long I-beam rail with 13 steel legs extending from it like a giant comb with most of its teeth missing. It had long ago served as a bumper guard, preventing cars in the parking lot from hitting the adjacent building. It had been installed by digging 13 large holes in the ground in a straight line, spaced at eight-foot intervals. A steel post was cemented into each hole, and the connecting bumper rail welded to each post. Recently the entire rail had been removed by having two large “hysters” extract the whole thing in one piece, and it was lying in the driveway with each post encased in a barrel-sized cement block.
As I heard boots scuff the loose gravel on the asphalt pavement leading from the tool shop, I let loose a wild flurry of blows. I was glad that a few beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. “Here, try this,” the boss said as he handed me a heavier sledgehammer. That wasn’t quite the kind of help I had in mind.
I smiled as I traded him the smaller hammer, but I could tell that he sensed it wasn’t a completely honest smile. He watched me for a few minutes more, and then without further comment, turned away to supervise the crew working on the remodeling project in the steel fabrication plant.
“The only difference between the hammers is that this one is heavier and harder to lift,” I grumbled silently as the steel head collided with the stone-hard cement. Finally one small chunk broke off. After several more strokes my arms started to ache, but the cement still remained intact.
At this rate I knew it would take me three days to complete the job. I also knew that if I didn’t show substantial progress by noon, I’d be out of a job and back standing in the labor lines at the Employment Security Office taking any kind of work available. Three days of that had made me especially anxious to keep this job.
Besides, it was 1954, and thousands of striking workers with families to feed were looking for short-term, full-time employment. How was a 20-year-old youth going to compete with them for the few jobs available?
It took only a few more hard but unsuccessful strokes to persuade me that I had reached my limit and that it was time for me to treat the problem as one needing more strength and wisdom than I possessed.
Resting the heavy hammer on the ground and trying to compose my anger and frustration, I felt the need and desire to discuss the problem with the Lord. Without either kneeling or closing my eyes, I started praying aloud to the Lord and explaining the task I faced. In a conversational but sincere way I reminded him that I wasn’t asking for the money so I could buy a yellow convertible. He had called me on a mission, and I knew he wanted me to go. This job had already been an answer to my prayers, but I needed to keep it. I didn’t expect him to send a host of angels from heaven with sledgehammers, but I knew he could help me.
Never in my life has a prayer been answered more immediately or clearly. Suddenly my mind was filled with a thought so lucid and strong that my heart started pounding. It was a simple solution, as I later considered it. To brighter or more experienced minds it might have occurred earlier, but to me it came as a direct answer to my prayer.
The compelling instruction said to me, “Instead of striking the cement, strike the steel.”

Still not fathoming exactly why, I raised the hammer and brought it crashing down five or six times on the steel post right next to the cement. As a large section of the cement cracked into big chunks and fell off, I realized that the blows to the steel had started a series of strong vibrations that were transmitted all along the steel shaft.
I quickly forgot the weight of the hammer. With new energy I struck the steel again and again, then moved on to the next post, amazed at the magnification of my efforts as the steel vibrated and the cement cracked.
Less than two hours later I had removed the cement from all 13 posts and stacked the large chunks in a pile. With the sledgehammer on my shoulder and a prayer of gratitude in my heart, I went to find the boss.
“I’ll need some help moving the railing out of the driveway,” I said, trying to conceal the excitement I felt inside. Thinking I was giving up on the project, he motioned me to follow him to the parking lot.
As we rounded the corner of the building and he saw the railing and the pile of cement, he stopped quite suddenly. His eyes blinked and opened wide. His chin started to drop a bit. For a full minute he stood silently, looking first at the railing, then at the cement. After a moment more he turned, motioned me to follow him again, and said, “Come on, I’ll give you another job.”
Nothing more was said about the incident, but the following morning when I arrived for work, he simply said, “Lloyd, you’re welcome to stay on as long as you like.”
I worked there for nearly three months before entering the mission home. He then let me come back to work again for another ten days until I departed with my group for the mission field. Never after that memorable morning did he, in my presence, make a disparaging remark about the Church or my plans to serve a mission.
Many times since that day the Lord has helped me strike the steel instead of the cement in solving other problems. But as I departed for the mission field in late November 1954, I knew that I was called of the Lord. I knew that he was listening to my prayers. And I knew for myself that he would give no commandment save he would prepare a way for it to be accomplished.

Illustrated by Mike Eagle
Elder David O. McKay had many pets, including a boar named Caesar.
Son: Father, you must really love animals to care for an ugly creature like that!
One day as Elder McKay was leaving to catch a train, he noticed that Caesar had broken out of his pen and was wandering away.
David: No, you don’t! We’ll keep you in the chicken coop for now. I’ll have to repair the pen when I get back.
But Elder McKay forgot to tell the rest of the family where Caesar was, so no one could feed or water him.
At 2:00 a.m., the telephone rang at the McKay house.
Operator: There’s a telegram for Mr. Lawrence McKay.
Lawrence: This is Lawrence. Please read the telegram.
Son: At this hour it can mean only bad news! I hope Father is all right.
Elder McKay’s son Lawrence scribbled down the words as the operator read them: “Caesar in chicken coop! Water him!”
Lawrence thanked the operator and hung up. Relieved, everyone laughed.
Son: That’s all the telegram said? Father must really love that ugly old boar!

Some time ago, I went to Africa to gather oral histories in my role as a professor of Church history at Brigham Young University. My visit to Chyulu, Kenya, was an unforgettable experience. The journey was difficult. The 240-kilometer trip from Nairobi took five hours, with one 20-kilometer section that took an hour and a half.
We arrived on Sunday and went to the meeting place an hour before Church services were to begin. The meeting place was a bower (a shelter made of poles) about 4.5 meters wide and 9 meters long. The sides were made from long grass interwoven between poles, and the roof was palm branches and corrugated iron. Next to the bower was a small handprinted sign that read, “L. D. S. CHYULU BRANCH.” At the entrance, a thick bushy shrub was wedged into the doorway. We were surprised to see about 20 children between the ages of 5 and 12 coming to the meeting place. Without supervision they swept the dirt floor with small tree limbs to remove any debris that had blown in since the last meeting. They tidied up and arranged the rough wooden benches.
Soon families began to arrive. Music was provided by a cassette tape of hymns played on a battery-operated tape recorder. Everyone sang; the children were reverent. The adult Sunday School class met in the bower, and Primary and other classes were held in various areas outside. A 12-year-old young woman taught about 30 Primary children, who eagerly participated in the lesson. It was fast and testimony Sunday, and testimonies and prayers were in Swahili—the members’ native language—or English. The Spirit was strong in both languages.

Many years later, Diane had a friend named Lynn who was taught by missionaries. Diane saw how happy Lynn was. At Lynn’s baptism, Diane heard the name “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” She remembered her friend Emma. That was the name of the church Emma went to!
Diane wanted to know more. She read the Book of Mormon and asked Heavenly Father if it was true. She felt happy, just like Emma had said she would. On the day of her baptism, she was so thankful for Emma, the friend who told her about the Church while playing hopscotch.